Pinked

Yesterday, I spoke with a reporter from the Detroit News. She is writing a story about breast cancer awareness month and was interested in talking to folks who are less than tickled pink by the proliferation of pink ribbons. (Who, moi?) I thought I’d blogged forward and backward about this topic, but I was caught a bit off guard by what seems to be the most obvious question of all.

“So, why is pink NOT your color?” she asked.

(Insert forehead-smacking moment here.)

How could I have not written at length about why (exactly) pink is not my color! Okay, loyal readers (all 3 of you) know that I am not a card-carrying member of the rah-rah, breast cancer sisterhood. Hence, maybe the name of my blog is self-explanatory. But I welcomed the chance to answer her question and thought I’d do so here as well. Because, believe it or not, until I was tarred and feathered in pink last February, I thought pink was a swell color.

Let me explain. In those awful two weeks after the “C-bomb” dropped, Mary and I schlepped around shopping for a breast cancer surgeon. My first inkling that  pink was no longer my innocent, cherry, childhood friend was when I entered the first breast surgeon’s waiting room. It was as if a flamingo had just vomited on the place. My eyes stung at the pink upholstery on the chairs, the pink wall-to-wall carpet, and the pink window treatments. The staffs’ outfits matched their surroundings, like lizards that evolve to look like rocks or leaves. Every nurse was peppered with pink-ribbons from her lapel pin to her pink shoelaces. And the pink suffocation didn’t end when you escaped the office, it followed you home, like a virus.

Every time I consulted a breast cancer surgeon, I left with a bag of pink SWAG. I felt as though I’d just attended the breast cancer Oscars–or a birthday party for 5-year-olds. I kid you not, I have a box of breast cancer tchotchies in my linen closet. (Seems like hubris to recycle that breast cancer business—never know when you’re going to need a brochure on metastasis.) Each goody bag revealed various assorted breast cancer bric-a-brac including a pink water bottle to quench my thirst after sitting in the waiting room for hours, pink binders to hold my important medical papers, a pink day planner to help me remember my radiation and chemotherapy appointments, a pink pen to write them down with, and a pink journal in which to record my pinkest of pink thoughts. (Just so you know…I am not making this up.)

Now, just for kicks, imagine a man newly diagnosed with prostate cancer. Picture his doctors and nurses showering him with baby-blue baubles. Maybe his gift bag includes a blue beer cozy, blue-ribbon-bedazzled sweat socks, and a blue notebook to keep track of his deep man-thoughts about how it feels to lose a part of his masculinity. Imagine the man slinging his blue tote over his shoulder on his way out the door. Let’s stop and ask ourselves: Is this supposed to make the man feel better? Does his possession of a blue-ribbon festooned notebook make him feel welcomed into the “sacred brotherhood” of prostate cancer patients? Did a chipper “survivor” pop into the examination room to hold his hand and shoot him knowing looks while the doctor outlined his surgical options? (Again, I’m not making this up.)

This scenario sounds insane when you put a man in the picture, but this is exactly what happened to me last February, and I’m guessing it happens to thousands of women every year. Granted, some breast cancer patients undoubtedly eat pink ribbons for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and that’s fine, but let’s make some room for those of us who aren’t hungry.

This pink-coating of breast cancer makes me want to scream until I’m pink in the face. What would I yell? Oh, here are a few jewels that come to mind: For starters, I’m an adult, not a fairy princess. I don’t want to join your pink sorority. I have a deadly disease, not a boo-boo you can cover up with a giant pink Band-aid. I don’t want a fucking pink day planner. What I need is a surgeon who will treat me like an intelligent person, a person who needs accurate, concise, no-bullshit information much more than she needs a linen closet overflowing with pink gewgaws.

And while I’m on my pink soapbox, I would add: Don’t use your pinkest, most upbeat voice to tell me that radiation will give me a “virtual breast lift” by tightening the skin around my breast or that reconstruction will give me the “breasts I’ve always wanted”—all expenses paid! And stop waving your pink wand, like I’m 8 instead of 38. Pink is cute. Pink is frilly. Pink is for little girls. But there is nothing cute or frilly about having your breasts carved off and your estrogen levels chemically decimated to the point that your libido is a distant memory and your genitals turn to sandpaper.

Do I want to shroud myself in black? No.

Am I a negative, angry person who wants to simmer about her disease, her brush with mortality, her troubles on Tamoxifen? No.

What I am is a smart, curious, thoughtful person who needs a little pink-free space to wrestle with her breast cancer demons. Because no amount of forced pink smiles, pink walks, and pink banners will undo what cancer has done to my body and my psyche. The hardest part is that I know there are other women out there who feel the same, but I can’t see them or hear them because we are all drowning in an ocean of pink.

Want fries with that?

I’m cranky. Today is the first day of breast cancer awareness month and everywhere I look some asshole is slapping a pink ribbon on their crappy product and calling it charity. At the grocery store yesterday, I saw a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade festooned with a pink ribbon. Really? Does no one care that drinking ups your risk of breast cancer? Yes, one must drink in excess but, honestly, isn’t that the point of making alcohol taste like pink lemonade? Have these people no shame?

Lord help me, it’s going to be a LONG month.

