Pink Means What?
What do you think when you see pink? My girls do not think of breast cancer; they think of Barbie and cotton candy, and refuse to wear it. But they haven’t been touched in a real way yet by breast cancer. Have you been touched? What do pink ribbons fluttering in the breeze do to you?
I imagine pink would mean something different to all of us. Three or four years ago, I had a lump in my breast that defied apprehension; it took not just a short series of exams, but an ultrasound and a biopsy to finally dismiss the lump as a benign anomaly. We were in the middle of building a new home. My oldest daughter was a junior in high school; my youngest hadn’t started kindergarten yet, and there were three other innocents in between. All I could think about during the suspenseful weeks before the lump had a name was this: I couldn’t imagine my children being ok without me. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving them. I wrestled with feeling hopeful, despite my passionate belief that hope is crucial.
My dear friend Stephanie went through her own breast lump crisis just a couple of months ago. She generously agreed to share an essay about it here:
A Personal Story, by Stephanie Akker
Doctor’s appointments can generate both the expectation and desire to take along a support person when in the throes of ultrasounds, biopsy needles and MRI machines. Ironically, when the phone rings delivering the results, we don’t get to schedule these moments and might even find ourselves very much alone, driving along a familiar highway five minutes from our 16 year-old daughter’s volleyball game.
This can be the reality of breast cancer, the realization that at 38 years old I have a lump in my breast, the lion’s share of my thoughts instantly revolving around my three children. My oldest daughter juggling her self-imposed, high academic standards coupled with competitive volleyball. The twins settling into their freshman year, navigating the challenges of a teenage social life, Honors Geometry and the avoidance of household chores.
If I rewind 23 years, I was 15. I was a sophomore when my parents sat me down and as optimistically as possible, explained that my mom had stage three breast cancer. I remember the rush of panic, suppressed on behalf of my mother, whose primary agony was the impact this would have on my life. Nothing can prepare you for this moment, when just yesterday choosing what to wear had been a primary concern. Now chemotherapy, mastectomies and radiation became household words. Painful realities slam into your face. You grow up fast.
Much has changed since then. Jumping ahead to 2012, I hold tightly to the fact that breast cancer treatment now offers statistically better outcomes and greater understanding of this beast. Breast cancer awareness has even been assigned its own month. Powder pink paraphernalia litters the aisle of every retail store looking to cash in on a cause with the momentum of an avalanche. Not just a marketing ploy, breast cancer awareness spreads like a fever in a kindergarten classroom, because almost everyone can relate on some level. It may not be your mother, your daughter, your sister or your grandma. It might be a friend, lover, spouse, partner, cousin or coworker. Somewhere, somehow, breast cancer reaches out and touches people, redefining realities and sharpening our awareness in how we prioritize our lives.
My mom stepped into the boxing ring with breast cancer in 1989 at the age of 42. The cancer spread to her lymph nodes, but with chemo and a mastectomy, we were all optimistic. Remission allowed us to see her hair start to grow back. Dark brown and grey curly hair replaced the once strawberry blond wisps. It was a mystery to us how her hair color could change so dramatically, but any hair was welcomed after the experience of having none. A bright red horizontal scar replaced her left breast and no daughter should have to watch her mother sew padding into her bra where a breast should be.
My mother was heroic and only once did I see her veneer crack in my presence. My father, who was terrified of losing my mother, hounded her to do her physical therapy as though somehow watching her expend what little energy she had on walking laps around the kitchen island could save her life. And once, she just said no, she would not do it, she was tired, weary, exhausted and while everyone in her world willed their energy to somehow pass to her, we could not make this transfer. My dad was broken, my mom was weary, and now at 16, I glimpsed the reality of death creeping upon us. Her cancer returned, burrowing into her lungs and taking up residence in her brain.
My mom suffered; I know this because I watched it play out; and I know now, as a mother, that she kept the majority of her suffering from me.
My mother did not survive her battle with breast cancer. She died four days after my 17th birthday. She died in our living room in a hospital bed, surrounded by oxygen tanks and grieving family. I was not there. My dad was wise and encouraged my absence. The memories of her wasting away were enough, and I was spared the moment of her death so that this too could not haunt my memories.
I would like to think her passing adds to the momentum to find a cure for breast cancer. Her passing is a sacrifice I hold tangibly every day of my life, but it also adds inspiration to find better ways to treat those suffering from breast cancer today. I await my own prognosis, trying to not get mired in my own personal history, but instead to hold fast to the progress made in the last 23 years.
I hope that my grandkids have a grandmother since my own children never knew theirs.
(Note from Lynaea: Stephanie’s doctors, after taking a couple of biopsies, came to the conclusion that the lump in her breast wasn’t malignant. They want to follow up in a few more months. Meanwhile, as you can see from her photos, Stephanie’s grasp on living and loving is whole hearted. As her friend, I have witnessed both her fear of the unknown, and her courage in facing it.)
