10th January continued
I'm calm as the ultrasound head glides over and around. Still calm as the man holding it stops and says matter-of-factly: "You have a cancerous lump there. We'll take a biopsy to make doubly sure, and you can discuss matters with the surgeon before you leave." "Today?" I say.
"Oh yes, it's definitely cancerous, although no sign of that in the lymph nodes." Suddenly today is a weird kind of day. I sit in the waiting room looking at the other women (there are lots of us here). I'm the one? I'm the one? OK, I'm the one. So much for everybody else I've ever known saying, "I went for a second visit, but it was nothing."

There follows an excruciating core biopsy. Made all the more so by the utter sense of vulnerability I experience, giving up all attempts at "holding it all together". I don't intend ever having another one, but if I do I'm going to insist on being sedated.

The surgeon draws crazy diagrams and key words on a small white sheet of paper, which I like, and it turns out he's one of the best in this field, so I agree to come back on the next Monday for confirmation of results and, given surgery is highly likely, I'm sure we'll meet again. While I wait for somebody to do something (I'm starting to get vague now), I meet three other women in the Waiting Room - two awaiting biopsy procedures, and the other here for confirmation of results of hers, which was done on that last day they were open before Christmas! She has waited three weeks for this! I thank my lucky stars I didn't come then; I really enjoyed my birthday lunch, free of the knowledge I now have.

I call my boss and tell her I'm not going in to work and why. I am upset, talking about it. But by the time we finish talking about it, the upset's gone. For now. On the long road home I decide this is a situation that requires sisterhood. I visit my sister first, get her reaction out of the way, and together we go home to tell my mother and daughter.

What I love about my mother.
My mother is 82 years old this year. She is bent with osteoporosis, and is unsteady enough on her feet to need a walking stick, but not wobbly enough to require a walking frame. Ever since she and I began sharing a home, about three years ago, we've gone for lots of drives and excursions, mostly further out into the country. We also go to movies in Carlton or at Highpoint. And if we go somewhere very challenging, like the Melbourne Show, in September last year, we hire a wheelchair. One of my favourite photos is of Mum holding up her Garfield showbag and laughing her head off while my daughter and sister droop on the seat beside her, exhausted from all our walking.
So first of all what I love about my mother is that she is my mother. And the second thing is that Mum is undauntable. And when I tell her I found out I have a breast cancer she looks shocked long enough that I know this was not welcome news. Then she says, "Well, that's not a death sentence these days. Look at H.: diagnosed 30 years ago and still going great guns at 93!" Other friends of hers also have survived 'for years'. She lists them all.

After that, it's hard to settle at anything. What is there to do? The whole world has changed shape, texture, character ... how do I now relate to it? to myself? to my little family? to all the structures I have built and maintained for years?

to be continued