I have recently sucked at blogging. I have found myself sprinting through October, which as a volleyball coach October seems to be the most ridiculous month ever. The good thing is that volleyball is over and I have one post that I have been meaning to share for three weeks now...
We all know that October is breast cancer awareness month. I find I have a love/hate relationship with this month. I appreciate and am grateful for all of the press that breast cancer awareness gets. I am glad that so many people want to fight and support such a worthwhile cause. However, I often find myself a little sad when I see pink ribbons, because it takes me back to some moments in my life that have been a bit rough. Nonetheless, I am happy to believe in a cause that I would like everyone to support in hopes of one day there being less women effected by breast cancer.
At some point throughout this month, I wore a pink ribbon on my shirt for a few days at school. One day I had a couple of boys ask me about the ribbon. I responded that it represented breast cancer awareness and was naturally responded to with immature giggles from boys. I didn't think a whole lot about it. I think men of all ages want to giggle when they hear the word breast. I told myself it wasn't malicious and that they were simply too young to understand the significance of a pink ribbon. Later that same day I had two girls ask me about the ribbon and respond that they thought breast cancer awareness was overdone. They didn't know why only breast cancer got all the hype and they thought it was stupid...There are only a few moments where I allow myself to get on my high horse about personal issues as a teacher. I don't feel that it is my responsibility to impart my beliefs on impressionable teenagers. But on that day I did.
I decided to first of all freak out on the two girls and explain all of the reasons why breast cancer deserves all of the "hype" it can get. I then went on to reprimand the entire class of kids because that's what teachers do. The next day in class I created an assignment solely to teach those two girls and my immature boys a lesson. We wrote a definition paper in which you define an abstract concept like poverty or depression or loneliness or family or something along those lines through your personal experiences. I modeled the assignment by sharing my own definition paper I had written on breast cancer...Here's what the 9th graders at Lavaca got to experience that day.
I worried the entire time. While the other kids cartwheeled without a care in the world, I attentively watched the door waiting on my mother’s return from the grocery store. Since she had reassured me over and over again of her speedy return, I had managed to begin my gymnastics practice with a relatively small amount of worry. I thought of every possible mishap that could take place. Bloody car wrecks and grocery store robberies filled my brain. When there were only fifteen minutes left in my practice, I began arranging an alternate ride home from the teenager who was teaching my class how to do a front roll off of a small trampoline. I recounted the entire situation each time I reached the front of the line, including my prediction that my mother had been in a terrible wreck. The only consolation I got from my instructor was a confused look and the claim that she had not heard any sirens, so my mom was probably fine. In the end, my mother returned from the store blaming an incompetent check-out person at Harps for her lengthy trip to the grocery store. And most importantly promising to never leave me again.
All of my life I have feared my mom leaving me. My fear held me hostage for years until I learned to believe in my mother’s devotion. For instance, I did not spend the night at friends’ houses until I was convinced my mother would return the next morning. In my childish world, I worried that my mom would get sick of me and one day decide to desert me when I least expected it. I was a “mama’s girl” to the utmost degree. Fortunately, as I grew up, I learned to trust my mother and appreciate her commitment to both my brother and me. After years of her being there, I even took for granted my mother’s presence. That is until she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002. As a fifteen-year-old I regressed to my eight-year-old state of mind. However, the fear of losing my mom to breast cancer was a much more realistic concern than bloody car wrecks or grocery story heists.
For me, breast cancer was a sixteenth birthday with a bed-ridden mother. It was a birthday party with no presents. It was sympathetic stares and endless questions regarding, “How is your mom?” Breast cancer was living for the next set of test results that revealed the status of my mom’s health, my mom’s life. It was sympathy cards every day. It was home cooked meals from someone else’s home. Breast cancer was IV’s and nights in a hospital. Breast cancer was specialists and second opinions. It was constant worry and bargaining with God for my mom’s recovery. In the end, after months of fighting, breast cancer was a hurdle cleared and an obstacle avoided. It was a weight off of my entire family’s shoulders.
Still today, breast cancer is one of the most influential forces in my life. As a teenager I witnessed my mother fight for her life to escape the chains of cancer. I learned that breast cancer is more than an illness, but a transforming force for many. Breast cancer molded and shaped and scarred my mother into the woman she is today. Ironically, it also molded and shaped and scarred me into the person I am today. Through my mother’s experience, I learned that cancer does not discriminate. It cares not your race or age. It cuts with a knife and leaves its mark forever. Breast cancer is a physical tyrant, an unforgiving force. It attacks the most undeserving of victims, including my mom. It stalks generation after generation with its presence feared by daughters and granddaughters. Breast cancer is my fear now. Breast cancer is a lump in your breast. It is mammograms and hospital waiting rooms. It is blood work and biopsy results. Breast cancer is sutures and staples and disfiguration. In my mother’s case, it is a double mastectomy, a loss of femininity. It is one in every four women in the United States. It is radiation and chemotherapy, nausea and bald heads. It is husbands with no wives, children with no mothers, and parents with no daughters.
All of my life I have feared my mother’s leaving. As a child, I worried of her temporary departure. As an adult, I worry about her permanent departure. Breast cancer planted an eternal fear of its return in my mind. If it does not return for my mother, perhaps it will settle for me instead. Breast cancer has taught me more about life and love than anything else. For me, breast cancer restored my eight-year-old appreciation for the people I love.
Needless to say my kids were overwhelmed after hearing me read this. I did, however, get some of the best writing out of my students I've gotten all year. One day after school, one of the girls who had made the remarks about breast cancer found me and apologized. She explained she had never met anyone who had breast cancer or known anyone who knew someone with it. I sometimes wonder what I'm doing as a teacher. And very rarely do I ever have any sort of proof that I'm making even a small impact. However, this month I feel like I have opened a few sets of eyes to life beyond the sheltered existence so many young kids find themselves a part of.
So, I have a love/hate relationship with October. However, I am thankful that October has evolved into Pinktober. Breast cancer awareness is very much a worthwhile fight to undertake. And whether people walk or run or wear pink ribbons or assign 9th graders an assignment solely to allow for their personal satisfaction of teaching a lesson that has nothing to do with English, we must all do our part. Hopefully one day, October can be devoted to the fight for the cure of a disease other than breast cancer. Until then, we must spread the word.
