Enough pink ribbons.

[Cheyenne]

I wear a pink ribbon every october to keep breast cancer on people's minds. It's easy to hand over money...it's another to show solidarity with those who have suffered, or been through it with a friend or family member.

Wearing a pink ribbon to show solidarity is tougher than handing over money? Well, it certainly would be cheaper. But I'm guessing if they had a choice, the survivors would rather have your money than your "solidarity" if it is an either/or thing.

 

[Laurel]

Wearing a pink ribbon to show solidarity is tougher than handing over money? Well, it certainly would be cheaper. But I'm guessing if they had a choice, the survivors would rather have your money than your "solidarity" if it is an either/or thing.

Maybe some people do both? Strange, but true?

 

[MissTaken]

men don't have a problem with it until someone they love looses a breast (ok thats generalizing.. not all men feel this way. Just most f the ones I have encountered)

While it doesn't seem to be as serious of an issue , men do get breast cancer.

My father had it in his 20's.

I say it isn't as serious as the tumor was removed and he didn't have to deal with any cosmetic changes.

 

[Siren]

 

[Cheyenne]

Maybe some people do both? Strange, but true?

Of course, but that wasn't the impression I got from her post.

And it has nothing to do with "valid" but more to do with actually helping. In that, I agree with Mouse. Dollars DO something to help. If donating money is so "easy" then more people should actually do it.

 

[Siren]

how elitist

 

[Laurel]

I agree that donating is important. I also think that spreading the word so that others donate is also important.

Agree/disagree?

 

[lilminx]

Here are three places to start:


http://www.komen.org/donation/

http://www.nbcrf.org/

http://www.cancer.org/eprise/main/docroot/DON/DON_0

Thank you.

 

[deliciously_naughty]

Wearing a pink ribbon to show solidarity is tougher than handing over money? Well, it certainly would be cheaper. But I'm guessing if they had a choice, the survivors would rather have your money than your "solidarity" if it is an either/or thing.

Once again Cheyenne you misread my posts. Hardly shocking.

Of COURSE I give money and walk (as my aching legs have attested every oct for the past 5 years) to raise money. But as an everyday symbol, it's a show of solidarity.

It's not about what's harder or better. Grow up. It's not about either or. It's a comment on why I wear the ribbon...as opposed to only giving money (which is hardly painted on my jacket or backpack). It was not meant to be a "better than X" comment.

 

[Agent99]

You're welcome. Hopefully everyone can focus on that information.

Perhaps everyone can also encourage the women in their lives to get mammograms, do a BSE every month and see their gyno annually as well. Prevention and early detection are paramount.

I think the battle over pink ribbons and the tiffs over whose contributions are more important pale in comparison to the issue at hand.

Saving lives and improving quality of life.

 

[Starfish]

I agree with Laurel on the matter of both areas of devotion to the cause are somewhat equal in importance. Without awareness promotion you cannot gain the support you could potentially have. So, it is pertainant to the point. It cost money, yes, but it brings in the attention or more people and that equals more money in the long run.

It's simple logic, really. And Psychology too.
Pink ribbons are annoying to some to look at, yes, but they are making a point to everyone to pay attention to this serious matter, and often times with some people, they have to have a concept shoved in their face constantly for them to open up thier dim assed eyes and look at something important for a change.


In other words, I don't let them bother me.


What I am busy letting bother me here at lit is the word 'word' being spelt 'work' on a certain thread that has grown into a massive fucker and it will plague and over take this fucking board. I have had a preminition about it. It is like the robotic trapperkeeper 3000, but it will be worse, cause it won't just eat Raw Humor, but it will devour all of literotica.

In order to stop it, we need to get Hanns to convert to muslim and then we can teach him the ways of peace through the love of the Koran.

I know. Cold day in hell and shit... whatever.

 

[curious2c]

I have a pink ribbon in my av and it is going to stay there, for the record. Secondly, I do donate and often. Thirdly, if one peerson wants t have a ribbon in their av or sig line, I think that is their choice. Definitely not your choice and I can live with that.

