Breast cancer.

These are the words I did NOT want to hear today.

I had a good day at work, and was only overcome by nerves at the thought of my upcoming appointment one time. These intrusive thoughts were quickly squashed by the hugs and support of my fellow nurses, and I left for my appointment at 1430, my mind a blank slate.

My appointment was at 1500, but I was taken back at 1530. I was placed in a small room with a door, and immediately I was apprehensive.

I know what they do with these small rooms.

I focused on my surroundings, specifically the two disturbing abstract paintings hanging above our heads. Square and white, with some faded blue green in the background, they were overlaid with cuts and smears of red.

They did not spark joy.

In short order, the beautiful young radiologist who had done my needle biopsy came in. She was as kind and as friendly as she was to me 48 hours ago, introducing herself to my husband, who was beside me with his arm around me.

Then she got down to business.

“I’m sorry…you have cancer”.

I made a concentrated effort to hear the rest.

She was so glad I got regular mammograms. This was a very tiny spot. More positive calming words.

Another woman had a folder, full of information for me to read.

In one pocket , the copy of my diagnostic imaging.

In the other, loads of information about my status as a breast cancer patient, and the potential paths ahead of me.

I had my information. Now I wanted to leave.

I walked quickly out, and my husband grabbed my hand in an attempt to stop and embrace me. I said no let’s go – I was shaking and feared I would completely fall apart.

I got outside into the bright sunny day and pulled my cell phone out. Between tears and shakes and nerves, I had a hard time dialing the number of the surgeon I wanted to do my next surgery on my breast.

Her office was kind and sympathetic, hearing the tears in my voice, and the fear that hovered over and around my words. They scheduled me for an appointment, even before any data had been transmitted, and I was strangely comforted. I was doing SOMETHING about this damn diagnosis.

We walked to our separate cars, and I doubted my ability to drive. After a few minutes of sitting in his car, I got into mine, and began following him home.

I don’t remember the drive.

I made the calls to my mom. My children. My best friends.

I was reassured. I reassured. I cried.

I cried some more.

Then I came home and decorated the Christmas tree with my husband and son.