It’s not about the Ta-Tas

Save the Ta-Tas. Save 2^nd base. Save the boobies. All phrases I’m sure we’ve heard a million times within the context of breast cancer, yet whenever I hear them, my first thought is always this.

Are we all still in 2^nd grade here, people??

I mean seriously, “boobies”? 2^nd base? Do actual adults ever use these words in conversation? “So I was doing my breast exam the other day, and I found a lump in one of my boobies.”

Let’s just acknowledge that the correct terms are along the lines of breasts, boobs, or best of all, Boobages.™

Next, we get to the real problem. The fact that any and all of these slogans, campaigns, what have you , are totally missing the fucking point. Do the prostate cancer folks worry about saving the balls? Are there little bracelets all over the place with “Save the Balls!” printed on them? No. That would be a no.

Because it’s not about the balls, or boobies, or what have you. It’s about our lives at stake here, and I think most of us would tell you that that’s a hell of a lot more important than the aesthetics of the thing.

As in, if I were told tomorrow that the only chance of saving my life would be to have both of my boobs gone, yes, I’d be pissed off, but I wouldn’t actually have to think about it, weigh the pros and cons, what I should do. It’s not much of a decision to make, now is it.

So why is the emphasis on just the outward appearance part of things? On the sex object aspect of it? Isn’t “2^nd base” the term guys in high school use? So why are people using that term as if all that matters is to preserve for the guys something that gives them pleasure? What the hell is that all about?

Don’t get me wrong – when I was first told my only choice for dealing with The Cancer was a mastectomy, I was devastated. Crushed. Gnashed my teeth and wailed. And found better doctors who were a bit more cutting edge in their thinking, no pun intended. And I’m disgusted that here we are so many years into all this money being poured into breast cancer research and treatment – supposedly – and yet the treatments are essentially still the same: slash and burn. That’s bullshit. Losing your breasts is a huge deal.

But it’s not the biggest deal.

Our lives matter more.

All of this is to explain my new slogan that my friend and artist Jennifer Pick has helped me put on a t-shirt. One that sums up my sentiments perfectly:

No, this isn’t one of my many famous get-rich schemes. Would that it were – but these t-shirt designer websites, while wonderfully awesome and convenient – do not give you the designer much of an actual cut of anything. Which is fine. I really just wanted to get the word out, about where I think our priorities should be.

Which is here: saving our lives.

Because in case anyone didn't realize it......we’re dying out here.

Getting ink done

Once in a great while – not often, mind you – I like to step away from talking about my trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the face of extreme adversity. You know, that whole goddess thing I have going on. And I do so when it behooves me to write about things that my people might find useful, like the cancer shit and all. And then some people wind up thinking – “honey, TMI, okay? Love ya, but really, girlfriend.” To which I say: suck it.

All of which brings me to today’s topic: tattoos. Or more specifically, nipple tattoos. (See, I warned you guys.) Which as you can imagine, is one of those things fraught with apprehension for the nipple-challenged among us, as we think – WTF? Really? Isn’t that going to be, you know, PAINFUL?

An appointment was made, and off I went to the office of Dr. Fine, where I was actually going to meet with Michelle, aka PA to the Stars. Things start off as usual, with Michelle explaining the procedure.

Michelle:……..so after we pick out the right color, I’ll trace the shape that….

Me: Can we do it in any shape? Like, a flower or something fun?

Michelle: I only do circles. Dr. Fine once did a star, but only agreed to it if it could later be made into a circle if need be.

Hmm. Okay, never mind that idea then.

So we’re chit-chatting as Michelle is getting all the stuff ready.

Me: So does Grey’s Anatomy drive you crazy, with all the stuff they get wrong or take liberties with? You know, all the things that us mere mortals would have no idea about?

Michelle: Oh, I can’t even watch that show anymore, it’s so bad.

Me: Ha, so you mean everyone isn’t always getting it on in a broom closet?

Michelle: Well, actually….

Me: No!

Michelle: I guess there is a certain contingent like that, though it’s not common.

Me: Okay then. So, umm (changing the topic)…..do you read any nurses’ blogs?

Michelle is silent for a moment. As soon as I’ve spoken, I’m kicking myself. Shit, now she thinks I think she’s a nurse, which I know she’s not. But now I sound like a dumbass. Geez, why don’t I just pitch everyone into the same category, call them all “technicians” or something?

