A Medieval EMG

Last November, my neurologist suggested I undergo another EMG.

I hate EMGs; those robotic looking, steel contraption, medieval, torture EMGs

I've had several of them, and only one, performed by a pediatric neurologist, confirmed myopathy. Dr. Goldstein, Sam's neurologist, offered the answer to years of wobbly legs in June of '09, after he stuck a few needles in my muscles - the same day he performed a full body EMG on Sam, consisting of at least twelve needle inserts from cheek to foot.

Goldstein is still my hero.

I took a record of his findings to my internal medicine doctor, sure a referral to Emory would get things underway. Two months later, Emory docs ignored his findings and insisted on doing their own study. More needles. After inserting and wiggling six or seven needles deep in my muscles, they decided their findings contradicted the former doctor's analysis. I'll never forget the head doc hypnotically repeating, "Mam, You Do Not Have A Myopathy; Mam, You Do Not Have A Myopathy." Four or five times.

Of course they couldn't tell me why my legs didn't work. But they were confident I didn't have a myopathy. I wept as I hobbled out on confused, wobbly legs.

[Personal awareness moment: I've cried a lot leaving doctor's offices.]

Within a few months, Kaiser hired their own neurologist and she decided to stick me with her own needles on her own EMG machine. I sang to her. Actually, I sang to the Emory docs. But they didn't appreciate it like my Kaiser doc did.

Amazing Grace, Be Thou My Vision, On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand. They help.

Neither EMG confirmed the pediatric doc's findings. But a muscle biopsy in July '10 did. So I thought my EMG days were over.

But last November, that same Kaiser neurologist suggested I try one more EMG to determine if my latest back pain is muscle deterioration or nerve damage. Wanting to do everything I can to keep the body I have, I made the appointment and showed up last Monday for the procedure.

Turns out I was the first patient for a neurologist just back from four months of maternity leave. As I crawled up on the gurney and handed her my left arm, I couldn't believe I'd waited two months and driven through rush hour Atlanta traffic for a torture test by someone who'd been out of pocket for a while.

But she was nice.

So when she cranked up the voltage to begin the nerve conduction portion of the test - forget the needle muscle part - I gave her the benefit of the doubt. When she asked if I'd dropped things lately, I answered, "Yes!" cause I drop things almost daily. When she explained she was having to double the voltage to get a response on the machine, tears flowed from pain and from the fear that my hands were deteriorating.

She poked three needles in my arm for the muscle portion soon after. The third hit something so painful, I fell apart. Having been unnerved during the nerve conduction portion of the test, I didn't have much pain tolerance left for needles being wiggled in my muscles. We agreed to stop the test and I went home.

The memories made for a long day.

The next morning, the kind doctor called. Turns out the machine was broken. (Audible sigh.) I've been invited back for another round on the doc's lunch hour. Whenever I'm ready. But I've decided to pass on another medieval, torture EMG.

I'm just going to live for a while.

Another doc affirmed that for me this week. It's time to stop searching for answers and live with what is. I think medical science knows all it can know. It's time to let the God of the universe be all that He is. The Creator of every cell and the true power source for every ailing mitochondria in my body.

Less poking from the outside. More healing on the inside.

Whatever that may be.