Metastatic Pink

"Every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket".

--Eric Hoffer

I walked into a running store a few months ago to buy some shoes and shorts; men's gear on one side, women's gear on the other.  This makes sense given the different sizes and cuts of shoes and clothing needed. What became immediately apparent and painful to me though, was not just that the smaller sized stuff was on the right side of the store.  As I approached the racks I realized I was drifting dangerously closer to what more closely resembled a Barbie Playhouse nightmare.  Much of the running apparel and shoes were pink, glittery or some trendy shade of something ubër girly.  

In other words, nothing I could take seriously.

 I refuse to buy into the stereotype that all it takes to market an item to women is to "shrink it and pink it”. 

The simple formula is this: Pink=Girl.  Later on it becomes Pink=Women.   Who decided this? Who said so? Many women will claim that they just love pink and all things glittery and superficially girly. Maybe some do, but I believe that most of them learn to like what they think they are supposed to like because it’s expected of them.  It sends the right message. 

Women, everyone really, has been programmed by Madison avenue to think that if it's pink it’s feminine, regardless of the quality.

The sad truth is, there is nothing biologically innate that links pink to women.  It’s purely a cultural brainwash of the past 40 years.  Prior to WWII , pink was actually more closely associated with young boys or men.  The Great Gatsby himself wore a pink suit.  Many catalogues of the times showed pink children’s clothing for boys. In fact, pink was considered a stronger, more passionate color, softened from the warrior’s red, whereas blue was regarded as a dainty color, more suitable for girls.

No one thought Elvis the least bit effeminate for owning numerous pink cadillacs, and to this day, almost any mid century modern home sports at least one pink bathroom, originally intended for both genders to use.

I have a theory about what may have triggered the “pink is not for men” mentality.

I suspect the aversion had its subtle beginnings when our G.I.’s liberated the concentration camps and saw pink triangles assigned to the gay men in the camps.

It took quite some time though, before it became a mainstream notion.  I attribute a rapid shift in attitudes more recently, to the miracle of sonography.  Now that we may know the gender of the baby ahead of time, there’s money to be made in the  customization of products and pink imprinting now starts early. Prior to sonography, people bought “neutral” colors like green or yellow because no one knew what gender the baby was going to be.

Now baby showers may be properly color coordinated and parents tediously plan out the perfect shade of pink to paint their nursery well in advance of the new arrival.  The day a girl arrives at the hospital some sort of pink label and identifier is slapped on her as well.   Need more proof? Perhaps head on down to your nearest toy store and experience the Barbie Playhouse nightmare for yourself.  Certain aisles will blind you with the dazzling array of pink dolls, accessories and toys intended for GIRLS that emanate from the shelves.  

Why does the pink marketing bother me so much? 

I think, particularly with regard to sports equipment, there is a subtle, unspoken message.  Years ago, women were discouraged from participating in sports.  It wasn’t until as recently as 1972 that women were even allowed to participate in the Boston marathon.  Sports, it was said, masculinized women; it built up muscles and women weren’t supposed to have big muscles-not to mention beautiful, healthy bodies.  Even in medical circles at one time, it was argued that vigorous activity was harmful to women.

Sweating wasn't considered a feminine activity.  An athletic woman was presumed to be a lesbian. Fear of this stigma threatened and discouraged many women from participating in sports for decades.  Lesbians, according to some, were not really women, but women trying to be men.  This served the prevailing attitude of the time that sports participation somehow diminished femininity.

Those attitudes have mostly evaporated but we still have slightly more than vestigial remains. 

Women today get to have it all...They can bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan….

Well almost…

Watch a broadcast of any women's sporting event lately?

The Olympics, perhaps?  Ever notice how they always manage to do a feature segment about how one athlete in particular can be a wife, terrific mother and….a super athlete! There is always that subtle attempt to disprove the stereotype that being a female athlete does not automatically make you a lesbian.

No kidding?

I guess it’s not quite such a miracle when a male athlete can father a child or two or three.  Some of them may even be with his wife, if he’s married.

Another angle to consider…

I'm sure athletic wear companies know they are getting many new female runners and walkers entering the sport for the first time via the Komen 5K and 3 Day gatherings.  I’m certain that the pink overlap between Komen’s "Race for the Cure" and the increasing amount of pink running gear being sold by race sponsors is no accident.  

Women’s bodies are different and we do have different needs.  Companies that market a smart, well thought out product that fits my 4’11’’ frame, will earn my dollar and my loyalty.   But don’t dare give me a dumbed down, low grade version of something.   I want a real product with the same features and colors available to men without the pandering and condescending attitude that pseudo-feminizing the technology conveys.

