Another appointment. Another look at my insides. A CT scan this time, iodine in my veins instead of radioactive glucose. Today’s tech could administer the solution without risk to himself. No protective cannister for him to hold in quadruple-gloved hands (or something like that).

Friday’s PET scan was different. That tech had gone through her spiel, explaining I wouldn’t feel anything. No sensation of the concoction going in, no sense of it circulating, no side effects. “Just stay away from pregnant women, children under five, and young animals for the next eighteen hours,” she said. “Oh, and don’t share a bathroom with anyone.”

“No side effects?” I asked. “Then how do you explain Spiderman?”

She laughed. “I wish.”

But that was on Friday when I was still a stranger to scans. This is five days later. I’m an old pro. The idea of glowing medical substances and a photo shoot of my insides is now far less terrifying than, say, a bank robbery. It’s just a funny coincidence that they have you raise your hands over your head. Like it’s a stick-up.

My asbestos-gloved PET scan tech was slim and tattooed, her features holding hints of Eastern lands. Today’s CT guy is stocky and reminds me of my youngest son–nut brown skin and the posture of a soldier, both young men having served in the US Army. The kind of guy you feel will keep you safe in the event of an emergency.

Unlike the radioactive material of a PET scan, the contrast dye for a CT scan, he explained, does leave an impression as it travels the circulatory system. “There will be a warm sensation, and you might feel like you’re wetting your pants, but you aren’t.”

Nice to know.

In the weeks before my scans, God had prepared me with a couple of Bible passages that made several appearances by way of songs, books, devotionals, and email subscriptions. This has happened often over the months of my journey from almost-cancer to definitely-cancer, but these two passages seem particularly appropriate for any occasion when one is called to stretch out for a ten-to-thirty-minute examination of her neck-to-midthigh insides.

I’ve been committing Psalm 139 to memory. Not a completed task, but certain phrases rise and accompany my glide into the machine.

O, Lord, You have searched me and known me…even the darkness is not dark to you…For You formed my inward parts…You knitted me together…I am fearfully and wonderfully made…My frame was not hidden from You…Your eyes saw my unformed substance.

A reassuring reminder that God will not be surprised by whatever these scans might reveal.

I follow recorded breathing instructions and the second passage comes to mind, Isaiah 41:10-13. I memorized Isaiah 41:10 decades ago, a comfort and lifeline in the days when my first marriage crumbled. I hadn’t noticed the middle verses until recently. I read Isaiah 41:13 in a devotional and looked it up in my Bible to see it in context. As I hold my breath and body still for image-taking, verses 11 and 12 inspire thoughts not likely intended by Isaiah, for he wrote them long before we had machinery to ascertain the status of inner wars, but perhaps you can imagine how these verses could be shaped into prayer for anyone involved in the kind of reconnaissance mission that’s mine today.

…those who strive against you shall be as nothing and shall perish. You shall seek those who contend with you, but you shall not find them; those who war against you shall be as nothing at all.

I remember that Isaiah 41:13 circles back to the sentiments of 41:10, speaking again of God’s presence, comfort, and help, but my thoughts are interrupted by the return of the tech. He holds my right hand, lifting it to rest on the white, donut-shaped, picture-taking tunnel, then releases the bagged iodine into my I.V. tube. “Tell me when you start to feel warmth in your neck or chest,” he says.

“Okay, yes. I feel it in my chest.” And then, glad for his earlier assurance that I would not actually wet my pants, “Oh, I see what you mean. Definitely feeling that now.”

He gently returns my right hand to its stick-up position and leaves the room for the “with contrast” part of my scan.

Back home spending time alone with God, I’m grateful for the kindness and help of the imaging staff who patiently explained what I could expect, answered my questions and instructed me in what to do. I review Psalm 139 and Isaiah 41:10-12, thanking God for the Scriptures that came along to so personally prepare me, occupying my mind and settling my heart in the long minutes of holding my body perfectly still. I reflect on the long familiar words of Isaiah 41:10—Do not fear for I am with you.

When I get to verse 13, I remember how the tech came in and held my right hand against the machine, and I’m leveled.

For I, the Lord God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, “Fear not, I am the one who helps you.”

Really sweet, right? But that’s not what levels me. What really gets me is what was written on the identification badge he wore.

My technician’s name was Jesus.