First and foremost, we are just fine. We found a heartbeat and without any proper diagnosis, I can’t tell you what the golf-ball sized -something- was. They have no idea.  I was still visibly shaking when I started typing this. John and I sat nose to nose in the ER and for the first time in our relationship, we prayed and wished and found the small grain of hope we knew was there, inside.

To read more… will you bear with me and click here:

http://www.girlmeetsgeek.com/2011/12/16/hope-for-july-31st

For the first time, I cannot get WordPress to attribute this link correctly to the front page. Many, many wonderful people left comments and I wanted to make sure an error didn’t occur if the old link didn’t work. Thank you so much.

I received a very strange email a few days ago. Press Invites/Releases make up about 30% of my email inbox. Often, I’ll do a skim and delete, or I’ll contact the sender for more information.  The pitches are usually meaningful and as a journalist, I appreciate the time a decent release takes. However, the heading on this one truly was hard to miss.  You can read the entire press release here: http://www.girlmeetsgeek.com/reverb-media-press-release/.

The first thing I did was to check the sender, (Reverb Media) and make sure that someone hadn’t accidentally hacked their account. About 3 seconds later it dawned on me: Someone is actually using this headline for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I found out it was a phone app that reminded you to be screened for breast cancer, with ‘hot men.’ That’s it. Three things immediately went through my head:

1.) Someone’s going to get fired.

2.) Can you imagine a masectomy survivor reading this and knowing that yet again, someone else is trying to push breast cancer only involving the… breasts? Can you imagine her outrage wishing that she still HAD her breasts?

3.) They must be joking. It must be a catchy headline, (worked for me!) I’ll open it, a heartfelt apology will flow and they will be donating a huge amount to a well-known organization.

“No matter the cancer, we should be supporting those left picking up the pieces.  Pink products, small ribboned novelties and otherwise fantastically-marketed crap really do nothing for women who are battling their fears, bodies and for the rights to a cancer-free-life.  Until the world finds another way to develop a cure, I’ll speak out on #PinkWashing, coined from my friend @RickBert.” – Kate Madonna Hindes

I decided to dig deeper. The release was crafted by to entities: John St. and Reverb Media. I’ve heard of John St. and have a lot of respect for their craft, unfortunately that’s no longer the case. I’ve also heard of Reverb, most recently because of their 2010 lawsuit claiming that they falsified reviews in the Itunes Store for profit. And I’ve heard of the ‘non profit’ behind this newest push for prevention. Know those “Save The Boobs!” bracelets that are in the news for the ACLU lawsuits and schools banning them? That’s these guys: RethinkBreastCancer.org. One click on their website tells you exactly what their after. In fact, in the press release itself, under “Save The Boobs!” the link pulls up a youtube video. After I sat with my mouth gaping open, I decided to screenshot this gigantic mess in its disgusting, man-centered glory. For those that are easily offended, I recommend you don’t click play on the video below. If you’d like a play by play on the video and their falsified statistics, visit here.

I asked for a few questions to be answered about the mobile application the press release was pitching. The following is the completely unedited Q&A  I engaged with the organization:

MJ DeCoteau, Executive Director: Rethink Breast Cancer, www.rethinkbreastcancer.com

Questions:

1.) Why did you choose a phone app instead of ipad?

2.) Since this is launching to women, (young and old,) do you have any concerns over the ‘sexualizing’ of the disease that has been written up recently in Forbes, the NYT and the Washington Journal?

3.) Although early detection is important, there are many other factors that can save lives such as environmental, genetic, etc.

4.) How does this engage with the survivor population?

Answers:

1.)“As ‘Your Man Reminder’ is the first Rethink Breast Cancer App we wanted to focus on iPhone and Android, as they are mobile devices that women carry with them at all times.  iPad, and other tablet devices, are certainly a great way for us to reach women with our early detection message and its definitely on our minds for Phase 2!”

2.) The use of “hot guys” as a reminder for women to be breast aware is actually a clever twist on the typical sexualizing of the disease. This is not the usual “booby” campaign that is emphasizing women’s breasts as sexual objects. Both approaches, if done with humour and sensitivity,  can bring attention to early detection and help save women’s lives.

3.) Although early detection is important, there are many other factors that can save lives such as environmental, genetic, etc. The app is one of a host of Rethink Breast Cancer’s education tools and resources, including ones that focus on risk reduction through lifestyle changes. In our efforts to empower young women, Rethink encourages women to know their risk for developing breast cancer as well as strategies to reduce their risk and to be breast aware and know the importance of early detection. The app is a great example of one of our bold efforts to help young women take charge of their breast health.

4.) How does this engage with the survivor population? Many breast cancer survivors (of all ages) have embraced our creative, and sometimes irreverent, education and early detection initiatives. Many of the young women in our breast cancer support programs are excited about this app and will help us spread the word about it through social media. They think it’s critical that young women know their risk for breast cancer and believe this app can break through the clutter of young women’s busy daily lives and help take some of the fear out of using early detection methods.

It was the question to #2 that immediately stopped me dead in my tracks. This particular sexualization and including men is just a “clever twist.” So what does it app do? A few good – looking men remind you and your girlfriends to get screened and participate in early prevention of the disease. Which frankly has been done better by just about every, other campaign out there. To speak to younger women Ms. DeCoteau, you don’t need hot men or a history of sexualizing the population of MTV video watchers, (who smoke, drink and take birth control: all added risks to Breast Cancer you don’t discuss.) When you equate beautiful breasts to beautiful women and breast cancer to fear, you in fact are telling young women: “All that matters is that you look great in a bikini, get checked!”

Creating hot and ‘cutting-edge’ ads over a very deadly disease has it’s risks and unfortunately in today’s day and age: no longer works. We know breast cancer exists. Komen has partnerships with major drug companies that also manufacture known carcinogens in pesticides. The Yoplait “Lids for a Cure” campaign was busted after it was found that Yoplait uses RGBH in their yogurt: a known breast cancer causer. Komen’s own perfume, “Promise Me,” has ingredients that cause breast cancer. Why are we still investing in prevention when the cure is right under our nose? The true reason? Cancer is profitable.

One thing is certain, ReThinkBreastCancer is not afraid to pack the ‘sexy’ punches behind the disease, but they do seem to be afraid to tell the true statistics. Judging by their latest 2010 financials, they’ve been wildly successful. CharityNavigator.com has no record or account of their non-profit, which might be because they are a Canadian charity, I just have two questions: Should we protect women, or just the breasts? Where’s the multi-cultural representation within their ads and website? (African American women make up the largest number of breast cancer deaths, though on Rethink’s website, I had yet to find one African American woman.) If we’re only protecting breasts before they’re gone, what happens to those who have lost their breasts? In today’s society of ‘sex sells,’ are we setting young women up for failure to maintain their sense of self-worth after cancer? Someone please, wake me up when October ends. Surely the survivors and those that have passed away from breast cancer deserve so much more than these poor attempts at ‘prevention.’ It’s time for a cure.