Once again there’s that unspoken bugaboo that’s being addressed.  The message is, you can run and sweat and still be a “real woman” if you wear these pink shoes/shorts/shirts/hats.  No one would dare suspect you are a lesbian if you drape yourself in pink gear because it has magical powers and serves as a counterweight to ward off the perceived masculinity of any sport.

The same pink paintbrush is often swept over other items like tools, guns and electronic technology-items that are not traditionally considered women’s products.  Or so the marketing people think.

“Pinking” an item becomes an apology, an acknowledgment that yes, this isn't normally something a woman would buy but coloring it pink makes it not only appealing but permissible.

I don’t need anyone’s permission for anything.

It also carries over somehow into the Komen Foundation’s annual October onslaught of pink ribbon adorned products, some of which are actually unhealthy, all designed to get us to “think pink” regarding breast cancer awareness.

Is this really necessary?

Do I want people to be aware of breast cancer and the steps they need to take to help prevent/diagnose or treat the disease?

Of course I do.

Absolutely!

Must we dress it up cute as a puppy to raise awareness or dumb it down by pinking it up?

Putting something as dark and insidious as breast cancer on the shiny, pink marketing wagon is more than surreal. 

It’s ridiculous.

More than ridiculous-it’s insulting.  

No one mentions that MEN also die of breast cancer-but that is quietly pushed aside.  I really feel some pain for the men that are struck by a disease that is so hyper feminized.  What kind of effect does this have on their mental state?  How do they hold on to their masculinity on their journey through the world of pink super saturation?  From diagnosis to treatment there is a constant assault on their Y chromosome.  When a man discovers a lump, they generally have to go to the "women's health or women’s imaging center" within the hospital to get their mammogram. I know of at least one company that has gone so far as to market a breast specific MRI scanner that has pink trim. 

 Absurd!

I have seen men snuck in through back hallways of a hospital because someone thought they might make women uncomfortable if were they to sit in the regular waiting area with them.

Even when allowed in the waiting area, they must sit in a pinked out room, plastered with pink ribbons and women’s magazines reminding them everywhere that breast cancer=pink, which if we recall from our original formula, pink=woman, so where does that leave men with breast cancer?  

What I find particularly egregious is that many breast cancer support groups explicitly ban men outright.  This is so that women may engage in “girl talk”, or other some such nonsense is how it’s been explained to me.     

If they understand nothing else, Komen knows marketing, (many members of their board of directors came from the fast food industry) and they know that women have been conditioned to respond to pink when it comes to making purchasing decisions.  

Yes, it raises money for a cause that affects many women, and they have done some good, but they have unbalanced the equation. 

Let’s see if you can solve for pink:

Given that Pink=Women and Pink=Breast Cancer, does that make pink the square root of women with breast cancer?

What peculiar calculus allows for pink to hold more than one value?

Is there a standard deviation? 

It’s not adding up to me.

What I have personally witnessed over and over is this…

Certainly not all, but so many women spend their entire lives so wrapped up in their families that they have no other interests.

They have nothing that THEY do, as an individual that brings them personal satisfaction, be it a hobby, a sport, a craft, anything.  Their entire lives revolve around being involved with what is going on with other people, their spouses, their children.

They are completely subsumed as human beings and do not exist except as an adjunct to others.  Is it any wonder they are drawn into soap operas, fantasy literature and 50 Shades of Grey?

When women like this get breast cancer, as devastating as a diagnosis is, it’s the first time in their lives that attention is focused on them.  For this one moment in time, for the first time ever, something is all about them and they revel in it.  Not that any of them will admit or understand this, but I have seen it.  

Sadly, for many women, cancer is the most significant event of their lives. It’s all they have that makes them special and they hang on for dear life.

Suddenly, they are the center of the universe and their lives now revolve around the culture of breast cancer. 

This is very normal at first, for anyone with any type of a cancer diagnosis.  It is very useful to have support from a community, be able to ask questions, in order to gain an understanding of what they are going through medically.

Years later however, many women who have survived, never seem to move on, all the while nurturing open ended pity parties.  

Being a SURVIVOR, is the first thing you discover about them,

because, thanks to Komen Foundation events, and a million other online message forums, these women are given a new identity.  They belong to a cool new sorority. And of course, this sorority has a special uniform- any pink adorned product that screams I AM A SURVIVOR.  No need for a secret handshake because whether it’s the ribbon on their car, the license plate, their T-shirt, their hand bag, or their hat, they now have a visible way to identify their “bosom buddies”.

They buy into it and it owns them.

There are gatherings, and walks and all sorts of fun things to do with their new “sisters” and instead of learning to move on from a breast cancer diagnosis, they become mired in it and it becomes the crux of their existence.  Being a victim becomes full time occupation for them.

