The clicking of her heels echoes on the laminate floor and I wonder why the receptionist wore stilettos to work. Between her ready for a nice dinner outfit, the track lighting overhead and the tasteful black and white pictures on the walls, I can almost convince myself that I am not at a doctor’s office. Almost…

Irritation and rage intermingle under my skin and seem out of place amidst the room’s soft gray walls. Sitting here brings up plenty of emotions that I haven’t had to feel for awhile. I know this because I am now even irritated by the walls – the damn paint is probably called something like Silk Pillow (I checked – this colour exists). Well, it is not helping me feel very serene…

Time crawls as expectant mother after new mother either rubs her belly or jostles a fussy little one. This could be a record: four babies and two mothers-to-be in the space of my 45 minute wait. For the first time, I curse my doctor for having such a large maternity practice. Why do I need such a blatant reminder of what I might not get to have?

My hand massages the pain in my lower abdomen as images of cancer parade through my mind. To distract myself, I pull my Blackberry out of my bag and compose responses to emails until my thumbs ache. When the receptionist finally calls my name, I dutifully follow her into the exam room. At least the wait is almost over.

I should be used to this. Throughout my twenties, I had multiple opportunities to hold my breath or, let’s be honest, drink too much wine while I waited for a call. A call with results from my most recent trip into the Cancer Clinic. A call to confirm that the poking and prodding of my breasts had not resulted in a cancer diagnosis. Until of course I got that fateful call in October of 2009 alerting me that my luck had run out.

Dr. L pops her head in the door and flashes a broad smile before she sits down and pulls out a creased 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper with my name written in block letters across the top. She places the page on the exam table between us and reads aloud; I have a flashback to story time at the public library (oh how I miss those days).

The letters swim on the page in front of me as I bite my lip in concentration. Large cyst. Left Ovary. Mostly liquid, but tiny pieces of solid matter. She reads a list of other words that I don’t recognize. My heart slams into my rib cage and then stops completely. I feel the colour drain from my face and I stare at a stray piece of her silky black hair that points straight up towards the ceiling.

“Don’t worry Terri. It’s good news,” she must see the panic. “Well, mostly good news.”

I only have one question.

“Is there any chance that it’s cancer?” I don’t like the sound of “solid particles”, but I act calmer than I feel while playing with my watch and avoiding eye contact.

“No” she says quickly. Almost too quickly. I don’t quite believe her. We read the last line together requesting that I come in for another scan in 6 weeks. This report was printed 12 weeks ago.

She tells me not to worry. She will get me in for another scan as soon as she can and maybe by then, the cyst will have disappeared. I want to believe her and think positive thoughts. But right now, I can’t feel anything but rage. I am pissed. Like all of the other women out there who lost the genetic lottery and ended up with the BRCA1 or BRCA2 genetic mutation, the risk of ovarian cancer will hide around every corner until I opt to take out my ovaries, launch myself into early menopause, and say goodbye to having my own children. To have the surgery…to not have the surgery…frankly, both options suck…

I hate this fear that keeps popping up, like an obnoxious jester-hat-wearing jack-in-the-box. As I stand up and pick up my bag, I force myself to remember my decision in January to step into the fear and not let it control me. What about all of the time in Africa where I learned how to stay in the moment?

Well…you know what? I scream at my glass half full self. You can’t be f*$*ing positive all of the time. Sometimes you need to curse and sulk and storm down the street away from your doctor’s office...

I know that the anger won’t last long and when it dissipates, I will get back to thinking positive thoughts, planning my next adventure, and living in the moment. But for now, maybe some of you want to join me in a few minutes of well deserved rage…

To all of my BRCA sisters and fellow cancer survivors, this post is for you. Even though I am sure you inspire people around you with your positivity, maybe every once in awhile you want to punch your pillow and scream at the universe. So…feel free to join me as I kick my legs and scream like a two year old, mid-tantrum. We can all wake up tomorrow and make the best of our little stuck between a rock and hard place situation.