Three years ago, I found a lump. Actually, my then-boyfriend found a lump, which is way worse. Nothing kills the mood like the possibility of breast cancer. It was a tiny, bean-shaped mass on the bottom of my right breast that moved a bit if you pressed it too hard.

We discovered the lump on a Friday night, so I wouldn’t even be able to call the doctor for a few days. And if that unpleasant cloud of uncertainty wasn’t bad enough, the boyfriend had questions that I embarrassingly couldn’t answer.

“How long have you had that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never noticed it before.”

“Well when was the last time you examined your breasts?”

“Um…probably when my gynecologist did it.”

“Which was when?”

“My last appointment.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Um… a few months? Maybe it’s on my Google calendar.” It wasn’t.

I felt really irresponsible about the whole thing. At 26, I didn’t know anyone my age with breast cancer. But all three of my paternal aunts developed the disease. With that kind of risk, I should have taken my health more seriously. And a quick, regrettable Google search for “age 26 breast cancer” proved that it is possible to get a breast cancer diagnosis so young.

A few days later, my doctor confirmed the lump and ordered an ultrasound of both breasts to be safe. The first round of ultrasounds was inconclusive, although they did manage to find a second lump on my left breast. The follow up ultrasound three months later was concerning enough that I had to get a mammogram. The mammogram led to a biopsy of both lumps. I was officially freaking out.

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