What I find pitiful is that Komen understands this and uses it.  They promote the wallowing, because it keeps them, shall I say, “well endowed"?  

 Don't get me wrong, I do believe that surviving cancer is something to be proud of, but I refuse to tattoo it to my forehead in order to draw attention to myself.  Whenever I come across someone needing medical advice or support I always gladly offer it, but moment to moment, cancer is no longer part of my life.

 It shouldn’t be.

There will never be a pink ribbon on my vehicle or my clothing. 

Displays of triathlon or marathon triumphs, cute sayings about my dog’s intelligence, politics or my favorite microbrew, rate much higher than pink ribbons for me. Ask me how many pull ups I can do, how much I can deadlift. Ask me about my work or let me show you the latest, crazy cat video I have made.

 I want a first impression to be about who I am, and what I do, not what happened to me. I would never hide it, but it's not first and foremost.  It's certainly not paramount.  It shouldn't be. 

I am greater than the sum of my treatments; 

I am not less than the remainder of my parts!

I am and have always been, much more than a diagnosis.

In Memoriam

In the summer of 2002 I flew to New York for a vacation.  It would be my first time back in the city since I’d moved away.  The landing approach to Newark Airport was where I caught my first glimpse of the World Trade Center site.   Even though it had been months since the bombings, a small, thin, column of rising smoke and dust, could still be seen.  Gazing out of the window, I recalled the endlessly replayed scenes of collapsing concrete and smothering dust that had shrouded everything in its path.

I closed my eyes.

The day I visited ground zero, was a disturbing one. Tourists were everywhere, scurrying around the protective fence line looking for gaps so they could take pictures of the damage.  As a New Yorker, all I could think about, all I could sense was what wasn’t there.  My anger escalated the longer I stood there.  It was projected in multiple directions at once; at the terrorists and also now at the tourists that were gawking at the concrete crater.   Somehow, I felt it was completely disrespectful for people to stand there casually eating hot dogs and having their pictures taken.  At least ten street vendors were selling all kinds of clever T-shirts.  

Insane.

What happened here was no accident, nor random tragedy.  Deliberate, sinister intent flew those airplanes into the buildings and now this spot was turning into damned Disney world.  I felt that this place deserved the same solemnity reserved for war memorials and concentration camps. Suddenly, I felt off balance.  I was disoriented for a moment and then it slowly dawned on me why. Everyone around me was looking down at the wreckage; I had been looking up at the empty space. 

The buildings were gone.  

Bright sunlight poured down on Broadway where it hadn’t shone for many years. 

The twin towers (as most New Yorkers referred to them) had not been mere landmarks but served as tremendous anchor points for the entire island of Manhattan; for all of New York City.  You could never be lost in New York when you could see the towers.  Without them the entire island of Manhattan was now free floating and somehow set adrift.  I knew exactly where I was standing but I was still lost.

I decided to change my perspective and walk around the block.  When I came to St. Paul's Chapel I stopped.  Covering the walls and makeshift fences was an amazing collection of signs, photographs, flags and personal items from all over the world. It was as sad as it was fascinating.  The entire area had been transformed into a spontaneous memorial site.

 Once again, my mind drifted from presence to absence.  What about all the people that weren't there that day. Where were their shadows? I tried to think about everyone that didn't punch their alarm clock that morning, sip coffee, kiss someone good bye and go to work.  So many names were on those signs and photographs it boggled my mind.  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine who those people were, what they felt when the insanity struck.  I imagined the ones killed instantly to be the lucky ones, compared to those that were burned alive in elevators, or sat, hopelessly waiting for help in the floors above the impact zones. What about the ones that were able to call their loved ones and tell them goodbye? Such gruesome, modern theater thanks to technology.  I looked back to the sky and tried to imagine what horror there must have been inside the burning towers, the kind of horror that drove people to voluntarily jump to their deaths hundreds of feet below.   I thought about the sights and sounds of bodies thudding on the pavement and I could almost see their shadows rapidly approaching the ground.  I shivered just a little.  I wanted to empathize, not just sympathize. I wanted to feel everything that happened there so it would burn an impression in my psyche.  I stood in sunlight but it should have been in the shade of their shadows.  Where were the people…the buildings... the dust, all that dust...?  I knew I couldn't change what happened, but I wanted to walk away from there doing their memories justice, in my own small way.  I tried to mourn each one by acknowledging the pain of their sufferings in my heart.  

I read something a long time ago that was written by a rabbi that had been an army chaplain during the liberation of the concentration camps.  He had entered the death camps with his unit and came across stacks and stacks of bags marked "DÜNGER" (Fertilizer).  When he opened one he realized that they were filled with the dust and ashes of the crematoria. He plunged his arm deeply into the bag, up to his elbow to feel it, grab as much as he could so that he would never ever forget what he’d witnessed.  Perhaps that is what I was trying to do, as I stood there staring at the sky, I’m not exactly sure. For me, the dust somehow connects the tragedies. 

