A cyst grew on my stomach. Sometimes I squeezed pus out of it. It was bothersome, sitting beneath my belly button, begging to be burst. But it didn’t hurt. So it was a long time before I scheduled a doctor’s appointment. A minor surgical procedure removed it. A year later the cyst was back. This time I was in jail. Two correctional officers drove me from the county jail to the Boston Medical Center. A chain was wrapped around my waist. My hands were cuffed and connected to the chain around my waist. My feet were cuffed too. I took baby steps as I walked through the hospital lobby. People stared. A woman asked me what I had done. The correctional officers removed the cuffs when we entered the exam room. I lay on a hospital bed. When I awoke the cyst was gone. Years later it grew back again. This time the doctor said, "The pathologist is going to test a piece of the cyst. We will call you in a week with the results." After week the telephone rang. "Ms. Wright, we need you to come in." I sat diagonal to the doctor. He looked through my medical record. Then he turned to me and said, "Ms. Wright, you have a rare form of cancer."