“Your mother is so strong,” words repeated to my daughter as I sit on the doctor’s table.

Her smile agrees, her eyes look sad and the thought running through my head, “no, I’m not.”

This has been a long journey for us both, six months of fighting and it still hasn’t ended.

Three rounds, two done, one to go — I’d rather be at the gym, punching a bag, preparing for a race, burpees.

There’s something there, I take a breath as I realize there’s a lump

A solid mass where one does not belong — I refuse to let panic sink in or even approach

Though it lingers in the back room of my mind tapping on my brain

The sound of “it will be OK” echoes louder, drowning out the tip tapping of fear.

Tests, scans and needles galore — does it matter anymore, I know what they’ll say

As the phone rings with the news and the words said in a cold heartless tone

Facts are often said that way, aren’t they? Without feeling, and then they ask if you’re OK

What reactions are they expecting, tears, screams? I sit, I breathe, I pull myself together.

This isn’t about me, even if it is my diagnosis, I must stay calm for her