As we drove away from the oncologist's office at GBMC, Janet declared that we needed to give her tumor a name. She had recently read Why I Hated Pink, a memoir by nurse and breast cancer survivor Maryellen D. Brisbois, and the author had dubbed her own tumor The Fucker. Moreover, a friend from our church has dealt with a blood clot in her leg for 16 years now; she calls it Cloteus (Claudius?) Maximus, and insists that her husband and son celebrate its birthday. So yeah, I get it - much like Lord Voldemort, you can't be afraid to call your nemesis by its name. Don't give it that kind of power over you.
I tried to be a good English/Theatre major and drop a punny Shakespeare reference. I suggested Titania, the queen of the fairies from A Midsummer Night's Dream. (It's also the name of the largest moon of Uranus, according to my crack Google research. Titania? Uranus? This isn't even fair.) Neither of us really loved that one, though, so I dug deeper.
"You should call your tumor Titmonster."
Janet dissolved into giggles, which just happens to be one of my favorite sounds in the world. Done deal. We have met the enemy, and it is Titmonster.