5:30 a.m. I woke up and checked my email before my eyes were even fully open. A new test result has been posted…read the alert.
I reached for my glasses on the nightstand, opened MyChart, and there it was….. the pathology results I’d been waiting on all weekend.
Invasive carcinoma…… Not the words I wanted to see.
I woke my husband and whispered, “They posted the results… carcinoma.” He didn’t need any more explanation. He just held me. “I’m sorry” he said
I made a joke……because that’s what I do when things get too real. “Well… can I finally get the long-haired dachshund I always wanted?” “Yes,” he said. “We can get a dog now.”
Small victory.
I pictured an elderly rescue…..one who just needs somewhere soft to land for his final years. Definitely a boy… I have no energy for a dramatic little girl dog.
Around 10 a.m. the physician called. I pretended I hadn’t read the report already. “Do you have time to talk?” “Yes.” I said. “It is cancer. Not benign.” She said.
“Ok.” I answered. She paused……. maybe waiting for emotion I didn’t have yet. I wasn’t sure what the correct response should be… so I stayed quiet.
She then proceeded to tell me the MRI would be moved up and went through the details of what happens next.
“We’re still piecing everything together.” I listened, and then I drifted…..”She does this every day…” I thought.
Delivering life-altering news to strangers. I couldn’t do what she does.
So… the waiting is over. Now it’s one day at a time……… But then again. It’s always been that way, hasn’t it?
I don’t want any of this. I wish things could simply unravel the way nature intended.
Or maybe nature did intend this.
I don’t know.
Life makes no sense to me.
But…. there’s an adventure waiting for me next summer, so I’m choosing to move forward with whatever…. I can’t say I really care at this point.
If I’m being honest… I’d rather die in the desert anyway.
But for now—today—I’m still here. So we keep going. I’ll just have to shift my mental focus… that’s all.
Waiting breeds anticipation. What is anticipation, really….at least in physiological terms? It’s the body’s quiet chemistry experiment: neurotransmitters surging, hormones firing, the amygdala alert. Cortisol and norepinephrine rise, with a delicate dash of dopamine, hope and fear mixing in the bloodstream.
While those chemicals play their dance, the mind searches for distraction. Maybe by finishing that half-completed 1,000-piece Disney Stitch puzzle abandoned days ago. Or by curling up in bed, trying to ignore the dull ache and the bruised puncture site that throbs like a simple reminder of uncertainty. It’s a kind of suspended malaise, life moving, but slower now.
I think again of the circle of life, how, when Norman passed away a couple years ago, and Belinda was born. Death and birth, endings and beginnings, braided so tightly you can’t tell where one stops and the other begins. Now, it feels like the universe is staging a repeat: my boss’s daughter about to arrive as I await results that could mark another ending….or a continuation of my own story.
I hope for the latter, but we don’t know. We wait.
Anticipation….it’s like sending a text and watching the screen, willing a reply to appear. The same surge of chemicals. The same pulse of aliveness. In this waiting, I am acutely present, every sound is amplified. Every ding on my phone a jolt of hope, maybe it’s MyChart. Maybe the answer is here.
Everything around me feels placed with intention. Every object, every breath, part of the stillness before revelation. What will it be?
I tell myself I’ll prepare for both outcomes. I’ll steady myself either way. For now, we remain mid-air…..like a coin tossed high, spinning, glinting, turning, until the inevitable drop decides my fate.
I envisioned myself running into the ancient city of Karakorum…sweaty, salt-streaked, and stinking of seven days beneath the Mongolian sun. My pack bounced against my back as the crew clapped, cheering me toward the finish line.
“You doing, OK?” someone called out.
Then, suddenly, I was back.
The sound faded, replaced by the hum of the ultrasound machine. The nurse pressed down hard on the already tender spot on my left breast. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “We’ve got about three more minutes. You’re doing good.”
“Ok, Paige. Thank you,” I managed.
“Why are we doing this again?” I asked.
“Vascularity. To ensure there is no bleeding.”
“Ok. Paige.” I said.
I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling tiles. A sea turtle had been painted across one of them—its fins outstretched, floating in an endless white. I closed my eyes, clenched the fist on my trembling left arm, and focused on my breath. Inhale. Exhale. Through the nose. Slow. Controlled.
Her voice broke through again: “When you go home, make sure you—”
But I drifted. The pain was dull, radiating, and I tried to escape it by slipping back into the desert.
None of the Biopsy Videos I watched in preparation for this procedure had prepared me for this…..the raw ache, the pressure.
“Ok? Did you understand?……. Ok??” she said, her voice growing louder.
“Yes,” I replied, though I hadn’t heard everything.
“Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off?” I asked, uncertain.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be in your post procedure notes.”
