I Will Not Pink For You

My dear, darling sister from another mister.  My lifelong friend.  My rock.

You have been served up a big fat plate of breast cancer, proving (in case it wasn't clear), that cancer doesn't give a crap that you're a great person, a wonderful mom, an incredible friend, a force for good in the world, a uniter of diverse groups, and, in general, a superhero to everyone who knows you.

Too many women who match that description are diagnosed every year.

Some--but not all--catch their cancer as early as it seems you've caught yours.  Some--but not all--are diligent and persistent advocates for their own health as you are.  Some--but not all--have friends and family that will walk through fire for them the way yours will.

And, again, too many of them will undergo the best treatments we have available, no matter how disfiguring or toxic, in order to get back into their superhero gear and back to the business of making sure everyone else is ok.

While we wait to hear what your treatment will involve, I want to promise you a few things.

I will listen whenever you need me to.  I will listen to you, to your husband, to your boys, to your other friends...I will listen to anything and anyone that is invested in your complete recovery.  We are in this together, with you.

I will advocate for and with you.  I will become an expert on this with you.  I will read your reports. I will dig into research and treatment options.  If the key to winning this battle is the big toe of a rare insect on the underside of a leaf of a plant that only grows in some remote corner of Bora Bora, I will find a way to get it to you.

I will rally your circle of support--using your brilliant model demonstrated after Superstorm Sandy--and help assure that you and your family will have your needs met while you are busy getting well.

I will do my version of praying for you, asking the universe to wrap you in light, surround you with strength, and protect you as you fight and recover.

I will dispatch my own guardian angel to watch over you (as previously discussed).

I will be wherever and whatever you need me to be while you go through this.  If my role is to be a conduit for the best chocolate or wine, or your late-night insomnia buddy, or the person who reassures you that it's ok not to do what you can't or don't want to do...there's nothing you can ask that I will not do my very best to deliver for you.

But I will not pink for you, or for anyone else. 

I will not buy pink-ribboned yogurt, hair extensions, pens, razors, sunglasses, clothing, shoelaces, laundry detergent, eggs, drill bits, etc. in the hopes that some of that money--for "awareness"--might make it to an organization that might be doing research into a cure.

I will not ask people to donate money to organizations that spend more money on overhead and protecting their brand than on anything concrete to help lower the incidence of cancer or expedite research so we can get to a cure.

You haven't asked me to--and I don't think you will--but I want everyone to understand that none of those purchases and few of those donations (if any) are likely to make a difference in YOUR fight.

When you are through this, and sporting your fabulous, cancer-free, new, perky, breasts, I will celebrate with you.  I will make you something beautiful to remind you that you were always a superhero.  I will continue to love you and laugh with you until we are too old to remember how we became sisters.

Together, we will raise our voices to demand better accountability from companies that produce these pinkwashed products, asking them to verify that they are donating real money where it's needed most, and that their products are not laden with cancer-causing chemicals.

And we will drink a toast--many toasts--to your good health.

Go

This blog has been gestating for a very long time. There's something inherently arrogant about putting one's thoughts into a public forum hoping that they are interesting to someone else.

But the urge to write will no longer be denied. My brain reels with words.  I like words.

I like words so much that once invited to speak it is practically impossible to get me to stop.

I like words so much that they fill my head the way I imagine other people's heads are filled with art, or music, or numbers. They swirl.  They dance. They clutter up the space, banging against one another to get out.

And because I have haven't written for myself in a very long time--I'm a pen for hire--the words I want to say tumble out in a rush when I have someone to speak to.  I am frequently inappropriate, too candid, not listening, happy for an audience.

They are harsh and directive toward my son.  They spiral into regret after he has gone to bed.

They are seeking approval with my mother, and with authority figures in general.

They are lies to grease the social machine like "I would love that,""Let's make plans," and "It's not you, it's me."  They are all true when I say them; they are made false by time and my unwillingness to commit.

They are indictments, tools for self-flagellation that hold me back and fill me with shame.

They are rational, calculated, fantastic, exaggerated, evocative. Ideas excite me and are given words before they are even fully formed, exiting my mouth noisily, shapelessly.

I isolate myself in the service of my narrative and then find myself struck dumb by the blank page.

I break my own heart.