More x-rays have been my lot. And the revelation of a weird rainbow of bruise-ish colirs when my foot was unwrapped last week. Good thing mummies aren’t in the room for their own unspooling.
Out in my workroom, under the coffee table, I have a stack of old x-rays, most of them taken over the years to track the various bad disks that have been huggermuggering me for a long time.
In the pile are some nice MRIs taken during the same time period. I have carried various combinations of these images around with me to neurosurgeons appointments and pain management specialists. They are the illustrations to a long standing narrative, a storyboard of back pain in its unfolding chapters.
Since the advent of digital imaging, there’s nothing to carry home anymore. The “interiors” travel without the body they represent, zipping on their wireless way without me. I doubt there will be anything of my present set of shots to add to my hoard.
One day when I pulled the x-rays to sort them and have the appropriate ones ready to take wiith me, I was surprised to see among them x-rays of my dog Zabi’s hips and Primo’s chest x-rays, the ones that showed the lung cancer that eventually ended his life. I have tried to write about the discovery of that mix of my body with their bodies in that medium, but I’ve not been totally successful yet.
Maybe it’s time to try again. Re-imagine the “surround” of the circumstances and find the poem that will explain how stunning it was to see all of us in a bonepile together.