 

[Cheyenne]

It's not about what's harder or better. Grow up. It's not about either or. It's a comment on why I wear the ribbon...as opposed to only giving money (which is hardly painted on my jacket or backpack). It was not meant to be a "better than X" comment.

Exactly. Your "It's easy to hand over money...it's another to show solidarity" comment seemed like you were saying it was harder to wear a ribbon than to donate. I'm glad you didn't actually mean it that way.

 

[crysede]

I stoped wearing ribbons a few years ago, but I still feel a twinge of guilt when I see someone else wearing a ribbon for a cause that I support, as though my lack of ribbons means that I'm not really serious about the issue. But in the end I feel more uncomfortable about wearing them these days then about not doing so.

Please don't take this as a put down aimed at those of you who do wear ribbons - I wholeheartedly support everyone who wears a ribbon out of commitment to a cause. I just feel uneasy with the culture of ribbons that has evolved - it lets people use causes as marketing tools to improve their image, without having to so much as contributing one penny of their money, or one minute of their time, or even caring about the issue.

I recently read an article that expressed some of my concerns quite well (although the author is much more certain about her position than I am) - the article isn't dealing with ribbons being sold to raise funds, but it still has some relevance to the topic since it deals with ribbons in general. I'll post it here in case anyone interested in taking a look:

A Critique of Ribbons, by Caryn Law.
I see it as they stroll up to the podium. At first only a hint of red or pink or yellow, the offending accoutrement soon comes into glaring view when they turn to accept their award and deliver their speech - the ribbon. As the camera pans across the tuxedoed audience, I am made appallingly aware of a sea of multicolored snippets of fabric, all plastered to the chests of actors, directors, and producers like war medals of the privileged. They are there to tell me that these people care about the plight of those with AIDS, that they are concerned about the cure for breast cancer. Do the ribbons serve this purpose? No. Instead they tell me that I'm looking at a bunch of self-righteous pseudo-activists who've probably never seen the inside of an AIDS hospice.

The ribbon phenomenon that's swept the country and, indeed, the world isn't limited to the Hollywood elite anymore. Even in this small mountain town of Wyoming, ribbons dot the landscape like sagebrush on the plains. I discovered this while shopping in a favorite store in this ordinary, quiet town of 26,000 people. As I browsed the jewelry section of the store, I watched as a woman emerged from the back carrying a handful of new necklaces. I took a good look at them as she strung them onto their respective holders - black cords with ribbon-shaped pendants on each one. There were the standard red and yellow ribbons, as well as blue, green and other colors.

"Tell me again what each color is for?" The storeowner asked the woman, who I learned was the one who made the necklaces.

"Red is for AIDS awareness, pink is for breast cancer awareness, and blue is for child abuse prevention."

I blinked. Oh, she had no idea what was coming. I took a deep breath. "So what you're saying," I interjected, "is that if I wear one of these ribbons-" I took a blue one between my fingers-"child abuse will stop?"

She seemed confused by my question. "Well, no?"

"Let me ask you something," I interrupted. I had her by the short and curlies, and there was no chance she was getting away. "It costs you, what, a few cents to make these things? Maybe a whole dime?" I barely let her get in a nod. "And you charge a few dollars for them? Tell me - does any of it actually go to the cause you claim to support?"

There was the clincher, the source that shed light on the problems I saw with these ribbons. Suppose I had experienced a moment of humanitarian-inspired insanity and bought a pink ribbon. Not only would cancer researchers not see a single increase in their grant money because of my purchase, but likely not a single person's awareness of breast cancer would be heightened because they saw me wearing a pink ribbon. Awareness, folks, is not the problem here. I'm a 27-year-old woman. I have breasts. I couldn't be more aware of breast cancer if I had it. Likewise for AIDS -- you would have to share Ted Kaczynski's taste in outdoor living not to know everything there is to know about the disease.

