The Truth About Being Fearless With Cancer

Hate when people say "I'm not afraid of anything" cuz, like, have you seen things? They're terrifying.

� MehGyver (@AndrewNadeau0) August 23, 2017

Several months ago, one of my old high school teachers emailed me to ask if I�d consider sharing my story with her moms' church group. (And by old I mean �former.� That woman hasn�t aged a minute. She�s lovely.)Her group had been focusing on the topic of �fearlessness in the face of adversity,� and she thought I might have, I don�t know, some insight on the subject.

Which bwahahahaha omgggg nooooo. I am the opposite of fearless. I�m scared of at least 23 bajillion things. Also, I don�t do public-speaking. Not voluntarily. When I feel compelled to share something, I perch myself behind the comfortable security of a computer screen.

I could hear the fraud police sounding their sirens.

In a momentary lapse of judgement I wrote back, "Why yes, of course. I�d be happy to speak to your group." It took maybe four seconds after clicking �send� on my reply before the gravity of what I'd just done set in and I was like Dear. God. What. Have. I. DONE?!

via GIPHY

But I was stuck - no backing out. (In hindsight, I could�ve very easily backed out. Cancer card, remember? It came under consideration.)

So fearlessness, huh. What in the world could I say about fearlessness? 

When I sat down and tried to formulate some intelligent thoughts on the topic, I came up short. Like way short. In fact, this whole ordeal had a way of highlighting how terrifically un-brave I actually am.

One rule I have for myself when I write is to be honest. Unapologetically so. If I can�t tell the truth about something, I shouldn�t bother writing about it. So that�s what I did. I told the truth.

I stood in front of a bunch of moms who were hoping to hear encouraging words on how to be powerful and strong and brave and I told them sorry I�m none of those things no joke I�m afraid of seesaws even. (It then occurred to me that I probably shouldn't pursue a career in motivational speaking.)

But c�mon. It's not like cancer came along and tapped me over the head with its magical wand of fearlessness. I didn�t get diagnosed and then poof - holy crap I�m not afraid of death or spiders hiding in my shower anymore this is the best I am INVINCIBLE.

That, uh, didn�t happen. (If you know someone this did happen to, let�s talk. I�d really like to stop being afraid of spiders hiding in my shower. It is so inconvenient.)

What did happen was this - over the last several years, I�ve been presented repeatedly with situations and people and opportunities that have made the following abundantly clear:

I am so NOT ALONE in my suffering. Afraid, yes. Alone, no.

Sidebar: I haven�t alluded directly to my Catholic faith much on this blog. So let�s just get that out in the open. I�m a Catholic, hi. A practicing one, for what it's worth. I believe in God and I pray to Mary and the Saints and I was raised by parents who met their children�s tears with the pragmatic response of: �offer it up.� Moving on.

I can be massively dense sometimes, and I'm pretty sure God knows this about me, so He sends frequent reminders to say Listen up punk, I'm not gonna pull a fast one on ya. I�m not going anywhere.

He's all, "Liz, you insane little person you. I know you�re freaking out, but for Pete's sake, would you calm down for 5 bloody seconds?! I've got you. I'm with you. I can�t take away your suffering, but I can hold your hand through it." Which sounds like a pretty darn good premise for a country song. DON'T YOU DARE STEAL MY IDEA. (Also, I was on the fence about this entire paragraph because it sounds borderline blasphemous to invent ludicrous dialogue coming from God, but I'm also really lazy about editing so get over it already.)

When Cancer Struck (The 2nd Time), I Was Consumed By Fear

Three years ago, Paul�s cancer returned after two years of him being cancer-free. That was a dark time. I can�t speak for Paul, but for me, it was the darkest time of my entire life. Darker than being diagnosed myself.

Moments before our universe imploded in on itself, I was cradling my four-week-old daughter, enjoying the fact that she preferred to spend the bulk of her time sleeping, which lent me the freedom to pursue lofty endeavors. (Breaking Bad. I spent my entire maternity leave watching all five seasons of Breaking Bad. I live my life with no regrets.)

Just as I was about to see how Walt�s attempt to poison deranged drug lord Tuco Salamanca would play out (no regrets!) my phone rang.

