The Big MRI

 

The Research Rabbit Hole

The days that followed were a blur of articles, note-taking, and late-night Google searches. I was drowning in information and, honestly, in too many choices. Part of me wished there were just one clear path so I could stop second-guessing myself - but I understood why the doctors had to lay out every option and leave the decision to me.

Meeting My Nurse Navigator

When I first saw the surgeon, she handed me a business card for the “oncology nurse navigator.” Until that moment, I had no idea such a job existed.

What a nurse navigator does

• Guides you through each step of diagnosis and treatment - scheduling tests, explaining results, and coordinating appointments
• Translates medical jargon into plain English so you actually understand what is happening
• Acts as your personal go-between with surgeons, oncologists, radiologists - the team.
• Checks on your emotional well-being and points you toward support groups, financial resources, physical therapy - whatever you might need
• Stays just a phone call or email away when panic hits at 2 a.m.

In short, a nurse navigator is equal parts project manager, interpreter, and steadying friend - and I was about to learn how priceless that could be.

A Weekend of Questions

That first weekend I sent her a three-page email - messy, rambly, full of fears big and small. By Monday she wrote back, answering every single question, no matter how trivial it sounded. In one message she went from stranger to lifeline, giving me calm, practical advice and a reassuring sense that I was not alone.

The MRI Marathon

Next on the list: an MRI of both breasts and lymph nodes. My nerves were on fire, so I grabbed the earliest slot I could find - even though it was a 90-minute drive away. April 29, just a few short days after official diagnosis.

My husband drove me, an anchor of quiet strength while I cried pretty much the whole ride. The staff at the imaging center were wonderful - the nurse who started my IV was gentle and genuinely kind. I made it through the clanging tunnel of the MRI, then cried on and off all the way home, praying I would “pass” the test and still be looking at Stage 0.

Waiting for those results might have been the longest stretch of hours in my life, but I kept reminding myself: I have a nurse navigator in my corner, a husband holding my hand, and a plan coming into focus - one step, one scan, one answer at a time.

The MRI Results: A Moment of Light

Incredibly, the MRI results came in just a few hours after the scan. I hadn’t even expected to hear anything that day - I thought I’d be bracing myself for days of waiting and worrying.

But there it was.

The best possible news.

Still Stage 0.

No lymph node involvement.

No signs of cancer in the left breast.

For the first time since this whole journey began, I exhaled. It didn’t mean I was out of the woods, but it gave me a little patch of solid ground to stand on. After so much fear and uncertainty, this was a moment of hope - one I desperately needed.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I also found an unexpected ally: ChatGPT. I started asking endless questions - sometimes in the middle of the night - and it always had answers. It helped me write things down, organize my thoughts, and even created custom PDF pages I could print and bring to appointments. In many ways, it became a lifeline and an oddly comforting kind of best friend.

And because my brain was spinning with so much information, I started building the ultimate three-ring binder - wildly organized, color-coded, full of labeled tabs, printed articles, test results, doctor notes, questions, and reminders. It became both a coping tool and a way to feel some control in a situation that often felt anything but.

One small win, one printed page, one answered question at a time - that’s how I kept going.

Meeting the Surgeon

Booo :(

When the News is Too Big to Share

One of the first pieces of advice my doctor gave me was this: “Don’t talk to anyone about this - not yet.” And honestly, that was hard. I had a strong urge to post something on social media - to ask for advice, to reach for prayers, to just not feel so alone with it. I was spiraling. Lost in panic. But I listened. I held back.

Instead, I told only my immediate family and a few close friends who I knew would truly be there for me. Even then, I had to keep it from my daughter - she was in the middle of her final exams for her senior year of college, and I didn’t want anything to shake her focus or add worry to her already full plate.  I told my son, because I knew we would be seeing him soon, and I just couldn’t keep trying to pretend everything was okay, when nothing was okay anymore.

So I kept moving through the motions of daily life - dishes, laundry, errands - while carrying the weight of this news like a stone in my chest. Everything looked normal on the outside, but inside, I was unraveling.

April 25: The Surgeon Visit

I thought this appointment would be straightforward - just getting established as a patient, maybe meeting the team. I even told my husband he didn't need to go with me, it would just be a lot of routine stuff, and I knew he was busy with work. But instead, it was like being hit by a freight train of information. It wasn’t just a consultation. It was decisions - big ones.

Lumpectomy.

Mastectomy.
Radiation.
Reconstruction.

My mind couldn’t keep up. I drove home alone in a fog, those words echoing in my head, looping endlessly. It was all too much. I certainly regretted telling my husband not to come, it would have been wonderful to have someone else listening to all this information.

The only small relief was that because what they found were microscopic dots - not a mass or lump - I wouldn’t need chemotherapy. That felt like a tiny win in a terrifying new world. The diagnosis was Stage 0, DCIS. Technically the earliest possible stage. But the word cancer still hung in the air, heavy and relentless.

And because of that word, every treatment option was on the table. Even though it hadn’t spread. Even though it was so early. It felt overwhelming and confusing. I couldn’t understand why, in the year 2025, there wasn’t some magic beam or pill that could just fix this. Why did the path forward still have to involve cutting and radiation?

