That Time I Turned 48 and Got Molested by a Healer

A few weeks ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And, like many Americans, before I was able to fight the disease, I was forced to battle my insurance company. I wasn’t told the stage or size of the mass, nor how long I had to live, I was only told that the cancer was there, and that soon I would be referred to a surgical oncologist, via a letter in the mail. So, while I waited for said letter to arrive, and while my kids were in school, I spent hours talking to different insurance people. When my girls were with their dad, I spent entire days on the phone. A few times I jumped into my car and drove around town to different doctors I had researched, begging them to help me. I was advocating for myself. Getting shit done. Making appointments. Not allowing myself to become another statistic or become invisible. I was being heard and with any luck: being seen. And when my kids came home, I pretended like everything was fine and we played The Game of Life or went roller skating or danced around the kitchen while I cooked dinner. But the stress of the unknown was massive. Waiting for “the letter” to arrive while not feeling able to tell my kids, family or friends was making my body ache with tension. So, when my 48th birthday arrived I decided to book myself a much-needed massage.