For better or worse I was in so much pain after the biopsy that I couldn’t fixate on when I would receive the results. The next day I woke up knowing that waiting for the results would be hard but that worrying about them wouldn't make them arrive any sooner. I needed space. I needed a break. I needed quiet. My kids went to school, my husband went to work, and I worked from home. It felt good to be productive and focused.

Around lunchtime I checked my patient portal to be sure that the radiologist’s report had made its way to the surgeon who had done the biopsy. They are in different practices and while I had completed the necessary release paperwork I didn’t want anything to get in the way of my receiving the biopsy results as soon as they were ready.

That’s when I saw it. Big, bold, red letters. I was gutted.

BIRADS stands for Breast Imaging-Reporting And Data System. It’s a breast imaging classification system, a scale from 0 to 6. BIRADS-5 meant the likelihood that the mass in my breast was cancerous was at least 95%.

No one had mentioned this scale to me. The radiologist never referenced it. The surgeon hadn’t alluded to it. It had been wholly omitted from every conversation I’d been part of. And I wasn’t mad. I was so, so sad.

It hurt that I had to Google what it meant, and then try to absorb it all, alone. And what was hardest, I think, was realizing that although I had told myself that I was being objectively logical about what the biopsy results would be, I clearly wasn’t. I was still holding on to false hope that I’d hear the word benign and I’d move on with my life.

I cried and cried and cried. Alone. I called Matt. He asked if I wanted him to come home. I said no, overestimating ability to grapple with what I’d just read. I’d dive back into work. I’d get some fresh air. And I did, successfully, for ten minutes before hot waves of dread started to roll through my body.

I asked my parents to come over. I remembered a moment when my oldest child, Amelia, started a new preschool program. She was nervous, but the mere nearness of me in the room gave her comfort. And that’s exactly what I needed.

I told them what I had read and they held me as we cried together. It was physically painful to have to share it with them. To see their chests jump involuntarily as they tried to sob without making a sound.

I went to their house for the afternoon. A change of scenery. Quiet, loving company.

Matt worked from home for the next three days so I wouldn’t be alone when the pathology results came in. I needed his quiet, calm presence. During the routine, mundane moments and also during the quiet of the night, after the kids were in bed, when I’d be overtaken by panic about what lay ahead. He knew not to tell me that everything would be alright, or to not focus on what we did not yet know. He just let the waves crash and made sure I stayed above water.

Somehow I made it through the week. And on Friday the pathology report from my biopsy was uploaded to my patient portal.