Cross-legged on my ottoman, while my 2-year-old napped and my husband worked two rooms away, I read my cancer diagnosis off my laptop. I’d imagined that if the day ever came when I was diagnosed with cancer, it would be a cinematic moment in a doctor’s office. A much older me, sitting across from someone who delivered the emotional news.
Alone in our bedroom, I read the test results on the doctor’s portal, then frantically googled the words on the screen. A year earlier my annual mammogram found a distortion labelled “probably benign,” a medical phrase whose nonchalance I marveled at, in disbelief of its formal use. It actually meant a 99% chance the finding was normal.
But due to my family history, my OB-GYN scheduled mammograms every 6 months to monitor it. By the third one, the distortion was gone. But something else appeared: calcifications in the left breast.
I laughed at seeing those two innocuous words again: probably benign. This time they provided assurance. For maybe the first time ever, the impending procedure produced no dread.
But after my biopsy, when I received the alert of a test result, I opened it and read an assemblage of phrases I couldn’t understand. I immediately knew it wasn’t good. The words, ductal carcinoma in situ, referred to as DCIS, meant I had stage 0 noninvasive breast cancer.
The earliest form of the disease, confined to the milk ducts. Since turning 40, I've been diligent about my breast health. I’d watched my mother unexpectedly die from complications of a breast cancer recurrence at 64.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
