I’m not a sick person.

A week later, I visited a second cancer center. A completely different experience than the first. Husband and I arrived early. So they took us early. Bright spaces with kind humans waiting to help you through this seemingly impossible process. And this surgeon was a breath of fresh air. She came into the room on what seemed like a sunbeam acknowledging the clouds in the room. After a swift physical exam, a conversation. Illumination. And understanding. And making it seem like we were going to crush this thing together once we had all the information. She helped us schedule an MRI even sooner than I thought possible. Assured me we would take care of it. And I could go about my business like nothing ever happened. But she’s a surgeon. What does she know past the cut? What does she know past the surgical plan? But regardless, walking out of that space there was a contented feeling I didn’t have before. Like there were bullet point I could check off.

In the notes section of my phone, there is a list of all the possible things I know of to encounter during this cancer journey. So I can mentally check them off and feel like we’ve made progress. You know what doesn’t help? When doctors add more items to your checklist you didn’t foresee coming. Like banana peels being thrown onto the road during a round of Mario Kart. Little bombs to distract you from the finish line.

No caller ID. That’s probably the most frightening message to show up on your phone. Sitting at my desk at work, there it is. No caller ID. So I pick up and quickly make my way outside. It’s the genetics counselor. Good news. You’re negative for the BRCA gene. And all at once I’m shaking and happy but full on shaking as I let it sink in. I do not have the genetic mutation that leads to most young women’s cancer. My daughter does not have the gene. I didn’t pass it on to my kids. My mom didn’t pass it on to me. Relief! Such relief. But even with relief, fear. How did I still get this then? What is the reason? Why has this stupid thing struck my life when I don’t even have the probability of it occurring? Regardless, back to the office. Texts to my coworkers who know under my desk. I’m negative! I might not need a mastectomy after all. My chances of it recurring are low. Ok breathe in, breathe out. Stop shaking. Get back to work. Move on. That is one thing to check off the list.

Later that evening, a call from my surgeon. MRI results. There is nothing in my left breast at all. Hooray. But whomp, there are two indeterminate sections of my right breast that need additional attention. What? I can’t make a plan because there are two possible other locations that have cancer? I wish I could tell you not to worry she says. There is a 70% chance those places are nothing, but a 30% chance that it is something. Those odds suck. She says it’s better than 50%/50%. No shit Sherlock, I understand odds. But there was a slim to none chance my tumor was going to be cancer to begin with and go fucking figure. It’s cancer. So odds don’t really play in my favor and unless it’s 100% sure. I start to think the worst. And all of a sudden, my really great news from earlier seems like a distant memory and I slink back to my bottle of patron and try to dim the noise.

I don’t even cry this time. Because right now it’s frustration and exhaustion. And there hasn’t even been a surgery to recover from. How can I feel this crazy in just 26 days and continue to find ways to deal with this thing moving forward? So now onto another targeted ultrasound and the hope. The prayer. The dream that these spots are nothing.