Michelle: No, can’t say I do. Though I wonder if there are any Physician’s Assistant blogs out there.

Me, scrambling to cover my tracks: Oh, I’m sure there are. Especially since there are doctors’ blogs, ER blogs, you name it.

Me, continuing, hopefully: So do I at least get any good drugs after this? Dilaudid? Whatever that is, it's big in the nursing blogs. Oxycontin? There's bound to be a LOT of pain after this, and I'm kind of a wimp.

Michelle, not moved: Tylenol.

Shit. Let’s face it, I’m still screwed – I’ve just inadvertently pissed off the person about to do my tattoo. Great.

After we get the color matched, Michelle starts injecting a local anesthetic under the fipple, which leads to this kind of dialogue when it hits a nerve or something:

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry. I know I’m the problem patient as always.

Michelle, deadpan: Oh, absolutely. Such a problem.

Me: AHHHHHHHhhhhhh! Sorry…..

And so on. But finally that torturous part is over, and the tattooing begins! Except….

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry….

Michelle: That shouldn’t hurt. Are you sure it’s pain and not pressure?

Me: It’s definitely pain. AHHhhhh! Sorry….

This continues. The part where the lat flap skin is has no feeling, so that doesn’t hurt. But as soon as it gets to the rest, yep, pain. Definitely pain.

Michelle: Really, pain? Not pressure?

See, I’m thinking this is where I’m paying for my “nurse” remark. I’m obviously an idiot, so everything I say is suspect.

Me: Sigh, it’s pain. But maybe I can just grit my teeth and suck it up?

Michelle: Well, generally with all the surgeries, there are nerves left only on the top, which is where we apply the anesthetic. The ones that run underneath have been cut.

Me: I guess I’m a special case. A freak of nature. It’s a gift.

Michelle, pondering: “Special,” hmm…….oh, where was I? So in any case, sometimes the nerves are still there, so I’ll do the anesthesia deeper.

The needle again, then more tattooing, but this time we’re in business. Pressure, no pain. Whew.

Finally we’re done, and we bandage that puppy up, and I get instructions for the care and feeding of tattoos. Then off to the hallway, where I’m greeted by the other Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, Dr. Schierle.

Me: Hey, your office is a frontrunner in the Pinkapalooza contest! We here at thethighmasterroutetokona really like free stuff.

Dr. Schierle: Outstanding!

Me, adding: And we’re going to wear our glowsticks to the Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Night game!

Barb: The….what?

Dr. Schierle: The…..how’s that again?

Me: Really, that’s what they call it. Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness. I know….but we have to remember, they’re hockey players.

Barb: Ah, good point.

Dr. Schierle: Well here, let me heap more of these glowsticks on you to take to the game!

These people clearly understand me. Clearly.

Dr. Schierle: That’ll keep us in first place, right?

Me: Well, it should. The problem is that there’s some truly scary Pinkishness stuff out there.

Dr. S.: How about having different categories? Like say…..a Hall of Fame? And a Hall of Shame!

Me, gaping at Dr. S.: Why…..that’s brilliant! I love it! I’m going to steal that idea and call it my own. But you guys will still be in the running for a hat.

Dr. S.: Excellent!

And so it has been spoken, and so it shall be done. Though in addition to the above categories, I’m also adding one called the Hall of WTF – for those entries that are neither way cool, nor way offensive, but just…..puzzling. To the extreme. In a “Huh? What the hell were they thinking” kind of way.

Oh yes, there are plenty of those out there too, trust me…..

Oh, and as for that tattoo? Yeah, it hurts like a sonofabitch, even now, days later. Still oozing, bleeding, makes it hard to drive because of the damn seat belt going over my chest. But you know, in the grand scheme of things as far as SurgeryLand and TreatmentWorld are concerned, it’s not that big a deal. My recommendation: drink early, drink often. I suggest shots of the Bloody Fipple (credit to Kim, who thought this one up, or at least something very similar):: pomegranate juice, flavored vodka, splash of amaretto. Bottoms up!

The bar is being set pretty high, my friends

I had no idea. I mean, I know it sounds incredibly naïve to say that, but really, I didn’t. Oh sure, I knew things had gotten a bit crazy and out of control, had degenerated a bit as it were, but I also figured that some semblance of reason would remain. We’re all rational people after all, right? Able to resist a free-for-all orgy of excess, able to hew to a more civilized society?

