I made my second visit to the mammogram machine in two weeks. Dum-de-dum-dum.
Followed by an ultrasound. Dum-de-dum-dum.
Immediately followed by going into the radiologist's office. (Are they moles in disguise? It's so dark in there.)
A dozen big computer monitors show year-to-year comparisons of my mammos with a close-up on the most recent offending cloud. (The whole mammo picture looks like "partly cloudy" to me, but they pay attention to some clouds and not others).
The radiologist shows me the ultrasound close-up of the particular little cloud he's concerned about. It's a bump on the chest wall.Then the radiologist walks me downstairs to the oncology surgeon's office, and i make an appointment for a biopsy.
A few days later, the surgeon skewers my breast, and does this neat little dart-gun thing that extracts tiny bits of flesh.
I go back 6 days later. (Dum-de-dum-dum. Dum!)
This body is of the nature to become ill. It does its own thing. I seem to be just along for the ride, which has suddenly turned into an adventure and not under my control at all. (Was it ever?)
The hospital puts me on its conveyor belt of procedures: blood work, chest x-ray, EKG, MRI. I just keep walking forward, taking the next step. The next step into Life unfolding.