It was Paul, and I could tell by his voice that he had been crying. Not the reaction you want to hear from your husband after what was supposed to be a routine checkup with his oncologist.

�Something came up on the scan,� he told me. And I was all �Um no it didn�t because we just had a baby and I�m not even remotely equipped for this and it will ruin everything and how am I supposed to enjoy Tuco being brought to justice if you�re sick again?!� And he was all �I married a lunatic.� And I was all �YOU KNEW WHAT YOU WERE GETTING INTO. DON�T CHANGE THE SUBJECT.�

None of this is fabricated.

Paul and Ingrid, 1-week before chemo. Taking it all in stride, as usual.

In a matter of weeks Paul would start chemo. But chemo wouldn't work.

Next, his surgeon would attempt a debulking operation. Strike two.

At that point, the alternative chemotherapies presented to us had somewhere around a 5-10% chance of working. Stats we weren�t keen to gamble Paul�s life with.

Fear consumed me. After Paul�s failed surgery, it hijacked the last shreds of hope I had held onto so tenuously during all those months of chemo. I remember thinking this was it. No way he survives this disease. 

I was devastated. And afraid. 

I was terrified of all the unknowns lurking in the shadows of the dim road before us. With Paul sick and out of work, how would I support my family when, at best, I had the emotional resilience of, say, a fragile teacup? A scared and timid teacup who gets overwhelmed to the point of paralysis when the grocery store is busy?

Cancer Didn't Make Me Fearless, But It DID Remind Me I'll Never Be Abandoned

Here�s how:

God wouldn�t cure Paul. He also wasn�t going to make me especially brave or even normal enough to go grocery shopping without an emergency Ativan in my purse.

Instead, He would answer our prayers by placing all of these wonderful people in our life who would literally keep us going.

People who would organize a massive fundraiser the month after Paul�s surgery so that we didn�t need to be afraid of not having enough money.

People who would babysit Ingrid so that I didn�t have to miss work while Paul was in the hospital.

People who would point us to experts in the mesothelioma field so that we could approach this disease with less fear and slightly more courage.

God had not abandoned us. Our community was proof of that.

"Do Not Worry About Your Life"

Two years later, the shock of my own cancer diagnosis would, unfortunately, send me back into a downward spiral of panic and despair. One sick spouse is more than most families can handle. How were we going to do this?

When fear attempts to hook its icy claws into me (a common occurrence lately) I like to recall the following passage from Matthew, which happened to be the Gospel reading just days before I started chemo:

�Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or about your body, what you will wear...look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they? Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your lifespan?...so do not worry and say �What are we to eat?� or �What are to drink?� or �what are we to wear?�...Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides.� 

-Matt 6:25-34

I mean even if you�re not particularly Churchy, those are some beautiful words. Beautiful enough to plunk them here for the SECOND time on this blog. (But who's paying attention?)

When The Storm Hits, Cling To The Cross

Growing up, my mom had this huge painting displayed in our dining room. It featured a woman marooned on a perilous bit of earth during a flood, and I always thought it was COMPLETELY HORRIFYING. Please note the outstretched limb of a drowning person in the foreground.

Now before you get all �Catholics are CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs� on me, let me point out what an effective visual reminder this image is. It's hugely compelling. It certainly commands your attention. Particularly if you�re an easily frightened 8-year-old who cries when your mom is 5 minutes late picking you up from dance class (fragile teacup, remember?)

Early on in my treatment, my mom gifted me a smaller copy of this picture saying, �I don�t know if you like this painting, and you totally don�t have to hang it up in your house if you think it�s awful. You won�t hurt my feelings.� 

And, really, it was so perfect. (Thanks, mom.)

Because in our weakest, most desperate moments where we can�t see the light through the storm, what can we do except cling to Christ?

Welp, Okaaaaay. I can think of a few other unsavory things we might turn to in our bleakest moments. I'd be breaking my own  "write-with-honesty" rule if I failed to admit I've nursed my fair share of cheap wine bottles in (way too many) attempts to soften the edges of my suffering. 

In the end, though, that approach led to more searing headaches than anything like clarity or acceptance. 

