Lumps are rarely good. I smooth them from the beds every morning.

I've held ice packs on them for my little ones on too many occasions. (Though I can admit that lumps are wonderful in the context of homemade mashed potatoes.) But finding a lump in one's breast? Well, that is just downright frightening.

Lumps and breasts go together like sauerkraut and maple syrup.

My relationship with my boobs can be described much like that of my relationship with my children. They may be small, but they are all mine and I love them.

Oh, sure, in my pubescent years I endured the mean-spirited jabs of my hormonally challenged, opposite-sex peers...

I was alternately either a "pirate's dream" (a sunken chest) or a carpenter's fantasy (flat as a board). And yes, from 1979 to 1982, I was indeed the President of The Itty-Bitty Tittie Committee.

But I grew up (unlike some of those silly boys) and got comfortable in my own skin. I may never be mistaken for Pamela Anderson, as the only staples in my stomach will surely be the result of a tummy tuck, not from being featured in the centerfold section of a men's magazine, but being small-chested does have some perks...

I can go bra-less in the summer to my son's soccer games and not create an X-rated distraction. I can exercise not fearing traumatic facial injuries caused by errant, improperly-restrained bouncing mammarian warriors.

I can fall asleep comfortably on my stomach without humming the "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down!" jingle. And for later years, I hold to the adage: 'That which does not exist cannot sag.'

Besides, following the births of my children, my tiny ta-tas swelled up to epic proportions allowing me to breast feed my hungry infants. In other words, on the day of the big game, my little ladies showed up in uniform and ready to play!

So perhaps all of this is what caused me to whine to my doctor back in February, "But I can't potentially be facing breast cancer..... I don't have any breasts!"

She just made a notation in my chart (taking points off for inappropriate use of humor, most likely), re-holstered her pen, and told me to schedule the mammogram within the week. Sigh....

Now any woman who has been 'mammo-ed' knows I speak the truth when I say it is not the most pleasant experience in the world. Fellas, imagine a scrub-attired stranger pulling your scrotum straight out from your body, placing it between two hard, ice cold metal plates, and then slowly squishing the plates together, all the while continuing to pull and reposition your man-bits to insure the best photo op.

Smile and say cheese!

Suspicious results from that mammogram screening led to my spending a bit more time getting to know the fine folks at the Sally Jobe Comprehensive Breast Centre in DTC. More mammograms. Blood tests. And a diagnostic breast ultrasound.

I was humming Duran Duran's "Girls on Film" during that procedure, but my tech didn't crack a smile. Cue up the foreboding music at this point.

The radiologist came in and explained that they would be scheduling a breast biopsy for the following week. Oh, sure he bandied about some figures like "80% of the time the results are fine" but I'll admit the gravity of what was happening began to sink in for me as I shivered in my hospital gown and nodded back at him.

My sense of humor had headed for the hills and I was left alone to re-dress with my thoughts of "How in the world am I going to take care of three little kids and undergo cancer treatments all alone?!" It was a pretty lousy day.

The week prior to the surgery was busy with phone calls to shore up child care help since lifting the twinkies was expressly forbidden for 48 hours following the procedure and I still attended to the mundane but necessary tasks of busy moms everywhere. I shelved my worries and taped a Zen proverb up to my computer screen:

If you understand, things are just as they are; if you do not understand, things are just as they are.

By the morning of the biopsy, I was ready to just get it over with and let the chips fall where they may. (Of course, that could have had something to do with the 10mgs of Valium in my system but I'd like to chalk it up to my impatient nature.)

The procedure went like clockwork and in no time at all I was homeward bound, with my torso wrapped, mummy-like, in stretchy bandages and a Valium hang-over.

I napped the rest of the afternoon at home and spent the evening strenuously watching a Disney movie with my mom and the seven year old, comfortable on the pain meds and anxious about the phone call scheduled for the next afternoon with the results from the pathology lab.

Now, I never thought I'd quote Tom Petty in my blog, but he was certainly right: "Oh, the waiting is the hardest part...."

(I could also cite something about "Damn the Torpedoes" but I'll leave that one to my double-D endowed sisters...)

So enough with the suspense! Paul Harvey, please forgive my paraphrasing but... 'And here is the breast of the story'....

The Good? The results were benign, showing no malignancy.

The Bad? No insurance-paid boob job for me.

The Ugly? Well, here it is one week post-op and I've got a little red scar and a yellowy-green bruise to remember my surgeon by.

A heartfelt thank you goes out to my family and friends for their thoughts, prayers, jokes, and support during the last five weeks. With special bear hugs and sloppy kisses to Trace, YaYa & Co., and especially my mother, Pam, for really being there for me and the three little miracles in my life!

And on a serious note, ladies, remember your monthly self exams, schedule your mammograms, and be sure to look for me walking for The Cure in October.

http://www.komendenver.org/site/PageServer?pagename=rfcd_race_homepage&AddInterest=1161

I'll be the flat-chested Mama holding hands with her seven year old, pushing a double stroller-full of twins and wearing a baseball cap that says: "Grateful."