I’m not sure I really “battled’’ breast cancer back in 2002, as much as it battled me. But after a year of two chemotherapies, radiation and surgery, cancer and I agreed to a draw. We went back to our respective corners, both tired of this fight.
You always wonder when cancer will come back. And for me, so far — and knock on wood or formica or perhaps a granite kitchen countertop —it hasn’t.
Yet, in a way I never expected, it has.
The news came during October, the month that NFL players wore pink receiver gloves to draw attention to breast cancer. A disease that has become so prevalent among our mothers, our wives, our sisters, our daughters and ourselves, that our men are no longer worried about showing their public support.
Never miss a local story.
I was a bit late for work one morning this week. I let everyone know early. “Doctor’s appointment — 9 AM Fort Lauderdale,’’ the email read. What I didn’t say is that it was for the oncologist.
Not for me. For my dog, my Love Bucket, my Oscar.