In Su's latest entry, she describes the shock of hearing the news that her breast lump is cancerous and how it all looks on screen...

I feel very vulnerable sitting there without my bra on - light headed with heat and forgotten. When all has gone quiet a very smartly dressed lady called Christine comes out with my file.

She checks my identity and date of birth (yes, that's still me) and asks me to follow her into a consulting room to meet a consultant – well at least he's in the right place, I think – my flippancy returning briefly.

A door is opened and my worry starts to form into a bad dream. There is a man – heavens I have no bra on – and a nurse and Christine steers me firmly inside. The last time a nurse had to give me a firm shove like that was when my mother died and I wanted to see her but couldn't quite get myself by the bed to hold her hand. It was the same feeling of disbelief and sheer fright then, too. The man introduces himself as Dr Simon Allen – how weird, I think, two Christian names and he is looking at an array of X-rays on a desk screen.

I sit, making sure I am well covered, a sort of protection to my bosom, I suppose, and stare with him at several angles of what is obviously now my breast with that lump sitting in it.

He explains that we need to do an ultrasound to get a clear and detailed picture of just what that is and will not speculate at this point.

He is very kind, measures the "spot" for me at my request (why did I ask that?) and declares it to be 119mm – that sounds quite big to me. Dr Two Names then leaves the room and I am in the hands of Christine. We hide behind the curtain and there is something familiar about the examination couch, it is slightly more private in here and this machine is like the one I got so used to when I was pregnant.

I know it won't hurt and I relax slightly, although it's hard to relax with your top off, a strange but pleasant lady sitting beside you and your breast covered with cold, slippy jelly. I am determined to pull myself together and face whatever this is now and force my mind to work in real time.

While Christine is hunting the bump I am deluging her with questions about lymph nodes – I'm not sure why – and sizes of lumps and...suddenly there it is. I am going to watch this all the way and Christine has turned the screen so that I can see.

Weird, my breast only looks very thin, I can see my chest wall and the skin on the outside as a definite line and in between there is a mass of grey, some white spaghetti bits and...the Alien – it's crouching low, as if its ready to jump or strike, has a very Mr Wobbly-type appearance and several thin strands seems to be attached to it – they look like roots of a seedling.

Oh no, an alien with roots. I don't say any of this; she'll think I'm mad. I mean, I know I am, but letting her know is a different thing, I silently converse with my late mother. I say, that doesn't look good does it, mum, and I can hear the agreement, now we're both in on it and I feel better about that.

Christine declares she's going to take some samples and begins to explain how. I think, great, she's going to stab the alien and I hope it bloody well hurts it.

Wait, what am I thinking, if it hurts "it" it's going to hurt me, too. Calm down, mind, and listen, for goodness sake. Right, a very long needle containing lignacaine is being brandished with explanations of what will happen, how they're going to inject my breast, it will go numb, core samples taken with this etc.

She holds up a green "thing" to show me and demonstrates the noise it will make when the sample is taken "click". It sounds like having your ear pierced. My disturbed mind lingers for a few seconds on the thought of nipple piercing – stop being silly and concentrate!

Right, I'm going to watch it all, it's my body that's been taken over and I'm going to be there at the very beginning of the ousting process. I watch the needle go deep into my breast and can see on screen the long sharp point numbing the whole area.

Actually, I can't feel a thing, not even the needle going in. I think my mind has already frozen my entire body. My mother can't look, I've told her not to, as she has always hated things like this.

Christine pulls out the needle and declares she not sure where that went and she's going to put another in. Oh c'mon now, we both watched that, still, another shot goes in, painlessly and interestingly watched by us both, although now we've been joined by a breast care nurse who is standing by with swabs and dressings. Don't go there, I think. Now comes the green thing. I watch as it enters through the skin and travels down towards the crouching alien, I can feel nothing, except contempt for the "thing".

There, she's got it, there's a loud crack and ... I saw it move, it definitely flinched, hope that hurt you, you extra terrestrial invader. The green thing comes out and a piece of the blob is deposited into jar – ha, take that. Another attack, Christine goes in again, I am fascinated now.

This time the green thing goes right through the middle of it, it's stabbed, fatally I hope, it doesn't seem to move, perhaps it's dead! For goodness sake stop being so fanciful, I tell myself and concentrate on what's going on.

Christine has finished the attack and we survey the alien now sulking and the damage inflicted upon it. There is track right through the centre which Christine seems pleased about.

I don't like to say what happens if you have cut it in half – do I have two lumps now? I have to assume they know what they are doing as I certainly don't.

It's over and nurse steps forward with a wad of dressings and presses extremely hard on my breast. She tells me it is to prevent bruising but it feels more like it could be causing some!

A steri stitch and dressing later I am sitting before Dr Two Names again who has been assessing the alien and all its progress. I feel the worst must be over; I don't hurt anywhere as my breast is numb and I haven't screamed.

Everyone gathers round the desk and I am sitting staring once again at the pictures and printouts. Dr Two Names leans forward slightly and in an even but calm voice tells me that he can tell from the pictures alone and from the way that the blob behaves that it is a cancerous tumour. He is very sorry.

The world suddenly stops; I can hear nothing apart from a strange "Oh" that has propelled itself from me as if someone has punched me in the stomach. Are there any questions, he says. My mind has frozen, there must be a million but none will come apart from, is this hereditary, is my daughter safe?

When I look up there are four faces all staring at me but they look strange, surreal, like a black and white flashback in an old film with a kind of fisheye effect. I can't do any more than bury my head in my hands and sob, apologising as I do so – I'm not the crying kind.

Immediately the world starts up again, like a machine whirring back into action, a box of tissues appears, I can hear people saying things like, don't worry, quite understandable etc etc and when my head comes up Technicolor has returned but along with it has come pain.

Not from my breast but from somewhere deep down, my heart, I think, and a trillion whys and questions about how and what will happen and oh, will this ever end now and how will it end, on and on my mind goes but the words will not come.

I sit in stunned silence while information is given to me, trying to take in all the jumble of words. Finally I hear that they would like yet one more mammogram as there is what looks like another lump on the top and they would like to be sure.

It snaps me back to reality and once more I am back with a different nurse this time for a final squeeze. I whip of my top before being asked – who cares anyway - and reveal the dressing.

Nurse says she will have to pull it back a bit to clear the skin and this might be sore as it pulls the hairs. Hairs! It sets my mind off again and I want to ask who she knows that has a hairy bosom, but I refrain – it might be hers!

She is delighted to find that I have a numb breast and gleefully squashes it almost completely flat the better to see any suspected lumps. I am re-taped and asked to wait. So what's another lump, I say to my mother, deal with one, deal with two and she waits with me until we are called again.

It turns out to be nothing, just some granular bits, now I feel like a bag of sugar. It's some relief anyway and all the strange-looking white bits are explained to along with the instructions of what will happen next.

They would like me to see the surgeon on the following Friday but I explain it is a week's holiday for us and we are away. It could be cancelled but this news is going to be bad enough for my daughter without that disappointment.

The afternoon has worn on and in alternate way has seemed both endless and yet speeded up. I am in the dressing room with a very hot cup of tea whilst details are taken about phone numbers and when they will ring me about a further appointment to see the surgeon. We will go on holiday it has been decided that a few days will not matter and they will ring me there. Suddenly, it is over.

The talking has come to an end and I realise that each member of that team has been there for me and have stayed beyond the end of their working day to sort me out efficiently and kindly. I am suddenly overwhelmed by it all and once the breast care nurse has left me to get dressed. I pick up my phone to call Alan.

Part 3 next week.

Missed part one? Click here to view The Bald Woman's Blog from the start