But awareness, not eradication, is the word of the nineties. Thirty years ago, people threw themselves whole cloth into activism, risking their safety and often their lives to protest for a cause they believed in. Three decades of ambivalence has watered down our activist juices. Want to support a cause but don't want to get your hands dirty feeding the homeless? No problem - wear an orange ribbon against poverty. If poverty's not your bag, then you can't go wrong wearing the old standby, a red ribbon in support of AIDS prevention. Don't be the only one on your block without one!

Yet another characteristic of these ribbons is the banal and obvious nature of the causes they support. Who wouldn't support an AIDS cure? A cure for breast cancer? Child abuse prevention? Do we really need ribbons to show that we support causes for which only someone without a shred of basic human altruism wouldn't? During the Vietnam War, there were vehement, vocal activists both in support of and against American involvement in Southeast Asia. During the Gulf War, all that could be found were yellow ribbons that one wore to "support our troops". Not only am I fairly certain that most of the Desert Storm soldiers couldn't care one whit whether or not I wore a yellow ribbon while they were busy trying not to die, but I would have liked to have seen the other side of the coin - a green ribbon, perhaps, in support of America not fighting in the Middle East. By not wearing a ribbon, one runs the risk of being thought of as a non-supporter, even if the cause is an obvious one. Maybe we should have ribbons to denote the support of breast cancer, AIDS, and child abuse?

Perhaps this is simply the tired and faded result of activism that's spent thirty years in the wash. Perhaps we've learned after all this time that nothing will really change, and so instead we adopt a cleaner, sanitized-for-your-convenience activism geared toward the safer causes. If that's the case, then the only ribbon anyone will see me wear is white - a symbol of the bland, lackluster nature of the new 90's sense of caring.

 

[april-wine]

You choose NOT to wear a ribbon...Hey that's cool, did you see me saying anything about those who choose not to??? I find it more than offensive that anyone would chide someone for feeling the need to support a cause....Especially when they don't have a freaking clue what or how or when I support this cause....I wear a pink ribbon every October....In fact I have one in my car 24/7, does that make me better, does it show more support on my part....None of the above....Whenever I see that ribbon I am reminded that my mother is another year cancer free.....

You put your foot in it mouse....No matter the point you thought you were making....There's No excuse for it....

 

[deliciously_naughty]

Thanks for posting that cry...it's rare to see a well-written counter-article. The person who started this thread was essentially trying to say the same thing, but said it in such an abrasive way that many of us took offense. That states the same point in a much less offensive method.

 

[modest mouse]

It sounded like you were just bitching about the symbolism. People do both, as evidenced by this thread. And so what if there's someone that only gets into the symbolism? That's not the type of person that would get involved anyway, but that display might remind someone else to help out, or to get a mammogram.

Understood. My contention is that the ribbon doesnt represent much of anything anymore. That there are a number of ways to both support the fight against Breast cancer and to elevate awarenes (ie testing). That often times the ribbon fucntions as a easy way to satisfy someone who may otherwise do a bit more. Its an appeasement, for lack of a better way of putting it.

That a ribbon means everyone is doing nothing is not what I said. Thats a false assumption.

***

Wow. I have to justify myself for caring about something and showing it?

The pink ribbon signifies two things to me. 1) Get aware about how to identify breast cancer early and 2) That I care about the issue and the people dealing with it.

You cannot pay money for #2. Throw money at the problem and it'll go away eventually, nevermind that people are not only suffering from breast cancer, but they're suffering from the feelings of social stigma, the feelings of having this horrible disease, and the feelings of maybe becoming a pariah.

I would argue that the ribbon is an inferior way of accomploshing your objectives, 1 and 2. Does it do nothing? No. But I don't think it does much. The activities and messages that come througha s a result of Breast Cancer awareness month certainly do a great deal.

A pariah? You've worded yourself much too strongly. Yes, having cancer puts you ont he outside looking in. Yes, its lonely. Yes, if awoman looses her breast(s) it brings up a number of deep self-image issues. Yes, chemo and its side effects can make you garner a look or two. A pariah? This isnt the 80s and this isnt AIDS.

When I wear a pink ribbon, whether the money from it goes to charity or not, there is a very flat and bold statement that tells each woman that to me, she's a human being and I care about her pain.

