The Uses of Pink
The first teaching day (after diagnosis
it seems my life now is divided into b.d. and a.d.)
I wore a flowered bra and matching undies,
the most feminine ones I owned. Not for
the students, certainly, who would never see them,
not even for my partner. I layered a white cotton tank,
a pink cashmere cardigan found at the thrift store
a week before, grey corduroys worn with embroidered
flower socks beneath. Pink jewelry too, the most
delicate I owned, blown glass beads and gold thread,
made in Vermont by a local artisan, from the first
teaching job I had post-doctorate (thats another
division in my life, I suppose b.d. and a.d.).
Frankly, the whole thing was the most feminine
outfit I could possibly put together, out of a wardrobe
that in winter tends more towards steely grey and
blustery blue. This is why the damned ribbons
are pink, I think. This rotten, rotting cancer strikes
at the beating heart of breasts I may have cursed
for their intransigence, their unwillingness to fit
into bras or shapely dresses. A female thing,
and even though I have, more than once, when
contemplating sports, or even a run, wanted
to simply lop them off and be done with them,
I find myself oddly protective now.
They fed two children, these breasts. Poorly, granted
we never quite managed to make nursing work,
resorted to the double-pump, the doubled hours
of pumping and feeding. But perhaps some small
immunity was lent as a result; we can hope. They
have offered a great deal of pleasure in their day,
for all their unwieldy inconveniences. Now,
I am protective, defiant, angry on their behalf.
They worked so hard. Shall I abandon them?
I have been admiring and liking the poetry and prose you have been writing about your diagnosis and treatment, and this stands out even further. Thank you for writing and publishing this.