Dear Diagnosis · Issue #002 · April 2026
Dear Diagnosis is a weekly letter by me, Lea, 32, navigating breast cancer — and writing about all of it.
Issue #002 follows the two weeks of waiting for biopsy results after a breast cancer scare: the dressing I couldn't remove alone, the friends I wasn't sure how to tell, and the fireworks I watched while not knowing. If you're new here, start with Issue #001 — the scan that started everything.
ISSUE #002 · May, 24th 2026
What a breast biopsy really feels like — and the wait after
On biopsies, brave faces, and the strange relief of not being alone.
| What a breast biopsy actually feels like
The day of the biopsy, I was nervous — but not terribly so. What I dreaded more than the result was the pain. I remembered a girl roughly my age in the waiting room. She'd come in just before me, for the same thing. She was called first, and she left just as I went in. I remember thinking that it was kind of a relief that I was not the only one in that situation. I wish I’d talked to her but I honestly couldn’t talk. I was too stressed out.
Someone called my name. I went into a small changing room to undress. An assistant explained what was going to happen. She was compassionate — intensely so. More than usual. Her compassion, I realised, was itself a signal. This might actually be serious.
I lay down for the biopsy. The sonographer was reassuring. I closed my eyes, but I asked him to explain everything he was doing. I needed to know. They were going to take three samples. The first time, I didn’t expect anything. I heard a sound like a staple gun pressing into my skin. It hurt a little, but the sound was more startling than the pain. The second and third times hurt more, because by then I was anticipating it.
They put a dressing on the tiny scar the biopsy created. I was asked to remove it myself that evening. They told me that they will send the biopsy’s results to my gynaecologist. It usually takes 14 days.
That evening, I tried to take off the dressing alone, in front of the mirror. I'd barely started when I saw what looked like a large hole. I immediately put it back.
I sent a message to a nurse friend I was seeing in Paris the next day, asking her to remove it for me. Which she did. She didn’t know I had to do a biopsy but I felt like I needed her help and wanted to tell her. Even though she is like my sister, I was afraid to tell her because I didn’t want her to worry about me the same way I worry about the biopsy’s results.
That evening in Paris I had a lovely time with friends. We talked a lot about how much our work was crushing us — the meaninglessness, the routine. We kept saying: is this really it? Home, work, sleep. Is that all there is?
I didn't think too much about the results. I remember it being hard to tell my friends I was going to have a biopsy. When I did tell them, I felt relieved — and glad to know they were there for me, whatever happened.
| Waiting for breast biopsy results: the two-week window
Two weeks. I calculated that I'd have the results around the 14th of July — Bastille Day in France, a public holiday. I made a note to call my new gynaecologist to get the results— I'd recently switched to one who was closer to my parents' house — the week of the 15th.
She didn't know me well. She didn't even know I'd had a biopsy, or that she'd be receiving results. I hadn't thought to warn her.
During those two weeks, I swung between two states: wanting to enjoy every moment before getting the results, and feeling sad at the thought that I might actually have cancer.
We celebrated my niece Lila's second birthday. The whole family was there — my oldest sister Sophie came with her husband and her daughter. I remember briefly mentioning my biopsy results to Sophie, who's a doctor. She told me that doctors generally pay very little attention to their emails, so I should call my gynaecologist rather than wait. Especially since I hadn't warned her she'd be receiving results.
| Bastille Day, a baby, and waiting for news that changes everything
The 14th of July. We went to see the fireworks in Paris with Noémie and her husband. That day, Marc and I had an argument — I think it was connected to work stress, and to the fact that my probationary period had just been extended. It was a tough blow, especially since I worked so hard to make sure that wouldn't happen.
After dinner, we joined Noémie and her husband at a park to watch the fireworks. We played board games while we waited for the fireworks. There were lots of children around. I remember seeing a woman holding her baby, looking so happy. In that moment I thought: I'm ready to have a child, whatever our situation. We have enough savings. It'll be fine. My husband and I were talking about having a baby one day. But not now. I didn’t feel ready before that exact moment.
I kept that thought to myself. I planned to share it with Marc a little later.
The week of the 15th, I tried to reach my gynaecologist. She only works two days a week at the practice where I see her. I called once. Nothing. I tried again the next day. Nothing. On Friday the 18th, I called again and reached the receptionist, who told me my gynaecologist was in that day. I explained I was waiting for biopsy results and would like to know if she'd received them.
To be continued next Sunday.
Lea
I didn't mean to watch four episodes in one sitting. I sat down on a Friday afternoon between two appointments when I had absolutely nothing left in me, and I just... didn't move for hours.
Ripple is the kind of show they don't really make anymore. It reminded me of everything I used to watch in the early 2000s — the warm lighting, the slightly unrealistic but deeply comforting friendships, storylines that resolve in ways life almost never does. There's just characters you root for, living lives that feel small and kind and real. It was recommended to me by a friend of mine and I didn't know that it will talk about cancer but not in a really sad way. It made me feel less alone.
When you're going through something like this, your brain is doing a lot. Appointments, decisions, conversations you haven't had yet. Sometimes the best thing you can do is give it somewhere else to be for an hour. Not somewhere that asks anything of you. Just somewhere warm.
This is that place.
Watch it with a blanket. Maybe some noodles.
If this letter resonated with you, the kindest thing you can do is forward it to someone who might need it.
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What is Dear Diagnosis?
Dear Diagnosis is a weekly newsletter written by Lea, a 32-year-old woman living with breast cancer. One honest letter a week, every Sunday. Raw, personal, and free. It's not medical advice. It's what a friend would say if she were going through it and wasn't too scared to tell you the truth.
Who is Dear Diagnosis for?
For women who just found out, who had or is still fighting against their breast cancer. For women six months into treatment who need to hear that someone else is going through it. For the partners and sisters and best friends who don’t know what to say. For anyone still needs to process what happened. For everyone who feels alone during this difficult time. Join the community and let’s help each other all around the world.
What does a breast biopsy by ultrasound feel like?
In Issue #002, Lea describes hearing a sound like a staple gun against her skin — startling more than painful on the first pass, more painful by the third because by then she was anticipating it. The sonographer took three samples. The whole thing was over quickly. She was asked to remove the dressing herself that evening, and couldn't. Overall it doesn't hurt that much, it's more the anticipation and everything around that makes this experience difficult.
How long do breast biopsy results take?
Léa was told 14 days. She calculated that her results would arrive around Bastille Day — the 14th of July, a public holiday in France. She had to call her gynaecologist's practice several times the following week to get through. The waiting, she writes, was its own kind of grief.
Is Dear Diagnosis written by a doctor?
No. Lea is not a doctor. Dear Diagnosis is a personal account, not medical advice. If you've just been diagnosed, please speak with your oncologist. If you're looking for peer support, you can write to Lea by replying to the newsletter, or look for patient organisations near you.
How do I subscribe to Dear Diagnosis?
You can subscribe for free at deardiagnosis.beehiiv.com. A new letter arrives every Sunday.