As a girl I never thought about breasts except when my mother would get out of the bathtub and there they were in all their glory. Her dark areolas staring at me like two big brown basset hound eyes as she chided me about hanging up my clothes to "keep them nice." Occasionally my own blooming boobs would come into focus, especially on the days my big brother would chase me around the house yelling, "you know what's worse than a hurricane?" Finally he would catch up to me and sit on my chest with his knees pinning my arms to the floor. The inevitable answer? A tittie twister.

I never really considered myself as having a nice rack until college when I had the fortunate experience of dating a "breast man." Properly termed, this guy couldn't get enough of them. Besides telling me how fantastic and beautiful they were, he constantly wanted to fondle them, kiss them, pinch them. For the first time in my life, my breasts gave my life a whole new meaning. No longer were they just an ordinary fixture on my body, but they were something special, a character trait, an asset, a weapon. Of course I used them to my advantage whenever possible. I could easily cut into a long line without trouble, strike up a conversation, or distract attention away from others. I was Breastgirl.

After college I became bored with them and they once again faded into oblivion. They were still on my body, but they didn't hold nearly the same angelic, awestruck quality. In fact, I'd occasionally catch some ogling male drooling over them at some obscure place, such as a gas station and I'd feel so inclined to give him a bitchy glare.. Every now and then when I was feeling spiteful I give a playful snicker to say "as if, buddy."

After I got married, my breasts fell further into the dark void of monogamy. Yes, they were still an integral part of my body, but I hardly noticed them. Occasionally they would pop into a random conversation. Mostly one of my girlfriends pointing out how large they were or how shitty the Target bra I was wearing made them look.

One day late last year it was freezing outside so I drew myself a tall hot bath, stripped naked and slipped into the steamy water. After chiding myself about the size of my thighs and wincing at the fact that the tub almost overflowed when I plopped my body into the tub, my normal routine of berating my body, I kicked back with the intent to relax. Then I noticed something.

On the floor, by the tub, where I'd tossed it, was my bra. Just an average bra, neutral colored, 36C, but there was something funny about it. I leaned over the tub and picked up the undergarment. The cups were all discolored. They looked like someone had spilled baby oil in them. I concluded that it must be something that happened in the laundry (I'm often a little overzealous with the Downy) and tossed it across the floor. I slipped my shoulders back under the water and closed my eyes.

But something about that bra kept at me. I cracked an eye and looked at it again. Even though it was partially obscured by my tennis shoes I could still see the discoloration. I closed my eyes again, took a peep, closed again. A fleeting thought entered my head and I bolted upright in the tub and looked at my breasts, then back at the discolored bra. I cupped one of my tits in my hand and examined it. Everything seemed normal. I put my opposite hand behind my head and did an exam in gentle circles as I had seen in the posters at my gynecologist's office. I didn't feel anything strange. I dripped some water on my nipples to make them stand up. They did. Again nothing out of the ordinary.

I examined one of the nipples in between my thumb and index fingers. I could see the intricate design of pores designed for lactation. I'd never noticed that before. Well maybe I had, but not in so much detail. I glanced at the bra again. Gently I pinched the very tips of my nipple and that's when it happened. Tiny beads of some substance from my inner body seeped out of the tip of my nipple.

I scrambled out of the tub and threw a towel on. I made my way to the bed. I remained staring at the ceiling until I could get my breathing in check. Once my heart was again beating at a normal pace I started to think about the causes. Of course my first thought was that this is what happens to pregnant women, but I had just finished my period a few days earlier. It did occur to me that I could possibly be one of those freaks of nature that winds up in the emergency room with a side ache and ends up coming home with a bouncing bundle of tax write-off joy. I had gained a couple pounds.

When my over the counter EPT appeared negative I was a bit relieved. Standing over the minus sign I extracted one of my boobs from my bra and squeezed again. It was like a miniature showerhead, still oozing tiny white beads of creamy something. I called my sister.

My sister's ten years older than I, has a couple kids, and huge tits. After her second child, each of her boobs was the size of my head. No, I'm not exaggerating. Unfortunately she didn't have any really great advice. No, it never happened to her except when she was breast-feeding. I hung up the phone in despair. It had been a little more than twenty-four hours since I had discovered the anomaly. Not only was I becoming a little anxious over the whole ordeal, but I was becoming obsessive about squeezing my breast. Even once in the bathroom at Wal-Mart. I kept hoping for a squeeze that would render nothing, but to no avail, every time I squeezed, I secreted and became overwhelmed with nausea.

