Catherine Gigante-Brown

Content Notice: Death

I fumbled with my lace bra, hoping my silicone form wouldn't fall out from the left cup. I wasn't exactly ready . . . yet I was.

At the New York City release party for Dayna Kurtz’ latest, Rise and Fall, my friend Nadia leaned over to me and whispered, “Why the fuck

I sat obediently in her chair atop four ancient copies of the Yellow Pages. Crossing my fingers, I prayed Catholic schoolgirl prayers.

If the odds of getting cancer are like Powerball, why couldn't I be a scratch-off millionaire?

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.

erotic. intimate. unapologetic.

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

In the photograph, my great-grandmother, Margarita Cirigliano, is sitting at a small table on the front porch of the family home in Borough Park, Brooklyn.

BCBs are loud and proud and refuse to go down easy. And quietly. We have things to say. We have things to teach. We still have life to live. And damn it, we are and we will. With one breast. With no breasts. With reconstruction surgery.