As I get older, time moves faster. The years, months and days seem to speed by exponentially. What feels like yesterday was, in reality, long ago.

On December 19, 2019, the clock stopped ticking. Two months ago, a phone call made time stand still. The past eight weeks have felt like two years. For 56 days, I have been stuck in slow motion. For 1,344 hours, one word has occupied my mind: cancer.

Twenty-four hours until my bilateral mastectomy.

My story began on December 18 with a biopsy of my left breast. Other than the discomfort of the procedure, I wasn’t overly concerned. For the past nine years, I have had regular mammograms, sometimes twice a year. I’ve even had a couple of biopsies in my left breast, leaving me with the cutest titanium ribbons to mark a baseline. I was told I have dense breast tissue and that my results should be available within a week.

On December 19, I was in the classroom. Winter break started the next day, and the students were full of sugar and anticipation. Complete chaos.

My phone rang. Odd. I don’t use my phone while at school. It’s never on or even near me. I should just ignore it, but it continued to ring.

Compelled, I stepped into the hallway and answered. The seemingly distant voice said, “Pathology. Pen. Paper.”

My face flushed as I thought, It hasn’t even been 24 hours since the biopsy.

The call was interrupted by a student who handed me a Christmas present and reached for a hug. I returned to the phone and wrote down a number. A class walked by.

“Hi, Mrs. Hockaday!”

“I love your Santa sweater, Mrs. Hockaday.”

“Look at the book I checked out, Mrs. Hockaday!”

Back on the call, I scribbled down words like lobular, invasive, ductal and carcinoma. I started to repeat the phone number back when the Grinch tickled me as she walked through the hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Grinch,” I replied.

I had questions for the person on the phone. I had lots of questions, but I didn’t yet know what those questions were. With that, I pushed the notes deep into my pocket and returned to the classroom, welcoming the distracting chaos.

The day continued painfully slowly. That word repeated in my head again and again: cancer. A decade passed before dismissal.

That evening, I handed the note to my husband, Bobby. He couldn’t decipher my handwriting, and not only was it too late to call, but I had also written down the wrong number. My appointment was December 26. I would have to wait to ask my questions.

We decided to keep the diagnosis to ourselves until after the holidays. We would try not to worry until we knew more and focus on Christmas with our friends and family.

Easier said than done.

Now, 24 hours before surgery, with just enough time to pack my bag and hug my boys, I reflect on “the wait.” As tough and tedious as it was, filled with fear, anger, anxiety, sleepless nights and many tears, I realize the wait was part of the process that brought me to today:

Ready.