Stepping off the pink bandwagon

I think there are three types of people that buy this pink ribbon merchandise:

1. Those who have survived breast cancer.  To you I say, “Buy, buy, buy!  You go girl!“
2. Those who like pink things.  To you I say, “Pink is fantastic, but so is leopard print.”
3. Those who think the pink ribbon stuff will protect you.   To you I say, “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way.”

I know this because I tried it.  I did the fundraising walks and the 5k runs, complete with t-shirts and balloon arches.  I owned a breast cancer cooking apron, a two-week supply of pink socks, and a pink ribbon collection large enough to qualify me for an episode of Real Hoarders. But all it got me was an apartment full of clutter and more things I had to let go of after my mom died. 

I had to let go of more than stuff, more than the things.  I had to let go of the idea that the universe was available to protect my family and me from harm.  I had to let go of the notion that my tangible and intangible acts of kindness meant I would have health and fortune bestowed upon me. I had to let go of the assumptions that I had special powers to heal and fix everything for my family.  And so later, I had to let go of the pink ribbon, too. 

I can’t ride the pink bandwagon anymore.  I just don’t think it’s going to take me to the places I need to be in my life without mom.  It’s fine if you buy this coffee, headband, or tape glider (!!): 

Everyone needs caffeine, a clear forehead, and something to wrap presents.   But if you know someone facing loss, there are better alternatives.  Listen to them over coffee, brush away stress, and always stick around.

Why I hate October

I’m going to start by apologizing to anyone who is going to be offended. 

October is my least favorite month of the year.   It’s Breast Cancer Awareness month and the malls and magazines around this country are vomiting all over me with marketing material and pink ribbon merchandise.  The stench of money and greed makes my own stomach turn.   

My mother died of breast cancer nearly ten years ago, and this merchandise makes me angry – not for the loss I endured, but for the memories of the cure that money couldn’t buy.   It reminds me of those early October mornings in the hospital twin bed with my mother, facing a cancer that wouldn’t quit.  I’d look at the dying leaves outside the window and the pink flooded commercials on television and feel like I was being taunted both by nature and commerce. 

I’ve seen dozens of media ads that promise a portion of the proceeds goes to breast cancer foundations.  But there is usually an asterisk.  For one campaign I saw, the fine print capped their breast cancer research donation at $100,000.  To regular individuals like you and me, that sounds like a lot of money.  But in the medical research world, that’s pennies.  It's a rounding error.

I can hear the critics in my head and comment boxes shouting, Every dollar counts!  Even small donations add up!  Money for prevention and research is the best medicine!   The inner voices remind me that I am at risk for breast cancer and research money could be the difference between my life and death. 

Yes.  

But then I see this:  

I can't even begin to swallow a breast cancer DOUGHNUT.  

When mom was having her own chemotherapy, the better medicine was when we roamed the halls, sitting at the end of the hospital beds talking with other patients, other women, other moms. The biggest support happened when we opened up about our struggles and fears and cracked open our hearts just enough to let others do the same.

So what are we supposed to do?  Instead of buying all of this pink clutter, roam the halls of your life and listen from the heart.  Get a mammogram, and let me know when it’s November.  I will wear pink again, just not yet. 

(And of course, don’t be discouraged to donate directly to legitimate breast cancer research foundations).