It was July 11. I’d been having a little pain in my shoulder and breast, which was swelling. I’d had an exam the week before, and they’d ordered imaging, which was not available until August 12.
Dr. Google had me scared (it always says you have cancer), so that morning I advocated for myself with the medical assistant who suggested I go to urgent care. Minutes later, my amazing GYN Dr. S called and said it may be an infection that needed to be drained and made an appointment for me at 10am with the breast specialists.
Maybe it was feeling so empowered from finally being heard, but I felt so strong going to that appointment. I had no idea what was ahead of me. I went alone and expected to return to work by noon.
I knew there was trouble when the Nurse Practitioner doing the ultrasound said it didn’t look like infection. She went to get the doctor and it was only seconds it seemed before they came back. I have no memory of what I was thinking at the time.
I had never met Dr. D. He came in and said “I hear you’re pretty lumpy.” He then showed me healthy breast tissue (right side) and unhealthy breast tissue. He said “we will do a biopsy to confirm, but the only thing this could be is cancer.” And left to get the biopsy gear.
I remember wondering if I was supposed to cry or scream or call someone. I got off the table and went to my phone. It was a physical symbol of connection to me, even though I knew I wouldn’t call or text anyone right then (I expected the doc back shortly), having the phone in my hand seemed like I wouldn’t be so alone. I took it from my purse and immediately saw I had a new text. From a friend. Who had cancer years earlier. Who I usually talk to only in group chats. Who was on California time and thought she might be bugging me at work.
Checking in on me.
It felt like a giant cosmic hug. I got back on the table and put on the bravest face I could for what was next.
I still don’t know what someone is supposed to do when they tell you you have cancer. Should you get a Welcome Packet? Should they offer to call someone for you? I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so alone and scared.
Shattered is the best I can describe it.
The NP asked if I wanted water. I said I needed something stronger than that, and she laughed.
As I got dressed and stumbled around the room, I looked back at my bloody pink gown and the ultrasound machine, wondering if it had just killed me or saved me. Both and.