For more reading:

Gayle Sulik is a pioneer in defining the sexualization of breast cancer awareness. You can read her pieces here: http://gaylesulik.com/2011/04/boobies-i-said-it-now-may-i-have-your-attention-please/

Pink Ribbons = Company Profit: 2010′s article on Breast Cancer Pinkwashing- http://www.girlmeetsgeek.com/2009/09/23/pink-ribbons-company-profit/

Huffington Post: “Save The Boobs” : Is Breast Cancer Awareness Ad Too Sexy? http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/09/24/save-the-boobs-is-this-br_n_298349.html

ABC News: http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/save-boobs-breast-cancer-psas-raise-eyebrows/story?id=8646632

The Volante Online: http://www.volanteonline.com/opinion/column-stop-sexualizing-breast-cancer-1.2391523

New York Times: The Code Words Of Breast Cancer Awareness: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/magazine/14FOB-wwln-t.html

"…and the home of the brave…"

“Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”   – Martin Luther King Jr.

If you haven’t been following the plight of 9/11 First Responders to have their medical bills covered, now is a good time to educate yourself about what is happening.  It’s not often I get political on GirlmeetsGeek, but this is an issue that affects how we are viewed as a country and one that ultimately could cost our heroes, their lives. I don’t believe that we should stand quietly when basic human rights are at stake. The moment we allow big insurance to choose who lives and dies, we all lose. This has been happening for far too long.

“Workers who were involved in the response to the World Trade Center attack will not have their cancer treatments compensated under a program set up after September 11, according to a controversial decision released Tuesday by the World Trade Center Health Program.”  (Follow the CNN article here)

Want to make a difference? Consider writing your local senator:   http://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm

The sweet nurse put me on hold and I waited almost 10 minutes to speak to the Doctor.  It had been 2 weeks. My colposcopy results should be in.  The second pap they did should be in.  The first ones lacked the news we wanted, so we pressed harder to find out what was going on.  I was hopeful, I felt good.  I had just gotten off the phone with a friend and said in passing how I just didn’t have time to even DO pap smears. I was busy taking over the world.

The doctor was so sweet.  She listened to me tear up and she stayed on the phone when I screamed.  I don’t make it a habit of screaming at sweet doctors but she told me to and so, I did.  My results came back again, as high-grade abnormal cell damage.  ASCUS with high-grade HPV. After going through this 3 times, I buckled.  I got angry, and then I pondered ripping out my cervix, (all 20% of what was left,) and making the damaged tissue and breeding ground listen.  I had just dreamed of a baby, and a future and world domination.  This year, I’ve seen 3 friends buried because of cervical cancer. I have dreams, god dammit. For the past 2 weeks, every dream has been with me and an infant in my arms.  No one has wanted to have another baby as much as I.

The doctor put a friend of mine on the phone from my clinic and she told me, “It’s time to really think, Katie- about letting your fertility, go.”  I knew it would come down to this.  I wrongly assumed I would be 35, or maybe 45.  That I would have made VP and a baby, would no longer fit in my busy lifestyle so it wouldn’t hurt as much as it does right now.  After hearing countless friends and acquaintances, from our small Cervical Cancer Survivors Club had died this year, (3 just in the past 3 months,) I’m absolutely terrified.  They left behind families and dreams and busy careers.  I never imagined myself having to fight this battle again.

I tweeted it. Mainly because when I had sent the first tweet, I truly thought the news was going to be great. I thought we’d celebrate.  I was going to bring Ava out for ice cream tonight and we were going to start work on gathering supplies for friends affected by the tornadoes.  I have a pile of clothes, toys and blankets to put in the car.  I don’t have time for THIS.

I don’t have insurance.  My insurance I do have, doesn’t cover my pre-existing cervical cancer.  This is going to be an adventure, one that over 4.500 women every year, die from.  One that MILLIONS survive.  The statistics are staggering. This is my 3rd battle with cancer.  Women who have cervical cancer multiple times in their lifetime face a huge risk of mortality by 40.  I’ve had it 3 times in 3 years.  I just face a huge risk of having to show the world what I’m made of. There’s nothing left of my cervix to really take out.  Once the rest goes, everything will need to go.  There’s no other treatment they can really do to keep a part of me intact to grow another Ava.  I have dreams of a little girl named Sophie, and she is mine.

The fact is: I can’t stomach another LEEP, or another cone biopsy.  My body is tired of the pain and my mind is tired of, “what can’t happen, anymore.”  If this is the end, and they give me a hysterectomy, I’ll count myself lucky.  Because without me, my daughter would grow up alone.  That’s not an option.  I’m most scared that it’ll be chemo, or radiation.  In an effort to be optimistic, I grew out my hair.  The first time since high school, it touches just beyond my shoulders.  It fell out during the last round.  I can’t bear the thought of seeing it go.  Perspective tells me, I’d be a beautiful, bald and powerful person.  Perspective tells me not to think about it.

Before the doctor hung up, she said, “I need to make an appointment for you, right away.  It’s advised you see another MD and an oncologist.”  They told me not to worry.  I didn’t.  I just tweeted with gusto, and facebooked.  My parents drove a while and sat with me.  Ava was obnoxious and adorable on the couch.  And now, when Ava is at her grandparents and the man I love is flying in tonight, at 12am to come hold me, I know… It’s going to be okay.  But it’s going to be HARD.  And it’s going to be SCARY.  And I just wasn’t ready.

I think I did it correctly.  I’m too busy have cancer, or precancer or anything else that will keep me from my goals.  But life- REAL LIFE, is what happens off your calendar and at idle Monday evenings at 3pm.  I’m totally ready to be totally angry and use that anger to propel me forward.  But, I’m also totally ready to be completely thankful for Planned Parenthood, good friends and amazing readers that let me express each and every emotion so when it’s all over, I’m ready to conquer.

With treatment, 80 to 90% of women with stage I cancer and 50 to 65% of those with stage II cancer are alive 5 years after diagnosis. Only 25 to 35% of women with stage III cancer and 15% or fewer of those with stage IV cancer are alive after 5 years.^[64]

According to the International Federation of Gynecology and Obstetrics, survival improves when radiotherapy is combined with cisplatin-based chemotherapy.^[65]

As the cancer metastasizes to other parts of the body, prognosis drops dramatically because treatment of local lesions is generally more effective than whole body treatments such as chemotherapy.

Interval evaluation of the patient after therapy is imperative. Recurrent cervical cancer detected at its earliest stages might be successfully treated with surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, or a combination of the three. Thirty-five percent of patients with invasive cervical cancer have persistent or recurrent disease after treatment.^[66]

Average years of potential life lost from cervical cancer are 25.3 (SEER Cancer Statistics Review 1975-2000, National Cancer Institute (NCI)). Approximately 4,600 women were projected to die in 2001 in the US of cervical cancer (DSTD), and the annual incidence was 13,000 in 2002 in the US, as calculated by SEER. Thus the ratio of deaths to incidence is approximately 35.4%.

This one, is truly: FOR YOU, (click there!) I’m humbled, thankful and so truly, astonished.  (There’s also a little somethin’ somethin’ for you at the bottom.)

.     .     .     .     .     .

GirlTalk Radio with Marlo:  http://girltalkwithmarlo.com/cervical-cancer-battles-sea-of-pink

Greg Glatz’s CJOB Show: All our podcasts are available on Itunes for free.  Here’s the most recent: http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/greg-glatz-show/id413242861

Women In Business Radio Show:  http://womeninbusinessradio.com/your-authentic-voice-katemadonna-hindes-women-in-business-in-radio/

I also took on a column with my friends over at JobHuntChat: http://www.jobhuntchat.com/2011/03/bringing-you-to-the-table-how-the-simple-act-of-being-yourself-can-win-you-the-job/

.     .     .     .     .     .

