[As much as I love a good suspenseful tale, there are too many good and kind people around here for me not to start out by giving the huge spoiler that this story has a happy ending, and you should not worry while reading it.]

"I think an ultrasound would be a good idea."

That's how the whole thing starts. I am at the doctor, and I'm saying, "You know, I have these three little lumps, and they feel innocuous to me [what does that mean? I'm not sure, but I'm right], but I thought I'd have them looked at." She agrees with me that they are, as she puts it, "not typical of cancer at all," but this is the Health Center For Women, and they tend to be very belt-and-suspenders about everything, which I frankly appreciate. This happens to most women at some point or another, after all, this "it's probably nothing, but let's take a look" business. They schedule me for an ultrasound on December 16th. This is a Friday, which means nothing to me at the time they schedule it. (Note to self, in retrospect: Never have tests of any kind scheduled for Fridays.)

The particular place where they send me is just about the nicest place you can imagine in which to have a really uncomfortable experience. They have a little changing room, and they have lockers, and they have a second waiting room for between the changing room and the test itself, so you don't have to abandon your stuff or sit on a metal chair in an office the whole time. No, it's just you and the other ladies in gowns, sitting around in the waiting room reading magazines. I look around at the other ladies who are waiting, and note how the nurses keep popping their heads in to take somebody back. Four or five of us, who will get picked? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo.

Now, I'm only 35, and they don't start with screening stuff until you're 40, generally, so when they announce that we will be starting off with a mammogram, my reaction is like this: "Meh." Doesn't this hurt? Isn't there a thing that floats around the internet about how it's akin to closing yourself in a refrigerator door? Boo! I thought they were just going to skim a little ultrasound thingy around. But... well, all right. As it happens, I am pleased to report that if you have ever anticipated that this would be a really horrible experience, it's really... not. I don't know what's happened to make it less barbaric, but the horror stories are greatly exaggerated. That's not to take away from the weirdness of the experience, or the potential for embarrassment if you're into that kind of thing. The nurse tells me that they'll get the pictures, and then they'll see if they need any more pictures.

I am not surprised when she comes to get me in the waiting room and says they need more pictures. I always have been a bad patient. "We do this all the time," she says. "It's very common." "I'm not panicking about this yet, right?" I ask her. "Absolutely not," she says with a smile. When she's done, she sends me back to the waiting room. Now there are different women there, and the ones I was with at first are gone. Nothing to worry about, it's very common. But I'll be glad to be out of here, nonetheless.

The nurse comes and gets me again. Time for the ultrasound. Climb up on the table, wait for the radiologist. This takes a long time, and I lie there and think about what a good job I'm doing of not worrying. I'm panicky and nervous by nature in many ways, and I've been blessed with enough good health that I have the luxury of having hospitals and doctors still make me twitchy. I really, really don't want to be lying on this table. I really just want to go back to work. Things to do!

The radiologist comes in. They're going to take a look, she says, at the little things I came in for, just as planned. And then, she says, she needs to look at this Other Thing.

Because there is this Other Thing.

This Other Thing they found in the pictures, which didn't behave as they were hoping it would when they changed the angle. It has nothing to do with the reason I came in, which briefly makes me feel baffled and indignant -- this isn't what I ordered! -- and it takes me a minute to understand what she's saying. She's saying there's a problem. She's saying she's not sure things are okay. She's saying she's seen pictures, and the pictures look enough like Not Okay that she has to look more.

The investigation of the little things that are the reason I came in is very easy. She is convinced that they are not a problem, for a variety of reasons. In satisfying herself of this fact, she takes an inordinately long time taking their picture. Get to the Other Thing, I think to myself. Please, please get to the Other Thing. She eventually does, and there is much waiting and looking and watching her face to see whether she seems gravely concerned. Finally, she stops and they let me sit up. "I don't see anything on the ultrasound," she says. "So," I say cautiously and hopefully, "is that good?" She hesitates. "Well, it is. But."

The next part is all doctor-talk, and it sort of blurs in my head, but what it means is that what she has seen, we can't blow off. I can't just go back to work with one more medical tale. She uses the word "concerned," and she also uses the words "what bothers me." The pictures bother the radiologist. In fact, they bother her so much that we will have to check this out with what is called a "stereotactic biopsy." Now, I'm not brilliant about medicine or anything, but I know an ugly word when I hear one, and "biopsy" is one. (I will later, with the darkest of humor, try to convince my father that "stereotactic" means they listen to your chest in both ears, but he will not fall for it.) They explain that this is done with an incision and needles.

And they want to do it today.

As the radiologist explains this to me, I am very aware of her watching me, watching this sink in. I've never been certain I looked terrified before, but I know I look terrified. I think maybe she is waiting to see if I will pass out. I am shaking a little bit, it feels like. They let me get dressed again, and then they take me into Consult 2, which I know damn well is the Bad News Room, with the couches and the box of tissues. Someone will come in shortly to explain the procedure to me and sign forms and so forth. I sit in there by myself for a while, and I learn that my cell phone doesn't get any reception in Consult 2, although I'm not sure whom I would have called. Probably Trash. But... to do what? Scare the hell out of her? Cry?

