October

"He has breast cancer" my friend Helen replied when I asked after our friend Chet. "That's awful" I said. "I'd like to give him a call. Is it okay if I tell him that you told me?" "Sure," Helen said. "He's totally public about it." I had always respected Chet, but now I had even more reason to admire his bravery and selflessness in sharing his private diagnosis to promote cancer awareness.


I can't think about breast cancer without thinking about all cancers. Every year at this time, I'm reminded of the loved ones I've lost to cancer, of those who have survived, and of those who have spoken out about their experiences so that others might take preventive measures or utilize early detection options. And I'm reminded of the American Cancer Society ad reading "The five most dangerous words in the English language: Maybe It Will Go Away." We can't afford to wait for an unusual lump to go away. We need to remember that early detection is critical. We also need to remind ourselves not to jump to dangerous conclusions. We need to remember that men can get breast cancer, and that people who have a chronic illness can still get cancer even though they already have their "bad medical thing." (I've been told "I assumed my sister couldn't get cancer because she had Lupus." and "It didn't occur to me that my son could get cancer. After all, he has Down Syndrome.") If something doesn't seem right, it needs to be checked now, no matter who you are, no matter what your medical history.
When I was growing up, October was a glorious month filled with the color of changing leaves -- rich reds, oranges, and yellows. Somewhere along the line, October became pink. Every year, it seems to get pinker -- pink food, pink housewares, pink clothing & accessories. I wish we didn't need to be overwhelmed with pink. I wish women didn't need an annual reminder to undergo breast cancer screening. I wish breast cancer -- and all cancer -- would become a thing of the past, that my daughter could grow up thinking of October simply as a beautiful month filled with fall colors. But until that day, please, please be vigilant about your health. Take action while you can, and don't let yourself think "Maybe it will go away."

A Mother's Failure

My five-year-old daughter has lost one of the loves of her short life and she doesn't even know it.  She is in love with a sweet, kind, ten-year-old boy who dropped dead from an aneurysm. I like to tell my daughter the truth as much as possible, but I can't bring myself to tell her this. When I heard the news of this darling boy's passing, I saw his smiling face in my mind and I cried and cried. As the day went on, I went about my daily routine in a daze, seeing his face. When I closed my eyes that night, his face was there. And when I awoke the next morning, he was still with me, still smiling at me. I couldn't shake his image for three days. 

I didn't try to make sense of his death; I'm too wise -- or too jaded -- for that. But I struggled to do what I always do -- find a bright side, a silver lining to which I can cling. No matter how bad the situation, I can find that silver lining. But this time, no inspiration came. I had (and have) no positive feelings about this tragedy. And so I cannot tell my young daughter this horrific news, not without a single uplifting sentiment with which to temper the blow. The eternal optimist has stared defeat square in the eye . . . and thrown up her hands in surrender.