Donuts and tongues

I’m taken into a room with huge green/grey and white machine with a bed in front of it that looks like a tongue sticking out of the donut's mouth if donuts had mouths.

I’m to lie down on the tongue, and nurse straps my hands over my head and tells me not to move for 20 minutes.

A Coke bottle green square moves down very close to me. I shut my eyes and think of the Reiki treatment my friend Ro gave me in Long Island last fall. It works. I’m relaxed. Relatively.

The plate moves and I travel into the donut. A window has a metal something that looks like one of those rulers that folds up. It clicks away.

This time I think of myself filling up with colour dusty rose starting at my toes. Then I imagine the colour draining away. By the time the colour disappears.

They hand me two A4 contact sheets each with photos of my lymph nodes. It is called a Lymphoscintgrahie. The nodes look like white stepping stones.

“If there’s a cancer cell in any of you, send it back to the tumour,” I tell them.