Out of the entire month of Breast cancer awareness, those of us who are Stage IV get one day. ONE.FREAKING.DAY.
Someone was having a laugh at our expense when we were assigned the 13th day of the month. Most people are so superstitious about the 13th that most buildings don’t have a 13th floor. And don’t get me started on all the superstitions that surround Friday the 13th.
In my darker moments, I wonder if this assignment was on purpose, to further stigmatize those of us who are the elephants in the room. No one wants to be like us, dying. No one wants to bear the side effucks and the constant surveillance and constant medication regimens, not to mention having a front row seat to our friends dying, daily, while dealing with survivor’s guilt and the knowledge that there, but for the grace of God, go I.
The narrative needs to shift, we need to push the needle … or whatever euphemism you prefer. Metastatic breast cancer, stage IV, is the only stage that murders each person who receives the diagnosis. It is 100% fatal.
We are literally #dyingforacure.