Fear

"We'll schedule you for a CT scan."

The words were no surprise. I knew a CT scan was the next step in the differential diagnosis of my inflamed sinuses. After one round of antibiotics and a trial period of antihistamines, we decided that an image of the problem spots was in order. The easy, straightforward procedure made sense.

Yet something devoid of logic crept up on my soul during the drive to the hospital: fear.

The last time someone in my household had a CT scan, it was part of treatment for cancer. So my heart, in the strange way the human spirit makes irrational associations, chained the specter of cancer to the words "CT scan." After seven years and an official declaration of "cured," the ghost remains.

Before I could get a handle on the outpouring of my soul, I saw images of my daughter growing up without a daddy, a house full of unfinished projects, and a wife for whom no amount of insurance money would replace a life. I imagined the call from a physician asked to do the read of a routine scan who found something ominous: "We need you to come in immediately."

Then I remembered how much I knew, and how much I didn't know, and I let the "what ifs" drift off into God's oblivion. Half an hour later I spent two minutes inside the whirring ring of the scanner which compiled the computed tomography of my sinus cavities. Seven days later I sat in my doctor's office listening to the reading of "mildly inflamed sinuses" and figuring out the next step.

Another round of antibiotics for me. And another moment when the future trumped fear.

~ emrys