In high school, they were perky, round and practically gravity-defying. After two pregnancies and subsequent breastfeeding, they are somewhat droopy. Breasts. My husband seems hypnotized by them. I do not think they are anything special. In fact, they are quite frightening.

Breast Cancer is everywhere. I'm not just referring to media propaganda. A woman at church was just diagnosed with breast cancer. A co-worker of my mom's just had a biopsy. A woman on the internet blogs her struggle to educate others and give hope. A woman on Dick Gordon's "The Story" (thank you, NPR) chronicles her journey to finding out her husband carries the BRCA gene, and wonders what impact this will have on her daughters. A patient I care for just had a mastectomy. Another patient I cared for has stage 4 breast cancer with bone metastasis. She was my first real patient, and when I walk in the room to do something so simple as to take her blood pressure, she says, laughing, "Stop being so nervous or I'll slap you."

 Of course this fear may seem irrational to most. I can recognize it as somewhat irrational, but it doesn't stop the anxiety. I do not have a family history of breast cancer. However, I have taken oral contraceptives. My BMI is considered "overweight". Those are my only risk factors. But does it matter? How many women develop breast cancer and never have any risk factors at all?

My breasts have been good to me. They've fed two babies. They've enhanced my sexuality and have made me feel wonderfully feminine. But sometimes when I step out of the shower and look in the mirror, I think, "Girls, Are you going to kill me one day?"