"I've taken the biopsy," he returned.
"What?" I was astounded. "I didn't feel anything!" The doctor instantaneously became my best friend.
I remained on the table to await the results of the biopsy which had been whisked away to the laboratory. Since the doctor had to judge his targeted area through the X-rays, there was no guarantee that he would hit an affected portion of the liver; if the lab reported finding normal tissues, the doctor would have to try his luck once more.
As my luck would have it, another biopsy had to be taken. If that one failed to produce answers, my condition would have to be determined through alternate means; cutting into the liver, as in a biopsy, created the risk of hemorrhage, and therefore limited the number that could be performed at one time to two biopsies.
The doctor posted my X-rays on the light box and studied them intently. I wondered what information he drew from the strange transparencies; the X-rays told me nothing at all. If I had not known it was my liver, the mottled shape would have been no more than a nameless abstraction.
"Are livers supposed to have spots?" I queried.
The doctor shuffled his feet for a few seconds, then admitted they did not. I guess it was a stupid question, especially since the elusive spots were the intended targets in the test, but I had to know all of the available facts. The truth was my comfort and my ally; it was the cure for fear born of ignorance.
The second biopsy was also determined normal. After the long day my knowledge was still limited to the fact that my liver was enlarged and spotted; it was information, but it did not satisfy. To Dad the normal tissues found in the biopsies were good news; i.e., if biopsies in two different areas were clear, I could not be seriously afflicted. To me, however, the findings punctuated the necessity for more tests and promised to prolong the unhappy state of emotions which accompanied a dearth of solid facts. Thus, as I laid on a hospital bed waiting as instructed for four hours to protect myself from internal bleeding, and having worried excessively and learned relatively little from the former expenditure, I could not look upon the day without thinking of the expression "much ado about nothing."
Relatively little testing was done at Mayo over the weekend, so my dad and I planned to go home for Halloween and two days of normalcy. Because of my biopsies, however, the doctor recommended we remain in the city over night to avoid excessive movement and possible complications. Homebound Saturday morning we planned to return to Rochester on Sunday evening, at which time I would be expected to check into the hospital; Monday's agenda would include surgery. Having exhausted all the other less radical options, an exploratory operation was the only manner available to determine the mystery concealed beneath my flesh.
I was glad to be home. Holidays were made to be spent at home, in my opinion, and Halloween was no exception. That weekend, though, was especially important to me. Like my trip to Colorado before the operation for cancer, coming home was quite possibly my last taste of the life which I had lately enjoyed; I needed not kid myself that the operation's results could change my life in such ways that it would never be the same again. The present was all that was mine, and nothing was certain but the few hours of autumn sunshine and jack-o-lanterns which graced the days. Those were the elements which I embraced with all of my enthusiasm until it came time to leave for Rochester.