One breast cancer patient’s perspective on why support should follow the person, not a ribbon, a support-group script or somebody else’s idea of survivorship.
Why the pink ribbon isn’t for everyone
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, I’d be back in the classroom.
But when I came out of surgery the previous afternoon, the long incision under my left arm told me the doctor had removed lymph nodes — a sign that the situation was more complicated than I’d expected.
My first reaction was to swear so loudly that the nurse ran for the doctor. My mood hadn’t improved much in the hours since.
I was frightened. I was also starving, and even hospital pancakes sounded good. While I waited for breakfast, an older woman barged into my room carrying a large bag crammed with papers.
The visit from the “Pink Cancer Lady”
“Hi, I’m Maggie, the Pink Cancer Lady!” she chirped, reaching out her free hand.
I took it reluctantly. I wasn’t a morning person even when I wasn’t frightened for my life. I looked and smelled a bit like roadkill. I was in no way company-ready.
“Hi.”
She told me she understood I’d just had a lumpectomy and asked how I was feeling and whether I had questions.
“I’m okay, and no.” I was too grumpy for politeness. I just wanted her to leave.
Instead, she began unloading information: a book of phone numbers and resources, a pamphlet about treatment options, a list of support groups. I told her I did my own research and trusted my doctors.
“Are you in a support group already?” she asked.
“I have friends. I’m not really a joiner.”
“Oh, you’ll need a breast cancer support group. You can’t go through this alone.”
Just then an aide delivered breakfast. I nearly cried with relief. Surely she would leave.
She didn’t. Out came a pink quilt made for breast cancer patients, a pink ribbon and a pink tote bag. “Solidarity, you know.” Then she wanted to talk about next steps.
For a cancer support person, she had abysmal listening skills. I sighed. It was too early for my family to visit, so rescue was unlikely. My stomach growled and I thought, screw it. I uncovered the rapidly cooling pancakes and started eating.
She kept talking. I kept chewing. The chewing became increasingly aggressive.
Again she told me I needed a support group and couldn’t go through cancer recovery without help.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t point out that she was doing the opposite of helping. But I did say, firmly, “I’ll take care of it.”
At last, she got the drift. This breast cancer patient wasn’t going to behave the way the Pink Cancer Lady expected.
She straightened, stared at me and said, “Remember, you will always be a cancer patient.” Then she walked out.
I didn’t want cancer to become my identity
What bothered me most was that final sentence. Would I always be a cancer survivor? Was that supposed to become my new identity?
In the space of a few weeks, I was no longer simply Beth. I was being recast as the product of a medical condition. Before cancer, I didn’t like clubs. After diagnosis, I was apparently supposed to become a joiner. Before cancer, I rarely wore pink. Afterward, people wanted to cover me in it.
That might feel comforting to somebody else. It didn’t to me.
Breast cancer can change a person. So can many serious illnesses and life events. But I didn’t want every future version of myself to be introduced through the worst medical news I’d received.
Once I had breast cancer, some people seemed to feel they owned a small part of me: my body, my story, what kind of support I should want, even what I should wear. I’d experienced something similar when I was pregnant. Strangers suddenly treated my body as public property and retailers seemed convinced I should want bunnies on my clothes. I wasn’t supposed to be me.
Support is personal
If you want to help someone with breast cancer, don’t dictate what they need. Don’t assume a ribbon, a support group, a survivor label or a particular kind of optimism will mean the same thing to everyone.
Some people love the pink ribbon. Some find community in breast cancer groups. Some want to call themselves survivors. Those choices are theirs.
Others would rather not have cancer become a permanent public identity. Some of us would rather eat our pancakes in peace.
That was the point I wanted the Pink Cancer Lady to understand: breast cancer is deeply personal. The symbol may be pink. The experience isn’t one colour.
Editor’s note: This is Beth Weber’s personal experience and reflects her preferences around support, identity and breast-cancer symbolism. Other people with breast cancer may feel differently.
