All my life, I've had a crooked smile, a warped sense of humor and a defective cancer gene. As a regular member of the Chemo Club for the last seven years, it seems like I've spent more time in the wig shop than the beauty salon.

Recently, I had some dental work done that called for putting temporary crowns on my two front teeth. Halfway through my meal at a fancy restaurant, both crowns fell out onto my plate. I couldn't help milking the situation, so I wailed mournfully to my husband, "Oh, Len, will you still love me when I'm snaggletoothed and bald?" He delighted our guests by reminding me, "Fran, you are snaggletoothed and bald ... but I still love you!"

My sense of humor has helped me get through a lot of situations--like the day a traffic cop pulled me over for speeding. As I scrambled around for my license, I tried to take off my sunglasses, but they got caught in my wig. I gave the glasses an awkward tug, and the wig flew out the window, landing on the officer's feet. I stuck my naked head out, looking around for the wig as he stared in horror at the tousled, dark brown mess draped over his boots. He obviously didn't want to touch it and I was too afraid to open the door to pick it up. I stifled a giggle, and then we both started laughing hysterically.

My medical chart is not so amusing: 21 surgeries, breast and ovarian cancers, Graves' and Hashimoto's diseases. In 1998, I stood beside the doctor viewing my CT scans for stage IIIC ovarian cancer, and there, glowing in the dark, were enough tumors to fill an English tea set--cups, creamer, pot and all.