Friday was the day of the big test. With some trepidation, I miss lunch and bum a lift to the hospital. In-patient radiology department, yellow zone, level 2 reception.
“Take the lift down. Left, all the way to the end, then left. Give the receptionist your name.”
The lift doors open, but then refuse to close. A young nurse comes in and waits for things to happen. Realising that she has been here before, she grabs the edge of the door and pushes, pulls and kicks it. “Sometimes the porters give the doors a shake and it works”. It works.
I’m handed a bar-code. This is my new identity. “Turn right, keep going straight till you get to Waiting 1 & 2. Wait there”. Stress. Do I wait in Waiting 1 or in Waiting 2? I shouldn’t have worried, Waiting 1 & 2 is a single broom closet overfilled with plastic chairs.
I am far too early. Squeezing through the assembled out-in-patients I take a seat at the back. We watch as the in-in-patients, gurney bound, pass to-and-fro before us. Minutes pass in silence. There isn’t a clock in the room. Time stops…
I’m woken from my reverie by my name being called, and am taken into suite 1. “Wait here”. There is a row of 4 seats facing a single seat. There is only an elderly woman sitting at the end of the row. She seems anxious. I join her and wait. I’m feeling quite spacey now, for some reason.
A young woman is shown out of the inner sanctum, and asked to take a seat. The nurse would return in ten minutes. At first, the young woman sits in the single seat facing us. She looks tired. Her heart is heavy. She is over compensating. “Oh, this is a bit exposed”, she laughs, “I’ll sit in the corner”.
She continues talking as she moves across the room. She laughs nervously as she settles next to me. Something isn’t right…
My left wing rises, transparent, shimmering, and stretches around her. She is completely enclosed and protected within its embrace.
I sit bolt upright, shocked, awake and aware again.
The woman remains enclosed within my wing. Slowly, gently, the wing withdraws.
My name is called again. A different nurse. “I’m going to take you to the other suite”, she smiles. Grateful, I rise and follow her into the corridor, glance back at the now relaxed young woman, and head for suite 2.
Walking in, I’m shocked at the set up. I’ve been expecting a massive metal tube, and all that is in here is a doughnut in the middle of the room. Then I realise that it was an MRI when I had the brain hemorrhage. This was CT. The CT scanner seemed much less intimidating.
I’m settled onto the table, ready to enter the portal, feet first. The most uncomfortable pillow on the planet, all hard formed plastic and no give, is placed under my head. It is too high at the neck. “Can you reach round and grasp your hands behind your head?”
There then follows basic instruction. How to hold my breath (make sure you fill your lungs to the same volume each time…?!?), how the table will move (think jack-hammer on speed), and where the nursing staff will be (well out of the way, behind lead lined walls… )
The table judders. Red lasers play across my torso. A disembodied voice, apparently from the depths of the machine, “Can we have a few practices? Deep breath… and hold.” How much air do I have in there? “And breathe gently”. This is possibly the most uncomfortable position possible…
The machine begins to power up. Mechanical whirring, electrical hum. I close my eyes. The table moves. “Deep breath… and… ”
Fire touches my head, and shoots down both arms. The heat is incredible. My eyes shoot open. The machine blinks. Lasers slash across my chest. The table judders.
“Breathe gently.” Residual heat fades as the table resets. “Deep breath…”
Intense, unbearable, fire.
Slowly, they unfold. Stretch. Feathers shake out. My wings fill the room. The fire burns.
The table resets. “Deep breath…”
The room is too small. Cramped wings enfold the machine. Substance and form begin to disturb their transparency.
The table resets. “Deep breath…”
“Oh, shit…” Night-blue, depth of black, shimmers… “Hopefully this won’t be showing up on the results…”
Ten minutes later, shell shocked, wings withdrawn, I’m getting off the table. “The results will be sent to the doctor who requested the scan. They should be with them in the next 7-10 days”. I smile weakly, unable to make eye contact, as I head back towards the lifts.
I have little understanding of why this had to be shared, nor what it actually all means. The logical side of the brain wonders if the location of these events is in some way important – X rays, electrical and magnetic fields all in close proximity. Can they affect such a change in perception of the local energy field around us? After all, it was only whilst the machine was running that everything “unfolded”. The instinctive side of the brain suspects that the next post may explain more than science can…