I am a Vitruvian Man marked out like an anatomy lesson in black and green dye, something to align against the mean, a mold made of sheets and plastic to aim the mechanical eye to revolve its rays around.
I can’t move because the machine requires mathematical silence to perform its cure, so the nurse must tug me into place.
I get lost in the hum of the circle, lonely bagpipes playing a dirge, maybe Amazing Grace, maybe Scotland the Brave, maybe the last graceful notes of my own dying world, maybe it’s just noise.
Somewhere there is a small echo of God that almost gets lost in the creation of algorithm and code, smothered in my general deafness, the unbelief that He would touch me at my weakest point like a biblical character.
The scan stops. The mold is done. The nurse lifts me gently up making sure my feet touch the floor before letting go. She smiles and reminds me that the end is just 25 treatments away.