I spend a few minutes back out in the waiting area, and I keep seeing women leaving. Nurses poke their heads out. "Okay, you can go, you're done," they keep saying. I briefly hate all of these women. The ones who don't have to stay. I stare at a spot on the carpet, and I think to myself, This is really happening. This is not me mentally rehearsing for the worst thing that could happen. This is really happening to me right this minute.

The nurse from before takes me back to Consult 2 and comes in to wait with me, and I'm now taking liberally from the Official Oh My God Tissue Box of Consult 2, sniffling off and on. She says she knows it's always "shocking" to find yourself in this situation, and she says to me, "Just remember, we don't know yet."

We don't KNOW yet? Oh, don't say that.

I am shown a video that explains exactly how this will all be done, and it is something between an educational video and a commercial for the awesome machine that will be used. And they flash a statistic on the screen that they want you to remember: 80 percent of biopsies are not cancer.

Eighty percent. Four out of five, just more than three-quarters. Eenie meenie miney mo.

It takes forever, but the other nurse -- the Biopsy Nurse -- comes in with the radiologist, and they explain all this again. Seeing me weepy, the Biopsy Nurse asks me whether I'm scared about the procedure or scared about the results. I briefly think this is a very stupid question, because as much as I don't like needles, I'm a lot more afraid of dying. But of course, some people are very afraid of needles, so I guess they have to ask.

As it turns out, a stereotactic biopsy is a weirdly hilarious procedure if you like Rube Goldberg machines and aren't in the midst of pondering your mortality. I'll let you Google it if you want, but suffice it to say that you wouldn't predict you'd have a biopsy like this done while lying on your stomach, but you do. Unfortunately, because I am still in the clutches of a sort of unreal but overwhelming panic, this position means that I cry directly onto the vinyl cover of the table until they give me a tissue to clutch up to my eyes and nose.

I am horrible with pain, so when the radiologist shoots me full of Lidocaine and says she can give me more later if necessary, I dread the possibility that it will be necessary. You know, what with the needles burrowing into you and so forth.

As they prepare to do the actual... thing, I realize that the piped-in music is still playing. And it's playing "Sleigh Ride." Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too... This is so, so weird. I can tell the nurses are trying to see if they can distract me, and one of them says as I lie on the table all numbed up, "So, are you ready for Christmas?" Again, if you aren't in the middle of it? This is hilarious.

They should really do something about the noises that biopsy needles make. It's like a jackhammer, no kidding. VV-VV-VV-VV-RRRRRRR. VV-VV-VV-VV-RRRRRRR. The first one isn't that bad. The second one causes me to yell something along the lines of, "ow ow OW OW OW!" She hits me with more Lidocaine. For the rest of them, fearful that I will drag it out even more if I don't stop "ow ow ow"-ing, I just clench my teeth when it hurts. God, let's just get this over with, please.

When it is mercifully over, the radiologist tells me that the results are generally available the next day. Well, no -- not the next day. The next working day. Today, of course, is Friday. The next working day is Monday. I will find out on Monday. You know, whether or not. Monday. "Hopefully," she says, "it will just be normal tissue. I think the fact that it didn't show up on the other films and the fact that there's nothing on the ultrasound are... good things." Over the next three days, I will analyze this bit of dialogue like it's the Dead Sea Scrolls. "Hopefully." "I think." "Good things." Did she say that in a slightly chirpy, false way? It went up artificially. "GOOD things." Is she hoping she's right or is she hoping she's wrong? Does she know, and she's just not telling me?

I head back to the office, and when my door is closed, I call my father at home. My mom is at work, which I'm sort of glad about in my cowardly way, because talking to her might be harder. She reacts to things more like I do. My father, on the other hand, takes the position that there's no point in panicking until you have reason to. I do well on the phone with him, explaining the whole thing, telling him the 80 percent number and so forth, until he asks me whether I'm all right.

Later, when I'm at home, my mom calls me and says she thinks I should come to their house. Don't sit around looking at the walls. It's good advice, but I can't really relocate right away, because -- get this -- I have to finish a Survivor recap. Yes, that is exactly what I feel like doing. Let's write jokes!

It turns out to be a blessing, really, something to do besides think, and much to my own surprise, I get through the evening and fall asleep fairly easily -- assisted by my level of pure exhaustion, I suspect. In the next two days, I have to write the two-hour recap of the Amazing Race finale, which had to wait until the other one was finished after I got back from New York, which was just Wednesday. This, I decide, will be done at my parents' house.

Saturday and Sunday, my mom babies me in the best way, bringing me wine and peppermint mochas and trying to distract us both. We watch three consecutive basic-cable Christmas movies once I burn out on recapping on Saturday. And two of them star Steve Guttenberg as Santa Claus. Smell the desperation for amusement?

I only cry a little bit, off and on. At one point, I start telling my mom what I'm afraid of, and one of the things I tell her is that I'm worried about her. "I'm afraid I'll ruin your life," I say. And I instantly hate myself for saying it, because I know she instantly wonders whether she's done something to make me feel that way.