(Pioneer Press Article: http://www.twincities.com/alllistings/ci_17638466?source=rss)

(SPARK website: http://www.twincitiesspark.com/2011/03/girlmeetsgeek/)

Your blog has been around for about three years. How has it evolved since you first started blogging?

I’ve actually been blogging close to 15 years. My first years, was through a platform at AOL. Then it moved over to LiveJournal and I had a following with a few other friends. Livejournal gave me the ability to really explore writing the personal and internal emotions that helped me to transform to who I am today. After deliberation, about 3 and a half years ago, I decided to move parts of the journal over, and startwww.girlmeetsgeek.com. It started out as a journal to why I wasn’t married and ended as an internal look into myself, business and passion. I think GirlmeetsGeek is the culmination of who I was, what I was passionate about and how I was living it out loud.

What is your biggest challenge when it comes to creating new content? How do you overcome it?

I don’t write, unless I feel something in my fingertips telling me to. I find, that when I let my passion take control, my writing is far better than if I allow myself to blankly type words. I never blog about my daily life, only about moments that matter most. I don’t want to ‘water down’ my writing with mediocrity and I’m too busy to worry about blogging daily. I have other posts I can pull from if my focus is on business, or I have too many deadlines that week. What keeps my writing, ‘fresh’ and ‘unique,’ is the emotion behind it. I always taken on submissions, (I believe GirlmeetsGeek should be a place of words, not just MY words,) so other writers are always welcome. I have always found that good writers are open to the influences around them. I’m a news junkie and I write a lot of my pieces on Social Justice and giving voice to the oppressed. GirlmeetsGeek has become an emotional platform for the forgotten, the passionate and the unvocalized.

People blog for different reasons. What is the most rewarding aspect of maintaining the Girl Meets Geek blog?

I write, because it’s in my blood. I don’t believe in the word, “Blog.” I’m a writer. I’m not a ‘blogger.” I think by using the terms, ‘blog,’ or ‘blogger,’ we limit ourselves. I’m convinced if you cut me open, letters and punctuation would flow from my veins. You could say I blog, because I feel best when my thoughts form into words, hit my keyboard screen and I can read them back and think, “YES.” GirlmeetsGeek is for me, only- it always has been. You’ll notice, there’s no ads on my site and I’m not involved in any communities. I wanted to establish something different for GirlmeetsGeek. I wanted the words, the emotion and the quality to speak for itself, but only because I wanted to put authentic words out there. At the end of the day, the site is for my daughter and I. I want her to see a woman who overcame tremendous odds to grow as a human being and create the world she wanted.

What is one thing you hope your readers learn/understand from reading it?

I hope whomever visits, realizes that we all have greatness in them. I started writing stories when I was in the First Grade. I knew from a young age, that words were my currency to the world. We all have gifts, and they only resonate with others if we put passion and purpose behind those gifts. David Brauer from MinnPost once told me, “Dream Responsibly.” I’ve taken that to heart. GirlmeetsGeek is my Responsible Dream. Our lives are only measured by what we DO with them, not what we WANT out of them. I hope GirlmeetsGeek inspires others to take action and create the future they want.

Every word is so heartfully meant.  Natalie Merchant sang it best….

Turning Point: Chaska woman chose to combat cervical cancer by talking about it

By Rhoda Fukushima
rgfukushima@pioneerpress.com

For two years, Kate-Madonna Hindes of Chaska had abnormal PAP tests. She was told not to worry about it and that the abnormality could be something as inconsequential as a yeast infection. In 2005, Hindes, a recruiting director and social media writer, gave birth to a daughter, Ava. Early the next year, Hindes went in for another PAP test, and the doctor found precancerous cells on her cervix. After a biopsy, Hindes was diagnosed with cervical cancer. She was also diagnosed with human papillomavirus (HPV). She was 26.

“The first doctor said we would attack it with a LEEP (loop electrosurgical excision procedure). They use a laser to slough off the bad cells. I had to keep doing LEEPs because the dysplasia (abnormal cells on the cervix) kept coming back. That’s not unusual. I was told I would have to stay on top of it.

“I had three LEEP procedures, three colposcopies and a cold-knife biopsy.

“With the colposcopies, you feel like someone is peering into you and trying to find specks of wrong. That is all cancer is — changed cells, cells growing out of control.

“I was knocked out for the LEEP procedures. I was fortunate. The worst part is the ash that falls out of your body. I viewed it as my fertility dying. I had a choice: I could get depressed or I could change the world. I chose the latter.

“I spread the word. I tell my story. I have to stay on top of it.

“HPV is the main cause of cervical cancer. There are very few women who experience warning

signs of HPV. I had experienced fatigue, pain, cramping, but I just figured I was getting older.

“I was so ashamed that this happened to me, but there should be no shame. It’s a gynecological cancer, and people don’t want to talk about it.

“Now, I travel nationally and speak for the Tamika and Friends and the National Cervical Cancer Coalition. This is my stress reliever.

“I’ve had amazing things happen. I just got back from the White House. In early February, I met with an advisory team and Michelle Obama’s chief of staff.

“I have the best mother and father and good baby sitters where I can drop Ava off. I have a very supportive family.

“I do yoga. I shy away from coffee and soda. I eat a lot of fruits and vegetables. I don’t buy canned vegetables anymore. I no longer buy anything containing MSG. I used to be addicted to ramen noodles. I try to eat more whole grains. I’ve never been a potato chip person, but I eat veggie chips. I try whole-grain everything I can get my hands on.

“Cancer is just one thing of many things that can happen to people. It’s what we choose to do with our diagnoses that counts.

“No one is going to better the world if they hold everything inside. I think if everyone found something to be wildly passionate about, we’d all be better people.

“I don’t think this is going to be the most difficult thing I’m going to face. I have amazing friends and family. I believe my biggest weaknesses are my biggest strengths. My spirits are high. Cervical cancer can’t be the thing that will take my life. I’m on top of it.”

Have you turned the corner toward good health — physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually? If so, we want to hear your story. Please e-mail your ideas to rgfukushima@pioneerpress.com (no attachments, please) or call 651-228-5444. For more Turning Points, go to twincities.com/health.

Pink Fatigue. It hit me in the beginning of 2006, when I had my own battle with cervical cancer while carrying the breast cancer gene.  I wasn’t able to be a part of a club of pink ribbons, march in stride with other women or even buy a waterbottle with an inspiring logo.  I was, alone.  Then, it was everywhere.  Everywhere I looked, pink assaulted my eyes as to remind me, that my breasts were more important than my cervix.  I looked into Komen, I saw the hypocrisy of misused funding and decided that although I would actively speak out about cancer, I didn’t need to tolerate PINK. I didn’t need to tolerate using a color to represent women that were all together, NOT PINK, but stronger.  I didn’t see the need to girly-up a serious cancer.

And that’s what we do- we TOLERATE pink.  We spend more for the golf balls with the pink ribbon, because 10% goes to breast cancer research.  We send yogurt lids in the mail to support breast cancer research when the stamp costs more than the Yoplait will ever donate to research, anyhow.  (Lids for A Cure only donate .10 cents per lid.)  We smile politely when someone mentions how PINK has empowered them.  We cheer on those at Race For The Cure and wonder, “Where IS the cure?”  We don’t really think beyond the bastardized representation of breast cancer anymore….  PINK, do we?

