We’re closing in on the second pinkest month of the year: February. Yes, thanks to Valentine’s Day, next month will be saturated in pink and red, although thankfully, not pink ribbons. However, if you just can’t resist the urge to add a little cancer reminder to your Valentine’s Day, I’ve got a splendid gift idea for you.
I present for your consideration, The Pink Ribbon Snuggie.
I ask you, could there be a sexier Valentine’s Day gift?
And trendy, too, right? I mean, everyone’s wearing a Snuggie these days.
A lint roller, you may recall, was a very handy tool indeed for removing the painful little dead nubbins from my nearly bald noggin. How appropriate, then, that it come in pink ribbon flavor.
February is also the anniversary of my diagnosis, which was 3 years ago. To look at me you’d never know, unless you know. And therein lies the problem, because some people who know seem to have forgotten everything else they know about me. The Cancer, it seems, has overshadowed any previous identity I had. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, that is one of the most difficult things about having the daggone cancer! Seriously. Being bald was a pain, but it only lasted a few months. How many years will it take for people to stop associating me with The Cancer?
Just yesterday, I ran into someone, who has seen me, repeatedly, over the past 3 years. So she knows that I’ve been leading a normal life. After about 3 minutes of small talk, the party in question lowers her voice into that hushed, concerned tone that people always use when they ask, “So, how is your cancer doing? Is it still in remission?” I tried (in vain, I’m sure) to hide my irritation, as I assured her that I’m just jim dandy fine. “Well, I hadn’t heard anything, so I just wondered,” she said. “That’s because there isnt anything to tell,” I replied, again, trying to hide my irritation. Mini Me, who happened to be standing right there, just turned away to chuckle to herself.
First of all, let me just state for the record that I HATE it when people say “your cancer” like it’s a pet or a family member. How’s your grandma? How’s your kid? How’s your cancer? See what I mean? Second of all, do I ask you about your medical issues? “So, Opal, do you still have those hemorrhoids? I hadn’t heard anything, so I just wondered. You know, it’s funny, just the other day I was thinking of you, but I couldn’t remember your name, all I could remember was that you had hemorrhoids.” And thirdly, I’ve moved on and you should, too. For crying out loud! Really, you know what? I don’t even think about The Cancer at all until you ASK. Next time, let’s just have normal conversation, okay?
So, my dear readers, how do you think I should handle these folks? Respond, as Hubster suggested, with a vague and mysterious, “I don’t want to talk about it”? Put my fingers in my hears and sing, “La-la-la I can’t hear you?” Or is there a better option that I’m not thinking of?