From the fourth from the last paragraph in the chapter called “Pink Isn’t Black or White”:
“Women of Ashkenazi Jewish descent have a higher risk (of having BRCA mutations), and because scientists have isolated the part of the gene that needs to be tested on those women…their cost of being tested is much less”
This is only one place I’ve seen this, but anytime there is a way to save money, it is worth a look, in my opinion. Make sure you research/ask about this cost issue if you are Ashkenazi Jewish; pink advertising, when using fear of cancer to herd women into testing and such, is generally less than honest. In other words, I don’t think better pricing will ever be offered, you gotta ask. Negotiate, like buying a car, and expect better service, since it’s your body, not a car. And even if insurance is covering the cost, you’re paying in to them as well.
Funny how cancer made me realize maintaining my body was really just all about the benjamins.
The time has come for the ol’ Cancer Curmudgeon to explain that blog title and name. It will be a nice, amusing (to me) diversion from the rant-y posts I’ve been drafting, and certainly a diversion from spending my internet & computer time obsessive-compulsively changing passwords to all my freakin’ accounts, after being repeatedly “compromised” this week.
Some time ago when I joined Twitter I got a couple of random comments about calling myself a curmudgeon, because curmudgeons are usually—but not by definition—grumpy old men…and I am a grumpy middle-aged woman. I realize it might even be therapeutic for myself to get it down on paper (or electronic document, as it were).
Part 1 – anotheronewiththecancer
I’m from south of the Mason Dixon line, but it is barely THE SOUTH. However, as mentioned in past posts, some leaves and branches of the family tree floated on the wind here from THE SOUTH, and this particular, peculiar area in which I live does have some, ahem, tendencies, the quirky dialect being one. When I was young, I remember hearing old timers talking about how so and so got “the cancer”. I used to think it was a stupid way to talk. I wanted everyone to talk like people on TV, not sound so hick. Last summer, to get myself out of my post-treatment funk, I read a lot of essays by North Carolinian humorist Celia Rivenbark. I am always delighted by her numerous explanations of Southernisms, including how everyone she knows calls it “The Cancer”. Of course, she also mentions in a few essays that one must always call Kmart “The Kmart”, as she says, “out of respect”. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I’ve uttered the words “I’m going to the Kmart,” my own self (yeah, bad grammar, but common here). At any rate, while I knew intellectually that other regions called it “The Cancer” it was nice to see it discussed as a more widespread phenomenon.
I knew when I was diagnosed that people in town would talk about how so and so’s (insert random relative) granddaughter/niece/cousin had got “The Cancer”. No one would use my name, because here, who you are is defined by “your people”. Therefore one is always referred to not by name but by their relation to some other name: as in Jim-Bob’s niece, or Anna Mae’s granddaughter. Since so many in my family, in my town, have cancer or died of cancer, I simply became — another one who got “The Cancer”.
Part 1.5 – title of this post, female trouble
Another little quirk that I used to think (when I was little) was just in my family, but learned as I grew up was a Southern habit, is the way women gather to whisper about gynecological troubles. Of course, things are different now; we are encouraged to scream about breast cancer from the rooftops these days. But I am sure there is a certain type of woman, and there are less of them now, that still enjoys this activity the same way I remember the women in my family enjoying it. I cannot describe this bizarre quirk well, since I avoided these types of talks. The best descriptions are in Florence King’s “Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady” and “Southern Ladies and Gentlemen”. For the uninitiated, the best I can muster in the form of a description is this: having some kind of gynecological problem makes one a lady, and this is the ultimate expression of womanhood. Think of it as how in olden times (which I believe took place before the good ole days), women were expected to be weak of constitution, always fainting, never robust. That’s the gist. King describes it much better.
Let me pause here to say that while I am not a tomboy, I’m not very girlie-girl either. Oh on occasion I enjoy wearing dresses and such. And I almost always step out of the house with at least foundation make-up on, if not lipstick (I think some definitions of lady require the wearing of lipstick, not sure where I read that, and I cheat with tinted lip balm). But at my core, I dislike the stuff socially associated with womanhood. The color pink is a big one, I’ve always preferred green. I don’t like Lifetime television, and I loathe rom-com movies. Conformity ain’t my best thing, I just never realized how bad that was until I didn’t want to join in rah-rah pink-hood.