I just can’t function in a world of pink, anymore.  We have misused and SOLD OUT to a hope that PINK will save us when really, all we need to do to save ourselves is to ask the tougher question of, “Where is all that money going?”  It’s the same for any large non-profit.  We look at the administrative costs and the fact that while MILLIONS, (sometimes billions are coming in the door,) people are still dying of diseases because they cannot afford the care.  This to me, is disgusting and represents Non-Profit-Elitism.  Then I heard about the Susan G. Komen foundation USING funding to sue other cancer organizations. Over $1Million dollars in funding while low-income women STILL cannot receive adequate care because mammograms are still unaffordable.  So, please… forgive me because PINK turns my stomach in a way that no amount of cheer or empowerment can fix it.

“We were certainly taken aback by it,” she told HuffPost. “We have partners running these kite events around the country. What if one of them uses, say, magenta? Is that pink? I mean, where are we going with this? We just want to raise money for cancer. What we don’t want is to have our energy misplaced by having our charity partners trying to police the good work that we’re doing.”  (Huffington Post Article)

Let me tell you what it’s like to try and save women from other, “non-pink,” cancers while Queen Komen reigns over all: It sucks.  No one has any funding left, or brainspace to comprehend an organization that actually discusses other cancers.  Our brains are so focused on ‘Saving The TaTas,” or “Racing For The Cure,” that other women suffer and are branded not as important, because breasts reign supreme in these parts.  The cervix, is an afterthought and ironically, the cervix, (when healthy,) is actually a bright and cheery pink. If I had a cervix left, it would be revolting. My cervix lays in a rejected body part medical wasteland somewhere, unattached from me and alone.

Cancer is cancer.  The cells grow alike, whether in the breast or in the cervix.  Cancer is spread because of our environment, diet, stress level and genes.  Cancer, doesn’t discriminate between the rich or poor, sick or well.  But some, organizations DO.  Some organizations however, would humble Komen with strength and authenticity in a time when PINK overwhelms.

I spoke at a gala this weekend for the SAS Foundation, a non-profit organization based out of Appleton, Wisconsin.  During a glass of wine, I spoke with an attendee and she mentioned, “It’s sad that while anyone can point out the breasts, no one knows anything about the cervix.”  I agreed and we watched the slideshow on the television about a woman who lost her life, years prior.  The heartbreaking story of how SAS was founded begins with a tale of a women who never missed a Pap Smear and for 3 years was misdiagnsed.  The ending hasn’t happened as 3 of her most passionate friends took up her battle and started to educate and empower women around them.  Two men and a woman lead this incredible organization with such heart and perseverance.  This tale is the same as mine, except while the beautiful must of the founders, lays in the ground, I walk above.  Comprehending how close I could be to that fate has me angry that in a day and age while one organization raises billions, others struggle to pay for the necessities necessary to save actual women’s lives.

I tweeted tonight at the incredible campaign opportunity unfolding that I’ve been given for Cervical Cancer and gynecological cancers.   Someone responded that my ‘anti-pink’ sentiments were tearing her down.  I sat for a while and reflected that this debate was the same of abortion or anyother debate.  Can we love and support women’s bodies and their choice to choose abortion while being ‘good’ and ‘moral’ people? (I think we can.)  Can a formula feeding mother understand the benefits of breastfeeding, yet still choose to do formula and be a good mother? (I think she can.)  Can I be so against what has happened to pink and breast cancer but still be PRO-breast health? (I think I can.)  Somehow, in the anger and frustration of debates, these points are almost always lost.

I sent the person that responded this:

“Pink doesn’t just represent breast cancer. Survivors do. Pink represents a money-making machine based off breast cancer. I can be pro-women, but anti-pink. I can be PRO you, but anti-the ridiculousness of selling everything from KFC chicken to waterbottles and giving a meaningless percentage to cancer research. Please don’t twist my tweets to think, “I hate your breasts.” I hate what breast cancer has become. It’s been bastardized. Mistreated. Spit on. Women die for pink, so the execs at Komen can get richer. While MORE women die without reason.  You’re more than Pink, though- that’s the problem. Our breasts are not pink. They trivialize other cancers, to make breast cancer rule. I’m sick of pink.”

I don’t know what possessed me, but tonight I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my breasts.  None of my body parts are more important than the other, yet there my breasts stood as a ticking time bomb, and what remains, (a small sliver,) of my cervix, hides inside.  One body part almost killed me.  Another holds a gene that will kill me.  My body, is a mass of incredible strength and lovely curses. My passion for healthy women isn’t defined by cervix or breast, but taking the COLOR out of cancer prevention and sticking to the BLACK AND WHITE facts of the matter: I’m over the gimmicks.  I’m over the shadiness and I want, a goddamn cure.  I think that’s all anyone wants.  A cure.

I was sitting behind him in Journalism class.  At 14 years old and him at 15, we were as lost as two misfits could be.  I had 90′s rolled, curled, bangs and delusions of grandeur.  He had a genuine smile and some of the best retorts I’ve ever heard to what other classmates said to us in jest. I was a high school loser and he, had a car.

He offered me rides some mornings.  For my 15th birthday, I received a spiked dog collar and NIN’s, “The Downward Spiral.“  He, influenced my musical tastes and opened my heart to the words behind the pain.  I never really looked into what that album was about, until tonight when the discography made me understand that we had come full-circle.

“The idea behind the album is of someone who sheds everything around them to a potential nothingness, but through career, religion, relationship, belief and so on. It’s less muscle-flexing, though when I started it I didn’t know what I wanted it to sound like. Thematically I wanted to explore the idea of somebody who systematically throws or uncovers every layer of what he’s surrounded with, comfort-wise, from personal relationships to religion to questioning the whole situation. Someone dissecting his own ability to relate to other people or to have anything to believe in…With ‘The Downward Spiral’ I tried to make a record that had full range, rather than a real guitar-based record or a real synth-based record.  I tried to make it something that opened the palate for NIN, so we don’t get pigeon-holed. It was a conscious effort to focus more on texture and space, rather than bludgeoning you over the head for an hour with a guitar.”  (http://www.ninwiki.com/The_Downward_Spiral_%28halo%29)

Hurt was on that CD.  Closer, too.  The lyrics that gave a voice to pain and self-loathing in the 1990′s made me feel even more aware how unique I wasn’t.  I credit him as a muse: the first man who dared understand me enough to see beyond a cheerleader exterior into something deeper- I was struggling to find myself.  He stood by me in high school when I dumped him 8 hours before the Sadie Hawkins dance.  He stood by me in college when I kissed him instead of my college boyfriend at the time.  We laughed together when our kisses turned into a fumbling mess that made us realize in my early twenties I lost the romantic love interest and gained an incredible brother.  We sat together at a mutual friend’s mother’s funeral and I looked over at him.  He knew.  I never had to speak any words with him.  He just knew. He wasn’t the one that, ‘got away,’ he was the one that grew as I grew and evolved into something greater. He became my daughter’s godfather and I dreamed of the day our children would play together.  I had seen him change, from an awkward 15 year old to a tragically misled 18 year old who wore a spiked jacket and steel-toe boots. Then he was an Abercrombie-obsessed 23 year old who stunned me with his brilliance and wit. At 30 now, I grow more proud everyday.  15 years of Joe.

He married someone a few years ago.  Someone I struggled to love from the beginning.  I could feel it from the first moment she laid eyes on Ava and I.  Suddenly, we were a threat. I remember their wedding distinctly because I wasn’t allowed to be in the wedding party or have any part of her bridal shower.  He chose a college friend to read a passage on the altar.   I sat quietly in my chair, clapped when I was told to clap and eventually my date and I left early.  7 months into the pregnancy with their first child, I received a chilling phone call that my child, “looked too much like him.“  She wondered then, if it was a conspiracy.  “Why are you so close?”  She was angry, and I was humiliated into begging her to realize this wasn’t the case.  I found out later that her jealousy grew deeper than I had originally thought.  She couldn’t get over the fact we had dated.  He had to make a choice.

