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So, what happened was this.

Three weeks ago, I had a free minute, maybe two, so I called my mother. Just to say hello.

And what she said, in reasonably short order, was that she'd been to the opthalmologist for her annual check-up. He'd promptly referred her to a specialist.

She'd gone to the specialist the very next day, and learned that there was an inexplicable, heretofore unseen mass at the back of her retina.

No one could be sure what it meant, but the fear was that it meant something called ocular melanoma. Which didn't sound good. Sounded bad, actually.

It's a tricky diagnosis, apparently; no real avenue for biopsies and such. So the specialist told her: come back in three weeks, and we'll see if it's grown. How much, how fast.

Well, don't cry 'till you're hurt, my father-in-law said, when I explained the situation in a shaky voice. He meant well, I suppose, but it was utterly meaningless advice.

Because I cried. A lot. Fretted, worried, railed and wailed. Wrung my hands in therapy at the injustice of it all. Implored my friends to rally 'round, and fell clumsily into my husband's strong shoulders.

And then, set the timer for three weeks.

Three weeks later, we were at the beach, still playing chicken with a hurricane and grieving long-distance for a dear friend and her own unspeakable loss.

My father and his wife arrived; I was happy they'd come, but too anxious to emote anything cheerful. Couldn't stop checking the timer. Kept staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring.

Finally, finally, after an unbearably long wait: there was some news. Not much, though; in fact, it was really nothing at all. No change.

Thank God.

The nothing was something, in that it was the first glimmer of hope and optimism we'd stumbled across for three weeks.

But still, there were questions; still, there weren't answers. So: further tests, a trip north, sometime this week.

For now, though, we all remember how to breathe. And relax just a little. It feels good.

And that's what happened.