20 YEARS AGO TODAY, St. Patrick’s Day, 2006, was the night I hit the anger stage—among the 5 stages of breast cancer grief.
By then, a month after finding my lump, I knew I was facing a double mastectomy. But on March 17, it finally landed: Everything had to go.
EVERYTHING.
I hadn’t fully understood it until that moment… everything!?! Really??
Man, I was furious!! Up to that point, I thought I’d handled it well — the discovery, the tests, the decisions. But sitting in my doctor’s office that day, reality broke through.
Cancer was about to take away part of my sexual identity.
That night, I went out with friends — green beer, music, dancing. On the surface, it looked like a celebration. Inside, I was unraveling. People laughed, shouted, showed off their green tongues. I watched, stunned by how normal everything seemed. And I was so. incredibly. angry. (And yes, scared, too.)
March 17, 2006, became known as my own, personal “St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.” It was one of the emotionally toughest days of my cancer year.
What else would cancer steal from me in 2006? My hair, my son, my income. All, thankfully, briefly — unlike the permanence of a double mastectomy and reconstruction.
Of all the St. Patrick’s Days in my life — and there have been many good ones — that one is etched in me forever.
20 years later, I’m here to memorialize my journey and support others who may just be starting their battle. I’d be honored if you considered supporting my Making Strides campaign:
Good News Is Gospill 
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