When our daughter Ashley was 3 years old she was diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder that threatened to cripple her. She had to have a test , a rare test at the time, called an MRI. We've been talking about MRIs a lot this week, it seems. There were only two MRI machines in the Northwest back in those days -- one in Portland and one in Seattle.

They ran 24 hours around the clock. Ashley's appointment was scheduled for midnight. Because she had to lie perfectly still for the study, doctors wanted Ashley to be asleep. So they gave her sleeping meds, which instead of putting her to sleep made her slap drunk. Because the MRI was running on a tight schedule Tim and I used all of our parenting charms to try and get our daughter to sleep. We rocked her. We read stories to her. We pleaded with her. We threatened her.

The drs. gave her more drugs. At one point, Ashley, who was splayed out across her father's lap, her head drooping so her hair was standing straight on its ends, called out to me, "I'm happy, Mom! Are you happy??"

Tim and I both cracked up. Ashley's comment made it into the family lexicon of remembered childhood moments. It became standard fare around the Zacharias household on any given moment to call out in a lilting voice, "I'm happy, honey. Are you happy?"

After Ashley married Zack and we were all partying at the reception, I called out across the dance floor,"I'm happy, Ashley. Are you happeeee???"

Now a  Harvard study has shown that happiness is contagious. Happiness spreads  "like a virus". http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=97831171

I hope that as we wind down what has certainly been one of the most incredibly stressful weeks of our married life, that you all, all of you who have been praying and following along, and praying and crying for us, are now doing the happy jig. Can you feel our happiness?

Sheer relief?

Hilarity bordering on the hysterical?

Tim is doing the happy jig all the way to Idaho for this weekend's basketball tournament.

"Do you mind if I go?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Do whatever makes you happy."

He left. I took care of some business, then slept the rest of the afternoon.

And tonight, I'm feeling so, so happy.

I just got off the phone with my girlfriend Connie. I love Connie so much. She makes me happy. Good friends can do that. When they are happy it makes you happy. When Connie laughs, it makes me laugh.

She's made me laugh a lot over the past 30 plus years.

Last night, when I was telling Connie about the topsy-turvy week of medical mayhem, Connie chided me, "Karen, would you just rejoice in the fact that Tim doesn't have a brain tumor a little longer? Because I can tell you that the day I don't have cancer anymore I'm going to be rejoicing for a long, long time."

Only a good friend can speak to another that way. A friend who makes you happy.

Then, Connie told me that she had spent the day praying for Tim and I. Specifically, she said, she'd prayed clarity for the doctors, but that at one point during her prayers, she had stopped and said, "And God, if Karen needs to bring something to light here, oh, Lord, help her."

I thought of that this morning as I pondered this past week. Then, I did as Connie prayed I'd do. I went back to those hospital administrators that I'd met with earlier this week and I apologized for jumping them about not telling Tim he had a brain tumor. I asked their forgiveness.

Kelly Sanders at Good Shepherd accepted my apology and reassured me that some of the matters I raised would still be useful for peer review. The next time, God forbid, my husband is brought to the emergency room in a state where he is mentally impaired, they will call me if I'm not here. They will revisit the radiologist's report of the CT scan and determine why the scan read that there was a mass where none existed. They will look at their referral system, look for ways to ensure that people who have family doctors get referred to them.

Then Kelly gave me the name of the manager at the Community Health Clinic -- the migrant clinic -- where Tim was referred to.

It was a happy day for the people at the migrant clinic. They were moving into a brand spanking new facility. It looked like a scene from Extreme Home Makeover. It's a beautiful facility. As it turns out the Migrant Clinic was established to serve the farm workers community but has since expanded into a vibrant health care system throughout the West Coast. I think the manager said they have 30 such facilities.

They hire bright doctors. Stanford-educated doctors like Dr. Serrano. And they do far more than just well-baby checks and ear infections.

That said, Manuel the manager was celebrating in the lunchroom with the clinic's staff when I arrived to speak with him. It was crowded so I can't be sure, but I think Dr. Serrano was in the room as well.

