Slice of Life.

The flat-screen TV on the wall at Washington Radiology Associates is playing, of all things, back-to-back episodes of The Cosby Show. This, to me, is an unexpected and inspired programming decision on the part of WRA: Who, after all, could object to The Cosby Show? Everybody likes The Cosby Show, or they did, until the kids weren't cute anymore and the show got a little too smug for its own good.

In the episode playing, Sondra is informing her parents that she is abandoning her plans to go to law school so that she and her Ewok-like husband, Elvin, can start a business together. They move into a crummy flat and invite the very displeased Cliff and Clair over for dinner. This episode just happens to contain one of my favorite exchanges from the show. At one point during the visit, the front door slams and two frames fall off the wall. Cliff looks at the frames. "These are your degrees from Princeton," he says, looking at them in a detached way. "Yes," Elvin says. "They fell down," Cliff says. "Yes," Elvin says. "Rather symbolic, don't you think?" Cliff says, perfectly deadpan.

Up front at the desk, they are scanning films from my "baseline" mammogram a few years ago. When I was told recently to get my first "regular" mammogram, I realized I had absolutely no recollection of my baseline: what it was like, when exactly it was, where it was done, or where the records were. I had to call around and finally located them in San Francisco. The provider mailed me the films so they could be compared with my mammogram today. I never opened the films. I just handed them over to the receptionist.

The credits roll on the Sondra episode with that boppy, Bobby McFerrin version of the theme song, which I find myself remembering down to every last "doo." I can't focus on my magazine: The Cosby Show is too great a force. The older woman next to me has been chuckling aloud. It's sweet.

The next episode features the bizarre symphonic dance opening of season 5 and starts with Theo's departure for college. My name is called just as Cliff begins searching Theo's jacket for the check that Theo was supposed to have mailed to secure a dorm room. I look back distractedly toward that scene as I walk up to the assistant, as if I don't know exactly what will happen.

In the back, there are a bunch of curtained changing bays and a row of women sitting in gowns along the opposite wall, most of them seemingly older than I. It strikes me as a lot of women, though it's just five or six.

In the changing room, a fact sheet on mammography screenings notes that it is unclear why a medical panel recently recommended screenings every two years instead of annually, despite a study showing that this change would result in a 19 percent reduction of benefits for women. In pen, someone had drawn a line from this passage to the margin and written, "To save $."

I come out of the changing bay and nearly flash the row of everyone waiting, my gown already coming untied. No one notices. "All this, just because we have boobs," I think. I start thinking of insane or absurd things I could do to break the silence while we're all waiting: maybe suggest we start a wave? Flash everyone on purpose? It's so quiet that I don't even mind one woman talking on her cell phone, even though there's a sign prohibiting cell phone use.

In the mammogram room, an older lady asks me to take off my gown and hands me a protective apron to wear around my waist. She waits in front of me and I feel shy all of a sudden, fumbling for the ties on my gown, which is now stubbornly shut. "What is my problem," I think. "My pair is probably about the 500th this lady has seen all day." I drop the gown and she gets to work.

As you know if you have had a mammogram, the screening involves mashing the breast between two plates and taking an X-ray of it. By "mashing," I mean to say "manipulating this body part into a shape that hardly could be thought possible or desirable." By the time the radiologist jams what little I have in there, my boob looks like a pressed orchid petal -- or like a lab specimen, which it suddenly is.

This press n' snap occurs six times: three angles for each side. Slices. Hold still. Hold your breath. OK, relax. It hurts. It is awkward. And then it is over.

"Your doctor will get a report next week, and let you know if anything else is needed," the radiologist says. "They are still digitizing your baseline films, so you can wait for those and get them back, if you like."

I go back outside and sit down, forgetting to position myself in front of The Cosby Show, and then not caring when I realize I can't see it, because I need to stare at nothing for a minute.

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer several years ago, when she was 49. In general, I consider myself a pretty good daughter, but whenever I look back on this period, I feel ashamed of myself for how little attention I gave her. The shame increases, rather than lessens, as the years go by.

Her relatively modest treatment, and stellar recovery, had made it astonishingly easy to pretend nothing was wrong. She had a lumpectomy, from which she quickly recovered, and radiation treatments that she received on breaks at the hospital where she works. Her hair did not fall out. She looked the same. She complained very little, asked for very little. She had a scar, of course, but I couldn't see that.

I asked her how she was doing. I offered to do whatever I could. I told her I loved her, as I always did. There was nothing beyond that to do, it seemed, and I liked to think about it all as little as possible.

What there was to do, in retrospect, was to listen -- really listen -- to what she was going through. To ask how she was doing more. To ask how she was doing for longer. I failed in that. She would try to tell me sometimes, and I would listen, but not really encourage more or ask questions. I was too busy avoiding the terror associated with her being ill, and holding on to the idea that, because she was okay, nothing had changed.

