Alter Egos, Mixed Feelings (or, Cancer, Leave Us Alone)

First: I remain free of evidence of any new cancer.

The world, though, seems to be covered in pink and cancer keeps coming up as a topic everywhere. I just can't get away from it.

Is it fair that I love the incredible community action around breast cancer, but absolutely hate going to the grocery store in October? Bags, mugs, shirts, hair things, yogurt, soup...if I wanted I could go a month wearing, using, and eating nothing but pink be-ribboned products. I am passionate about breast cancer awareness, early mammograms for everyone, gene testing for families with a history of cancer, and comprehensive prevention. But, jeez, leave me alone for a week! When a bored checker at Jewel asked if I wanted to donate, nodding to a construction paper-wrapped soup can next to the credit card machine, I nearly replied that I'd already given two 34Cs to the cause, but bit my tongue just in time. And the radio ads - gah! And a political advertisement that made me incandescently angry, so angry I voted against the candidate. The photo on the front of the card showed a father in a tux walking a faded-out bride down the aisle. The text read something like (in my fury, I shredded it), 'A father's dream is to walk his daughter down the aisle. But what if breast cancer took her before he could? Candidate X voted against funding mammograms...vote for me instead'. If my father had received that card! Thoughtless, cheap, emotional manipulation. Grump, grump, mutter, mutter.

We had appointments at a new dentist this week, which meant I faced the inevitable new patient paperwork. I dutifully checked all of the new boxes - yes to cancer, yes to surgeries (how many was it, Zack, 4? No, 5, there was the port surgery. Right, I had nearly managed to forget that moment where I came out of the anaesthetic-induced memory loss and remembered I had CANCER, I am so glad the dentist appointment reminded me of that), yes to radiation, write in chemo, list the meds. Not fun, but I expected that little, prickly reminder of my fabulous year of fun and prizes. During the appointment, though, the dentist asked if the cancer was genetic (nod), because it runs in his family and he is worried about his daughters but they refuse to be tested. Well, doc, (scrape, swish, Mr. Thirsty), if it runs in your family, you could be tested first. If you are negative, they can't have it either. (Turn your head, please. Perfect.) If you are positive, they will know exactly which mutation to look for, making the test about a tenth the cost. (Just a little polishing now.) The dentist vowed to get tested at his next doctor's appointment, and I knew I had done a good thing. "Way to go, Cancer Girl," offered Zack, hanging a name on what we'd both noticed as my alter ego.

Over the weekend, we saw a play with friends. A sub-plot involved a little boy dying of consumption. (Ever notice how many movies and TV shows have cancer as a plot point? A crapload.) At the end, the townspeople gathered by the grave, and the main character gave a speech. Let us remember this death, to remind us to be good, to be kind, even if we go out into the world and do great things let us always remember this moment of fellow-feeling. It went on for ten minutes, while the cute children looked misty before they clasped hands and walked off into the fade-to-black. But what about the kid? I wanted to stand up and yell. How nice for you, to have your lives transformed by this catalyst, to go out in the world and be better for knowing him. Ilyushin is still dead! What did he get out of this deal? What if I don't want to be Cancer Girl? I wanted a kid, and a career, and a long future with my beloved, and instead I get to inspire dentists to get BRCA tests!

And, now, we come to the real reason I am so overwhelmed. Two weeks ago, Zack and I went with his cousin to the Mayo Clinic as support troops while she had her mastectomy. N did great - she was up and lively by the first evening, in great spirits, and is healing well. What got me was her roommate - double mastectomy with axillary dissection staged at 3C. She looked so...broken. So fragile, and sick, and hurting. So tired. She was obviously well-loved and well-supported, she had constant visitors. In a quiet moment, I introduced myself. "Will I be as skinny as you, when I finish?" she asked, wistfully. "Not everyone gets fat from the chemo", I replied. (I carefully avoided discussing bucket days). "How are you, now?" she finally asked. I held out my arms and smiled for her inspection, saying, "I was in that bed a year ago". "I can't believe it," she breathed. Neither can I. But the world doesn't seem to want me to forget it, either.