It's October, and that means it's time again for that annual holiday in which Americans look forward to the opportunity to enjoy a harmless little scare while at the same time indulging in cute decorations, brightly colored outfits, and the opportunity to feel virtuous while gorging on candy. Of course, I'm talking about Breast Cancer Awareness Month—which proudly celebrates its 25th anniversary this year. From the pink ribbons to the pink T-shirts to the pink M&M's, it's a time for celebration and scary, spooky fun for all!
To tell the truth, though, I don't think of October as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I mean, aren't we all pretty damn aware of breast cancer by now? Are we nearly as aware of other cancers as we now are of breast cancer (and isn't there something wrong with that)? Do we really need more "awareness" of breast cancer at this point? Is more "awareness" truly going to result in that many more women saved from death or disfigurement? I don't think so.
No, I don't think of this as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I think of it, rather, as "Let's Celebrate the Continued Existence of Breast Cancer Month."
Yes, this is the month when all the pink-ribbon trinkets and tchotchkes and clothing items come out, the pretty/fashionable/cute/sexy/sweet little things that people (especially women) can buy to make themselves feel good by believing that their little piece of slacktivist shopping, a tiny fragment of the purchase price of which will go to "breast cancer research" (sometimes that is precisely as detailed as the description gets), has helped them Do My Bit For the Cause. Oh, and maybe even provided them with a little good karma, too. Maybe if they buy this product, the Breast Cancer Fairy will see it and pass them by as she makes her rounds. You never know!
It's the month in which women's magazines and even others are chockful of articles about this one specific type of cancer; of upbeat, optimistic tales of sunny survivors who describe breast cancer as a "journey" and a "gift" and an opportunity for spiritual growth. At the same time, other articles advise readers how they can prevent breast cancer: get mammograms, feel for lumps, eat right, exercise properly, breastfeed your kids, etc. They're essentially told: Be virtuous and you won't have this problem. It's all up to you!
It's also the month in which fashionable people dress up and go to balls with pretty pink themes to raise money, and women gather together to run, run, run—the survivors in pink T-shirts, the rest in white—to pant and sweat and hug and cry and generally act all Lifetime Movie-ish as they publicly celebrate their ya-ya sisterhood.
Once upon a time, Octobers were not like this. But today, one tries to imagine what October would be like without the pink pretty ribbons and roses and tchotchkes and charity balls and runs, and one cannot imagine it. And one can't help but feel that if breast cancer were ended tomorrow, and all of this stuff faded away, some people would be kind of disappointed. They'd, well, miss it. Hence, it's no longer about breast cancer awareness; it's actually about celebrating the continued existence of breast cancer. No disease, no pretty things to buy, no fundraising parties, and no Dove candies wrapped in pink foil.
That's silly, right? Wouldn't we all rather just get rid of breast cancer, so that no one has to spend their time or pain or grief or health-care dollars on it again? Well, I would—but about others, I'm not so sure. I get the feeling that pharmaceutical manufacturers, insurance companies, and some other organizations that capitalize on people's health quandaries might have too much invested in treating breast cancer to ever allow this annual pinkapalooza to go away. And that's why, whenever October rolls around, I count myself out of the celebrations.
Six years ago this month, I was drafted, permanently, into that sorority nobody wants to join. I still remember how I felt, walking home on the way from the doctor's appointment in which I was told that the tiny lump in my breast was an invasive ductal carcinoma. I remember looking at posters for the local breast cancer benefit walk to be held that month and thinking: Well, this is it. You are now one of those people other people hold benefits for. One of Jerry's Kids. A charity case.
I'm here to tell you: If breast cancer is a journey, I would happily have remained at home. If breast cancer is a gift, please show me to the returns desk.
I was lucky. My tumor was tiny, slow-growing and lazy as hell. I liked to think that if it were human, it would be the kind of slacker who lives in his mother's basement and spends all day smoking weed, watching TV and eating junk food when it should be out looking for a job and a new place to live. All that was required to remove it from my life was a lumpectomy and five days of internal radiation. It wasn't fun, but with the help of friends and strangers, I got through it. And I was told that while nothing is guaranteed, my chances of recurrence are slim indeed.
But that having been said, I would just as soon have not gone through any of it. I would just as soon that no one else have to go through it, either. Those whose struggles are greater—who have to deal with chemotherapy, mastectomies, and oftentimes a high percentage of likelihood of a recurrence—and those who know right off the bat that what they have is very, very aggressive and the outlook is not good at all—well, my heart really goes out to them. They know, even better than I do, that breast cancer isn't pink and fluffy and pretty and fashionable and sweet and sexy. They know it for the ugly killer it is.
Some of them feel empowered by going out after they've dealt with their disease successfully (thus far) and running or doing something else to raise money for research. That's fine for them, but I don't feel as if I belong in that scene. Or at least, if I did go to that scene, I'd have to go there as someone very aware of how lucky I've been, and aware that I didn't get there because I was stronger or a harder fighter or a more positive thinker than someone else. I was just lucky, is all. And I wouldn't feel right unless I did it in the name of someone who wasn't as lucky.
