O.k. it’s official. I don’t do sick well. My fever has receded from 101 to 100 and my chest is still croupy but not nearly as pressuretasticly awful as yesterday. Yes, kid sick and almost talking to house plants. What a combination.
But I don’t have a choice. It has not even been a month since I finished seven straight weeks of radiation post-surgery, so my body has been on a death march, pardon the pun. My immune system needs a vacation, only the real world intrudes – people with colds hacking away in public, work, life stress, etc, etc.
This virus has to run its course and I have to make myself rest. I slept most of this morning. The past few nights insomnia has been my buddy because even propped up I have been so congested and croupy that I truly haven’t had any uninterrupted sleep, or truthfully much sleep at all. And of course that combines with my worrying about making up time since I do not get vacation or sick days with my job. So literally, any time I take has to be made up. But I have now learned the hard way now to take care of my health first. I have also learned the hard way I could not just go back to normal anything after radiation – I am paying the price for not taking more time for myself to recover.
I was reading a breast cancer blog today of a woman I connected with in New England because of this blog, her blog, and breast cancer. She did the full chemo tour and is now doing radiation. I think she is a terrific writer and very honest (and funny as hell). The blog is tastethefireforyourself/in the mercy seat . Today she was talking about her radiation and her hair starting to grow back and she touched on something else I totally concur with – as she describes it:
If I can just survive ‘Breast Cancer Awareness’ month without strangling someone with a pink ribbon, we’ll all be happy
Oh yes, I get that sentiment. Rah-rah-rah pink plastic crap seems to be staring at me from every ad in magazines and on T.V. And a lot of it just bothers me. And it’s not because I haven’t acknowledged I had breast cancer and am now in the breast cancer survivor category. It’s because of all the pink crap everyone wants us to buy this month. And the monster charities like Susan G. Komen irritate me the most. They seem to want to bathe the world in pink coated crap from plastic rubber bracelets to pink pies. Even Playboy enterprises are getting in on the dealio according to the Sacramento Bee – after all we can’t have one breasted Playmates can we? If Playboy really wanted to support women and breast cancer then they should do a pictorial on breast cancer survivors – there are women out there who have been photographed during all stages of treatment. Help with the whole femininity issues which are very real to any woman who has been treated for breast cancer. What the heck do women like us have in common with silicon endowed air-brushed surgically enhanced centerfold models and Playmates? That is not our reality. That is fantasy. Once you have had breast cancer those centerfold gals seem even sillier then they did before we were all sliced and diced.
And again as my fellow bc blogger dropjohn puts it – having breast cancer is not an instant sisterhood with every woman on the planet. (Read her post The Sisterhood of the Travelling Tumor?) We all have an appreciation of what the other has gone through, but the reality is all of our cancers are different. So some of this constant breast cancer awareness month stuff is a bit much to handle.
Ok, ok I get it – my approach might be a bit hard for some women to handle but I also know we aren’t alone in this wishing-it-was-a-little-less-pink-overdose. Education, awareness, proactive breast health education, research, a cure…all important. But not all of us are so into the color pink. Some days it’s a little like that terrorist threat alert color level system – only this month we’re ALL pink.
Sorry, I am the virus version of Ms. Cranky Pants today – just not feeling in the pink and have almost talked to house plants I am so tired of feeling crappy.
Unfortunately, my pillow is once again calling my name.
Pink out. (sorry, couldn’t resist)