Celebrating a birthday is exciting for a kid who becomes a teenager, or even for a teenager who becomes an adult. Turning 25 years old allows me to rent a car and it is the pinnacle of my life. This age is paramount, especially when wrinkles are starting to show.
I Would not call it a choice, or decision, but an uncontrollable thing humans finally come to terms with, their human shells. I am a 11 year breast cancer survivor and that’s also not a choice. Unlike celebrating one day older, a whole month is dedicated to losing tatas.
There are invitations to luncheons, information about self breast examinations next to pink-ribbon safety pins laid out in every corner on tables set up throughout the city. The congratulations for being alive purely reminds me of death.
I am of course not knocking people like Heidi Girling, the Health and Resource Coordinator at Cal State Long Beach who believes it is acceptable to touch a breast. She is in agreement.
“There is not enough research out there for those in remission,” Girling said.”I am trying to promote awareness of self examination for those who do not know they are at risk.”
She mentions that her best friend may be experiencing post traumatic stress disorder as a result to treatment.
Ungrateful is not recommended for the spirit of such advocates and people who raise funds for a pink-cause and give reason to genuinely find purpose in wearing pink. But then again, what if you try to climb a ladder and a ghostly-voice sneaks up and rattles those wooden legs that you’re currently standing on? For me, the survivor within, starts to panic and feel afraid. This is what October does to me. I have already gone through the battle of staying alive. No need for a reminder.
Isolation creeps up against my recovered healthy-self during this month as I confront my mind about the soda I drank for breakfast earlier, along with the gym class I skipped due to watching several episodes of Orange is the New Black.
A two year process went by long ago that was dedicated knowingly to losing hair, cutting organs, giving up breast, nipples included, and watching a reproduction system go out of commission, heading straight for early menopause.
No one can physically feel my sore body just like a broken leg can only be felt by the individual who broke it.
What I will tell you about me that most people do not realize…my naked breast will never look the same. Vegas-hot-tubs are not an option. Although top surgeons in Newport Beach have done all they can to camouflage cut-up scars, the areoles in my case were fortunately removed.
We all fight for our American rights, so I petition to give the survivor a rest. Just let be. One out of eight will develop breast cancer according to the City of Hope and if that does not get a person, something else will..