I also ache for those poor unfortunate souls who have some other kind of cancer, one that nobody thinks of as pink and pretty, one that nobody celebrates or sells cute tchotchkes for, one that doesn't have a lovely ribbon to represent it (can you believe some idiot once came up with brown for the colon-cancer ribbon? Yes, brown). The ones who have a cancer people always want to know if you "deserved" before they give you their full measure of sympathy. ("She has lung cancer? Oh dear! Did she smoke?") And a special shout-out to you women who have cancer in some other female body part that we haven't objectified and placed on a platter of high regard the way we have the breast. Cervical cancer doesn't get a well-publicized month, but then again, no one ever nursed at a cervix, right? Men don't want to fondle or ogle a uterus or an ovary, do they? Oh, and what about all those of you, male and female, who are ill with something other than cancer? You don't get a special celebrational month either, do you?
Once upon a darker time, breast cancer was mentioned only in whispers. Now we've entered a brand-new age, in which some people actually believe that the most (or only) effective way to breathe new life into what's becoming an old and tired message of "awareness" is to play on humanity's love of breasts rather than on the urgency of saving a life. Once we were told it was important to fight breast cancer to save our nurturing mamas and grandmas and such ("Do it for those who nursed you!"). Now, especially in movements designed to highlight the dangers of breast cancer in young women, we're told that the ultimate goal we should strive for is to "Save the Ta-Tas" or "Save the Titties" or "Save the Boobies." One Canadian organization even has an ad that blatantly illustrates the point, or points:
The message appears to be: "Help fight breast cancer, or there won't be any beautiful young tits to gawk at anymore. And dammit, EVERYBODY—even women, even gay men—likes to gawk at tits."
If this juvenile approach to disease awareness were being helmed by men alone, it might die aborning. But, because women themselves (most likely the daughters of modern "do-me" feminism) have come up with it in a desperate attempt to get men to care about what is regarded as "their" problem, it's celebrated as a refreshing way to bring "a sense of fun and much-needed humor" to the situation—especially by men who enjoy a breast-cancer ad featuring a "hot mama" far more than they do a matronly one. Those of us who reject it as an insulting objectification of women, who dislike being regarded as valuable only for our endangered body parts, are chided for being humorless antisexual prudes, not to mention scolded for failing to be "grateful for anything that brings more attention to the disease," as a proper victim should. (That's another thing that happened to me the day of my diagnosis, you see; I was transformed into a beggar who cannot be a chooser, expected to just shut up and be grateful for everything anyone does to help me, regardless of whether or not I like it.)
This is the world I entered the day I was diagnosed, the world I will have to live in for the rest of my life. It didn't help, I suppose, that I entered it (and remain in it) as neither a nurturing, formerly breastfeeding mom nor a sexy, bikini-clad young hottie. Sometimes I wonder: If I had to get cancer at all (and I long ago passed through the whole "Why me?" stage to the "Why not me?" stage), did it have to be one for which I was so miscast? If I were a mommy, or a hottie, people would at least care about saving my breasts. But I am neither. Was I worth saving? Am I a human being to be valued over and above my breasts? I would like to think so.
If you think so—if you think all people (including men) with breast cancer or who have had breast cancer are worth more than the sum of what's on, or had to be removed from, their chests—I hope you'll show it by donating time and/or money this month, or any month, to an organization devoted to finding causes and developing preventions as well as treatments and cures. (And when I say "prevention," I mean research into possible environmental causes, not just ways to place more personal responsibility on the individual to keep healthy. When a person with my admittedly less than exemplary diet and exercise schedule develops an easily survivable breast cancer while the health-conscious, vegetarian Linda McCartney develops one so virulent it kills her within only a few years, it's obvious that personal habits are not the whole story behind why some people get this and some don't.)
I recommend researching the work of the following organizations—none of which gets anywhere near the attention garnered by the already well-publicized Susan G. Komen for the Cure, and thus also doesn't get near the same amount of money that Komen does—then donating as you see fit:
Breast Cancer Action
Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation
Living Beyond Breast Cancer
National Breast Cancer Coalition
These are just a few that appeal to me for their serious, unsentimental, un-cutesy, un-insulting approach to eradicating a killer and supporting those who have dealt with it. There are more. They will all appreciate your support.
Also, here's a timely piece of advice: Do what you can politically to advocate for real health care reform in this country. Having the disease is only part of the misery of breast cancer; the other part is trying to pay the bills.
And, if you really want to buy one of those pink tchotchkes, do it because you really like it, not because it will help the cause. Or, if helping the cause really matters to you, find out how much of the purchase price is going to charity, and which charity it is. Don't accept some vague reference to "breast cancer research" as an answer. You may be surprised to find out how much stuff out there is being sold with a pink ribbon merely as a marketing ploy, with no portion of profits going to any charity at all.
One more thing: If you know someone who receives any kind of serious disease diagnosis, the best things you can offer that person (regardless of what kind of disease it is) are your sympathy, presence, and willingness to listen and to do what you can to help make the person's life easier.
Now, go forth—and let's look forward to the day when we can stop celebrating the continued existence of breast cancer.