The official diagnosis came three days later, on Monday. I invited my sister to come along with Walker and me, since she understands medical terminology and she had been more or less housebound after shoulder surgery a couple weeks before.
If Dr S hadn't already told me, I would have figured out the diagnosis pretty damn quick. For one thing, the nurse that led our little group to the treatment room gave me a card with all her contact numbers and told me she would be my resource for the next few months and to feel free to call her for any reason at all. I don't think she does that for everyone. Then again, maybe she does. I guess I could have my sister call and ask her to stop by with a quart of milk and see what happens.
Dr C came in next. She was very solemn, of course, as she held my pathology report vertically so I couldn't sneak a peek. When she told me she was ready to share the diagnosis with me I let her off the hook, explaining that Dr S had already told me. I really just wanted to get into the "what's next" discussion. Gotta have that plan, ya know.
The good news is, the tumor is small, about 1 centimeter by 1.7 centimeters. It is grade 2, which is not terribly aggressive, and is considered highly curable. The bad news, at least from where I was sitting, was that Dr C wanted to do a few more tests. Including an MRI. Two years ago, after spending upwards of fourteen hours in an MRI machine, I promised myself I would never, ever do that again. Guess I lied.
Dr C also wanted to run a chest Xray, blood work, and a test for the BRCA gene, to determine the likelihood of the cancer recurring after treatment. This test takes a couple weeks to come back. For the moment, the treatment plan was to just sit and wait for those results. Waiting patiently is not my strongest skill.