The Cat Scan

The Cat Scan

(First I will put some melodic Chopin music on in the background as I describe this moment)

She lays there, her young green eyes darting nervously about the room. I quietly hold her hand and reassure her, that yes, she will be fine.

My dear mother is in for a Cat Scan. Laying on the bed she looks small and thin. I stroke her face and hair. To me she looks both young and ancient. There’s an eternal liveliness to her eyes. I go sit in the hall while she goes through her procedure. It is both completely factual and it is a mystery. Health. 88 years old, soon to be 89. Yes, there she is, laying on the gurney looking so intact, so complete, so fragile and so strong. I marvel at her.

I sit in the neutral hall while the computer voice tells her to breath, or raise her arms or do something else. I sit under a perfect circle of light in this completely neutral environment. The circle of light is calming to me and it mutes my growing apprehension as to what will be found in the cat scan. Under this neutral light I allow meditative thoughts to emerge, to quietly flow while I look ahead.

Of course part of me is scared and wishes to just drift off to some safe fetal position somewhere away from here. But I am called back to the room and there she is, my own dear mother laying there on the white bed. So helpless, so strong, so wise.

The procedure is almost over. I gaze past this moment, past the sterile environment to muse on the richness of my mother's life. We pack up and leave. I hold her arm as we walk together under the calm pool of light into a future of questions and more doctor visits.