It's four o'clock in the morning.

The clock tick, ticks, the needles click, click, the thread swishes through nervous fingers and curses slip through tightened lips as I count, miscount, recount.

I had slept a little, came to, and, feeling suffocated, had risen, crept from the room. Hadn't wanted to talk, hadn't wanted the comforting arm.

So, I sit and knit.

I tried reading. Something to improve my mind. Too depressing. Life is too short.

Reached for a lighter book. It was shite. Awful shite. Life is definitely too short. I try the TV.

There is a shopping programme. A man demonstrating some sort of wonder brush, bit like my granny's ewbank except lighter, flimsier. Why is everything flimsier now? Anyway, this brush is the bees' knees of brushes. All these Americans marvel at the brush's ability to lift everything from any surface.

I reach for the phone and have the Republic of Ireland number punched in before I cop myself on. What the hell do I want with a brush? When I'm dead nobody will ever clean up. The brush will arrive, the packaging will be torn off, and its contents discarded when they realise it can't be eaten or worn or played with.

I fill up. Angry. Tired. Bloody scared.

I found it three weeks ago.

Lying in the bath. Hot, hot water, lots of bubbles. My refuge in the house. I had a hot cloth over my face, eyes closed, hands lazily soaping my exposed breasts, occasionally swishing water over them so they wouldn't get cold.

I felt it, left breast, moved on, moved back. Removed the facecloth, stared down at my fingers.

Jesus! What was that? I took my hand away, convinced I'd imagined it. Dramatic Annie.

Blanche DuBois my sisters had christened me. Fingers crept back, it was definitely there. It rolled a little though, didn't it? It was alright once it rolled, wasn't it? Was there a solid core to it? A tiny little nugget? The Princess's Pea.

The bath no longer a place of comfort I got out, dried myself.

Checked again, standing upright left arm in the air, still there.

Definitely there when I leaned forward, dangling sad, droopy, well-worn breasts. A dried up milk cow with a lumpy teat. Later I mentioned it, voice casual. "I'm not worried." "Aye?" He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. "No, sure there's no family history. I'm not quite the right age profile. And I think it moves, you're alright once it moves." "Oh." "I'll go to the doc, just in case. But I'm sure it's nothing." I pulled the newspaper in front of my face. Subject closed.

Next day I went to the GP.

Explained how I wasn't worried.

No history etc. But. A lump is a lump. Shouldn't be there. She agreed, had a feel and decided to refer me to the breast clinic.

Actually faxed them as I sat there. She was taking it seriously.

"Just to be on the safe side."

Three days later I got a letter, an appointment just over two weeks away. Why did I get it so quickly? Did she use a secret code in the fax to indicate I should be seen ASAP? I felt a bit of a fraud. It was bound to be nothing. I was probably taking an appointment some unfortunate really needed.

I surprised myself by putting it to the back of my mind for the two weeks. I normally worry things to bits. Tease them out.

Twisting, turning, tangling the problem and myself into an awful heap. Maybe I was finally learning to compartmentalise.

Only at night did I check, recheck to see. It was still there.

Always there. Maybe I was too scared to worry.

Six o'clock in the morning, I decide to get ready. I'll be early but at least I'll be moving. Eoin wakes as I dry my hair, watches me dress. "Look, I'm caught at meetings all day but ring and get them to call me out." "That's making it real dramatic, " I tut.

Silence. Then, "Well, do you want me to ring?" "Please." "OK, make sure the lads brush their teeth."

"Right love, good luck."

I try to eat a bowl of porridge, crying into it. Body shuddering.

Mucus running from my nose. I gag and run to the sink. When I finish I splash cold water on my face, shake myself.

I walk to the bus stop. It's bloody freezing. A heavy mist clings to everything, the moon a fog lamp many miles away. A cold promise.

The traffic is terrible, it's three weeks before Christmas, what did I expect. But it's so early. I can't believe the snarl-ups. The Celtic Tiger's in everyone's tank and they're all roaring.

