CT Scan And PTSD

This past Wednesday, I went early to the hospital for a CT scan. It’s to eliminate various possible causes for the bleeding I experienced from my urinary tract. That has actually stopped on it’s own already. In an abundance of caution, the urologist still wanted to check. I’m fairly convinced it was a kidney (or bladder) stone passing. But since no stone was seen, a look around inside is appropriate. The order was for “CT with and without contrast.”

So what does that have to do with PTSD, you ask? To make the history short, I will say this: My late wife Barbara died from central line sepsis. I watched her get that type of infection 5 or 6 (I lost count) times while she was hospitalized for her colon issues. That gave me a significant needle phobia. I have been working with my therapist on that and honestly thought I was making progress.

I can easily handle vaccinations, and blood draws are bearable. The blood draws are often difficult because I have small veins that tend to collapse easily. But I am able to let that be done, usually without any real emotional impact. Wednesday, though, I learned just how far I still have to go on that front.

First point of note: Contrast can be administered via two different methods. It can either be drunk in a liquid form, or given through a relatively large bore IV. Given what I’ve already said, you can probably guess which one I ended up having. The thing is, the directions I was given suggested that I would be drinking it. “Clear liquids only and no food” for 4 hours before the test. So I was not mentally prepared for what actually happened.

I was not drinking it. Nurse took me back and gave me 16 ounces of water, because they needed my bladder full for the scan. She said she would come back in 30 minutes and take me for the scan. I drank the water, and a few minutes before I expected to see that nurse again, someone else comes up to my cubicle. “Hi. I’m here to place your IV.” After the initial shock reaction, I proceeded to tell this young nurse what he was facing. “I’m probably the worst stick you’ll ever do. I have tiny veins, they roll, and tend to collapse quickly.”

He assured me that he places all the IVs for the unit, and it will be fine. (Aside: Why don’t they ever listen to me? Is it because I am seen as a woman?) So after 3 or 4 minutes poking around, I told him “Go get someone else.” He acquiesced, unhappily. Someone that I assume was his supervisor shows up. After another 5 minutes or so, she says to me: “I am going to call the IV team.” That’s two failures so far.

Nurse Diana from the IV team arrives a few minutes later. She looks at the usual places on my arms, and decides, reluctantly, to go to the back of my hand. Inserts the IV fairly quickly and easily. Then almost immediately the vein collapses. That makes 3.

Diana begins looking around and decides to try my right inner forearm. Another apparent success, with little to know effort. This woman knows her business. She tapes down that IV, packs up her stuff, and starts to leave. She gets a few steps around the corner, and someone (maybe first nurse supervisor?) stops her. I can overhear a little of what’s being said. Enough to know she has reported her success, and to pick up that supervisor inform her that the IV she placed isn’t large enough for the requirement.

So she comes back into my cubicle. Tells me they gave her inaccurate directions, and apologizes profusely for having to try again. Keeping count? This makes 5. She left number 4 initially, just in case. Here comes a 24 gauge IV. Again, she apologizes that, with my veins, this might be difficult. Surprisingly, she places that successfully in my left outer forearm. Then she pulls number 4, since she managed to place number 5.

By this time, I am in a full-on panic attack. Thing is, up to this point, no one knows that. As an autistic person, I have learned how to mask my emotions fairly effectively. So Diana lets the nurses know that I now have my IV. It’s been about 45 minutes since the first attempt. So that original 30 minutes for the bladder to fill? It’s an hour and a quarter now. The first nurse comes back to escort me for the test. She takes one look at me, and asks “Are you okay?” “Well, I could use a hand standing if you don’t mind.”

She helps me to my feet, and takes me to the CT scanner room. It’s just across the hall, thankfully. I get over there. She turns me over to the CT tech. It’s mostly uneventful from there, with the exception of a very strange sensation during the 10 minute delay after the contrast injection. They inject the contrast, you get a full body “warm rush”, then they take pictures (several times in and out of the machine).

After that, you wait 10 minutes. During that wait time, I experienced what I can only describe as a rocking motion. Like I was on a boat cresting over waves every few seconds. I opened my eyes repeatedly to confirm I was not moving. No clue what that was about.

After the wait, one more time back into the machine. Oh, and apparently during the wait, while the “boat was rocking?” That’s when the tech removed my IV. I have no memory of that. Dissociation is a thing. She too sees I am, at that point, quite unstable. She helps me up. I thanked her for her time, and told her “You’re a very nice lady.” To which she responded, fully aware that I am transgender, “So are you!” The one bright moment in my day up until then.

She makes sure I feel like I can walk out to the exit. I assure her I can, and she gives me directions to the waiting room. My housemate is waiting there to take me home. A few minutes later, in the car, she asks me “What’s wrong?” I guess the mask was slipping a bit by then. I gave a quick “5 tries to place the IV, and I’m a bit panicked” response. That told her what she needed to know, and didn’t make me go through the whole story. She probably could see that would be counter productive at that point.

I got into the house, went to the restroom, and came back to my room. I video called Jenni, my girlfriend and the second love of my life. (Society says you only get one “love of your life.” Society is wrong.) I gave her a quick run down of the events, and pretty much broke down at that point. I was traumatized, and exhausted. She helped me pull myself back together. She is so good for me. You’d think I would just crawl back into bed at this point, right?

No such luck. It was lunch time, and then I also had a therapy session that afternoon. I grabbed a quick bite of lunch, and at Jenni’s strong urging, set an alarm and took a nap. I got up just in time for the therapy session. I went through the highlights of that story for the therapist’s sake. Obviously, I told them, I still have some work to do on that whole needle thing. We also, of course, touched on the fact that love had returned to my life. They were supportive, if cautious. Anyone surprised by that? Yeah, I thought not.

So, yeah. Wednesday was a month. I went to bed early that evening. Here’s an interesting bit. I slept almost 8 hours straight that night. That basically never happens any more. I am usually once a night, at minimum, to go to the bathroom. So, yeah I was exhausted. And honestly, yesterday was still a very rough day energy wise, I ended up taking a nearly 3 hour nap last evening. Which of course meant I could not get to sleep last night until very late.

I received the news this morning that the next test for my bladder issue is going to be delayed until 8-May. And I panicked again. Because that means months of no resolution. And that hurts my heart. I called Jenni. She talked me down again. I love that girl. She is incredibly good for me. I am incredibly blessed to have her.

The journey continues.

Tags: Bladder Health, Complex PTSD, love, medical tmi, ptsd, spoonie