Project Pink

Ann’s Diary: The Truth About Hooters

ann — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 02:23:11 +0000

After a recent screening of my film The Breast Cancer Diaries at the Patrick Dempsey Center for Cancer Hope and Healing I came home to my husband, kissed my sleeping kids goodnight, put on some comfy clothes and turned on the TV. As I flipped through the copious cable stations the clicker fell upon a sports channel and–I kid you not–the Hooters International Best Breasts Beauty Contest.

Now for the record I have neither the best breasts nor the worst breasts because I lost them to breast cancer–so I have no breasts.

I also chose not to reconstruct them though I was young and had kids and a husband. I’m a worrier, and I knew I would worry about fake boobs. (And this was a personal decision so if you’ve had reconstruction, as my friends have done, I say more power to you.)

So there I was, jaw on the floor–the best breasts, are you kidding me? It was like the Miss America contest with no redeeming value (I suddenly had respect for the “what do you want to do to make the world a better place?” question. At least it tries to have depth.)

And before you worry that I am anti-breasts, let me assure you I am not; I had a pair and I miss them every day. But when they stood in the way of me and the rest of my hopefully long life I had to let them go. And I learned the hard way just exactly what breasts don’t mean.

They don’t mean that I am a woman. They don’t mean that I am beautiful. They don’t mean that I am better than everyone else because mine are bigger. They don’t mean that the right man will only love me if I have them. They don’t mean happiness. They don’t mean I am sexy. They don’t mean I am healthy. And they don’t mean I will live a long and successful life.

Of course having breasts is typical; not having them is not. And my husband has been an angel to deal with this difficult challenge in his marriage to me. But he loves me, so he’s doing it. Yet had “hooters” been as important to him as they were to the people on that TV screen I was watching, I would be divorced by now. And who wants that?

So I watched these beautiful young ladies with tops that jiggled on the contest stage, hoping their name would be called as Miss Best Hooters or whatever, and I thought–oh I hope you know. I hope you find out. That your breasts, as big and as beautiful as they may be, are not worthy of all this praise. They may take you some place tonight– for the short term–but in life, you are more than your boobs. So very much more.

I don’t care about the Hooters contest personally because I have the wisdom that cancer forced down my throat 6 years ago. But for those young ladies and those oogling them from chairs in the audience, and to all those with clickers in their hands watching from their televisions across the world, I am worried. Who will tell them? How will they know? As I clicked to another channel, I thought–I hope they find out the truth about Hooters.

Just not the way I did.

Project Pink | Help and Hope | No. 6

ann — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 01:28:25 +0000

Just say no.

There are times when whatever it is, it isn’t what you need right then Like when well meaning people want to come over and help when really all you want is just to be alone or be with someone else. Just say “no”. It’s awkward at first but you need to take care of you now–and that means being honest with yourself and with those who love you.

Ann’s Diary: Yellow Crayon

ann — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 01:56:03 +0000

I have been blonde all my life. I have endured the jokes and the
taunts readily, since they were always leveled by that old saying,
“Blondes Have More Fun”. Of course, I have no idea if blondes really
do have more fun, but who cares. When it comes to having yellow
hair, perception is reality; I’m blonde, therefore I have fun.

So it was with great distress that I, in my 40’s, watched as my preschool aged daughter, drawing a picture of me, drew my hair and reached for–the brown crayon.

I had been highlighting my head for years as the older I got the less blonde grew. Then all my hair fell out due to cancer treatments and when it came back it was darker than ever. I never thought of it as brown, though, more like “dishwater blonde” (find that in the crayon box)–but now Crayola had ruined everything I ever thought about my hair color.

With a 4 year old calling my hair brown–not blonde, not cream, not even the color of what pools in a broken dishwasher–I hightailed it to my stylist as fast a my head would go. When I came out of the salon my hair certainly looked brighter–not like it did when I was a kid but certainly lighter than before.

However, the next time my daughter made a picture of me I can’t say
she grabbed the yellow crayon, either. I can’t say that because she was
painting. And with her paints, she did take yellow, and spread the glowing
light over the line of my bald head. And I was happy. Until she dipped her paint brush into the color brown and mixed the two together. The result was clearly tan. Okay, so it’s not blonde, but it’s not brown either.

I just hope that “Tans Have More Fun”, too.

Project Pink Diary | Help and Hope | No. 5

ann — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 01:24:15 +0000

Do ask, do tell.

Ask for help if you need it, ask how to help if you can give it. I had a friend who wanted to do my laundry—and I didn’t like the idea of my soiled duds laid out in front of her. 4 weeks of chemo later, I was so tired I was happy to let her do my dirty work.

