Pink vs. Purple

Oh October.

You month of cooler weather and football.  You month of autumnal colors of yellows, oranges, reds, browns...pinks and purples.  Don't think those last two fit?  Think, "boobs" and "bruises".

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness (pink) month and Domestic Violence Awareness (purple) month.  

You kind of forgot about the purple, didn't you?  

Yep, October has been pink-washed.  There are ribbons everywhere, tshirts, NFL shoes and gloves, pink ribbon bagels, pink-outs at high school football and softball games, and special pink-labeled products for just about everything you can imagine.  It's everywhere...you can't escape the pink.

Purple...not so much.

Breast cancer is easy for most people to identify with.  Have a friend with breast cancer?  Hold her hand, drive her to chemo, bake her a chicken enchilada casserole after her surgery and joke with her about future cup size and crazy wig styles.

Have a friend whose significant other is beating her?  Not so easy.  Do you get involved?  Do you say something to the authorities?  Do you even fully believe her?

I don't want to be negative against the pinkified movement.  I have benefitted from the pink.  I received amazing care and support when I was diagnosed and many of those things were made possible by funds raised through "pink" merchandise (although, I would STRONGLY encourage everyone to know where their funds are going when they purchase their next bottle of 10W-30 or vibrator...um yeah, seriously).  One of the reasons I persevered through years of screenings and appointments was because of the media attention that the disease received and I knew I was in a high-risk category.  Given that my course of action is so fresh in my memory, there is a part of me that thinks about how my situation would be different if I was in an abusive situation.

Let's just work through that exercise.

As someone in a controlled relationship, I would not have been allowed to go see my doctor on a regular basis.  If I was allowed to see my doctor, my partner would have been with me every step of the process.  Not to offer support, but to make sure that nothing about the abusive relationship was revealed.  Those pesky medical professionals and their court-mandated reporting.  My personal health would not have been a priority.  I would have been focusing on my partner and doing anything possible to keep from being abused or having my child abused.  Maybe my partner would have allowed me to see a doctor or I would have been able to sneak into the office, but I wouldn't have been able to pay for the the copay or the deductible because he controlled all of our funds and any money that I needed to spend had to be itemized and accounted for...by him.  Maybe I would try and confide in a family member about my inkling that I might be having a health issue, but my partner would have spent the years eroding my relationship with my family and convincing me that they are part of the problem and that they don't understand our "love".  

It would have been a much different scenario.

Why go through that icky exercise?  One in four women will experience domestic violence.  Arkansas is routinely in the top ten for most violent states in the US.  Domestic Violence is still a HUGE issue.  It's not a cancer that can be cut out or zapped or poisoned.  It starts in a manipulative, seemingly loving manner and develops into something that kills and injures (physically, mentally, emotionally) too many women (I acknowledge that men are victims of domestic violence as well, but 85% of victims are women).

Thank you from the bottom of my heart (which is behind my fake boobs) for your enthusiasm about and devotion to breast cancer awareness.  Thank you for carb-loading in the name of my boobs and in memory of too many of my sweet family members and friends.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  

Now, let's turn that enthusiasm and devotion towards the issue of domestic violence awareness.  Let's talk about it openly and OFTEN.  Let's teach our young boys and girls about healthy relationships and treating EVERYONE with respect.  Let's be sensitive to situations in our workplace, church, book club, basketball team, etc.  Speak up when someone says something that is negative and demeaning.  Open your eyes and ears.  It's all around us...all the time.

Enjoy those fall colors....

#ebj35

I threw myself a birthday party.
It was awesome.

Starting last fall, I told myself that 35 was going to be the difficult year.  35 was the age my mother was when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.  35 was the age that I referenced over and over when discussing with doctors about my family history and risks.  35 was going to be a bitch to get through mentally.

35 is going to be a breeze.  
I welcome 35.
I embrace 35.
35 is the year that I will get this whole cancer thing behind me.

So, back to my party.  It was held at my new/old favorite bar, Maxine's.  The owners, Rebekah and Hannah, are formidable Downtown Fayetteville Mafia broads that I love.  They know how to throw a fun event and take care of the birthday girl.  Make sure you frequent their local businesses, Maxine's, Little Bread Company and Terra Tots.

Now that 35 has happened, it's time to work on my personal goals for the coming year.  Here is my list, in no particular order:
-  Learn how to back up a truck and trailer effectively, without taking out any other cars, kids, etc.
-  Become range certified and start teaching women's handgun classes.
-  Build my napping house.
-  Convert over to Wordpress (sooner rather than later)
-  Engage in more public speaking, maybe even an open-mic night (eek)
-  Try something that makes me uncomfortable...maybe pilot lessons or scuba diving...maybe coloring my hair.

It's going to be a good year.  Even if it isn't, it's going to be another year and I am thankful for that.

Fipples

"Oh no, I can't do that Wednesday.  I'm getting nipples that afternoon.  Can we schedule my hair appointment that next week?"

Ok, so not your typical rescheduling excuse, but it was mine.

Nipples are coming...or at least fipples (fake + nipples = fipples).

When it comes down to it, I guess I could forego the nipple reconstruction and just live happily ever after with my nice Barbie breasts with the scars across the front, but what is the fun in that?  If I'm going to be living with these fake knockers for the next sixty years, I should have some nipples or at least fipples.