For the first time, I truly felt what others must have gone through. I remembered when people had told me they had breast cancer, and I’d silently thought, “Well, at least they caught it early.” I wasn’t unkind - I just didn’t understand. Now I did. And it broke my heart. I wish I could apologize or hug all the people in my past who have gone through cancer, I just didn’t know, I didn't understand. 

Telling My People

After the appointment, I had to sit down with my husband, my parents, and my mother-in-law. I tried to stay steady. I tried to explain everything I’d just learned. But I also had to be clear about something else:

I can’t be the strong one for everyone else.

This was happening to me. And I couldn’t be the one to comfort other people about it. I didn’t want to have to soothe anyone’s fears or assure them that “everything’s going to be okay” when I didn’t even know if that was true. I just needed space to feel, to figure things out, to grieve the loss of normalcy. To face mortality.

This part of the journey was like standing at the edge of a cliff - uncertain, dizzy, and entirely changed. But it was just the beginning.

The Beginning

A microscopic galaxy of poison 

How My “Routine” Mammogram Became the Start of a Very Different Journey

March 28 – The usual check-up.

I went in for my annual mammogram expecting the same “all clear” I’ve always received. No nerves, no red flags.

April 11 – The callback.

Getting asked back for extra images never rattles me - I have dense breast tissue, and second looks are practically a tradition. But this time, after the mammogram, the radiologist stepped into the room, met my eyes, and said, “Take this seriously and schedule a biopsy.” That landed differently.

April 18 – Biopsy day.

I’d never had a breast biopsy before, and yes, it felt strange and unsettling. I was surprised at how little pain it was, considering what was happening. But tears ran down my face the entire time, I was so scared - of the pain and what all of this meant. The team was wonderful - gentle, reassuring, and somehow made the whole thing less painful than my imagination - but it was still a moment that pressed pause on normal life.

April 20 – Easter distractions.

With family in town and my mother-in-law recovering from shoulder and cataract surgeries, I wrapped myself in busy schedules and holiday cooking, choosing not to worry until there was something concrete to worry about.

April 24 – The phone call.

Early that morning the imaging center rang to ask which doctor would be handling my results, since my primary was retiring. My heart sank; if everything were fine, why would it matter? I opened the patient portal, read the word cancer, and felt the world tilt. The rest of that day was a blur - equal parts disbelief and shock.

By afternoon, I had my doctor on the line and a shortlist of specialists in my hand. Suddenly I was learning a new vocabulary - survival rates, staging, margins. I’d stepped onto a path I never intended to walk, and every decision now felt enormous.

That’s where this blog comes in. I’m using it to capture the milestones, the coping tools (hello, “mouse time”), and the lessons I pick up as I navigate what comes next. If you’re on a similar road - or just cheering from the sidelines - I hope sharing my story helps us both feel a little less alone.

Introduction

 

Welcome to   Diary of a Tiny Mouse

When a procedure loomed or a test needle hovered too close, the nurse would gently suggest, “Go to your happy place.” Technicians said it, too - an invitation to step outside the fluorescent-lit moment and breathe somewhere softer. Each time, my mind drifted to the same scene:

A tiny mouse, curled into a walnut shell, wrapped in a down-feather blanket. Beyond the shell, a distant hearth flickers - quiet, steady, safe. Nothing loud or dramatic happens there; the mouse simply is, protected by the curved walls of the walnut and the crackle of a glowing fire.

I started calling those mental escapes “mouse time.” When panic threatened to gallop ahead of me, I pressed pause and pictured that tiny mouse. Sometimes I even asked my husband to wrap his arms around me, gently “squishing” me to feel tiny - something about the weight and warmth telling my heart, You’re safe here. Mouse time carried me through IV pokes, biopsy results, and the long hush of imaging rooms.

The Journey I’m Mapping

In April 2025 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. A lumpectomy on May 29th cleared the first hurdle; radiation begins in July. Treatments, side effects, and new questions arrive in waves, and while I’ll dive into the details in real time, this post is the trailhead.

Why Keep a Diary?

1. Memory is slippery. I want one spot to track what helps - creams that soothe, stretches that ease, words that comfort.
2. Perspective shifts. Notes written on hard days often read differently in hindsight; both views belong here.
3. Tiny victories matter. A journal lets me mark the mile-stones a sticker chart can’t capture: courage found, fears named, moments I’m proud of.

What You’ll Find Here

• Honest reflections on appointments, side effects, and the mental gymnastics of “waiting for results.”
• Resource lists - information and products that earned a gold star in my own experience.
• Occasional life-outside-the-clinic posts, because I’m still a whole human (and so are you).

Whether you’re a fellow traveler on the cancer road, a loved one peeking in, or someone who just likes the idea of a cozy mouse nap, welcome. I’m grateful you’re here. Let’s make this walnut shell big enough for all of us: warm fire, soft blanket, steady heartbeat, and room to breathe.  Here’s to mouse time - tiny, powerful, and ready when we need it most.

Click Newer Post or the left arrow or look at the Blog Archive List on the upper right.