After 3 days I figured it was time to call the lady-doctor. Of course I couldn't get in until a week later, but after answering the nurse's questions she didn't think there was reason to worry. "See you in a week," she said before we hung up. "And avoid squeezing them so there will plenty for the doctor to work with." I hung up and burst into tears.

The week passed slowly as I tried to curb my squeezing obsession. Oh, how I wanted to check and double check if by some shiny miracle that stuff had seized up and disappeared back into the depths of my body. My husband tried to lighten the situation. "Have you seen my keys," he would say. "I'm losing my mammary." Yeah, I didn't think it was funny either.

The lady-doctor didn't say much. She squeezed, she swabbed, she pondered. She told me it's sometimes normal for women to have leaky breasts even when they're not pregnant. Well, I know a lot of women and none of them have dripping nipples unless there's something they're not telling me. "To be safe," she uses the catch phrase with ease, she refers me to have a mammogram and then to a surgeon to read the mammogram. A breast surgeon.

The mammogram isn't until a month later because no one at the breast center thinks my hysteria is more important than anyone else's. Of course the waiting room is jammed with women and their children who are tearing the place apart like they've never seen an issue of Highlights in their little short lives. Once they call my name they make me change into one of those unattractive gowns that tie in the back and then they make me sit in another waiting room with other women in those ugly gowns. All of us waiting to have our go at the tit-smashing picture machine.

It hurts, it's uncomfortable and everything else you've heard. You have to hold your breath, stand on the tips of your toes, thrust your chest out, throw your head back all the while your breast is being pancaked between what feels like two pieces of granite. So if you were captain of the drill team in high school and at one time dated a prison guard, the process might be a little easier on you.

After the trauma they corralled me into a little makeshift office with a plastic chair, a desk that had never been used and a wall of lighted panels. The radiologist came in, a tall skinny man with a mustache that was too big for his face. "Well," he says, "we found something." His words sound like he's talking from somewhere far off. I try to steady my gaze on his face, but find myself looking at the back of his head because he's throwing my films up on the wall like he's at a freaking art festival displaying his paintings of disease. There it is, clear as day, a hard little white knot in a veiny sea of gray, staring me in the face.

In the course of the next month I saw the breast surgeon a couple of times, talked to my family and friends. I heard the horror stories: she waited and when she went back it was twice the size, she died of breast cancer at the age of 25, and so on. Surprisingly many women I told asked me if breast cancer ran in my family, it doesn't. "Oh," they would say, "then you have nothing to worry about." Actually, I did, because the majority of women with breast cancer have no family history of the disease. I read everything I could get my hands on, and I thought a lot. I learned that breast are globs of fatty tissue on a woman's body that serve as soft little landing pads for all the nasty toxins we ingest-from food, from drugs, from alcohol, from pollution, from contaminated water. I decided to have the lump removed.

In the days leading up to my surgery I was pretty confident that my lump was nothing. Gynecologists, radiologists and surgeons were giving me their 95% guarantees. But every now and then it would cross my mind that I was at the stage where everyone begins regardless of the outcome. Every woman who ever died of breast cancer started at that same point - with a lump in her breast. And there I was, something unnatural festering inside me.

After my day surgery - today even a large percentage of mastectomies are done in day surgery believe it or not - I came home and slept. I was relieved to have whatever it was out and gone from my flesh. I had six stitches, a decent supply of painkillers and my mom to take care of me. The next day my surgeon called. He had removed a tumor the size of dime from my breast. It was benign. Nobody said much. My dad kissed me on the forehead.

My scar is under my left breast and unnoticeable. I think about my breasts a lot. I like them. I bought them some really nice bras this year in assorted colors. I examine them dutifully every month. I've returned to the tit-smashing picture machine on a regular basis. I praise them for serving their purpose of making me womanly and feminine. Breast disease has become part of my vocabulary. Once again, they've given my life a whole new meaning.

All Personal Breast photos by Robyn Eden.