Ann’s Diary: 6 Years And Counting

ann — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 01:52:39 +0000

Six years ago this summer I was battling breast cancer. I try to
treat this season with a lot of respect. Not that I want to remember all
that hell– rather, I want to try to remember what I got from it. And what I got from it, besides hair loss, bad gums, and scars as long as my arms, is still to be determined. So far I can say that every day, really every moment I am alive, compounds on the one before and makes me truly grateful that I still get to be here. But still it’s easy to forget, even after an ordeal like breast cancer, how horrible it all was. I think it’s easy for anyone to forget their past battles of pain, whatever they may be, as they struggle to find their new place in the world. With cancer they call it your “new normal”. So far my new normal has a lot of patience in it. It steps up when I get mad at myself and begin really beating myself up–as only I can do– and says “hey, lady, would you rather be dead?” I know that sounds morbid, but honestly, a cancer diagnosis makes me go there. It makes me look at myself in a mirror–even years after that awful time–and wonder how long that reflection will still be here. So this season, and every season, I look at myself and thank my lucky stars that I found that lump. And I purposely march myself up to my reflection in any mirror I can find and say thank you that it still stares back at me–6 years later and counting.

Project Pink Diary | Help and Hope | No. 4

ann — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 01:23:29 +0000

All cancers are not made equal.

Some cancers are much easier to beat than others. Figure out what you’re up against and then beat it to the ground with education, medicine and hope. And remember what Maya Angelou says: ”I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.”

Project Pink | Help and Hope | No. 3

ann — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 18:42:06 +0000

Just Show Up.

If you have cancer, you can beat it. If you are the friend, you can help. You don’t have to perform, get it right, figure it out or know it all. Just show up for the fight.

Ann’s Diary: Cash For Cancer

ann — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 06:59:55 +0000

Did you hear about the woman who claimed to have cancer to make money? It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Here’s the link: Claiming Cancer, Committing a Crime.

If you get to the tail end of this article without exploding, you will read that her lawyer claims she has a mental disorder. I would think so. Anyone who uses cancer in order to make cash has a problem beyond what I can determine.

I promise not to go crazy on this person, after all, if she does have a mental problem then that’s awful. But mental or not, you can’t take one of the worse things that can happen to a life and twist it up and into your way of stealing other people’s money. Talk about taking the bang out of a donated buck.

So I hope all the people who gave her money can find some solace in the fact that I, a cancer survivor, thank them from the bottom of my heart for their compassion. And I ask them to hang in there for the rest of us real survivors, who leaned on other people’s time, cash and compassion during what was obviously the worst time of our lives. That kind of help and support made my pain a tiny bit more manageable, and six years later, I am still very, very grateful.

So I tip my hat to you and I am sorry you got mixed up in somebody’s alleged mental problem. The love you put behind those written checks or hard earned cash means something to me, who didn’t even receive them. You gave money to a fake cancer survivor and a real cancer survivor thanks you for it.

I hope that knowledge puts some of the bang back into your stolen buck.

Ann’s Diary: Life In Tattoos

ann — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 16:45:44 +0000

I have a friend who has 49 tattoos. They are beautifully displayed across her arms, back, backside, ankles and other places I haven’t asked about.

I am not a tattoo person–meaning I have never gone out and paid for a tattoo. But I have three. They are the pinpoint pricks the radiation oncology group had to put on my smooth white chest after my double mastectomy and chemotherapy treatments were over. They mapped out exactly where the radiation would hit in order to kill any residual breast cancer cells and in combination with my other treatments help to save my life.

That was 6 years ago, and I feel wonderful today, and I recently bumped into my friend with the tattoos. She told me she’d added 2 more to make it a grand total of 49. She pulled up her sleeve and showed me her very latest one–it was the saying ”Life Is Not Neat.”

I’d heard her mom say those words quite often during my childhood. She said it to remind herself and her children (and their friends) that our paths in this world can often be confusing and difficult but just as easily can be exciting and rewarding and full of adventure and growth. So when life isn’t neat, you have to sweep up as best you can (my friend’s tattoo comes complete with a broom) and get to the next thing life has in store.

I remember those words all the time in my life and it was somehow comforting to see that wisdom inked out on the arm of my dear old friend.

Then I pulled down my neckline and said with mock defense, “Well remember I have tattoos, too.” There revealed was one of my three blue spots and I told her, “the technician who put it on me said it’s the world from far away.”

But now I see my tattoos say the very same thing my old friend’s does–Life Is Not Neat. Stuff happens. Cancer happened–to me. And when the going got tough I had to grab my broom and start sweeping. I’m still sweeping today.

And so far I’ve found that if I sweep it up the right way, hold on tightly to my broom and keep up with people who make me smile, laugh, and hope–especially old friends with 49 tattoos, then life for this young breast cancer survivor, whether neat or not, is well worth it.

Project Pink | Help and Hope | No. 2

ann — Sun, 30 May 2010 16:42:49 +0000

Okay, Stop Panicking. Now that you’ve freaked out, reel it in enough to focus. All cancer diagnoses are different, so you have to find out what you’re up against and beat it to the ground. Deal with your diagnosis day by day with courage and strength and hope. Always hope.