Pink is a stark reminder

It’s I Hate Pink month. Or is that only me? I have looked on several websites that list October holidays and not a single one listed I Hate Pink month. I don’t understand how all of them could have missed it.

Maybe it got lost in the shuffle. Among others October is American Cheese Month, Bat Appreciation Month, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Church Library Month (I didn’t even realize churches had their own libraries). It is Feral Hog Month, National Chili Month, Raptor Month, and Vegetarian Month. It is also World Menopause Month, which explains the destructive weather lately.

There I see it, buried in amongst all the others. Breast Cancer Awareness month. Those simple words, “breast cancer,” send a chill down my spine. It is not only because my mom was a breast cancer survivor. It is not only because my best friend is a survivor. It is not only because I know too many survivors. It is not even because I am also a survivor.

Nope. It is because I consider my cancer to be over and done with. I had a problem and it was resolved. I want to forget it and go on to more important things. Then here comes October and pink everything shouts at me, forcing me to remember.

“You beat me once but now you have an increased risk that I will show up again,” cancer snarls in its slimy, evil voice. It goes on to remind me that every little stray pain will forever cause momentary concern, a feeling of dread that perhaps the treatment didn’t work as well as I thought.

The rest of the year I can chase those thoughts away easily. But in October, when the air is sweet and the leaves are delightfully crunchy, I am faced with pink ribbons everywhere.

I had my annual mammogram Friday. Since it has only been a couple of years since my cancer, I was treated to an enhanced mammogram. No, it didn’t involve glitter or anything fun. It did involve me reciting to myself, “it only takes a few seconds” as I was clamped into the machine and told not to breathe. I don’t know why she thought I was breathing, because I had held my breath from the beginning. At that point I couldn’t have breathed if I wanted to.

The uncomfortable part really does take mere seconds and it was all over soon enough. Then came the hard part. Waiting for the radiologist to review the results. By the time I was told they needed to do more tests I was a basket case.

An ultrasound was done and the doctor came in. I decided he must be a child prodigy because he looked to be all of 12 years old. He was tall for his age but 12 nevertheless. He said everything was fine and sent me home. Since he was obviously a genius to be a doctor at such a young age, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home, feeling that I was safe from cancer for another year.

In spite of all the apprehension that mammograms cause, I am a firm believer that the tests saved both my mother’s and my lives. Both cancers were eliminated because the problems were caught early. So before you go out and celebrate Feral Hog month, be sure your mammograms are up to date.

Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can do to get I Hate Pink month added to the calendar.