I can�t make sense of our suffering, or the suffering of our broken world. It defies explanation. I can�t make my husband un-sick, I can�t tell my daughter she�ll always have her daddy around or that my cancer won�t ever return. At times, things become so bleak that I can�t see through the storm. This is when I need to cling to Christ until the darkness passes and the waters become still again.

Christ tells his disciples, �I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you.� (John 14:18) One pretty rad promise, if you ask me. He loves you so much, and he is NOT going to abandon you.

You will still suffer (that's the thing about Catholics, they're all about this thing called "redemptive suffering".) And, sorry, you�ll still experience fear. That doesn't really go away.

But in all of your hurt and through all of your anxieties - you�ll never, ever, ever be alone. 

Because life isn't meant to be a one-man show.

xoxo, Liz

unsure of what I'm clasping in my ring finger, but HEY I'm a mom and moms always have garbage in their hands when they take family selfies

Stumbling, But Still Kickin�

A few weeks ago, Paul wiped out on our front walkway.

We had just gotten home after spending 8+ hours in the hospital. I was holding Ingrid who was asleep in my arms, and I didn�t react fast enough to grab him before he fell. Which is weird because every time I replay this scene in my head, Paul is falling in excruciating slow motion.

He didn�t even slip on ice or uneven pavement or one of the three small steps that lead up to our house. He is just that weak. Weak to the point where he can hardly walk without assistance anymore.

He just fell backwards, like a thin broomstick unable to hold itself upright without a prop.

When I heard his head thwack the sidewalk, I winced and (gently) tossed a now-awake Ingrid onto the lawn to rush to his side.

Thankfully, there was a gentleman walking past our house at that exact moment. He secured his dog to a nearby lamppost and helped me hoist Paul to his feet.

Angels among us.

By now, the scrapes on his scalp have healed, but my nerves have not yet recovered. I�ve taken to shadowing Paul around the house like a neurotic mother hen, clucking about handrails and muttering in an endless loop, �Be careful, be careful, please dear God be careful. Use your cane, don�t fall, here let me help you.�

�Liz, this is the bathroom.�

�And?�

�And...privacy?�

�Sheesh. Ok. Fine. BUT BE CAREFUL.�

Last Thursday, we flew to Wisconsin to stay with Paul�s family for two weeks. It�s a good place for us to be right now, but it�s also a hard place to be because it�s terrible watching his family confront the reality that their sweet brother and son is slipping further and further away from them.

I�m pretty depleted emotionally these days, so you�ll forgive me if I can�t bring myself to write more regularly. Also, my laptop bit the dust so I�m typing this on an iPad, which I very much do not enjoy. Once I replace my computer and achieve some semblance of emotional stability (ha. ha. ha.) I�ll be back at it.

One of Us Will Die Inside These Arms

After she took my vitals the other day, my radiation nurse popped her head back into the examining room.

�Hey, I meant to ask - how�s your husband doing?�

�Oh, he�s ok. Well. No. Actually�� I paused, not sure how to finish that sentence. I mean - how do you casually insert the fact that your husband is dying into a quick conversation?

I stumbled through the key points: 

• He stopped taking the chemo pill he was on. 
• He may not pursue additional treatment. 
• He�s focusing on enjoying what time he has left. 

See? It�s like dropping a bomb on people. 

It�s also been a major reason for the gaps between my evasive blog posts lately. It hurts too much to think those thoughts. It hurts even worse to give them shape.

We had a great Christmas. Absolutely, we did. It was very special.

But.

Everything has taken on this weird blend of light and dark, happy and sad, gratitude and grief.

About a month ago, Paul went into the clinic for routine bloodwork. It was the usual state of affairs: low hemoglobin, requiring Paul to order up his preferred cocktail of A- blood. Blood transfusions are an all-day event, so we passed the time by discussing fun topics such as: which photograph should we use in his obituary, and a Buy-One-Get-One headstone promo Paul considered �a deal we should jump on!�

When his oncologist stopped by, Paul broached the subject of stopping treatment. It�s a topic Paul and I have discussed a lot, but one we�ve never raised with any of his doctors. We wanted to get her honest input on the subject. Realistically, Paul asked, aren�t I coming to the end of the line in terms of treatment available to me?

