"I have a mammogram on Friday," I told my husband just two days before the test I will receive every six months for the rest of my life. The test I should not have even needed for another four years, when I hit the age of 40. The test that helped find a cancerous lump in my breast two years ago and will hopefully catch any future lumps in enough time to save my life.

The mammogram. It's a big test that hinges on one moment of disclosure from the technician who performs the procedure. The disclosure -- everything is fine or the doctor would like to see you -- predicts whether or not life goes on normally or is derailed by uncertainty. Mammograms are a big deal.

"Are you worried?" my husband asked after my announcement. I thought for a moment and then replied, "No."

For some reason, I am not worried about this mammogram. Perhaps it's because I am monitored so regularly by the medical establishment and I'm confident anything suspicious in my breasts will be caught early and treated successfully. Perhaps the routine of it all makes mammograms not so eventful anymore. Maybe I'm just coping better with the seriousness of it all, and mammograms have become one more mundane appointment that requires my presence.

It doesn't matter really. What matters is that I am calm about my mammogram, that I am not giving it serious thought, that I am free of anxiety.

What matters is that I am not worried.