The guy was a glutton for punishment.  It didn’t seem to matter how many times he was knocked down—he just kept coming back for more, each time with a big, silly grin on his face.  But it was the way he was designed—his name was BoBo and he was the inflatable bop-bag clown that my son loved to trounce.

As I struggled through the maze of breast cancer, I could relate to BoBo for it felt like every time I’d manage to get up I’d be knocked off my feet again—first it was the diagnosis; then two surgeries instead of one; then a full, thirty-five day course of radiation instead of the one-week short version; then chemotherapy that nobody initially thought was necessary; then not just one but two rounds of chemo; then my mother’s strokes in the midst of everything else; then my husband’s open heart surgery sandwiched in…