Protection

I was thinking tonight, about how we as patients, as warriors, as fighters of this Cancer epidemic, we strive not just to care for ourselves, but to protect the people that love us.

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Kris asked me this week if she could see this blog.  In case you don't know our background (and odds are you don't), Kris is my Godmother.  Like... at my baptism, "will you support this child" godmother.  I am lucky- she takes her title more seriously than anyone I've ever met. 

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When my adopted mom passed away suddenly in 2004, we were living up in Oregon, kind of in the middle of nowhere.  I was working a just-barely-above minimum wage, dead end job, and drowning in my anxiety and depression and issues. 

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Kris and I talked all the time on the computer.  We'd gotten really close and she immediately offered me a place to live here in Texas.  I said no.  I said no for 2 years, determined to make it on my own.  But after a very serious suicide scare (mine, not hers) it became clear that staying alone and isolated in Oregon wasn't the right decision for me. 

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Initially I was going to move to Jersey- my amom's brother and his family were there and it seemed like a good place for a fresh start- completely fresh.  So, I packed up a giant van purchased last minute, called my best friend to come up and do part of the drive with me, and mapped a trip that took me through California to see my dad (with a stopover at Pride in San Fran), then through Texas to see Kris, and my birth family (whom I'd connected after my amom's passing- which is a whole 'nother story!), through Florida to see my other best friend, through South Carolina to see her family, and then... to Jersey to start over.

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But when I got here, I kind of... stuck.  After 2 weeks I decided to see if I could find a job.  I stayed with the Bio Fam, and over the course of a year, I went from retail supervisor, to potential management position, finally to an office job, and then another, and another.  I started to feel stable, to consider looking for an apartment. 

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And the job dried up.  Not slowly but suddenly- gone.  Unemployed again.  I couldn't go home and tell my family I'd failed again.  The day I left that job, I stopped at Kris' before going home and sat on her couch- in tears.  And as she had for 3 years at that point, she offered me a place to be.  A home.  Not just.. to stay until I was on my feet, but just to stay.

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In a lot of ways she's been the kind of mother my amom could never be.  Not because she didn't love me, or want me, or try her best.  But because she had limitations emotionally that Kris doesn't have.  Kris is my caretaker in every sense of the word these days.  Financially, emotionally, physically.  She is the one who fills in the little bills that I can't pay right now.  She is the shoulder that I cry on, the arm that holds me when my feet go numb in the middle of the arboretum, she is the one that looks out for me on a daily basis. 

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And even as she takes care of me, there is a big part of my emotional process that tries to protect her.  The thoughts and feelings that I put in this space are often the most raw that I deal with.  They are often the fears and pains and processes that I don't share with the people who really know and love me. I don't share them because I don't want them to necessarily see all of that roughness.  It's hard enough for ME to process, to deal with as it happens.  But it's not necessary that they feel those pains too- my loved ones have enough hurt of their own in all of this.

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When Kris asked to see this blog, I hesitated.  I explained that these were the thoughts and pains and fears that I didn't necessarily always share with her.  Which of course led to the inevitable: "but you can, you know."

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And that's what it kind of boils down to you know?  This disease, fighting this disease, is ... disturbing sometimes.  It's embarrassing, it's painful.  Sometimes it feels like the treatment is worse than the Cancer.  And family, close friends- they see a lot of it.  They hurt through a lot of it.  But there are some pains, and some fears, and some anxities that are too deep to inflict on the people that love us most.

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And maybe that's why we don't riase a bigger fuss about pinkwashing.  Maybe that's why we allow this... prettying up of Cancer.  Not because it's right, or honest- but because in it's own way- it's kind.

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I still think that we owe future patients more honesty, more realism- better preparation for what Cancer, and Cancer fighting really IS.  Not to scare them- but to prepare them.

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But maybe pinkwashing isn't about US.  Maybe pinkwashing is about the people that stand by our sides.  At least, maybe it is now.  Maybe it's about realizing that some hurts, and some fears can be protected.  And knowing that while we can't necessarily protect ourselves- we can protect the people who walk with us, at least a little.

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So until the article comes out and this site becomes public to friends and family who read it- I leave it public in the web, but relatively unseen to friends and family.  Because with this disease, with this treatment, there is so much that we can't control.

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But maybe, at least for a little while, I can control how deep those around me are hurt.  Maybe I can protect them, at least a little.  Maybe I can pinkwash the process for their sakes.  Because maybe some burdens are just too big to ask other people to carry.