Dear Diagnosis · Issue #004 · June 2026
Dear Diagnosis is a weekly letter by me, Lea, 32, navigating breast cancer — and writing about all of it.
In Issue #004 of Dear Diagnosis, Lea describes her first appointment with her breast cancer surgeon — a fast, expert consultation that left her head spinning. She writes about receiving her surgery date, learning about genetic testing, and the specific grief of being told she cannot try for a baby this year. A letter about information overload, love under pressure, and the strange comfort of being carried by a competent team. If you're new here, start with Issue #001 — the scan that started everything.
ISSUE #004 · June, 7th 2026
My First Appointment with an Oncologist: Too Much, All At Once
On the first oncology appointment for breast cancer, learning the shape of what's coming, and the moment I cried about something completely different.
We met Dr. Martin — the surgeon who would operate on me. She was fast. Efficient. But I felt she knew what she was doing. I accepted to be taking care of by her because my sister and one of my best friend recommended me to her.
| When breast cancer affects your fertility plans: the hardest news
My tumour measured 10mm. She said it was small, that she could remove it, and then we'd see about treatments afterwards.
She also recommended further tests to make sure there was no cancer elsewhere. She talked a lot. There were a lot of things that she said that I don’t remember.
I'd explained to Dr. Martin that Marc and I had been hoping to have a child this year. That wasn't going to be possible anymore. At least for the moment.
That was what hurt the most. I didn't know how to tell Marc. I started to cry.
She told me I might have to remove my ovaries if I have a genetic mutation.
There were too many things to absorb.
After she told me that we won’t have a child this year, that I had to do a genetic test (to look for BRCA gene mutation) and that I might have to remove my ovaries, I couldn’t hear anything else. All I could hear was some blurry sounds.
Everything was handled by her team. Her secretary made all the appointments for me. She wrote everything down in black and white so I wouldn't forget. There were a lot of appointments, very close together.
I let myself be carried. I had trust.
As soon as we came out of the consultation, I had trouble speaking. I'd just taken a big hit. I felt like I was hit by a big truck.
We waited for the secretariat to give us our appointment schedule. Marc asked me to tell him everything. I didn't really have the strength. I didn't want to cry in front of everyone, so I asked him to wait just a little while.
He could see the wait was unbearable for him. So I told him everything. I cried. He held me.
We had our appointments. We decided to go somewhere and eat. I'd taken the day off on Sophie's advice.
On the way to the restaurant, I was about to park the car in front of the restaurant. I found myself having to stop. He asked me to wait a little. He went off to cry. It's very hard for him. And he's not in his country (he is from Canada) — he doesn't have his own people around him.
So I decided to bring him somewhere else. To a place that always make us happy. We ate at a French bistro there. I didn't have much appetite. I was dreading the call to my parents.
While we were walking through the Lego shop, my gynaecologist called to ask how my appointment with Dr. Martin had gone. I answered calmly and steadily. A few tears fell anyway.
I felt reassured after my gynaecologist called me. She remembered my appointment. She wanted to make sure I had all the answers that she couldn’t provide me.
We went back home. I did the different administrative tasks I needed to do and added all my appointments on my calendar. There was a final task I was avoiding: calling my mother. I called. Just a phone call even though we are used to make video calls. I didn't want to see their expressions. I told her everything right away, gave her all the dates for the next appointments. I already had my surgery date: 14 August 2025.
She didn't react too strongly. She must have been devastated, but she didn't show it. I asked her if we could come and stay with them during my illness — we'd be closer to the hospital. She agreed.
We moved in a few days later.
| Keeping working after a breast cancer diagnosis: how denial helped me cope
I kept working. It helped me to think about other things. I decided to work right up until the day before my operation.
I was in full denial mode. I spoke about my cancer calmly — as if I were talking about someone else's illness. I hadn't given myself time to absorb what was really happening. I was running through tests: ultrasound, mammogram again.
After each appointment, I debriefed Sophie, so she was always up to date and could answer questions I hadn't thought to ask. She reassured me.
After the mammogram, they told me I needed another biopsy. I panicked — the operation was in two weeks, the results wouldn't be back in time. Too tight.
To be continued next Sunday.
Lea
I was told to write everything down in black and white. It really helped me. Whether it’s on the notes of your phone or on a physical notebook, I’d advise writing down everything you heard from your appointment right after and have questions ready before your appointment to make sure you get out of the doctor’s appointment with everything answered. Memory under stress is unreliable. If you can, never go alone on your appointments to have someone to help you remember what was said and ask questions you might not think about.
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 happens in Issue #004?
This is the one where I met my surgeon for the first time. She was fast and reassuring — she told me the tumour was 10mm and she could remove it. But the hardest part wasn't the cancer news. It was her telling me the breast cancer fertility impact, that Marc and I wouldn't be able to try for a baby this year. I write about the drive home, the Lego shop, the phone call to my mother, and why I decided to move back in with my parents.
What to expect at your first breast cancer surgeon appointment?
My surgeon first loooked at my medical file, all the medical images from X-Ray, ultra-sounds. Then she gave me a summary of what she saw, explaining me in human words what it means and what will be the next steps. Then the secretary took all the appointments for me so I don't have to do it myself.
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.co. A new letter arrives every Sunday.