When a positive is negative and we're hoping for fake news.

This was me for the last 4 days: an empty chair, waiting to see what kind of ass it's about to meet.

They said the results would come in on Friday. We waited. Then they said Monday. I called them about 8 times.

Then it was Tuesday morning and I got the call at 9:30. I was fully prepared for what they were going to tell me and was calm on the phone.

I speak a little science and this doc understood that. When I was on her table during the biopsy trying to take my mind off the violence of the procedure, I was asking her if she could explain how lidocaine works. She did, and I told her I loved the mechanics of things and knowing how they work, like how my mind was totally blown when I first heard that the stickiness of glue and adhesives comes down to molecular surface reactions and bonds (this is oversimplified but I'll gladly nerd out about it with you when asked).

Her response: "You're in the wrong job. Your brain is a science brain."

So when it came down to that phone call giving me the results of the biopsies, she knew she could speak science, and to me that was incredibly helpful.

"It's an invasive ductal carcinoma. Grade 2, but that's grades, not stages. They have to see it to see what stage it is. Receptor tests have been sent out and we'll get those back to you soon. Your next step is find a surgeon and an oncologist. I know you said Boston. Just let us know where to send your records."

I found myself concerned that she felt bad, having to tell me I had cancer. How hard would that be. Then I realized I had cancer.

----------

It was supposed to be a simple core needle biopsy--easy peasy.

Online, they said I could probably return to work that afternoon. Apparently my breast had other ideas.

A couple of minutes into it, I could tell something was up because they kept having to inject more & more lidocaine. Apparently my boobs are bionic, and wouldn't let the needle through, so there was a lot of arm strength and leverage and leaning in and pushing with this massive needle, then more lidocaine, then more pushing, as I sat completely still. It felt like they were trying to shish-kebab some really tough gristle with a dull knitting needle, only it was my chest. She asked if I was okay and said this is far more difficult than what she normally deals with. I said I was okay and just try not to go through the boob and stab me in the chin, please.

There is a weird thing that happens mentally when a part of your body that has been cherished and propped up and sexualized and treated tenderly for years is suddenly treated with a kind of clinical violence. I'm not sure if I've made peace with that yet.

The biopsy left me with a lot of pretty gnarly-looking bruising, which for me was mentally the first step away from breasts that entice to breasts that are dangerous and somehow volatile. I was joking to friends that the right one looked angry, like a zombie bit it or something, and that it was scaring the bejeezus out of the left one. This is the closest image I could find to represent it:

This kind of humor is absolutely one of my defense mechanisms in stress situations. I want everyone around me to be comfortable, so I make a joke. I think in the middle of the biopsy while they were ramming a rod through my "surprisingly dense" breast tissue, I cracked a joke like "Well, at least nobody can accuse me of having fake tits..."

Hopefully it made her feel better for having to spear me repeatedly for 45 minutes. That was my goal. I could deal with the pain and discomfort, but I didn't want her to feel bad for hurting me.

Flash forward six excruciating days, to that Tuesday when she called me at 9:30am and told me that I had cancer. She had said during the biopsy that she loved her job but she hated giving people bad news. When she called, I already knew in my gut that it wasn't going to be good news, and I found myself trying to make her feel better over the phone. I remember saying "Don't worry, that's exactly what I thought. Thank you for letting me know. I'm fine. Now I can make a plan..."

My life had just come to a screeching halt, but I wanted to make sure she was okay. I didn't cry. I took notes about what things to google. I got her off the phone relatively quickly so I she didn't have to feel uncomfortable any longer. I'm sure I closed with a laugh.

I didn't cry until I had to tell someone. My mom, someone via text. I was okay telling them "it's invasive ductal carcinoma" but when I actually had to say "cancer," I lost it. I cried a little every time someone texted me that they loved me or asked if they could do anything. Anytime someone responded to me telling them by saying "DAMNIT!" (This happened more than once and I gotta say I liked this response a lot.)

I don't know where this is going but I'm going to come back to it. It's late and I have a wisdom tooth removal tomorrow, because when I go big, I go big. #bestweekever

More on that later--"that" being my first day with cancer. Ugh. That will never not sound weird.

K bye.