I saw him change then.  When I had to make one of the most difficult decisions in my life with Cervical Cancer, I was condemned.  He said, “I cannot be friends with you, it’s too hard to watch you go through this.”  I begged him on the phone in the parking lot of a Bruegger’s Bagels on my lunch hour to reconsider.  I wasn’t of their thread, anymore.  Years passed and we tried to mend some of the pain.  I took pictures of their incredibly beautiful and special children when they came into the world.  Those pictures stare down at me from the same shelf as my parents and my own child.  I loved his wife because he loved his wife.  I hugged her longer than him, I never sat by him and I struggled to help her understand how much of an afterthought I was.  Children’s parties came and went.  Seasons changed and a few days ago, I sent an email.  I missed our weekly calls while we were driving and his insight into breakups and life’s greatest challenges.  It had been at least a month since our last call and the ball dropped when I looked at the clock at 3:23pm.  He couldn’t be friends with me, any longer.

The words were quiet, like the opening of “Hurt.”  They were almost a whispered confession.  I didn’t know how to plead or beg anymore and instead I said, “If your marriage needs this, if your children need this then you need this.”  He said that was the most mature thing he’s ever heard me say.  Somehow, those words hurt more than any goodbye and the realization was this:  I had fought cancer, spoken on Capitol Hill, raised a stunningly-gorgeous 5 year old and somehow, me telling HIM that he needed to focus on himself was the most mature moment of my existence in his life.   It struck me then as it struck me now, he didn’t know me at all or perhaps I just want to think that.  It’s easier to walk away from someone you care so much about when you can hold onto your pain like a sword.

We are going to try a ‘separation.’  So she can rebuild her confidence and trust, without my presence in their lives.  They have a house to sell and two, magnificent daughters to raise.  I was reminder of tension and angst.  I was to be, forgotten. I don’t quite know how to explain to Ava that her godfather had to walk away.

I tell you this, because there are moments that positive spin alludes me.  I can’t craft this into a story of enlightenment or success.  But I can tell you, I have loved someone so deeply and so true that I would give my own happiness for his own success.  I told him to tell his wife that my love meant more to her because I struggled and won to see beyond the actions and loved what she gave to him.  I lost. I tell you this, because sometimes the moments of greatest hurt, we keep inside and we allow them to jade us and make us something we are not.  I heard Trent Reznor got married a while back.  Through his pain he found love.  Sometimes, you have a shut a door on the past to allow the future to engulf you with possibility.  But it, hurts.

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
goes away in the end…

– NIN, (Hurt)

I’ve been pulling my hair back lately, mostly to keep out of my face, and mostly because I haven’t had long hair in so long I’ve forgotten the simple joy of a ponytail.  I looked at myself in the mirror before I grabbed the hairdye tonight to cover the presence of roots that I’m not willing to live with, yet.  I saw my shoulder-length bob in the mirror and thought for a second, what a ribbon would look like at almost 30 years old.  Wearing a Vikings Jersey and jeans, I ran into my daughter’s room, dug through her yards of ribbon, (we’re addicts,) and picked out a gold one that matched perfectly.  I tied it into my hair and instead of feeling silly, or ridiculous… I felt more like me than I’ve felt in a long time.

The past couple years have been a struggle to cover the balding spot in the front of my forehead, (thank you stress of cancer.)  I was going bald at 27 and grey at 28.  3 months ago, at my hairstylists she looked at my head and said, “Kate… it’s coming back!”  There’s little things I pray for: silly, insignificant baubles that shouldn’t matter: A non-bald head tops that list.  I pray for the silly things, along with the larger things: that Ava will grow up strong and intelligent, that my cancer will remain dormant and that I can change the world.  Some come true and I’m blessed.  Others, just remind me how strong I am.

I’m always struggling to look older, accomplished.  I want my clients to take me seriously, my wonderful boss to take me seriously and at my speaking engagements, to feel that I’m someone worth being on the stage.  I dress older than I should.  Recently all I could imagine was running out into the field again at 17 years old and cheering with ribbons in my hair while the wind blew the tendrils of woven fabric onto my face.  I imagined the smell of possibilities on a warm, fall, evening.

If 29 is too old to take up a penchant for hair-bows, I’m not going to pay attention.  Someday soon, the hair may not keep growing back, and it will become harder and harder to hide the colorless wonder that is slowly creeping over my once, glorious, strands.  I hope you won’t think less of me because for the time being, I’m going to be 17 and careless.

Today’s ribbon is gold.

Walking out after dropping her off, I looked at the grey sky that often is the staple of early mornings in Minnesota winters and I wondered, “Why, again?”   Sometimes, no matter how much drive you have, or wind in your sails;  for an instance you question the entire procedure of life and loss.   It seems so unfair to have to pick yourself back up, brush yourself off only to try again tomorrow.  My eyes darted to the car and I hurried to a jog.   Out of the corner of my eye a single, brilliant, leaf was laying on top of sediment and ice.   I remarked on it’s beauty and reached for my car door.   I placed my hand on the door and instantaneously turned back around.  Suddenly, I just had to see if it was real.  The top was dipped in a crimson as it slowly faded to a brilliant golden-tone.   The bottom matched the stem of a healthy green and it was sizable with veins marking their path along it’s body.   Here it was, untouched in the snow and completely out of place.

Therein, lies the metaphor for my life.   After any experience, I need to know I was genuine and the relationship was authentic.  This leaf and my desire for it’s tangibility had me stunned in a split-second decision.   My fingertips touched the fabric and instantaneously, I knew: it was fake.   For some reason, I didn’t place it back on the ground, I took it with me and tucked it in my purse.  The beauty of it wasn’t diminished because it was a craft-store representation of the real thing.  Perhaps it had been a part of a funeral bouquet, or a service as her preschool is housed in the side office of a church.   Remarkable still, it didn’t matter where this leaf had began, but the fact that it was now mine and strangely beautiful in it’s plastic and silk glory.  Maybe it wasn’t noticeable because the leaf was small, but somewhere, the connector now lays uncoupled.  Here is one piece, and out in the world, there is another.   It’s such a small connection that as much as it mattered once, the symmetry and beauty of the leaf no longer depends on it’s plastic counterpart to be a part of something bigger.  I needed to question- Why was it there? Where had it come from? Did someone, miss it? It didn’t matter to me that the fabric was dyed, or the veins were cheap chemical molds, because this leaf would never die.  It didn’t have a cycle with a beginning and an end.   It never would experience budding into life or falling to it’s demise.  This leaf wasn’t a leaf at all.  It was a decoration, or an afterthought.

It rode in my purse on the commute in.   I wasn’t sure why I had grabbed it until moments ago when tears streamed down my face and I thumbtacked it onto my bulletin board.  Looking closer, I could see the small tears along the outer fabric and the scuff marks and brush strokes of mud and salt.  I learned a lesson this morning: Not everything needs to be ‘real,’ or ‘lasting.’  For someone who strives to make everything ‘authentic,’ sometimes ‘love‘ just isn’t ‘love‘ and a ‘fit‘ just isn’t a ‘fit‘ and silk and plastic and be a fine representation for what it is.   If it had been a real leaf, there would be decay.  Nothing can be frozen perfectly in two weeks of snowstorms.   If it was real, it would have not been noticed after all but laid with the rest of it’s partners in a cold, wet, brown and crunchy grave.   It didn’t matter if it was real or not, because what I’ve made it: Mine.   Now, it has a small pin mark where I’ve put it on display next to two quotes that I read the days I’m in the office and remind myself of who, I really am.

