My late mother helped me through my mastectomy

first person

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It takes weeks before I can bring myself to look at the space my right breast used to cover. I stare at ribs I haven’t seen since puberty. Decades long past.

A few months ago, I had been called back after a regular mammogram to repeat the imaging – several times. Then an ultrasound. Finally, a biopsy. I was convinced that the biopsy would reveal nothing but the same old calcifications that mammograms had been flagging for years.

When the call with the biopsy results didn’t come within the promised five to seven days, I relaxed, my husband and I assuring each other, “They’d call if it was something.” Another week with still no word from the