“Ok” I said again, quietly.
The last three minutes dragged on like hours. It was the longest five minutes of my life—the worst part of the biopsy….the unrelenting pressure on freshly punctured flesh.
I could still hear the metallic click-click of the core needle echoing in my left ear as I lay on my side, thinking absurdly about the sterility of the instruments, about my cells traveling to pathology, about whether a human or a Machine Vision AI system would be used to interpret them.
Next, I was escorted to a second room for what they described as a gentle mammogram.
When it was all finally over, they wrapped me tightly in a bandage and let me go.
“Samples are collected. It’s out of my hands now.” I thought.
I walked into the lobby and saw my husband waiting patiently. I couldn’t say much. Didn’t want to say much. There were others in the lobby observing my exit.
“I’ll go get the car” he said.
My husband pulled into the front of the building and I started to cry as soon as I got into the car. Now I understood why the prepare for procedure notes insisted you have a driver.
The pain wasn’t just physical…..it was also the weight of uncertainty.
I clenched my fist, breathed through it, and saw myself again beneath the Mongolian sky……running, enduring, surviving.
This is where I met a man named Niles at reception. His nameplate gleamed under the soft lobby light as he greeted me and asked for my name. I was forty minutes early……pacing at home had done little to pass the time, so I left home just to get this visit over with.
Niles took my last name and handed me an iPad. The screen walked me through the usual verifications before unfolding into a detailed health questionnaire… women’s health, menstrual cycles, pregnancies, family history of cancer, vision, urinary issues. It felt like a full-body audit. Nothing out of the ordinary for me.
I took a seat in the waiting area, opened the book I’d brought, and briefly glanced around. Six other women waited quietly, all lost in their own thoughts. My husband sat among them, the only man there….steady, patient, supportive. When they finally called my name, I stood and gave him a quick glance. “You’ve got this,” he said with a smile.
The nurse took my weight, asked the standard questions, and measured my blood pressure: 120/68, same as always, I think. Then came a few more questions… prescriptions, smoking history, family cancer cases? She then asked me to change into a gown: “Opening in the front. Uma will be in shortly.” and she walked out of the examination room.
The gown was pink, actually, No, it was fuchsia. I remember the color, because I once had a middle school teacher who drove a fuchsia Saturn and was relentlessly teased for it. Yes, this gown was the same exact lilac pink shade.
Five minutes later, Uma walked in. Petite, maybe around my husband’s age, fluorescent pink Crocs, white coat. I stood to greet her and shook her hand. She apologized right away. “I’m sorry…. you were probably wondering why we said everything was fine at first, then called you back in.” “Yes,” I replied, “but no need to apologize. I wasn’t sure what was going on.”
She explained that ultrasounds are most reliable when a radiologist is on site, apparently, the center I’d visited no longer had one since being sold to new management. She opened the mammogram and ultrasound images and began reviewing each slide with me.
“You have dense breast tissue,” she explained. “Both sides are full of cysts.” She pointed out dark circles on the screen, showing which were fluid-filled and which were harder. Then she compared the solid ones to….of all things……..cement.
The word caught my attention immediately. “Cement?” I echoed in my mind.
She explained how a hardened cyst can cause pain when surrounding tissue shifts against it……“like when a cement filled nodule starts to move among other things” I smiled, finally realizing she meant concrete or perhaps even mortar.
A common mix-up. I didn’t correct her, of course. She was kind and thorough, describing every image, each black-and-white swirl gradually taking form in my mind.
Then she paused on one particular area. “This gray wall here, between two dark circle. We can’t be certain what that is. We’ll monitor it closely. I recommend every six months.”
Next came the actual physical exam. “So,” she said conversationally, “what do you do for a living?”
I laughed. “Funny you should ask. That cement analogy? Pretty fitting….. I actually work in the cement industry.”
She burst out laughing. “No way! and here I was, guessing you were an accountant!”
We both laughed as I stepped on to the examining table. Then she began the exam…..right side first, No issues.
Then the left. I tried to stay calm as she pressed firmly, but a few winces gave me away to a noted pain and discomfort.
“I noticed that upper side’s gotten larger since this past September” I said. “Yes,” she nodded. “That’s the fluid-filled cyst. But this other one—this is the one we’re keeping an eye on.”
I thought….”Of course, that’s the same one I have been complaining about…. the one I’ve had since last November…. the one that appears to be getting more firm and painful.”
She returned to her computer chair and sat. “We’ll order an aspiration for the fluid-filled cyst that has enlarged since last September. While we’re there with the needle, we’ll also look at the one in question.”
She asked me to get dressed and stepped out of the room.
