. . . January 5 seemed so far away. But that was as early as they could see me again. I asked to speak to a doctor; perhaps an explanation over the phone would allay my fears. But it didn’t. I promised myself, reformed hypochondriac that I am, that during the second mammogram I wouldn’t care how hard the machine clamped down on my breast, I would yield to the pain. I needed that machine to do its job and not see what it had seen before.

Since October 2008, I've kept a secret.

Like hundreds and thousands of other women, I observe October as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It's easy for me to remember because my birthday is in October also. But October 2008 found me working the full-time job from hell while trying, unsuccessfully, to find my little piece of on-air radio heaven. Little pink ribbons were distributed which I promptly affixed on my always black lapel. I even purchased a pink leather wrist band to show my support for the cause. When worn with my two other pink rubber bracelets, it makes the ultimate fashion and social statement. My employer, which laid me off a month later, encouraged the wearing of the pink. Kind of like the wearing of the green but without the Guinness and Beamish—and definitely not as much fun. I believe the consent was afforded only to sell more pink goods to customers who over the last several years have become inundated with stuff emblazoned with the pink ribbon logo or pink packaging.  All with the promise that a small portion of the proceeds will go to some organization that's fighting breast cancer. Want to sell recycled toilet seats to women?  Package them in pink!