October 1st- the beginning of hay rides, Halloween costumes, and Breast Cancer Awareness month. Soon the stores will be lined with pink t-shirts and notepads, pens and coffee mugs galore; as if the malignant disease spread past the bodies of those suffering and into the wallets of big industries. Ironically, the same cancer that takes lives, and affects 1 in 8 women in the United States, is trademarked pink- as if suffering must be beautiful.
I was eleven-years-old when I learned that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was then that I was forced to accept the limitations of life, and the validity of death. Yet there was nothing "pink" about seeing my mom poked and prodded; worrying that hugging her would rip a stitch from the 11 hour surgery she endured. Trips to the mall turned into hospital visits, and finally being able to watch her walk again was the new mother-daughter-bonding. Our house began to pile with flowers and home cooked meals in the worst way.
Almost 6 years later, and what feels like a lifetime, I find comfort in watching her drive. The little pleasures, like Sunday drives were once robbed of me, so it seems necessary to appreciate the small moments spent with the ones you love. To most that seems strange, but one of my favorite things is when she's too focused on the road, or is deep in conversation, and I notice the difference in her disposition, and how different things were not too long ago. I love to marvel at the resilience of her body, and admire the beauty in her face. If I told her that I thought she was just as beautiful now, as the day I watched her shave off the rest of her hair, she wouldn't believe me. Five years cancer free, her hair is past her shoulders, and her skin is glowing. With or without hair, I see no difference in her grace, and I know that is not simply the bias of her daughter speaking. Yet society often condemns the diseased, and interprets their suffering as an invitation to stare, or even worse, assume; as if the disease itself is not straining. There is truth in this claim, as I watched my mom feel shame for the body that blessed her with life, and could only wish it was within my powers to create her a world where she would not feel the need to hide her disease.
My mother is the most relentlessly happy person I know, and always has been. Yet her struggles had never surfaced from her smile, and for that, I have nothing but immense respect. To say that she is my aspiration is an understatement. She has the ability to acknowledge her limitations, but the courage to blow past them, and redefine herself. I do not know what I have done in particular to be able to call her "mom", but I am grateful for not only modern medicine, but her strength, because without it, the world would be at a loss. And as her daughter, I wish she could realize the light she is to the world, and how she changes every person's path she crosses. I think that to describe my mother as "pink" is insufficient, she is a survivor.
And as we proudly walk in remembrance of those who lost their battle, and those who did not succumb to the powers of breast cancer, it is important to honor the moments where we felt hopeless, and were consumed by the evils of this disease. Because their is a certain strength in suffering; without it we would not know fortitude. We cannot become lost in the beauty of the "pink" surrounding us, as we let the four letter word represent the millions of women whose lives were forever changed. Before we think of the buying of the array of pink that lay before us, we must respect the life that was lost in order to expand such a business, and how their pain was not beautiful. With this, we must accept that for every virtue there is vice, and for all the light in the world, there is darkness. But it is our freedom to decide which of the two define us.
