My Therapist Eats Hay

When the phone rang that late Friday afternoon in September, I answered without thought. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I heard what my doctor had to say. After all, I’d already had an ultrasound, an MRI, and a needle-biopsy, but my innate optimism, my desire to always find a half-filled glass even among its broken shards, left me hopeful for good news. I wasn’t ready for, “You have breast cancer.”

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