Apparently not.

Because I have seen the Pinkishness, and it is us. And I don’t mean this in a good way.

* * * * * *

So it started yesterday, when I met BCCF Cori downtown for her appointment at Dr. Fine’s office. Our Plastic Surgeon to the Stars was off sculpting the perfect boobages for someone else, so we met with Dr. Schierle as a follow-up to Cori’s last surgery. And not only was Dr. Schierle funny and warm, laughing at jokes I’m sure he’s heard a million times about adjustable boobages and the need for an iPhone app so that the girls can be automatically adjusted, but……well…….let’s just say this. How often do YOU go to the doctor and get awesome parting gifts?

So our first contender for the Pinkapalooza Contest is……the Pink Glowstick For The Cure, from the plastic surgeon’s office! Yes, perhaps not the most outrageous thing out there, but I like it, and it’s my contest, so sue me.

* * * * * *

Now this is where things start to get tricky. Because after announcing my little contest, suddenly I was inundated with all sorts of items For The Cure. Not only was I astounded by the sheer variety of foods that I could add to my All Things Pink diet, the one that’s sure to cure me before the month is out, but it soon became clear that I could buy nothing but pink in all aspects of my life and still live a pretty normal existence.

To wit: pink ribbon bagels For The Cure (Panera), toilet paper For The Cure, cake and cupcakes For The Cure, Edy’s ice cream For The Cure. Tic Tacs! Batteries! Playing cards! Tortilla chips! Mushrooms in pink Styrofoam packaging! Perfume! Purses! Dansko clogs! Boob lube!

And against that background, I hear from Cori, who’s out shopping and letting me know about pink stuff left and right, when suddenly she spies…..gum For The Cure. Not just any old gum either – white gum with pink ribbons on each piece, and best of all, the package proudly proclaims “your purchase can save lives!”

Cori: I’m buying a lot of gum – that means I’m saving lives!

Me, sulking: How come *I* don’t see this gum around? I’m not saving anyone!

Cori: Nope, not like me. Here we go, another life saved. They should make a Lifetime movie about me.

Me: Yeah, like the one about the guy who discovered Herceptin!

Cori: Exactly! I’m pretty much just like him. Okay, off to save more lives!

I feel so inadequate in comparison.

Next up: The frontrunners thus far. Suffice it to say, I may need to give out more than one hat. Alert Readers with entries, please check back……

Living on the edge

I was hot once.

Really, it’s true. Attractive. A babe, even. Never had a problem meeting guys. The right guys, sure, that was a problem, but guys in general? No. I was skinny, and lovely, and liked myself.

That was before The Cancer. And FatSurly. Which kicks your body into early menopause – which means that things now work like this: as a young woman who shouldn’t be in menopause, this pill that stops the estrogen in your body means that your body is still trying to make estrogen however it can. And fat makes estrogen. So whatever you eat, your body gloms onto and turns it into fat.

At least that’s how I explain the fact that I can and do eat 300 or fewer calories a day and can’t lose weight. Seriously. A typical day consists of coffee, then maybe some cottage cheese and blueberries. And that’s it. And that whole “calories in, calories out” mantra that people love to throw around, that just doesn’t work. I’ve briefly entertained the notion of stopping the Tamoxifen, but that would be the ultimate in stupidity. Because the more hormone positive you are, the more you need to take Tamox. Some people who are 20-30% positive don’t take it, as the benefits aren’t worth the side effects. Me? I’m 100% positive. Not a lot of choice there.

So I’m no longer attractive. Far from it. And I no longer like myself. Also far from it. The difference between now and then was brought home to me yesterday, when I was chatting with a friend who’s new to Facebook, and he mentioned some pictures of me in an orange sundress that were on there. Pics of me and Stacey in Costa Rica. Back from when I was hot. Pre-cancer and pre-FatSurly. I look nothing like that now. Nothing at all. But I like the picture because it’s me and one of my closest friends – who totally gets the whole cancer thing, I might add - having a great time in one of the most beautiful places on earth, so I leave it up there. Even though I want to cry when I see pictures of the old me, and I wonder, where is that person now? What happened to my life? No wonder I don't want to leave the house. Ever. For anything.

And he told me that I looked a lot better then. Then this:

“You know, that’s the thing about cancer, that it can turn someone from a hot young woman to, well, a frumpy old lady.”

