September is a loaded month—freighted with good things and bad.
Good: My daughter was born in September after I spent nearly a decade trying to conceive her.
Bad: On her 15th birthday I found the tumor that sent me into nearly a year and a half of treatment, from which I emerged breastless and nearly hairless.
Good: September has become the date on which I measure my survival. This year is my sixth post-diagnosis September.
Bad: ERROR became TERROR within a few moments on a September morning 10 years ago—and every September since then has carried the threat of annihilation.
Good: Most of us are still here.
Good: Most of us are still here.
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