The waiting room is crowded with women. I fight back the urge to cry -- kindergarten tears, as if I'd been pushed down on the playground. "What is your problem?" I ask myself again, and shut the tears out. "Nothing has happened to you. You are fine."

But why had it been so uncomfortable this time? Surely I went through the exact same thing for my baseline screening. Maybe it was easier to tolerate when I had the luxury of knowing I could forget about it for a few years. Now it was impossible to avoid the vise of regular mammograms; the vise of even the barest recognition of what my mom had been through, and what she continues to go through in the effort to watch for and ward off the cancer's return; the vise of a sisterhood I don't want.

Once outside with my films shoved in my purse, I well up again, and again scold myself. I have no business crying. There are people back in that room who either do or will have much more to worry about than I have at this moment, and this moment is all I have. My times to worry will come, but not today.

Today, the only things it makes sense to focus on are the cold, clear air, the fact that I'm okay (I think), the fact that my mom is okay, the blissful state of being between jobs, melted gruyere and caramelized onions on toast, Christmas lights and that weird Cosby intro. What were they thinking, anyway?

Music: "Don't Look Back"

ER.

I'd never registered at an emergency room before Sunday night. Then again, I'd never had a leg clot, an immobilizing back injury, two consecutive tooth mishaps, or fibroid surgery before turning my current age last June. It just happens to be a half-year of new horizons for me.

The first thing I noticed at this particular D.C. emergency room lobby was that it possessed no atmosphere of emergency whatsoever. The chair at the front desk was empty when I arrived, and it stayed that way until a line of three people had formed and the security guard had to go find the attendant. It sort of reminded me of how CVS cashiers will say "I see three" over the loudspeaker to call for extra help when the line gets to three people or more. Finally, the woman strolled over and took our names. We took our places in the waiting room.

Like the relaxed desk attendant, none of the prospective patients in the room seemed to have a sense of urgency about anything. Most of them were busy watching the NFL playoff game or yelling at their children.

As for whether I was in a hurry, it was hard to say. On one hand, I had a leg clot (known in the business as DVT) and had gotten a new pain, some mild shortness of breath, and a racing pulse, signalling a possible pulmonary embolism, which can be fatal.

On the other hand, the shortness of breath had faded, my pain was very mild, and my clot was below the knee, making it a lower risk for embolism. My mood was somewhere between "Eh, this can wait" and "I'M A TICKING TIME BOMB!"

I had toyed with skipping this whole scenario, knowing it would be a rigamarole, but the alternative scenario of waking up at 3 a.m. with the clot in my lungs left me with little choice. If I'd known in advance about the 11 hours to come, though, I might have decided to risk it. That's another irony of emergency rooms: Assuming you're coming in on foot rather than via ambulance, the experience is likely to be a) longer than any doctor appointment you will ever have, despite the "emergency" factor and b) so torturous that you'll rethink getting treatment, even when things are serious.

After about 30 minutes, I saw an admissions nurse, who gave me an ID bracelet and told me to go back out to the waiting room. Now I'm on my way, I thought, looking at the locked ER doors expectantly and waiting to be ushered behind them. The hospital gods laughed above me.

Another half-hour or so went by and I saw a triage nurse, who asked many of the same questions as the admitting nurse. I returned to the lobby chairs and waited to be called again.

Foolishly, I'd come here without magazines. The only reading material in the vicinity was three copies of a publication called The Living Church, so I occupied myself by observing -- and, of course, judging -- the other people in the waiting room.

One man, whom I first encountered howling inexplicably just outside the ER doors, turned out to be with a very sprightly and mobile boy who had at least three adults ordering him around, none of whom was capable of getting him to behave. Another woman lumbered through the lobby swinging a baby carrier, letting it slam so hard against her large legs that I thought it must be empty. Nope, it contained a sleeping infant and future ER prospect. Another man sat reading so calmly and quietly for so long that I couldn't tell if he was waiting for someone, or just liked it there.

Eventually my name was called again, this time to be admitted to the hospital. The woman behind the desk looked so familiar... where had I seen her? "Do you work for Holy Cross?" I asked. She laughed. "Yes, I work at three hospitals," she said. I told her she'd admitted me for my surgery last fall. "Yeah, I get to Holy Cross at 5 in the morning, stay until 1:45 p.m., and then come work here from 3 to 11."

I watched her in awe. Not only was she able to put together my paperwork quickly and accurately, she was able to converse pleasantly -- two things, among several, I'd never be able to do on that little sleep. I didn't want to think about how many people behind the ER doors were in her same boat.

She completed my registration and I thanked her. "Maybe next time, I'll see you at the mall," she said. I laughed and said I hoped so. I'm at the mall regularly too, after all.

About three and a half hours after walking in, I finally gained access to the ER and was taken to a cubicle with a curtain (not sure what you call those: gurney station? treatment bay? Perimeter of Tribulation?) and given a gown. The first doctor came in and asked me some questions, then called in another doctor. "Dr. M____, can you come here for a second?"