You can't do that by sliding a twenty into the collection plate when no one is looking. Giving cash is not enough. Giving self is necessary. Losing a breast is sexually castrating and money will never heal the wound to the psyche.

I do not contest your compassion, Muffin. The ribbon is not a bold statement. Perhaps it once was, but it is most certainly not anymore. Thats based on the perception of the viewer, not the intention of the wearer.

Wearing the ribbon is not giving self. I was arguing for giving of the self, with cash only being one way. Time, a few select words, a hand; goes much further than a ribbon.

I wear my ribbon with pride. You just go dunk your head in the toilet and leave the shit you're spewing right there.

The heat factor in this thread was elevated by the responses, not by my post. No swirlies.

***

Original
ly posted by Siren
MM........what is with you lately?

You seem to be jumpin on people all over the place.

we have enough with the idiot troll heads and loser newbie Laurel agitators all over this board right now......
the negativity is at an all time high around here thanks to them.

Please dont add to it.

please dont fall into that negative twilight zone with the others.

There is no fall into a 'negative twilight zone'. I dont read enough of the board to have it affect my mood. This isnt anything out of sorts with my natural way. I said what I thought.

The pink ribbons aint a big deal. 'They' mean alot to many people here on lit. As it is some way of acknowledging the pain from knowing a loved one fighting the disease that this ribbon represents.

That should be enough to not complain about it.

If you read my 'compalint'. its actually a message to do alittle more. htat much seemed clear to me but, again, I must have been wrong.

***

Pink ribbon or not......Who the fuck are you to judge????

Come and see me when someone you love loses a breast to cancer.....Hmmmmm you sure your name isn't Hanns????

There wasnt a condemnation. And yes, its my opinion, which is a judgement. I do have the right to form that opinion.

I dont wish cancer on anyone and in no way delegitimized the effort to eliminate Breast Cancer. I'm also not relying ona ribbon to further the cause.

Yes, I'm Hanns. All dissent is Hanns. No one could have an opinion that upset you unless its Hanns. All hail Hanns.

 

[curious2c]

I would be curious to know your feelings on the United States Flag. It is symbolism at it best. Should we not wave it just because it doesn't 'do' anything for anyone? Hmmmm? Just curious don't cha know.

 

[modest mouse]

I would be curious to know your feelings on the United States Flag. It is symbolism at it best. Should we not wave it just because it doesn't 'do' anything for anyone? Hmmmm? Just curious don't cha know.

You're saying that without the flag we don't have freedom?

 

[curious2c]

What was one of the first things of significance that showed up last year just after the eleventh? A flag. The U.S.Flag. Did it change anything? Did it save anybody from the pain and suffering? Did it bring back any of the dead? NO.

What it did do is give hope, show solidarity, allow an outlet for emotions, and give a sign to everybody of how you felt. The ribbons do the same thing. They reinforce the goodwill and trust in people to do the right thing and show support to the cause. It is a form of advertising your beliefs in a certain cause.

And yes, without the flag freedom would be much harder won because we as humans need a symbol to rally behind to give and show support. It is as it has always been.

 

[peachykeen]

Humans naturally gravitate towards symbolism. Flags, ribbons, football colors, hairstyles, tattoos, name brands and so on and so on and so on. Those of us who are sighted, anyway - not quite so relevant for a blind person. If y'all want to go off on a tangent about the American flag, well, I can't stop you but I can't see it would serve any purpose.

mouse I appreciate that you are a big enough person to admit you made a mistake. I think you can see by not just my reaction but those of many others that your orginal post was poorly worded. (It was that bit about the socks that really fucking pissed me off.) Yes actions are of course more important than a ribbon. But that doesn't make the ribbon meaningless.

 

[april-wine]

What I am most curious about, is why whether the pink ribbon means anything to you or not, would you be so condesending and demeaning?....You knew from the first typed word you would offend many posters....As for the pink ribbon not representing much of anything, that too is your opinion....Not everyone shares it obviously....Would you go up to a vet and say the poppy means shit....I doubt it....

