Catherine Gigante-Brown

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

I know it’s not a politically correct one, but I’ve got a confession to make: earth-friendly hotels stink. There, I said it.

To the tattoo artist, I was a flesh canvas that she could transform into something beautiful.

I sat obediently in her chair atop four ancient copies of the Yellow Pages. Crossing my fingers, I prayed Catholic schoolgirl prayers.

Once upon a time, it was easier to keep track of gender. Today, not so much — the lines are blurred. For many, gender’s not so much about questioning your own identity as it is about questioning the very nature of identity.

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.

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.

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?

“It’s almost as though this niche was patiently waiting for us to find it.”