As a middle-aged woman who's had several surgeries and one emergency hospitalization (for an infection, years ago), I've had my fair share of medical procedures. While I can't say that I've exactly enjoyed most of them, there is one aspect of them that I find completely fascinating: medical imaging. If I could go back in time and choose a new career, I might become a radiologist. (Of course, this would have to occur in a parallel universe where I was actually good at science and math, but never mind.)
After the emergency hospitalization, I had all kinds of tests, including a complete GI series. My favorite was the upper GI. I didn't enjoy drinking the barium, but I loved watching my insides on the screen as the radiologist raised and lowered, poked and prodded me. There was my esophagus, there my stomach, there my intestines. I was being granted the gift of being able to see inside my own body, to gaze at regions I normally can't see and take for granted. "This is SO COOL!" I told the doctor. "This is like some ride in a science theme park. You could charge people money for this!" He gave me a bemused look, and I remembered that he WAS charging people money for this.
I'm sure I wouldn't have enjoyed the test nearly as much had it uncovered anything alarming; luckily, the results were normal. But since then, I've been a radiology junkie. When I had my first colonoscopy, shortly after the upper GI, I asked the doctor to be sure to show me the pictures on the screen. I vaguely recall her shaking me and yelling into my ear, "Susan! There are your pictures!" as she pointed to some blurry images miles away. The very effective drugs I'd been given kept me from being able to focus, let alone appreciate the view. After my second colonoscopy, my doctor showed me paper printouts: red corridors not nearly as interesting as the black-and-white images of the upper GI, but still humbling. There are worlds inside each of us, microcosms of unimaginable elegance and complexity. Sometimes we get to look at them.
I've also had two stress-echo tests, cardiac procedures where the patient exercises on a treadmill and then has an ultrasound of the heart. I learned from these that I'm in good cardiac health with excellent exercise tolerance, and also that watching my own heart beating on the screen is an intensely moving experience. There was my internal engine, that good and faithful servant, opening and closing, doggedly continuing its work through all the shocks and turmoils of my life. I fell in love with my heart.
Indeed, I know of no surer way to be filled with awe at the God who has created us than to look at our own insides. Aside from routine screenings, such as colonoscopies when we turn fifty, insurance companies usually only pay for these tests when our doctors suspect that something might be wrong. I think the insurance companies may have it backwards. I wonder how many of us would take much better care of ourselves if we were granted glimpses into the workings of our healthy bodies, if we could see for ourselves the sheer marvel of blood and flesh and bone. I suspect it is more difficult to mistreat your heart when you have seen it for yourself, when you have become enchanted with its stubborn beauty.
In the emergency department where I volunteer, radiology results, often with images, are displayed on a computer screen. When I need a short break during a shift, I'll often go and look at the pictures: x-rays, CT scans, MRI results. Here are the windings of a brain; here is the delicate architecture of a foot, bones still intact after the patient's fall. Here are lungs and ribs, the blotch that signals pneumonia; here is the ball, out of its socket, of a dislocated shoulder. Here in a chest is the dark, square mass of a pacemaker, with a wire leading into the temple of the heart.
Even when the images show that all is not well, they fill me with awe. How wonderfully we are designed, and how wonderful that we have been given the gift of design, the ability to fashion machines to gaze inside ourselves! And if looking at the radiology results is a guilty pleasure for me, a privileged glimpse into very private territories, I am not the only person who shares it. I'll often be joined at the computer by a physician, who'll sometimes explain an image to me, or by a nurse or EMT. They clearly enjoy the pictures as much as I do.
"There, can you see that? That's a hairline fracture." "Look: the baby swallowed a penny! You can see it!" "Oh, good, there's no brain bleed! What a relief that will be to the patient."
We stand there, rapt, our faces lit by the light from the screen. If this isn't worship, I don't know what is.
The Inner Sanctum
