Epilepsy Surgery Screening, Day 1

UCLA Hospital Admissions Office, 10:50 am PDT -- Everything has gone according to plan and ahead of schedule so far. Cheryl and I arrived at UCLA at 7:30 this morning, an hour ahead of when they requested her to check in for a 9:00 MRI. We took the opportunity to stroll around the lower campus, which was a beautiful as any university setting can be. The low angle summer morning sunlight glinting through the spray of sprinklers, slanting across carefully manicured grounds now fully recovered from a year of undergraduate abuse, provided a welcome opportunity to work off nervous energy.

Cheryl went into the MRI as soon as she arrived, so she started and finished about 20 minutes early. The noise in the waiting area whenever the heavy, warning-label festooned doors opened was incredible, which of course is nothing compared to Cheryl’s experience, stuffed as she was head-first into the tube. She equated the din of the scanning mode to a jackhammer or fire alarm, which was coupled with a constant mechanical clicking that was simply the noise of the machine in “on” mode. Earplugs are provided, but she still emerged looking (and feeling) like she just stumbled out of the Whisky after a particularly energetic Van Halen show.

Bloodwork followed shortly thereafter, the technicians drawing enough blood to make her fingers tingle. But we’re still early, so we have that going for us, potential blackouts notwithstanding.

We arrived at the general admission desk for the hospital early enough that they do not have a room for Cheryl yet. Happily, we ran into one of our pastors who was visiting our friend Daphne, who had surgery this week and is recovering on the same floor that Cheryl is likely to occupy for the next several days. We took the opportunity to say hello to Daphne and her parents, glad to see her sitting up and enjoying visitors.

Now we wait for a room. I’ve seen far too many unhappy children today who are suffering from various maladies of their own. We just met a little girl, no more than three years old, sniffling in the arms of her father after enduring a bad night of epileptic seizures. She will be spending the week here on the pediatric floor doing exactly what Cheryl is doing. No matter how bad things seem to be for yourself, the same condition applied to a child is instantly orders of magnitude worse.

One other thing: Michael woke up with a fever. Cheryl’s parents have the dubious honor of dealing with that while we sort things out here at UCLA. He is apparently in good spirits, though, but he misses Mommy.

UCLA Medical Center, 7th Floor, 2 pm -- We had to wait awhile for a bed to open up, but by noon Cheryl was beginning to settle into her home for the next several days … across the hall from our friend Daphne. Daphne’s roommate had gone through Cheryl’s telemetry regimen two weeks ago, and was recovering from surgery that had been ordered suddenly due to the discovery of a tumor.

The nurses took Cheryl’s vital signs and the resident came by to obtain a medical history and perform some seemingly innocuous tests: how many animals can you name in a minute? Where are you? Touch my finger with yours then touch your nose. Lots of reflex, memory and coordination exercises. The nurses have been unable to set an IV line, however, much to Cheryl’s discomfort.

Daphne is going home, so the staff moved her roommate across the hall to be Cheryl’s roommate. This is a nice development, because she has already gone through what Cheryl is going to experience. Despite our requests, however, no lunch has arrived for Cheryl. She insisted that I eat, at least, so off I go for hospital cafeteria food.

UCLA Medical Center, 7th Floor, 3:30 pm – In my absence, the charge nurse managed to insert an IV stub in her left forearm, which is now in so much pain that she can’t move it. That’s probably a good thing, because as I walked into the room, another doctor was affixing electrodes to her head for the EEG. Each electrode is held down with gauze and glue. I can see already these will be no fun at all to remove. Once all the electrodes are in place, the doctor puts a little cap on her head through which the multicolored wires run like a Technicolor braid. She is now tethered to a 17 foot cord, and distinctly uncomfortable.

Still no lunch; I went to the nurse’s station to ask more forcefully this time. Everyone is shocked that it hasn’t arrived, but others’ shock don’t take the edge off of hunger when you haven’t eaten for 10 hours.

UCLA Medical Center, 7th Floor, 6:30 pm – Things are improving. Lunch, in the form of a ham sandwich, finally arrived (after the resident scrounged up graham crackers and applesauce in horror that Cheryl hadn’t been fed). Even better, dinner also arrived on time, so things seem to be sorted out on the dining front.

Dr. Newer stopped by to let us know that the MRI is reportedly normal. So, no tumors, which is always good news.

We have gotten to know Cheryl’s roommate and her mother better. They have already been a great resource about what to expect next. In particular, the PET scan that Cheryl is to have Friday morning, while similar to an MRI, is much less noisy. Good news. The bad news is that the PET scan involves an injection of radioactive sugar, so Cheryl will not be allowed to eat again in the morning until after the test. The scan traces sugar consumption by the brain; where it doesn’t consume, it doesn’t work.

The doctors have cut off Cheryl’s use of Lamictal, which she takes in relatively small quantities but, probably because it is a newer drug to her, seems to have been effective in quelling seizures lately. She will also take only half of her usual dosage of Tegretol. Even with these measures, the doctors think she might not show seizures until Monday when the medicines have flushed from her system.

When I left for the night, Cheryl’s clothes and activities were unpacked and put away, she was fed, wired (literally) and as content as one could expect to be.