Now, I hesitated in writing this blog post, because I knew he might read this, and I didn’t want him to feel bad about his comment. Because yes, it could have been left unsaid, but on the other hand…..he’s right. So I wasn’t offended, or mad at him, especially since he’s a sweetheart of a person and wouldn’t hurt my feelings for the world. And there was no malicious intent in his comment – it was more an expression of amazement, that people don’t realize how far-reaching the effects of cancer are.

Which is my point. That most people don’t get it, and don’t understand why those of us with the Big C haven’t “moved on.” This was brought home to me the other day after I posted on FB an update after the glorious Blackhawks’ victory to the effect of “My birthday is in 2 weeks, and I do have cancer, so, if you happen to have a line on Hawks tickets, well, I’m just sayin’….”

The vast majority of my friends took that in the spirit in which it was intended, i.e.:

a) Laughing, with a “work it, girlfriend!” thrown in for good measure
b) Thinking hmm, Miss Tasha needs Hawks tickets
c) Admiring the appropriate use of the Cancer Card

One person, however, felt compelled to tell me that I didn’t have cancer, I was a “cancer survivor,” snidely adding “What is this, Make-a-Wish for adults??”

I was going to respond to that, with a comment along the lines of hey, as long as I have scars on my chest and feel like shit all the time and can’t remember a damn thing because of FatSurly which is also making my hair fall out due to the weird hormone shit and I can’t lose weight to save my soul and will probably expire of a heart attack as I’m trying to haul my fat ass up the Alps this summer, then I get to say whatever the hell I want. And who the fuck are you or anyone else to tell me otherwise?

But I didn’t bother, because I figured her comment spoke for itself. And people like that don’t get it. They don’t get that what I deal with is typical. That this is all the typical day-to-day shit that I and all my CancerChicks deal with, the stuff that people just don’t get. Other people think we should be done with this, but we can’t be. If life is a highway, we’re stuck in an endless construction zone, with nowhere to exit.


And those of us who get to take FatSurly, we’re the lucky ones. No matter how crappy Tamoxifen is with its horrible side effects, at least those of us who are hormone positive have something we can take, to try to help prevent a recurrence. And I’m lucky that I didn’t wind up with treatment-induced heart failure, that my recon surgeries have been successful so far, that I haven’t had it even crappier.

But in spite of that, I’m still fat, surly, tired, stupid, balding and scarred, with compromised lungs thanks to radiation.

Oh yeah, and I have a fucking gumdrop stuck to my chest.

And I still have a 18.6% chance of death from cancer in the next 10 years. A 31.4% chance of recurrence. Those numbers are 26% and 46.4% respectively without Tamoxifen. So I’ll play the Cancer Card whenever the hell I feel like it, thank you very much. It’s pretty much a lifetime membership.

* * * *
Last night, I didn’t take my Tamoxifen*. And today, I didn’t eat.

I feel skinnier already.

(* While this would be a wonderfully dramatic way to end this post, it’s also a bit attention-whoreish if I leave it at that, implying that people should leap in to tell me I need to take my FatSurly, that looks don’t matter, etc. and so on. And that’s not the point. So I’ll add that my rejection of FS was a one-time fuck-you-cancer statement, and I’ll be back to taking it tonight. The fasting is likely to continue, however.)

Kona for the Cure!

There I was the other day, toodling along in the car and visualizing running on those very streets once I’m recovered from the major surgery* I had last week, but hewing to my strict training regimen nevertheless as I focused on tightening my ab muscles, building up that all-important core strength. Suddenly, I heard something on the radio that caused me to gasp in disbelief and subsequently almost choke on my bonbon. An advertisement for Tickets for the Cure. Tickets as in lottery. What? Now we’re supposed to sit around chomping on our buckets of fried chicken and gambling?? This was a joke, right?

(*It has been brought to my attention that because I’m a rock$tar who’s so used to having one surgery after another, that I’ve inadvertently downplayed the latest one, which did indeed involve full anesthesia, lots o’ stitches, major cutting and slicing – in other words, a procedure that would fell lesser mortals. And by being all blasé and heroic, I’m doing serious damage to my Bonbon Receiving Potential. So let this be official notice: ouch!)

