I refuse to make it a capital c

You all know I’m writing a book.  A mash up of a guide for what to expect, and a memoir of what I went through.  As I write, often, I think back to the lessons that were drilled into me at my first job, on how to punctuate presentations.  Completely different than what matters when you are learning how to write in your English and writing classes.  Those classes teach you more about structure, sentence and paragraph arrangement.  Not how to make things aesthetically pleasing.

There were lots of rules.  What to capitalize, what to leave lower case.  The rules used grammar words that maybe you don’t hear day to day.  Prepositions, and what not. The rules included font size, and how to do bullets, sub bullets, and the like.  But it was nice to have a guide.

Often, in my writing, especially with my titles, I continue to adopt some of those same rules, especially for when to capitalize and when to leave lower case.

But I refuse to give cancer a capital c.  Refuse.  It’s not important enough.  It doesn’t deserve it.  Have I done it in the past, I wonder?  Maybe.  But guess what?  From this point forward, it will not be granted capital status.  Little c.  That’s what you are.  You giant turd of a disease.  You don’t even deserve to be capitalized.  Take that.  HAHA.  Am I a bully now?  If my victim is cancer, then, yes, yes I am.

Take that.  Little c.  turd of an existence.  take that.

Don’t hate the ribbon

The past few days I’ve seen many anti-pink posts throughout the breast cancer community.

I understand a lot of it.  The October, pink-turning of everything drives some people crazy.  Angers others.  Brings overwhelming sadness to a great many.

Pinktober.  Pink doesn’t solve anything.  Doesn’t bring back those that have been lost.  Doesn’t ease anyone’s suffering in the darkness of their cancer treatments.  Yep, I get it.  It does not.  Lots of celebrities wear pink because it may be trendy, or put them on the cover of a magazine, or give them a little attention.  Lots and LOTS of companies put things out for sale with pink ribbons on them.  Or maybe they throw out a t-shirt with a fun, ‘I beat breast cancer’ slogan, maybe something catchy like ‘my boobs tried to kill me’ sentiment.  I get it.  Those are the ones we frown upon.  Those that are trying to profit from our suffering.  Shame on all of you that do that.   Shame.

Those that are against the turning of the pink may be those that have endured.  Maybe those that have watched loved ones endure.  To some, the pink may be an in your face reminder of a loved one that’s been lost.  That just sucks.  I feel for all of you.

Every October there is merchandise sold to the unsuspecting masses.  Pink ribbons and likenesses that only line the pockets of the giant corporations, sales that give nothing back to our community, nor to research to fund cures.  You people truly suck.  There are some companies big and small, that do sell things, make things, pink things, that give back to things that matter.  They take their profits, or some of their profits, and put it into research.  Make hats and comfort items for those going though chemo and other treatments.  Don’t be afraid to ask if any of the sales support breast cancer research.  Maybe they do, and in those cases, Bravo!!!  Thank you for your support.  You do not suck.  I will buy something from you and gladly fund something good.

To me, though, the ribbon is a symbol to promote awareness.  Awareness brings knowledge.  Knowledge helps to fund things that support breast cancer research.

To me, the ribbon is a reminder to others to take care of themselves, do their exams, schedule their appointments.  I hope that every time someone sees my pink ribbon, they remember to take that few minutes that may save their lives.

One of those people may even be the one that finds us a cure.

Don’t hate the ribbon.  Hate the merch.

And do your exam.

xoxo

From teal to pink

I recently updated my facebook profile to teal, as a tribute to ovarian cancer.  Teal is the representative color for ovarian cancer.  September is ovarian cancer awareness month.

As September fades, and October emerges, I am changing the colors to pink.

Pink.

The color I always hated growing up as a tomboy.  It is now my representative color.  The representative color of breast cancer.

I am changing my profile and cover photo, to remind people, do your exams, schedule your appointments.  You are your first line of defense.  October is breast cancer awareness month.  I don’t have to love the color.  But I hope those that see it, will remember to take care of themselves.

 

 

 

Brain cancer surgery

My beloved mom is getting ready to undergo brain cancer surgery.

Thinking that, just typing that is incredulous.  Brain cancer surgery.  The doctors plan to remove the tumor, and alleviate the swelling the tumor is causing.

W

T

F

It’s amazing this can be done.  It really is.  I am typing this tonight, which means nothing to anyone reading this.  The tonight I speak of is Sept 23rd.  Sunday.  But I am delaying the post until Friday, September 28th, surgery day, so that it doesn’t make her worry.  She reads all my posts.  Love you, mom!!  xoxoxo

I’ve been saying lots of prayers for her surgery, for her doctors to be knowledgeable, steadfast, best of the best.  Those are my prayers as I fall asleep at night.  Friday night past, those were my thoughts as I fell asleep.  I woke up Saturday morning, and remembered my dream.

In my dream, my mom was getting ready to undergo surgery, surgery to remove her brain tumor.  In this dream, the doctors needed to do a practice run.  To make sure they would get it right.  In order to do this practice run, they needed a volunteer.  I stepped up to the plate.  In this dream, we lay next to each other, she under anesthesia awaiting her surgery, me completely lucid to make sure the doctors could do the surgery.

They shaved my head in the area they needed to perform the surgery.  (it’ll grow back!!)

They inserted needles to numb the area.  They made their cuts.  I winced in pain, but stayed still so as not to hinder their progress.  They cut a section of my skull out.  My brain was exposed to the world.  They found something.  They found something, that made them realize my mom’s tumor could be treated without surgery.  They realized, they did not need to do the surgery on my dear mom.    It was awesome.  In the celebration, they neglected me, and my gaping wound in my skull, and I continued for days, reveling in the awesomeness that my mom would be fine, but also trying to hide the open wound that exposed my brain.  It didn’t matter.  They figured out a way to get rid of my mom’s cancer without slicing into her head.  All would be right.

I don’t know how this story ends.  Only time will tell.  My mom is a fighter though, and I am confident that she will battle through this.

Dreams are funny.  They are often confusing, but if you look hard enough they will give you the exact answers you need.  I know they won’t leave any of us with gaping head wounds.  And I know the surgery will happen.  What this dream tells me, though, is that all will be OK.  We will pull through this.  That is the message my dream sent me.  The message was received.

Power on, Mom!!

*  *  *  *

Pre-Op Selfie!!  Nick said, “I hope they don’t take the crazy out!”  The did not need a practice volunteer, phew.  😉

 

*  *  *  *

And here she is!!  Making brain surgery look easy!  Great job, mom, we all love you!

xoxoxoxo

I will win

There are some days that I think that there aren’t others that can hate cancer as much as I hate cancer.

Then…

I read their stories.

They.  All.  Suck.  (The stories, not the people.  Of course.)  Stupid, F-ING, cancer.

What a vile disease.  What a terrible thing to do to a person.  The cure is not much better.

I wish I could challenge cancer to a grudge match.  Let’s get in the ring together.  You win, I go down.  I will bow out gracefully.  I win, well…listen up buddy, you are gone.  You hear me?  GONE!!  Never to plague my loved ones, my family, strangers on the street ever again with your black soul.  Gone.  Cancer – you are a coward.  You know I would win.  I dare you to show up.  Let’s do this.  F-U Cancer.  You suck and are the scum of the earth.

Stupid.  F-ing cancer.  You just suck.