I took down his pictures this morning and with reckless abandon I let them, (still in their frames,) hit the wastebasket with a confident, “thwank!” He’s laying out in the open now, someone might pick him up on the ground and wonder where the other part to his connector was, (although small and barely noticeable.)  I know, it was once there.  Someone else will have to touch and feel and wonder, “is he real?”   I hope he brightens someone’s morning and whoever has him, cherishes what he is and not what they make him out to be.   Maybe, just deep down: We’re all just tossed and scattered, or picked up by gusts of wind out of our control. Pain and control don’t really matter after the fact.  The only thing that matters, is that we remain steadfast to still find the beauty of Monday mornings with more positivity than we can sometimes muster. Somehow to me, this is enough.

“I remind myself that there was no point going through it, if I don’t move past it. If I keep replaying it, reliving it, there is no reward. The reward has to be in the letting go… the absence of giving it more time, more meaning and more value. The reward is the clarity of now. The freedom of now. The lightness of now. Now, is my beautiful reward.” – Jodi Hills

It’s too late, tonight to drag the past out into the light.  We’re one, but we’re not the same.  We get to carry each other; carry each other.  Have you come here for forgiveness?  Have you come to raise the dead?  Have you come here to play Jesus to all the leapers in your head?   Did I ask too much, more than a lot?  You gave me nothing now it’s all I got.  We’re one, but we’re not the same.  We hurt each other then we do it again.  You asked for me to enter, but then you made me crawl and I can’t keep holding on to what you got when all you’ve got is hurt.

And that, is how a song get’s into my head, eases the madness of not finding the right words and wishing for one last time I could share it with someone who would understand, 100%.

I couldn’t put my finger on exactly where the uncomfortableness was rising from.  I can’t even say I’m newly dumped, because my life has been a streak of break-ups.  And, that’s just not what happened.  Every single one of them feel the same after a while.  You give up,  you shrug and eventually you play the lottery, again.  I’m convinced that romantic love just doesn’t fit into the equation, anymore.  There’s ‘love’ and then there’s ‘commitment,’ or whatever some people think that term represents.  We’re in a society of fast wants and grocery-cart-style-dating.  There’s a million different brands of yogurt on a shelf.  If she isn’t the perfect taste of strawberry banana, you have your pick.  I was not the right flavor of strawberry banana.  I was runny, or too thick.  I was inconsistent or an off-brand.  I was speaking to a friend over im a few nights ago.  I stared at the words I had written and pressed send.  We were quiet for a while when we realized that it actually was true. Its easier to say harsh words and criticize,  to make someone out to be a terrible person because they threw ‘good‘ away… like their wasteful or something for pitching an entire container of yogurt, But the fact is- he didn’t want the yogurt, I wasn’t his brand;  he didn’t want me.

I was writing this post last night, walking out of the theater.  I was going to tell you that  the tears compromised an otherwise safe drive home, but I didn’t cry.  I wanted to tell you that as I pulled up to my door, someone was waiting for me, with the speech from the movie, which involved such words as, “soul mate,” “great sadness” and “I’m a pretentious jerk.”  But the truth was, my dry eyes pulled into the garage, I checked my mail and then I went to bed with notions of incredible word structures and adjectives.  In truth, I didn’t wish for him, or for tears- just words to be able to put into thought process.  In truth: It wasn’t about resolution, (that grocery cart had sailed.)  It was about next time, and finding that magical moment where the ‘love’ ended, (because apparently love is a faucet to some people,) and where the agony of realizing you’d have to work at it began.  It’s so much easier just to grab a different product.  Choice, is what’s the failure of most relationships today.

I’m incredibly blessed to meet women and men everyday who have beaten the odds or the hand dealt to them with cancer.  From the first moment I heard the word resounding from my own body I knew my life’s goals had changed.  I recently was contacted by a few absolutely amazing women who are embarking on a project that is so needed that I’ve made it my goal to make sure everyone knows about and can support them.  I’d like to introduce you to, “Of Scars,” three women who are making a difference by speaking out and showing the true STRENGTH of women fighting breast cancer.  Although the diagnoses are different, cervical, ovarian, breast and any other cancer debilitate women in the exact same way.  The deepest scars we carry are always the ones inside of us.  Come visit me at the QIAGEN table at Race For The Cure.  I’ll be there to hear your stories, pass on your information and support you.

No matter the cancer, we should be supporting those left picking up the pieces.  Pink products, small ribboned novelties and otherwise fantastically-marketed crap really do nothing for women who are battling their fears, bodies and for the rights to a cancer-free-life.  Until the world finds another way to develop a cure, I’ll speak out on #PinkWashing, coined from my friend @RickBert.   I apologize for the length, but you’ll understand when you wipe your eyes after the last word.  These women, Elli Rader, Kate Kunkel and Pamela Cariveau have absolutely stunned me with their heroism and insight.  When I cry because I’m humbled to be in the presence of such empowering women, I know I’m truly blessed.  Thank you: Kate, Elli and Pamela.  Read on for an incredibly emotional and powerful piece on speaking out about Breast Cancer…….

“You can buy lingerie designed to conceal mastectomy scars, or bikinis that hide them. There’s a message that scars are ugly. But they’re proof of survival, and survival isn’t ugly. We thought it was time to display their beauty.”    -  Kate Kunkel

“We are doing this project out of love, honor and respect.  We hope that it will be met with the same.  The strength of a woman is universally beautiful, with or without scars,”   – Elli Rader

Memories are a funny thing. Most of them get muddy with time, fading away into vague concepts that you know you once understood. Sometimes they go into hiding, just waiting for the right scent or sensation or color to reveal them. And sometimes they stay with you forever, as intense and real and honest as the moments of their creation. These are the memories you can relive, if you want, any time you choose.

In my cell phone, I have proof of one of these memories: My mother is smiling at me. She is the bravest woman I know, in this moment, driven to find the beauty in anything, and despite all of the fear and uncertainty she faces, her smile is sincere. Playful, even. I am humbled to know she’s my mother. I am proud to know she’s my mother. She is a goddess.

She is moments away from going to the hospital to have her breasts removed. She will be having a bilateral mastectomy, and we’re not sure what we’ll find out about her diagnosis, or her treatment plan, or her prognosis. But in this moment, my mother is smiling.

She is topless, in this picture, and on her breasts we have written the phrase that would become something of a mantra during the months that followed: Breasts are not for saving. Women are.

In retrospect, this moment has entirely shaped the way I view breast cancer survivors. That’s the moment when it became clear to me that in order to survive this disease, my mother had to let go of so much of her identity. And in its place, she built a new woman—a really, really strong one with twice the attitude and a new respect for her own life. That’s the moment I started to love her scars.

It took Mom longer. To her, those scars were a disfigurement; a reminder of the multiple surgeries and therapies and ordeals. Even years after her operation, her behavior was just a little different.  She wouldn’t change clothes, if I was around. She was careful to select clothing that completely concealed her scars. She wouldn’t go swimming with my daughters anymore. Her actions made it obvious that her scars made her uncomfortable. It never made sense to me. So what if people saw her scars? From my vantage point, they were the most beautiful thing about her. They were proof of survival. And survival isn’t ugly.

