Brave?

I embarked on a solo, 9 week trip to the UK and parts of Europe at the end of July this year.  I flew from Sydney to Abu Dhabi, had a 24 hour stop over and then got on a plane again to London.  A couple of weeks later I got on the Eurostar to Brussels, got a local train to Ghent and had a couple of lovely nights at an Air BnB so I could explore Ghent and Bruges then head back for a day in Belgium before getting the overnight train to Munich and another local train to stay with one of my oldest friends who lives in a village outside Munich.  A week later I got on a plane to Copenhagen for a long weekend with a woman with whom, when we were 14 I did an informal school exchange, organised by our respective parents who were colleagues. This was the first time we’d seen each other in over forty years.  Then after a wonderful weekend exploring Copenhagen and its surrounds, I got on a plane back to London.  The rest of my time in the UK was spent seeing family and friends.  Look out for the travel blog once I have time to pull everything together.

Most of the trip was shared on Facebook and Instagram and the most common phrase I heard was “gosh you’re brave”.  Really?  Am I?  I didn’t ever think of it as brave.  I thought it was a bit indulgent, now that I’m “retired” and have the luxury of time.  It was exciting.  It was certainly fun and my cup was filled to overflowing by spending time with my life long friends and my extended family.  Was it brave though?

The picture on the left is a still from a video taken by my friend Helen.  She was pretty brave taking the photos and videos of me as I decided that I wanted to cross to St Michael’s Mount on the causeway.  I could have got a boat.  That probably would have been easier to be honest.  I however, decided that I wanted to see if Ruby and I could manage the challenge of the causeway.  I didn't actually envision it would be as challenging as it was to be honest.  If I had, I would have made sure I put Ruby’s off road wheels on first.  But I didn’t, so there we were, three quarters of the way along the causeway successfully managing to navigate the rocky path.  I was concentrating hard so was a bit oblivious to everything and everyone.  Helen however was watching on with fear and trepidation, calculating how on earth she was going to get me and Ruby back to land if something went wrong.

Helen and I are sailing buddies.  We were the only two females in our sailing club way back when.  We both knew of each other because the blokes used to tell us that we should each meet the only other woman in the club.  Eventually we ended up on a boat together and quite a lot of talking and not a lot of sailing happened.  Then we orchestrated things so that we could crew on the same boat each week for the twilight races.  When the wind came up on Pittwater, it could come up strong and Helen and I both discovered just how brave we could be when we were thrust outside our respective comfort zones.  We also discovered how colourful the English Language could be when, quite loudly, we expressed our abject terror.  Eventually Helen moved back to the UK and I had to give up sailing due to my increasingly dodgy balance and perpetually painful arthritic spine and hands.

Now when we catch up, we continue to talk and we continue to push the boundaries of what is perhaps sensible and safe for two women heading rapidly towards 60.  It’s no surprise then that we ended up, much to the surprise of all the other people wandering along the causeway to St Michael’s Mount, navigating our way along an exceptionally rocky path.  There is a lovely family in the background of the photo who we chatted with.  After the photo was taken, the father waited for us, just to make sure we got there ok.  He didn’t need to worry, I was determined to succeed.  Lots of people have said how brave I was.  I wasn’t really, I was just being bloody minded.  I think Helen was quite brave, being willing to jump on board the adventure.  My next trip to Europe is going to involve inter railing - Helen’s already put her hand up for that adventure.  Brave?  Not really…

The other photo is also me.  Taken recently at my bi-annual MRI to check whether I have any new MS lesions.  I hate MRIs.  At least I hate having full brain and full spine MRIs. Until this MRI, they have taken somewhere between 45-60 minutes.  Sixty minutes of lying still in what I describe as the noisy coffin with my head encased in a helmet which is in turn screwed together onto the table.  Lots of people don’t like MRIs.  They are noisy and they are claustrophobic but having had various other parts of my anatomy checked by an MRI, I can genuinely say, they really are nothing compared to full brain, full spine.  My first brain MRI was in 1991.  I have had a couple since on various dodgy parts of my anatomy but 2018 was when I joined the MRI frequent flyer club.  

