I’m here again.

In the waiting room at the breast center, called back for a suspicious finding.

It’s been three years since my last call back – but it isn’t any easier.

Tinned 70’s music is playing out of the ceiling. The clay colored decor is broken up only by magenta half gowns on a table, and a five foot tall Christmas tree, decorated in sparkly pink and gold ornaments, and topped with a bow to match.

I’ve had my screening mammogram, and I’m back to repeat.

I know the next words coming will bring exceeding relief, or fear. Maybe even terror.

Working as an RN, I know so many stories. I’ve seen them, from the best case scenarios to the worst.

I just want to have an “everything is okay, thanks for coming back”.

I wait. Play sudoku. My phone is on “do not disturb”.

I’m disturbed.

I’m escorted back for a more intense mammogram. I hope this will be the test that reveals I’m fine.

It’s not.

The tech comes out and tells me in a hushed voice that the radiologist “wants to see an ultrasound”.

My heart is racing.

I update my people.

I’m called back for the ultrasound.

I’m trying not to read too much into the sonographer’s mannerisms. She’s nice – but not too nice. Kind, but is it in a pitying way?

I lay on the sheet draped table, my feet and ankles awkwardly hanging over the end. I bend my knees and draw them in.

I close my eyes and sing a hymn in my mind. I don’t dare look, because I know too much…and I don’t know enough.

I’m asked to put my arm over my head, and I’m a ballerina again, reminded of my childhood, and 14 years of ballet lessons. I imagine myself at the barre instead of here.

Anywhere but here.

She spends a lot more time taking pictures.

She’s scanning my sentinel node area.

Lord, let this please just be her bring thorough.

All the types of the C word I know are running through my mind.

Please, God, no.

She tells me to sit and cover myself back up.

This is the ultimate in agonizing waiting.

She’s at the computer, typing in data. I know my images are probably on the screen, and I refuse to look. I’m thinking of my favorite surgeon, and hoping I don’t have to call her soon.

The tech answers a call from the radiologist, who’s high, disembodied voice goes on and on, directing her.

I keep my eyes closed.

I tell her that it’s moments like this that I wish I wasn’t a nurse. We make small talk about my job, and then she lets it slip that “it’s 3mm so it’s hard to find just the right spot to image”.

Now I know.

Now I want it absolutely identified – so it can be eradicated

Another ultrasound. More pictures. I imagine myself floating.

Then the next call confirms what I already know – I’ve “bought myself a biopsy”.

We schedule it. She explains the outpatient needle biopsy procedure.

My husband is on his feet before I hit the waiting room. We embrace for a long time, then walk out, hand in hand

And now we wait.