Pink Has Never Been My Color
I've never been a big pink person.
Never have been.
Never will.
My sister Donna, on the other hand? She's convinced the world would be a better place if everything came in shades of Pepto-Bismol. Pink shoes. Pink pants. Pink coats. Pink scrunchies. If it exists, she's probably owned it in pink.
A Wedding Drenched in Pink
When I attended my beautiful niece's wedding, I had already been diagnosed with breast cancer.
No one looking at me would have known what was swirling around in my head. I was there to celebrate, to laugh, and to soak in every beautiful moment. And it truly was beautiful.
It was also...
PINK.
Pink flowers.
Pink bridesmaids.
Pink dresses.
Pink centerpieces.
Pink napkins.
Even a pink dance floor.
Pink everywhere.
You couldn't escape it if you tried.
I remember looking around and thinking there wasn't much of the venue that hadn't been touched by pink. Looking back, I can't help but laugh.
Was this really what my world was going to look like now?
Apparently... yes.
Fifty Shades of Pink Club
My first appointment with the surgical oncologist only confirmed my suspicions. Chemo and surgery were in my near future. And, apparently pink.
I walked into an exam room with a pink exam chair, a pink exam table, and enough pink posters to make Barbie feel jealous. If you've ever wanted to know everything there is to know about breast cancer, don't bother Googling it. Just ask to hang out in "pink" exam room #6.
I thought, "Well... that's a lot of pink."
Oh, sweet Elizabeth.
This was just the appetizer.
Next came the consultation room.
More pink.
More pink brochures.
More pink educational handouts.
Pink business cards.
Pink ribbons.
And then there was the windowsill.
Sitting there like little knitted soldiers were handmade pink chemo hats, neatly lined up and waiting for someone to give them a home.
Did I take one?
No.
Will I eventually?
Maybe.
But in that moment, taking one somehow felt like admitting I belonged in this club—a club that, if we're being honest, no one ever asks to join.
Learning a New Language
Cancer has a funny way of changing the way your brain works.
One minute you're sitting in your office worrying about work deadlines or wondering what's for dinner. The next you're learning a whole new vocabulary—lumpectomy, pathology, HER2, estrogen receptors, lymph nodes, ports—and trying to remember what the doctor said five minutes ago because your brain checked out somewhere around the word "malignant."
It's overwhelming.
It's exhausting.
It's scary.
And sometimes...
It's so unbelievably absurd that all you can do is laugh.
Why I Choose Humor
I've always thought I was funny.
I've always believed humor has a purpose.
Not because it minimizes what we're facing.
It doesn't.
Cancer is hard.
Fear is real.
The uncertainty is relentless.
But humor has this incredible ability to loosen fear's grip, even if it's only for a few moments. It reminds us we're still ourselves. It gives us permission to breathe. To smile. To remember life isn't over just because life has changed.
Research tells us laughter actually lowers stress hormones, releases endorphins, eases anxiety, and helps us cope with difficult situations. While it won't cure cancer, it can certainly help heal our spirits. Sometimes the best medicine isn't found in a bottle—it's found in a really good laugh with people you love.
Joy and Grief Can Coexist
I've learned that joy and grief can exist in the very same moment.
You can be terrified of your next scan and laugh until you cry over something completely ridiculous.
You can mourn what you've lost while still celebrating a wedding.
You can cry in the morning and laugh by dinner.
One emotion doesn't cancel out the other.
They simply learn to coexist.
So yes, I'll probably continue making jokes.
I'll probably continue rolling my eyes every time someone hands me something pink.
And I'll definitely continue finding reasons to laugh because, for me, laughter is one of the ways I'm choosing to fight.
Breast cancer may be part of my story.
But it doesn't get to write the whole book.
One Last Question...
Now...
I do have one very important question.
Does anyone know if the Fourth of July parade is looking for someone to ride a giant pink boob?
Because if my destiny is going to be wrapped in pink, I might as well embrace it, wave to the crowd, and make a few people laugh along the way.
After all...
If I'm going to have breast cancer, I'm pretty sure breast cancer isn't going to have me ... with or without pink.
In the Spirit of Health & Wellness,
Elizabeth
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