I am so glad I am not the only one who feels this way.
I’m not working at the moment, but when I was, the whole pink thing used to turn my stomach.
My colleagues cavorting about in stupid pink clothes, skimpy pink tops and daft hats, me sitting with two lymphoedema sleeves, chemo headscarf and radiation burns, only at work because SSP doesn’t feed many hungry teenagers. At least no-one had the gall to ask me why I wasn’t ‘joining in’. If I possibly could, I’d arrange to not to be in the office that day.
As my husband remarked, he himself had already given quite a lot to breast cancer in terms of hospital car parking fees, annual leave and subsidising my lymphoedema treatment on an ongoing basis.
There has to be a better way to raise awareness, and much needed money, than making it all a bit of a laugh. I think the people who actually have it are the only ones entitled to joke about it - as and when WE want.
Despite Kylie, despite Trish, it ain’t glamorous, it ain’t fun. It stinks. The treatments are brutal - they have to be to stand any chance of being effective - and many do permanent, painful, damage. To wander off the point slightly, I’m tired of seeing, and reading about, perfectly coiffed women with lovely figures who have been given the ‘all-clear’ (how I hate that phrase - and it’s meaningless in cancer terms, too). I’ve had a right mastectomy followed by recon, a left WLE, an oopherectomy and a hysterectomy and I have lymphoedema in both arms. Undressed, I look like a road map. My future is uncertain (well, I suppose everyone’s is, but you’ll know what I mean).
Girls,I know where you’re coming from…