I get off the bus two stops early, walk to the hospital gates. The last streaks of night retreat, chased off by the climbing hard winter sun. I glance at my watch, still too soon. I continue walking, plug in my earphones, and listen to the news. Tales of death and destruction. Mayhem at home and away. I wonder at the stories told, lives taken, lives lost, lives thrown away.

An hour later I enter the hospital, find the breast clinic. I give my name, am found on the computer, my file produced and I am smilingly told to take a seat.

I'm impressed.

I take my book from my bag, open it at random and stare at the hieroglyphics. I watch the girl next to me dance her bag on her jigging knee. It's a very scary bag, hairy with a large gold lame clasp and handles. I shift a little, wondering might it attack me.

"Did ya see 'Cinta, Sunday, " says Scary Bag to a friend beside her. "Yeah, her gear was massive, " replies the friend.

"Massive, got it in New York, didn't she Ma?" Scary Bag addresses an older woman.

"Wha'?" asks Ma. "'Cinta's gear, Sunday, got it in New York?"

"Yeah, massive it was, " says Ma.

"Her teeth is manky tho', " sniffs the friend. . "Not any more, got them done in Belfast, she did, " says Scary Bag. "Oh!" says the friend.

I contemplate the bag. It really is extraordinary looking. I should have brought my half knit monochrome poncho. The bag and it could have mated. We could make a fortune, Scary Bag and me, selling the offspring as pets. It could be the new 'must have' accessory to go with outfits from New York and teeth from Belfast. Scary Bag is called, hands the bag to Ma who plays with the lame clasp, clicks her dentures. . She looks tired. The friend immerses herself in OK!

My turn comes. A slim young man, thin smile, efficient little handshake introduces himself.

Zared, Senior House Officer. He takes me into a small room, seats me, and asks me to tell my tale.

As I talk he writes and I watch his hands. Slender, spotless, tanned fingers. A pinkie ring on the right hand. A raised 'z' in a circle of gold. Can't help but think of Zorro. "Pop up on the bed and remove your upper clothing please. I will be back." He leaves and I hear him call that he needs a chaperone. He returns with a nurse. I feebly joke that he was afraid of me. They both politely smile.

Staring over my shoulder at a spot on the magnolia wall, Zared kneads, palpates, walks his fingers up, down, round and round my breasts. Spends much longer on the left than the right. I wonder is he marking me with that pinkie ring. Maybe he marks the ones he thinks are bad and has a bet with the radiologist, gets points for each one he gets right. I watch Scrubs, I know what goes on.

"I would like the consultant to look at this, " he says. "One moment please." He leaves the room again. The nurse covers me with a blue cellular blanket, just like the ones they wrapped my new babies in. She pats my hand in leaving. "Not to worry, you're in the system now." I thought I'd be told 'go home, you silly mare.'

They seem to be taking it very seriously. Suddenly I wish Eoin was in the waiting room. I could run out, demand he take me home, immediately.

The consultant breezes in, greets me jovially, rubs his hands and has a feel. Hums and haws, mutters at the lump, stares at that space on the wall. He smiles down at me. "Don't worry. Nothing sinister I'm sure but I would like to see a mammogram and an ultrasound, possibly a biopsy.

Zared here will arrange it all, I will see you again after the ultrasound."

I shakily dress again, really scared now. It's all heavy stuff. I sit at the desk as Zared fills in forms.

I look at the crude drawings he has done of my breasts. Like the ones you giggled at as a kid, two 'u's with a dot for each nipple. A heavy full stop indicating the position of the lump. I wish I could rub it out.

I find radiology, am greeted by Teresa who gives me a gown and directs me into a cupboard to change. It really is a cupboard.

Footprint of one square metre. I hope nobody with claustrophobia ever gets a lump.

When I'm gowned Teresa takes me in for the mammogram. I've heard so many mammo gags that I expect something the Spanish Inquisition would admire. But there is no pain. I am highly amused that my breasts can be suppressed into a flat triangular shape that Teresa is finally happy to take pictures of. I don't know why I am surprised. When you see what illusions an underwired bra can produce you should accept that breast tissue is, to say the least, malleable. I keep an eye on Teresa's face but she remains impassive, chewing gum as she clicks, manoeuvres, clicks again.

