When we told the kids that I had cancer, they were of course worried that I would die. Being scientists, we opted not to tell the kids I had cancer because of some “icky yucky germs” like one children’s book we’d been given suggested. (Seriously?) Instead, I explained to them that cancer cells grow out of control, they don’t stop when they’re supposed to like normal cells. I told them that people can die from cancer, when the cancer cells are in a part of your body that you need to live and the cancer takes over so that part can’t do its job. They didn’t need to worry, though, I didn’t need my breasts to survive, the doctors could do surgery and take the breast tissue out and I’d be fine, no cancer, and it wouldn’t change the way my body worked.
Last night I was wearing a tank top. When I stretched, the kids noticed the scar that’s in my armpit from where they sampled my lymph nodes. They asked about it, and I told them that’s where the doctors checked to make sure that there wasn’t any cancer, and reassured them that there wasn’t.
Turner’s response: “Oh, because you don’t need your armpit.”
I guess he thinks the doctors removed my armpit.