If you visit the area now, I am sure things are much cleaner.  I have heard there are even organized tours.  I will not make political commentary about memorials in Manhattan but I will say this:

With any tragedy, particularly those that underscore the human capacity for cruelty, we must find a way to honor the legacies of those who died.  

We must incorporate those who died into our hearts and souls, and to let them lead us to act in ways that will honor them. We must allow them to inspire us to fully embrace life to the extent that they were denied and to work to prevent the endless repetition of history.

Note: According to Trinity Church’s website, “Opened in 1766, St. Paul's Chapel is Manhattan's oldest public building in continuous use - a place where George Washington worshiped and 9/11 recovery workers received round-the-clock care”.

Image This!

I think it was a mistake when I requested to work on that assignment.  I survived cancer, I was (and am) doing well so I thought working on a project at a cancer hospital would give me a real sense of fulfillment.  It only managed to piss me off.

This cancer hospital in Florida was revamping its entire radiology department by converting from film to digital imaging.  I was there to help make that happen and to teach the radiologists to do their jobs by viewing images on a computer, instead of looking at a piece of film on a light box. We worked closely at the viewing stations, pulling up patient exams on the monitors, one after the other, configuring their settings and tools for maximum efficiency. “Throughput” it's called, in the “healthcare biz”.  The number of patients you can put-through the system in a given period of time-that's it, exactly.  My mind conjured up images of a train of endless patients sliding through narrow CT and MRI scanner rings. Yep, that's throughput. 

There were a lot of us cancer survivors in that place, which for me, includes everyone from the minute they are diagnosed.  Business was too good. 

Working with radiologists can be challenging.  They are a strange breed. Their work is vital but unlike other specialties, many of them do not actually see or touch their patients. They spend hours, in darkened reading rooms, quiet music playing, removed and insulated from the hospital's drama and chaos, manipulating images, measuring tumors or reconstructing damaged body parts in 3D.

Unlike standard hospitals where I spend most of my time, that place was a comprehensive cancer center, which means that nearly all of the exams we encounter have some sort of cancerous pathology, either newly diagnosed, or metastatic (cancer that has spread from its point of origin to somewhere else in the body).  I try not to visibly cringe or my credibility as a health care professional might be called into question, but it's tough not to react to the malignant images.  Occasionally the radiologist or I will remark with considerable understatement about something particularly gruesome we see- “Oh, that's not good” or “Oh, I bet that hurts”, but not much else.  I really have to struggle to keep from running out of the room when I see someone close to my age, whose breast cancer went wild and has spread to other vital organs of their body.  I am not sure which I dread more, the idea of it spreading to my brain, liver or my bones.  They say the best way to die is when it spreads to your liver because you are pretty out of it at that point and quietly slip away into a coma.  I know I fear the pain from metastatic bone cancer.  As for brain tumors and losing my mind, I can’t even go there.

Old medical joke:

Q. How do you hide a 100 dollar bill from a radiologist?

A. Put it on the patient.    Funny.  Sorta. 

It is said that most doctors see the patient and have to imagine the disease. On the contrary, radiologists mostly see the disease and have to imagine the patient.   For anyone living as a cancer survivor, and for me at that time in my life, it was hard to imagine a day that didn’t involve thoughts wildly ranging between hope and despair.

Constantly observing one cancer filled image after another did not help the healing process.  CT images of bodies waging futile campaigns against an indiscriminate killer, kept my life's imaginary hourglass clearly visible. 

And then there was guilt. 

Over the years I’ve been able to accomplish what might be considered some fantastic feats of physical endurance for anyone, much less a cancer survivor. 

A few years ago I climbed a mountain many of them will not live to ever visit.

I WAS one of them but they couldn’t know that by looking at me.  Making eye contact as I passed patients in the various departments was close to impossible.   I was and still am the picture of health.  My scans clear, my health good.  I was an intruder there. Worse, I managed to escape and left my buddies behind.

 Unforgivable.

I've been tossed out of a club I didn't want to join in the first place.

I wasn’t insulted, but somehow I felt strangely set adrift.   I sensed or maybe I just imagined that they looked at me with envy and desperately wish to trade places (or bodies?). They couldn’t see the damage I live with and overcome every day.  I am familiar with the desperation that would drive those thoughts.  I've had them.  When I'm caught up in a fit of panic that the cancer has returned because of some unexplained pain or illness I'm having I get scared and mad all at once.

