My Bogeyman’s Name Is Cancer
Ignorance is bliss, but not when it comes to hereditary illness
The bogeyman: In Quebec, we call him Bonhomme Sept Heures; in France he’s Croque-Mitaine. In Spanish, it’s El Coco or Cucuy. Whatever you call him, he’s a mythical monster used around the world to scare children into good behavior.
Adults like to pretend there’s no such thing as the bogeyman when the truth is we just have other names for him.
My bogeyman’s name is cancer.
It took my father when I was 16. Then it took his brother, too. On my mother’s side, cancer is sprinkled around like fatal confetti: too many relatives and varieties to list.
The bogeyman lurks in the shadows of my family tree, waiting.
It was Friday evening around six when my doctor called with the results of the breast biopsy I’d had Monday. I was in the car with my friend Andrea. The phone rang and we looked at each other. “That’s the doctor,” I told her when I saw the number on the screen.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Andrea declared, and I clicked the button on my steering wheel to answer. I started looking for a place to pull over and my doctor’s voice came through the car speakers.