Last fall, I started thinking about doing some sort of art project, as a gift to my mom for her birthday, and I Googled the words “mastectomy art” in search of inspiration. That’s when it became clear that my mother was absolutely not alone in her quest to hide her scars. See, when you search those words, you end up with page after page of sites selling bras that hide scars, bathing suits that hide scars, tank tops that hide scars, evening wear that hides scars. You find prostheses and support groups and ads for reconstructive surgeons and tattoo artists. And it becomes immediately clear to you that there is a whole industry out there devoted to telling women that it’s their job to look normal.

It was maddening to me. Why is it that, after what is likely to be the most life-altering experience of a woman’s life, she should even have to consider that things “should” be normal again? Things can’t be normal again. It’s different. And there’s nothing wrong with that. So why is there a message that scars are bad? And, if we’re telling women that physical scars are meant to be hidden, are we somehow hinting that they should hide the emotional impact of this disease, as well?

I shared these feelings with elli rader, who is one of my dearest friends and the most gifted artist I know, and from the conversations that followed, Of Scars was born. Together with stylist and videographer Pamela Cariveau, we’re in the process of creating a multi-media celebration of women who’ve lived through breast cancer.

By putting on display the scars of survivors, we hope to give viewers a glimpse into the intense emotional and physical journey through cancer.  More importantly, we hope to portray mastectomy and lumpectomy scars themselves as visually beautiful and strong. If we do it right, people who’ve never had a close brush with this disease will look at our work and say, “Cool. She’s gorgeous.”

And people who have lived with this disease will say, “Cool. I’m whole, too.”

See, a woman’s beauty is about so much more than her breasts. And you can Save the Tatas and buy the pink stuff and donate your dollar all you want, but it doesn’t change the reality that a woman living through breast cancer will face. Breast cancer’s power isn’t just that it steals from us the lives of our mothers and sisters and aunts and friends. Breast cancer creates emotional havoc in its victims, too, because we’ve spent our whole lives sexualizing, feminizing, and medicalizing their breasts. We tell women that it is their form that creates their femininity, and so when breast cancer strikes, it has the power to steal a sense of self, as well.

We’d like to take that power back.

Femininity is in the way we’re brave enough to have the tough conversations. It’s in the grace of kissing a skinned knee, and in the power of achieving dreams. Femininity is strength. It’s smiling on your way to your mastectomy. It’s survival.

And we’d like to invite you to share that.

Check out the Of Scars Project at www.ofscars.com.

My mother and Chickie grew up on the south side of Chicago, and wore their hair high and coiffed to perfection.
I always imagined it as a glamorous life; drinking beer and playing cards while mom waited for a letter from my father telling her that he was missing her, or coming soon- off the RSS William Pratt.

A stroke came first- robbing her of her words and dexterity. Mom and Dad visited often and soon, the words were flowing as before, and the person who was recognizable by face, came alive once again, just softer.

My mother called to tell me this evening. I picked up while in the bath and didn’t stutter until she spoke, “She said she’s had a good life.” The ‘not fairs’ of life sometimes plague me when I allow myself to think about it. Why god couldn’t take say, one of the two hundred drug addicts I see march into work daily, or perhaps the lady that beats her children and just can’t seem to get off welfare- is beyond me. It’s hard not to judge when you could walk around and point to those that don’t offer the encouragement or positivity that she does. It’s not right, but then again- the line is often blurred by emotion.

Pancreatic Cancer. I just remember thinking: It’s such a bizarre thought that the body part I think less about- took my grandfather, and is violating my beautiful aunt.

She’s been quiet lately- no quotes on her wall- I suppose we all have to stop and think- our life is a firework in the sky, brilliant and colorful.

I wrote on her wall, “I love you so much.” And it was true in the way that the world is better, simply because she is still here- saddened, no doubt: but still aflame with the very being of who she is.

The words are there, Aunt Chickie, and when you’re ready, they will quietly whisper.

Cancer shouldn't make companies richer…

There’s a new and trendy breast cancer campaign that’s roaming the internets. The “Feel your boobies” campaign is reminiscent of the same campaign put on by local college and high school boys, and … men- at bars, bedrooms and meeting places throughout the country. (They’re nothing if not direct, right?)

It’s not the wording that irritates me, (though entirely too trendy for that magic ‘buy in’ from the crowd most likely to get breast cancer,) it’s the sheer ignorance that a trendy, little, icon will get all our mothers and grandmothers to stop being afraid of being tested or doing monthly exams to protect themselves.

Look at the website. Though participants can add their own photos, (which is a great feature and what I believe helped spiral Obama’s numbers straight into the WhiteHouse, it’s so “Abercrombie and Fitch” it makes me disheartened that they are missing the point in it’s entirety.) Breast cancer isn’t funny, nor pretty. You’re not ‘pushing any boundries,’ or helping people adjust to the thought of getting their breasts removed because people are able to put their faces and self-appointed wit on an icon.

Pretty. Young. Supple. White. Skinny. -All used features for a beauty ad- but is this a beauty advertisement or a tool to reach a seriously under-targeted audience?

I’m to the point in my life that if I see another Fortune 500 business tack on a pink ribbon to sell me something at a higher price and to look ‘socially responsible.’ I’ll probably start wearing a black ribbon. Golf balls + shoes-(brought to you by the ‘bikinibodydiet.com’) +  Soft Drinks + Candy + everything else. You’ve all been there- walked into a store and something with a pink ribbon is being offered with a ridiculously low amount actually going to the ACTUAL charity, and the rest being pocketed and tax-deducted as marketing expense. Most call this a marketing gimmick, but I just call it companies tragically undervaluing their clientele.   Some companies do really have their hearts in cancer research: and for that, on behalf of all women and men touched by cancer, I applaud you.  You’ll have a hard time convincing me that you actually care, Corporate America, until you learn to stop watering down breast cancer to an ill-conceived campaign to sell off the atrocious colors of light pinks that plague store shelves.

Imagine selling cancer to men this way. Yes, selling. Why isn’t there a cure yet? (Could it be that cancer is more profitable when it’s not cured?) There’s a million sites dedicated to proving the point that big Pharmaceutical companies do not want a cure for cancer, because like the cure for Polio- it’s un-patentable, or would mean the end of most of our world’s most expensive drugs, (aka: Big Pharma’s bonuses.) The more people that get sick and battle- the more execs get rich. Basic economics and accounting, right? I wondered what would happen if they sold cancer to men, like they have to women. I cannot imagine any guy buying golf balls for prostate cancer, or perhaps shoes with special ‘witty’ sayings and ribbons on them. Guys buy stuff because it’s the best brand out there, not because of gimmicks.

All it would take is one person to say, “ENOUGH. Run campaigns that are actually effective: targeting lower-income, older females without insurance or someone to remind them. Don’t make ‘breast cancer’ just another fad. Pressure those around you to write about a cure, and what the government is doing to prevent drug companies from making money on women’s dead bodies. For all the women that died, a pair of shoes, or a handbag is no reminder that’s tangible to her children who are living in the shadow of who she was and all that mattered while she was on this earth.)

(So I’m saying it.) Enough. Breast Cancer is not a trend, it’s an epidemic. Stop making it trendy, young and white.