This thread offers you a wide scope with none of the responsibitilty.....Honestly I doubt you are Hanns....It was a very Hanns style type of thread though....I thought you had more integrity than that...

 

[Cheyenne]

Not pink

http://www.jsonline.com/lifestyle/people/oct02/86543.asp

A young woman facing breast cancer sees red when she's told to 'think pink'

By GEMMA TARLACH
gtarlach@journalsentinel.com
Last Updated: Oct. 13, 2002

In my mind, breast cancer will be linked forever with AC/DC.

You know, the Australian hard rock act that gave us such classics as "Highway to Hell."

In August 2000 at the age of 31, with no family history of it and none of the vaguely defined risk factors for the disease, I was diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer.

Hours after the radiologist had taken one look at my first mammogram and frowned, I was on the floor of the Bradley Center to review the sold-out AC/DC show.

In between the opening act and the headliners, the restless, beer-swilling crowd killed time with an old rock concert tradition, chanting "Show your tits."

The mostly male audience struck up the time-honored chant with gusto, and soon the Bradley Center was shaking with an almost primal rhythm. One, then two, then ten rock chicks in the crowd complied, whipping off halters and unbuttoning shirts and waving the clothing over their heads to attract attention.

Still preoccupied with the stark image on my mammogram film, I wondered: What if one of the obliging women in the crowd slipped off her shirt and revealed a chest scarred by a mastectomy?

Would the men still cheer?

What woman would dare?

Ours is a culture that equates breasts, and having breasts, with a woman's identity. And nowhere, perhaps aside from Hooters, is that equation more ingrained than in the breast cancer industry, a monolith marketed by corporate America that reinforces stereotypes about what it means to be a woman.

Woman = breast = pink.

Pink ribbons, pink pins, a pink rose on the cover of my Breast Cancer Treatment Handbook . . .

Well, I hate pink.

Pastels and passiveness
Even as a child, I avoided pink, just as I gravitated toward martial arts and action movies over ballet lessons and Julia Roberts. I'm a mosh-pitting, Metallica-loving kind of girl. I don't do the pink thing.

I hate especially that wimpy shade of pink that has become symbolic of breast cancer. The soft pastel is passive, quiet, unobtrusive, delicate - the same qualities openly championed in a less-enlightened age, and still reinforced today, albeit more subtly, as "feminine."

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I didn't think pink. I saw red.

My diagnosis color-coded me as a Pink Person. Pink was the prevailing color of the pamphlets I was given, the Web sites I visited and the products I saw sitting on shelves, promising to devote a cut of profits to find a cure. And the further I traveled on the Pink Brick Road, the more I found that the same qualities evoked by the color - passivity and a demure cheerfulness - were qualities that the world now seemed to expect of me.

At the same time, I remember laughing at the irony behind my diagnosis - boy, I thought, I'm lucky I got the "fashionable" cancer.

When breast cancer became a cause celebre in the '90s, attracting models and cosmetics makers such as Estee Lauder, spawning marches and benefits and countless pink-ribboned products, I had rolled my eyes.

The reason breast cancer's such a big deal, I believed, then and now, is because breasts are sexy and we as a culture are obsessed with them.

My problem is not with the fund-raising and awareness campaigns surrounding breast cancer - a disproportionate amount when compared with the numbers posted for other, more common kinds of cancer - but with the underlying cultural assumptions perpetuated by the Pink Program.

After all, men diagnosed with prostate cancer don't get a blue ribbon, a slap on the back and a lecture about how "brave boys don't cry."

Facing reality
I know there are women out there who identify with and appreciate the existing breast cancer patient support networks - the pink ribbons, the free makeup workshops, online girl-talk groups and "survivor" jewelry. And that's fine.

That's just not me.

The day the biopsy confirmed my tumor was malignant, a nurse handed me "Your Breast Cancer Treatment Handbook," the first and only significant piece of information I received from my health care team. It was white, with a photo of a pink rose and the tackiest gold lettering this side of a Precious Moments catalog.

