"But my girl's only eight," I cried! The radiologist and technician stopped making their "no need to worry" noises as the image on their ultrasound screen became clear.
I knew, before the needle biopsy. The CT had already shown apparent metastacized tumours in my liver and bones. We could feel the breast tumour. It wasn't pea sized. It was huge. I knew what this meant.
"But my girl's only eight!"
Can you hear the terror in my voice? I can hear the paper on the biopsy table, under me and feel the cotton robe against my cold, frightened skin. I can see the dim light coming in from that north-facing window. And I can feel the terror. Not that I might lose my life, that's not the issue. That my daughter's health and happiness would forever be tainted by my diagnosis, by my prognosis.
I will need a miracle to survive this disease. But every morning that I can face my dear girl with a smile is a miracle for which I thank God.