Marissa had always liked Dr. Carpenter. She appreciated his offhand, easygoing manner. Yet his attitude about a biopsy made her appreciate the fact that surgeons viewed surgery in a fundamentally different way than patients did. She wasn’t concerned about how easy the procedure was for him. She was concerned about its effect on her. After all, above and beyond the pain, there was always the possibility of a complication.

Yet she was reluctant to procrastinate. As a physician, she was well aware of the consequences of putting off a biopsy. For the first time, Marissa felt medically vulnerable. There was a remote but real possibility that the biopsy might prove to be positive for cancer. In that case, the sooner she knew the answer, the better off she’d be.

“Day surgery is on the third floor,” the receptionist said cheerfully in response to Marissa’s question. “Just follow the red line on the floor.”

Marissa looked down at her feet. A red, a yellow, and a blue line ran around the information booth. The red line led her to the elevators.

On the third floor, Marissa followed the red line to a window with a sliding glass panel. A nurse dressed in a standard white uniform opened the panel as Marissa approached.

“I’m Marissa Blumenthal,” Marissa managed. She had to clear her throat to get it out.

The nurse found her folder, glanced at it briefly to see if it was complete, then extracted a plastic ID bracelet. Reaching across the countertop, the nurse helped Marissa secure the bracelet.

Marissa found the procedure unexpectedly humiliating. From about the third year in medical school, she’d always felt in control in a hospital setting. Suddenly the tables were turned. A shiver of dread passed through her.

“It will be a few minutes,” the nurse intoned. Then she pointed to some double doors. “There’s a comfortable waiting room just through there. Someone will call you when they are ready.” The glass panel slid shut.

Dutifully Marissa went through the doors into a large, square room, furnished in a nondescript modern style. About thirty people were waiting. Marissa felt the stare of silent eyes as she self-consciously hurried to an empty seat at the end of a couch.

There was a view of the Charles River across a small green park. Silhouetted against the gray water were the leafless skeletons of the sycamore trees that lined the embankment.

By reflex, Marissa picked up one of the glossy-covered magazines from the side table and absently flipped through the pages. Surreptitiously she glanced over the top of the magazine and was relieved to see that the eyes of the other people in the room had gone back to their own magazines. The only sound was of pages being turned.

Marissa stole quick glances at some of the other women, wondering what they were there for. They all seemed so calm. Surely she couldn’t be the only one who was nervous.