During a routine test to check if the cancer had spread, my dad went into anaphylactic shock due to a serious allergic reaction to the iodine used in the test. He went into full cardiac arrest three times before he was stabilized and moved to ICU. The doctor in charge came out to ask my sister and me if my dad had left any “instructions." Huh? We were just there for a test, what was he talking about?

My Aunt Florence was a cross between Anne Morrow Lindbergh, who worshipped a pearl for its flaws and lived for the sound of the sea -- and Martha Stewart on a good day, who could fold sixty napkins into doves without breaking a thread and glue holly berries back on a bush to make a centerpiece with ninety even tangential points. The likenesses rather end there, however; Aunt Florence was never indicted by a grand jury and she chose a tub over the ocean for her morning bath.

It's all come down to waiting. Waiting since the middle of night for morning and my trip to the hospital. Waiting to answer endless questions. Waiting to have my clothing, jewelry and identity removed. Waiting for a doctor to cut out a piece of my breast. Waiting to find out if I have cancer.