I needed to do another biopsy. The first one had hurt. So I told myself: at least now I know what to expect. I know every step. The fear of the unknown is the worst kind — and I was past that.

We were still two weeks away from my surgery. I just needed the results in time.

I got a call from the mammography clinic. They had rearranged someone else's appointment to fit me in. They'd even asked a doctor to come in on her day off. For the first time in my life, I was treated like a VIP. So is it how it feels like?

I wished I wasn't one.

I thought about the person whose appointment had been moved. What if they were waiting for results too? I felt bad. But there was nothing I could do — I accepted the slot.

I was still working at that point. My company had been flexible given the circumstances, which I was grateful for. I drove myself to the appointment. I'd managed to drive myself to the first biopsy, so I assumed this one would be the same.

Marc, my husband, came with me. He doesn't drive, but he was good emotional support. Exactly what I needed.

When we arrived, the radiologist came to greet me. I knew him well by then — we'd been through ultrasounds and mammograms. He was calm and unhurried. He explained, before anything else, what they were going to do. I always appreciate that. I need to know what's happening to my body.

He told me they were going to place a small marker inside my breast — something the size of a grain of rice — to locate the biopsy site. That way, if it was a tumour, the surgeon would know exactly where to operate. He showed me the size using his little finger.

I think I was in robotic mode by then. Listening without truly hearing. Doing what I was told. There was nothing else I could do.

They brought me into a room I hadn't been in before. The radiologist introduced me to his colleague — the one who had come in on her day off. I thanked her. I still felt bad about it.

And then I understood this biopsy was going to be very different from the first.

The first had been done by ultrasound. This one would be done through mammography, for a more precise image. For anyone who has never had a mammogram with a very small chest: it hurts. A lot. Your breast is pressed flat between two panels, rotated and repositioned so the radiologist can see every angle.

I tried to stay calm. I made jokes. The atmosphere was as relaxed as it could be, given the circumstances. But the room was cold and white and not particularly comforting.

They needed to position my breast in the machine and keep it still for the entire procedure. Nothing they had fitted my size. So they improvised — cutting pieces of foam that were meant for something else entirely, assembling something that worked. I told them they should name it after me. The radiologist laughed.

The machine started. A loud, constant drilling sound — not unlike a jackhammer. They needed to find the exact point to biopsy before they could begin, so there was a lot of back and forth: position the breast, check the screen in the corner of the room, reposition, check again. They whispered to each other by the monitor. I couldn't hear what they were saying.

At some point I asked — lightly, with a smile — whether they'd found the little dot they were looking for.

The radiologist walked back towards me with a serious expression.

“Yes, we found it. But we also found another one. We won’t be able to biopsy both.”

I started to cry. No more jokes. The drilling noise seemed louder now. I felt like it lasted an eternity.

He handed me a tissue and asked: was I crying because it hurt, or because of the situation?

Both. But the situation was worse.

What was the point of going through this if they could only take one sample? What if the one they took was healthy — and the other one wasn't?

At some point I started to see stars. I'd never experienced that before.

“Are you almost done?” I said quietly. “I’m starting to see stars.”

It never happened to me before.

They said yes. They didn't panic — which I took as a reassuring sign that I wasn't about to faint.

They finished a few minutes later. The pressure released.

They had managed to take the sample from one of the two points. But in doing so, they had nicked my nipple slightly. I hadn't felt it — I was under local anaesthetic — but they needed to stitch it closed. Right there, while I was still sitting in the chair, still light-headed, still trying not to pass out.

They sewed it like my aunt would sew a hole in a pair of trousers. Then they put a dressing on it and told me: if you see blood on the dressing, come back immediately.

Not exactly reassuring.

They gave me sugar with a little mint oil on it. For energy, they said.

I went outside to find Marc. I told him everything. I was not ready to drive.

We walked to a nearby place to eat. I needed fresh air. Food. To just be somewhere other than that white room.

That night, the pain woke me up. I lay there in the dark and thought: if this is waking me up now, how am I going to handle the surgery?

I didn't sleep well, as you can imagine.

The next day, while I was working, I felt dizzy again. I looked down. The dressing was bloody.

I asked my father to drive me back to the clinic. They took me quickly, changed the dressing, and sent me home. Everything settled after that.

A few days later, I went back to collect my mammography images. The radiologist wanted to speak to me.

We sat down in the waiting room, away from the other patients.

He looked sad.

He told me that whatever happened next, they had done everything they could — and that I was going to be okay.

I drove home crying. I didn't know exactly what he meant. But I knew it was serious.

My surgery was coming. I had an appointment with my surgeon two days before. I'd find out more then.