Nope, no joke. There actually are Lottery Tickets for the Cure, to go with our fried chicken and Ding-Dongs or whatever the hell else they’ve slapped that pink ribbon on. So my question becomes this – how is it that *I’m* not cashing in on the pink ribbon bandwagon? How come *I’m* still po’? Yet all these other organizations and companies are making buckets (ha!) of money on me and my people. On the backs of the cancer-trodden, as it were. And I think to myself – self, this just isn’t right.

So, for all you kind-hearted and generous folks who like to give your money to others in order to get that warm, fuzzy feeling inside – and I assure you, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that! – I present for you the following: Kona for the Cure!

What is this brilliant Kona for the Cure that I speak of? Well, it’s another one of my schemes – I mean, worthy endeavors, in which I try to make money for a worthy cause. In this case, me. Me and Kona, that is. My DIY Fundraiser which revolved around selling my beautiful little heirloom tomato seedlings was kind of a bust (ha, no pun intended) – in that my wonderful friends bought plants, even those who I suspect don’t even have any actual gardening space – but the people to whom I’ve given dozens or even hundreds of plants to in the past? Not a peep. That’s a bit of a disappointment, in them as people. But my tomato-buying friends? You’re the best. And you’ll all be invited to the Gala Tomato Tasting at my place at the end of the summer – god willing and the creek don’t rise, as they say. (And assuming we have a good tomato summer for once, please god please god pleasepleasepleasegod.)

But it also occurs to me that I erred slightly in my seedling marketing, in that I should have slapped pink ribbons on them and boldly called them Tomatoes for the Cure!, and I’m sure they would have been flying out of here.

No matter. This is why we have Kona for the Cure, which offers you the following:

- A 2-day affair of walking, camaraderie, and heartfelt tears and hugs, as we battle breast cancer together, bravely and strongly, with Kona as our courageous mascot. We’ll probably just keep walking around my neighborhood, in case it’s hot, so Kona doesn’t get too tired.

- Your choice from a range of Fuck Cancer attire, from the classic FC hat, to the equally classic Fuck Awareness, Find a Cure t-shirt, in resplendent pink, of course.

- A catchy slogan that we can chant as we’re walking and hugging: “A scone for The Kone!” Now granted, that makes no sense whatsoever, but hey, neither does Komen’s “I am the cure!”, right?

- To mimic that rustic, on-the-road experience that seems to appeal to so many walkers, we’ll set up pup tents in my backyard, and to take care of your bathroom needs, I’ll send you to the Wendy’s a couple of blocks away, as that’s the closest I can come to Porta-potties. I will try to work out a deal for participants – I mean, pink soldiers in the battle against BC – so that you get discounts on Frosties.

- The wonderful feeling of doing…..*something*…..to help in the quest for a cure, though it’s not clearly exactly how the money is helping other than by throwing out some amorphous feel-good slogans like “because everyone deserves a lifetime” and “you’re a pink warrior” and “Buckets for the cure!” We too will be slinging plenty of those about, oh yes.

I’m sure I’ll think of other things to throw into the kitty, but rest assured, you’ll be taken care of in the manner to which your $1150 fee will entitle you (after taxes, fees, and gratuities). Yes, a mere $1150, or just HALF of what Komen expects you to raise! I can’t think of many things that are more of a bargain than this particular experience, of spending a couple of precious days with myself and The Kone, all while swathed in a big lovefest of pink hugs and friendship. And alcohol. Yeah, we’ll throw lots of mai tais in there too.

Space is limited, so act now! And remember……. a scone for The Kone!

Because everyone deserves a scone……

The antidote to Komen = the Pink Daisy Project

Note: This post is more serious than my usual posts, so if that doesn’t interest you, well, consider yourselves warned. I’m sure my next post will be about my usual Schleprockian bad luck, i.e. a house falling on my head, etc.

Komen. I’m sure a lot of people don’t understand why those of us with BC could possibly have problems with this organization. Why we’re so passionate about our dissent. After all, haven’t they brought breast cancer to the forefront, helped raise awareness, raised tons of money, wrapped everything in that sunshiny pink? I suppose so, but consider the following:

1. I do not know a single person who’s been helped by Komen personally. Not one. Given that they talk so much about how much they do for survivors, what exactly do they do on a personal level? I’ve checked their websites, and they even state that they don’t give money or grants to individuals. Gee, thanks. There are a LOT of women who could use just some tiny small part of the $1.5 billion you’ve collected to date.