What really gets me especially worked up is when I see people deliberately pissing away their health in various ways.  I had to quit working directly with patients because it made me angry all the time.  When a 400lb. patient would come to the radiology department complaining of back pain, it become increasingly more difficult for me to keep my tongue in check.  What they needed was a damned diet and some exercise, not an x-ray.  I love to help people, but I have a really hard time helping people that are bent on self- destruction.  Not very politically correct of me, but so what? Call it judgmental, call it whatever you want but that's my reality.  It’s tough to exercise good judgment in this life, without being judgmental. 

It was hard as hell to be there.  I began to realize that my mission to help cancer patients had rapidly turned into an exercise in futility.     

I got so flustered one day I had to take a break from the dark reading room.  I stepped outside the hospital to take in the soft, gulf coast sunshine.  It was warm, bright and beautiful.  Then, I saw bald people also outside, in hospital gowns and wheelchairs enjoying the sunshine too.   Many were smoking.

The rising cigarette smoke would curl around and practically caresses the IV bags hanging on the poles attached to their wheelchairs. Some were so weak that they had to have someone push them outside so they could have their cigarettes.  I became so enraged that I all I could think of was that I wanted to kick them all in the chest and knock them over backwards on their asses.  I knew it wouldn’t help but I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about it.

  Nothing helped. 

Disgusted by what I saw, I stood up and went back inside.  

Perhaps by getting out of the sunshine, I managed to avoid skin cancer.   

The Tawanda Chronicles- Part I

He called her a dumb bitch as they walked through the door of the truck stop.  I couldn't imagine how someone could be in such big trouble so early. It was only 4:30 in the morning.  I was there at my usual time to gas up and grab some coffee before getting on the road for my trip to work. The cashier and I exchanged nervous glances at each other as they continued their argument right there near the coffee kiosk.  She had obviously made some sort of mistake with the map, or directions and he was making certain that she and everyone around knew it.  He bullied her up one side and down the other and all she could do was sputter apologies.  She even did some of the work for him as she began disparaging herself as well.  "Well I can't read maps and I'm stupid that way and I just don't know what happened and I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry" she whined pitifully.

He chimed right back, "You got that right, you are stupid, you can't read a map, you can't do much at all.  You are one dumb bitch.  I have to tell you how to do everything. You can't cook, you don't even clean the house.  What the hell CAN you do, anyway"? 

I couldn't help but stare in disbelief at what was unfolding in front of me.  I thought I was watching a Lifetime movie about spouse abuse because this conversation could have been extracted from any "wife beater" script.  I could only imagine what went on when they were not in public and that made me angry.  Anyone who verbally abuses a woman in that manner is most likely beating the hell out of her as well.  Thinking about it made me furious.  I sometimes wonder how and why women don't leave men that treat them that way but this one is probably terrified and for good reason.  

He told her she better take her bathroom break now because they wouldn't stop again til they got home.  She walked past me and as she headed for the restroom. I wanted to grab her by the arm and walk her right out of there and drive her to some place where she would be safe.  I imagined she'd refuse, or her husband would have something to say about it.  I felt helpless and still angry all at once.  I didn't know what I could do.  Didn't even know if I should do something.
I turned back to the coffee kiosk and grabbed a styrofoam cup.  I poured myself a cup of coffee, and that was when Mr. Wifebeater sauntered over next to me and began pouring himself one as well.  I ignored him and went about my business, adding 4 or 5 of those little cream containers to my coffee. He glanced over at my lightly colored coffee and snorted out a snide little remark, "Hey, having a little coffee with your cream"? 

He thought he was brilliant.

I felt a bomb go off inside me. No one would have blamed me for punching that man right then and there. Or worse. I know wanted to.  My adrenaline had already been summoned thanks to his notorious entrance a few moments earlier. I don't know what set me off worse, the way he talked to his wife or his brazen, twisted notion that he could talk to any woman that way. What arrogance!
I turned my head and glared at him.  Through my clenched jaw and gritted teeth I growled back at him, "Who the FUCK, asked you"?  I emphasized the "F" word as loudly and harshly as I could.  I watched him recoil.  I don't think any woman ever spoke to him that way before and he was shocked.  I was so full of anger I was hoping he'd take a swing at me so I had a good excuse to knock him on his ass. In fact, I was so enraged I found myself fantasizing about him following me out to my truck where I kept my gun.  I was ready for him to start something with me there so I could have a legitimate reason to blow him away. For the first time in my life I actually felt fully capable of killing someone.  Not just capable, but eager to do so. That frightened me.  I realized I was giving Mr. Wifebeater  too much credit, too much power. He didn't say anything else to me so I turned away from him and back to my coffee.
I needed to get out of there.    I needed a lid.  I quickly dropped one onto my cup.  As to what happened next I can only attribute to unspent adrenaline.  I must have pressed the lid too tightly to the cup.  The cup collapsed and coffee erupted sideways. The entire counter, most of the napkins and Mr. Wifebeater were now covered in coffee, light no sugar.
There was a moment of suspended silence.  I saw the cashier's eyes widen in anticipation.  No one said a word.  

