I set off in the morning, pleased to be walking the ~25 blocks or so to the hospital. On the way there, I imagine being told that I have cancer, that I have only months to live. I wonder what my funeral would be like – would it be in New York? Illinois? Who would come? What would people say about me? Would they bemoan my last sad days of existence?

I reach the hospital, and am startled to see how shiny and new it is. Light blond wood, gleaming silver metal, bright purple signs. The front desk seems much more like that of a luxury hotel than an academic medical center. I fill out forms and wait.

Later, upstairs, a nurse calls my name and leads me to the surgeon’s office. He is handsome, in his 40s, silver blond hair. He has very short –bitten? – fingernails. I tell him about the lump and explain my medical history. He is confident that nothing is wrong, but the tears are almost there.

He leads me to an examination room, where I put on a short-sleeved, open gown, a now familiar exercise. The surgeon returns and I lay back on the table. He opens my gown. “I’m going to try to find it, and then if I can’t, I’ll have you tell me.” He presses me with his fingertips, searching for the lump. He finds it immediately. “I’m just going to mark it so the pathologist can find it, ok?” He takes out a blue ball point pen and draws a small circle on my breast.

I change back into my turtleneck, and go to another floor, carrying my file. I wait. Another examination room, another gown. The pathologist comes in, a small, slender woman, wearing a long skirt and tights, a white lab coat, and a knit hat. I can’t place her accent. Israeli?

She pushes hard on my breast, and jabs a needle into my flesh. She wiggles it around, and I wince. She bustles out with the first slide and returns a few minutes later. “It looks benign, but I will take another one to be sure.” Another needle. This time, when she finishes, she patches me up with a Band-Aid.

She returns, triumphant. “It’s benign.”

I am, actually, relieved.

I walk home through Murray Hill, treating myself to a huge lunch at a dingy Pakistani restaurant. I sop up the spicy vegetable curry with fluffy, floury white naan and think about my day. Anticlimactic, really.

Later, I see that CS (tall, friendly, from the pool party) has emailed me. I smile, despite everything.