Cold seeps into every pore on my body as I’m laying face down in a gigantic hunk of metal that surrounds my whole being.

There’s no escaping.

They tried to keep me warm with a blanket and a pair of  teal socks that read “Pillow Paws” with a smiley face on the bottom.

My left arm is above my head on a piece of foam with my right beside me. The only thing that made my day even worse was the IV in my arm.

Well not really, there was one other thing.

Most people’s biggest fears are losing their parents or dying in a car accident, but mine wasn’t. Life was becoming all too real for a petrified seventh grader.

The day had begun with a dreadful drive to Dallas. In morning traffic.

My mom and I checked into what felt like the millionth doctor’s office and were called back into an exam room. There the first doctor, Dr. Padaleki who looked like Sam from Supernatural, asked me the first round of questions for this appointment. Answering the same questions for different doctors every couple of weeks should be a profession, because it sure felt like it.

After answering all of Dr. Padaleki’s questions we were joined by the big dog, Dr. Mollabashy.

They were both concerned about the dark spot on my X-ray, so they scheduled me an appointment in the scary hunk of metal that would either confirm or deny my worries for the past week.

When I first arrived to the second office of the day, I had to change into scrubs and take off everything metal on me.

After 45 minutes of nothing but cold, obnoxious sounds from the machine and laying in an uncomfortable position I was finally able to leave the horrid place that held all the answers I couldn’t have.

I had to live through another two days of worry, wondering as to if my life was about to drastically change and be full of nothing but doctors offices, endless tests and anesthesia.

I’d sit at home and look at the disk we were given, wanting, wishing one of us was a doctor and could put it in the computer and look at my wrist. Then we could have some answers and the waiting game would stop.

An average computer disk turned into more than a piece of plastic. It became my hope and desire for a negative result, something that all families in this situation wish for.

The day finally arrived for my concerns to be resolved, one way or the other.

We walked into Dr. Mollabashy’s Frisco office, so we didn’t have to drive to Dallas again thankfully.

After settling into yet another frigid exam room, we handed the life altering disk to Dr. Mollabashy so he could go into his office and view the photographs.

As if the last two days hadn’t already passed slow enough, it felt as if time moved like molasses as we waited for the doctor to return.

When he finally returned, my heart leaped into my throat. Hoping. Wishing.

Then he uttered the words “Your MRI was clear, no GCT.”

Those six words were the most beautiful words I had ever heard. My life didn’t have to change in the blink of an eye in order to prep for a biopsy of a one person per million per year tumor.