Season of Pink

As I was composing this post, I received a blast email from my 3rd grader's school, letting us know that the children are invited to wear pink on Thursdays of this month to "increase awareness of this disease." Now, I'm not sure why 6- to 10-year old kids need to have their awareness raised, but I'm willing to withhold judgement. Perhaps this will help my daughter feel less isolated and more supported at school. With this as a possibility, I can understand why some people with breast cancer appreciate the pink ribbons and Breast Cancer Awareness Month. If so, I'm glad that they get something positive out of all the pink, and to them, I raise my pink wine in a toast of solidarity. We're all in this together.

But for me, there's another, less positive side to the being surrounded by pink. It's everywhere we look. A simple pencil? Pink.*

A package of sausages? Pink.

 

These friggin' porta potties? Pink!*

 

Okay, let's put aside the way companies often use the ribbon as a marketing tool. That's been covered by other thoughtful and smart people.

This is my visceral reaction to it, and it's something I've always felt. After watching my mother and then one of my closest friends die of breast cancer, I don't think we should "dress up" what women experience. Breast cancer is often a combination of disfigurement, disability, and/or life ending. Look at some pictures of women after a mastectomy. See the scars, the drains, the swelling, the fatigue and pain. It's not pretty and it's certainly not pink.

Survivors are under a constant cloud of anxiety that the cancer may come back, and if it comes back, will be terminal. Women with metastatic disease may live for months or years, but always knowing that their time is limited. Time with children, spouses, parents, friends, colleagues. Time to zip line in Costa Rica, to ride a camel in Morocco. Time to see children married and grandchildren born. Time to watch good movies on a rainy day.Time to dance and sing with abandon at rock concerts. Time to laugh at silly memories. This knowledge is not pretty and it's certainly not pink.

As people with cancer approach death, they are but a semblance of their healthy selves. Often bloated or emaciated, with bruises, catheters, in intense pain and in a haze of pain killers; unable to fully articulate their thoughts and feelings; unable to sit up and hug their loved ones; smelling not of their familiar fragrances, but sour and antiseptic. As loved ones, we say goodbye to the idea of the person, for the actual person has long faded. It's not pretty and it's certainly not pink.

Designed for me by my talented friend, Bryan.

The image of the breast cancer survivor/warrior, strong, brave, courageous, and victorious is a lovely image of hope. It's real, no doubt about it. Certainly, more women than not, now survive breast cancer. It's a wonderful aspiration. But if we are going to discuss what cancer is while we're fighting; if we're going to include the women who continue to live with metastatic disease; if we are going to include the MEN living with and dying from it; if we're going to remember those we've lost, let's be honest about it. Let's not hide. It's ugly, painful, and scary. It's not pretty and it's certainly not pink.

*Images of pink porta-potties and pencils were taken by my dear friend, Jennifer, who passed away 3 years ago this month. She and I shared a general dislike of the pink products.



Want to read more? Some articles that speak to me:
My Disease Isn't a Cutesy Slogan

National No Bra Day and Breast Cancer Awareness Month — OR — Please Put That Pink Can of Soup Down & Put Your Bra Back On

Our Feel-Good War on Breast Cancer