I hated, Hated, HATED those whispering clusters of women, who relished discussing gynecological ailments. I’m not sure if it’s a result of being taught in school by feminist hippies, watching Mr. Spock on “The Star Trak” (according to the aforementioned Rivenbark, we always have to say “Star Trak”, not Trek, and that is exactly how my grandmother said it) or just what, but I always used proper, scientific, anatomical language when speaking of breasts, uteruses and other organs. I still do, though no one in my family listens to me. It seems the women in my family were ALWAYS having female trouble: breast cancer, miscarriages, hysterectomies and the like. I got my own first taste in my late teens, getting a diagnosis of dysmenorrhea, which luckily I was able to control, eventually. Of course, not before the elder females in the family had their fun discussing it in those whispering circles, much to my horror and disgust, ooo-ing and ahh-ing over my paleness—obvious evidence of my femininity (and being drained of blood). Ugh, gag me. Isn’t cramping, excessive bleeding, and vomiting fun?
And then I wound up getting one of the Big Mamas of all Female Trouble—breast cancer. For two seconds I entertained the notion that breast cancer must be my comeuppance for scoffing at all those circles of whispering women. Of course, as a rational, logical being (thanks Mr. Nimoy!) I reject the notion, but I cannot deny the irony, or the notion the universe has a sick sense of humor.
The bottom line, calling my blog anotheronewiththecancer is just my way of ceasing the struggle against my lineage. I may not have turned into a full-on pseudo southern lady like most of my family, but so much of cancer science has to do with family history, that the blog name is sort of me coming to grips with the fact that no matter how much I tried to make myself different from my family background, it caught up with me anyway.
Part 2 – The Cancer Curmudgeon
Well, shit, if Beyonce can just go and start up an alter ego and name it Sasha Fierce, I can have an alter ego too! The name must be part of her whole female empowerment shtick, I mean there must be more to female power than flashing boobs and booty rather than intelligence. Whoops did I just say that. Yes, still sarcastic.
Anyway, developing this name is a way to create a therapeutic device as I start my post-cancer, post-previous-job life.
Why Cancer Curmudgeon? Well, the alliteration is awesome, obviously. But more accurately, it has to do with treasured books by American author, journalist, founder of the Fund for Animals, and cat Dad, Cleveland Amory. Amory wrote a series of books about his cat called Polar Bear, including one titled “The Cat and the Curmudgeon.” To say Amory was an outspoken animal rights activist is mild. He once suggested on national TV that a hunt club should be formed in order to hunt and kill other hunters for sport, claiming it would only be humane, as there is an overpopulation of hunters. Satirical and extreme to absurdity, I love that. And yes, he got into hot water over the comments.
Amory would continue to be a curmudgeon for the cause for the rest of his life (and I wonder if just for the sheer fun of being a curmudgeon). Being an animal and pop culture lover, I loved his Polar Bear book series. One image I’ll never forget (although I cannot name which book it is in) is his description of an attempt to walk Polar Bear on a leash in a park. Mainly the cat just sat there, annoyed, while Amory orbited around him, leash in hand. Apparently, Polar Bear was a curmudgeon as well.
So yes, I am a bit of a curmudgeon, a malcontent, a borderline misanthrope (might be why I spend most of my time with animals). Mostly I am like Sheldon on “The Big Bang Theory”, forever pointing out to Penny that her check engine light is on. I perceive things in cancer world that seem not quite right, such as the twisting of stats, the use of pink to sell plastic crap (without transparency as to if the corporation is actually donating anything and if so, what the money is being used for), the sexualization of breast cancer, the blurring of the line between early detection and prevention (my personal white whale). I cannot help myself, I must speak up about it. And like Sheldon, who cannot conceive of a world in which anyone would not get her car fixed when there is obviously a problem, I wish to correct the problems—starting with talking about them, even if the problems are hard to talk about. Of course, not everyone would agree that the things I just listed are indeed problems, or worse, some will just not see them at all, citing that the overall greater good is worth a few problems. I disagree. If that makes me a curmudgeon, well, looks like I chose my name wisely.
This post is cancer related only in that it is about the negative impact on my cancer related blog, twitter and email.
Apparently all 3 of those things have been “compromised”. I only joined Twitter in order to link it to this blog so my posts would be tweeted. However, I’ve received 3 messages since late Saturday night from Twitter that my password was reset. Evidence that posts/messages/my accounts have been tampered with is now appearing to me. If you’ve posted a comment and I’ve deleted (or it just did not appear, as I see stuff I’ve posted is disappearing without my actual involvement), I apologize–I am just doing some clean up.
Message to people who create these hacking or phishing adventures: Cute, good for you you’re so clever, to mess with my cancer-only blog, email, and Twitter account, which will not get you near my personal info (as in, there is no monetary benefit, and I’m poor, so getting to financial info would get you zilch too). Now go to hell.