Time for so many wonderful things - the slow lowering of boiling tropical heat to merely intolerable, the earlier fall of darkness and some not so wonderful like BREAST CANCER AWARENESS month.
I am drowning in the pink - there is no safe place to land my eyeballs. Pizza boxes to pencils to car commercials and my very favorite, cancer-causing plastic crap at the Dollar Store. It's on every advertisement, radio station and other media.
And to be fair, I get it. Some find it very reassuring to see all these pink slogans, events and seeming hope. I remember what that was like and I miss it. And just because my safe little world has been shattered, why go around shattering others? In this increasingly sad, toxic cesspool we call humanity, who does not crave a little safety and comfort?
I will not point out angrily and endlessly that everyone is aware of fucking breast cancer already, that it does not necessarily matter what you do to prevent it, that it can and frequently does strike people regardless of age, diet and constitution. And I PINKy swear not to preach snarkily that your life-saving mammogram may be utterly worthless if you have dense breast tissue. No railing about how my yearly mammograms, especially the last one 3 months prior to my diagnosis failed me, and showed absolutely nothing suspicious. How no one ever mentioned that an ultrasound would be needed to find anything.
You will be proud of me this October. I'm only going to engage in a few worthy battles for my METS sisters. Let's start now! The very prestigious Moffitt Cancer Center proudly posted a social media pic showing large pink, sexy bras festooned with ribbons, bows and I think, shaggy scraps of used paper. These monstrosities were purportedly hung inside the very treatment facility where suffering, sick women in all stages of treatment could marvel at them.
You might ask, WELL, what about the ladies that have endured disfiguring and life-altering breast surgery....perhaps even a double mastectomy? The ones that are not pursuing recon and will never NEED a bra again? Yes, what about them indeed, Moffitt?
Moffitt says that it was part of some pseudo-self-esteem exercise and that the bras were actually made by patients facing reconstruction. What a really shitty arts and crafts idea, but okay then, if I'm the patient, here is my bra: All BLACK and of scratchy, cheap itchy wool. The underside facing my chest has thumbtacks in it that needle me constantly. I'd like it to have lots of splotches of red, bloody paint. And those preposterously large molded cups should be filled with sadness and anger.