"Don't you have something else," I remember asking. "Like maybe something black or purple with a skull and crossbones?"

I was only half-joking.

As I paged through the book, I felt my anger rising.

"Take the crisis of breast cancer and transform it into an opportunity for personal growth!" read one typical passage.

Growth? I thought a growth in my breast was the whole problem to begin with.

The book was only one of a hundred would-be helpers - pamphlets, posters and Web sites - that I encountered as I ran the Pink Gauntlet. Each operated from the assumption that I would be devastated by the diagnosis, but that by adopting pathological Pink Perkiness, I would come out of it a better person.

Most of the resources actually made me feel more isolated.

Just as the pink packaging appeared to be for someone else, so did the science - the majority of breast cancer research has focused on post-menopausal women. That's changing, slowly. But the standard treatments, which take years to develop, still are geared toward women in their late 40s and older.

Why is that a big deal for younger women like me? Because the limited research into breast cancer in premenopausal women suggests that our bodies - and our cancers - react differently to treatment. As a group, we younger women also have different concerns, ranging from fertility issues to the truly long-term risks of drugs used to treat the disease.

I read on my own, hitting the medical journals and ferreting out Web sites that focused on science rather than sentimentality.

I asked questions of every member of my health care team, which I considered my Joint Chiefs of Staff. I was the Commander in Chief of my cancer-killing army and needed to keep tabs on every aspect of the campaign.

"You sure are curious," a technician setting up a bone scan once said to me after I'd asked the zillionth question.

How could I not be?

"Most people don't seem to want to know," he told me.

Is it that patients don't want to know or that the health care industry prefers docile patients who don't ask too many questions?

My rose-bedecked patient handbook, written by an oncology nurse, had a few chapters on the disease itself but devoted the bulk of its pages to emotional "checklists," poetry and survivor testimonials.

The book, like many other patient resources, told me not to think of myself as a victim even as it patronized me like one.

I read up on support groups - the Pink Program told me I needed one - but failed to find any that felt right.

There's the organization Y-Me, for example, which seeks to "ensure, through information, empowerment and peer support, that no one faces breast cancer alone." I never sought the group's help because I couldn't get past the name.

If I'd happened upon an organization called, say, F-U-Cancer, I would have looked into joining.

In the end, I created my own support network of people who were like-minded rather than like-diseased. Throughout my treatment, close friends and fellow students and instructors at my kung fu school offered encouragement on terms I could appreciate - when I lost my hair during chemotherapy, it delighted one of my kung fu brothers who keeps his own head shaved.

"Dude, you totally look like a Buddhist monk now!"

Things left unsaid
Something was missing from the rah-rah pep rally rhetoric the resources dumped on me. Testimonials from survivors are offered by the hundreds, but I found only a brief mention or two about those who euphemistically "faced a more challenging diagnosis."

It reminded me of the cheesy sci-fi flick "Logan's Run," where everyone lives shiny, happy lives and nobody talks about the fact that, at age 30, you get shipped off to the Great Beyond.

In our culture, and especially on Planet Pink, talking about death is taboo. And if you do it, it means you're depressed, you've "given in," you've got a bad attitude.

"Survivorship is mostly attitude," my handbook cheered, as if all I needed to do was turn my frown upside down and everything would be fine.

I believe a person's outlook is a significant factor in dealing with any crisis, but the same attitude doesn't work for everyone - and there's no magic "attitude antidote" that will cure cancer. Some people with positive attitudes about overcoming their disease still die, just as some people who've lost hope live well beyond the doctor's prognosis.

As an individual, I felt better acknowledging the possibility of dying from the disease.

Years before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, as part of my study of martial arts, I'd adopted a habit prescribed in the Japanese code of Bushido, Way of the Warrior.

"Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one's body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords," reads one translation.

"If by setting one's heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the Way."

The daily routine of contemplating my mortality gave me a great deal of inner strength. It gave most of the people around me the creeps.

"Are you going to die?" family members and some friends asked me nervously after my diagnosis.

"Well, of course, everyone dies," I would say.