Her tone was kind, yet matter-of-fact: �Yes, we�re getting close to that point. Our options are winding down.�

In all of his years as a patient, a concrete timeline has never been assigned to Paul�s survival. You know how people say �my doc gave me 10 months, but I beat the odds and here I am 8 years later.� Paul HAS beat the odds, but those odds are numbers we scooped off the Internet.

Until very recently, the majority of our medical consultations have danced around the fact that his cancer would result in, uh, death. The language is usually more geared towards survival: treatments, clinical trials, getting better, the future.

Things are shifting, though. It�s impossible not to notice.

When I met him, Paul was a strapping, wood-chopping, winter-camping kind of dude with thick sideburns and an unhurried, mellow temperament. I found him extraordinarily charming with his Grateful Dead t-shirts and his �93 stick-shift Volvo. He was easy to befriend. He was easy to fall in love with. 

Summer in Wisconsin, 2007

The sideburns and the Volvo have long since bit the dust, and we don�t do much camping these days. Certainly not in the hollowed-out cavern of a snow mound. (Paul maintains that this is an enjoyable activity. We agree to disagree on the matter.)

He�s still charming, and he still has a laugh that makes my insides gooey. But he now checks in at 136 pounds and he sometimes needs help getting into a standing position.

Before the holidays, Paul�s palliative care doctor asked, ever so gently, if we had worked out his end-of-life wishes. She gave us pamphlets with photographs of silvery-haired couples and instructions on how to initiate this conversation. Not a cheery read. But I was grateful for her candid approach. 


Last month, my own palliative care doctor put us in touch with an end-of-life wish-granting organization. I gave the forms to Paul�s oncologist who happily completed them. Afterwards, as I was filling out our end of the paperwork, I scanned what she had written in the space following �Patient�s Life Expectancy:� 6-12 months.


6-12 months.

It�s possible she had written those numbers with the hopes of securing a Disney vacation for our family. But I don�t think they�re far off the mark.

I�ve been hesitant with posting, too, because I don�t want to be this woe-is-me harbinger of gloom. So I�m sad, so what. Everyone is sad.

And people have been so good to us. So generous, so kind and helpful. Who needs to hear about how I can�t make the drive home from radiation without some stupid Ed Sheeran song on the stupid radio making me bawl my stupid eyes out? (It�s terrific trying to compose myself at red lights. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a slightly hysterical woman who maybe shouldn�t be driving.)

A few weeks ago, Ingrid approached me with a serious look on her face.

�Mom? Is my Dad ok?�

Me: �What makes you ask that?�

Ingrid: �My Dad is so...so�so�(she stammered in search of the appropriate adjective)...so SAD.�

He is sad, naturally. But he�s still Paul and he still jokes in his singularly �Paul� way. His 33rd birthday fell on Thanksgiving this year. While planning our menu and arguing the superior features of our preferred holiday desserts, Paul played the dying card. He played it hard.

�But Liz, you do know this is going to be my LAST Thanksgiving, right? My LAST birthday.�

Me: �...�


Paul: �Cherry pie it is then.�

I�m sorry for this party pooper of a post. But then, I write about cancer. Not much happy stuff to report on the topic, I�m afraid.

Please know we are so grateful for all of the encouragement and meals and Wegmans gift cards and prayers we�re still receiving. I wish I could give every single one of you a giant bear hug to say �Thank you, we love you, you�re making this so much easier for us.� Except it would be less of a giant bear hug and more of a delicate fist bump because I�m not a hugger and, well, you understand.


xoxo

It's Brave When You Accept a "New Normal" from Life

My original goal here was to write at least one blog post per week. But I was busy watching season 2 of Stranger Things last week. And by week, I mean 3 days. Because how could you possibly take longer than 72 hours to watch it? If you have no clue what I�m talking about -- I�m sorry, but if you haven�t watched Stranger Things, are you even living?

So. Why are you still here? Go. Watch. And then come back so we can fangirl together until our heads and hearts explode over how awesomely awesome that show is. 

The past is in the past. Let it go.

