Yesterday I had two appointments. One was at the University Medical Center, and the other was at a spa (down in the land of rich housewives). During the former, I had an appointment with a surgical oncology nurse - I met her, walked with her to pathology, waited for the attending surgeon to meet us, and watched as they dissected a specimen. I have handled more than one hundred tumors in my "scientific career," and they, along with blood draws, do not bother me. However, this was something different entirely. Here's a warning to the weak . . . it gets graphic.

The nurse unwrapped the surgical gauze and placed the specimen on the counter in the pathology lab. It was a complete masectomy, a full resection - in layman's terms, the entire breast had been removed. While standing with the pathology residents, I nearly fell to the floor, wondering, "Don't they usually just remove the tumor nowadays? Isn't the lumpectomy standard, especially at a leading university hospital?" And then, as the Pathology attending made the first slice, I realized why this case was so different.

The tumor filled the breast in its entirety. The tumor was distinct from the healthy tissue - healthy tissue is soft, pink. There was a hard, beige mass approximately the size of an apple that had invaded this 33 year old girl's body - and there was no escaping staring at the tissue on the surgical slab.

After returning to my lab with my small sample of the tumor in tow, I processed my cells, and set them up for my experiment. After wiping down the hood and my lab bench, I placed my cells in the incubator, and left for my bi-monthly pedicure and eyebrow trip. (I may live in the lab, but I do have some standards)

I'd never really noticed it before, but the place was inundated with signs that proclaim, "Love your body! Celebrate your curves! Your body defines you!" As I looked around, I began to feel sick to my stomach. This anonymous 33 year old girl, whose tumor had somehow managed to evade being detected at an earlier stage, had lost most of what these signs declared defined her. As I thought about it, I realized that what defined her, according to the spa advertisements, was now what was defining me - my career as a research scientist.

I went to sleep with a prayer for the anonymous 33 year old girl, and sending her hope that it is her spirit, her fire, her will to live, that will define her, and not a cancerous mass.