Colonel Chicken Cares about Your Breasts but not Your Life

More pink madness. More marketing fear.

Does the American Cancer Society care about heart disease? Does the Heart Association care about diabetes? Does Liver care about Lung? Does Chrohn’s and Colitis care about strokes? Does anyone care about all of you?

Our health care, health research and health education have become so fragmented because of marketing—and money—that it seems as if no one cares if you live or die they just want the organs they care about to survive. You can go ahead and die, they seem to say, as long as you don’t die of OUR disease.

A current ad campaign by Kentucky Fried Chicken is pitching a special promotion for fried chicken and The Susan B. Komen Foundation. You can now buy a big pink bucket (a bucket!) of fried chicken for the woman in your life and 50 cents from each big pink bucket of FRIED chicken will go to breast cancer research.

This makes me crazy! Does anyone want breast cancer? Nope. Do we want to prevent deaths from breast cancer? Yep. But this fried chicken campaign begs me to ask The Colonel—and Susan B. Komen: Do you really care about women’s lives and their health or only about breasts (both women and chicken)?

Here’s a fast bit of women’s health research: More women—more by far—die of heart disease than breast cancer. More women will die of cardiac related disease than breast or any other cancer. So if you really want to promote women’s health do you want to encourage us to eat buckets of FRIED chicken? (We know that you think we are babies—all that pink crap we have to endure, but you also think we’re stupid and can’t Google the words: breast cancer versus heart disease.)

What’s next? How about some pink Marlboro smokes? Pink Absolut vodka shots? A gallon of pink Hagen Das Ice cream and pink Wise potato chips consumed on a big pink couch in front of a pink TV?

Come on Susan B. Komen, get some balls—or are you leaving that to The Lance Armstrong Foundation? Will one of these health charities have the courage and integrity to care about the whole woman? To say to women—and the market-:A whole woman has boobs and brains and a heart and lungs and we need to take care of all of it for good health and a good life.

Breast Bumps

When I was a girl my mother would say to be very careful with your breasts. Don’t let them get bumped and later I wondered if that also included letting a boy squeeze them too hard. Even later I’d laugh at the idea that bumping or man-handling could hurt a breast or cause the dreaded—cancer. So unscientific, so old-fashioned.

Yesterday in the New York Times, and excerpted in many papers, the new-old research that an outside agent—bruise, wound or injury—may be the necessary catalyst for a dormant cancer cell to begin its changes. Cancer needs two factors: to exist in a dormant state and to have a trigger. An injury can be that trigger. Also explains –in a very crude way—why it happens that someone feels perfectly fine, undergoes surgery and then rapidly dies of cancer. Surgery may be a trigger wound.

Now isn’t that a scary dish to set before Cancer Land?

Breasts

Straight men really like them. Gay men too, probably, having been mothered by women who have them. Even with all the supposed openness and dialog about sexuality I think most women don’t really get the breast thing for men. We get it on an intuitive level and maybe that’s what the Pink Terror is about; why breast cancer is the scariest even though it’s not the one that kills most women. It’s about loss of power. Since the sixth grade when boys looked for the telltale bra straps and somehow just that was enough to rock them rock hard. What we have done though in our political correctness is silence men on their fear of a woman losing her breasts. Men are supposed to say, “Oh honey it doesn’t matter; that’s not why I love you; I’ll love you with or without your breasts.” But inside they are screaming, “Fuck no, I want my breasts.” (Because they do think they are theirs.) For all our talking about this we still don’t get it. Men go to bars where women don’t wear shirts. They look at magazines and have perfected ways to sneak a sidelong glance at the slightest curve of breast tissue. We laugh at that but there is more to this than the supposed adolescent behavior. It’s primal, primordial maybe, but it’s real.

Mammogram

This morning I went for my annual mammogram. It’s never been an issue. No history of breast cancer in my family and no “breast problems” as they delicately ask at “The Breast Center”. (How come no “Colon Center” with special snacks and pretty changing rooms?) My only breast problem over the years has been finding the right bra—too small for most really sexy push-ups but just a tad too much for going braless.

But since last night when I put the reminder and the mammo script on my calendar for the morning, I began to imagine, What if they say, “Please wait for the doctor”? What if they say, “You need to come back?” Over coffee and in the car I tortured myself with trying to imagine what I would do. Would I tell anyone? Talk to my therapist first? If I had cancer what would that mean to John? To lose the breasts he is so crazy about? Would I do chemo? How in the world could we both have cancer at the same time? Who would take care of me? What would become of us?

Before John's colon cancer diagnosis a mamogram was just a chore, something to put off or take care of. Before the day of his colonoscopy I was aware of illness and death--my family has died--but I never had to hear, "You have cancer." Now I know how ordinary those days can be and how your life --and the lives of those who love you --can change in a few words.

It didn’t help that in the waiting room of The Breast Center there were men waiting. They were accompanying their partners who did have “breast problems”. The long wait, surrounded by pink everything (Yes, fear that I will be punished for my arrogance was a possibility too), didn’t help. Finally into the room and push and pull and smoosh and tear—small breasts just don’t fit the machine-- my neck stretching to get enough chest tissue onto the plate. “Hold your breath” the technician says—as if I had even been able to take a full breath since leaving the house.