The News

I'm a 49-year-old white woman. I live north of Los Angeles in a neighborhood that is often dubbed "Mayberry." I have a husband, one teenager at home and one in college, and a black and white dog named Zephyr. For the most part, life is good. So when I felt a little mass of tissue in my left breast, I was alarmed, but only mildly so. For reassurance, I consulted my Merck Manual, which instructed me that most lumps in the breast are benign. But to be safe, the next day I scheduled a mammogram and made an appointment with my OB-GYN. Then I put it out of my mind and went about my life.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. The mammogram is negative, and my doctor tells me he is "100 percent sure" this is not cancer, but a cyst that may dissolve on its own. Again, I return to the every day stuff that I do -- laundry, dishes, cooking, and my part-time job.

Fast forward a couple of more weeks. The persistent little cyst doesn't disappear; I can still feel it. Again, I head back to the OB-GYN. This time, he decides I should have an ultrasound, just to be sure.

Now it's getting interesting. Immediately following the ultrasound, the radiologist, who is this really striking Asian woman, sits down with me and says she's ordering a biopsy. "Okay," I reply, matter- of-factly, "but it's only a benign cyst." She nods knowingly, and then sends in her assistant to schedule my procedure. Two days later, I have some tissue removed, which I'm actually happy about, because I can finally but this breast thing to rest.

Fast forward one more time. I'm having lunch with a friend, talking about possible travel plans for my 50th birthday, which is only a few months away. My cell phone rings, but I don't recognize the number, so I decline the call and continue to eat my crab cakes. I do listen to the message a little while later, however.

My OB-GYN had called, and he sounded a little anxious. So I go to my husband's office, which is near the restaurant, and I call the doctor back. He insists that I come to his office immediately, and he refuses to give me any more information on the phone. You don't have to be clairvoyant to see where this is going.

I tell my husband to put down his work, and we rush to the doctor's office. This is where I'm handed an ugly pathology report that has my name and birthdate on it. Apparently, that little peanut-sized matter was no benign cyst. I have invasive ductal carcinoma, aka breast cancer. Go figure.