Breast cancer is not a pink ribbon to me: a personal tale
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Not all breast cancer survivors want to wear pink ribbons
One cancer patientβs perspective: breast cancer is not a pink ribbon. We can survive cancer without becoming perpetual βcancer survivors.β
I woke up sore, scared, and hungry the morning after my lumpectomy. The procedure had been a disappointment. I was supposed to go in, have the lump removed, and then take a few shots of radiation. By the start of the spring term, Iβd be back in the classroom. But when Iβd come out of the surgery the previous afternoon, the long incision under my left arm had told me the doctor had removed lymph nodes β a sign cancer had spread.
My first reaction had been to swear so loudly that the nurse ran for the doctor. My mood hadnβt improved any in the hours since.
Although in despair, I was starving, and even hospital pancakes sounded good. As I waited for breakfast to arrive, an older woman barged into my room carrying a large bag crammed full of papers.
The visit of the cancer lady
βHi, Iβm Maggie, the Cancer Lady!β she chirped as she reached out her free hand.
I took it reluctantly. I wasnβt a morning person, even when I wasnβt in fear for my life. Plus, I looked and smelled a bit like roadkill. I was in no way company-ready.
βHi.β
βWell, I understand that you have just had a lumpectomy. How are you feeling? Do you have any questions?β
βIβm okay, and no.β I was too grumpy to be polite. I just wanted her to leave.
βWell, Iβm here to give you all the information that you need,β she said as she reached into her bag.
I raised my hand to stop her. βI do my own research. Believe me.β
She charged on, βHereβs a book with all the phone numbers to resources that you will need. Hereβs another pamphlet that will explain your treatment options. Oh, hereβs a list of support groups. Are you in a support group already?β She finally paused.
βI have friends. Iβm not really a joiner.β
βOh, youβll need a support group. You canβt go through this alone.β
Just then, an aide delivered my breakfast. I nearly cried with relief. Surely the Cancer Lady would leave.
She didnβt. βHere is the pink quilt that the local ladies sew for cancer patients. Also, hereβs a pink ribbon and a pink tote bag. Solidarity, you know. Now letβs talk about the next steps.β
For a cancer support person, she had abysmal listening skills. I sighed. She sat down. It was too early for my family to visit, so I wasnβt going to be rescued. My stomach growled, and I thought, βScrew it.β I took the cover off my rapidly cooling pancakes and put on the butter and syrup.
βOh,β she said. βGo ahead and eat while I talk.β
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Maybe no one will notice if I stab the Cancer lady
I considered stabbing her with a fork. I could claim extreme emotional distress as my defense.
She talked. I chewed. She talked some more. I chewed some more. In fact, my chewing became more aggressive. I think I was growling as the cold pancake mash moved down my throat. She was oblivious.
βAgain, you need to consider a support group. You canβt go through this without help. We are all here to give you that help.β
I didnβt scream. I didnβt point out she was the opposite of help. That her presence was making me miserable. I did say firmly, βIβll take care of it.β
At last, she got the drift. This cancer patient wasnβt going to behave the way the Cancer Lady expected. She straightened a bit, stared at me and said triumphantly, βRemember, you will always be a cancer patient.β Then she walked out.
What the Cancer Lady did to me was wrong on many levels. She was rude, condescending, and stubborn. But her words bothered me the most.
Breast cancer is not a pink ribbon to me
Would I always be a cancer survivor? Was that to be my new identity? In the space of a few weeks, I was no longer Beth but the product of a medical condition. Before the illness, I didnβt like clubs, but after the diagnosis, I was supposed to be a joiner. Before, I rarely wore pink. After, people would try to cover me in all shades of the color. Beth before wore black. Beth after was supposed to dress like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Breast cancer is not a pink ribbon, it is something deeply personal.
Of course, having a lumpectomy andΒ cancer changes a person, but I suspect that can be said of any critical illness. All hardships change people, but most arenβt identified by them. There goes Jim, and heβs a heart attack survivor. Hey, Betty over there, sheβs stroke person. Meet thrice-divorced Shona.
Once I had cancer, some people felt they owned a part of me, which drove me mad. The other time in my life this happened was when I was pregnant. Strangers would touch me. Clothing stores tried to make me wear bunnies on my shirts. I wasnβt supposed to be me.
If you want to help cancer patients, donβt dictate what we need, or why we need to wear a pink ribbon. We donβt lose our individuality just because we have a condition in common. We can survive cancer without becoming perpetual βcancer survivors.β
Some people will benefit from quilts andΒ ribbonsΒ and support groups. Others will do better if they can just eat their pancakes in peace. Not all breast cancer survivors want to wear pink ribbons.

Beth Weber
Beth Weber is a writer, blogger, editor, and proofreader. From Quincy, Illinois's "Gem City."
Caption:
Could you...um...back off with the advice?