I live in my empty nest in Wilton, Connecticut (a suburb 45 miles north of New York City) with my husband of 29 years, Alan, and our aging Bichon, Chloe, who seems to have nine lives. When I'm not working at writing, my passions (in no particular order) include Broadway shows, movies, exercise and dance, travel, reading and cooking healthful foods.
Breast cancer has brought me down many roads—at first, dark bumpy roads mottled with potholes of fear and sorrow so deep that I swore I'd fall into them and never climb out. Then, with each passing year of continued good health, those roads became smoothly paved so that I could walk with a bit more of a firm footing and lighter step.
I've seen a lot and I've done a lot since then. Both my sons have graduated from college and make their home in New York City. I lost my two best friends to breast cancer but have ushered many other friends through it. I returned to school for my MFA in writing, spurred by my desire to write about breast cancer and all the factual, yet emotional, implications of it. I've involved myself with survivor groups and fund-raisers and celebrations—all because of those three impossibly powerful words articulated to me almost 20 years ago, three words that I can still hear with an acute clarity.
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