June is as hot as jalapeños in a Sahara mood, and you’ve
just received a breast cancer diagnosis. You aren’t scared. You aren’t crying.
You are no stranger to serious illness. Still, I must warn you that this flesh-eating
beast is going to be different from any other disease-demon you’ve had to kick
in the teeth before.
No, I am not talking about the riot of side effects breast
cancer treatment will brew (what
you’ve read on the topic is brutally accurate: it is going to hurt, it is going to alter
your flesh and bones, it’s going to seriously suck for a while). This
disease will change your feelings towards certain social concepts (i.e. labels such as “breast cancer warrior”, wearing the pink
ribbon).
Right now, you understand that calling oneself breast cancer
warrior and wearing a pink ribbon are creative ways to
fight
against something too ugly to face fully uncloaked. You might be partially correct.
But I’m writing this letter—13 months after your breast died so that I could live—to share
with you what I know now: I claim the label and wear the ribbon because awareness is a caring weapon most warriors are grateful to
show and tell.
Unconditional Love (and
13 fistfuls of my liveliest cackles),
Magaly
So, there is a chance that I was not all that thrilled about going to
the hospital.
And it rained on me.
But then, the sun came out to shine on autumn leaves (and
me).
the wee notes…
- the title (and part of the post)
was inspired by my reading of What I know Now: Letters to My Younger Self,
edited by Ellyn Spragins