2. Yes, $1.5 billion, not $1.2 as I stated in a previous post. Sorry for the error. No wonder some people call them Komoney.

3. Breast cancer treatment doesn’t seem a whole hell of a lot more advanced now than it was 20 years ago. I’m taking the same drugs that Robyn’s mother took 20 years ago. Adrienne L., who found out she had the BC gene, still had everything that could potentially be deadly removed: breasts, ovaries, etc. It’s still all about the slash and burn.

4. Speaking of which, why the hell haven’t they made any advanced in chemo in all this time so that it’s not quite as, say, DEADLY?? Deadly as in killing the women it’s supposed to help. Danica, who got leukemia from chemo. Ally, who’s in end-stage heart failure right now because of chemo. And my dear friend Jennifer, who I’m pretty sure had her death hastened because of the harshness of her chemo regimen. WTF? This is the best we can do?

5. Medical advances require money, I get that. Well, $1.5 billion is a whole hell of a lot of money. I could take that cash and set up labs and populate them with a lot of capuchin monkeys in lab coats, and do better than Komen has done so far, I’m pretty sure.

6. Oh, but they have had advances! What about Herceptin? You know, the great drug for women who are Her2 positive? Yep, great drug. Its development was funded by….Revlon.

7. Komen’s dumbass slogan “I am the cure!” is offensive. There is no fucking cure. But they make people think there IS one, that BC isn’t a big deal. It is.

8. Speaking of offensive – when it comes to money, do the ends always justify the means? Is it okay for Komen to take money from anyone at all, because that money goes to fund – well, whatever they fund? In my opinion, no. It is NOT okay to give your stamp of approval to and collect money from fricking Jingle Jugs, for god’s sake. Which are bikini-clad boobs mounted on a wooden trophy rack. Hello, Komen brain trust, how could you not understand how offensive this is to those of us with fake boobs through no choice of our own?

9. Partnering with KFC, also a bad idea. I have nothing against KFC – if people want to eat fried chicken, have at it. BUT, given what a huge risk factor being overweight is for BC, and given the fact that commercial chicken is loaded with chemicals and hormones and so on – again, why give this your stamp of approval?

10. If “awareness” is such a huge thing for Komen, then why is it that so many doctors STILL tell young women who go to them with a lump “oh, that can’t be anything serious, young women don’t get breast cancer.” Try telling that to Karen George. Or tell it to her grave, because she’s dead. Her treatment was delayed until she was stage 4, because she was told “you can’t possibly have breast cancer.” Where’s the awareness among the medical community?

Some might think oh, I’m just bitter about the Bat Girl thing. Which isn’t the case. Again, I knew a couple of weeks ago I hadn’t won, and wasn’t ranting about it. And they picked a lot of worthy women, which is great. But the fact that EVERY SINGLE WOMAN has as a commonality the raising of money for Komen – yes, that pisses me off. Because that means that the only real criteria was what one has done for Komen – and to politicize something like this so blatantly is offensive.

I’m not saying, for example, that the woman who won for the Cubs was unworthy. But her story again was focused on her participation in the Komen 3-day Walk. Compare that to Tracey. I haven’t even met Tracey yet, but I love this woman, just based on what I know about her. I found the YSC message boards too late to ever meet Courtney, a young woman from Chicago who died of BC at the age of 23. But in a search of posts, reading about her, I kept seeing one name posting over and over again – that of Brown Eyed Girl, gathering support for Courtney, getting people to send cards and flowers and treats and gifts, even as Courtney was at Northwestern, dying, her bones breaking every time she moved because the cancer had spread to her bones. Tracey was there every step of the way, no matter how hard it was for her to watch her friend die.

Don’t tell me that’s not more important than a fucking 3-day walk.

So this is why we’re pissed off. This is personal for us. We watch our friends die horrible painful deaths, while Komen yammers on about a non-existent cure and doesn’t do a whole hell of a lot for young women with BC, with all their money. They keep talking about the importance of “awareness” – when what we need is a cure. And we don’t like it when everything – even baseball - boils down to how much money people can raise for Komen.

