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.
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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.