I planned my funeral the Christmas I was 26. Earlier that month I found a lump in my breast, and in the two weeks it took to have a mammogram, wait for the results to come back and then get an appointment with a doctor, I completely overreacted, and planned for my eventual demise. I envisioned my whole family participating in the funeral Mass, to be held at the parish in my hometown, and concelebrated by several of my parents’ priest friends. Mom and Dad would do the readings, my siblings would provide musical accompaniment (although one's sister's piano repertoire, featuring “I’ve got a mule her name is Sal, 15 years on the Erie Canal,” didn't lend itself to funeral dirges, another sister hadn't played her flute in a few years, and I couldn't figure out how to incorporate my brother's drums into the liturgy) We’d wrap up at the cemetery where another brother would play Taps on his trumpet. I was still pondering the choice of eulogist when I finally saw the surgeon. He stuck a needle in the lump, pronounced it a cyst, drained the fluid and sent me on my way. I called off the embalmers, canceled the clerics and promptly forgot the funeral plans. Fifteen Christmases, and several false alarms later, another lump. Again it was a cyst, again it was aspirated, again it disappeared, but then it came back. I thought it looked the same. So did the ultrasound technician. So did the surgeon. We weren’t worried. He didn’t see cancer, I didn’t think cancer; no one said cancer. Except the pathologist. And so, with no anticipatory gritting of teeth, or stiffening of spine or catastrophic contemplation ... without even a whimper, never mind a bang … I had cancer. People told me they’d pray for me. People who knew me better said, “You’re tough, you’ll get through it.” People who knew me best said, “You’re a writer, you’re bound to get a book out of it!” The book didn't materialize but this photo essay did.
