Post-October

I am definitely not one of the breast cancer survivors who embrace the pink. I've come to dread October; I get nauseous looking at all of the pink ribbons; I won't go near a Safeway because I've been known to reply in unexpected ways to the perky cashier asking if I'd like to donate to breast cancer ("No thanks, I gave at the oncologist's office"); I find the constant barrage of "Donate to breast cancer" mailings and emails utterly annoying - seriously, I did everything possible to get rid of the damn stuff, why would I donate to it? USE A GRAMMAR GUIDE PEOPLE!! I even hate getting the October issues of magazines, since every one of them has a litany of "tips" to help me avoid getting breast cancer; I'm waiting for the first brave editor to finally just say, "It's random, you might get it even if you do everything right." Of course they'd be fired before it came to print, still...

This week I I did read one issue (actually it was a November issue) that gave me pause, though, More Magazine ran a set of articles written by young survivors about how they are dealing with the ramifications of breast cancer 10, 12, 15 years out. One woman said she'd finally gotten to the point where she could mourn the breasts she lost to mastectomy 12 years before, but only when she'd reached menopause and finally realized she was going to live to be an old woman, something she'd never hoped for in the years following her mastectomy. Another woman kept making deals with God to live until... Until she had children, until her children reached their teens, until she could see them get married, and finally, until she met her first grandchild. She still makes deals for each day. She survived the thing that could easily kill her, so every day is a gift.

The one that struck me most deeply was the story of the woman whose friendship fell apart with the friend who cared for her during her breast cancer treatment. That same friend was diagnosed shortly after. their diagnoses and treatments were different. Each tried to be there for the other, but what ended the friendship was how each of the women handled their cancer. One needed to get through and move on with her life, the other needed to talk about it every day. After awhile, and after several inappropriate comments, the writer simply stopped answering the phone or calling her friend back. She could not live her life constantly thinking about the thing that hurt her so deeply. The writer affirms that many people say that cancer made them a better person, for her, it didn't, it just made her "quicker with the trapdoor." she learned to find her limits and remove herself from those who pushed them too far.

That's how I feel about October. I do everything I can to avoid the pink. To me it is nothing more than a reminder that my body has been mutilated by cancer. A pretty pink ribbon belongs no where near me, so I'll be trapdooring them as best I can.