Now that Halloween�s in our rear view and we�re clipping along at a furious pace towards the holiday season, I find myself glancing back at the contrasting landscape we found ourselves in a year ago. Because I�m a well-adjusted individual who participates in healthy activities that foster self-love and contentment. 

Sure, most people might think brooding over the past is self-destructive and demoralizing.

Tomayto, tomahto.

In all seriousness though, I�m thoroughly aware of how unhelpful the whole compare & contrast gig is. Because - you �aint nevah gonna get back your past. No way, no how.

Things weren�t perfect last year. But they were blissfully far away from our current reality. 

Sometimes I like to hang out at that seedy corner of my mind, waiting for those memories to show up. Even if they come with switchblades hidden in their pockets. My thoughts can be devilishly masochistic. 

A year ago, I was trying to get pregnant.

This year, we face the almost certain chance our daughter will be an only child.

A year ago, my husband was working a physically demanding full-time job.

This year, he�s working his haute couture walking cane down the driveway.

A year ago, my biggest health concern was shrinking a few haphazard zits along my jawline.

This year, I was concerned with shrinking a massive tumor in my breast.

Last summer, Paul had the stamina to rig up our toddler�s trailer and tug her behind his bike for hours.

This summer, our bikes didn�t leave the garage. 

Last year, our weekly schedule revolved around Paul�s varying work hours.

This year, our weekly schedule involves a juggling act of 4 or more doctors appointments.

I�m not lining 2016 up against 2017 to elicit sympathy. Just to illustrate the dramatic makeover my family's version of normal has undergone. It was one ugly makeover.

How many times during crisis mode do we say �I can�t wait for things to go back to normal?�

I used to say that all the time.

I can�t wait for Paul to finish chemo so he can stop being tired all the time. 

I can�t wait until I finish treatment so I can just get on with my life. 

I can�t wait until Ingrid is potty-trained so I can stop buying expensive diapers. 

We just want things to be normal. When life gets turned inside-out, we protest and pine for the way things used to be. But what if there is no more normal? What if things are never going to go back to the way they used to be?

When my husband was first diagnosed with an incurable cancer, I was really bad at this. I clung to our old version of normal, desperate to retrieve it. I convinced myself that things could eventually be reversed. Paul would be cured and go back to work and we�d have a bunch of kids and spend our summers rambling the West in a vintage caravan. 

That was how we'd find happiness. By getting back to our own definition of normal. By getting back to our pre-cancer lives. 

Here�s a fun, little reality check for you: our old normal has been obliterated. As in, it no longer exists. We will NEVER EVER EVER go back to the way things were.

That can be a tough pill to swallow.

It�s time to change our perspective on acceptance

I recently read Paul Kalanithi�s memoir When Breath Becomes Air. Paul was a brilliant neurosurgeon who was diagnosed with terminal, metastatic lung cancer at the age of 36. The book, which he wrote during his final year of life, explores his quest to understand what makes life meaningful. 

Following his diagnosis and physically depleting treatments, Paul continues to pursue his rigorous medical training in an attempt to maintain the normalcy of his life. But things couldn�t move in the same direction his healthy self had planned:

�As furiously as I had tried to resist it, I realized that cancer had changed the calculus. For the last several months, I had striven with every ounce to restore my life to its pre-cancer trajectory, trying to deny cancer any purchase on my life�[but] even when the cancer was in retreat, it cast long shadows.� - Paul Kalanithi 

It�s not about �giving up� or �letting cancer win.� It just is. It�s fact. It�s reality. Just as Kalanithi had to learn how to live with a new set of circumstances post-diagnosis, my family continues to adjust to our new normal. One we�re not particularly fond of, but one that we�re stuck with.

This happens to everyone: we�re thrust into new normals when we have children (6 AM becomes the new 10 AM.) It happens when we go through a divorce, when we move across the country, when we switch to night shift, when our favorite Korean diner goes bankrupt (oh, cruel world.)

Personally, our family�s new normal involves more ER visits and �why-do-I-even-pay-for-insurance� moments than I�d like. It involves more conversations on end-of-life care than I had anticipated as a newlywed. It comes with a lot more poking and prodding than my husband would prefer.

