So my most recent posts have been about the spring runs/walks/arts events to benefit local breast cancer organizations. Last week was the annual Komen on the boardwalk at the beach 10 minutes away from my hometown. The weekly freebie newspapers just came out yesterday and the pictures were all over the covers—bright pink splashes on the front pages.
Usually I avoid those rags of local “news” this time of year and in October because of the breast cancer celebrations coverage. But I did pick a couple up this time. I stared at the picture of the survivors’ parade. Every single woman wore a bright pink t-shirt with a lighter pink ribbon on it, the word survivor under the ribbon. A few women wore pink wigs, and/or pink boas. One woman wore a boa/necklace/garland of paper pink ribbons of various sizes. I realize that if I thought such races/walks were a useful pursuit (I do not), if I called myself survivor (I don’t), if I embraced the Pink (I really, really don’t), I’d be in that survivors’ parade wearing that t-shirt. So why aren’t I?
It is strange how humans behave I guess, what we believe, what social groups we join. I just had a conversation the other day with a client about how people start to take on the beliefs of those they live near and interact with (we were discussing how both our parents were becoming more conservative and saying offensive things—obviously things they’ve heard from other folks they interact with now that they are out of the work force—very ugly stuff). But I wonder what made me reject all that Pink stuff that is the norm in my region. The others in the small support group I attended (for people diagnosed with any cancer under the age of 40) were mostly disdainful of Pink, a few loved it. But all the major breast cancer groups that organize and/or benefit from these events recite the Pink, stay positive script, which is why I avoid them.
I stared at the picture of the women in pink shirts on the cover. I cannot imagine loving any ribbon so much as to wear a garland of them. I looked at pictures further inside the paper—some women in pink pants and hats and…just covered in Pink! Fortunately, no panties and bras pulled on over bike shorts like that other beach event last year. But still.
In the years from diagnosis up until last spring, these pictures filled me with disgust. All I could think about was how Pink and the stay positive pressure had harmed me. (For those who’ve not read my other posts, in short—the Komen dogma of get your mammo for early detection did not work for me, and the be positive at all costs made me miserable until I figured out I’m Allowed to be however I wanted—it’s more complex, this is the Cliff Notes version.)
I’m a bit more detached now. It makes me a little sad I guess—I know my natural social awkwardness, and trait of playing devil’s advocate, or desire to go against the grain are a few of the reasons I do not join the Pink parades. I think it would be easier if I would just go with the flow, if I could. But I can’t.
Always questioning everything can really suck sometimes.
But in an uncharacteristic move from someone calling herself Cancer Curmudgeon, I take a moment to be grateful (no griping—what???). So what if I can’t walk in that Pink parade? I found other bloggers that have many similar opinions and I found solace there. I started—and continue—blogging to keep in contact. For one who does not make friends easily, I began to do just that. I even began to “friend” some on my personal Facebook—waaaay out my comfort zone. Too many bloggers and folks to list for fear of missing someone, which would mortify me if I left anyone out and offended in that way.
Sure the women in the pictures of the parade look like they’re having fun. But I’m having fun too. And I have peace. It may not seem like it when I go on rants or give in to the anxiety—but I do have it. Because I know others feel the same way. At some point a post about this value of what others would call “complaining”—and a ponder on that word—will be written. Right now it’s enough to know I’m not the only one.
“Walked out this morning
Don’t believe what I saw
A hundred billion bottles
Washed up on the shore
Seems I’m not alone at being alone
A hundred billion casatways
Looking for a home”
“Message in a Bottle” by The Police