But I’m sure being upside down like this is not what she meant.

The doctors here are all men and even though I can’t see their faces, their voices are kind when they speak to me, as though they know how disturbing it is that I can’t see their eyes. My sister has little time for most men.

“Look at that Brazilian soccer player,” she says. “He killed his wife and fed her to his Rottweilers and people still love him. He’s out of jail now, a team signed him, and he wants his child back.”

Somehow Ruth has still managed to find the perfect man. My brother-in-law is huge and muscular and tattooed. His voice booms when he speaks. He has a buzz cut. He was raised by his grandparents and he cries easily. He volunteers with a feral cat rescue program. He knows how to knit. He worked on lobster boats until he was in his late twenties. When he saw the men around him crippled up with arthritis by the time they were in their early fifties, he said he didn’t want to grow old before his time. He fished on weekends and went to university during the week. He read his textbooks on the boat. His uncles and cousins teased him but not very much. They were proud. He never gave up. That’s their family motto, I always think: Never Give Up.

“What a good attitude, Daisy.” One of the doctors is speaking.

I must have spoken out loud again, my brother-in-law’s adage coming out of my mouth.

Suspicious.

That’s the word they use.

It could mean nothing.

“With two mammograms indicating an abnormality, we need to find out.” It’s yet another nurse assisting the doctor. Not Clara. I can’t keep track of who is in the room anymore. At this stage it’s not a technician, although a technician is present. It’s the radiologist. He’s already explained that for a core biopsy they use the mammogram and an X-ray machine, to make sure they get the correct tissue to send to the pathologist.

“We locate the area, based on both previous sets of scans. The ones which showed the spot.”

“How are things?” the nurse asks. “We’re just going to make this a little tighter. Sorry for the discomfort. Do you feel okay?”

Then they take out my breast and sit me up. The blood rushes down. I pray for good results.

And then they move the chair again, and the machine, and clamp me back in.

I say it feels as though I’m seeing a dentist, chiropractor, and massage therapist all at the same time. They laugh.

Clara asks me if I have plans for Easter. It’s March already but there is still snow on the ground. It’s been a long winter. I’m taking a few days off. Taking my son to the city, to the pool.

Athena sent me a card in the middle of all the waiting for tests. She’s that kind of person, who still sends cards and surprise packages in the mail. You just have to learn to be in the space in-between and keep going, she wrote. You have to be in your life for your child. You can’t postpone life. Athena gets frustrated by wasted life, as she calls it. She had a double mastectomy five years ago. Her scans have all been clear. People forget, Athena says. They have scares and then cradle the moment like a newborn baby, smell the unmistakable freshness. And then they just forget.