Catherine Gigante-Brown

I asked a handful of women: why are people so scared of ladyparts?

It sounded too good to be true: comfortable, attractive bra inserts for breast cancer survivors like me. I got on the computer, checked out their website, and immediately put in for one.

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

I go for checkups when I’m supposed to: every three months to the oncologist and every six months to the breast surgeon. I go to SHARE support group meetings to bolster myself. I try to get enough sleep, despite the occasional night spent wide-eyed with dread.

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

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

We’ve pieced ourselves back together in a patchwork quilt of ragged emotions. The aftermath of 9/11 wasn’t easy for us, yet it was much easier than for some. People standing 50 feet away from Peter didn’t come home that night; he did.

Being a little bit chubby is better than being a lot dead.

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

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.