I was twelve

I was twelve when I discovered a lump in my breast, if you could even then call it a breast at twelve. In my pink plaid bed, I laid and let my hand press the shape of the lump, test how hard I could prod before it became too strange and painful. Each time a pain came, sharp and in throbs, I would give a small yelp, half from pain, half from fear. I was terrified. What did this mean, this bump on my little breast, a bump that hurt and scared me while I was trying to sleep. I cried in fear and self pity.1

I found myself thinking in the shower one day, as I explored the lump that no longer truly hurt, that I knew what I should do. I announced my intentions to my mother later that day.
“I know what I want to do when I grow up,” I said to her in the kitchen as she made lunch.
“Oh?” she replied.
“Yes. I want to be a researcher for breast cancer.”2

Days went by, and then months, and my breast no longer hurt. And small as they were, they were growing. It fascinated me, this change that I wished would happen so much faster. I examined myself. 3

Under closer inspection, it seemed that the lump of my earlier panic was still there, but there was a new realization. This wasn’t a foreign cancer, this lump was my breast. Relief swept through me, and I felt embarrassment of my earlier fears, somehow ashamed of my suddenly chosen career path. My mother never brought it up again, maybe she’d forgotten. Maybe I could pretend that this moment of empathy hadn’t occurred, that now that I was “cured,” no one else still needed to be. At twelve years old, I put sickness out of my head and went out to play.4