I am returned to my cupboard where I sit for almost twenty minutes. I wonder have I the mark of Zorro? In the absence of a mirror I use my camera phone to take a little snapshot of the underside of my left breast. No visible Z, but it's not the clearest shot. There is an air vent high up on one wall that is blowing cold air down my back. I wrap my jumper and coat over my gown. Afraid to put them on in case I'm called.

I organise my funeral, pick choice little quotes from my favourite books, plays and poems.

Weave them into a heartwrenching speech to be read at the service. Eoin won't read it, of course. Poor man, having to put up with my histrionics for the next six months. Christ, maybe I won't even get six months. One of the first things I must do is buy a supply of clothes to do the youngest child until he's at least 12. Neither he nor his father will notice his clothes are getting too small or too tatty.

I alternate between feeling amazingly brave and wanting to bawl.

Finally, a rap on the cupboard door and a beautifully petite Asian intern escorts me to ultrasound. I lumber in her wake, a quivering mass of pale Irish flesh. Good-looking little interns should only be allowed work in pathology.

The doctor explains what she's going to do. "Oh, like the scans when you're pregnant?" I ask.

"Exactly, " she says, smearing gel on my breast. She presses the scanner down and a thickening rut shows. She must feel my tension. "Ordinary breast tissue, " she says. I relax briefly, and then she moves to the site of Zared's heavy full stop. A dark blob shows up. A still black void.

The last picture I had seen from an ultrasound was my baby, who practically waved at me then turned on his side and sucked his thumb. I swear softly. She looks at me. "Almost certainly a fibroid adenoma, " she says. The intern nods in agreement. I look from one to the other. An 'oma'? As in melanoma? Carcinoma? Jesus!

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"Fibroid adenoma, " repeats the intern, flashing a beautiful white smile. "FA, FA." They look at me in surprise. "So I can remember it. To google when I go home."

"Google non-cancerous, " says the doctor. "Mr Aston may want to biopsy it but I would say that's what this is." "Non-cancerous. Oh that's great. I never heard of it.

Fibroid adenoma, noncancerous." I know I'm babbling.

"Yes, " she smiles, "quite common."

"Fibroid adenoma. Well, isn't that great."

I'm sent back to the cupboard to dress. My legs are weak with, I assume, relief. She sounded so sure. She wouldn't say it if she wasn't sure. She must see thousands of these lumps every year. I believe her. Fully.

I report back to the clinic. I'm called into the consultant within a few minutes. He glances at the file.

"Good, we feel this is a fibroid adenoma. But we like to biopsy all these lumps just to be 100% sure.

A few little pieces of the tissue taken under local anaesthetic, only take a couple of minutes.

That OK?" "Yes, of course. You're the boss." "Now a little prick and we'll see if I remember that old Fas course." I oblige him with a laugh. The little prick stings unmercifully, but I feel nothing as he punctures the site of the lump, removing tiny bits of me with a sibilant suck of the syringe.

"Now, come back next week for results, but please, don't worry."

"Thanks. Thanks so much, " I manage to stutter out. "You're very welcome, my dear, " he smiles and snaps off his surgical gloves.

He is handed the next file as he leaves the room.

As I stand in line to make my appointment, there is a slight commotion behind me. I turn, Scary Bag is crying noisily, head buried in her mother's lap. "Oh Ma! Oh Ma!" she wails. Ma pats her daughter's head and rubs her shoulders, eyes red and swollen.

"It's alright love. We'll beat it. Wait and see. We'll all help. It'll be alright."

I want to go over. Hug Scary Bag. Tell her I'll help too. Find out her name.

I don't, of course. I make my appointment and leave the hospital. It's still cold but the sun is as high in the sky as the winter sun gets. The sky so blue it hurts.

A beautiful day.

Evelyn Walsh lives in Swords with her partner Jim, sons Seamus and Liam and stepdaughters Eithne and Rachel. She is a part-time local authority official who started writing three years ago after attending a local creative writing class and workshops at the Irish Writers Centre. She was highly commeded in the 2005 Amergin Creative Writing Awards and in the Clogh Annual Poetry Competition.