When I originally wrote this I tried to think about awareness and what it means to me. I wanted to explain why pink ribbons didn’t mean awareness; I wanted to capture the emotional side of this disease. Readers consistently cite this as one of their favorite pieces. It’s one of mine, too.
Of course some of the things I say here are a bit outdated now that my cancer is Stage IV. But I will leave the words as they are. I still think we are a long way from true awareness. It’s one of the reasons I continue to write.
…………………………………………………..
I wish I had the energy of my youth.
I wish I had the body.
I wish I had the fearlessness, the spunk, the drive.
I wish I could have a conversation with that young girl,
bright-eyed and full of wonder.
I wish I could tell her what lay ahead.
I wish I could tell her to gather strength, and wisdom, and patience like a squirrel gathering acorns for the winter.
“Save those things up,” I’d say, “you are going to need them… every last bit.”
I wish I could share the perspective I’ve gained along with all of the love.
But I can’t go back to that time,
I can’t go back to that place.
I can’t rewrite what’s happened,
I can’t do it all again.
I guess I must have done something right along the way for when it came time to fight I did,
and I did it well.
But that struggle took its toll on me and I am quite sure I will never, ever be the same.
You tell yourself “they’re only breasts.”
You say, “I don’t need ovaries, I’m done having children.”
But that obscures the truth.
The truth is that it does matter,
they do matter.
They say my uterus is atrophied.
It almost sounds funny when you say it.
“Who cares? What does that matter?”
It does. It does. It does.
To get rid of all hormones gives me a better chance at avoiding a recurrence, but there is a price to be paid.
No estrogen matters more than I ever thought it could.
It feels worse than taking injections to suppress my ovaries, worse than taking Tamoxifen. Those were easy. I had no clue what was ahead.
I wear the skirt, I put the makeup on, I walk the walk.
But I do not feel like a woman anymore.
I’m proud of what this body has done for me:
3 beautiful children,
surviving cancer,
healing the broken bones, the infections, the autoimmune diseases.
There is no week without migraines,
no cold winter day without icy implants.
Beneath the pretty lies ugly,
the ugly truth of cancer
and what it has taken from me.
While some may be able to go on,
move on,
forget,
I cannot.
My body will not let me.
These things are not tied with a pink ribbon.
These things last longer than a month.
This is part of awareness.
This is part of what breast cancer can do.
This is what it has done to me.
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Oh, Lisa, your words are so powerful. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings.
Meg
All of the pain, suffering and sacrifices you endured in the effort to prevent a recurrence. It really saddens me. Please enjoy all the helpful and heartwarming things you do for those around you, and for the countless thousands whom you have never met but welcome your thoughts and counsel. You deserve an enormous amount of credit. Thank you Lisa. David
Thank you!
Anger at loss, and a refusal to participate in the pretty-picture version of the reality of breast cancer makes this a powerful piece. Your willingness to tell the whole truth of your experience at the time you wrote it is what makes it significant, and what makes so many others experiencing cancer, or some other disease or reality that does not lend itself to a neat ending, a pretty package, to feel less alone.
Thank you for reposting this. It is the absolute truth.
I just adore you. Thank you for sharing your journey. As Joanne says, you speak so much truth. I have gone through cancer treatment and your sentiments just ring so true. Thank you for using your beautiful voice.