I have a neighbor who is angry at cancer. Angry at the cancer that she fought; angry at the cancer that took her husband just a few months ago. Angry that I have to fight the cancer now, so soon after her loss.
Her husband’s cancer was also a rare one; it spread quickly to his bones and throughout his system, and his fight was short and hard.
Sometimes she gets angry at the pink ribbons, the happy colors encouraging us to “Think Pink!” and think of breast cancer, because she feels jealousy at the attention it gets, and that prostate cancer gets, when the rarer cancers, like his, and like mine, don’t get much attention or research.
It makes a difference.
It makes a difference in survival.
And you know what? I’m angry this weekend too.
I have been so angry for the past two days that I can hardly think or write. I am angry that I have to do weekly chemo now, but more angry at the thought that it might not do enough for me. If my cancer metastasizes, I will have to do weekly chemo for the rest of my life.
And that terrifies me.
For the rest of my life. The words aren’t coming smoothly today, but I wanted to put this out there. That pink ribbons are lovely, but research is better. That pink hairdryers are cute, but increasing awareness is better. That pink tchotchkes are encouraging, but early detection and treatment are critical.
And all the pink in the world is not taking away my anger today.