Catherine Gigante-Brown

Content Notice: Death

"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."

I realized my father was from a generation that never said those three little words. He was saying he loved me without them. But I didn't realize it then.

My husband and I agreed: raising a child with an independent spirit who made decisions for himself was a good thing.

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 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.

Although I tried to convince myself that I wasn't racist, if the truth were told, I didn't like Muslims. Especially after 9/11.

I’m sure you’ll find it a delicious and well-stocked place. There are just a few rules

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

As a breast cancer survivor, the worst day of the year is when I go for my mammogram. True, nobody actually likes mammos, but I’ve been bitten by one. On the way to my annual squishing, I realized that I have a bunch of coping strategies.