Now, don’t get me wrong. If people want to participate in the 3-day walks and so on, I’m certainly not going to condemn them. To each her own - we’re all adults, we make our own decisions on who and what to support. But for anyone looking for an alternative, who wants to know exactly what their money will be used for, consider the Pink Daisy Project. This organization was started by a woman named Debbie, after she saw how her friend Danica struggled with everyday things as she was battling not just cancer, but all the brutal side effects of the treatment, and the complications. All of the money that Debbie collects goes to help women personally, with their medical or household needs. She is truly making a tangible difference in these women’s lives.

One other thing – every picture you see here is of one of our sisters who died of breast cancer.

Were they the cure?

On not being a Bat Girl

Or....Bite Me, Komen

I knew as of about 2 weeks ago that my dream of being a Bat Girl was going to remain just that – a dream. Oh, not that the MLB let any of us know directly – Dayna, Tracey and I figured it out via process of elimination, in that we knew one girl from YSC who had been notified, ergo those of us who hadn’t been, hadn’t won. Oh well. And YSC Jamie was certainly deserving, though the rest of us got a sinking feeling when we read her story and saw that it was very heavy on the Komen angle – fundraising, forming a team, etc. That didn’t bode well for the rest of us, and so it was.

So what I was going to write about it all at the time was this: that while I was disappointed that I didn’t win, I could honestly say that I was so moved by all the people who rallied for me, that it really didn’t matter. Oh sure, I felt like I let people down, people who risked getting carpal tunnel by voting for me incessantly, and I was bummed for my brother, because the chance to meet some of his beloved White Sox players would have been a dream come true for him, and it would have been a tiny way to kind of sort of repay him for all he’s done for me.

And I wanted my perfect day at the ballpark back.

But in the end, I was okay with it. I mean, such is life. There were other people who had really good stories, so I assumed one of them won. Good for them, really. And honestly, having all the folks on Slowtwitch pulling for me on two separate threads, having my old Wharton Wildmen hockey teammates spreading the word, having my dear sisters voting so much they wound up with hand cramps, having my friends doing what they could to make it happen – that touched me in ways I can’t even fully describe.

I was actually more pissed off on Dayna’s behalf – Bronx Bombshell – who is a NY Yankees fanatic, was first in votes for that team, and who had a story that would bring tears to the eyes of even the hardest of hearts:

"I would like to nominate the biggest Yankee fan I've ever known, my best friend. She was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer Feb 14, 2007, just months after giving birth to her daughter, in addition to battling a brain tumor for 16 years. I watched her crack jokes about herself just to make us feel better after they removed her breasts. I observed the panic when her treatment was delayed due to a potentially fatal infection she contracted at the hospital, requiring her to be hospitalized yet again. Not one moment did she display a sign of weakness. Her husband continues to tell the story how she sobbed for joy uncontrollably while at game six of the 1996 world series, but never shed a single tear throughout this ordeal. It's no secret what chemotherapy & radiation does to people. What I wasn't prepared for was observing her host multiple fundraisers while still receiving chemo. Going against her family & oncologist she decided to walk 40 miles for the Avon Walk in NYC. Not only did she succeed, but she raised over $50,000 & was recognized as the highest grossing individual fundraiser out of the thousands of participants. She's always been a fundraiser but this put an additional fire under her. She immediately became an emergency contact person in her area. I watched her send other cancer survivors support, food, wigs & whatever they needed. I've also watched her stand at podiums bald, tired & burned to continue to raise awareness, money & hope. She's a mentor & advisor for several breast cancer organizations & continues to educate/counsel those in need. She's a committee member & constituent of the Young Survival Coalition in NYC. For the past ten years she's been conducting toy drives for underprivileged children & this past year has opened up a division to include children who have either lost a parent to cancer or if their survivor parent is experiencing financial hardship. She has singlehandedly raised & distributed over ten thousand toys in past years. Against advice to stay away from germy environments she continued to go to Yankee games, scarf wrapped around her head, & always promised not to touch Freddy's germy spoon! I personally witnessed an amazing example of who my friend is when she was anonymously nominated by a chemo nurse for their wish granting program & graciously denied acceptance. She simply indicated that she was sure there was someone who needed it more. In 2008 I watched as she prepared for an additional surgery to remove her brain tumor, which was partially removed due to increased risk of vision loss. She continues her life as a wife & mother of four children, a community volunteer for endless causes, not to mention a fulltime Yankee fan and season ticket holder since 1996!"

