Cancer is such a bitchPosted: October 10, 2012
Yesterday I was picking up a prescription at Walgreens — finally one that has nothing to do with breast cancer or the post-mastectomy infection that plagued me for more than a year — and I smiled to myself as I waited in line behind the senior citizens getting their Lipitor and the mom with 3 small kids getting her flu shot (good idea, with those little snot machines attached to her every appendage, said the germophobe in me). I smiled to myself despite the fact that as soon as I walked in the door I was confronted by the display of “pink ribbon products” designed to “raise breast cancer awareness” and “help save a life.” Quotation marks very definitely mine, and intended to convey the maximum amount of snark possible.
I smiled in spite of having passed the pinked-up display of nail polish, glittery lip gloss, pink-ribbon bedecked emery boards, and “hope, faith, and a cure” shower caps (how in the world have I managed without one of those?). I smiled to myself because I was upright, in line at Walgreens under my own steam, having driven myself on a brilliantly sunny day without help from anyone. While my knee is still in recovery mode from the most recent repair, I’m for the most part healthy and able-bodied.
I’m healthy and able-bodied and going about my routine on a very ordinary day with no surprises like finding infection-riddled, 3-inch blisters that were hanging from my mastectomy scars like stalactites hanging from a cave wall. Like the sharp pain that literally felt like a knife blade stabbing through my chest wall as the nerves tried to regenerate after being sliced & diced, post-mastectomy. Like the shock of having caught a glimpse of my new profile in the glass of a store window. Like the pulse-pounding, breath-stealing fear of recurrence that plagues me and other cancer warriors on a regular basis.
No, no surprises yesterday as I waited in line at Walgreens. Instead of surprises, I felt a sense of happiness. A sense of calm. A sense of — dare I say — normalcy. Just an ordinary woman on a routine errand to pick up an RX for low thyroid. I’m far removed from the multiple trips a week to Walgreens that were necessary during the infection phase, and now that I get my cancer-related maintenance meds through the mail, Walgreens is not a place I make an appearance on a thrice-weekly basis.
I was a happy girl as the pharmacist handed me my new prescription, which will hopefully kick-start my lazy thyroid into gear so I can manage to not collapse at 8 pm every night like a cranky toddler. I was happy and calm and normal, until I swiped my credit card and the little machine asked me if I wanted to donate to the Susan G Komen for the Cure. There was the infamous pink ribbon logo atop neat little boxes offering a $1, a $5, a $10 or a $50 option to add to my pharmacy tab.
And just like that, my ordinary day turned on me.
This, my friends, is why I hate October. This is why pinkwashing makes me see red. This is why I rant and rail in this blogspace about the messed-up system that has deemed an entire month for “awareness.”
I AM AWARE OF BREAST CANCER.
Whew, I feel a little better. I wanted to do that in Walgreens yesterday, but I did not. I did not curse, stomp my feet, smash a single thing, or whack a single person. And for that I would like a medal. Or a trophy. Or a cold beer.
I’m glad that the grand poohbahs who run the Walgreens corporation place an emphasis on charity. I like charity. I think charity is a good thing. But come on, does it have to be Komen, and does it have to be so in my face all month long?? In all fairness, it’s possible that Walgreens does shove other charities down customers’ throats in other months of the year and this particular customer hasn’t noticed. But I’ve swiped my card at the pharmacy window many, many, many times at Walgreens and never been accosted by a “donate now” screen on the little machine. I’m quite certain I was swiping my card through that same machine many times the last 2 Octobers and did not see Komen with its hand out and its “Remember you had cancer, lady” banner flying.
Trevor and I had a lively discussion last night, and again this morning, about the whole pinkwashing/Pinktober/Komen/awareness issue. The course of the conversation ran from why all the pink makes me crazy, how unfair it seems that other cancers don’t get so much attention and hype, how the awareness idea has gone wrong, and which causes are worthy of pink dollars. The consensus was this: the time for awareness has long come and gone. We are all well aware of breast cancer. Komen did great things for breast cancer, and the awareness, in the early days. Members of the pink ribbon club owe Komen a debt of gratitude, IMHO, for de-stigmatizing the disease and for making it culturally acceptable to talk about breasts in a medical context. But there are many, many other deserving and hard-working charities that do more actual good for the women and men who suffer from breast cancer. I’m happy to see that some of those causes are gaining attention and getting a piece, or a few crumbs, of the Komen pie. However, we have a long way to go, which is why I’m compelled to yell my head off in this little blog about things like how precious little of Komen’s huge budget actually goes toward research. How infuriating the pinkwashing pandemic is to those of us who’ve walked miles and miles in pink shoes. How the blatant sexualizing of breast cancer makes me want to throw up and punch someone at the same time. How seeing a grown woman in a “Save the Tatas” shirt causes me to go all Serena Williams on her in the grocery store.
This is the reality of October for breast cancer survivors/warriors/victims/patients. And it stinks. I find myself counting the days until this month ends. That it’s also the month in which my sweet mama died from the insidious ovarian cancer that stalked her for years just adds to the misery. What I wouldn’t give for one day, just one day, in which cancer didn’t smack me — and millions others like me — in the face. Even on an ordinary day, cancer has the ability to knock me senseless and dare me to right myself and keep on keepin’ on, yet again. Cancer is such a bitch.