The surgeon and I peered at images of the swirling planetary system inside my right breast.

I’ve eavesdropped on enough doctors to know they have a pretty good idea what’s wrong before the biopsy results come in.

“What’s your feeling?” I asked, cleverly deploying journalistic training (i.e. ask questions that don’t have yes/no answers).

“Do you really want to know?” she said fixing me with a far too knowledgeable eye. Her tone would’ve suited “Do you really want to sell Bibles in Bagdad/put your head in that pot of boiling porridge?” No! Stop right there, thanks. I’ll just hop outside and pretend it’s yesterday when I was in here having a routine mammogram. But it was too late.

“I think it’s malignant.”

Her sentence dropped like a bomb on a suburban neighbourhood.

Brave and Positive are words associated with people faced with the C word. I could summon up neither. Cancer patients, specially if they’re film stars or rock singers, are often described as wanting to “fight this thing”. There wasn’t an ounce of aggression in me. I simply wanted to implode quietly in the corner.

“Mastectomy?” I asked, faking a Warrior Princess voice.

“Yes,” she said. “The growth is large, and it’s spread across the breast.”

How much worse could it get? I glanced sideways at the man I met 20 years ago and still can’t quite believe was mad enough to marry me. He sat silently examining his fingernails.

“And the other breast?” I asked.

“Possibly it will have to go, too. We’ll decide later,” she said. “You’ve had enough information to absorb for one day. Let’s hope I’m wrong and the growth’s perfectly harmless. We’ll find out tomorrow when the biopsy results come through.”

“Have a lovely night,” the receptionist said as we paid the bill and stumbled numbly toward the elevator. Outside by the car, I buried my head in his neck and wept. To make myself sick and needy after years of being the stroppy, independent one was such an awful thing to do to him. What about our 15 year old daughter? She still needed a mother. Then there was our son’s wedding coming up in January. Would I still be around?

I’d forgotten how helpful a slug of cognac can be when all else fails. My husband cooked dinner for the family. They were so strong and loving, I realised whatever happened they were going to stick together.

Waking for the third time that night I counted my blessings – fantastic husband, unbelievable kids, all in a city with great health care. Startled awake the fourth time I watched the faces of women friends and relations who’ve died of breast cancer float before me. My husband would be hopeless on his own. Maybe I’d hunt out a new wife for him.

Next morning we examined the driftwood sculpture in the all too familiar waiting room. Better left on the beach, he said. The resident florist appeared to have a sick sense of humour. She’d speckled the place with arum lilies (symbol of death Mum always said).

The surgeon had bad and good news. The bad news was her feeling was right. The growth was cancerous and so widely spread full mastectomy was the only option. On the other hand, the cells didn’t appear to have reached the invasive stage and hadn’t spread beyond the breast. Chemotherapy and radiotherapy might not be needed.

“How come we never felt a lump?” I asked.

“We caught it early,” she said a hint of triumph in her voice. “With any luck you’ll have a normal life span.”

I wanted to fall to the floor and kiss her Italian shoes. Hallelujah! I’ve got cancer. I’m having a mastectomy. But for now, at least, she granted me the best three little words in the world – normal life span.