There are moments when you just know what’s coming next. No one has to confirm it for you; the feeling in your gut is confirmation enough. After I lay on the ultrasound table for two minutes, the technician left me alone while she went to find the radiologist. I knew I was in trouble. No one had biopsied anything. No one had uttered the word “cancer,” much less “lobular invasive carcinoma,” but I knew. Four days and seven biopsies later, the surgeon’s words, “Barbara, you do have breast cancer,” drifted through the phone receiver to me. But the news was redundant.