Once More Unto The Breach
Tales of my second go-round with breast cancer before the age of 40, and everything since.

A Different Perspective on Pink

Breast Cancer Awareness Month is finally over.

I swear, it felt endless this year.

A restaurant we used to like to go to had its entire facade painted pink for the month.

A show I like to watch had an obligatory breast-cancer subplot.

Even the book I read last week had a major character who’d had breast cancer. (I realize that was my timing, not the book’s, but still. Fiction is supposed to be an escape, right??)

I feel virtually pummeled all the time by the ads, the fundraisers—the pink this and the ribboned that.

And then I feel disloyal to the cause for feeling that way.

I’m the subversive survivor.

The one who hates the term survivor.

The one who feels alienated by a month-long movement that embraces me and my “journey” (another hated term) and is supposed to make me feel supported by the throngs of people walking and racing—and, above all, buying—for the cure.

I have to say that I don’t feel supported.

I feel suffocated.

I feel frustrated.

I feel irritated and aggravated and enervated.

I feel like I’ve been co-opted by our consumerist culture, the one that has commercialized—even fetishized—cancer.

We are so good at marketing and PR and logos and headlines and tag lines and swag. We can sell almost anyone almost anything if we package it the right way.

This is not the right way.

For me, at least, this is not the right way.

 

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