Voices and laughter blend into a dull roar as I watch a woman in a stiff black suit stir the olive in her martini while she obsessively checks her Blackberry. On my left, two men in perfect pinstripes debate heatedly about the current state of the market between sips  of draft beer and a group of retirees greet each other with rousing cheers of “you haven’t changed a bit.”

Condensation forms on my glass of crisp Sauvignon Blanc as I squint in concentration at my laptop screen. The words of my next post float in front of me as I attempt to wrestle them into cohesive sentences. Unfortunately after my flight home from Africa two days ago and then my flight to Toronto this morning, my mind is stuck somewhere over the Canadian Prairies

The shrill ring of a phone blares into my consciousness and it takes a moment for me to register that it’s mine. After ten weeks in Africa, I got used to life without my electronic crutch. The words “Private Number” flash across the screen and for a moment, I debate pressing the ignore button, but what if my friend is trying to reach me from her office line to tell me that she is running late to meet me?

It’s not her.

Instead a timid, but familiar voice asks to speak with me. As soon as she identifies herself, my heart slows to a dull thud and I debate hanging up. Telling her that I’m still in Africa and I’m never coming back.

“Dr. L would like to see you to discuss the results of the ultrasound you had in April.” My mouth dries out and I taste the chalkiness of fear. I have done my best to forget about that ultrasound.

The ultrasound that I had because of pain in my right ovary. The ultrasound that caused a layer of cold sweat to race across my skin when I could tell that the technician saw something on the screen. The ultrasound that caused me to lose feeling in my limbs as I imagined the engine of last year’s nightmare revving up again. The ultrasound that I convinced myself meant nothing because I didn’t receive a call in the following four days before I boarded my flight to London.

My voice comes out in a squeak as I explain that I am in Toronto for meetings and a family reunion. I ask how urgent the appointment is. She tells me that it’s not urgent, but then books me in to see the doctor as soon as I get back to Vancouver.

Now, instead of composing an entertaining post on falling out of a dug out canoe and into the Okavango Delta, I am using every ounce of energy to suppress the fight or flight chemicals racing through my bloodstream. I wish I could run. Back to Africa. Or at least far away from the fears that I have managed to keep at bay lately. Fears of breast cancer reoccurrence. Fears that my high risk for ovarian cancer will catch up with me.

My recent travels feel like a dream and I am transported instantly back into my life as a patient. I want to put my head between my knees in the middle of this swanky lounge at the Fairmont Royal York.  The phrase “what if” ricochets through my mind and my chest constricts until I wonder if it might seal up completely.

I spent the last ten weeks living in the moment and telling people that I have decided to only worry about things within my control. Can I really fall off the present moment bandwagon this easily? One little phone call and I’m back to my pre-cancer tendencies of hyperventilating and catastrophizing.

I force myself to simply breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Through the fear. Beyond the worst case scenarios and back into the present moment. Because really, that is all any of us have.

Hopefully next week, I can tell you about swimming with hippos in the Delta, getting close enough to hi-five elephants on the Chobe River, and standing under the thundering spray of Victoria Falls.

But for now…I am going to stay right here in the present and just keep breathing…