It's Monday now. The surgeon asked us to call and talk to him at 11:00 am this morning; by this time, he should have some indication on the pathology test.

At 11:00, as instructed, I call the surgeon. He asks how I'm doing, and I say fine. Which is true; the biopsy surgery hasn't been a major difficulty. "Well," he says, without mincing any words, "the pathology report did come back as being consistent with lymphoma." He says my oncologist will be calling me. I thank him and hang up.

I wait about five seconds before calling the oncologist's office. I'm not about to wait around for the call. My oncologist gets on the phone, says the same "results consistent with lymphoma" line, and says that's the preliminary pathology report. He's waiting for the final pathology report to tell us what kind of lymphoma it is.

Numbly, I hang up. My method of coping with this news is rather admirable, I think: I curl up in a fetal position on my bed. For a while, I try to read the most recent issue of "Wired" magazine, but after reading three articles and being unable to recall I single word, I give up and just go back to the fetal ball.

My wife tries to be comforting, then leaves me alone for a while. I think she realizes it's best to just let me have some Tony time.

About 45 minutes later, the oncologist calls back. He tells me he has the final pathology report, but the lab isn't comfortable calling it a specific kind of lymphoma. In fact, the lab isn't comfortable calling it lymphoma at all.

"So they're not sure it's lymphoma?" I ask.

"Not at this point, no," the oncologist says. The samples will be sent to a second lab in Utah.

I know this news should make me jubilant, but it doesn't. It feels like a sucker punch to me. I don't want to get my hopes up, thinking it perhaps is not lymphoma, only to have it all taken away again in a week.

Did I say a week? Oh, how little I know about the wheels of medicine at this point. But I'll learn.