“Just to be on the safe side,” the nurse said as she twisted Marissa’s wrist to check her ID. Satisfied she had the right patient, she patted some clothes on a bench and added: “Slip into this johnny, slippers, and robe and hang your clothes in the closet. Any valuables can be locked in the drawer. When you’re done, go in and sit on the examining table.” She smiled. The woman was professional, but not without warmth. She closed the door to the hall behind her.

Marissa stepped out of her clothes. The floor was cold on her bare feet. As she struggled to tie the straps of the johnny behind her, she acknowledged how much she liked the staff at the Women’s Clinic, from the receptionists to her doctor. But the main reason she patronized the clinic was because of its private status and the consequent confidentiality it had to offer. Now that she was having a biopsy, she was even more thankful for her choice. Had she gone to any one of the major Boston hospitals, especially her own hospital, the Boston Memorial, she would have undoubtedly come in contact with people she knew.

Marissa had always been careful to keep her private life private. She never wanted personal matters like birth control, annual pelvic exams, a couple of episodes of cystitis and the like to be topics of gossip with her colleagues. And even if people didn’t talk, she did not want to worry about passing her GYN man in the hospital corridor or in the hospital cafeteria.

The flimsy robe, the open-backed hospital johnny, and the paper slip-on slippers completed Marissa’s transition from doctor to patient. With her ill-fitting slippers flopping, she padded into the procedure room and sat on the edge of the examining table as instructed by the nurse.

Glancing around at the usual accoutrements which included an anesthesia machine and cabinets of instruments, her panic swelled anew. Beyond her fear of the procedure, and the possible need for a hysterectomy she kept reminding herself was remote, Marissa now felt a strong intuition of disaster. She realized how much she had come to prize her life, particularly in the last few years. Between her new husband, Robert, and her recent acceptance into a fine pediatric group, her life seemed to be going almost too well. She had so much to lose; it made her terrified.

“Hello there, I’m Dr. Arthur,” a burly man said as he entered the room with a purposeful flourish, clutching a handful of cellophane-covered packages and an IV bottle. “I’m from anesthesia, and I’ll be giving you something for your upcoming procedure. Allergic to anything?”

“Nothing,” Marissa assured the man. She was glad for the company, relieved to have someone take her away from her own thoughts.