I’m currently doing a creative writing course, and I thought this piece might be of interest, about when I was diagnosed in 1996:
“Try to relax”, said a voice in my ear as my head enters the white plastic tunnel. There is a faint whirring sound, and a strong smell of disinfectant. I stop moving. Three seconds of silence, then the machine begins to clunk and hum, and the whole tunnel vibrates.
I try to relax. Then, without warning, my knee shoots up and connects painfully with the roof. “Try and remain still”, says the voice, calmly. I try and remain still. I succeed for a short time, then all my muscles spasm together. The clunking and humming is replaced by the whirring, and I come back out of the tunnel.
“This will only work if you stay still”, says the doctor, in his best patient voice.
“If I could stay still, you wouldn’t be putting me in there”.
There is some discussion among the assembled medical staff. One emerges with a small white pill and a glass of water.
“Is that temazepam? Because I’ve had it before, and it doesn’t help.”
“Lets just give it a try, shall we?”
Whirr. Clunk, hum. Whirr.
“The temazepam doesn’t seem to be working.” Silence.
“We’ll try something else. Hold still, and don’t look at your hand.” There is a sharp pain in my hand. Whirr. Clunk.
I’m in a cocoon. There is a soft, musical humming, and a soothing vibrating motion. I sing along.
“We can hear you”, says the voice in my ear, and I smile.
Some time passes. I am quite disappointed when the whirr signals that I have to leave.
The doctors show me some colourful pictures on a screen. They try and tell me what they mean, but I don’t really care.
