I ask if she’s got the right folder. “Oh. Sorry.” She looks around for the right one. I roll my eyes at Miles. He rolls his back. She studies the ultrasound photos of my right ovary through her rimless glasses and looks up. “This is worrisome.” She needs to do a biopsy. I need major surgery. A laparoscopy would be too dangerous. Pulling the ovary through a small incision could crush it; cancerous cells could spill into my pelvic cavity. If the tumor is benign, she’ll close me up, and I should be okay in about six weeks. If it’s malignant, she’ll do an hysterectomy, and an oncologist/surgeon will biopsy my intestines to see how far the cancer has spread. All followed by chemo. “You’re lucky,” she says, “We’ve caught it early. Ovarian cancer is usually detected too late.” I don’t feel lucky. I feel healthy. “I don’t believe I have cancer.” She nods. “That’s what everybody says.” I want to smack her across the face. “We have a couple of choices,” she continues. “We can do the surgery first thing next week, or we can wait until I get back from vacation.” I’m relieved she’s going away. “I’ll wait. It will give me time to work a miracle.” Where did that come from? Do I think I’m some sort of sorceress? She stands up. “I’m going to call the oncologist. I want to know what he thinks of these pictures. I’ll call you over the weekend.” Miles and I walk towards the door. I stop at her desk. “Why are you so convinced it’s cancer?” She opens the folder and points to the ultrasound photos. “There’s internal architecture here, which usually indicates malignancy.” I look at the photos and imagine the small shapes inside my ovary are tiny modern office buildings. “And you’re positive that’s cancer?” She closes the folder. “I’ve been doing this for over twenty years. I’m worried.” During the elevator’s descent, I have trouble breathing, like there’s not enough oxygen in the small compartment. I look at Miles, dressed for the day’s legal battles in a handsome suit. His face is white. He takes my hand and shakes his head. “Shit.” At home, the only miracles I’m capable of performing are ordinary tasks: sautéing chicken breasts or folding laundry. I ask Miles for hugs, seeking comfort from the softness of his worn cotton t-shirt, his body warmth and
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