It had been a week since my biopsy. I called my doctor’s office and left a message, asking if they knew whether the biopsy results would be available or if I could release myself from anxious anticipation for the weekend.

They didn’t call back.

A few hours later I checked my patient portal. The pathology report was there but I refused to open it. I called the office again and left another message, asking them to call me with the results.

When they did eventually call back they asked if I could come in to review the report with the doctor. At that moment I knew what it would say. Not the type, stage, or diagnosis, but I knew it was cancer. When I hung up I couldn’t stop kicking. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was the physical manifestation of a panic attack, but there was electricity surging through my body and I couldn't separate myself from it.

Matt agreed to ask my parents to get and occupy the kids. The girls would be getting off the bus around the time of my appointment and Leo was at preschool. Matt went into our front yard to call them. I thought he was giving me some space so that my dad didn’t overhear me sobbing or screaming in the background. I found out a few days later that Matt had held it together for as long as he could. The moment my father picked up the other end of the phone, Matt lost it. My father could barely understand Matt through his tears. But by the time he came back inside he had pulled himself together and I was none the wiser.

The doctor didn’t make small talk or mince words. There were cancerous cells in the breast tissue that was biopsied. She quickly moved on to the sample that was taken from my lymph node. It showed no signs of cancer -- my shoulders finally fell away from my ears and I felt like I could breathe again. But that feeling was short-lived. The sample from my lymph node also didn’t have any lymph tissue present. How the hell is that possible?

She had missed. She had taken tissue samples from near the enlarged lymph node but not from the lymph node itself. I would need another biopsy. I couldn’t even worry about that because she was talking about the kind of cancer I had, results that were still outstanding, and using acronyms I had never heard before.

I had Invasive Lobular Carcinoma. I needed an MRI, a CAT scan, and to meet with a Medical Oncologist. She talked about chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, and genetic testing. There were terms she used that I must have asked her to repeat 4 times - it all made sense in the moment but when we moved on to a new topic it was as if my brain reset and I couldn’t retain anything she’d said. I was shaken, but fairly calm. There were two things that made me convulse with tears:

1. Because of the size of the tumor in comparison to the size of my breast a lumpectomy was out of the question. I would need a mastectomy.

2. I had to stop nursing my son.

I never expected to nurse any of my children as long as I did. Leo had turned 2 in January and around that time stopped nursing on the side where the tumor was eventually found. I never minded nursing him so long because I knew he was my last child and I wasn't ready to let go of that part of motherhood. I hated that the decision was made for us. Every night for weeks after my diagnosis he would ask for “mommy milk” and I would cry as I told him “no.”

We left the office and drove to my parents’ house to get the kids. Matt couldn’t make eye contact with my parents but managed to whisk the kids away for ice cream so I could tell them about the diagnosis in private. I didn’t shed a single tear. I was cried-out and exhausted.

The rest of the night was surreal. It felt like I was swimming through molasses. Every breath was heavy. I felt defeated. I was puffy eyed. But I hung on to the infinitesimal speck of gratitude I had for the fact that at least today was over.