I imagine my breasts erased from my chest. My inner arms would cleanly rise from my sides, rather than grazing these knolls of flesh. Could I run without jog bras, or would my phantom breasts heave? Can we really leave the body, or parts of it, behind?

I haven’t been running for nine days, since my lump was discovered, as though I’m avoiding my body. Perhaps I’m also avoiding the ocean, the vast sheet of saltwater that won’t let me pretend that I’m indispensable.

It’s an incredible day, one of those days where you can’t feel your skin the air is so light. Our cat sits on the warm concrete porch, watching Annie water the hydrangeas. No matter what Dr. McFinney tells me tomorrow, a path is spread out before me. An earthquake seems to happen suddenly, but the shifting of the ground has subtly preceded it for years, counting its own geologic time. Stasis is an illusion, and one day my molecules will mix with the dirt. That’s not exactly a reassuring thought. It’s just the truth, the only one I can count on.

Nestled in my perfectly fitting running shoes and favorite blue jogging shorts, I take off slowly. My breasts, bound in two black jogging bras, span my chest—a ledge of flesh. My breath takes a few minutes to settle in. I reach the end of our street and turn to run along West Cliff Drive, overlooking the blue-gray expanse of sea, which flashes its expansiveness. A V of pelicans swoops near me, and for a minute I can pretend I am flying with them. In unison, they dive down, the tips of their wings gracing the water. I am suddenly so light, as though I am already my ashes, thrown out by someone’s hand, released from the weight of the body.

I can’t end this piece with transcendence. The vicissitudes of my moods are such that one day I embrace the thought of being ashes, while the next I greedily hold tight to this earth. Once again I am on my back as Dr. McFinney feels my breast. My body thumps like a huge heart, and a tear of sweat slides from my armpit down my rib. I begin to feel like the waiting has been the worst part. Whatever it is, I will deal with it. I will grieve, go into shock, get my own bionic tit—live until I die. I just need a label: benign or malignant.

Dr. McFinney gropes a bit more, her eyes revealing nothing. Finally she says, “Yep, it’s gone. You’re fine.”

A flush of freedom washes over me. I know at another point in my life I’ll likely have another ten day wait. Perhaps I’ll find a lump myself when I’m ineffectively patting my breasts in the shower. But just for a moment I want to savor the tall tale of immortality.