Some may say that my subconscious probably played a role in causing this to happen.  I really can't answer to or argue with that line of reasoning because I don't have access to those files.
I know it was not deliberate but I am certain it unfolded just as it was supposed to.

Mr. Wifebeater just looked at me and began wiping off what he could with the remaining dry napkins.  He said nothing.  I had silenced him for now.

I paid for my gas and the wasted coffee and hurried back to my truck. 

 I didn't need the coffee anymore.

Thinking About Elizabeth Edwards

I'm the most rational person I know. THE most logical, literal and scientific person I know.  At the age of 4, I declared myself an atheist. I conducted scientific experiments to that effect; I blew out the Chanukah candles and when nothing happened and God didn't strike me down as I'd been told would happen, I knew someone had to be lying. 

As for the Santa story, no one I knew even lived in a house, much less one that had a fireplace so I presumed that story was null and void in modern times.  I never heard how Santa managed to visit apartment house kids, although for a while I harbored some strange theories regarding incinerator chutes.  I got into frequent fights with my English teachers in high school because I refused to capitalize “god” in my essays. I thought of “god” as a concept, an idea, ideology perhaps, but not a proper noun. 

But then, I have my moments of fear and superstition.  

Whenever I board an airplane I must touch the outside of the plane; the painted, riveted metal that meets the frigid air at 30,000 feet.  I’m not sure why or how that compulsion came about, but it’s my way of somehow ensuring my safety.

I also have this bottle.

It's a bottle of cheap champagne from the year 2000. It was tacky.  Boldly emblazoned in glitter all over the bottle are multiple 2000’s.  The millennium was supposed to be a big deal. I bought the champagne for a New Year's Eve party that my “ex” and I were to attend.
I can't recall if we forgot to bring the bottle to the party or if we took it there and forgot to open it.

Nevertheless, I still have this bottle.

It was only a few weeks after that party that I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a short time afterwards I discovered that the “ex” was cheating on me -- with the same woman who threw the party. The remainder of the millennium, for me, was an amalgam of physical and emotional misery, acute sickness, pain, chemotherapy and loss.

I imagine that over the years, thanks to fear and superstition, I managed to associate the worst of my suffering with that bottle.  

Fear and superstition being what they are, I held on to it.  

Since those dark days I’ve climbed mountains, run marathons, triathlons -- done more than I would have ever dreamed.  It sounds cliché but it’s true.  What I had thought was the end of the world was just the opportunity for a new start. It was hard to see at the time, but looking back I can say that cancer served to filter all the trash from my life and it left behind only the treasure. 

It's been over 10 years.  I have a great life now. I'm a completely new person yet here I am still dragging this old bottle of champagne around.

I'm in a quandary about what to do with it.

Somehow I have come to believe, that all the memories of betrayal, cancer, pain, sickness and the wretchedness of my life from that entire year are now stored in that bottle... which leads to my dilemma.

I've become afraid to open it, afraid to drink it, afraid to dump it out and throw it away. I've considered smashing it. Still it sits there. I am terrified that any action I take will somehow unleash all of the suffering my fear and superstition placed in there. 

Ridiculous superstition for someone like me, I know, but there it sits. It's an annoyance that it's still with me; such a strange artifact.  I’ve probably bubble-wrapped, packed and moved the damned thing 6 or 7 times.  I have got to do something about it. It can't just sit there forever.

I have a conversation out loud with myself because I have to focus.  Slowly and methodically I force the logic out.  I tell myself the bottle is sealed.  It has never been opened, there's no way I could have actually put anything in there. There is champagne in that bottle, not memories.

Champagne is for celebrating. 

I ask myself why it is customary to open a bottle of champagne on New Year's Eve. Hope perhaps? Hope for a successful future and to bid farewell to the past all at once. That's what champagne is for.  

It's been 10 years, I'm still alive and I think I finally know what to do with that damned bottle.

Mimosas, anyone?

It's the only rational thing to do.

Kinetically Speaking...

Kinetically speaking

My awkwardness with southern manners was first evidenced when I was in the Air Force.

