My Boo-Boo

Two years ago, I told my two little boys - then four and 18 months - that I had cancer. I told them cancer meant I had a boo-boo in my boobie. I told them doctors would take it out, I would take medicine, my hair would fall out, and I would get better. They heard my words, translated them into their own meanings, and have been caring for me ever since that November day in 2004 when my life suddenly appeared anything but a guarantee.

My breasts have been abundantly front and center in my life for dozens of years. First they were too big - 34 DDD - and I tried valiantly to disguise the bulk on my chest with large shirts, harness-type bras, and rounded shoulders to shelter others from my most obvious feature. Then came a breast reduction surgery to remove four pounds of dense tissue and to augment my waning self-confidence. Cute bras, tight shirts, and better posture became staples in my life. My breasts made me happy - finally - despite surgery scars, occasional numbness, and an eventual inability to breastfeed my babies.

My small, perky breasts made me happy for eight years. And then I found a lump in the left one - a hard, pea-sized lump that presented itself right beneath my fingertips one day while I was in the shower. It became my obsession for the days leading up to my official clinical examination. I touched it and maneuvered it and examined it until I was sure it was growing with each moment.

And so was born the boo-boo in my boobie - the boo-boo my family and friends and doctors predicted was nothing to worry about.