Boy, this letter brings up some bad memories.

Four years ago, my father, previously healthy as a horse, was diagnosed with advanced rectal cancer. Thankfully, he is now cancer free, albeit with the constant reminder of a permanent colostomy.

I can't help feeling that if he'd known that his own mother had died of this disease, instead of "women's cancer" as the rest of his family so delicately put it, and that many members of his family had polyps, he may have gone for a colonoscopy at 40, instead of when he started feeling sick.

The fact that his family would rather have it known that his mother died of a gynecological disease rather than colon cancer shows just how stigmatized this problem was in the past.

Know your family's health history. If older members of your family seem deliberately fuzzy about why grandma died, press harder. It may save your life.

It's about freaking time!

Despite growing up in Buffalo, I have always hated summer. As a child, the sun gave me migraines, the amusement park was torture, and a trip to the beach inevitably brought out the water spider bites I was terribly allergic to. People who leave out "fair" city always say they miss the change of seasons, but global warming seems to have destroyed spring and fall - its snowing one day and the next week its 85 degrees. I'll sit in front of my new portable air conditioner, thanks. And as someone who totes along a pair of 42DDs everywhere she goes (and who can't afford the breast reduction without insurance covering it, which they won't), I damn all of you to hell with your spaghetti straps.

When my father was diagnosed with advanced rectal cancer, Christ eight years ago now, his oncologist gave him this bit of advice, that I will now pass on to you...

"They can't close the casket if you have an erection."

Dad has been cancer free for six years.