Waiting.

December 6
I have a regularly scheduled followup appointment with my surgeon, Dr. DiLalla. Last year I requested screening MRIs in addition to the usual mammogram protocol, and she agreed. MRIs are more sensitive than mammograms and can pick up cancers that might be missed otherwise. At the end of this appointment we schedule the screening MRI for Monday, December 18.

Wait 9 days.

December 15
The nurse from Dr. DiLalla's office calls me and says that Cigna has denied my MRI as I am not considered high risk. In order to be considered high risk, you have to be BRCA positive or have a first degree relative with breast cancer. This means that because of my history of cancer, my mother and sister would have their MRIs paid without question - but not me, the actual breast cancer patient. This is the second year in a row they have made this decision. Dr. DiLalla can call to get it overturned, but she won't be in the office in time for me to keep my appointment or to reschedule it before the Christmas holiday. We reschedule for January.

Wait 26 days.

January 11
I go to Duke Raleigh's Radiology Center, parking in my old familiar parking deck and walking past the Cancer Center where I had chemo. My eyes are closed during the IV insertion when the tech says, "uh oh," and I open my eyes to discover a river of blood gushing from my arm. He gets it sealed off. I have to change into a new gown. I get the MRI.

Wait 5 days.

January 16
Dr. DiLalla calls me at work. She called me at work three years ago, too. She says, "We got your MRI results. Are you somewhere you can talk?" Are you fucking kidding me? I get up and shut my office door. They have seen two areas of enhancement in my left breast they would like to biopsy. My right breast, the cancer breast, is fine. This is a scenario I had not in my wildest dreams thought to worry about: an entirely new cancer in the other breast. She says, "I'm not overly concerned." The way she emphasizes overly is not comforting. They only do MRI-guided biopsies at big Duke, in Durham. Her office will call me to schedule.

January 17
After no one from Dr. DiLalla's office calls me to schedule, I call them and talk to four separate people before finding someone to help. The first available appointment is 7:15am on January 26.

Wait 2 days.

January 19
The MRI report becomes available in my online chart. I read it and google frantically for five to ten minutes before I notice the conclusion at the bottom. "Suspicious abnormality: low suspicion of malignancy." I feel an immediate, physical relief. I later google further, however, and see that this is a very specific term with specific guidelines. Around 10% of findings of this description are malignant. This is not helpful. The chances I would have gotten cancer in the first place at 38 years old are much lower than 10%. Every cancer patient knows statistics are useless.

Wait 7 days.

January 26
I drive to Durham before dawn. The main Duke Cancer Center is huge, like an airport. There is valet parking available because the lot is too far away for sick people to walk. I'm doing all right until I see all the wheelchairs lined up on the sidewalk in front of the door. I am so tired of being in this stupid club. I was so close to feeling free of it, but I realize I am not and will never be free. The IV insertion goes better this time. I brought my fuzzy socks to wear with the hospital gown, the ones I wore to chemo. The radiologist says, "If I were a betting man, I'd say these are not cancer." But he looks to be around 36 years old. What does he know? He also says, "And even if they are, they're small and slow-growing." Sure, sure. Cool.

It's absolutely freezing inside the MRI room. I lay face down on a table with my left breast hanging through a hole, which they then compress between plastic plates. For around an hour, they wheel me into the tube, take pictures, wheel me back out again, give me numbing shots in my breast and remove pieces of me with some kind of device that sounds exactly like a dentist's drill. They seal the wounds with glue. Also: I have to pay $6 to park.

That evening I find myself thinking, "It wasn't so bad," which means: I am already thinking like a cancer patient again. No normal person would consider this an okay way to spend the morning.

Wait 4 days.

January 30
4:35pm, my phone rings, a Durham number. It's the 36-year-old radiologist. "It's good news, both spots are completely benign. These are not things you ever need to worry about following up on. It's all good."

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So. That's what I've been up to.