I'm feeling prickly and anxious today. It feels as if there is a low level of irritation humming just below my skin. (Even as I wrote that sentence, I knew those words weren't exactly right, but I'm too cranky to stop and come up with better ones.)

I made that phone call last week. You know, the one we have to make every year for that appointment that all the famous people who wear pink ribbons, scarves and t-shirts compel us to make. I walked by the calendar with the reminder card attached to it every day for weeks, but something grabbed hold of my sensibilities last week and I just picked up the phone and made the call. I *penciled* it in--not a good sign. I didn't write it on my church calendar, thinking to myself "It's on my day off. Why should I write it on my work calendar?"

I made another phone call yesterday, to set a lunch date with an old friend, someone who was very important to me in the formative years of my pastoral identity--and still is. The truth is, we have not been very good at keeping in contact with each other. She had a multiple-vessel cardiac bypass last summer, and our promises of getting together for lunch regularly took a backseat to other priorities. But this time, we made the time.

Can you guess which day I scheduled lunch? Of course you can! I scheduled lunch to coincide with my hot date with the X-ray machine. As soon as I got home last night, and discovered my mistake, I thought I was home free! What a great idea: postpone my mammogram to see my friend B! Why, its ingenious! One would think I'd done it on purpose.

Unlike some women my age, I began having annual mammograms when I was 36. I've never had a "normal" one. I've never gotten that lovely little post card in the mail that says
"Congratulations! Your x-rays were normal. You may disregard your breasts' health entirely for another year." If no news is good news, I've had lots of news. I know the drill by now: a very painful mammogram, followed by a phone call 7 days later that scares the bajeebers out of me, followed by a 45-minute ultrasound of Ms. Left, followed by a needle aspiration biopsy, "Just to be on the safe side." Then another phone call telling me that everything was fine this time, but I should please call the office if I notice any changes.

Why did I begin having mammograms at age 36? Was I having any problems? Did I notice any "changes" that the SBE shower cards I handed out to thousands of patients over the years warned me to look for?

No. For all I knew I was perfectly healthy when at age 36 I decided to put myself through this. But I am at what they consider increased risk. Not because of a family history of breast cancer--even though my mother's sister died of breast cancer this past April. I am considered to be at slighty increased risk because I *don't* have any family history to speak of. That is to say I have an ancestral medical history, in that same way that every human being does--I just don't know any of it.

On my best days, I can tell myself that this fact alone is the only thing that really bugs me about being adopted. On days like today, when the anxiety monster seems to have invaded my skull, I can convince myself that I am doomed.

Over the past few years, I've had a few different doctors. I can tell immediately which ones have bothered to give my chart anything more than the most perfunctory of glances. The doctors, nurse practitioners and x-ray technicians who say thing to me like, "Why are you having annual mammograms at your age?" haven't looked very closely. And that scares me.

I've had too many appointments this past year. I've seen too many doctors, I've had too many tests. I've had to face the changes in my health too many times. I was tempted to let this one slip. Thank goodness I didn't give into temptation this time.

My friend was happy to reschedule lunch. She knows what it is like to live under a cloud of increased risk.