Something happened, and now you are here.

For a long time now you have held everything together. You didn't get emotional. You didn't leap to negative conclusions. Surely this problem in your head was a migraine headache, or a virus, or stress. Of course, it's just stress. You feel like you have been sensible, not jumping to panicky conclusions, and now you will be rewarded for your sensibleness.

But now, despite all your preparation, a doctor has given you a diagnosis you hadn't counted on. You have a brain tumor.

And in that instant, everything changes.

The diagnosis, no matter how kindlily it is given, overwhelms you. It is like mercury that breaks apart, moves around, and regroups behind you. You will never be able to get it all together. You snatch at it, and it leaves you gasping for air.

Welcome. You are ready for the big cry.

The big cry will be a major point of delineation in your life, like getting married, or losing a loved one. It is a setback unlike any other, because it is happening in your head, to the very part that must cope with it.

Everything that happened before it will be of an order of innocence, of not knowing. Everything afterward will be marked with rueful knowledge. The big cry is a marker dipped in emotional blood.

Here's the story of my big cry.

It began at the end of a long day of initial testing -- angiogram, two MRIs, and a CT scan. I had seen a doctor about a sharp pain I felt in my head, behind my left ear. The doctor scheduled me for a battery of tests -- "on the off-chance there's something there."

I had changed from my awful hospital gown back into my street clothes. I remember closing the changing-room locker, thinking how good it was to be back to normal.

Rachel, who had been by my side all day, left me to run our son Jon to basketball practice. Before she left, Dr. Ketchum, the tanned, sandy-haired radiologist who looked like a careworn surfer, had given us the thumbs-up sign.

"I think there's a good chance all you have is latent mastoiditis," he told us around 3 PM, "a low-grade infection of the bone on the side of your head that's leeching white cells into the surrounding area. We'll admit you, put you on an antibiotic regimen, and take out the infection."

Rachel was thrilled that that was all it was. "You know what this means," Rachel said to me, grinning -- "no surgery!"

I was less sure. Why did I have to be admitted to the hospital to take out an infection? Isn't that something I could do at home? I never dreamed I would be spending the night in the hospital.

Nevertheless, we congratulated ourselves on our good fortune, we embraced, and Rachel left.

Then, around 4 PM, while I was still recuperating behind a drape, Dr. Ketchum spoke on the phone with neurologist named Dr. Blake Carlson, who persuaded him he hadn't looked hard enough at the presentation. Ketchum, looking very tired after a long day, stood by the drape and laid it on me:

"You seem to have a brain tumor called a meningioma. It's about 2 centimeters across. It's probably benign."

I nodded slowly, and looked away from him. I was suddenly dying to have Rachel at my side.

"Your wife is gone?" he said.

"Yes," I said. "And they're getting a room for me upstairs, for the antibiotic treatment."

"We could still do that," Ketchum said. "Just in case."

An orderly arrived with a wheelchair, and I, who had walked into the hospital, was ordered to get into the wheelchair to be taken to my room.

As the elevator stopped on the fourth floor, I had already begun to quietly weep, glancing away so people would not see. How shabby, and how unbecoming, for a man in his prime, a man who moved among wheelers and dealers, capable of running up the hospital stairs, to be blubbering like a baby in a wheelchair.

What do you cry about?

You cry about the injustice, that other people don't have tumors in their heads, and you do. The people on the TV don't have tumors.

You cry picturing all the moments life could have been normal, that never will be. Like a bulldozer of deranged tissue, the tumor will edge them all off the page, as it is edging you off yours.

You cry for everyone else that was ever in these shoes -- for the loneliness they must all feel, and the fear, and the grief.

You say, This is not fair.

You cry about the past, that there must have been something you could have done to forestall this. But that boat has sailed, and here you are.

You say, This is my fault.

You cry about yourself, who never deserved to wear this stupid gown, with your butt hanging out the back door. You don't deserve to be treated like some sick person. Don't these people know who you are?

You cry for the thing you have become, an object of pity, to be stepped over, and regarded in the rear-view mirror, like a run-over animal.

You cry for the loss of your self -- that person who suddenly seems so glorious and tender to you, and so gone. How strong and unstoppable you were. How big with laughter, how strong with unknowing.

How you will miss that sweet, grand side of you, in the haze and pain and horror you know comes next.

You say, This can't be me.

You cry about the suffering that is in store for you, and how you would like to forego it.

You think about the other people you have known who have gotten this diagnosis, people you loved, and the terrible things that befell them.

