"I'm afraid you're going to need more X-rays," she said. "The doctor needs more contrast." Bad news is a strange concept. It is something one considers but seldom prepares for; even life's most inevitable pain and indignities are not taken personally if they remain hidden from view. Everyone knows that he will age, but until the strand of gray or sun-kissed wrinkle appears, aging itself can be ignored. "The doctor needs more contrast." The statement entered my mind and closed a door. Up to that moment I did not know if anything was wrong. Now I knew, and like a 30-year-old who found his first gray hair, was not surprised. I did not live in fear of losing my health and happiness; when one deals with each day, he needs not prepare. . . he needs only adjust. I returned my attention to the needle that was about to be inserted into my arm. "Does that stuff have any effects?" I asked. She smiled at me and hesitantly said, "Well, we're told not to mention this, but sometimes patients say they can taste it and those who have had chemotherapy are psychologically affected by it and want to vomit." I knew what that meant, and holding back a grimace of displeasure, said that I had experienced the effect she described. "Thanks for telling me," I continued. "I hate not knowing what to expect." If I was anticipating the worst, the test's actual pain and discomfort did not seem so bad. With the needle in place, the nurse turned to me and said, "I hate to have to stick needles into nice patients like you." When the solution began to drip into my system, I felt my stomach perform an involuntary flip-flop. The hateful taste and sensation had not changed and I had to wage an intensely conscious battle against a powerful urge to gag and rid myself of the distasteful invader. After receiving a compliment such as the one just given to me, however, vomiting was unthinkable. Once again I found myself beneath the scanning X-rays, wondering if the second search would uncover any answers. If so, I would be enlightened when we met with Dr. E. The only information I was able to extract from the consultation was that I had an enlarged liver. "An enlarged liver?" I spoke the words with a hint of amusement. For me this was a great curiosity. Liver was something most people refused to eat; beyond that, it was of little importance. Apparently there was much I did not know about the body's dire necessity of the liver, but the doctor said nothing and accepted my light-hearted reaction without comment since he was unable to provide further information anyway. Testing had proven inadequate; beyond the enlargement, he remained mute regarding the possible interpretations of the X-rays. Perhaps he did not wish to instill premature fear by offering stab-in-the-dark diagnoses. It was clear to me that I had no option but pursuit; a liver biopsy, scheduled after the consultation, would hopefully solve the mystery.