So I'm attempting to post this "remotely" via secret e-mail access. We'll see how it goes!
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and the women I know with breast cancer are certainly aware of it. As one woman with metastatic disease wrote:
Or, as another woman put it:
Another woman writes:
Women with breast cancer survive loudly, and die quietly. The news is full of stories of increased survival rates, but those numbers are largerly a function of early detection, not curative treatments. Women are dying, dying... some faster, some more slowy.
The only real success when it comes to metastatic disease is in our heads (perhaps our hearts), not our bodies. As one woman -- 28 years old with two children, ages 3 & 5 -- puts it:
Yeah, that's something. Anyway, it'll have to do.
Sometimes I've thought that the symbol for breast cancer should be changed from a pink ribbon to a skull and crossbones. How about wearing that on your hat?
I hate breast cancer, absolutely. I hate it, and I hate having it. I'll do what I have to do, and I'll practice active gratitude, and I'll count my blessings 1-2-3, but in the end it's all an exercise in making do.
My sister Jane sent me this poem, which I think sums it all up very nicely.
Kay Ryan
The Best of It
However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn't matter that
our acre's down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we'd rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and the women I know with breast cancer are certainly aware of it. As one woman with metastatic disease wrote:
Oh, it must be October again, because they're trotting out the celebrities who have bright futures. What about the over 40,000 who die each year?
Or, as another woman put it:
There are more than 250,000 women in the United States age 40 and under currently living with breast cancer... And what about the women who develop metastatic disease? Where are our stories? We retire on medical disability from careers that we love. We struggle to live long enough to raise our children. We are always on some form of treatment, staying on chemo not for a few months, but until we're in the grave.
Another woman writes:
I don't want pink ribbons on my socks. I want a cure!
Women with breast cancer survive loudly, and die quietly. The news is full of stories of increased survival rates, but those numbers are largerly a function of early detection, not curative treatments. Women are dying, dying... some faster, some more slowy.
The only real success when it comes to metastatic disease is in our heads (perhaps our hearts), not our bodies. As one woman -- 28 years old with two children, ages 3 & 5 -- puts it:
At first, my hope was that we would shrink the tumors and that I could go NED [no evidence of disease], then as time went on and it wasn't happening, I decided I'd be happy with "stability", and now that they are growing, I'm trying to get my brain around being ok with it growing slowly, just not rapidly. Of course, I still have hope that we will find something that will shrink them altogether, and I'm still struggling with balancing realism with optimism. I don't know if I'll ever strike the balance, but I don't know that I'll ever stop trying either, so that's something, right?
Yeah, that's something. Anyway, it'll have to do.
Sometimes I've thought that the symbol for breast cancer should be changed from a pink ribbon to a skull and crossbones. How about wearing that on your hat?
I hate breast cancer, absolutely. I hate it, and I hate having it. I'll do what I have to do, and I'll practice active gratitude, and I'll count my blessings 1-2-3, but in the end it's all an exercise in making do.
My sister Jane sent me this poem, which I think sums it all up very nicely.
Kay Ryan
The Best of It
However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn't matter that
our acre's down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we'd rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.
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