A few minutes later, she returned with my risk assessment. “Because you’re over thirty and haven’t had children, that increases risk slightly. And since your paternal aunt had breast cancer, that adds more. Altogether, you’re considered high risk.”
She recommended adding an MRI screening, alongside ultrasound and mammograms. “Of course,” she said, “this could change once we have the aspiration results.”
Before I left, she mentioned she’d be retiring in January. “Don’t be surprised if your contact changes,” she smiled. “I’ve been doing this since the seventies……started at Trinity Health when I was seventeen.”
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed and for a moment, I thought about how many patients over the decades had heard her cement analogy and how many probably imagined little sacks of gray powder like I did.
All jokes aside, she had incredible bedside manner. I felt safe, informed, and oddly very calm.
Now, I wait… for the radiology team’s call…… for the next test…….for more data.
Still, I can’t help but wonder…….. Why did she picture me as an accountant?
It’s Wednesday, and I still don’t have an appointment for my biopsy. I had been told to expect a call by today, but no such luck.
At lunch time, I called Dr. S office. “No, ma’am, we don’t have the referral just yet,” said the kind administrator. “But let me go ahead and set up your chart so that once we do receive the referral, our coordinator can move forward with scheduling.”
I gave her my information, hung up, and immediately called my primary. “Hi, I’m calling about a referral.” “Yes, ma’am, is this regarding the CPAP?” “No, this is about the biopsy.” “Oh yes, I see that right here too. We’ll send the referral to the fax number once again.” “Ok, Great! Thanks,” I said, and hung up.
Later that evening, after work, I tried reaching the specialist’s office again, but by then they had already been closed for an hour according to their answering service.
“I’ll try again tomorrow” I thought.
Thankfully, work has been an incredible distraction. It always has been. This weekend I’m scheduled to work, and for once I’m grateful. Staying busy keeps me from sitting in the silence of the unknown, letting my mind spiral. It’s the long drives, the late nights, the idle moments when the thoughts begin to eat away at you.
And today’s driving thoughts? How our healthcare systems need improvement. We’re still using fax machines to transmit critical referrals? There’s no universal system to manage them? No secure real-time dashboards that can track the process without violating HIPAA? The handoffs between patient, doctor, insurance, imaging, and paperwork form a maze that slows care. In medicine, process improvements aren’t just helpful…..they’re necessary.
During the commute…I tried calling my brother, hopeful he would pick-up so I could inform him of what’s going on, only to discover he had changed his number. Not what I expected.
When I finally got home, a letter from the mammogram center was waiting.
It was the report.
Findings: 1 cm x 0.9 cm x 0.8 cm irregular, echogenic mass with suspicion of malignancy, located at 3 o’clock posterior depth on the left breast. Results labeled “Abnormal/Suspicious,” with a recommendation for an ultrasound-guided core biopsy.
Of course, I had to look it up. The possible causes range from benign to malignant. My hope is still firmly with benign…. and I’m anxious to see the confirming data.
Well, in the words of a Courageous Cowboy: Let ’er buck.
At 4:15 p.m., I went in for a short notice doctor’s office visit. They called me into a small waiting room where the nurse checked my weight and vitals…120/60 blood pressure, 100% oxygen, and a resting heart rate of 52 bpm. “Looks good,” she said with a smile. “Dr. C. will be with you in just a minute,” she added in her soft Southern drawl.
I sat in the cold, refrigerator-like room, taking in its minimalist cleanliness, the bare walls, the neatly organized tools, the set of ear canal testers. It was quiet, almost too quiet, until the sliding door opened and Dr. C stepped inside.
“Hello,” she greeted. “Howdy,” I replied, trying to lighten the mood.
“Now, I’m assuming they’ve already gone over this with you?” she asked gently.
I explained that I had received a call from the physician at the Mammography center. They confirmed it was not a cyst…it was a mass.
“Correct,” she said, glancing at the report. “They want you to get a biopsy, and that will be scheduled at a doctor’s office. I’d recommend N.F. They have two excellent doctors there, and one in particular has an excellent bedside manner.”
She looked at me carefully. “How do you feel about that?”
I told her that a friend had recommended a doctor at the F. , Dr. S., and that I would prefer the referral be sent to her office instead.
She nodded. “That’s fine. Just so you’re aware, if it turns out to be positive, the doctor’s office will take it out.”
“Positive?” I echoed.
“Cancer,” she clarified, hesitating, as though the word itself was heavy.
I had already noticed her body language when she entered, hesitant, with the kind of facial expressions that say I don’t want to have this conversation with my patient. The concern in her posture said the rest.
“Well, there’s still a chance it could be nothing, correct?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” she assured me.
She reminded me that she had read biopsy reports before that turned out benign.
I told her, I’d remain optimistic that this too would amount to nothing.