I was formally diagnosed with MS after it hovering in the background of pretty much my whole life.  Not only was I diagnosed with MS but the MRI picked up what has turned out to be a benign brain tumour.  The tumour is in a tricky spot to excise so the advice from the neurologists and neurosurgeons was to wait and watch.  Waiting and watching meant having an MRI every two months for a year.  Then every three months for a year, then four monthly for a year and now finally we are at six monthly MRIs.  Maybe we’ll get to annual MRIs but I’m not holding my breath.  The tumour has never really changed and to be honest I generally forget that I have it, until I have an MRI and I double check with my neurologist when he’s giving me the lowdown on my MS disease activity.

So now I’m at Platinum MRI Frequent Flyer status but there’s no lounge and certainly no waiter service or cocktails at the bar.  What there is, is relief that the machines continue to get better which means faster.  This machine is new which means faster.  I was all set for my usual hour but the radiographer told me it would take about 25-30 minutes so long as I didn’t move.  I’m good at not moving.  At one of my earlier every two month MRIs I made the mistake of opening my eyes as I was sliding into the machine.  The tissue paper-like wrapping on my feelings of anxiety were completely shredded as I pressed as hard as I could on the emergency buzzer.  The radiographer rushed into the room and pressed the button to pull me out.  I tried to leap off the bed but of course my head was screwed into the helmet and screwed to the table so I had to wait.  As soon as my head was free I leapt off the table and whilst hyperventilating completely refused to get back onto it.  The radiographer was magnificent as he chatted to me to try and help me calm.  Unfortunately he decided that talking about work might be helpful so he asked me what I did.  I said I’m a psychologist.  He paused, clearly not expecting this revelation from the hysterical woman before him.  What he then said was; “Well you know all about anxiety so we’re going to breathe together”.  And we did and as my heart rate eased, he helped me back on the table and then walked around to the other side and touched my head from behind so I knew I wasn’t really in an endless tube that was going to swallow me.  Then he got me settled, screwed my head back into its prison and started the scan.  He spoke to me between each series of images, told me how long each series was going to take and gently reassured me.

Many people need to take a sedative prior to an MRI, particularly those of us requiring brain MRIs.  I could, at any time, ask for a sedative when I book in.  I’ve always resisted the urge.  Mainly due to the logistics of getting home afterwards.  So no, despite my significant anxiety around MRIs, I’ve never been sedated.  Not because I’m particularly brave, just because I’m being practical and a bit bloody minded.

The bravery really is getting into the machine in the first place.  When I look at the first photo, where so many people have commented about how brave I am, all I see is someone having an adventure.  There’s no brave about it.  The second photo though is something I have done so many times.  No one sees it, no one comments on it.  It’s just me and an MRI machine.  I see my brave though, when no one else does.  I look at the photo of me, completely unrecognisable with my head in a helmet screwed to the bed.  Completely vulnerable and completely on my own.  

No one else can get into an MRI machine with me to hold my hand and tell me it’s ok.  No one else can actually take my MRI for me.  I have to do it.  Just me.  Somehow from somewhere I have to take a breath and find my courage to do it again and again and again. That’s where we all find our brave.  In the darkest places, on our own.

So now it’s six years of having so many MRI scans I can’t count.  I know the drill inside out and backwards.  I wear comfy clothes I won’t have to remove.  I take off all my jewellery beforehand so I don’t need to fiddle around.  I sit on the chair for the cannula to be inserted which will administer the contrast a third of the way through.  I get into the machine, stick in the ear plugs, make sure my long hair is out of the way and I’m not lying on it and its not tickling me.  I scratch my nose, the padding is put down the side of my head inside the bottom half of the helmet and then I close my eyes and do not open them until I am pulled all the way out at the end.  The helmet is put over my head and locked into place, I’m given the emergency button and I slide into the machine.  Then I use mindfulness to be fully aware of what is happening to me.  I experience the changing rhythmic noises during the scans; I feel the heat under my back and my feet getting cold; the quiet spaces between the series of images. I’m aware of when my head or my spine is being scanned because of the movement back and forth of the table.  I feel the closeness of the walls of the machine to my arms by my side.  And then the relief as I’m finally extracted.  

I don’t like MRIs.  I never will.  I have however found a way to experience them, holding onto my temporary feelings of anxiety; knowing I am safe, even though I don’t feel safe.  Knowing that I am ultimately caring for me because knowing if anything has changed within my nervous system means that I can be cared for appropriately by my neurologist and my MS nurse.  

I have found that being brave and feeling brave are two entirely different things.