It was just another Wednesday morning. I was sitting in my tiny basement office with a stack of patient charts to my right, a folder opened to the pedigree on my left as I chipped away at summary letters on my outdated computer. My colleague was seeing patients at one of our outreach clinics, the phones were relatively quiet, and I anticipated a quiet and productive day. Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t received my daily e-mail from my mother and had the urge to call her. She picked up the phone on the first ring and I asked how she was and where she’d been that morning. She said, “My annual mammogram was this morning, remember?” “Oh yes, was it good?” A short silence, and then I revised, “Well, not good, of course, I’m sure its never fun, but did it go okay?” Another short silence and then my heart skipped a beat. “Well honey, not really. The radiologist found something.” A short shocked silence, and then the bargaining began. “Found something? Like a small calcification? Perhaps a small DCIS?,” I negotiated with my physician mother, trying to keep any hint of panic from my voice. A measured pause, “Actually honey, she feels that there is an invasive component. They performed a biopsy and we will have the path tomorrow.” I don’t remember what I said next, but I hoped it sounded calm and reassuring. I told her I loved her and hung up the phone.