Manuel took me back to his office, which, because of the move, lacked even pen or paper in the room.

"You  might want to take notes," I suggested. "This concerns some legal matters."

He tore three sheets off a legal yellow pad somewhere and took notes, as I shared with him the events of the past week. And how that one moment, that "I'm Dr. Serrano and so you have a brain tumor" moment jarred our family's world, and created, for me, at least, a logistics nightmare.

Manuel took good notes.

He listened and did not at any point dismiss my concerns. That made me happy. Very happy. I wanted to get up and do a jig around the office.

At one point, Dr. Serrano stuck her head in the office. He told her they would talk later.

I wanted to tap dance across his desk.

"I am not suggesting that the doctor did any of this with mal-intent," I said. "I'm sure she, like most doctors, is trying to do the very best she can."

But, I noted, she has gone about all this in a very bad way, that resulted in creating upheaval in the Zacharias household, upheaval that stretched all the way across this nation to North Carolina. So many people worried sick. So many people praying without ceasing. So many people taking care of the logistics of my now uprooted life.

He got it.

Here's what I need for you to do, I said. I've incurred a lot of expense, unnecessarily. Fortunately, I'm in a position that I can cover those expenses. But I shouldn't have to. So that moving van that Jesse, the good neighbor, rented? And the days my car spent in the airport garage? I'll be sending you a bill for that.

Secondly, Tim and I are pretty articulate people. We know how to advocate for our own health care. This went very badly for us. Imagine how badly this would have gone for someone who couldn't be as articulate? For someone who doesn't know how to be an advocate for their own health care?

There are a lot of people like that out there. Your medical staff needs to be aware that they are dealing with people's lives. Sometimes very complicated lives. A misdiagnosis can wreck havoc on those lives, the way it did ours this week. Not that we're not happy. We're soooo happy that it wasn't a brain tumor. We are doing the happy dance that it's not a brain tumor. That would have complicated our lives in even worse ways.

Still, the thing is, it was never a brain tumor. Dr. Serrano jumped the gun. She jumped to conclusions without all the information and her brash delivery of that jarred our world.

I want you to address that with her. Then put into writing what corrective measures you have taken to fix this problem. I want to know that what happened to our family this week will not be inflicted upon another.

If I were a different person, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You'd be talking to my attorney. But I believe there are lessons to be learned in this for all of us. Valuable lessons. I want you to underscore those lessons for the good doctor. And I wish you all the success with your beautiful clinic. It has a very vibrant purpose in this community. I am sorry I had to bring this news to you today, a day of happiness and celebration.

Manuel was kind. He was considerate. He was gracious. I know he is going to make sure that no other family that his clinic serves will ever go through what our family has.

Tim was back at school while all this was going on, recapping the week's events for his students. But he's a history teacher, remember? So he had to give the blow-by-blow. Finally, one student so worried about him blurted out, "Mr. Zacharias are you gonna die or not?"

Well, yes, Tim said. One day. We all die. But, happily, it doesn't appear that that's the case now.

I don't know if the class did a happy jig or not, but a lot of Tim's peers did. Buzz, the vp who got him to the hospital last week, gave him a big bear hug this morning. Several others dropped by his classroom, grinning.

Happiness is contagious.

So many of you have written to say how thankful you are, how much you prayed for us, how you cried tears of joy when you read that Tim didn't have a brain tumor.

It makes me joyously happy that you are happy. It makes me weep with joy.

When I sign off, I'm going to grab Poe's front paws and do the happy jig with our beagle. In your honor.

I told Connie, who has taught me so much about faith through the way she's handled her own battle with cancer, that this week showed me that our family knows that good times or bad, God is the same. He is faithful. He never abandons us. Even in the scariest moments of this week, I knew God was listening, was right beside me, that he was the center of the marriage Tim and I have constructed over the past 30 years. I told my son-in-law that.

 Zack had so sweetly said, "I hope this all turns out well, Karen."

"Whether it does or not, God will be with us," I said.

Go now. Grab your own partner and do a happy jig yourself.