Catherine Gigante-Brown

We’ve pieced ourselves back together in a patchwork quilt of ragged emotions. The aftermath of 9/11 wasn’t easy for us, yet it was much easier than for some. People standing 50 feet away from Peter didn’t come home that night; he did.

I go for checkups when I’m supposed to: every three months to the oncologist and every six months to the breast surgeon. I go to SHARE support group meetings to bolster myself. I try to get enough sleep, despite the occasional night spent wide-eyed with dread.

I try. I really do. But whenever I attempt to embrace my husband Peter’s Cuban culture, I always screw up.

I dreaded putting him back on Concerta in the fall but I knew I had to. Or did I?

"Remember, this isn’t just happening to you, it’s happening to moms everywhere. It’s not your fault — "

I’m boycotting you until you start recognizing breast cancer survivors like me by carrying mastectomy bras.

"Bring over a meal—and leave. Breakfast, lunch or dinner, from soup to nuts. And coffee. Plenty of coffee."

That’s the thing about being a breast cancer survivor — it’s always there: it never goes away. The scars, the fear that lurks in the back of your mind like a boogeyman. You’re going along nicely, living your merry life, and you’re fine, until you’re not.

I saw my present mother-in-law in a whole new light the first time she held my newborn son.

"I was afraid this thing was going to do me in. But I took a deep breath and decided very early on that I would face cancer on my own terms."