5 People you meet on the way to a biopsy

Reacting properly to life's twists, turns, and unwanted growths isn't easy. What is the proper reaction to a tumor the size of a jelly bean in my right breast? At least 950,000 self-help authors say they can teach me the best way to deal with anything, but sometimes it's hard to know for sure.

Different people handle things differently. For some, happy hour makes everything better. For others, seclusion and silence offer the best medicine. No two solutions look alike.

Perhaps, then, we can agree on how not to react. Yelling at a smoker that he should be the one with "lumpy boobs" or spitting on a skinny woman's double cheeseburger will not win me any friends.

Only a restraining order or two.

The best reaction is probably the one that leaves me feeling strong and secure. In the end, I want to feel like I can take on the world and any disease that dares to mess with me.

One part bitterness, three parts humor - that's how I react to almost everything life throws my way. It worked when I had to wear a training bra until junior year in high school. It worked during college before I found a sober hair stylist. It worked best of all during those at-home mom years when my only friends were Elmo and an overeager washing machine.

I see no reason to alter my outlook now.

When telling people about an upcoming biopsy, I've found their reactions vary and aren't always appropriate. They generally fall into five distinct categories.

The Worrier: This little ball of sunshine doesn't even try to make me feel better. He is the acquaintance who winced when I told him the news. Then he sighed and made awful clucking sounds with tongue and teeth.

My neighbor wondered aloud "about the children."

One lifelong friend shakes his head every time I say, "I'm fine."

"You can't possibly be," he says with his eyes.

Another read the news my lump was a "4 out of 6" when ranked for level of concern, but processed the information as "Stage 4" and "two years to live."

Put the tequila down, people.

The Pray-er: This character comes in two types.

One is Authentic. My uncle sent a booklet to his favorite Jewish niece from St. Ann's Basilica along with a note saying that his prayers were offered on bricks dedicated to the Walsh and Durkin families. My sister mentioned me in her rosary group and stopped rolling her eyes for two whole weeks. Mom dedicated a Mass to my healing but didn't make me attend.

Despite our different belief systems, their prayers and invocations represent love. Thankfully, we all believe in that.

The other character is Scary. She enjoys fire, brimstone and lectures about how tumors are God's will and a blessing.

Really.

According to Church Lady, setbacks allow us to appreciate suffering. Illness transforms victims into role models and disease reminds us that hell is a real possibility. God has a plan and all.

I smile and nod, because that always encourages crazy talk, before telling her that I'm pretty sure God thinks illness and disease sucks, just like the rest of us.

Think Positive Lady: Everything is going to be fine if I would simply add more blueberries to my yogurt in the morning before yoga and wash it down with nine cups of green tea.

Plus a good colon cleansing couldn't hurt.

I love this smelly girl and her dreadlocks, really I do, but if she encourages me to mumble "I am healing. I am healed" one more time in the vitamin aisle of my favorite nutrition store, Granola Girl is getting a bottle of wheat germ upside the head.

The One-Upper: It doesn't matter what I've got going on, this lady has me beat. She will see my hypothyroidism and raise me a goiter the size of Delaware. And don't get her started on her bunion.

Did I hear about her daughter? She had a bilateral mastectomy three years ago and just finished her final reconstruction surgery. Those new breasts look fabulous.

That's right. I don't know from suffering.

Not So Secretly Smug: This person (read: Dad) can be summed up in the following conversation:

Dad: How's that diet and exercise workin' for you?

Me: I read somewhere that healthy patients recover quicker than those who aren't in shape. They have an easier time during treatment as well.

Dad: Eat a steak. You'll feel better.

Me: I doubt that.

Dad: Look at me. I just ate three bacon and cheese sandwiches, plus a nice cold beer. I feel fine.

Me: Your pill box begs to differ.

Silence.

Me (leaning over the Barcalounger): Are you ignoring me?

Mom (from the kitchen): No sweetheart. He fell asleep.

I try to remember that all of these people are wishing me the best no matter how it comes across. Underneath the neuroses, tics, sighs and prayers lies a strong foundation of support and love. Yes, reactions vary and aren't always appropriate; but whether you write or call, text or e-mail, cry or laugh, reaching out to those who are sick and expressing concern is a mitzvah.

And I will never forget it.

Catherine Durkin Robinson is a busy mom and freelance writer living in Tampa. In her spare time, she investigates missing socks. Her column runs every other Saturday in 4you. Visit her online at www.outinleftfield.com.