So here’s my next trendy, white, skinny, and … manly campaign. “Turn your head and cough, for cancer.” Seems like a good idea now.

I remind myself of this as I feel the full ache in my lower abdomen. I could walk outside, and part of an airplane could land on my head. I could be a victim in the war on drugs- shot at a busstop- robbed at gunpoint. I could really- die in a variety of ways. I find it somehow comforting that the fact each day, I do not die in those ways- means, somehow- that I’m meant for more.

I could go months- feeling as I have; denying myself the existance of the pain, the symptoms, the stress. I’ll tell myself that it’s that second piece of pizza I ate- or the fact that my penchant for Cherry Coke is only surpassed by my love of sugary lemonade. I’m in shape- surely, my body is rebelling from the crap I’m putting in it.

They told me, ”The best weapon you have is your age and a stress-free lifestyle.” Whatever stage of cancer you’ve had- I think this is what they tell you. As we get older- we lose both weapons. The guns fall out of our hands,the knives out of our pockets, and the numchucks lay quietly on the ground.

I chose ignorance. I chose to think that for the first time in my life- arming myself with information, would make me more powerful- perhaps. There’s hope in education- we’ll find the piece the doctor missed- armed with information, radical studies and ideas- the movement within would conquer all.

I’ve been feeling like shit for months. Whether or not life itself, had been handing me shit- didn’t matter. My body reacted like anyother body. I was frustrated, tired, with a constantly aching stomach and a million reasons why it didn’t matter that at any time I could gush blood- (like you wouldn’t believe.) I was not proud- but I was not scared. Hundreds of excuses flowed through my mind. I coined a hundred phrases- once, I fell asleep at work.

I’m not sure if there’s life after pre-cancer, or cancer. Not the type of life you’ve had before. The moments of bliss- no worries, dwindle down to increments in which you feel like you’re dreaming, and you wake violently to the true reality of your life. Every symptom suddenly feels like before. And when you have the actual symptoms- you’re too scared to talk, or think, or see anyone about it because you feel like if you get one more needle, one more suggestion that they freeze, or burn, or cut the cells out of your cervix, you may scream. You’re already screaming, inside.

I bought a puppy. I named him Napoleon Dynamite. I’ve been talking to Bre about babies, and my wants for the future- and who knew what the future held, but I wanted something to hold- something that didn’t talk back- and Napoleon, (my 4-month-old Maltese-Poodle,) has fit the bill. A distraction, that poops all over my floor and offers more stress- was probably not the best idea- but sometimes, late at night- I’m alone, and his digging in his bed, and hearing Ava’s snores in the other room- make me feel complete. I’ve built a family. So soon, or so late, who knows.

If I sound scared- or overly frightened… I am. I would pay something to tell me that the ache in my stomach only meant I was pregnant, or hungry, or something to what it means. Like a child praying for pennies from heaven- I want them to develope, strange, new diseases that only last a short while- that this could be.

I could bet my townhouse on CINIII, and an ASCUS result when I return to my gyno and tell him- the dreams that I’m dying are far too often, and the ache is telling me to be here. He might tell me I’m nuts, and a pap may tell me I’m right.

People die everyday. Buses, trains, planes and staph infections; even tainted peanuts. I tell myself- there’s a light here that couldn’t possibly be distinquished by something as simple as douchebag cells thinking they belong in my cervix. Surely, Jane Goody never had that in mind. We were all scared before her- but now they’re sensationalizing our plight, while she slips quietly away. If it comes to that? I want a jump, from a tall building and a paracute that doesn’t open. Demolishing all the cancer inside with the pavement below.

If it comes to that. For now? It’s that pesky second slice of pizza, and the fact I haven’t been hungry. Silly Stomach.

Secondly–
I tried out for choir @ work on Thursday, before I headed out. I think I bombed and nailed in equal proportions- (I -killed- the song and scales and steps.. but absolute devastation I did to sight reading could ruin it all.) It was a last minute decision to audition- (Ididnotpracticeatallwhatsoever.) So- what shall be, will be. (But hopefully I’ll know next week.)

I know when someone says that they need surgery like a hole in their head- they mean it. I looked at this completely differently. I wanted them to scrape every piece of me out- every cell that had multiplied- like my pisspoor decisions over the years– and I wanted them flushed, cauterized and knifed into non-existence. I found such peace about this entire procedure. I had my matters in order, I went in with a smile on my face, (with completely scared and unnerved my poor mother,) and I woke up… just sleepy- that happy sleepy feeling when you want to snuggle back up and drawn out the voices around you. I came home- I ate a feast, and played with my daughter, and I’ve spend a remainder of this evening relaxing, and enjoying.

I was completely ready to die- and now, I’ll just have to remember to keep my affairs in order, to keep the promise to myself, not to fear what’s so often kept me up at night, and to keep grabbing everything and holding on.

I’m here to stay, goddammit.

I have no pain. NONE! And you’ll think it’s because of the drugs.. right? But it’s now 11:40 at night, and I’ve taken nothing. (I will probably curse this tomorrow,) but I feel… great. Not even tylonel– is that beyond weird?

So- a large part of my cervix is gone, and they were able to protect and preserve a remainder so in case I do, (I won’t,) change my mind about birthing other offspring- I might be able to. (But this complication on top of everything else? Makes being a happy mother of one- that much more important.)

I’m happy- I’m home, and I’m finally- (thank god,) going to get my shit together to move out after my scan to show that nothing’s coming back, and that my body? Is done with the temper tantrum it was having. I started listening to my body and my mind more since this. Seriously- the amount of stress I’ve been putting myself through for men who are – NOT WORTH IT – is ridiculous. The stress I brought onto my life by trying to work two jobs and be a mom, and be a friend- NOT WORTH IT -, and most importantly? The stress of always being the one to call some of my, ‘friends’ … not worth it- some of these people have been finding this out the last month and a half

To change the world,
Start with one step.
However small,
The first step is hardest of all.

The things you never did,
Cause you might die trying;
You’d be as good as dead.
You never did.
DMB

Tomorrow Boys and Girls… is surgery. (I’m going to try and contain my excitement.)

They will cut me and laser me and expect me to be thankful for it. (I’ll show them.)

It’s been a weird day. I’m going to say something morbid and we’re going to pretend you aren’t going to think too much of it… readygo!

All my shit is in place. (It’s weird.)
I signed the guardianship papers today for miss AvaPants, and did my last will. I even reconciled, (not of my control,) with someone I care about, and we held a pretty decent conversation. I made sure to notice the sunset more today, and how red- the red in my curtains were. I figured- even the little things- I wanted to remember… just in case.

I held Ava longer- I told her a million more times how much I loved and adored her, and she kept snuggling me. We rocked in front of the fire, and I kissed her head and told myself- tomorrow… is like any other day- and that is how it shall be.

I will wake up tomorrow- In fact? I’ll wake up- bruised and sore.. but I will wake up Cancer Free- and that? Will make all the difference in the world.

My mother asked me, “Why aren’t you afraid,” tonight. I didn’t have an answer. I have good friends- good people in my life. I have a wonderful mentor, and have experienced so many “I love you’s” over the past year- that anyone would be jealous. I’m not scared because Ava will be safe, and I will soon be safer. This isn’t fear- this is freedom to me.

I love you.

I’ve arrived
I’m doing well
Quite a view from the top
Though it is cold as hell
I’ve arrived
And it’s hard to tell
The bright lights from the starlights
And the canyons from the hills
-Evan and Jaron