With time and practice and a healthy dollop of humility, I�ve come around to accepting my new normal. I still get wistful and cranky about it, sure. But my family doesn�t benefit from my bucking against circumstances that are out of my control.

For the record, accepting the way things are is not the same as �giving up� or becoming the proverbial wet blanket. Taking my reality for what it is and not demanding it be something it can't be -- this isn�t an act of weakness or apathy or laziness.

It�s kind of brave to hold steady and look reality in the face.

It�s sort of big deal to learn how to keep living with whatever version of normal life hands you.

Has life ever handed you a "New Normal"? 

Were you about to accept your new circumstances gracefully, or was it a challenge to move forward? 

Can you offer any advice to those who might be entering a drastically different season of life?

Photo Credit: jens johnsson on Unsplash

Photo Credit: Linas Bam on Unsplash

5 Problems With "Pinktober" and What YOU Can Do About It

If the massive Pink Ribbon flags hanging from the streetlamps up and down Main Street didn�t clue you in, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Towards the end of September, I began to dread the arrival of �Pinktober.� And this is why - I find everything about it incredibly polarizing. There are your tutu-clad marathon fanatics who welcome the onslaught of everything pink with eager enthusiasm. And then there�s the vexed anti-pinkers who find the current theme of Breast Cancer Awareness Month to be both alienating and misdirected.

So where do I stand in this Sea Of Pink? Where do I fit into this equation as a young breast cancer patient still undergoing treatment? And what more can I possibly offer to the dialogue already being had on other (much more lucid and far-reaching) cancer-related blogs?

I�d rather not piss and moan about things. Negativity like kills my vibes, ya know? But still. I think this whole Breast Cancer Awareness rigmarole is something worth addressing.

Last month, I wrote about Mesothelioma Awareness Day and the very real and very present danger of asbestos. Spreading awareness about Meso made sense to me. Because people are not aware.

But breast cancer? By all means, correct me if I�m entirely off-base here, but it seems to me that most people are already pretty aware of breast cancer�s existence and general sucky-ness. At least the people who seem to be the target of this rah rah go pink! cacophony are already quite aware. 

And yet every October, the Pink Ribbon Campaign continues to clamor its message of �awareness� from the rooftops of the world. Also, on yogurt lids and Bubblegum machines.

Personally, I haven�t felt particularly affronted by the newly strung pink lights framing the consignment shops on Main Street. They�re kinda cozy.

I do, however, find most of the bedazzled pink chotsky being peddled by businesses in the name of �awareness� to be embarrassingly tacky. I would say that�s my immediate gut reaction to all of this: embarrassment. I don�t want to be associated with all that frivolous pink kitsch just because I have breast cancer. 

I also don�t appreciate the constant pink reminders that cruelly whisper, �eep, you�ve got CANCER, CANCER, CANCER� while I�m picking up supplies to make Halloween costumes. (Ironically enough, I was shopping for pink tulle. Which they were out of. Naturally, because everyone is pinking-out this month.) Gee, thanks. I wasn�t thinking about my breast cancer, but now I sure am. Most excellent.

One thing�s for certain. I am unquestionably against "No Bra Day," which was yesterday, October 13th. It baffles me to no end that this is a real event, that real people participate in.  I urge you to refrain from joining in on that wildly inappropriate spectacle. (not that you ever would because you�re a decent, respectable, sensitive human being.) 

I�ve already checked twitter, and the hashtag for the event yielded some barf-worthy content. I�ll  go one step further: it�s downright offensive content. There are so, so, so many things wrong with this approach to Breast Cancer Awareness. Like a LOT of things. Let�s take a look:

1. The Sexualization of Breast Cancer Awareness Month

One of the biggest beefs I have with Breast Cancer Awareness Month is its overtly sexualized slogans that are slapped onto every thinkable surface: bumper stickers, flyers, posters, social media posts. The Keep A Breast Foundation, for instance, hawks merch with what they deem a "youthful and artistically appealing" tagline: "I Love Boobies." Seriously. 

I get it-- adopting a playful, lighthearted tone to draw in the youngin's. You guys are really changing the world, one lewd t-shirt at a time.

