Stress Response

It hurt again. The general adaptation syndrome had begun; the alarm was setting in. I had never felt pain like this before, hence the four hospital trips in three days. When I tore the ligaments in my knee it didn’t even feel this bad. That was just my knee though; this is my whole body. As I sit in the emergency room, yet again, I crumple over myself, barely responsive to the questions they’re asking me. The most ridiculous question I could hear in was, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you experiencing?” I want to scream at the nurse, but can’t find the strength to speak, much less lift my head. My emotional stress response of anger and annoyance was not the best choice productively, nor did it make me feel any better. This, though, was the resistance stage of the general adaptation syndrome. My nerves are tense as they move me from bed ten to bed three. I've learned from my extensive visits to the ER that the more critical your condition is, the smaller your number gets. As I once again watch the IV needle connect to my vein, I couldn’t help but wonder why this was happening to me, and indulge in my self-pity. My anger had now succumbed to dejection in this instance of exhaustion, which is the end result of the general adaptation syndrome. The clock hits 2:00 am just as I listlessly close my eyes, falling asleep on the gurney, connected to countless wires and constant beeping machines.

The emergency visits decreased over time, but the doctor's office visits increased. I swear it is some sort of conspiracy correlation. I've had four different doctor consultations from different doctors by now. I still don’t know what’s wrong or if it will come back. I've lost five more pounds; that puts me at 98 pounds even. As I sit on the uncomfortable chair the doctor tells me that I have to have an ultrasound of my upper stomach. I insist I'm not pregnant; no, it’s a procedure to get pictures of the rest of your insides, she insists. I solemnly agree. As I get back into my car and turn the ignition I realize I’ve been sweating and am now shaking. The nervousness was due to an unconscious system which regulates the body's resources for emergencies, no wonder I had not noticed it until then. I convince myself that it is not a big deal and they won't find anything.

Going through the ultrasound was not as bad as I thought it would have been. I lay down on the doctor's bed, almost falling asleep. The practitioner is angry half the time because I’m too skinny to get really good pictures of anything. I almost laugh at her disapproving face about my weight – like I had tried to be this small to mimic the anorexic models on TV. It’s over quickly and now all I had to do was wait for the results. The day the results come is one of the most dreadful I’ve had. I got a phone call on the way to school. The unconcerned nurse on the other end of the receiver informs me that I have a cyst on my kidney – and she has no more information on it, and then hangs up. The birds flying overhead had never looked so profound than at that moment in time. This could be cancer, this could be nothing – my life depends on a small fluid-filled sac that was not supposed to be there.

I’m scheduled for a CAT scan in two weeks after the phone call to be able to find out if I’m slowly dying from my random errors in DNA replication or if I have nothing to worry about. I have two choices about how to take this scan, I can either drink some milkshake concoction of chemicals that would light up my organs after drinking it or I can have iodine injected into my bloodstream so it would light up different parts of my system. I had seen an allergic reaction to the iodine solution on the television from one of those doctor shows – the patients throat would almost instantly inflame and close off the airway, forcing the doctors to make their own airway in the neck of the patient if they detected the allergic reaction soon enough – so, I choose the former rather than the latter for fear of suffocation. The idea of the testing instilled fear and made itself the whole of my emotional response.

The milkshake concoction is the worst tasting milkshake of my life. My stomach churns just to drink it and my esophagus seems to close itself off. This endocrine system response was not welcomed in this particular time of stress. The secretion of cathecholamines to increase mental activity into my bloodstream only further enhanced the unwanted taste. I brush my teeth five times just to get the taste out of my mouth, but I still taste it on the way to the scan. The machine is in a bungalow looking office, which doesn’t look like it should hold that type of machinery at all. When I walk in the two administrators welcome me cordially and ask if I had taken the milkshake, when I positively reply, they give me a gown to change into and tell me to wait in the other room. I change and wait patiently on the floating table which will put me through the machine. I’m freezing, but sweating. My blood was moving inward from the periphery towards my inner organs – a function of the endocrine system. My eyes flutter as I think about how cold, yet hot I am. My leg twitches and I wring my hands together nervously, but this waiting wasn’t so bad.

The engineer administrator, who is in charge of staying in the testing room with me to make sure I am alright throughout the process, brought in a tray of needle sets. I stare at them blankly, with huge amounts of unconscious apprehension, not knowing why he’s brought them in – I had already taken the milkshake. He began to clean a spot on my arm for an intravenous needle. I ask why I need an IV for a simple scan and he chuckles as he replies that it is for the iodine solution.

My world begins to spin. Anxiety on top of apprehension comes as a quick unexpected emotional response. This is the beginning of the general adaptation syndrome all over again, the unconscious mental alarm sounds. I stand up, sit down and stand up again trying to initiate my fight-or-flight response to the administrator's surprise. I try to say something, but I instantly get a dry mouth. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and a muffled yelp comes out. All I can see with my mind's eye is the scene from the television where the doctors’ force the patient to breathe again, basically slitting her throat to get to her trachea. The administrator tells me to sit down, but all I can really hear is the noise the teacher from Charlie Brown makes when she talks. I’m offered a glass of water, and I take it gladly to enable myself to speak once again.

Once I take the first drink I explain my fears to the administrator; my sad attempt at resistance. He again chuckles at me while he explains how in his seven years of administrating the exact same test to countless numbers of people he has only had one patient who had a minor reaction to the iodine solution. Her cure was just to take an antihistamine and wait it out; she was fine. My throat begins to itch and I feel that it is hard to breathe already as he convinces me I will be fine, and he that will be right there watching if anything does happen. He injects the solution and tells me that it will feel as though I’m urinating on myself. I lay down as I feel my throat close up and panic. Although this could be a sign that I’m allergic to the solution, I just lay there as the machine begins to move. The panic I experience at this point is completely internal; my blank stare is solely a mask.

I zone out as I begin to sweat again; my stomach churns but it could just be from the milkshake. Although, I could be confusing the milkshake with my endocrine system secreting numerous hormones to make me have a bodily response to the stress I am experiencing – maybe I had something bad for lunch. Whatever the cause, I can feel my leg twitch again to the rapid beat of my heart and I close my eyes as I start to feel as though I am urinating on myself. The exhaustion and the end of the process of the general adaptation syndrome sets in as I manage a laugh, accepting that this is how my life will be for a while, close my eyes, and begin to cry.