Instead of kvetching about everyone else making a buck, why not start to exploit my own “survivor status.” For instance, my short but snappily illustrated article in this month’s O Magazine is about new legislation aimed at ending the practice of “drive-thru mastectomies.” When my editor tossed me this softball assignment last July, I had to swing. Who better to cover this topic than a gal who detoured through the mastectomy drive-thru lane not once but twice! Who cares that they “straightened up” my story by editing out a mention of Mary or that they inserted a huge error into why I needed to revisit the OR in the first place. ‘Cause, hey, I was only too happy to cash the check. And, after all, it’s only money. Right?

Off the Mat

After my surgeries, when I was too sore and stiff to move, a friend told me a story of her Tai Chi teacher who never missed a day of practice, even while hospitalized, because she would practice in her mind. So, I decided to try it with yoga. Unable to even think about stepping on the mat, I’d lie in bed at night and picture myself moving through my practice. I felt my body as it had been before surgery—strong and flexible. In my mind’s eye, I’d see my arms sweep overhead at the beginning of a sun salutation and my body bend forward gracefully as I touched the floor. Arms flexing, they supported me as I jumped back into a plank position. My back was supple, my chest expansive as I glided into upward-facing dog. In that way, I’d flow through my yoga practice. Imagining the feeling of my limbs working in concert with my trunk, my muscles engaged, my chest open. The best part was that after I’d had these yoga practices in my head as I drifted to sleep—body bruised, swollen, stiff, propped up with a half dozen pillows—I’d often dream of yoga. The line between visualization and dream blurred by handstands.

Picturing Breast Cancer

The loss or disfigurement of one’s breasts to cancer is traumatic. One reason it’s so painful is how visibly the surgery can change the body’s landscape. Once treasured contours are clear-cut in the name of survival. Not wanting to be shocked after surgery, I sought out photos online and in books of women who’d lost their breasts to cancer. In hindsight, I won’t call that time misspent, but I do wish I’d come across David Jay’s SCAR Project earlier.

Exercise Caution

I was inundated with breast cancer literature upon my diagnosis and the dire warnings about lymphedema really freaked me out. A little back story for those of you lucky enough to be clueless about how this stuff works: Most breast cancer surgery involves the removal of at least a handful of lymph nodes. These little nodules of tissue act as waste-removal factories for the circulatory system. In an attempt to rid a patient’s body of as many stray cancer cells as possible, breast cancer surgeons carve out those nodes draining waste directly from the tumor. Sounds good, right? The problem is that any time you mess with the lymph nodes there is a chance that the neighboring nodes will refuse to pick up the slack. If that happens, the system gets backed up and you’re suddenly the proud owner of an unseemly swelling of the affected limb or body part called lymphedema. Even better, it can be permanent, requiring one to don a very unfashionable compression garment to squeeze the bejesus out of said arm. Just what every girl hopes for…one fat limb. Lymphedema is one of breast cancer’s many side show acts. Obviously it’s not the main event. Hello??? You have cancer. Is now really the time to worry about having a fat arm? But, just in case the cancer wasn’t enough to ruin your day, now you get to worry about having one of your arms blow up like a water-logged corpse. Great.

So, the only thing worse than having this happen (or, of course, dying from cancer) is knowing that you brought it on yourself. And this is where the alarm bells in my head really started clanging. Several things I read on the subject informed me that I’d be risking lymphedem post-breast cancer surgery if I was ever foolish enough to lift more than 15 pounds. And by ever, I mean never ever. I mean, seriously. Think about this…no more lifting bags of groceries from the cart to my car, no more picking up my infant niece, no more dragging yard waste around the yard while I weed like a maniac…and the list goes on and on. And, as if that’s not enough of a life sentence, the literature also warns that a woman who is post-breast cancer surgery should never pick up a suitcase with the now useless arm or carry a heavy bag over said shoulder, should she risk the wrath of lymph.

Okay, you’re going to tell me to stop whining about the possibility of backed-up plumbing in my arm when I tell you that my surgeon assured me not to worry. Huh? How can Dr. Feel Good tell me not to sweat it when Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book insisted that I forever coddle my post-surgical arm like an 18-year old chihuahua? Turns out, Dr. Feel Good determined that I had good odds of dodging lymphedema because I’m young and fit. Plus, he only removed six of the little buggers, which was still about five too many for my tastes, but, as it turns out, it’s not out of the ordinary to lose a baker’s dozen or more during breast cancer surgery, which ups the odds of a lymph-drainage breakdown, so I should feel lucky…funny but I don’t. Instead, I’ve suspected the whole “lymphedema thing” was just another means to extricate breast cancer patients from their personal power. Not with any clarity of purpose but by a patriarchal medical establishment that would much rather pat us on the head and say “oh, you sweet thing, don’t lift a finger or you may irreversibly maim yourself” than give us a thwack on the shoulder and say “go live your life to the fullest.” Not to mention, taking the time to actually do the studies to find out whether or not the advice is really correct or just an old surgeon’s tale.

And so all of this tongue-wagging brings me to the reason for my post—a new study that made me smile and send a wave of gratitude to Dr. Feel Good (even if he is a fuck up) and the researchers who decided to test the “fragile arm” theory. Last week the New York Times reported on a new study published in The New England Journal of Medicine in which researchers found that not only are most doctors too restrictive in their post-surgery advice for breast cancer patients but also that more exercise, not less, may be the best way to ward off lymphedema. Whahoo!!! I’m not going to get into the details of the study or the article because (a) you can read them for yourself and (b) I’m trying to discover the charms of shorter blog entries. But, needless-to-say, I hope breast cancer patients and their doctors warm up to the idea of bulking up those arms because living in fear of lifting more than 15 pounds is no way to live.