There�s also: �Save the Ta Tas,� �Save the Hooters� �Save Second Base,� �Cop a Feel� �I Stare Because I Care�  etc. Some ads feature extremely young, bare-chested models in provocative poses with the alarming call to action: �Save a Life, Grope Your Wife.� 

Oh Liz, lighten up. These creative campaigns are meant to draw attention through humor! At least they�re raising awareness and some righteous dollar bills, yo!

No, they�re not. Not really. It takes an awful lot to offend me, but these ads make me pukey.

There�s got to be a better way to fund cancer research than to reduce women to a pair of breasts. Haven�t we evolved enough to see the problem with these juvenile tactics? 

First, these ads suggest that the real problem with breast cancer is the current rate of breast casualties. Not, um, all the deaths it causes. Which: guys?!  We need to focus on saving lives. Not boobies. Got it? As both of my surgeons made their roles perfectly clear from the very beginning of my treatment: we are, first and foremost, in the business of removing cancer. We want to save your life, not just your breasts. 

Also, as a 31-year-old woman who had to relinquish both of her breasts to survive, I find these crude slogans to be a real slap in the face. A constant reminder that my body no longer fits the standard cast of feminine beauty. That is a hard enough concept to confront, without all the help from sexually-charged tweets about going braless to support breast cancer research. The last thing I want to see flooding my social network feeds are cutesy selfies featuring healthy, perky, non-cancerous breasts. Not helping.

2. The Commodification of Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Cause-related marketing can be a swell PR move for companies looking to schmooze the public while generating major revenue. In theory, it sounds like a slam-dunk: Company X gives your cause visibility, Company X makes money, everybody�s happy. It�s a win-win.

But what if Company X is manufacturing products with known carcinogens? (KFC�s �Buckets for the Cure� campaign comes to mind.)  And how much of their profits will actually go to useful breast cancer charities? (as in charities that fund research and/or use funds to directly help people with breast cancer pay for things like transportation or treatment or groceries.) Will Company X cap donations at a certain dollar amount without alerting consumers to this fact and pocketing all subsequent profits once this limit has been met? 

This is where things get sleazy.

I won�t belabor the issue, but just be cognisant of the bookoo bucks corporations are raking in all in the name of �raising awareness.� Think Before You Pink is a useful project developed by the group Breast Cancer Action. They�ve laid out  4 questions you can ask yourself before making a pink-related purchase. I�ve found the information on their sites enlightening, so maybe take a gander. 

3. What About the Menz?

Before one of my last chemo infusions, an anxious-looking nurse distractedly took my vitals and accessed my port. The lines on her forehead suggested worry, and when her phone rang in her pocket, she looked visibly ill. I told her: please don�t ignore a phone call on my account. 

�It�s about my son,� she said. �He just had a biopsy this week. They highly suspect he has breast cancer. He�s 24.�

That�s right. A 24-year-old MALE with breast cancer. 

News flash: men get breast cancer, too. So why all the pink?? I can�t know exactly what it would feel like, emotionally, to be diagnosed with breast cancer as a man. But I�m inclined to think all this pinkwashing has to add injury to insult. Breast cancer is presented as a �woman�s� disease (it isn�t), so all this pink shite everywhere has to be extra humiliating for men with breast cancer. It must be.

There�s also the terribly misguided mantra that rallies breast cancer patients to �Fight Like a Girl!� Oh. No. Stuff like that truly embarrasses me. Stuff like that needs to STOP.

Breast cancer isn�t a cutesy girls� slumber party where we play Dream Phone and paint each other's toenails pink. 

It�s a crap disease that takes lives, both men and women.

4. What About the Metastatic Peeps?

Breast Cancer Awareness tends to put the spotlight on cheerful survivor stories, largely failing to discuss metastatic breast cancer (breast cancer that has spread to other parts of the body).

While everyone is busy painting the town pink for the whole month of October, metastatic breast cancer patients are officially recognized on ONE measly day. October 13th. A day that is (horrifyingly) shared with No Bra Day (grossssss). This is not enough. 

