Three Sisters

I work for a company that makes hospital gowns. I know what you're thinking: those awful, paper-thin robes that never fit right and leave your you-know-what freezing while you wait nervously to undergo a test or treatment.

Well, those are exactly what we don't make. We make soft, comfortable, kimono-style robes that help women and men feel good and look great during difficult times. The garments offer easy access for treatment but look less medical than those gowns everyone hates. 

The company is called "Spirited Sisters" because it was started by three gals: my sister Claire, my sister Patty and me. We knew plenty about tests and treatments. From our own experience with cancer we learned to trust the Spirit as it led us, guided us and finally comforted us through a terrible loss. It started with me.

I was used to going to checkups at the dermatologist. It was never a big deal. Years earlier my internist expressed some concern about my basal cells. She recommended that I go to the skin specialist every six months.

Then one day in the spring of 2002 I noticed something a little unusual on my arm. I put it out of my mind until my next appointment. I'd had friends with melanoma—the deadliest type of skin cancer. Whatever I had didn't look like melanoma to me. I didn't think it was anything to worry about.

My dermatologist did a biopsy. Five days later I got home to no fewer than five voicemail messages from her. "You have to have this removed immediately," she said. The urgency in her voice made my heart race. I frantically tried to call her back. I finally reached her. It was a melanoma. It looked nothing like the melanomas I'd seen before, but it comes in many forms. "I've already made an appointment for you with a surgeon," she told me.

I was 52 at the time, with a great career running an interior-design company, my husband, Richard, whom I adored, and two children who needed me. My first thought was, I am going to die. My son, Matthew, was engaged. My next thought was, I'll never make it to Chicago for his wedding…I'll have to ask our priest to come to the house and perform the ceremony here.

My daughter, Meaghan, was in college. I won't get to see her graduate… Richard was also frightened, but calm. "We'll get through this," he said, holding me. 

By then it was too late at night to call anyone else. I knew that first thing in the morning I'd call Patty. Not only is she my sister, she's a psychologist. She'd held the hands of friends as they lived with, and sometimes died from, cancer.