There is Not Supposed To Be Red: Rethinking the Pink
It is hardly in the news. But what do we expect? A news story appearing 246,660 times a year about one, single topic? But starting October 1st, it probably got a mention, a blurb, a meme on social media. A quick and perfunctory light shined on an issue that affects one in eight women in their lifetimes.
October 1st is the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and 246,660 women will be diagnosed this year. But what if we narrow the scope? In just one week, over 4,000 women are diagnosed. In one day, that’s 677 women. Twenty-eight women an hour. Let’s imagine just one of those women, perhaps at 4 o’clock in the afternoon, in Anytown, USA, in her doctor’s office. Imagine that we are sitting next to her in the office, holding her frozen, clammy hand. The doctor takes a moment to shuffle some papers, labs, a chart, x-rays, and then, after taking in a deep breath and letting it out, he leans over his desk, forehead wrinkled, hands in a pious steeple, and looks her in the eye to tell her that her life is about to change forever. From this perspective, then indeed, her circumstance is a current event. Because it’s happening right now, as we speak. In this moment, her life, as she knows it, stops. Her whole world is irrevocably altered. No, this one woman’s story will not make the papers. None of them do.
In 2006, my mother was the one out of the eight. I was there after surgery, witnessing the changing of drains and bandages, being with her after the chemo, and beyond. Although she survived, the treatments were so taxing, they weakened her so that she never fully recovered from the ordeal. I lost my mother in 2008. She was 73.
More recently, a Facebook friend of mine who was a year behind me in high school announced that she had breast cancer in a post. There were many condolences and encouraging messages, but I knew—knew—what she was up against. She and I didn’t know each other in high school, but she became acquainted with me through my writing and poetry. I sent her a private message, asking her what I could do to help. I told her I would even bring my newest poetry book, still unreleased, and read it to her as she recovered from her double mastectomy. She then informed me she had moved out of state…so there went that idea. In lieu of a personal reading, I sent all of my books and poetry, even the unpublished book, to have on her iPad, so she had plenty to read while she convalesced.
On Facebook, she continues to give newsy, informative posts about her recovery, her chemo, even photos of her hairless head. She never complains, she never acts like a victim. She always has a bright outlook. I privately messaged her again. I told her that although she was successfully putting on a brave front in public, if there was anything she wanted or needed to share privately, without an audience, my virtual “door” was open. She took me up on my offer, and when she did, it all came tumbling out: the horror of her changed body; feeling out of control and helpless, the unbelievable fatigue that left her feeling useless. Being away from her support system and only having her 18-year-old daughter there to help her change drains, help her to appointments, feed her when she was too weak to function.
Adding insult to injury, people started to treat her differently, even going so far as to avoid her because of their own inability to cope with the idea of her illness. She was ashamed of the fact that she was incredibly depressed, despite the success of the surgery and the prognosis. So depressed she could barely lift her head some days. Her depression left her feeling ungrateful— “How can I be depressed when I am on the road to recovery?” She’d had breast reconstruction, and instead of mitigating the loss of her real breasts, she found the implants repulsive and foreign. In her email to me, she bared her reality, in agonizing detail, along with the sentiment that the most heart-wrenching part of it was how utterly and completely alone and isolated she feels, as if even other survivors didn’t understand, despite the many encouragements on social media and from well-wishers. When I read her email, what I saw was a woman in shambles, trying to survive a very real, dehumanizing, and terrifying ordeal.
Being a poetry buff, I decided to look on the internet for poetry about breast cancer, hoping to find things she could read that would help her, things with which she could connect and commiserate. Well, I found plenty poetry, but I knew what I found had no rapport with the things my friend had shared with me:
“I was given many new friends, / wonderful, courageous women I am so very proud to know, /I was given the gift of life, / I was given breast cancer!”
And another:
“Many women have found a lump/a little dimple, a teeny bump,
but to hear the doctor say the worst/ is enough to make your bubble burst…
{A} special group who knows this scare/ A sisterhood who is always there…
Through relentless tests that never end/ they’re there with hugs and cheers to send…
It’s a genuine bond for they truly care/this sisterhood that’s always there.”
