On the outside, I stayed cool as a cucumber. I was sitting in the middle of the office, perched on my chair trying to take everything in and trying not to pass out. But I was screaming inside.

“Wait, what? I couldn’t have heard Dr. Hawasli right. Cancer? I’m 45. I don’t have any symptoms. This can’t be real.”

I know that Dr. Hawasli has delivered this news to many people before me and I’m sure that it doesn’t get easier. I was grateful that she wasn’t rushed in her delivery and asked me what questions I had off the bat. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything – at least nothing that I was ready to outwardly ask – so we set up an appointment for the following Tuesday morning where I’d get one more mammogram and we’d talk about my options.

I sat at my desk in silence for what seemed like an eternity once I hung up the phone. There were so many things racing through my mind. How was I going to tell Brian? What about Rachel and my sister?

The biggest question for me was when and where to tell my parents. They’d been in New Braunfels over the previous week. Uncle Garland, my dad’s brother, had been diagnosed with cancer a year earlier. He’d gotten sick just after Thanksgiving, it became pneumonia and he was admitted to the hospital. Mom and Daddy had flown down to be with Garland, his wife and my cousins, and they were there when he passed on December 5 – the day before my biopsy. They weren’t back yet and I had to decide when to tell them that I was sick.

But first, I had to tell Brian. I came home from work in the middle of the day, which isn’t terribly unusual since my team has the flexibility to work from home. Brian has Wednesday and Thursday off, thanks to the strange schedules of a restaurant manager, so he was at home napping. I came in the house, steeled myself to deliver news that I never imagined I’d have to, and headed into the bedroom to hop in bed. When he opened his eyes, I think he instinctively knew that it wasn’t good.

I used the same words that Dr. Hawasli had used with me. It wasn’t the news we’d hoped for. In that moment, I could see the sadness and fear fill his eyes. It broke my heart to have to share the news. Brian was stoic but he put his arms around me, gave me a kiss and told me that it was all going to be okay. I don’t know if he genuinely believed that in the moment, but it’s exactly what we both needed to hear.

We laid there in silence for a little while before I started explaining the next steps. We had the appointment with Dr. Hawasli the next Tuesday and then we’d meet with my oncologist, Dr. Jodie Barr, on Friday to learn more. Once it set in a little more, we both got up and I began preparing for the next conversation – the one with my daughter.

If you haven’t met Rachel, she and I are two peas in a pod. We look alike, sound alike and have the same ridiculous sense of humor. To say that she’s my mini me is almost an understatement. She’s also an amazing nurse who works in an emergency department, so I wasn’t worried about fumbling my words when it came to the diagnosis. She would know. She would understand.

And she did. I didn’t get to tell her in the ideal way – if there really is such a thing – because she knew the results were coming back and she wasn’t going to wait for an answer. So I didn’t tell her face to face which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t a bad thing. I don’t know that either of us would’ve been able to get through that conversation. I held it together, she held it together and we made it through. It wasn’t until we hung up that we both started to cry.

The same held true with my sister. I told her over the phone because I also couldn’t bear to tell her face to face. We both held it together and made it through that conversation, but I still don’t quite know how. Each time I told someone, I felt like it just got harder and harder. Or maybe that was just reality sinking in.