Catherine Gigante-Brown

The office cubicle is indeed a strange bird. Here's how to survive life in a box without driving you—or your office mates—crazy.

I dreaded putting him back on Concerta in the fall but I knew I had to. Or did I?

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

Why, when I'm cool with being a salt-and-pepper chick, does it so clearly unnerve others?

You realize pretty soon that everything other than cancer — i.e. missing a train, being late to your dentist appointment — is no biggie compared to the suck factor of chemo.

Even when I explained to my son that he came from a long line of short people, it didn’t help. David still felt bad about being small. How could a five-year-old possibly get this type of size-shaming message? From other people, mostly insensitive adults. They gave him the idea that bigger was somehow better.

"Remember, this isn’t just happening to you, it’s happening to moms everywhere. It’s not your fault — "

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

"Sometimes David wore his hair spiked like a cockscomb. Others, he wore it feathery like a baby chick. He wore his Mohawk to summer camp (exchanging encouraging head chucks with another older camper who sported one, too) and even to Vacation Bible School—no judgment there."

After I got over the initial devastation, I pulled myself up by my big-girl panties and got on with it. Chemo was no picnic—but it was do-able.