As Benjamin Franklin pointed out, the only two certainties in life are death and taxes. The latter comes as a grim reminder every March. The former, well, you never expect it, no matter how well-prepared you think you are. Intimations of my own mortality came without warning this January, when a routine mammogram showed micro calcifications. The radiologist suggested I have a biopsy. Exactly 20 years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was 55 then. I was now 52. I had known for two decades that I had a 50% chance of getting it. But wasn’t it too early?  Doctors refer to my mother’s cancer politely as “family history”. So, given my “family history”, I have an annual mammogram. But I never expected to be told that I’d have to have a biopsy. You often look at the words ‘50% chance’ and assume that you will be the other 50%; the half that will never get it. A friend reacted in horror when I told her about the biopsy. “But you were supposed to outlive us all,” she said. Honestly, I’d thought so too.

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