I have a fun impulse to always assume the worst-case scenario. When our outdoor cat is outside, every time the doorbell rings I'm sure it's someone coming to say they accidentally ran him over. If someone doesn't answer when I phone, they're obviously dead. Yesterday was my annual trip to the Mayo to have my brain scanned, and check in on the aneurysm hanging out in there. I haven't had any symptoms of anything amiss, but I didn't the first time I had a bleed, either. I had the angiogram, and we went for lunch. During lunch, I got the call with the date for the mastectomy: Monday, November 26. That's soon. Jesus. We were two hours ahead of schedule for the consult with the neurologist -- I thought I might get in and out early, but then even my scheduled time came and went. I imagined all of the Mayo neurologists and neurosurgeons gathered around my images, stunned at the sheer quantity of new aneurysms that had formed. This is the only logical reason I wasn't being seen. My name was finally called, and Bob and I were walked down an amazingly brown hallway and sat in a windowless room, where we continued to wait. While my care team phoned other national experts to see if they had ever seen anything so horrific. And also for my doctor to think about how she'd tell me that there was nothing to be done, that I would die soon, and quickly. Maybe even today, it could happen, she would say. In times of stress, my lizard brain emits audible static. The buzzing got louder and more intense the longer I sat, thinking, "Well, this is it." Right before I blacked out, my doctor walked into the room and said, "No change! Everything looks fine. How are things going generally?" and with great relief, I said "I have cancer!"