A large black almond shape spreads across my breast on the ultrasound screen.
The technician leaves the room to consult with someone. “There’s an abnormality in your breast tissue which needs to be studied further. We recommend a biopsy.”
I know what that means.
I sign the papers and a doctor comes in shortly. “We should have the results within three days. Either a nurse will call from Radiology, or we’ll send the results to your primary care physician.” Crap, they don’t even have a plan.
When I get home, I search online for “ultrasound black mass.” It could be cell necrosis or several other things. I want to have hope, but I can’t convince myself.
The biopsy is Thursday. On Monday, my GP examines the mass. Her eyes confirm what I already suspect. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
Wednesday, March 2 at 5:45 P.M., she calls. “The biopsy results just came in, and it’s cancer.” We talk for ten minutes. She asks several times if she can do anything to help, and repeats, “Call me if you need anything.”
After seventeen-and-a-half years in remission, my cancer has returned. I was hoping that it was over, that I’d never have to go through this again.
My husband puts his arms around me. We sit on the living room couch and I start to cry. He holds me, and rocks me, and cries with me.