My mom has stage 1 breast cancer. Way stage 1, so I’m really confident that she’s going to be fine, and she feels the same way. My dad, on the other hand, is pretty freaked out. We went through this last year with Pete’s mom, and thank goodness that turned out out as well as it did. I’m calmer this time, I think.

Here’s how it played out: my mom was at a DAR meeting (yes, she’s in the DAR, which means I’m eligible, too – wahooey!) and the guest speaker was a doctor. His topic was women’s health, and he talked about mammograms, and how often to get them, and my mom thought, “Huh. I think it’s been a while.” In my opinion, that was one of her spirit guides tapping her on the shoulder. She went in, had an abnormal reading, and went back for a second one. Then a needle biopsy. The cancer is very tiny — microscopic — and not growing, so a lumpectomy ought to take care of it. I seriously doubt they’ll recommend chemo, and we’ll see if they talk about radiation. Of course I’ll be there when she’s having surgery.

She described the needle biopsy as no big deal, and she thought it was amusing how the nurse was patting her shoulder and trying to prepare her for it. “After the mental illness when I was young, being straightjacketed and having shock treatments at 23, a needle prick isn’t going to do me in.”

If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger, right? I’m glad I wasn’t born yet when she was having the ’50s-era psychiatric help, but I’m also glad that she hasn’t kept it a secret from me. In case I haven’t said so lately, I think she’s a remarkable woman.