A few years ago, a man in Australia came across a round rubbery object on the beach about the size of a small tortilla. In a panic, he scooped it up into a plastic bag and hurried to the local police station, convinced a woman had been mutilated by a maniac who had prised her breast implant out of her body. The police had a good laugh when they saw the object. It was a jelly fish. That’s what I have implanted on the right side of my body—a silicon disc that’s a dead ringer for a jelly fish.

I discovered I had breast cancer the way a lot of women do—a routine mammogram revealed abnormal cell growth in the right breast. One out of every eight women in America will develop breast cancer at one point in their lives, but for some reason, when the nurse came back to the waiting room to call “Ms. Johnson” back for a consultation, I just assumed it was someone else. In my defense, Johnson is a common name.

The radiologist described the suspicious mass as pea-sized and recommended a biopsy. I asked if I could see it. She turned the computer screen my way and there it was, a distinct circle suspended in a ghostly web of white , like the egg sac in a spider web. “Is it cancer?” I asked. The doctor turned the screen back to herself. I have noticed this about doctors—none of them wants to be the bearer of bad news. If they can pass the buck, they will and, really, who can blame them? What kind of life is it, telling people they’re going to die sooner than they think? “We’ll need to do more testing,” she answered impassively.