Compassionate Conversations: Why I Thanked My Tension During an MRI
Compassionate Conversations:
Why I Thanked My Tension During an MRI
“When will I get the results?” I asked the nurse as she inserted the IV into my left arm.
“You should hear back on Monday or Tuesday,” she said. I didn’t have to wait that long.
Fast forward two hours, I’d only been home from the MRI appointment for about twenty minutes and my phone started to ring.
My in-laws were dropping my kids off and I walked away to answer the phone—I could see it was my doctor’s office calling and I did not have a good feeling about it.
“You need to go to the emergency room right away. Your MRI showed a right distal ICA pseudo aneurysm with 60% stenosis,” a voice said with some urgency.
In the ER during a global pandemic. YAY.
When a pain in my head woke me up in the middle of the night a little over a month ago, I thought I was going to die. I felt like my head was going to explode. I’ve never experience pain like this in my life (and for reference, I have multiple tattoos and I’ve given birth naturally twice—things that our society labels as “painful experiences”). My husband said it sounded like I had a migraine and so I just got through it. Four days later I finally started to feel somewhat normal and then two weeks later the headache still hadn’t completely gone away. I went to my doctor and she said it was probably a hormonal migraine but that we should get an MRI just to be sure.
I almost didn’t keep that MRI appointment. I was finally started to feel better after the (what I thought was a) migraine that set off this series of events about a month ago. When the hospital called to tell me how much the MRI would cost, I was speechless. I was also scared—what would show up on that MRI? Was something terribly wrong? (In which case I would feel justified in spending all that money.) Or would the scan come back totally flawless? (In which case I would feel silly and ashamed for spending so much of our money.)
As I laid on the table listening to the classic rock radio station, the bed started to move into the tube. When my head was in and I saw just how small the space was, I panicked for a moment. Then the table stopped moving and my legs and waist were still out in the open.
“Okay, I can do this,” I thought.
I was surprised by how loud the machine was but when it got going, I could feel it doing its thing. My skin got prickly in some places and then I began to feel afraid that I wasn’t supposed to have my contacts in. I developed this irrational fear that my eyes were going to melt out of my head.
Then another part of me began to speak sense: “If you weren’t supposed to wear contacts, they would have asked you about them. Okay, I can do this.”
Then the repetitive, rhythmic, loud sounds began to kind of vibrate my brain towards quiet. I was actively coaxing my body to relax. “I am safe; This is okay,” I kept telling myself. As a mom of two young kids, I viewed this as an opportunity to relax and do nothing and maybe even take a nap—I actually do think I feel asleep at one point.
But I noticed one area that wouldn’t relax—the front of my right hip. It’s a spot that frequently hangs on for dear life. I found myself addressing my hip,
“Thank you for keeping me safe. It’s okay to let go now,” I said.
Then I had an overwhelming feeling that I was taking such good care of myself by showing for the appointment.
A few years ago, my therapist introduced me to the work of Dr. Kristen Neff on self-compassion. In my mind, Dr. Neff is to self-compassion as Brené Brown is to shame. I started incorporating self-compassion practices into my daily life. As a result, it was incredibly rewarding to witness a part of myself speaking with compassion toward another part of myself totally spontaneously and unguided by my willing, conscious self.
Many times in the past, I’ve worked hard to release tension, not recognizing or only marginally acknowledging that it served a purpose. In times of stress or when I feel unsafe, my muscles tense because they’re trying to keep me safe. Even if I’m not being chased by a tiger, my nervous system can get ratcheted up by everyday stressors. On some level, my body recognizes that it’s threatened and unsafe. Tense muscles can be a form of self-preservation.
Our bodies are amazingly intelligent super computers. When we can cut through the noise and really tune in to what’s going on, we can acknowledge the body’s innate wisdom. And then, we can come to a place of gratitude.
I’ve had to learn to tend to myself as I would my child or a dear friend. I often have internal conversations validating my feelings. “Wow, I would have been worried about that too,” one part of me says to another part of me. That’s self-compassion and it’s been a vital tool in skillfully navigating life.
Self-compassion is self-care. And, I think, practicing compassion toward yourself can make it easier to offer compassion to others.
The next time you notice pain, or tightness, or tension in your body, ask yourself, “What’s holding me back from feeling safe in this moment?” Have a compassionate conversation with yourself about that answer. Maybe you can address it and make a change. Maybe it’s one of those things in life that just requires a mindset shift. Then take a moment to thank your body for trying to protect you. If you’ve made a change or a mindset shift toward feeling safer, share that information with yourself. Maybe even tell your tense parts that it’s safe for them to relax. If they aren’t able to relax yet, offer compassion and gratitude for that as well. “I see you’re still worried about this. Thank you for trying to keep me safe.”
As I’m entering into this phase of healing, I’m trying to offer myself loads and loads of self-compassion. When I feel fragile, I remind myself, “I’m taking such good care of me.” That in itself feels incredibly nourishing.
