One Month - Waiting for My Breast Cancer Diagnosis

One Month - Waiting for My Breast Cancer Diagnosis.
A personal essay about the month-long wait between breast cancer screening and final diagnosis—the anxiety, daily life, and small ways to survive.

The day I finished my ultrasound, the doctor said to me:

"I'll schedule you for Seoul National University Hospital. It'll take about a month."

One month.

The moment I heard those words, I nodded. Or at least, I think I nodded. I don't really remember. All I recall is that my legs felt heavier than usual as I left the examination room, and the smell of disinfectant in the corridor stung my nose sharply.

The biopsy results were already in. I could tell from the doctor's expression. Instead of saying "suspected," he carefully said "confirmation needed," but I knew. This wasn't just another test.

When I walked out of the hospital with my appointment slip, the street was the same as always. People walked by, laughing and talking. Coffee shops smelled like coffee. Traffic lights turned green. The world hadn't stopped. Only I had.

Waiting for a month meant this:

Every morning when I opened my eyes, I'd think, "What's today's date?" and count on my fingers. Twenty-six days until my appointment. Twenty-five days. Twenty-three days. The numbers decreased, but my anxiety didn't.

"Are you okay?" my friend asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I answered.

But I didn't know if I really was. It didn't hurt. When I touched my breast, I thought I felt something—or maybe I didn't. When I stood in front of the mirror, I saw the same me. I didn't look like a cancer patient.

That was even stranger.

The word "cancer" was inside me, yet I still went to work, ate meals, laughed, watched TV, and went to sleep. Life kept flowing. As if nothing had happened.

"Breast cancer heals well these days. The technology is so good."

Someone comforted me that way.

"They say breast cancer isn't even real cancer."

Someone else said that.

I nodded, but inside I thought, 'Then what am I? Not even a cancer patient?'

I was grateful for the comfort. I really was. But those words didn't ease my anxiety. They actually made me more confused. Were my feelings excessive? Was I being too sensitive?

"Hey, get your treatment done and let's go on a trip. Need anything?"

That friend's words were the best. Just like usual, casually. Not seeing me as a "patient" but just as "me." That felt most comfortable.

During the wait, I started walking.

At first, I just walked around the block. But gradually, I went farther, for longer. Thirty minutes, one hour, sometimes two hours.

While walking, I thought a little less. When I focused on moving my feet, the noise in my head stopped for a moment. I passed under the shade of street trees, sat on park benches to drink water, looked up at the sky, and walked again.

I also drank lots of water. Two liters a day. At first I forced myself, but later it became a habit. I thought I needed to build up my strength. I'd read somewhere that your body needs to be healthy to receive treatment.

'Eat well, sleep well, don't stress.'

That was all I could do right now.

I tried not to open the internet.

But one night, I finally typed "breast cancer" into the search bar. Thousands of posts poured out. Survival rates, stages, treatments, side effects, recurrence rates....

I scrolled down. Keep going, keep going.

Then at some point, I realized. 'This isn't my story.'

There were multiple types of breast cancer. Some people had surgery first, some people like me started with chemotherapy. Some had mastectomies, some had lumpectomies. Chemotherapy side effects varied wildly.

I saw articles that actress Seo Jung-hee was also battling breast cancer. But I later learned we had different cancer types. Which meant different treatments.

'I only need to know about my cancer.'

After thinking that, I searched the internet a little less.

One month passed, and finally my Seoul National University Hospital appointment day came.

The waiting room was full of people. Tense faces like mine, expressionless faces, exhausted faces. I sat among them and waited for my name to be called.

My heart beat fast.

'Please, please....'

I didn't even know what I was hoping for, but I kept repeating it inside.

My name was called.

I entered the examination room. The doctor looked at the screen and said calmly:

"There's a 1cm and 2cm tumor, totaling 3cm in your left breast. There's lymph node metastasis in your armpit."

At that moment, I thought I'd collapse, but strangely, my body relaxed.

Was it relief at escaping the 'state of not knowing'? A definite result was actually better than the month I'd spent imagining the worst.

"Please take your biopsy report. Your cancer type is listed here."

I nodded and took the results.

I'm writing this now for someone who might be waiting, just like I was then.

One month is a long time. The helplessness of being able to do nothing, the anxiety of imagining only the worst, the feeling of standing awkwardly between everyday life and illness—I know that feeling.

Still, I want to say:

During that time, there are definitely things you can do.

Walking. Drinking water. Eating well. Sleeping well.

And above all, surviving today.

Don't search for the worst-case scenarios online. That might not be your story.

Instead of "Are you okay?" the words "Let's eat together" will feel better.

And remember:

The waiting ends.

When you face the results, you can move forward again.

Just like I did.

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