I hadn’t planned my summer vacation to include what happened to me, but it did. Let’s start at the beginning. My local hospital sent me a reminder to schedule a annual routine exam. I arrived, stripped from the waist up as I had done for at least fifteen years. My imaging technician did her thing, squishing each breast until they were nearly flat. I was about to ask her when I would “age out” of the exam when she looked at her screen and said “Huh.” This technician never says, “Huh.” She released me from the machine’s plastic grip and said,” Be right back.”

She returned and said the doctor wanted “just one more image.” Then I could go home. I didn’t think much about it for a few days until both my personal doctor and the team called with a request for a more test, a diagnostic image.

Now, there are two kinds of tests, screening and diagnostic. Screening uses newer technology and doesn’t hurt as much; diagnostic uses older technology and was designed by the Spanish Inquisition. This was scheduled for the week after the first one. The diagnostic technician, different from the screening one, flattened my breast until it was a sheet of paper. “Don’t breathe.” As if. Now, I know both technicians. The second one was not a good sign.

I was squished and scanned before a doctor reviewed what the initial technician called, “Huh.” She herded me into a different exam room for an ultrasound. Three technicians who studied the scans said, “Huh.” A doctor came in. He, too, said, “Huh.”

I joked that they must all have gone to the same “Huh” medical school. They didn’t laugh. The doctor said we should do a biopsy the following week, because he needed more information.

A second doctor did the biopsy, apologizing for every tweak and poke that caused me to inhale more sharply. My team grew from a single technician to three technicians and two doctors. A week later, we had the results. “Doesn’t look good. You need to see a surgeon.”

At that moment, I knew I had cancer. Not the way I planned to spend my summer vacation. I joined millions of women and a growing number of men to become a member of a club none of us want to join.

I met three nurses who would be my navigators to get me through the various tests and appointments. And I really got a good feeling about the importance of all the doctors being in the same healthcare system and having access to the same electronic medical records. The navigator made an appointment for a surgical consult a mere four weeks after the first “Huh.” This was the one who fired the shot across the bow. He said, “You are here because you have breast cancer. Get used to hearing that.”

The surgeon began preparing me for an expanding team, all dedicated to breast cancer. He explained what his role was (removal of the tumor) and three lymph nodes for biopsies, what the next steps were (surgery first, various therapies next). Before he could operate, I would be undergoing more tests. Nuclear soft-tissue breast MRI and nuclear full-body MRI. I joked it was good I’d retired because I would have needed special passes to enter the facilities where I’d worked. I would have set off radiation alarms.

Within days, the surgeon called and said we were all systems go for surgery the day after Labor Day. Five weeks after the initial “Huh.”

I talked with my cousin, who is a breast cancer survivor and psychologist specializing in fellow breast cancer survivors. She dropped everything and flew down from Burlington, VT to be my Uber driver and advocate while I was in surgery.

I inherited an expanded team of nurses, a surgeon, anesthesiologists, and more navigators. More tests, the placement of a hair-thin wire under ultrasound. The doctor who did my initial biopsy placed the wire. When she walked into the ultrasound room, I blurted, “Dr. L, I’m so glad to see you.”

She stopped and stared. “No one ever says that to me.” I was happy to see her. She was there at the beginning of the journey and we’d kinda bonded. I asked about the wire.

“Think of it as “please remove this.” She smiled as she stabbed me over and over with a local anesthetic.

“Right. The blinking arrow.”

“Yes.”

Dr. L finished, wished me luck, and squeezed my hand. “You’re in good hands with Dr. M. And don’t worry, I’ll be monitoring your recovery on the Wednesday Morning Seven AM Zoom call. All breast cancer nurses, technicians and doctors update the progress of every patient. I’m still with you on your journey.”

The next few minutes was a whirlwind of medical personnel pushing my bed into the surgical theater, telling me what they were going to do next. I remember nothing after entering the ice-cold theater. I woke up back in my hospital room with the surgeon telling me that he had removed the initial tumor, biopsied three lymph nodes, and didn’t see any spread. That was the first time I took a deep breath.

My cousin, my advocate along with my husband, asked several questions and took a ton of notes. We’d go over them several times before they sank in.

So, where am I in the process? My incisions healed, although the worst was getting the damned surgical glue off. My navigators set up consultations with medical and radiology oncologists to decide on a protocol to prevent the return. I’m in stage one, but the cancer itself was deemed aggressive so a protocol of immunotherapy and chemo followed by radiation followed by hormone therapy are my next steps. The immunotherapy is by infusion so I have a port. After the first few of the thirteen rounds of chemo and immune treatments, we’ll add radiation five days a week for X number of weeks. The follow-up hormone therapy is oral. It goes on for SEVEN years.

For those asking why I’ve been so slow to finish my book, I was a little distracted when I joined a club I never wanted to join.

I want to thank several people. My surgical, diagnostic, and recovery teams, of course. But also Sara Sidner, the wonderful CNN anchor who took her viewers along on her journey through treatment for Stage 3 and Jenna Fischer from The Office, who wrote an amazing essay on her journey through treatment for Stage 1. Check it out. It’s my roadmap for the next several months.

Lastly, a huge thank you to the “Huh” technician, Kim. You saved my life.