UP FROM THE CHAIR Prologue
UP FROM THE CHAIR: Defeating Progressive MS Without Drugs
Terry L. Wahls, M.D.
PROLOGUE
"It could be that you will remain relatively stable, and it will never get much worse. Or this could be something far more serious. Potentially it could be bad, really bad. We need to scan your spinal cord to...."
The ringing phone interrupted Loren, my neurologist and colleague at the Marshfield Clinic in Wisconsin. He swiveled his chair away from me as he lifted the receiver. Speaking to the radiologist, whom he'd reached out to for immediate attention, he quietly said, "Hey John, thanks for calling back so quickly."
This was surreal. And terrifying. I could hardly gather my racing thoughts, but had full clarity about my kids and the time. It was already 6:05 p.m., and though the daycare center stayed open late to cover second shift for hospital staff, Zach and Zebby were probably wondering where I was.
Nodding, Loren said, "Thanks. I'll send her right down." He hung up the phone and turned to me, smiling. "John said he'll be finished with the scan he's working on in about ten minutes. You'll be next."
I knew only too well that bumping other patients who have been waiting weeks for their scans was not a good sign. The mounting urgency was frightening. I needed to get a grip on this; to understand what was happening. "Why do I need another scan? I had one earlier today."
Loren's voice shifted. He slipped into doctor dialect, the calming voice, smooth and silky and reassuring, that we physicians handle so deftly and use so frequently with patients and nurses. "That was focused on the bones. This is one is for the spinal cord. Once I see the images, I'll know whether I need to admit you."
Admit me? How bad was this?
En route to radiology, while trying to stay composed, I stopped at the nurses' station to call my partner, Jackie; her receptionist said she was with a patient and would take a message. I couldn't wait and neither could our eight-year-old son and five-year-old daughter. "I need you to pull her out of a room," I said, trying to contain my simmering panic.
After what seemed an eternity on hold, I finally heard Jackie's voice. She was stunned by my rambling update. "Admit you? To the hospital? Terry, what's happening?" I promised to call back with news when I had it; Jackie assured me she'd handle the kids.
On to the radiology waiting room, where a large sign warned patients to remove anything that might be affected by the MRI magnet; credit cards were the least of my worries. As I walked through the double doors, I was met by the technician, the same woman who'd done the MRI of my lower spine that afternoon. Earlier she had been warm and friendly. This time she did not smile or tell jokes. In fact, few words were spoken at all.
Sitting down on the table, I swung my feet up and lay back against the cold hard surface. A plastic cage was slid around my head and taped to my forehead, to keep me from moving my head. I heard a constant low rumble. Vibrations came up through the table, which began to slide, carrying me into the scanner. I was being launched into an undiscovered country I did not want to visit, and there was no escape. My arms brushed against the walls. I closed my eyes. I did not want to see that only a few inches separated me from this suddenly terrifying machine.
The table stopped moving. A voice came over the intercom, telling me the scan was about to begin. I heard loud popping behind me and on my right. The scanner growled and roared as it captured the information about the state of water molecules in my brain that the computer would translate, using powerful magnets and quantum mechanics, into precise anatomical images of my spinal cord, allowing the doctors, in theory at least, to diagnose what was wrong with me.
Thoughts jumbled in my head; Loren's words, "bad or really bad," continued to reverberate.
My life had been turned upside down in a seeming instant. I wondered how this could be happening. Worries flooded my mind, dominating my thoughts. Mentally I added up my life in dollars and cents. Disability and life insurance policies; two through the clinic, both of which ended on the last day of employment, and one that I owned. Though they seemed substantial, in reality they would not go far. All told, with everything factored in, I was looking at a fifth of my current salary with one hundred percent of my expenses. Which could, of course, grow exponentially, according to my possible special needs.
I felt sick. How would we manage? While stuck inside that noisy, confining coffin, scared out of my wits and nauseated with panic, I focused obsessively on money. I added the numbers again and again, hoping for better, more palatable results. The sums were always the same. Thinking about having tendered my resignation only a few weeks earlier was self-torture.
What was this disease that I was facing? How fast could it progress? Would I still have access to health insurance? Would my kids? How would I take care of my children?