Last night I was in the middle of reading the best book most people have never read (The Long Ships by Frans Benggtson) when Facebook pinged me with a message. It seems as though it is time, once again, for more idiotic “games” that are somehow, some way, supposed to raise Breast Cancer Awareness. Nevermind that the games never mention breast cancer and that we are meant to keep the code secret from the men. (“Just us girls!”) As though Breast Cancer doesn’t affect men.
Tell that to the fellows who’ve had to bury their wives, mothers, daughters.
Tell that to the fellows who’ve themselves been stricken with the disease.
I have no idea why we have to always approach breast cancer with this giggling juvenility. And, yes, I write this post every year–usually on October first. But on Monday my sandwich came in a pink wrapper and now this. October seems to be starting very very early this year.
Right now at this moment in time I’m having a really hard time with my own illness. The one that doesn’t kill you (that’s the upside) but also can’t be cured. The one that I have to live with for however long I’m here. I’m looking around at the things I’m too tired, too sick to tackle and feeling defeated by the basics. The laundry is laughing at me, the dust on the sconces is mocking me and the bags of yarn on the kitchen table are especially cruel in their teasing. I can’t keep up with the basics and that frightens me. I’m losing touch with friends, with family. I’m watching my self die while my body continues on in some sort of zombie state.
Disease isn’t funny. It isn’t handled by passing laughing coded messages about where you put your purse, when you take off your bra or what kind of candy you like.
I don’t want to play either game anymore.