I google ‘Great Barrier Reef’ and watch as the search returns picture after picture of magnificent coral structures, bright pink and yellow, giant clams ringed with purple. I pore over the photos, imagining what it would be like to go to Australia. I spot a bright blue coral that looks like a collection of elk antlers – staghorn coral – the coral Millie’s lab studies. You could take photos of that for her, the voice in my head says, you know your stuff. You’ve been pretending to be more like Millie your whole life. This will be a piece of cake.

As quickly as I opened it, I close the tab and get up from my computer, looking over my shoulders to make sure no one saw. I’m superstitious, and I feel like if I even admit to myself that this trip sounds fun, something will happen to Millie. I do not want to take that chance.

‘Please God,’ I whisper, ‘let Sal be a good lump.’

Two days later and I’m repeating ‘Let Sal be a good lump,’ in my head like a mantra. I met Millie at the hospital so we could go to her post-op appointment together, and I can’t tell who is more nervous. Millie is scrolling through Instagram from her reclined position on the exam table in the middle of the room, and even though her posture is relaxed, her gaze darts to the door every five seconds.

When we hear a knock, I flinch. I’ve been jumpier lately, much to Murphy’s chagrin. Every time he barks at a squirrel I gasp, and he cocks his head at me in annoyance. And I’m not the only family member that’s picked up an annoying habit out of anxiety. My dad has thrown himself into his hobbyist French horn playing and decided to learn all the Christmas carols, starting with ‘Silent Night’. I’m pretty sure if my mom has to hear the opening bars one more time she’ll scream. She’s been in overdrive, texting Millie and me both constantly, dropping off casseroles, baking banana bread and offering to take us out for drinks when we finish work.

I have been attempting to act exactly the same and give Millie a semblance of normal, although I feel like I fend off a panic attack every five minutes.

Millie has rallied all of her positive energy into manifesting a good result. She’s doubled down on yoga classes, been drinking green smoothies every morning, and finished all her Christmas shopping. She even had me reset the password to her HealthChart account so she couldn’t see the results of her biopsy before she had a chance to speak to the doctor about them.

‘There’s no sense in paying them if I’m just going to diagnose myself, is there?’ she said, when she handed me the log-in credentials. ‘Better to not google.’