The Mystery Mass

Tracy Royce

Word Count 258

Reading the consent form for my CT-guided needle biopsy does nothing to soothe my nerves. Apparently, collecting a sample of the mass revealed by my last scan comes with risks. Like a collapsed lung. Like coughing up blood. This morning, I was only concerned about whether my uterine cancer escaped the surgeon’s blade and metastasized. Now this.

I sign the form, hoping my worries will drift away after the nurse administers the morphine. As a teen, I received morphine for an outpatient surgery to fix my poorly healed nose, fractured in a van crash the year before. The surgeon applied his little chisel and hammer to my face while I burbled, You’re a great doctor. 

Today I’m anticipating that same relaxed euphoria, but instead I feel odd, disassociated. I lie motionless during the scan and wait and wait. Still, there’s no needle, and wow, this is taking forever. Then the white coat people, whoever they are because I’m out of it and not in a yummy way, enter the room grinning. They say they’ve spoken with my oncologist and have decided to call it off. No needle, no lung biopsy, no coughing up blood. The mystery mass detected on my earlier scan has vanished. Probably just inflammation, not cancer’s comeback. I can go home. This only happens once every six months, they say. Aren’t you happy? You must be over the moon. I’m far away, struggling to grasp all this, but I sit up and focus on forcing the corners of my mouth upward, mimicking their smiles. Yay.

Tracy is a writer and poet with work appearing in The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART, and Scrawl Place. Her story, “Sibling Rivalry,” was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Tracy’s haibun have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking by day and watching film noir by night. You can find her on Bluesky.