At some point, I change the ringer on my cell phone, on which they're supposed to call me with the results. It's been the Hallelujah Chorus ever since I got my new phone, and some weird, superstitious, tweaked-out part of me is afraid that if I leave it that way, the universe's taste for irony will give me cancer so that my phone will yell "Hallelujah!" and it will be the worst news of my whole life. Or else if they give me bad news, it will ruin the Hallelujah Chorus -- no, the entire Messiah -- no, music -- for me forever. So I change it. Belt and suspenders. Eenie meenie miney mo.

I keep a low profile. I talk to JWB on Sunday night, but I don't tell him, because... why, you know? I'll know the next day. There will be plenty of time for ruining people's day if it comes to that.

They're supposed to call me with the results after 3:00 on Monday, but I wonder if they might come earlier, and I really don't want to be at work when they call, and I'm twitching and distracted anyway, so I go home at noon, benefitting from the joys of a part-time schedule.

I am in my car on the way home when I hear the soft, soothing, chiming ring I picked out. I yank the phone out of my pocket -- yes, in the car, just like you're not supposed to do. I actually have time to think as I grab it that if they tell me I have cancer while I'm driving, that might not be the best thing that could ever happen. "This is Dr. Dash," she says. Dr. Dash! Dr. Dash is the regular doctor I saw at the beginning. The one they were going to send the results to. She wants to know if she's interrupting anything. No! No, no! "It's all good news," she says.

After that, I only hear isolated words. All benign, very common, good, relieved for you, just come back if anything changes. They know what it is, and it's not dangerous. The clinic where I had the test done will obediently wait until 3:15 to call me, as they probably do because if you want to plan to be somewhere in particular, they want to make sure that's where you are. They will tell me to come back in six months to recheck it, as they do for everything that turns out okay. But Dr. Dash got the results first, and her call saves me what would have been another three hours of shaking. I divert to Mom and Dad's, and I call my dad from the car so that he can immediately tell my mom, who is at work undoubtedly wearing a blank stare until she finds out. I stop on the way to their house and buy her the biggest poinsettia I can find. It's giant! It's red! It stands for YAY!, Let's Not Do This Again For As Long As Possible!

After I get this news, I realize that I have experienced the closest thing you really can to It's A Wonderful Life. No fooling. I spent those three days scared, sure. But I also spent them being absolutely crushed under the weight of my gratitude for the fact that, and I am not kidding, I am the luckiest goddamn person you have ever met in your life, no matter how many people you have met.

Let me say that again: I am the luckiest person you have ever met in your life, no matter how many people you have met. My parents are so ridiculously awesome that even as an adult, I both enjoy hanging out with them and still get enormous support from them when bad things happen. I chose not to tell my friends or my sister what was going on, but that's largely because they couldn't have done anything more than they already do every day, which is make it clear to me that they care and that if anything happens, they're going to be there. I didn't need them to tell me any of that stuff, because they're so good at making me feel that way all the time.

I seriously have become George Bailey. Like, not because I'm so awesome that I gave everyone a house, but because after I got that phone call, I was just like that -- "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old building and loan!" I was running up to the Salvation Army bell-ringers wondering if they needed coffee, I was leaving enormous tips, I was snorfling to myself like, "This is the best cup of soup I have ever had in my whole life." I was cringing in horror at the friends I have forgotten to write to, or fallen out of touch with, or ignored some obligation to, and I was feeling like no Christmas present I pick out for anyone will possibly be good enough. It's ungodly easy to take stuff for granted, even if you think you don't, or even if you could consciously explain how awesome your life is and how lucky you are to have the people in it who are in it.

I really decided to tell this story in spite of my distaste for overdoses of this kind of personal detail for three reasons. One is that as shitty as this experience was while it was happening, I am incredibly glad to have had it. I can honestly say it was life-changing, in terms of perspective, in a way I hope will be permanent. I made a whole lot of resolutions in the wake of it.

The second is that I think I might have been less terrified -- not not terrified, but less terrified -- if I knew someone who had done all this business before. So now, you know someone who has.

The other is that the news didn't have to be good. It could have been bad, which means two things. First of all, had it been bad, I would have been hugely lucky that I happened to have the little benign whatevers checked out that led to the discovery of the other thing (no caps when you're not scary anymore, you other thing -- ha!), so please, get everything checked. It's not bad to have an excuse, even if you're "too young," to have them take a look and see if there's anything to see. I lucked out, but even if I hadn't, I could have lucked out in another way entirely. And finally, I got good news, but I might not get good news forever, and somebody I saw in the waiting room that day probably didn't, you know? I gave some money here, and so did my parents, and I encourage you to do the same.

It's hard to figure out how to do anything other than spew cliches in a situation like this, because everything you honestly are thinking is a cliche. Go hug your friends! Go hug your kids! Call your mom! Don't worry about stupid shit or what idiots are doing or what they think! What's important is the people you love! Be with them as much as you can for as long as you can! But it's all true. It really is. And when you pull out Zuzu's petals and find out that at least for the moment, you're still okay, things do get oddly clear.