The sentinel lymph node exam. A doctor came to explain that he was going to inject a liquid to highlight the lymph nodes — so I'd need to massage my left breast. I didn't know if I could, because I hadn't touched it much since the biopsy. He had me do a sort of manipulation — I wasn't sure what was happening. It hurt, in the left breast. I told him and I started crying. All the tears I'd been holding back since that morning poured out. He apologised. I told him it was fine — it wasn't so much the pain as an overflow of emotion. He was extremely kind. I couldn't stop crying. He gave me a lot of tissues. I managed to calm down.

I went back to the waiting room with the TV while the product spread properly. I massaged my breast as best I could. Another woman was in the waiting room. I didn't dare speak to her. I didn't have the strength. When she came back in, I could see she'd been massaging her breast too — she was there for the same thing as me. So we were both massaging our breast, staring at the TV.

I went to the scanner. The product had spread well. The technician explained things but I barely understood. He had doubts and called someone else to come and see. We had the images. They'd be sent to Dr. Martin during the surgery.

I finally left. I updated Marc and my family. I don't remember much after that. They asked me to go directly to the maternity ward where my room was. I went to find a nurse who directed me to my room.

My room was in the maternity ward. There were cartoon drawings on the walls and a small sink for washing babies. Large windows. I could see the car park.

I'd requested a single room — because when I was operated on at sixteen, I'd shared with an elderly woman I think had cancer. I hadn't liked the experience.

They asked me to prepare for the operation. I was the next one up. It was supposed to be around 10am. There were only two TV channels: BFM (continuous sensational news) and Gulli (Kid’s channel). I put on Gulli to distract myself.

I happened to see Clara and her mother leaving the hospital after an exam. Clara had to bring her mom on the same day as my surgery for an exam at the hospital. I was happy to see her from far. I watched people coming and going. I was messaging Marc, Sophie and Thomas — they had decided to spend the morning with my husband to take his mind off things. Marc had gone to the park with Thomas. They'd eaten well. I think Marc had a Welsh rarebit — his first ever. He sent me photos and told me everything while I waited in my room. I was happy that he was not alone waiting for my surgery.

I was hungry. Around 3pm, still no news. I decided to lie down and try to do breathing exercises in front of the cartoon drawings. I prepared the message to send to Marc the moment someone came to take me to operation room.

Around 4pm, someone knocked. The porter. My turn. I sent my message to Marc and was taken to operation room in my bed. The porter asked what operation I was having. I told him — breast cancer, mastectomy. He was shocked, and struggled to hide it. He stayed positive and said: 'Like Angelina Jolie.' True. Almost. Except she'd done it preventively. She didn't have breast cancer, and the techniques used to remove her breasts and do direct reconstruction had been considerably more sophisticated — done by renowned plastic surgeons. So almost. But I didn't hold it against him. Good intentions.

I arrived in the room before the operation. During the whole journey we'd talked as if nothing was happening — it hadn't been hard to hold the conversation. But when we arrived in the pre-op waiting room, I saw an elderly woman lying in her hospital bed. That made me cry. I've always been afraid of seeing a lifeless body. She wasn't in that state — the woman was around seventy — but the fact that she was elderly set something off in me.

I couldn't stop crying anymore. It was happening. Everything had moved so fast. In less than a month they were going to remove my cancer — less than a month after telling me I had it.

The porter saw me crying and asked if I wanted a nurse to come and reassure me. I gently said no. He called one anyway and I was grateful. She held my hand, introduced herself, tried to reassure me. She told me it would go well, that I needed to be strong, that this operation would make me stronger. I had trouble seeing how that was possible in that moment.

I waited. She calmed me a little. I watched people pass. I heard the announcements 'operation room 3 ready' on the megaphone. I saw a very sweet children's drawing thanking the medical team on the wall.

The anaesthetists arrived. They reviewed my file. There was an error — they said I'd had a right breast operation when it was the left, sixteen years ago. That stressed me. I told them “Are you sure you are operating the right person?”. But they confirmed the left.

Five minutes before they were going to open me up, they already had the wrong information on my file. I had no strength left to double-check anything. I just had to trust them.

A lot of stress, nerves, and uncertainty a few minutes before my operation. While I waited, I saw someone come towards me in a mask with a large splash of blood. I understood it was Dr. Martin. She took my hand, told me she was there and that everything would go well. That reassured me. I was glad she'd taken the time to come and see me before the procedure. I think she didn’t know she had that much blood on her mask before honestly it was super scary. I think she didn't realise how much blood was on her mask. I told myself she'd probably just delivered a baby.

They took me into operation room. It was cold. There were people around me. There was a good atmosphere. They were laughing. I no longer know what they did to make me relax — I couldn't remember. The anaesthetist said I looked like a soccer player's wife. I barely know her. I supposed that was meant as a compliment. They put the mask on for the anaesthetic. I fell asleep quickly.

I woke up in a room with yellow walls, I think. I saw a woman who asked if I was okay. I said yes. This is me, always trying to be polite to everyone. But I just woke up, barely understood where I was but I answered “yes”. Not even sure I was ok. I wasn't alone in this room. I heard a woman talking with a man — probably her husband. I couldn't see well because I was lying down — but I heard the nurse tell the woman that exceptionally she had the right to come into the room. The nurse tried to reassure the woman. 'He'll go to the reanimation room for a few hours' — or something like that — the way she'd said it made it sound less serious than the word 'reanimation' on its own. The man and the woman seemed very calm, both of them. They said 'I love you' and 'see you in a while'. That moved me a lot to see how strong they both were in front of that situation. From my side, I was more preoccupied with what was going on around me than with my own state. I didn't have the impression of being in pain anywhere. I didn't think I was hungry that evening. I didn't know what time it was.

Behind me I heard a woman talking to a child. The child had received some kind of bravery certificate for being courageous. I also wanted my certificate. I was courageous too! I hadn't seen the child because his bed was behind mine and I couldn’t turn to see it. Fortunately. I didn't even want to imagine what that child looked like post-operation.

I had the impression that all operated people ended up here, not sorted by type of operation.

Little by little the room emptied. All the patients left. Only the nurse and I remained — and another nurse who came to check my vitals. I understood it was around 7.30pm. So the operation had lasted around 3–4 hours. The nurse came to check 'my vitals'. She said that the surgery went well.

I heard some baby cries.