These �metsers� often feel marginalized during Pinktober because their stories don�t fit alongside the stereotypical rosey fairytales of �conquering cancer.� Breast Cancer Awareness Month also posits the false idea that this disease is completely preventable and curable, which only further stigmatizes those with stage IV breast cancer. Like it�s their own fault for not catching things sooner. 

And all of that money being raised for breast cancer research during the month of October? A paltry 2-5% of it will be allocated for the study of metastatic disease. Again I say, this is not enough.

5. Propagating Misconceptions and Perpetuating Stigmas

My final contention with Pinktober is the number of misconceptions about breast cancer it continues to feed the public. The crux of the Breast Cancer Awareness movement lies in its push for �prevention� and �early detection.� Which is great. Who doesn�t want to prevent cancer? 

However, their battle cry that �early detection saves lives!� is misleading at best. Pink Ribbon madness has perpetuated the narrative that if you identify breast cancer early enough, you are guaranteed survival. But studies show that this is not the case. Some tumors are going to return, and many will be fatal regardless of how early they were detected. 

The Pink Ribbon Movement generally fails to show the reality of breast cancer. By denying a voice to the metastatic population, and drowning our sensibilities with sunshiney euphemisms such as �Hope. It�s powerful. It�s real. It�s all we got,� most awareness campaigns are missing the mark completely. They also tend to promote the phony idea that optimism and positivity are all you need to �beat� cancer. Smiling will not cure my cancer. Do I really need to keep spelling that out? 

I hate to admit it, but prior to my own diagnosis, I was equally swept up in the saccharine, cotton candy image of breast cancer. I, too, considered it an easily treated, entirely curable disease. I remember sitting next to my husband at an October NFL game a few years ago, the field swathed in pink. 

�What is their deal? How much attention do they need for crying out loud?! At least they have a treatable cancer.�

These snarky asides were likely the products of 2 major forces clouding my perception: 

1. The largely dressed-up, pink-ified version of breast cancer I had been spoon-fed for years, and 

2. The fact that my husband had been duking it out with a relentless and incurable cancer for years. Where were HIS blue mesothelioma cheerleaders?? The whole thing put a bad taste in my mouth. 

That is a problem. When your cry for awareness ends up distracting people from the reality of what you�re trying to achieve - which, let�s remind ourselves, is less deaths - then yeah, I�d say we�ve got a problem on our hands.

The numbers don�t lie - we have very little to show for the decades of Pink Ribbon madness. Breast cancer will continue to claim the lives of over 40,000 people this year. What started as a noble (and necessary!) idea has morphed into a strange, commodified, mutant strain of nonsense.

Whatta Ya Gonna Do About It?

So, Breast Cancer Awareness Month isn't perfect. So what? What does that have to do with me? What can I do about it?

For one thing, you can shop mindfully. Remember: Think Before You Pink! Or better yet, donate directly to a reputable breast cancer charity that is meaningful to you. (Here's a couple of options from Popular Science.)

You can also use social media to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. Please don�t promote sexually explicit posts that claim to raise breast cancer awareness. Try to consider how these phrases and images can actually do more harm than good. If you want to support a friend who is fighting breast cancer, educate yourself and share useful, factual information about the disease.

This last one is pretty simple: just be a sensitive, kind, and thoughtful person. That goes for cancer patients, too.

I was apprehensive about addressing some of the flaws I see with Pinktober because I don�t want to alienate people who actually find support in the Pink Ribbon�s message. I don�t want to sound bitter or cynical or angry. I�m a total Hufflepuff, if you must know. You won't find me running through the aisles of Walmart in a frothy rage, knocking over displays of pink-bejeweled teddy bears. I�m massively grateful for what are mostly people's good intentions. Pink ribbons and all.

If we want to witness a true shift in the currently watered-down goals of Pinktober, we need to remain open-hearted, non-judgemental, and really listen to other people�s opinions. 

Which I will do. And I�ll do it with my non-pink mastectomy bra on, thankyouverymuch.

How do YOU feel about "Pinktober"?

Are you a fan of the Pink Ribbon Campaign? Do you find comfort and support in its positivity?

Or are you weary of the pinkwashing and everything it entails?