It's a Thursday morning. I arrive at my Primary Care Physician's office at 8:30 for a 9:00 appointment. I soon find out this is actually a day off for my primary care physician, and he's come in just to see me this morning.

Of course, he called me yesterday, so I knew this was Big. But finding this out makes it even Bigger.

We also go into a Special Room, away from the rest of the clinic, so let's just say Bigger went to Biggest in a hurry.

My wife and I sit down with my doctor, and he starts to show us some images from my CT scan. At first, they don't make much sense to me--they look like random images of the Milky Way or something--but as my doctor explains that it's individual "slices" of my body throughout my whole abdomen, I can picturre what he's talking about.

The liver looks fine. Of course. Already, I have a love/hate thing going with this liver. I hate it, because it's had some slightly elevated enzymes for several years, which brought me in for a CT scan yesterday...and now has me here, sitting in my doctor's not-office, waiting for some Really Big News. I love it, because it's had some slightly elevated enzymes for several years, which brought me in for a CT scan yesterday...and now has me here, sitting in my doctor's not-office, waiting for some Really Big News. It's a complicated thing, this relationship between me and my liver.

My doctor begins to go forward through the scans, going down through my abdomen slice by slice, then stops when we get to a series of slices that show small growths that shouldn't be there. I know these shouldn't be there, because my doctor says they shouldn't be there. They're lymph nodes he tells me. Lymph nodes? Well, of course they should be there. I'm no doctor, but I know I have lymph nodes.

The problem is, he says, the lymph nodes are usually very small--too small to be detected by a CT scan. The only way they would be detected on a CT scan is if they're abnormally swollen. Over, say, a centimeter in size.

Immediately, I flash back on the old ruler from grade school and turn it over. A centimeter doesn't seem too large. So I have a few lymph nodes more than a centimeter. How bad can that be? It doesn't seem too Big.

"The concern," my doctor says, "is that this may be lymphoma."

My doctor's good. He knows you don't just drop a big old piece of information in someone's lap like that and let the awkward silence fill the room, so he launches into a brief spiel on...I'm not sure what. I haven't heard anything since the word "lymphoma." I admire my doctor for continuing on, making it seem like just, you know, one piece of information--not THE piece of information--but really, who are we fooling?

I'm tough. I manage to hold my reaction for about five seconds before I spontaneously begin to cry. Not the little trickle of water down the cheek--not like Iron Eyes Cody in that litter commercial I loved so much as a child--but a giant jag that begins with a sob. "I'm sorry," I manage to blurt out, even though my lungs seem to have stopped working along with my ears.

My Lovely Wife, bless her, immediately hugs me, and really, what else is there to do? What else can help at that moment but an embrace from the person you most love in this world? We hold that embrace for several seconds until I can get my sobs under control.

Finally, I pat my Lovely Wife on the back a few times, signaling that it's okay to continue. I wipe at my eyes and look back to my doctor. He apologizes for having to give me this news, explains that we need to run more tests to be sure, blah, blah, blah. My ears, it seems, still aren't at 100%.

However, during this bit of speaking, my doctor stops and breaks down. Just for a few seconds. I can see, suddenly, that he's having a tough time getting through this.

Now normally, I suppose, when a doctor breaks down while giving you medical information, you might feel scared. But I feel oddly comforted. I know my doctor pretty well--as well as one would want to know the person who pokes and prods intimate areas of your body once a year--and I've always liked him. At this point, I like him even more, because I know this means something to him. He's not just in here discussing CT scans, delivering some well-rehearsed speech peppered with tons of Medical Terminology.

So this is why I got the special room.

He tells me Lymphoma is out of his area of expertise, and he's made appointments for me with an oncologist the next day (Friday), and with a surgeon the next week (Tuesday). I'll have to take several more tests, and go through a biopsy of one of my lymph nodes to confirm a lymphoma diagnosis.

And suddenly, my life is different. Not as different as it will be when I get home and start googling "lymphoma"--a grand mistake, in retrospect--but definitely different.

Immediately, I give blood for a couple of blood tests, then head over to Surgery Center Plus for an additional CT scan. This scan will be of my chest, to see if there are any swollen lymph nodes there.

My wife, bless her, calls my office and a few friends and family. I sit, semi-catatonic, barely there as I go through the various tests.

When I get home, I call my parents. By this time, I'm in Full Control Mode: Hi Mom, I might have Lymphoma, no need to worry yet though because we don't know for sure, but even if it is, we'll get it treated. You know, making the Big Thing into something not so big.

My mother doesn't buy it, I know, but I still have to do my best to sell it. She immediately begins to make plans to visit us and be here for the biopsy.

All in all, a pretty drastic measure to convince my mother to visit. But hey, it works.