I checked out, walked to my car, and drove home. But when I stepped out of the garage and made the short walk to my front door, the weight of it all finally hit me. In that hollow stretch of silence, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears.
Yesterday, I met with my writing mentor. She arrived with an air of quiet confidence, dressed in a crisp royal blue blouse and a matching deep stone sapphire ring, a sleek black skirt, and purple framed glasses that added a touch of creativity to her otherwise professional look. Her presence commanding attention. I couldn’t help but feel engaged as we dove into our discussion.
We booked a small study room at the local library. It was a perfect size I’d say 8 x 10ft… quiet, tucked away, and private enough that no one could overhear our conversation. The walls were bare, with only a whiteboard… just the kind of blank canvas I need for enhanced concentration.
I prepared a meeting agenda. I hoped it would help guide our discussion and keep us focused on the specific topics I planned in mind. She appreciated the structure, making a positive comment on my planning skills. She had only brought with her the first two pages and an outline of her own book project.
We began with a review of the progress. I talked about completing research on running associations, my ongoing struggle with identifying my deeper “Why” and the current challenges I’m facing with organizing the flow of the content.
I asked, “Can the ‘Why’ change? Why I ran? And Why I’m writing?”
She smiled and said, “Of course it can.”
“Oh, ok. Well, that certainly makes it easier.” I replied, feeling a weight lift.
We talked about pen names and the reason behind them. She had me read aloud an excerpt of her new book. She asked what my biggest takeaway had been from the last meeting we had. I mentioned the amount of learning about the running community, race directing, course certification processes, marketing the sport, attracting different types of people to it and coaching.
I told her I’d like to coach or teach others about running and had completed my first course on how to lead run groups from the Road Runners Club of America, perhaps that may be where my purpose lies.
“Great!” she said. “Use that. Make that your reason for writing this book, and yes, it can change later.”
Simple. Clear. That clicked.
We discussed my outline, and she agreed it was strong.
My next task is to find a parallel between running and life and use that as the book’s central theme. It doesn’t need to follow a chronological order. It can flow naturally, guided by meaning rather than timeline. The key is to find a deeper theme…. something from life that running can reflect or amplify.
Most importantly the “hook.” Start with something that pulls the reader in immediately. Make them want to run with me.
She went off to mention that my deadline for having this done in a year is somewhat unrealistic.
I asked “Well then, what is a realistic deadline?”
I waited for a date or time frame, ready to jot it down in my notebook.
She said, “To have a book” then paused.
I waited. Listening. Hoping for her to say 2 years or 3. “Yes. What’s the timeframe?” I asked again.
“To have a book” she replied.
I looked at her, eagerly waiting for the calendar date, thinking she might have been running the calculation in her head.
She paused and looked at me. “There is no timeframe. There is no deadline. Simply To Have a Book.” her words came sharply, and precise this time around.
I can’t process that. I thought. I need to have a date. It’s what helps keep me disciplined. It’s what keeps me in the act of moving forward.
“Time adds Pressure.” she said.
I listened intently and confirmed the validity of her statement. True. I thought.
But pressure can be helpful. Right? It helps us become aware of our time limits. Helping us make the most of each day…. spending time with a sense of urgency. Also, pressure can help sharpen focus. I thought.
“The book will be done, when the book is done. When you read it and you wouldn’t change a thing.” Across the natural oak rectangular table, she looked me straight in the eyes and voiced gently, “No deadline.”
Today at work, I needed to rely on my teammate to be my guide as I scaled up to 257 feet of the tower. The change came gradually, but I now experience a sense of vertigo whenever I climb an open grid metal stairwell where I can see hundreds of feet beneath me.
At times the fear creeps in as I tilt my head down, and I worry that I might black out from the sensation. It was my turn to scale up for safety checks, but there I stood, questioning what had shifted within me as I faced this fear.
Looking down from 257 feet in an industrial setting, I peered through the platform levels, my gaze passing over scaffolding, air cannons, and machinery. Despite the surroundings, the beauty of the sunset overhead was undeniable.
There were three stages of observation, and although I had the confidence to face them, I felt the familiar wariness creeping in as I made my way up the tower.
“Be strong,” I reminded myself as I climbed up an 8 ft. ladder toward the second observation point, between two levels, at 200 feet above the ground. From this height, everything at ground level appeared minuscule—yet, the vast view of Florida’s trees and a pristine blue lake to the west, untouched by the industrial environment, felt strangely calming.
When I finished the tasks and descended, I left work feeling a sense of accomplishment, having conquered one of my biggest fears of the day. What made it even easier to face was knowing I had a reliable teammate by my side, ready to act in case anything went wrong.
Journaling was Recommended 