Every poem I found was a reflection of the Breast Cancer Awareness movement’s motto: Hope. Nothing wrong with hope. Right? Yet, nowhere could I find someone who told the real, honest, gritty and authentic truth, at least the truth I lived with my mother; the truth my friend was living. To me it seemed that it was if to allow any real, human, and yes, negative emotions, would somehow spoil the call to “hope.” But I had seen first-hand what my mother had been through; I read my friend’s emails and account. I knew she would feel no rapport with those sickly sweet, uber-positive poems. After reading them, I knew that she would feel even more isolated.
After reading, I got the distinct impression that these women "poets" had a duty to perform; a role to play in the hopes that they will hearten and encourage someone who is faced with breast cancer. It felt as though the public face of it was to eschew any form of reality or negativity. My friend shared her fears, and it came across clearly: “Am I the only one who isn’t brave and courageous and strong and faithful?”
One could argue that no good comes from casting a realistic light on cancer. But I vigorously disagree. I believe that beauty, strength, and courage comes from embracing our humanity and being authentic. To admit we are terrified, to accept that we are angry, to OWN that we are feeling vulnerable and alone—that is where true strength can be found. To accept our real, human feelings, and in spite of them, choose to fight, strive, scream at the heavens, cry on someone’s shoulder, endure the pain and uncertainty, show up and overcome: I firmly believe that that’s where these women will find true hope and courage.
Inspired by my friend’s vulnerability and honesty, and especially her incredible courage and grace, I wrote this poem and dedicated it to her. Her response to my poem was heartfelt and simple: "Thank you. I suddenly don’t feel so terribly alone.”
Not only is this piece dedicated to her, it is dedicated to my mother, and to all of the women who don’t resonate with the white-washed, pink-ribbon image the media portrays. It’s for the women who acknowledge the very real, very horrific experience of this pervasive, terrible illness, for although they see it clearly, they still manage to find hope. So I say again, it is not in the headlines. It is a blip on social media: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month! However, I want to see if I can actually do what this awareness campaign is supposed to do: create awareness, compassion, empathy, a voice. And in doing so, encourage the many women who have, and who will develop this devastating disease, to stand up to it with authenticity, while embracing their humanity, along with their courage.
http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/breast-cancer-awareness-month
J.A. Carter-Winward
***
there is not supposed to be red
-for sandra
when i look down, i know what i am
supposed to see. i am supposed to see peachy-pink flesh,
a rolling hill-and-valley terrain of woman and the only red
came once a month and gathered in cotton
to be rolled, wrapped and discarded.
we are all trained to see red, and red means trouble.
red hurts. red is the color of the jagged, vicious
scars across my chest. the surgically implanted
things in me now are not the things that nourished
my children. they are monuments to a violence
done to me by a few malicious cells. two foreign mounds
inhabiting my body—covering my heart, filling out
bras that hide the red. red reminding me of despair
and the strange, half-conscious thoughts of god,
wondering why, even though i don’t believe, i still feel
as though i’m at his arbitrary mercy.
i walked through the farmer’s market today
and saw a red scarf, and on impulse, i bought the thing.
i stood in front of my mirror, naked, and draped it around
my neck. i covered my hairless dome with it. instead
of peace, acceptance, and hope, i saw red, and with it
came angry tears. i took the scarf off and threw it to
the back of my closet with a hiss and rage in my belly and chest.
i am not ready to celebrate red. i am not like
those other women who have their breastless chests tattooed
and garnished with color and acceptance.
i do not accept. i say fuck you to the gods and to
the snappy, glib sayings and the fucking pink ribbons.
what do they have to do with me? i do not want
to wear the epithet of “survivor.” i want the epithet of
“vomiting victim in a dark, airless room,” because that’s
who i am when i’m alone.
i lie in bed, allowing the fatigue to rest heavy on my eyes.
as i drift, out of habit, my hand comes up
and cups the alien form on my chest covering my heart.
i squeeze. my heart beats. i squeeze. my heart beats. my lungs,
they fill with air. the grief runs deep. then i fade into
almost-sleep. behind my closed eyes, there is no more red.
the red has faded to pink. the flesh puckers around the
alien scars. i dream of red flowing from between my legs,
reminding me still, i am a woman; the red gashes
splay across my chest, reminding me, when all is said,
all is done,
i am here.
or better still,
here i am.
