Catherine Gigante-Brown

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

I try. I really do. But whenever I attempt to embrace my husband Peter’s Cuban culture, I always screw up.

At first, I felt like an abandoned ten-year-old, dropped off at a remote summer camp—with the extra added attraction of no cell phone reception or Wi-Fi. I thought the hardest part of the weekend was going to be picking out a robe. Boy, was I wrong!

Upset you lost your keys? Try losing your breast. Pissed off about missing that train? Try missing your son’s 8th grade graduation because of a horrific infection from fluid buildup in the previously-mentioned missing breast. See what I mean? It kind of puts life into perspective.

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

Having someone steal my cancer history and co-opt it for their first-person Facebook blog is unbelievably violating. Somehow, it feels almost as invasive as my mastectomy.

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

I’m sure you’ll find it a delicious and well-stocked place. There are just a few rules

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

That’s the thing about being a breast cancer survivor — it’s always there: it never goes away. The scars, the fear that lurks in the back of your mind like a boogeyman. You’re going along nicely, living your merry life, and you’re fine, until you’re not.