"Stop talking like that!" was the anxious response I usually got.

"Survivorship" stereotypes that prescribe a one-size-fits-all attitude for all breast cancer patients are so pervasive that they can influence the people closest to you.

Both my mom on the East Coast and my brother out in California, upon learning of my diagnosis, went to the Internet for more information. Without realizing it, they quickly internalized the bias of many a breast cancer patient resource: this is a horrible, devastating thing and the victim will feel horrible and devastated even if she acts like she's not.

"Stop pretending to be so tough," they told me, again and again. Sometimes I felt like I was running a marathon in record time and they were on the sidelines with bullhorns shouting "slow down!"

It took several long conversations to convince them that I was the same daughter/sister who goes gallivanting around the world alone, swings swords around for fun and has jumped into more than a few mosh pits.

I was - and am - still me. Having cancer doesn't mean losing your personality.

And my personality, as my mother and brother know better than anyone else, doesn't shirk from confrontation.

When my hair fell out, I wasn't interested in wearing a wig.

The night my hair started fluttering down onto my shoulders by the handful, I didn't feel the "loss of self" that some resources had warned me about.

I mean, it's hair.

I simply leaned over the toilet bowl and, with the stiff wire brush I use to groom one of my dogs, got rid of the loose hair and then shaved off the few strands that remained. Until my hair grew back some eight months later, I walked around bald, except for when weather or my mood dictated a hat.

When people stared - and they did - I stared back.

My more-punk-than-pink attitude was simply being true to myself.

Losing lymph nodes
For me, losing my hair, and the actual surgery and treatments were all much less traumatic than post-surgical problems with my right arm. During my lumpectomy, the surgeon also removed 13 lymph nodes from my arm pit to determine whether the cancer had spread beyond the initial tumor site. Removal of the lymph nodes made it more difficult for my body to get rid of infection in the limb, and left my arm numb and weak for months.

Even now, more than two years later, I experience intermittent swelling, pain and numbness. In December 2001, a bout of lymphangitis - a potentially fatal complication similar to blood poisoning - required several days of intravenous antibiotics.

I've shed the most tears and have had my darkest moments over my arm, which I not-so-affectionately refer to as "zombie paw." The pain and numbness tend to act up in kung fu, either from getting hit or swinging around weapons.

My oncologist saw a simple solution: stop swinging around weapons. He gave me a list of no-no's: avoid all physical trauma to the arm, including insect bites, bruises, animal scratches, burns, needles, blood pressure cuffs, hangnails and even paper cuts. Avoid carrying anything heavy or otherwise fatiguing the arm.

Getting smacked by your kung fu brother or whipping around a Chinese broadsword were not on the list specifically, but it was pretty obvious that they fell into the verboten category.

A physical therapist who works with patients who have lymphedema - the scientific name for zombie paw, a not-uncommon complication following breast cancer surgery - told me I should "just switch to yoga."

That's like telling a race car driver to switch to fishing. They're apples and oranges.

"Change sports and just be happy you're alive," said more than a few people around me, including some members of my health care team.

Just be happy you're alive, the passive Pink mantra.

Well, practicing martial arts is one of the reasons I am happy to be alive. I refused to let cancer take that from me.

And it didn't. Now, when zombie paw acts up, one of my kung fu brothers - a massage therapist by training - muscles it back into line. Sometimes during practice - and I hope my oncologist isn't reading this - when my hand gets too numb or swollen to grip my saber or sword properly, I tie the weapon to my palm.

Take that, cancer. I got your "personal growth" right here, for ya.

Facing down the enemy
At BreastWishes.org, author Mary Olsen Kelly suggests you pick a special "healing color" ("I picked pink!" she noted) and special healing songs and chants, for which she chose The Beatles' "All You Need Is Love."

Well, all I needed was Limp Bizkit.

I blasted the rap-metal band's "Break Stuff" to and from treatments.

"Give me something to break," goes the chorus.

