When I wake, I’m facing a work area with curtains to my sides. It’s an odd feeling to find you’ve been moved while unconscious. It reminds me of being a little kid and falling asleep in the car on the way home from my grandparents’. I would become dimly aware of being carried into the house, and in the morning, I’d find myself in my bed, having not put myself there.

It’s a moment of surrendering to someone else’s care, of not being in control, and it being okay.

Releasing myself that way, even if it’s to a surgeon, carries an echo of that long ago feeling, almost primal—maybe even a connection to the empty space before my existence.

I don’t see anyone in the work area amongst the computers and desk spaces. I want to see Bob. I want to know what Dr. Fisher found or didn’t find. At the same time, I’m fuzzy and relaxed so I don’t feel my usual urgency.

Soon I’m discovered to be awake, and I’m wheeled back to my room where Bob joins me. The news from the surgery is good: Three sentinel lymph nodes were biopsied and found to be cancer-free, and Dr. Fisher was able to get clean margins around the tumor, which was small, 1.2 cm.

The other good news is that I can go home—no drains were needed in my breast. I’ll need to ice it for several days, but that’s simple enough.

Bob has already emailed and texted my closest people to let them know the good news. I’m ravenous, so his next task is to get me a sandwich and coffee. I’m reminded again of how lucky I am to have someone who will not only fetch lunch for me but take on cancer too.