It was a cold Friday evening in late January. I was on the couch, waiting for my husband to come home, when a notification lit up my phone: my test results were ready. I didn’t open them right away. I sat very still, took a few deep breaths, and braced myself for what the earlier tests had been hinting at. A small, stubborn part of me hoped for a benign explanation, but I knew better. Finally, I opened the MyChart app. At the top of the screen, in bold, was Cytology report. I