I was drafted into a war I didn't want to fight.  I couldn't move to Canada to avoid it, and conscientious objecting was not an option. I unknowingly stumbled into the front lines as I received my draft notice: "Your test was positive" translated into "You have breast cancer, and it has spread." My mind further translated it into "You are going to die."

I dislike the symbol for breast cancer – the pastel pink ribbon.  My treatment for breast cancer temporarily robbed me of my outward signs of femininity. I lost all my hair.  My breast was markedly smaller and had ugly red and purple tracks on it.  Unusual complications from radiation turned the already assaulted breast into a swollen, deep red, leathery lump.  Chemotherapy caused my ovaries to wither, ensuring I would never again give birth. No, the symbol for breast cancer should be a black ribbon or, at the very least, a deep brown one.  There's nothing girlie about breast cancer.

I was told by my oncologist that if I live long enough,
complications from breast cancer will end my life. Of course, I may get lucky and be clobbered by a Mack truck or mugged or have a heart attack.  But my chances of "dying peacefully" in my sleep of "natural causes" are slim to none.

I don't like to read obituaries which state someone succumbed "after a long courageous battle with cancer." Who says they fought a courageous battle anyway? I want my obituary to read "passed away after a valiant battle with the laundry beast."

Personally, I am not fighting a battle with cancer, and I am not a survivor. Women are notably strong, but I believe it's unnatural and unhealthy to maintain a battle-ready state of mind.

Cancer is part of my daily existence.  Why should I engage my body in a battle with itself? Studies have shown that folks who picture battle themes such as shooting, bombing, and stabbing cancer cells have a shorter life expectancy than those who use less violent imagery.

Positive imagery is a wonderful concept where folks picture their cancer cells and then picture themselves eliminating them.  I envision my body as a plate and the cancer cells as leftover food on the plate.  I scrape what I can into the garbage.  Then I use hot water and detergent to thoroughly clean the plate.  I love the idea of throwing and washing away the cancer and seeing sparkling clean body cells.  It is satisfying and something I can relate to in my external existence.

The term `survivor' irritates me. There are concentration camp survivors who will never again be in a concentration camp.  There are earthquake survivors and rattlesnake bite survivors – even bear and shark attack survivors.  None of those folks ever have to go through their experience again.  Breast cancer doesn't go away forever for those whose cancer has spread.  We are not survivors. We are veterans on the front lines of death, ever vigilant for renewed enemy attack. But we don't have to live each day in a war zone.

Instead of battling breast cancer or calling myself a survivor, I have learned to love my body and its limitations. I have a renewed appreciation of the satisfaction possible in human relationships. Having breast cancer has transformed how I experience the smaller moments of my life -- the smell of dinner cooking is precious, and daily annoyances don't seem as irritating now.

Despite my aversions to wearing a pink ribbon or labeling myself as a survivor, I feel an inexplicable connection to my breast cancer sisters. There are as many ways to get through breast cancer as there are types of individuals.  Each of us faces our challenges in our own way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have plates to wash.