This is the in between. After an unexpected second set of ultrasound images. After a muffled conversation in the hallway between the tech and the radiologist. Before an impromptu mammogram (my first). Before the radiologist used vague terms but suggested immediate next steps.

I was still wearing the outfit I had worn that morning to my son’s Mother’s Day Tea at preschool. Well, half of it anyway.

The first set of ultrasound images of my right breast were determined not to be quite enough. The tech whispered, “don’t worry, needing more images doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong” with enough confidence that my brain didn’t immediately implode. But after that, after she left the room and after I heard the phrasing and emphasis of a serious exchange with the radiologist who had determined more angles and measurements were needed, that’s when the panic attack hit.

By the time the radiologist came in, where I still sat awkwardly in a crop-top paper gown stuck to my skin where ultrasound gel hadn’t been fully wiped away, I was listening to a guided meditation on my phone. I was hot, shaking, my heart was racing, and I felt like I might pass out.

He spoke to me kindly, but didn’t really say anything substantive. There were some signs of calcification (in my mind I thought, “Okay, calcifications. Calcium deposits. Those don’t sound scary.”) but didn’t qualify what that meant or what it might be indicative of. He said the images warranted a mammogram (“Okay, slightly scarier…”) but he was equally careful not to guess at what might be going on or what the images pointed toward. I would never want a doctor to guess or make a diagnosis based on an assumption, but he wasn't giving me much of anything to go on either. He was ‘concerned.’ It felt like soft, flat language. Fluff. I was desperate for declarative statements. “Be worried” or “Totally benign.” Based on his tone I asked if I should call to schedule the mammogram (I had assumed I was about to leave the office). No - the mammogram should happen today. Right now, actually.

Shit.

I grabbed my top and jacket and the ultrasound tech moved me from the exam room to a dressing room. I sat down heavily on the changing room bench and let my clothes fall beside me. I felt like I was in suspended animation. I was given a fabric robe to replace the paper one. It was wrapped in plastic but I have no recollection of actually putting it on. The plastic from another patient’s robe hadn’t fully made its way into the garbage. I didn’t move it even though the way it hovered bothered me. Not fully in, not fully out. I wondered if her visit had been like mine. It was silent. No other patients. No staff walking the halls or talking to one another. No phones ringing. Just me, alone. I took this picture hoping I wouldn’t need it but knowing deep in my cells that I was documenting a very specific and significant moment.

This is the in between. A moment stuck in time. My life would forever be divided into the before and after of this picture. Bifurcation by photograph.

The mammogram was awkward, but not painful. I’d never had one before -- they’re currently recommended annually for women over 40 and I’m 38 -- and I was still nursing, so beyond momentary pressure it really wasn't awful. When it was over I felt pretty proud for keeping my composure the entire time and having it be behind me. The radiologist then said that since I’d never had a mammogram before and they didn’t have any historical images for comparison they needed more images. Again. Just to be really thorough. I may not have any medical training but I’m also not an idiot.

After the second mammogram the radiologist came to see me in the changing room. No instructions to change or join him in his office. I sat in my robe and he stood in his white lab coat. He talked about calcification again, but said that’s common in women who breastfeed. Then he said two things that made my stomach drop. He referred to what was in my breast as a mass and said there was a lymph node that looked ‘borderline large.’ Intellectually I understood that the thing in my breast which had led me to seek out diagnostic imaging was large enough to be called a mass. I knew from my experience with my kidney that anything less than 3cm is called a nodule and anything larger than that is called a mass. But it was the first time anyone had used the term to describe something in my body. And the mention of the mere phrase ‘lymph node’ sent me into a spiral. I did the math in my head. Mass + lymph nodes = metastasis. Spread.

I needed a biopsy. It could take up to 10 business days to get the results so I wanted to schedule it as soon as possible. It was already 3:00 p.m. on a Friday but after at least 5 calls I managed to schedule one for Monday afternoon with a doctor in a practice I’d never been to. They would take samples of the mass in my breast and the suspicious lymph node. The samples would be sent to a lab and I would wait for the results.

Suspended in the in between.