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September 25, 2013
M would have been 65 this week; when she died, she was 53 going on 54, but until that last cancer attacked, she barely looked forty: slender, flowing blonde hair, happy laugh, an enthusiasm for life. How I wish I could pick up the phone and call her--we'd be on the phone for hours, and she'd understand everything--my anger at R's ignorance on Saturday, how indignant I feel when people label me by age. She never let herself be labeled; like me, she thought denial a good thing, especially when people are trying to put you into an artificial box.