Once I change into the requisite gown and no-slip socks, I return to the recliner and am handed paperwork about the medicine I will be given. I am to sign each packet, one for each medication, to indicate I understand the risks. Diphenhydramine and lorazepam I am familiar with; many of the others I have not yet encountered.
Prochlorperazine. Treats severe nausea and vomiting. Also treats schizophrenia. This medicine may cause the following problems: Tardive dyskinesia (a muscle disorder that could become permanent), neuroleptic malignant syndrome (a nerve disorder that could be life-threatening).
Valproate sodium. Treats seizures. Possible side effects: blistering, peeling, red skin rash; sudden and severe stomach pain.
Methylprednisone. A steroid. Treats inflammation. This medicine may cause mood or behavior changes.
Magnesium sulfate. Prevents seizures, especially in pregnant women with severe toxemia.
Dihydroergotamine. Also known as DHE. Treats migraine headaches. Possible side effects: chest pain, confusion, sudden or severe headache. This medicine may cause the following problems: risk of heart attack or heart rhythm problems; increased blood pressure; higher risk of stroke.
If I have any negative reactions to any of these, the nurse tells me, we can remove it from the infusion cycle. “Do people often have negative reactions?” I ask. Her face remains neutral as she tells me, “DHE can be difficult. But we can talk about that when it’s time. Now, what would you like for lunch? We are allowed to order you a sandwich from Subway.”
I sign the papers, indicating my understanding, request a turkey sandwich with yellow mustard, and recline the chair as far back as it can go. The nurse brings me warm blankets and dims the lights, and once the IV is placed, I begin to drift off in a haze of lorazepam and diphenhydramine, listening to a podcast on the history of the English language.
From time to time, the nurse reappears, swapping out an IV bag for the next medicine and making sure I’m doing okay. Every once in a while, she rechecks my blood pressure. I am groggy for most of this, and don’t really notice any reactions to the medications I’m being given. Before the DHE, however, the nurse comes and sits by my side. “Now,” she says, looking even more stern than usual, “this medicine you’re about to have administered. Some people have very strong reactions. For some people, they say it feels as though they are having a heart attack. It narrows blood vessels, which for some people helps them, but for others can feel uncomfortable.”
“I don’t think I want to do this,” I say, but I’m sleepy, and not putting up much of a fight.
“How about this,” she says. “I will stay with you while the medicine is administered, and if you feel uncomfortable from the effects of it, we can remove it from the afternoon cycle of medicine and not include it over the next two days.”
I nod, and she puts the bag of DHE onto the IV stand and does what she needs to do with my IV to start the medicine flowing. She sits down next to me and holds my hands, looking directly into my eyes. “It will take a few minutes,” she says, “but if you feel bad, just squeeze my hands. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and together we wait.
It doesn’t take too long for me to begin to feel something. “My chest feels a little tight,” I tell her, but what’s really terrifying is what happens next: My entire brain begins to feel tight. But not just tight; it’s like my brain is suffocating. It feels as though it’s being squeezed from the inside out, like someone is siphoning all the liquid from inside it, like there’s a liquid center that’s rapidly being sucked out. “Oh god, my head,” I say, and start to cry. The scraping headache I’ve felt for so long—the one I always describe to my neurologists as feeling like someone’s taking a melon baller and scraping out the inside of my skull; this is exactly what that feels like, except all over my brain, instead of just the bottom of it. My heart is racing, and my chest feels tight and my brain feels tight, and I’m squeezing the nurse’s hands as tightly as my brain is squeezing from the medicine, and she’s telling me I’m going to be okay, that it’s almost done, that we don’t have to do it again, it’s just the narrowing of blood vessels, the pain of constriction, and it will be over soon.
And then it is. I’m given more lorazepam, more diphenhydramine. Tissues to wipe my tears. The nurse tells me we’ll skip the second dose of DHE scheduled for the afternoon, and that she’ll make a note to not include it in the list of meds for tomorrow and the next day. She brings me my Subway sandwich, and I eat it awkwardly, trying not to bend my IV elbow too much, and then I retreat into the haze of the relaxation drugs as I await my second round.
When