You worry about the final moment, when the stroke drowns you and your head lights up with pain, and it's like an amusement park ride that is going too fast, and there's no way you can get them to slow it down, and you grip the rails and you scream.

And you say, I don't want to die.

You cry for the shame of everyone knowing you are disabled, or doomed, and whispering about you. Or maybe they don't even dare to whisper. That's how bad it is. That's how gone you are.

You cry for the phone calls you won't want to take, and for the friends you will drive away, because, really, you're already dead, and they've already mourned, and moved on to other cares.

You say, I'm useless now.

You cry because you feel so heavy now that think you will never feel light again.

You see the idiots cavorting on the TV screen, and the canned laughter goading them on. Could they be less funny? Amusement is such a luxury in this world. Will anything ever amuse you again?

You say, I will never laugh again.

You cry knowing there will be times you will act like a bastard to people you love more than you love your own life. Because you will feel bad that day, or be impatient, or because the meds have distorted your outlook. Or you just want to hurt someone, because something's hurting you. You cry knowing you will fail the people you love.

You cry for the people you love, for all they are losing -- a father, a mother, a money-earner, a friend. They're going to have to go on without you, if you die, or with only a part of you if you become a full-time patient.

You say, I'm so sorry.

You cry because you're not a saint. God knows you're just crumbling clay, and soon everyone else will know, too. Your haughty demeanor was never more than an act. You won't be able to hide your weakness any more, or your terror.

And God -- where is he now, when you're crying your heart out on this stupid bed? How does God watch over a hospital, like a helpless family member or like a fan at a cockfight? Or was he a million universes away, sleeping off a bad creation?

You say, Way to go, God.

You cry for your spouse, who will have to lie in bed beside this thing every night, alert to every twitch, so far from the joy you knew.

You cry because you promised you would take care of her -- and now she's taking care of you. If you had done your job, she would never have to be this strong.

You say, Oh, my love.

You cry for the shrinking bankbook, for the foregone pleasures, for the postponed necessities. For the lost opportunities. For the money that could have been spent on the kids, or on that dream trip, being spent instead on some stupid apparatus, or an out-of-town specialist who'll just make things worse. All that money, thrown down the sewer, just so it will take longer to die.

You cry because you see yourself losing your job and going on disability, or trying to go back to work but finding you are just unable to do it.

You cry because you'll be getting phone calls during dinner from realtors and mortuaries. There will never be any rest from the vultures.

You cry because you have the wrong insurance plan, and because now your spouse can never quit his or her job -- because he or she will be carrying you.

You say, Shit!

If you are lucky, someone will be with you for the cry. And the comfort they provide, by holding you or just holding your hand, is real.

But eventually you will be alone again, and the tormenting thought will return. And you have no choice, really, but to think them. And feel them.

Because this is the moment in your life when you hit bottom. And you have to do it, because if you fail, you will may float in negativity forever. It's better to have a big cry, and begin to put it behind you.

There is bad news and there is good news.

The bad news is that you have something in your head. Unless you are very well connected, you cannot wish it away with a wave of a wand.

The good news is that much of the big cry you just had is also a big lie.

No situation is as bad as the one you just convinced yourself is yours. Truth it, humans are incapable of sustaining this level of grief for more than a couple of hours.

And all the things you told yourself, while not unsupportable, are not true.

Told that you have a tumor, you leapt to the conclusion that it will be like the tumor an aunt had ten years ago, and that you will die of it, and it will be very bad.

That tumor isn't in your head. That tumor is in your aunt's head, in her grave.

You have given up on your friends, without giving them the chance to give up on you.

You have written off your life as if it will end tomorrow. Chances are, even if this tumor takes your life, you will live long enough to lose numerous loved ones to death.

And that's the biggest lie of all -- that you are the only person bad things are happening to.

Meanwhile, you probably won't die of this. Most people survive brain tumors, and the odds get better every month.

This book begins with the big lies you tell yourself during the big cry. But then it will refute every last lie. The goal here is to keep you alive and living, no matter how serious your problem.

Your life is not over by a long shot. You have a million things to do. Some, you have done many times before already. Others will be brand new to you.

But for now, it's enough to get through the crying. A line has been drawn through your life by this thing. It separates one era of your life, one of innocence, from the next era, which will be one of knowledge and war.

From now on you will be a warrior, and your courage will come from the knowledge you put on, like armor plate.

But first you must pass through this scalding bath of tears. Have a bawl. And when you have dried your eyes, and gotten some rest, let's get to work.