I remember being curious more than afraid. I wore my cat shirt - a pink tee shirt with little kittens climbing pussy willows on it - for luck. It's kind of silly the little things we might be a bit superstitious about without even thinking about it.

I was given 10 milligrams of Valium, a minor tranquilizer, a Motrin, primarily a muscle relaxant and inflamation fighter, and a Percocet, a fairly heavy duty painkiller. I was dressed in a johnny and settled on an operating table with stirrups. I learned one thing, if nothing else. Once in a hospital, I had become part of the system. I felt that I had checked my name, my personality, and my checkbook at the door. I was, for a little while, a chart and a number on a bracelet.

I won't try to tell anyone that a colposcopy if fun. It isn't. It's humiliating and painful. On the way home my husband asked me how I felt and I remember replying that I felt as if I had been drinking and gotten kicked in the stomach in a bar fight. I don't drink, but the drugs made me feel a little tipsy, and there's no doubt I felt kicked in the tummy.

Still whispering, bleeding, and wearing size 8, I waited. Somehow I knew, instinctively, that the pathology report would not be normal. And I was right. It confirmed the words of my local doctor - mild hyperplasia, mild metaplasia, and adenoma. The gynecologist put me on 5 milligrams of Provera daily and explained the intricate workings of hormone therapy. Intellectually, I understood. In my heart, I felt lost and alone. I went outdoors and sat on a big rock and looked up at the sky. The sun was warm on my shoulders. "Help me, God," I begged. In the silence of a summer afternoon, I cried. I guess I was getting pretty good at crying. Almost as good as I was at whispering, bleeding and vomiting.