I had "healing movies," too, and on the days when chemo-induced fatigue made getting out of bed a challenge, I'd shuffle to the couch and watch them: "Braveheart," "Gladiator," and, most of all, "The 13th Warrior," a bloody and violent Viking epic.

I related to the warriors' gritty resolve to face down their enemies. But just as there is little room for pink in the Viking world, a martial mind-set is generally frowned upon in mainstream breast cancer culture.

"God grant that one day I can embrace this time as my friend, and not as my enemy," reads "My Prayer During Breast Cancer," one of many such sentiments in my treatment handbook.

"Anger," my handbook also noted, "Serves as a non-productive way to solve problems."

Maybe that's true for some patients. But for me, in the words of punk icon Johnny Lydon, "anger is an energy."

Blood and beaches
A week after my lumpectomy in October 2000, a routine, pre-chemo medical procedure at my oncologist's office turned unexpectedly painful.

The nurses wanted to test my port, a small piece of plastic and tubing placed just under the skin on my chest during surgery, through which I would receive the chemotherapy drugs, which were too toxic to be injected into the thin veins of my hand or arm.

The day the nurses tested it, a large hematoma - a big ol' glob of blood - had lodged between port, vein and tissue still healing from the surgery. The hematoma prevented the port from working properly, but because new ports often need a bit of coaxing to function, the nurses simply tried again and again to draw blood.

Every time a nurse stuck me or wiggled the needle around, trying to strong-arm it into place, port and hematoma banged up against already irritated tissue. It felt like getting stabbed.

I squirmed, I whimpered, I begged them to stop. It was not my finest hour.

"Try to visualize," one of the nurses holding me down said.

"Imagine you're on a sunny beach, and it's really warm, and the waves are going in and out," she said soothingly.

I don't like hot weather or lying on beaches, but I went with it. Within moments, I saw myself on a tropical shore, backed by a dense jungle.

Then, well . . . remember the scene in "Jurassic Park: The Lost World," when the little girl is alone on the beach and dozens of baby velociraptors attack her? Yeah, that's where my visualization went. Suddenly tiny fanged monsters were swarming over me, nibbling me to death.

"There's a nice breeze off the ocean," continued the nurse.

Screw this, I thought to myself. I refocused. Anger was my energy.

A few paces from me was a huge, hideous creature, drooling, growling.

I attacked it, slicing it open with my broadsword and then lopping off its head. I kicked its corpse over and tore out its spine with my bare hands, reveling in my victory.

Back in the oncologist's office, my body relaxed.

"Visualizing that nice beach really helped, didn't it?" asked the nurse.

Uh, yeah.

"Would you like a pink ribbon pin?"

It was October and the nurses were handing out Breast Cancer Awareness Month pins.

Another nurse - who'd met me, my indignation, my anger and my dark humor during my "orientation" a few weeks earlier - happened to be walking by that October day as I was offered the pin. She shook her head at her colleague.

"Gemma doesn't do pink."

I know I'm not the only woman who's had breast cancer and rejected the Pink stereotype. A colleague of mine, also in her early 30s, was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years before me. Her visual aid? A picture torn from the pages of Sports Illustrated of Muhammad Ali when the boxer was in his prime, bloody and bruised but still on his feet and punching.

"It's a very violent picture," she told me. "But that's how I felt about what I was going through."

That same colleague took offense at being handed a pink "survivor" T-shirt when she showed up at a benefit race while undergoing chemotherapy. She wanted a white one, the "regular" shirt issued to runners who have not had breast cancer.

No, she was told. You have to take pink.

As a culture we celebrate our individuality. The diagnosis of breast cancer shouldn't narrow any of us into a color-coded stereotype.

If we don't want it, none of us should have to take pink.

Gemma Tarlach completed her treatments in June 2001 and has had no signs of recurrence.

>>>>>>>>>>>

I'd like to think I'd react the same as Gemma Tarlach if I ever had the misfortune of getting breast cancer. No pink for me, either.

 

[Jim_Henson]

Thankyou cheyenne for posting it.

Thankyou.

 

[JUDO]

Nope, not enough. Here's one more. It's not so hard to look at, is it?