U.S.

I was lead by the pretty young tech into a soothingly darkened room. Everyone had been lovely. Efficient, kind and on time.

It was a different town, a different place. Eight years had passed. As I lay down on the gurney next to that machine, I didn't look but saw in my mind the bottle of gel, the computer screen, the little tracking ball and the wand. My heart remembered. That last time, the tech got very quiet as she wanded my belly over and over. She said the ominous words, "I'll call the doctor in." There was no heartbeat. My husband and I sat in the car in the parking lot and cried.

This time, the wand searched further up, but in no less of a meaningful place for me as a woman. The lump had been there for several weeks, but seemed to be getting bigger. The tech stepped out to have the images read and she returned with the doctor in tow.

"Uh oh. I don't think I want to see you," I joked to the kind Radiologist. "Biopsy," he said. "There are benign traits, but we want to be sure," he said. I sat in the car in the parking lot and cried. This time, alone. Suddenly, for the first time, I wanted to wear one of those pink ribbons.

God is still God, but I am, nontheless, Ultra Sad.

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