Rethinking Pink

Written on October 19^th, 2014

Two years ago today, I awoke on a Friday morning to a phone call. I snapped out of my morning haze into a state of lucid shock. “Mom’s cancer came back, and it has spread. It is very bad.” Hours later, I was home from college lying next to my mom in her bed, hugging her and crying. Over and over again, I told her how sorry I was that this was happening to her. “Becca, you don’t have to be sorry”, she said, “I’m just so sorry that I have to leave you.” We were both sorry, but the situation was beyond our control; neither of us was guilty of anything. Cancer had seized the reins.

The next thirteen months were a blur of deep love, hope, sadness, and painful anticipation. Like an endless ride at the fair, the months kept whirling by no matter how hard I tried to ground myself and grab on to something steady and comprehensible. But despite this blur of emotions, these thirteen months were also those in which my family and I lived more in the present moment than ever before. I reminded myself each day that while my mom wouldn’t always be there with me, she was there now and that was what mattered for the day. My mom led us in this reality-based way of life.  She knew what her diagnosis really meant; we talked openly about death.

In those thirteen months, our family: ate countless fabulous meals, laughed until we cried, watched five whole new television series while snuggling with our poodles, went on the same number of vacations where we soaked in the sun’s warmth and explored new cities, visited with friends from near and far, celebrated birthdays and graduations, walked on Sleeping Bear dunes, exchanged endless heartfelt letters with friends and family, boated alongside whales in the Atlantic. . . Through it all, we shared our real feelings and improved our relationships.

And dispersed within those months there were: the chemotherapy appointments, painful medical procedures, anemic exhaustion, nights spent crying together, fear of the future, anger, and feelings hurt by the friends who weren’t there.

On November 19th, 2013, very early in the morning, my mom died.

This October, I will not wear pink for Breast Cancer Awareness month. A pink ribbon from a greedy, commercialized campaign will never represent the depth of my mom’s experience—nor our family’s experience—with cancer. To wear pink this month would mean for me to give into a breast cancer culture that is fueled by the infantilization and sexualization of women, false positivity, and corporate bullshit.

I refuse to buy fake pink rhinestone bracelets and pink teddy bears or to stand by the purchase of sexualized ‘I Heart Boobies’ t-shirts to spread “awareness” of the atrocious disease that killed my mom. Men with prostate cancer surely aren’t sexualized as such or encouraged to engage in a culture that reduces them to children.

I refuse to blindly give money to corporations that don’t actually fund research that will help save lives. Money from most of the big name national breast cancer organizations often goes toward spreading awareness of mammograms and early detection, which research has shown don’t actually make much of a difference in terms of prognosis. Money should rather be directed towards research on treating the real killer: metastasized disease.

I refuse to support a breast cancer culture that encourages women to withhold their anger—to shun any feelings that aren’t perky and upbeat, or even treat the disease as a “gift”. Women have the right to feel their natural anger or fear about this disease and they should never have to apologize for it or cover it up with a pink t-shirt.

I refuse to give in to a campaign that uses words like “survivors” and “brave fighters” to honor those who have lived through the disease, while my mom and others who have died are memorialized by more piles of sappy pink crap and fun-filled relay races.  Our breast cancer culture neglects to acknowledge how the concept of survivorhood disparages the dead. My mom would not have survived no matter how brave she had been (and she was very, very brave).

Yes, awareness is better than stigma or ignorance, but if what the current breast cancer culture is spreading is considered true “awareness”, then I will pass. This culture encapsulates the falseness my mom hated and ignores the realities of her disease. Women should be insulted by the way it depicts and treats them, as well as the way it uses their money and the money of their loved ones.

I will give my money to organizations that I’ve researched well, organizations that effectively use it in ways that make the most difference in actually saving lives. My mom never wore a pink ribbon. I will honor her not by wearing pink this month, but by telling people about who she was and sharing the realities of her experience.