My mom noticed a lump growing under my arm. Doctors dismissed me, and I'm glad I listened to her.

• A lump started growing under my armpit, and it was noticable enough for my mom to say something.
• My doctor dismissed me twice, saying it was just a swollen lymph node.

"Three breasts — lucky you," my friend said. "I'd been wondering what that was." I was stunned she'd noticed. To me, the lump growing under my armpit for the last two years was something only I could see. To her, it was an enviable third breast.

Growing up in a house where a headache became a heart attack, I learned early that the prognosis for these panics was usually a sedative — not a biopsy. Moving forward, I chose my neuroses carefully.

My mom noticed when I wore a bikini to the hotel pool. I told her the lump had been there for a while. "It's nothing," I said, as if that would suffice.

I thought of my mom as a hypochondriac

Over the years, while my mom had decorated our kitchen with health cuttings from magazines, I'd become skilled in the sport of eye-rolling.

"No cutlery near Teflon!" I heard her say, peering over the non-stick frying pan. "Throw that out right now!" she'd shriek as my teeth crunched on burned toast. My mother — a consistent consumer of chocolate, candy, and Coca-Cola — would throw out an air freshener instantly on the back of sensationalist new health headlines.

I deleted every email she forwarded me with new advice from Dr. Oz. My life would continue to be easy; my Tupperware would take its chances in the microwave.

It's no secret that women's health concerns are consistently found to be taken less seriously by the healthcare system than men's. Already experts in gaslighting ourselves, women end up becoming more dismissive of our health concerns when professionals reinforce the habit.

This was certainly my experience. At age 22, my mother's hypochondriasis meant I never worried too much about my health.

My doctor wasn't worried about my lump, but my mom was

To me, the lump was an opportunity to turn more heads at parties. When I mentioned it to my doctor at the end of one check-up, he confirmed I could dismiss my mother's worries. "It's a swollen lymph node," he said. "Nothing to worry about." But when it continued to grow, my mother pushed me to go back. An ultrasound confirmed my doctor's prediction. "I told you, Mom," I said. "The lump is harmless."

With two reassurances from my doctor, I was not concerned; however, the lump eventually became a nuisance. "You need to get this removed," my mom urged. "You can barely put your arm down." Finally, my doctor began to hear me. When he looked at the lump again, I saw concern in his eyes. He sent me to an oncologist, who ordered a biopsy and an MRI.

"It's a sarcoma," one trainee doctor said. "It could be breast cancer," another chimed in. As they talked about scans and needles, recovery, and follow-up, it became clear that the men prodding over my body would remove this third breast and send it off to a laboratory for testing. Now, I was as scared as my mother. I asked questions, but doctors were interested in my armpit — not the patient attached to it.

The severity of the situation developed, and my surgery was scheduled for two weeks later. My original doctor had stalled the process by dismissing my mother's worries, but I couldn't stop kicking myself for not taking her concerns to heart. I imagined waking up from surgery and doctors showing me a massive ball of melted Tupperware they'd removed from under my arm — my stubbornness and naivete rubbed right in my face.

Luckily, it didn't happen that way. Not a swollen lymph node but also not cancer, my lump turned out to be a benign yet giant tumor — harmless, but the manifestation of an important lesson: doctors aren't always right — but mothers usually are.

Moving forward, I've learned to take my health more seriously, listen to those who love me, and stop microwaving plastic.