"Close" only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and global-thermal nuclear war.

When I received the rather short, form notice on Monday asking me to make a follow-up appointment in Radiology (or, as I’ve been referring to it, my “by-request command encore appearance”), my eyes stared at the words on the small card. I can’t say that I actually READ the card, because the dialogue in my head went more like this: “I really wanna go buy the DVD of ‘All Of Me’ and watch that because that movie just CRACKS ME UP, and I really should get Jake washed tomorrow – oh, except I have to go to work – and that dentist appointment I have is when again? May something? And I really should call Scottie again to get my flames done on my mixer. Hmm - so there’s all these things that I have to do so I obviously don’t have Cancer – I have too much to do.”

In the most confident internal voice I could muster, I also told myself that I was only being asked to return because the camera had malfunctioned, and that they’d no previous images to go on, and that they had made a clerical error – this was all “their” fault. And I was doing alright with that, too … right up until I actually dialed the phone number.

I went to work on Tuesday morning, just like always. I waited until 8:30am when the office opened, picked up the phone and did my best to use my everyday, regular, no-big-deal voice. This was gonna be no different than making ANY appointment or ordering takeout. No big deal at all. I told the nurse who I was, my medical number and why I was calling – and then, without meaning to, she shattered me. She looked up my medical record number, CLEARLY read something on my file that was significant, and responded with “OH – ok. I’m gonna do some juggling here and – Wednesday – that’s tomorrow. Can you come in on Wednesday at 1pm? We found a questionable spot on one of the images. It’s probably nothing but we want you in here as soon as possible.” I think I said that I could. I don’t honestly remember what I said. I don’t remember ending the call. I don’t remember accomplishing ANY work from 8:45am onwards.

I realized that I had to make one phone call, but that I’d have to get my act together again before I did so. I couldn’t call my mom, or my sister, or any family. I just … couldn’t, and besides there was nothing to report. However, there was one person that I just had to talk with and hear from. It took me all day to gather myself. I’d just about be alright, and then – for no reason at all, with NO trigger, I’d feel water rolling down my face. At 4:30 on Tuesday, I finally called Tim. He was, of course, brilliant. He offered to go with me (which I’m SURE woulda been a real hoot for him!) and I told him that I’d call him when I knew something – anything – but that I didn’t think I’d know anything for sure for awhile. I drove home (I must have, anyway – I can’t say I remember doing so, though), curled up into a ball, ignored the mail and was in bed before 9pm, knowing that sleep would not be on the itinerary.

The next day (Wednesday) found me sitting in the parking lot of the hospital 45 minutes prior to my appointment. I checked in at the desk, and the attendant behind the counter told me it’d be about 30 minutes. I don’t know if he could tell that I was nervous, but he was good enough to make small talk with me (complimenting me on the coolness level of my old-school Vans) and I actually found myself laughing, which was unexpected.

At 1pm, I was taken into the exam room, where I was shown the results from the previous weeks’ scans. Rena, the nursing attendant, showed me the area that was causing eyebrows to raise and the next hour was spent by having minutes of significant pain followed by minutes of painful waiting and worry. I was in and out of that exam room no fewer than 4 times and more than a dozen images were taken. Each time I’d leave the room, I’d ask “ok so are we good yet?” and Rena would apologize and say “no hun – sorry … not yet.” I’m convinced she probably has the worst job ever, even when she has GOOD news to deliver.

Finally at 2:30pm, I was told that the doctor wanted to have an ultrasound done. I was officially freaked out.

Because they weren’t expecting me to need an ultrasound, I had to wait for a bit. It was only 20 minutes and actually, it went by fairly quickly. It seems that all the women I was waiting with were all “call backs”. We were all in the same scary boat. I was the youngest patient there, but maybe only by a decade. How many times would I have to deal with this kind of dread in the next 20 … 30 years? How many times had they had to return from a routine exam?

The ultrasound attendant was soft-spoken and calm. She told me what she’d be doing, positioned the screen so that I could see whatever she was seeing, and froze the image about 8 or so times to capture images. I had no idea what part of what I was seeing to be rooting for or against, and her face was still and solid as she reviewed what the scanner was showing to us.

The doctor came in shortly thereafter. Blood was taken, questions were asked (by the doctor and by me) and I was given a 75% … meaning that I’m probably fine but that the doctor would “try” to call me on Thursday (today) with the remaining 25% (the blood work and a final review of all the tests done by her colleagues). I actually found the nerve to tell the doctor to “try hard” to call me today, and she smiled and said that she understood. Turns out she’s a survivor herself so she really DOES know what is going through her patients minds while they’re with her. She had a few tests and trials being conducted that she may recommend me for because of my genetic history. She reminded me that the hospital will only send out a reminder notice every other year until I’m 50, but that she’d like to see me once a year. “Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that”, I told her. While this experience has NOT been enjoyable, and even without officially knowing the results yet, I know this is something I’ll be very on top of from here on out.

I called Tim and, when he picked up the phone, I said “well, it looks like you’re stuck with me.” I told him I got an all-clear (which is 75% accurate, I realize) and made him laugh with details that I haven’t shared here.

I am still waiting for the doctor to call me today with that 25% bit of news, and it’s Noon. I’ve not yet talked with my sister or my mom because again, there’s still nothing to report. I'm only 75% close to being alright. What I do know is that there were women in that room with me yesterday who didn't get a 75% “alright” diagnosis. I have folks looking out for me today and pushing for that remaining 25%, so I’m gonna push for that 75% for everyone else.

Here’s to wishing us all good news.