Catherine Gigante-Brown

All bets were off after 9/11. In a twisted way, it proved to me that worry was fruitless. No one ever saw the terrorist attacks coming.

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.

Were you going to run into that cute guy John Williams on the way home? Would you see Anne Marie by the lockers and sort out what to do for the weekend? It was hit-or-miss, and that was the beauty of it. The breath-holding chance of it all. Now, our kids’ friends are as close as a keyboard stroke away. It’s too easy.

You learn a lot about people when you live in their home. The Taylors seemed to lead a joyless, Spartan existence.

Makeup and I have always had a love/hate relationship: I love it; it hates me.

A new U.S. Preventive Services Task Force recommendation on mammograms ensures more women will die of breast cancer.

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

Wrinkles or lifelines? Chunky or curvaceous? The choice is yours.

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