The second doctor pushed back the curtain. He appeared to be approximately age 15, his blond hair styled into a sort of half-mohawk. "Well met!" he said upon introduction. It was like I'd entered a high-school Shakespeare production.

I told him my story: had a diagnosed leg clot, was told to come to ER if symptoms changed, noticed some slight pain in upper thigh, had some shortness of breath and racing pulse, freaked out and came in. He examined me. "How old are you?"

I told him my age. "Really?" he said. "Really. Because I would have guessed you are about 10 years younger. You could be 25, even. Seriously, you don't look your age at all. You look great." I couldn't tell if he was saying this just to flatter me, or because next to the average person he sees on the overnight ER shift, I really do look 25. Either way, I was so absorbed in the fantasy of looking younger than 30 that I didn't manage to return the compliment and tell him that he also didn't look his age either, assuming his age was over 21.

They decided to order an ultrasound and see where my clot was. I waited some more. In the next bay, a man moaned. From what I could hear, he had a sore on his backside that had gotten infected, and it was bad. Dr. Boy Wonder was called in to help as they dressed the wound. "Oh my GOD," he said to the other medical staff when he saw the situation. There was a pause. "I mean, you described it but..." The patient was either barely conscious, or they didn't care if he heard how much his sore appalled them. "I know," the other person said, quietly affirming the young doctor's horror. Boy Wonder emerged from the curtain amd looked at me, shaking his head. "You're the picture of health," he said.

My ultrasound results came back, showing that the clot remained in my calf and hadn't gone anywhere. Still, they wanted to do a CT scan to make sure none of it had gone to my lungs. At this point, it was 2 a.m. and I was breathing freely. Was this really necessary? I felt bad pushing back with Dr. BW, because he seemed to be a very smart and kind doctor even though he looked like he should be playing Xbox.

He politely offered to send in a supervising doctor to talk with me. The supervising doctor said because I had a clot and because I'd had shortness of breath, they had to do the scan. "At this point I'm thinking my shortness of breath must have been a panic attack," I said. (I'd never had a panic attack before, but cf. the first paragraph above.) "If you were a family member of mine, I would order the scan," he said, unmoved. His reasoning seemed iron-clad -- plus, he was a close-talker and I was outnumbered. I consented.

Meanwhile, there was more action behind my neighbor's curtain. Another doctor walked in with three or four staffers. "Mr. Adams, we need to turn you over so that we can take care of your wound, OK?" Mr. Adams refused, in a weak but definitive voice. "No. No no no no no," he said.

"But Mr. Adams, we really need you off that wound so we can look at it, OK? It won't last long. We can give you painkillers," the doctor pleaded wearily. The arguing went on for a few minutes. No amount of reason could convince Mr. Adams it was a good idea to let anybody touch that thing back there. "I'll call the police," Mr. Adams declared, a threat as sad and amusing as it was empty. The doctors proceeded, and Mr. Adams wailed. "Noooo! No don't! Po-lice! Po-leeeese!"

Where was that CT scan technician? I needed a break from the woebegone Mr. Adams, even if it meant facing a potentially dangerous dose of radiation and the prospect of scary errors.

CT man finally arrived and took me to the machine. "Now, I'm going to give you a contrast dye that will make you feel very warm as it goes into your bloodstream. Some women say it makes you feel like you're peeing, but you're not." At this point, I probably wouldn't have cared either way. I went into the machine, veins afire and bladder obedient.

The CT man wheeled me back. "Are you here alone? No husband or boyfriend?" he said. Again, I couldn't tell if I looked exceptionally alluring in my hospital gown, or if the interest was just what happens to any man who spends too much time among the Mr. Adamses of the world. I assured him that I was in touch with my boyfriend, who wasn't in town. "That's good. You shouldn't be alone. My wife and I are separated -- we have been for five years -- but when she had to have an appendectomy, she called and I came with her to the hospital. It's just nice to have somebody there with you."

He took me back to my Perimeter of Tribulation, which now felt a little lonelier than when I'd left. Mr. Adams was quiet, except for an occasional faint "Oohhhh..." It was about 5:00 a.m.

More waiting. The doctors affirmed that my lungs were clear and I could go. I was told to step up from the aspirin I'd been previously advised to take and go on blood thinners, which I would need to inject into myself. I'm not usually squeamish about needles, but the idea of using one on myself is just a bridge too far for me. I told them I wanted to hold out and see if the aspirin would work first. This must be one of many things within the perimeter of tribulations for a doctor: jackasses who don't follow your instructions.

Outside, it was still dark and pouring rain. I waited about half an hour for a cab home. In that period of time, about 10 minutes apart, two homeless people exited the lobby, shouting and hurling insults at the staff. "You're sending SICK people out into the STREET!" one woman raved.

I thought of what Boy Wonder had said to me as I waved to him on the way out, and redirected it to those people trudging out into the rain.

"Godspeed."