So yes, I’m biased in favor of my girls, but come on, how could she NOT win? And in doing some research beforehand on other contenders, it was kind of depressing to see Facebook sites for these 3-day walks, where people were working so hard to raise the necessary $2300, and seeing the laments from survivors who didn’t quite raise enough money, and certainly couldn’t make up the difference themselves, given their huge medical bills. That above all else made the Komen stuff seem like nothing but a huge money-making machine.

Anyway, that was that. Then, last night, I realized that I had no idea who actually DID win, so I decided to use the Mighty Google to see what I could find out. And found the list of winners. And saw that the person who won for the White Sox……..was someone who wasn’t even a survivor, but who did a hell of a lot of walking and money-raising for Komen.

And then, I was pissed off. Royally.

A WALKER??? Not a survivor who does these walks, but just someone who walks?? And for every story I read from the winners, there was a common thread: they all raised a lot of money for Komen, via 3-day walks, etc. All the other things that were supposed to count – originality of story, writing, voting – none of that factored in, obviously. The girl who won for Dayna’s team? Lots of Komen stuff. Tracey’s team? Gushing about the 3-day walk. Of course.

Now, I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m not a fan of Komen – because I really want to know what the fuck-all they’ve done with the $1.2 billion or so they’ve raised to date. Plus, the fact that they’ll slap their name on pretty much anything makes them a corporate whore in my book, no matter how you look at it.

But to stoop to this level of cynicism, to make it ALL about the Komen, is beyond the pale. No, it’s not a huge deal that I’m not getting a fricking pink bat – it’s the principle of the thing. Is nothing sacred? And really, how much of a patsy am *I* to be trying to get people to vote for me, as if it really mattered. Clearly, I was never even in the running. What a waste of all of our time.

What’s even more infuriating is how Komen pats itself on the back in their press release, talking about how they’re doing such a great thing for us survivors:

"'Now, in its second year, Honorary Bat Girl stories continue to amaze us," said Katrina McGhee, senior vice president, global business development and partnerships at Susan G. Komen for the Cure. "To hear how these survivors have overcome the shock and fear of a diagnosis and then dedicate themselves to bringing awareness to this disease and raising funds for research and community programs is incredible. Advocates like these help us get one step closer to our promise: to save lives and end breast cancer forever.'"


Except they picked someone who isn’t. I’m curious to see how the inevitable interview with the Walker will go, on game day:

Reporter: So tell us about your cancer journey, what it’s been like going through numerous surgeries, chemo, radiation, the fear of impending death, the taking of cancer drug FatSurly which has made you, well, fat and surly, to the point that you want to shoot yourself?

Walker: Oh, I’ve never had cancer, so my Cancer Journey has been a bit different from most, and I don’t know the first thing about any of that. But I’ve done a lot of walking! And it was hot! In August! Boy, you can’t imagine what that’s like unless you’ve been through it.

Good luck with that.

I will say this though – that my story for next year will be the most ridiculous bit of pablum ever to grace the pages of the MLB website. Here’s a potential excerpt:

“When I first found out I had aggressive stage II breast cancer, my first thought was this: how can I use this pink gift to benefit others as I embark on my Cancer Journey? And how can I best be a Pink Warrior for Komen? These thoughts, more than even thoughts of how cancer would affect my life and possibly kill me, were foremost. And even as I was lying in bed recuperating from grueling daily radiation treatments as I watched my beloved White Sox battle to victory much like I was, I was working with friends to form Team in Bacon, so that we could go to bat against breast cancer by raising shitloads of money for Komen.

Even now, as I sit on the couch with my dog Ko(na)men eating Buckets for the Cure, I am constantly spreading the word about Komen on my blog,”

Hey, that’s basically true – I mean, I don’t specify what KIND of word I’m spreading, right? And the picture that accompanies my story will of course have me holding my Komen-sponsored Jingle Jugs.

This could be my finest work yet.
- -

As part of my final “fuck you” to Komen, I vow this – that pink bat or no, this summer my brother is going to come to town, and we’ll go to a White Sox game, and have our perfect day at the ballpark regardless. I’ll wear my F&ck Awareness, Find a Cure t-shirt, and hoist many mai tais both in honor of my sisters, and as a thank you to all of you, my thirteens of readers, for all your support.

And okay, if I get half a chance, I’ll run out onto the field screaming “All Hail the Boobages” – a suggestion from a friend, which I kind of like. Hey, what are they gonna do, Taser me?? Wait…