You would think after being diagnosed with breast cancer. You would be immediately thrown into a whirlwind of appointments. Maybe picture a super-dramatic meeting with a doctor whose awe-inspiring words include “we’re going to save your life damn it.” You know something like the spanish telenovelas I grew up watching. Noppppe. That didn’t happen in my case at all.

Instead, I felt like I was waiting in a two week line for a kiddie roller coaster. A long line for a ride you don’t want to be on.

Even though, at that point, I knew I had breast cancer. I had no other information. I didn’t know what stage or how bad it was. I tried to refrain from using the information trove of the Internet. I figured the only thing it was going to do was scare the shit out of me. It’s usually you have a cold or cancer. Since I already had cancer, I figured the only other thing I’d found out is that I’m dead. Sooo yeah, I didn’t want to spend two weeks shitting a brick.

What I found interesting is that in those two weeks, despite not knowing what’s going on or having any treatment underway, it was easy to fall back into a false sense of what life before cancer was like.

Even in those two weeks, the time I had to spend telling people I had cancer; for the folks I did tell, I felt like I was dissociating myself from the self that has cancer. It’s difficult telling anyone you have cancer. It makes it more real. It bums the other person out. It also feels like hey, everyone, look at me. I want attention; I have cancer. Followed by the holy crap, I have cancer. What the hell. I can’t believe this. It’s a merry-go-round of the stages of grief.

As much as not knowing or being in treatment isn’t great, those two weeks didn’t suck as much as they could have. The seemingly endless doctor appointments, tests and scans were about to start.