Everything Will Be Alright

"Everything will be alright." Are there really people who believe this? I mean, when you're in a stressful time, awaiting some type of outcome, some test result and somebody says this to you, do you suddenly relax and think: "Yeah, you're right. I feel better."

I just had a breast recall. That is, I had a mammography on Monday and Tuesday morning my world was nearly shattered to bits by the sound of that nonchalant technician saying: "The radiologist would like you to come back for another mammography...and possibly an ultrasound." Gulp. "This is it," I thought. My number's up. I've had two near misses and this will be the hit. So I schedule another mammography for this morning and spend 1-1/2 days planning the end of my life. Who will watch the kids while my husband is at work? How messy will the house be when I'm not around? How will I look with no hair and a bandana? To say that my mind wandered over the line of worry would be understating the case.

For a day and a half, I decided who to share my worry with. Who would I burden with concern so that they could pray for me. I have this strange belief that I shouldn't pray for myself. Sort of like wishing myself luck. It feels selfish. So I find my closest friends and dump this on them as if to say: "Hey, this is heavy. Can you help me carry this crap for a while?" They all complied in a gesture that restores my faith in womankind. They prayed, waited and wondered. It was as if they were having a prayer service for my boob - wishing it the best. Sweetness like this, I hardly feel worthy of.

Meanwhile, I try my damnedest to act normally this morning. I try to hide my furrowed brow and think of other things. Everything looks and reminds me of breasts. My sliced bagel is a matched set - approximately a 34AA. My coffee cup next to my husband's - a 36C. I finally get to the radiology lab and am greeted by the radiology technician most likely to eventually work for a pathologist. A woman with the most somber demeanor and least personality. Immediately I interpret this as the clinic's attempt to deliver this crushing blow by a gentle, quiet person. She then proceeds to try and smash my breast to bits. "Ouch," I say, quietly. "SHIT! THIS HURTS," my brain thinks loudly. Then she leaves, for about 8 hours. OK, I exaggerate. But it was enough time for me to select my surgeon, plan my biopsy, and work out how I'd make dinner without crying. She then ushers me out and says I do indeed need an ultrasound. "OK, beginning of bad news," I say to myself.

After sitting for another 8 hours where I say another 12 prayers, the ultrasound technician finally comes to get me. She has my same first name and is actually perky. I think this is better for when the bad news comes. After she lubricates my breast (I think I really owe "righty" dinner and a drink - it's been a rough day for her), she says she'll show the radiologist my ultrasound and he'll come in with the news. "OK, this is what he'll say. I'll try not to cry and try to listen despite the pounding pessimism in my head."

Then an even perkier doctor enters the room, introduces himself, shakes my hand and tells me everything is fine. What?! I burst into tears. I'm astonished, having once again dodged the proverbial bullet of womanhood. Damn, life is good.

Now I just have to remember all those things I promised God that I'd do in exchange for a clean bill of health. But first things first - call my husband and my good friends who are all relieved. How the hell did I deserve to be surrounded by such great people?

Everything will be alright. Really.