Holding my breath, fingers crossed…

There was an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as R and I sat waiting in the breast clinic on Saturday morning, surrounded by other anxious women, none of them smiling. 

The breast clinic is the place where nobody ever smiles. 

I remembered the sheer choking terror of my first visit there, just over a year ago, the surgeon who didn’t condescend to introduce himself to me, the two hours I spent lying on a bed on my side with my arms above my head having endless ultrasound and two biopsies, how they knew I had cancer but I was too dazed to ask, and so they didn’t tell me until the following week, when we came back for the pathology results…

Ah, happy days.

This time it was all rather different, however: a pleasant female surgeon, only a couple of minutes’ wait before going for the ultrasound, and a huge sense of relief as the doctor stared at the ultrasound screen and immediately said ‘It looks like scar tissue to me’.

They did a biopsy, nevertheless, as you can’t be 100% certain of a negative result from the ultrasound and, as the surgeon said, ‘Sometimes there are surprises’.

I will go back to get the results on Friday.

In the meantime, I’m holding my breath and keeping my fingers firmly crossed.

I’ve only just got my life back, and I’m praying it’s not going to be taken away again.