Still thawing from my childhood when...

a bearable cold snap arrived and my Jeep "Kit Kat" warned me that there might be ice on the road. While I need some time to chill from metaphorically running at top speed, with chosen outlets of writing, shutterbugging, or drawing, alas responsibility beckons. This morning, I made an appointment to get my first mammogram. This mammogram is a little overdue, and daunting given the random scary events of this year.

This morning, I cut it up with the office staff citing reconstruction specs in happy hour vernacular as I laid out my license and insurance card. The lady at the front desk said, "You're funny. We wanna keep you around here." Truth be told, I dread going through this, not because I feel afraid of the physical pain, instead I dread someone explaining "next steps" in the event something is wrong. The scourge of breast cancer runs deeply in my family history. Tonight, while laying on the couch, my brain went through a gauntlet of an algorithm.

While over preparing for a worst case scenario, I asked myself systematic questions ringing with the theme, "Now what, and what after that?" When will I find out my results? What could the results say? Will they call me into an office keeping me in suspense for a week? Can I just hire a top notch surgeon remove them and get fake Barbie ones? Will other aspects of my health suffer? How do I wire my brain positively for the suspense? How do I control this so that it goes well, from start to finish?

This not so unique, but intense gauntlet of an algorithm reduced me to tears. Tears dripped until my ducts felt dehydrated and my ruddy complexion turned purple. Oh my God. May I have a predictable outcome?

After the work up, work down determining that my answer to all of this unknown was to continue on as I have been. Keep volunteering where I can, smile as it makes everyone feel better, be silly, on tough days defer to my besties, be resourceful, barrel through to get things done, surrender to permissive tears if necessary. For queries without an answer, I can send a mayday to Mary, who over time became a genuine intercessor instead of so holy yet unspeakable deity. No one will ever tell me with any certain that God made me sick because I was a bad person.

All of my prayers with intention toward basic need have been answered in the ways I could never imagined. God helps me stand on my feet. God wants good things for everyone, I am not last or abandoned. My well-chosen circle of friends remind me that things work out. Dad and mom even came to town and reminded me that I am not forsaken. I am safe.