Admittedly, not a flattering beginning to a new latecomer. I registered here way back in December after first being diagnosed with DCIS in my left breast, shortly before Christmas (not exactly the gift I had in mind, Santa). So, several weeks later, I've actually got the nerve to admit I'm not the woman of steel I'd like to portray myself and feel more like Oscar the Grouch. I'm grouchy. Like the guy throwing the t. v. from the window, "I'm mad as hell and I don't want to take it anymore." I'm grouchy because none of this is following my original plan of how "we" (me, myself, and I) intended to approach breast cancer. I had a mammogram in 11/08 after letting 17 months elapse since the last one. Life throws curve balls. We moved, settled into our new home, and experienced an adoption disruption with our very special needs daughter who was in our home for two years. Life was already a bit stressful dealing with the failure of Jaya to bond with me as "mom," losing her after months of counseling and listening to the child I love tell her counselor and social worker it wasn't a fit. The ensuing weeks and months of working with an adoption specialist and agency to "re-home" my daughter with yet another family in her short life caused me to blow off everything, even taking care of myself. When I finally got around to the routine procedure after Thanksgiving, my family was just beginning to calm down from the disruption and loss. Normal doesn't apply to my family, but when the radiologist at Elliot Breast Health called the next day for another session, life took another turn. I remember sitting in the waiting room for my name to be called for the second set of digital prints. After they poked, prodded and forced the girls into the vice, making the poor things look like two empty wallets, they got the images needed. I got to return to the waiting room and the company of a sweet, grandmotherly volunteer in a pink jacket. She told me to be positive and remember, "You are in control of your body." Five minutes later, the radiologist summoned me to the counseling room to confirm what I already knew in my gut. They had found something. He explained in detail about microcalcifications and handed me literature about biopsies and statistics. I tried to think positive and asked how many microcalcifications there were. Six. It sounded like a lot to me. I didn't feel quite in control of my body at that moment. After all, if I was in control, those little flecks of white on my X-ray wouldn't be there. Fast forward several days after the first biopsy. I got the news of atypical ductal hyperplasia over the phone from a nurse at VA who couldn't fully explain my DX. I spent an entire weekend of "maybe cancer, maybe not." Most of the weekend was spent filled with dread, doubt, and wondering if I would see my children grow up.