Magnetic Resonance

Buzzard in the Forest of Dean

I’ve just had an MRI scan at Torbay hospital. The two guys doing it were great. One of them knew of me. The scan involved lying down flat on a wheeled thing that was moved to the scanner, and I was mechanically drawn into a tube-like chamber.

The scan involved lying there dead still while the machine made all sorts of loud mechanical noises, vibrationally penetrating me. I could feel it slowly going up and down my body. Heat built up underneath.

Inside the tube I felt entirely enclosed. I went inside myself and stayed there while the process went on, for a long 20-30 minutes. When I was ejected I was cemented to my position and spaced out. The two men had to pull me up to sitting position and I sat there like a blinking owl before detachedly swivelling into my wheelchair, to be propelled along the corridors by Tulki.

On the journey home I felt once-removed. Tulki and Lynne were chatting and I felt far away. At home I settled into an armchair for my weekly meditation (7pm GMT on Sundays for 30 mins, every week). My aura was shattered, gone, yet I felt deeply interiorised in a void space.

I could feel my friends upstairs looking intently at, or through, me, as if analysing my state and seeking to understand what had happened and the technology that had been used. They’re strangers to this Earth, and they watch me closely – when I let them in. Yet I was protected, held and safe, enclosed in a calm cocoon of energy.

I had a strong feeling of empathy for people experiencing illness, injury and incapacity in places like Kiva, Congo, Yemen, Gaza, Afghanistan and Syria. I thought also of friends in Uganda, Kenya, Rwanda and Palestine – all fine people doing their best with what they have, yet they don’t have what we have.

The great paradox is that they hold the keys of the future in their hands: we Westerners have created an enormous planetary problem and they are the the ones who will eventually fix it. Their way.

I’m so fortunate to have the medical facilities, knowledge and technology of modern medicine – invasive and violent as it is – and the complementary care and knowhow available here in Britain. No wonder people from benighted and crisis-ridden countries want to live here. There’s little or no sane reason for them to stay where they grew up when we have all this. And our health service depends on them as staff.

People in tough, insecure countries just have to suffer the pain, feel the illness or injury and slowly die. Cancer? Just die. Unless you’re very lucky. I’m so medically privileged. I sobbed deeply over this. It’s not right.

I thought of my Tuareg friends in Tinzibitane, Mali. They are holding together, rebuilding the integrity and heart of their village after a crisis of war and drought in 2012. They now have a new school so that their children can stay in the village and receive an education that both strengthens Tuareg culture and enables them to face the encroaching 21st Century world. It’s so heartening to see them rebuilding their lives, and to be of help in doing so. Together they stand, and they will survive.

I must pull back my aura and re-centre it. It has been exploded, dissipated, shattered. Yet it allows the doctors to see inside me. This is amazing. And I am still here. All will be well. This feels like the beginning of the serious phase of my cancer treatment.

Isn’t it so strange – the life-experiences we manifest in our lives on Earth?

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