  I was in the mess hall carrying my tray and spotted my southern friend, I'll call him John, at a table.  As I walked over to the table to sit down, he stood up.  I sat down and then he sat back down.   I thought I might be holding him up so I told him that if he needed to leave, to go on ahead, I'll go sit with some other folks.  He just smiled at me.  I then realized that I needed some napkins so I got up to get them.  John stood up once again.  Once more I told him that if he needed to go, to please not let me hold him up and to go do what he had to do.  When I returned to the table he stood up for the 3rd time.  Obviously he was in a hurry to be somewhere.  "John", I said, "Please, please go to wherever you need to go. You are making me nervous standing up and sitting down.  I'm a big girl, I can eat my lunch alone". 

Yet again he sat down and he said he didn't need to go anywhere.  I had no idea what was going on and had never seen anyone behave so strangely.  Later I asked him what he was doing and he told me that a gentleman is supposed to stand whenever a woman sits down or gets up from the table. It's funny now, but apparently I had never been around a gentleman before. I found that sort of thing tedious, annoying and unnecessary.

When I moved to the south years ago, I fell into all the fun, linguistic traps that have been described elsewhere, so I won't bore you with them here.  What I found more confusing than trying to figure out which parent I favored (But I love them both equally!) was body language.
 I know, I know, I know that men are taught from a young age how to be "polite", and I know it's with all good intentions and I know and there's no "evil" inherent, but some things still drive me more crazy than hearing someone say Nuke-YOU-Ler.
When I'm in a public place, in an elevator with a man I do not know I like to keep them in front of me.  It's about being safe and aware of my surroundings.  Here in the south men are trained to herd women and it's led to some awkward moments because I refuse to be herded. They seem compelled to insist that I go first which may "seem" polite, though from my perspective, its dangerous.  I don't know you, I don't want you sneaking up behind me and I want your hands where I can see them.  And why is it considered polite for them to let you off the elevator first, but when you come to any other door they get in the way as they rush to hold it open for you? There must have been great confusion with the old fashioned elevators.
I will refuse to be the one to move first, if I am not the one closest to the door.  It doesn't make any sense for the man in front to stand there, partially blocking the way, under the notion that they are being polite by letting me go first.  I am not buying it.  I love to watch them scramble as the elevators doors begin to close and they then have to choose between getting off at their floor, or being polite.
I'm all about whatever is the smoothest, most sensible action. Whoever is closest to the front, gets out first.  Whoever gets to a door first, should hold it for the next person.  Just go with the flow, no need to impede.

It's been my observation that the gallantry dissolves, indoors and out, while walking down a corridor or sidewalk.  I will see men walking 2-3 abreast, while I'm walking alone.  They rarely if ever, consolidate and step either in front or behind each other to accommodate a woman passing.  I've tested this a few times by coming to a complete stop a few feet from them.  I'll find a reason to stop, perhaps to check or adjust my watch and frequently they walk right into me as though they just expected that I would magically give ground.
 I don't.  It's kind of fun to take the charging hit just to watch the look on their face.  I wonder if it's because so many southern women are brought up to be passive and constantly yielding that the men become accustomed to it?  I don't really know the answer here, but it often provides me with entertainment. Over the years I've come to love the south.  Those who know me, know that I truly do and I write this with all the love and humor I can muster.

I know what I'm describing amounts to stereotyping and that there are exceptions to everything... I'm just reporting my experiences....I highly recommend you conduct your own social experiments and report back in.  Let's compare notes. 

 Chivalry is just chauvinism with a high polish.

P.S.  Attention all southerners...When there is a power outage and the street lights are blinking YELLOW...It is neither safe, nor polite to stop at the intersections.  The side streets have blinking RED lights and those vehicles must stop. YELLOW means proceed with caution.  Stopping confuses the process for everyone because the people that remember the rules will continue through the light while the people that think they are being polite stop for no reason and cause more problems. I feel better now.

Y.M.C.A.

Oh, what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
      - William Shakespeare

 As I rested on the ledge of the pool to catch my breath, I noticed a woman was watching me.  Well, it was more like she was glaring at me.  Through the edge of my goggles I was able to catch a glimpse of her, without making eye contact and she was definitely scowling at me.  I didn't know her and couldn't imagine why she was looking at me in such a threatening manner.  
Ignoring the hostility, I pushed off the wall and started swimming back to the other end of the pool.  My right arm wouldn't extend much past my head and the stroke amounted to a kind of flapping dog paddle, but I was improving. I thought it was funny that I managed not to be swimming in circles.

 After my mastectomy, I lost most of the range of motion in my right arm and I was working hard to rehabilitate it.  Hours of brutal ripping and tearing with the Physical Terrorist had restored some of the function and swimming was performing its share of  wonders as well.  I had a long way to go, but I was getting there, slowly. The water was warm and I felt well enough so I kept up my slow, easy pace, back and forth across the pool.  

