My head is placed between two soft cushions surrounded by a plastic
firm head mold with this hockey mask-looking contraption placed over it. I’m looking through white triangles. The assistant then adds a triangular mirror to
garnish the whole look. They hand me two
yellow foamy ear protectors and I squeeze them tightly into my ear canals. And abruptly,
the quiet buzz of the electric sliding table whisks my brain under the giant,
soon-to-be-whirling, magnets for my MRI. The technologists leave the room.
Interesting… the thoughts one has getting these sorts of
tests. I go from being amazed by the
technology to focusing on the deafening noise of the machine gun-like sounds,
wondering what’s going on there and how it all works to give pictures of the
inside of my skull. I’ve never been claustrophobic and don’t mind these tunnel
shaped tests. In fact, sometimes I
almost fall asleep. That may be more reflective
of how tired I am these days though.
I know lying there, in my nothingness, that the results of
these test might be very troubling – life changing. Life shortening. In a few short hours my kind oncologist will
show me the results – we will know whether there is any evidence of metastatic
disease. Cancer recurrence. And I feel my head getting
warmer; my face flushing. My breathing
becoming rhythmic and slow. I’m actually getting sleepy despite all this noise.
And after 30 minutes or so it’s all done. Well, except for the funny look on the faces
of the technicians. “Ah, you look pretty
red.” And she pulls up my hair from around my ears and says, “Your ears are
bright red as well… and warm.” “Are you
feeling OK?” she asks looking concerned.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” I respond cheerily.
“Although my face does feel a little warm.” She leaves the room and summons the radiologist.
A few minutes later this young… Did I mention young? ( How
did I get to the age where professionals no longer are my age but my children’s?) Anyway, this young doctor takes a look at me
and says, “Are you OK?” “And of course I
simply smile my big toothy grin, “Yes, I’m just fine. Just a little warm and slightly itchy.” Needless to say, I had the privilege of
hanging out there longer than expected.
After a wonderful strawberry, tangerine and cranberry salad
at the local Freshens restaurant, I found myself up on the 10th floor of the Gonda building with torrents of snow showers tumbling down around
the city as far as the eye could see.
Beautiful. Spectacular.
Breath-taking. I’m an hour and a half
away from getting my results. Just moments
before, I witnessed a patient about my age leaving the oncology floor. Her face blotchy and red with tears dripping.
Our eyes met only briefly. Her pain and
sorrow evident as she quickly looked away. Her eyes in disbelief and wonder. I could only imagine her news. I longed to embrace her and comfort her.
My own fear, in the back of my mind of course, was that my personal
journey would turn back to brambles, thorns, and loneliness once again. And that was a hard, very hard place to be.
But I am at peace as
I wait for the test results. Resting on the experience of God's closeness and peace not only through the brambles, but in them. Embracing the story He has written for me -whatever and wherever He leads me.
“No evidence of
metastatic disease.” That’s what she
said with a grin on her face. And I
grinned backed.
Today’s Journey Joys:
safe travels through a winter wonderland in Minnesota, homemade comfy lentil soup,
quiet solitude, roosters crowing, seedlings emerging, child hugs, prayers
graciously granted, fragrant essential oils, sun peeking out from behind winter
clouds.
