I Hate This Part

There's a song that my thirteen year old daughter occasionally listens to on the radio. It's not one of my favorite songs, but the title captures my thoughts completely -- right now. It's called "I Hate This Part."

Tomorrow I'm scheduled for my third MRI scan, a test that I have every year (for a total of five years). And this is the part that I hate; it's the time when you are simply anticipating having the test or scan the following day. I wish I could just wave a magic wand, or blink, or just close my eyes and not have to think about this part -- this part of cancer. The tests, such as this one that requires an I.V. to be inserted into my nearly invisible veins (thanks to the effects of the chemo three years ago), will determine if there is any "suspicious activity" in the breast tissue.

After my poor arms are poked numerous times with the I.V. catheter in search of a "good" vein, I will walk into the cold, sterile-looking room and lie on my stomach, while positioning my small breasts into two, neatly cut holes in the table. My breasts will just hang there, suspended oddly through the holes. If they had brains, I'm sure that by this point my breasts would be very confused.

Then the technicians will push a few buttons and I'll feel the table moving into position within a tubular-shaped machine. Within a few minutes, the clicking and banging noises will begin, all the while my arms must remain "locked" into position above my head. I'll stay this way for about 30 long minutes, trying to remain as motionless as possible. And I'll also be trying to ignore the unrelenting ache in my neck and shoulders that I know I'll experience as a result of maintaining this position for so long.

The banging noises around my head will continue and I'll pray throughout it all. And I'll continue to pray some more until I run out of things to say to God. I'll be the only human being in the room; the technicians will have already scurried out to sit in their chairs which are located behind the glass enclosure, and they'll be watching me through the window, pushing more buttons, and at times talking to me through my headphones. The only thing that gets me through this part is believing that God will carry me through, and that He hates this part, too, because He loves me and doesn't like it when I suffer. He knows my thoughts - even before I think them. And He cries when I do, too.

But I don't have that wand, and closing my eyes won't change a thing. I do have cancer, however. And I do have the Lord's assurance that He'll get me through this part. But I still hate it. And there are some days when I'd do almost anything to hold that wand, even for just a little while.

Is there anyone out there who hates this part, too?