Like a lot of things do these days, finding a care package on my porch from the Pennsylvania Breast Cancer Coalition made me cry. It contained a number of handy things...a stainless steel tumbler (during radiation I am drinking 80-100 ounces of water a day), chapstick, a reusable icepack, socks, a gift card...that's just for starters.
The package also held two books, one for me, and one for my husband. I was especially touched by the latter, by the fact that they'd spared a thought for the men who are so drastically impacted by their wives' breast cancer. I think it was THAT that made me cry.
MY book is Pink Ribbon Stories: A Celebration of Life, by Tammy Miller. It is a pretty pink covered paperback collection of toxic positivity and religiosity. I took immediate exception to Tammy Miller herself, who cheered her family and extensive crew of devoted pals through her own breast cancer, arriving at the hospital for her mastectomy with a bag full of clown noses and clown shoes for her surgeon and nurses to wear. Which they did.
Boy, do I fail. Compared to Tammy, I am a bad breast cancer person. I brought no good cheer with me on the day of my surgery. I arrived at the hospital nearly paralyzed by distress and anxiety, shuddering with nerves. I brought no clown noses or clown feet. I provided no pep talks. I did not keep the surgical unit in stitches. I did not rally my worried husband with positivity and a blithe spirit and buoyant attitude.
To the essayists who contributed to Pink Ribbon Stories: A Celebration of Life, who can't praise their god enough for bringing them through their time of supreme travail, I have one question, no, two: First, what about your pink sisters whose ashes have been scattered in their favorite places...did they not pray hard enough? Second, pray tell, whence cometh the affliction in the first place?
I am still working my way through Tammy Clown Nose Miller and her Pink Sisters, but I had to take a break. I picked up Marc Silver's Breast Cancer Husband: How to Help Your Wife (and Yourself) Through Diagnosis, Treatment and Beyond instead, and wound up reading it from cover to cover, highlighting some passages, and making notes in the margins.
It's dated, this book. Marc's wife, Marsha, was diagnosed in 2001, just before 9-11.
Some things have changed, treatment-wise, in the intervening 23 years, but enough remains pertinent to make this book so much more worthwhile a read for me than the saccharin Pink Ribbon Stories.
Breast Cancer Husband was intended for Lorne, and I may ask him to at least glance at my highlighted passages. I am the one, however, who has gotten so much from it. For sending it to my husband, I would like to thank the PA Breast Cancer Coalition.
Actually, I did thank them. I filled out and returned their questionnaire, thanking them for the care package in general, and in particular for remembering my poor husband.