Breast cancer does not mean a woman is saintly, strong, self-sacrificing, or even wise. It does not mean her political views are right, she is morally superior, or somehow touched with holiness.

It means she is sick.

Some people with breast cancer sucked ass before the disease, suck ass during the disease, and continue sucking ass if they survive. (I’m sure for some people, I fall into this sucking ass category, and no amount of pink ribbons and poison pumped intravenously will change that.  Thank God.)

I’m reading “why I wore lipstick to my mastectomy.” I hate to say it, but how trite. All the woman laments is her appearance. Don’t misunderstand. Appearance is important, critical even. She was in her late 20’s with no children so it’s not like there was much else for her to focus on. Compare that to the “Cancer Bitch” at the other end of the spectrum, a rebel without a cause. She rebelled against breast reconstruction, wearing a wig, and the Iraq war thrown in for good measure (henna tattoo on her head said “US out of Iraq now”). In the end though, all she really did imo, was make her life, her recovery harder, not only for herself (which I guess is her right) but for her husband and those around her. (Not to mention all the me, me, and more me, seemed as self-centered as the 20 year old worrying about never getting catcalls again; and whose ranks, if I’m honest, I will likely join in no time.)

Here is what I believe about these books. They’re written about one woman’s journey with breast cancer, told in 1^st person. One of the reasons I am starting to abhor 1^st person, even in fiction, is because it is so egocentric, so ME ME ME. It’s semi-palatable in fiction because the characters are usually bigger than life, with bigger than life problems or obstacles which overshadow the petty concerns of the everyday world.

Both women, in both books, were married. Not a single chapter written by their husbands. Not a single word. It’s almost like this disease is some sort of banner call to sisterhood which precludes men, husbands specifically; as if a man could never understand.

What a load of shit.

I’ve been on both sides of cancer, the family member and the patient. So far the family gig is hardest hands down. Why? While breast cancer “survivors” write books (or blogs ~ahem~) about me, me, me, and have support groups, and are generally excused from life (and in some instances from being a decent human being all together), the family suffers in silence. Complaining about personal fears or the patient being bitchy and self-centered seems wrong because she is dying.

What people lose sight of is, we’re all dying. Not a single one of us is promised tomorrow. My husband is on a business trip to Georgia right now (that’s right burglars, I said it) and (God forbid) he could die in an accident. Do I want his last memory of me, of us, being about how I couldn’t seem to see past the cancer to the rest of the world, to his pain?

This is why (I’m reading, lots and lots of reading) so many marriages break up when a woman has breast cancer. Sure, it’s not the only reason. But eventually, if a woman allows it, she becomes the disease. Some, even after sending it into remission, can’t leave the breast cancer culture. Kind of like an inmate so “institutionalized” she can’t make it in the real world. The real world doesn’t make sense. She has to go back. 

I’m not exactly sure why I’m writing this today. I have a feeling, a dread if you will, I may become one of those women. This cancer demands I employ all my resources, all my strength to fight it.

On this side of surgery and chemo, I want no part of that culture other than what it takes to sustain me through it.

But I do have weaknesses. I tend to give 150% to anything of interest. Why is that a bad thing?  Ask my husband. Our biggest bone of contention the entire 23 years of marriage is whether I should work outside the home. I did, for many years, but he didn’t like it. He says I tend to make work my life (this is true). I try not to though. (I should at least get points for trying.) But I don’t know how to give half, or to turn off my brain when something vexes me on the job. Which ultimately means other things suffer, ie family, and home time.

Like a lot of women (I hope it’s not just me) there is a struggle between what I heard my whole life from other women in my family and the culture…(I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never never never let him forget he’s my man….cuz I’m a wooooooman); and the innate desire, biological command, to nurture my young, take care of home, husband, and hearth; to be a help mate.

Shelby worked her whole life. She never took vacations; never turned down over-time and bringing work home. Do you know what she told me when all that stopped because of the chemo? We sat out on the front porch swing, her trademark hat covering a bald head, listening to the birds chirp, and she says, “Tonya. If you don’t have to work (meaning financially), then don’t do it. And if you have to work, then do it from home. Your family needs you home. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t work one minute more than I had too to survive. Family. Spending as much time with people you love and who love you, that should be your full-time job, your goal in life. It may not seem like you’re doing much, but looking back, I see work kept me from moments I shouldn’t have missed. Moments I regret missing. And in the end,” she motioned to her lovely home, the porch, all her stuff, “none of this matters. Get sick enough and it will all vanish through death or bills. I’m not one iota better off having worked my life away than a woman who stayed home; at least not in the things that matter. So, don’t worry about a job, a career, they’re distractions. Don’t miss your life. Spend time with the people you love, and who love you.”

I joked and said that was a pretty short list, what was I going to do with the other 23 hours and 59 minutes of the day?

But, she wouldn’t be swayed. The dichotomy of her earlier teachings, from my youth, when she tried to make me into a lady, wasn’t lost on me.

She was a woman who taught me, beat two things into my brain growing up: one, a woman should never ever depend on a man for anything. Two, because of #1 a woman should always work, always be self-sufficient, and always, when possible, be in charge.

It’s not like her husband left her. I loved my Uncle Mike, but for about the first fifteen to twenty years of their marriage, he wasn’t a good provider or a good husband. And country girls from the hills of Kentucky didn’t leave their husbands. So her “lessons” were hard learned and she wanted to spare me the pain necessary to learn them with life experience.

I discovered the fallacy of her trust-no-man mantra after marrying my husband. But I never completely shook it off. It was part of the reason I worked until our children came, then from home off and on editing and writing when possible, volunteered, and eventually went back for a Masters Degree. And each time, for me, those things robbed my attention, stole my life. It’s just how I’m wired.

So, I’m a little concerned breast cancer will move in and take over.  (Kinda like all I might have to blog about!)

I don’t want to ride this train. Don’t want it to become the be-all-end-all of my existence. I am more than a diagnosis, more than a disease.

I just have to remember it.

And occasionally, if it’s not too much to ask, would you help remind me?