That day was one of my better days when I didn't feel sick.  I tried to take advantage of those and spent as much time active, or being as normal as I could. I never knew what the next day might bring.  It could have found me sick on the couch or worse, in the bathroom.  I never wanted to waste a good day.  As I swam, I thought that being bald from chemotherapy could impart some advantages for swimmers.   I didn't need my swim cap and the strap from my goggles didn't slip or pull my hair at all!   "I could almost like this", I thought..."No wonder many of the male swimmers kept their heads shaved".


Every so often I looked around the pool area to see if that woman was still staring.  She stuck around for a few more laps, made it clear she disapproved of me and then after a while she disappeared. 

 I finished, got out of the water and grabbed a couple towels.  It was summer time and I was dreading leaving the warm pool area for that blast of air conditioning in the locker room.  Being bald, and  generally not quite well, also meant that I got chilled more easily so I was in a hurry to get dried off and into some warm clothes.   
I had just removed my wet bathing suit and gotten wrapped up with a towel when I saw the scowler again. She had turned the corner past the sink area and was heading in my direction.  I didn't pay any attention to her and reached into my locker for my clothes.  My back was to her when she began speaking and it took me a moment to realize that she was talking to me.

"How dare you"! she hissed at me.  
 I turned around and there she was right up close in my face. I was so taken aback I hadn't really understood what she was saying.   I had no idea why she was grinding away at me. I'm standing there half naked, and dripping...and shivering.  It's hard to defend yourself intelligently with your pants in your hands...

"Excuse me"? I barely managed to say. 

"How dare you come in here and make a show of your lifestyle!  Don't you know that this is a Christian organization"? She put a heavy emphasis on the word "Christian" .

I was shocked speechless and had no idea what she was talking about. I just stood there staring at a possessed lunatic.  After a few moments of silence I must have blinked and she took that as her cue to continue... 

"Your radical hair cut has no place in a Christian organization!  You can do whatever you want when you aren't in here, when no one has to see you, and as far as I'm concerned you are going to hell... but while you are here you should consider what kind of example you are setting for the children"!

She was on a roll,  "Come to think of it, don't I think people with your lifestyle should be allowed anywhere near children or the Y.M.C.A."!

She stomped off around the corner to the next bank of lockers and I could hear her loudly murmering to someone about THOSE people... 

As I sorted out what had just transpired I realized I was shaking now from anger as well as the cold. I dressed quickly.

"She thinks I'm bald because I'm some kind of radical lesbian??? She thinks I shaved my head as a fashion statement"? What the....? I guess in her mind, she couldn't imagine that anyone could be sick, and still swimming, so it had to be a "lifestyle" thing".

My jaw ached from being clenched, holding back things I knew I shouldn't say, that I might regret... I knew I had to say something but I didn't know what.  The first thing I thought of was that I didn't want anyone else to have to deal with someone that mean.  She was dangerous and could do some real damage.  I am not so fragile, my skin is thick enough but it frightened me to think that she might unload on the next person that did not meet with her "Christian" seal of approval.  I wanted to teach her a lesson.  How could I teach her one that would make an impact?  What could I say that would make a difference?  

 I think it's wrong how people like her use religion as a weapon of hatred rather than as a vehicle for love and understanding. She completely missed the boat on this evangelical moment. 

Although I am not religious I do believe there are important life lessons that are imparted in the bible.  It bothers me a great deal that some people seem to selectively extract only the parts that support their prejudices and miss the big picture.

I thought about all those WWJD bumper stickers and bracelets folks were so fond of showing off. I wondered if any of the people that so proudly displayed them really lived what they preached.

 I wondered further what Jesus would have thought of someone like her and that gave me an idea.  
 I knew exactly what I had to say. 

Once I was fully dressed I gathered up my courage and walked around to the bench where she was sitting.  I didn't want her to see that I was still shaking so I kept my distance.

"Excuse me", I said, assertively.

She looked up and the self righteous smile disappeared  the instant she saw me. She tried to speak but I cut her off. 

In a very loud voice I said, "Apparently, you are unaware that hair loss and baldness are some of the side effects of chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer".  

She realized the depth of the mistake that she had just made and in that moment I could see from her face that she was horrified.  She once again opened her mouth only this time she was trying to apologize.  She got up off the bench to approach me and once again I cut her off. 

I held up my hand- "Stop"!  I said.  "It's too late to apologize to me, the damage is done. 

But since I know just how important being a Christian is to you, I'm going to do what I think Jesus would do in this situation. 

I'm going to forgive you.
I'm going to turn the other cheek and walk away.  

I am going to hope that you learned something.

I got out of there as fast as I could. 


When I made it to the parking lot it was nearly 100 degrees outside. 
I got in my truck, and the heat hit me like a blast furnace as I rolled down the windows and drove off.

I shook all the way home.

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