Whenever my daughter Llara was late and hadn't called, I always imagined the worse. She'd been raped on the Fenway, hit by a car. I planned funerals and scholarship funds only to have her appear within a few minutes. The few times she was gone longer was usually due to a misunderstanding, for she was extremely responsible knowing the dangers of an American city and her over-imaginative mom. (I also had to follow the house rule of calling if I were to be late, not always easy in those pre-cell phone days.
Thus when the doctor said I had a swelling over my clavicle, I imagined it was a new tumour. No matter that the area had been thoroughly examined before my surgery.
"Swollen gland from the radio," my physical therapist said, "Normal."