I've been studiously avoiding the words "Mammogram 2:50" that were written on the June 30 square of our calendar. But, well, today was the day, so off I went to our local hospital.

You'd think that being a smallish country hospital and all, that it would be a bit behind the times. But those of us who live around it cherish the place. Its formidable ladies' auxiliary raises the sort of money that makes the boards of far larger hospitals weep with envy. Its equipment is state of the art, much of it funded by donations and bequests.

When I checked into radiology, I was given a standard sheaf of mammogram papers. The clerk asked me if I'd had any lumps or cancer and when I mentioned that I had a lump, a green sheet of paper was added to my pile. I was told to fill it out while I waited.

They've made the waiting room for mammograms as homey as they can, with chintz covered chairs and a decorator paint job. Still, it's not exactly a cheery place. There's no escaping that many of the women who pass through this room want to think about anything but what that x-ray film might show. It's a very quiet room.

The women ahead of me were taken in by the radiologists so I was alone with my thoughts. I try not to go down the dark path of "what if that lump they found a few years ago isn't benign anymore?" but it was inevitable I'd do that in that room. There are times when a vivid imagination is a soul shriveling curse.

I heard footsteps and was startled to see a woman I know casually, a woman who's a good fifteen years younger than I am. My first thought was that they don't require mammograms until you're 50 and she probably in her mid-30's, so what the heck was she doing here?

And then I saw that she had a green page in with her sheaf of papers.

Ah.

We talked about many things. I caught up on what her kids are up to. We commiserated about how the endless rain we've been having has made it impossible for her husband to get the hay in. We compared notes about our gardens a bit.

Oh yes, there were many things we could talk about.

And one thing we couldn't.

I looked at the clock. It was already 15 minutes past the time of my appointment. Crap. They were backed up.

So we talked a bit about what my spousal unit is doing. There was some discussion about how local house and land values have gone stupidly high in the last year. We talked about an obscenely huge and obscenely ugly home a very wealthy man is building nearby.

Oh yes, there were many things we could talk about.

And one thing we couldn't.

A third woman joined us, a woman about my age, a woman neither of us knew. She saw my green sheet. She had one herself.

"Cancer?" she asked. I was stunned. This was the question I considered too intimate to ask my acquaintance, but here was a stranger asking it of me.

I told her no, it was a lump for me, so far benign. I didn't know where to go from there but it seemed rude to be silent.

"You?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Cancer, chemo, radiation." I was surprised. I told her she looked very well, the picture of health. She was pleased to hear that, said she was now in her second year of clear mammograms. Three more years and she'd be home free.

The technician appeared at the doorway and called me in. My turn. She did her best to be sensitive and to cause the least pain possible, but mammograms are uncomfortable and vaguely humiliating. When it was done, I had to go back and sit in the waiting room for a few minutes so that she could study the film and confirm that the image was clear. A radiologist will scan it later for cancer.

Something in my face must have told my acquaintance and the stranger to leave me alone because neither of them tried to pick up any conversational threads when I sat down for the second time. The room was very quiet.

I don't believe in God, so prayer isn't an option for me. I spent those waiting minutes telling myself that worry is useless. I've done what I can to make myself healthy, the rest of this is out of my hands.

The technician appeared and told me I was free to go and then called out my acquaintance's name from the list on her clipboard. It was her turn. She stood up.

"It will be alright," I told her. We exchanged a look, for a heartbeat acknowledging the one thing we could not talk about, the one thing we had danced around for over half an hour. Then she was gone.

It will be alright.

You know, I have to believe that.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 528.46 miles.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers