My Story

Cancer is not contagious; it only seemed that way when I started to recover from my breast cancer surgery, chemo and radiation therapy. Whenever I heard that someone had died, I would say, "Cancer, right?" and nine times out of ten, I was right. I'd just nod, all smug and everything.

Then I would start ghoulishly toting them up: my grandfather died of cancer, my dad died of cancer, my high school boyfriend, my great-grandmother on my mother's side, Elizabeth Edwards, Frank Zappa, Ty Cobb. I seemed to have drawn a blank when it came to people who survived it.

One would think that when a woman with breast cancer walks out of the hospital after her last radiation treatment and chemo is behind her, she would sail back into real life with both breasts (the old ones redux or some nice new reconstructed ones), admirable moxie, and unshakable spirituality.

Not me.

I crept back, looking over my shoulder for the guy with the scythe and the creepy robe.

I DON'T MEAN TO BE PICKY

I know it's all about words, but I am an English teacher. I'm a little anal about words.