The Inevitable Question

My oncologist’s nurse gave me the pin at my first appointment – a small pink ribbon, about an inch long. I did my best to avoid cringing, stuffed in into my purse and forgot about it. What was I supposed to do, wear it on my coat? In the middle of October, when the whole world was painted pink, I was already plenty aware, thanks very much. Wasn’t the fact that I would be bald in six weeks enough of a sign of my status? Did she really think I wanted to advertise it to the rest of the world?

Although I still don’t wear a Livestrong band on my wrist and the only pink items in my wardrobe are the free t-shirts from Race for the Cure, my visceral response to such things mellowed over time, as I got used to my diagnosis, progressed through treatment, and ultimately started being able to see that I might get through this alive. I also grew to understand the value of the awareness raising campaigns on a broad as well as a personal level, as even my hairstylist told me the other day that I inspired her to make an appointment for a mammogram. Nevertheless, the pink ribbon pin sat collecting dust in a tray on my dresser until a few weeks ago, when I decided to put it to use as an amulet.

There are many social activities for new mothers – lunches, lectures, playgroups – that one somehow becomes immediately aware of moments after the baby arrives. At any of these gatherings, talk tends to focus on sleeping and eating patterns. Just as college freshmen ask “what’s your major?” in their getting-to-know-you conversations, the new mother shibboleth is “are you breastfeeding?”

Enough of my friends had been through this initiation ritual that I knew what to expect, and dreaded it. I feared the judgment that I imagined I would see in people’s eyes when I bought formula, the comments strangers might make as I fed my baby a bottle in the park. Since there is nothing I could do about it, I avoided reading the over-the-top scare stories about how formula-fed babies are destined to be shorter, dumber, uglier and more ill-behaved than their breast-fed brethren, but I knew that once he arrived, I would have to face the music and confess to the self-righteous La Leche leaguers that I was a bad mother from the moment my baby arrived.

Short of tattooing “my mom is a breast cancer survivor” on Alex’s face, I couldn’t think of a way to preempt the comments. Until I remembered the pin. One night while drifting off to sleep, I decided that was the best way to stave off judgment and criticism and vowed to pin it on my diaper bag the next day.

Which I did, and which of course was completely misguided. Not because the pin is a little small to be noticed in a sea of stroller toys and diaper cloths (which it is), and not because everyone is too busy cooing at my baby to notice my diaper bag (which they are). Instead, it’s because I underestimated the tact of the people I would be meeting. Over the past few weeks, I have found the best response to the inevitable question to be a simple “No, I can’t.” Nobody has pressed for reasons why yet, but if they do, I am more than happy to tell them – not in the defensive “I can show you my mastectomy scars” way I rehearsed in my darkest imaginings, but in a way that I hope might be educational, or is at least polite.

Meanwhile, the pin remains, and with every smile Alex gives me, I am reminded that he is much more than what he eats.