One reality of my post-cancer life is the annual MRI. On one hand, it's reassuring to be closely monitored; on the other, it's a reminder of that unspoken risk of recurrence. When I think about it, I feel as if I'm living on borrowed time. Though aren't we all?
MRIs are intrusive and coldly clinical. When I arrive, I'm triple-checked for metal: jewelry? pants zipper? pace-maker? Then my arm is hooked up to an intravenous drip delivering the contrasting agent. Despite all the needles of cancer treatment, this part is still difficult. I have a history of vasovagal syncope, which sounds much more medically valid than saying I faint (smirk!) in response to needles and blood draws.
With that arm over my head, I lie facing down on a platform that moves me deep into the cavern of the scanner. "Don't move," the technicians remind me before the machine sucks me in. "Try to keep your heartbeat regular. Take shallow breaths." With that, the very act of breathing goes from unconscious to an unnatural undertaking that I'm probably doing wrong.
And then, after the flurried preparations and attentive technicians, I'm suddenly alone with my racing heartbeat and disobedient lungs, lost in the bowels of a coldly clinical machine. Even the coldly clinical room is empty, since the technicians must leave for their safety. Another discomforting thought.
That's when the scanner begins its horrible noises: throbbing clanks, guttural whirs, chainsaw buzzes, sometimes with a ghastly rhythm, like some new form of punk rock or mental torture. The technicians provide headphones with the radio piped in -- a kind but useless attempt to humanize the experience. No headphones could cancel that noise, and no song could be heard over that racket.
But I've found peace in the scanner, oddly enough.
"Could you please turn the radio off?" I ask the technicians as they prepare.
They frown. "Are you sure? You'll be in there a long time."
I'm sure. Deep in the scanner, I'm deep in thought.
As the chaos begins, Psalm 139 floats into my mind, a life raft for the soul. I grab on and find every comfort I need:
1. Being engulfed by an unthinking, unfeeling machine reminds me that I am also engulfed by a protective, loving God.
You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.
I've often thought that the human relationship to God is like that of an unborn child -- the baby is so reliant on mother, so engulfed by mother, that he/she can have no knowledge of mother. Mother is everything to that baby, the whole world. Life without mother would be unimaginable and impossible.
Thinking about God hemming me in makes me feel safe, even cozy in that MRI.
2. Despite the empty room and the loneliness of the MRI experience, I am not alone. I am never alone.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
I remember the comfort of this thought early in my cancer experience. As wonderful and necessary as friends and family were, no one was there when I woke in the middle of the night in desperate need of comfort. No one but God. And He isn't only present in the extremes of human experience -- He also holds me fast in the palm of His hand.
3. The MRI scanner gives a snapshot of my insides, but God knows the whole history of my insides and outsides and He knows every outcome.
For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.
No cancer can escape God's notice. No cancer can rob me of my pre-ordained days. Sometimes it seems we waste our human lives trying to wrestle control from God or being resentful that He controls what we can't. I am reminded that His control is the ultimate comfort. I let go and relax.
These verses also remind me that the human body is fearfully and wonderfully made. Graduate studies in molecular biology only increased my amazement for life -- its complexity and its continuity. When I consider all that could go wrong in the estimated 37.2 trillion living cells going about their business inside me, I remember that cancer is rare, and life is incredible.
4. The scanner searches my physical body, but God knows my very heart.
Search me, God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
If God were an angry, exacting God, His knowledge of my every thought would be terrifying. But He's a loving God who cares about my anxiety. What a joy that He cares about this frivolously shallow-breathing heart of mine! Over and over again, the Old Testament tells us that God is "gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love." Such knowledge IS too wonderful for me.
My arm goes cold as the iv starts dripping contrast into my veins. From experience, I know we've reached the final scan. I think about God's presence bathing every cell of my body as my blood distributes the contrast agent. I think about the world as a contrasting agent: the place where the soul sees good versus evil and has a chance to choose between them. Help me chose good, I pray. And help me reflect Your light in this dark world so others see the contrast and chose You too.
The bone-jarring noise comes to a sudden halt and I meditate on the difference between the world's clanking chaos and God's promised peace. As the platform moves back toward the light, I realize that's what I've been experiencing: peace. My breathing is relaxed. My heartbeat is relaxed. My soul is relaxed. I am aware of something better than cancer-free living. I recall another beautiful line of Psalm 139:
How precious to me are your thoughts, God!
How vast is the sum of them!
Were I to count them,
they would outnumber the grains of sand—
when I awake, I am still with you.
I emerge from the scanner smiling, but not from relief as the technicians might assume. I "awake" and God is still with me. I climb off the platform more aware of His precious thoughts.
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