I skipped my annual gynecology checkup last year. Not sure why. No reason, really, other than maybe a general feeling like, “Eh, I’m ok.” I passed my last annual exam, the year prior, with flying colors. I felt fine. I’d been taking care of myself, with the exception of drinking more than I probably should.

Then I kept hearing stories about people becoming sick. Like really sick, like terminally sick. And stories about people who caught potential life-threatening things early because they were diligent about checkups. And stories about people who spotted issues that turned out to be nothing, but they went to their doctors just to make sure.

All these incidents made me think that maybe the universe was trying to tap my shoulder. So, I made an appointment. The morning of, I drove to the practice’s secondary location instead the primary (and correct) one. I briefly considered rescheduling.

Once I arrived at the right place, I did all the normal pre-exam things. Read a trashy celeb gossip magazine in the lobby. Felt vaguely nervous for no reason. Listened to front desk staff bicker. Waited for my name to be called.

In the exam room, I got in my flimsy blue paper gown. The nurse checked my blood pressure and weight and closed the door. “The doctor will be right with you.” Which, of course, they never are. I debated shuffling across the cold, hard floor in my bare feet for my phone. The room was chilly. Quiet. Sterile as they always are, with pamphlets of information about preventative this, risks of that. Whatever.

She walked in. She was friendly. I hadn’t met her before. I didn’t like my old doctor, so I switched. This one seemed better. She felt my boobs. “Ok, I feel a lump here.” So matter of fact. It’s like, WHAT?!

I think not-doctor people forget that this is what doctor people do every day. It’s a job. It’s not precious. It’s medicine. It’s science. It’s not emotion and puppies and marshmallows and honey.

You kind of instinctively wait, though, after being told by a doctor that you have a lump. Even the word “lump” is ugly and gross. Makes sense that it’s monosyllabic. Doesn’t deserve more than one beat.

She pressed around for a few more seconds, glancing abstractly toward a corner of the room. “It’s small,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure it’s benign. But what you’re gonna do is, I’m gonna write you an order for a mammogram and ultrasound, and you’re gonna call, and make an appointment, and they’ll be able to tell you more. Ok?”

I mean, what do you say to that? “Ok.” It certainly doesn’t sound ok. It sounds like a nightmare. “Should I be worried?” I asked her. She said no. I wanted to ask why I had to do scary tests if I shouldn’t be worried. But I didn’t. I was quiet. I didn’t say much else. Neither did she. When the whole thing was over, she left the room. I quickly realized she’d moved on with her day, and her life, by the time she closed the door.

Not me. That one sentence—”Ok, I feel a lump here”—launched me into a week of sleepless nights, sleeping pills, anxiety attacks and ridiculous Google searches that had me convinced I was in the late stages of too late. The mind is powerful. Fear is powerful. The two together are a dream team, convincing each other of things that simply aren’t true.

Yesterday I had the mammogram and ultrasound. It was ok. I think everything is ok. I have to do a biopsy Tuesday. They’ll numb my boob with novocaine, which sounds kind of fun. I mean, when else do you get to experience a totally numb titty?