Breast Cancer. Think about the word - really think. It's an ugly word, isn't it?  But so very impersonal.

   Of course we see the pink ribbons of the Susan G. Koeman Breast Cancer Foundation, notice the luminaries lit for lost loved ones in the breast cancer Relay For Life and hear the public service announcements urging women to perform breast exams and have a mammogram regularly. But do we pay attention?

   I didn't. I have no real good reason. I just didn't do it.

   Breast cancer happened to someone - anyone - else. It couldn't happen to me.

   Or could it?

   It began unexpectedly. Shortly before summer started, my family doctor sent me to see a specialist about some problems I was having. An ultrasound indicated a possible fibroid tumor, but the specialist suspected the problem was more than that. Without even knowing, however, he urged me to have a hysterectomy.

   A hysterectomy?  I walked out in tears. I didn't believe him, I didn't trust him and I couldn't accept what he said. I felt like he was judging me as a divorced mother on Medicaid. Research I conducted indicated hysterectomies are greatly over-performed in the United States. I had so many thoughts and reactions.

   I knew a women's specialist in Pine Bluff I trust implicitly - Kelly Shrum. But he practices in Pine Bluff, my car was on its last legs and I just couldn't see a way to afford to get back and forth. So I left the doctors office and buried my head in the sand, ignoring the problems I was having.

   Then I met my boyfriend. When Heath learned about the situation, he didn't let up on me until I agreed to see Dr. Shrum.

   Still I hesitated to go, since school just started and I wasn't sure how to manage a probable surgery and what should be the hardest year of my undergraduate studies - it's my senior year and it's all down to the wire. Plus, there are many things I do well, but math isn't one of them, and taking statistics this semester only added to my concern.

   While I was in his office, Dr. Shrum examined my breasts and asked when my last mammogram was (I had one when I was 19, but when my family doctor told me a few years ago to set up a mammogram appointment at the hospital, I just "never got around to it.")  It embarrassed me to admit I honestly didn't even know exactly how to perform a breast self-exam.

   He demonstrated to me the proper procedure and gave me a model of a breast with lumps of various sizes; he also insisted I have a mammogram before I left. Trying to impress on me the seriousness of breast cancer, he explained about one in every eight women will get breast cancer in their life. Read more about risk factors, resources and other medical topics from the Cleveland Clinic Health Information Center.

   The mammogram isn't as bad as it would seem; a feeling of pressure, but not of pain, and the discomfort of having a stranger poke and prod and manipulate your breasts in cold metal plates, in an impersonal setting. But the mammographer did her best to put me at ease and it was soon done. Time to put it out of my mind, right?  Seriously. It happens to other people. And they are my breasts - I would know it if something was wrong, wouldn't I?

   I received the phone call about a week later. Three days before my scheduled surgery with Dr. Shrum, the phone rang. My heart sank when I heard the mammographer's voice. Somehow I knew what was coming.

   They found a mass in my left breast. It was solid, she said, which concerned her. About 2-3 cm in diameter, the edges were irregular. "It's suspicious," echoed in my head.

   I needed to see Dr. Michelle Eckert, a surgeon in the same medical center. They wanted to see me that day, but I had classes. Stats in particular. I made the appointment for the next day instead - I probably should have just went anyway; I cried a lot the next few days, and my mind just wasn't on classes.

   I was scared.

   The doctors coordinated their schedules, and that Friday I had a double surgery. It changed my life.

   When I checked in at Jefferson Regional Medical Center, they first took me to radiology. My breast was placed in a mammogram with special plates that have plastic grid-work holes. Each hole had a corresponding number and letter, allowing the doctor to locate the mass in a picture, then mark it on the breast.

   Next a hook-like needle was pushed into my breast. When properly inserted, the hooked end curls around the lump. This allows the surgeon to know where to cut.

   Another view was taken of the mammogram to make sure it was right. Like a bulls-eye, I could see the hook with the dark shape nestled in its curve. Then the hook was carefully pulled through the holes of the grid, freeing my breast. Tape to secure the needle sticking out of my chest was applied, and on to the pre-op area for more prep.

   I kissed Heath and tried to pretend I was somewhere else as they wheeled me into the operating room. I remember how cold it felt, laying on the operating table and looking up at the lights. Then there was nothing. Until ...

   When I woke up, I had to adjust to the loss of part of my breast. I couldn't stop dwelling on it. The procedure, a lumpectomy, involves making a slice in the breast, removing the lump and some surrounding healthy tissue (visualize an ice cream scoop digging out a chunk,) then sewing the skin back over the now-empty hole (think of now putting a thin layer of ice cream back over the dug-out hole; it's an illusion, a trick - there's still nothing there.)

   It bothered me. It bothers me still. I have an ugly scar running down once great cleavage. And it's empty under the scar. It really bothers me.

   But there was also fear. Had my foolish carelessness and laziness led to breast cancer?  What now?

   I finally got the call about a week later; it was a benign mass. I'm no worse for the wear, except for the scar. And the memories.

   But hopefully I am a little wiser. Experiencing what I did made me realize the chances I take when I don't bother with simple things like examining my breasts regularly and having a mammogram (free and low-cost mammograms and pap-smears are available many places.) There's really no excuse - except laziness.

   As well, men need to have their prostates checked; prostate cancer is a leading cause of death in men, as is cervical and breast cancer in women. But it doesn't have to be.  Men need prostate exams; women need pap smears and mammograms. It's as simple as that.

   This time, it wasn't cancer. But if I had bothered to do the things I knew I should do, maybe the hole in my breast wouldn't be there. Or it would be smaller. The scar less visible. If only. But I didn't.

   I was lucky. And today, hopefully I'm a little smarter. Well, except in stats class, that is. I missed an exam during my experience and am struggling to learn the material and be prepared for the next exam in two more days. But hey, I can do it. I will do well on that exam.

   Do well on yours. Check your breasts today.