My mom is a super mom. "Super Mom," sure, why not. She is also a breast cancer survivor (type III). Come Mother's Day, I'm really glad to have her around--believe me.
But here's the thing: I'm not interested in businesses who try to get me to buy pink ribbon gifts for my mom--not for this occasion. Does she need to be reminded with a pink pin, or a wreath with pink breast cancer ribbons next to the pink roses, that she once had breast cancer? No. If she wants to remember that, all she has to do is look down at her right chest wall--and see the absence of a breast. All she has to do is try to raise her right arm over her head--but she can't because of the operations to dissect her lymph nodes. All she has to do is look down and realize she has a mosquito bite she can't feel--because chemotherapy left her with sensory nerve damage. All she has to do is look at family pictures where there's a white ghost standing--or rather, sitting--who looks only a little like my mom: puffy, tired, with a soft hat covering her hairless head, and with--somehow--that beautiful smile we all grew up with.
I love my mom, and I'm proud of her. She--and chemotherapy--kicked that cancer and it's been seven, going on eight years since then. She's changed her diet for the better (and it was never bad); she takes more time to do things she enjoys; she gets invited to women's groups and speaks about cancer prevention. She talks to my sister and me about what it was like, about my dad, who was the surgeon and did her biopsy and her mastectomy--she wouldn't have anyone else. My mom had her disease, we've faced it, we talk about it, but she's back to being a mom.
Come Mother's Day, the most important thing to me is that she is my mom, and she is a really good one. And so I say to the store owner I passed today who has a great display of pink ribbon paraphenalia with a big sign that says "Tell your mom how much she means to you"--right, then, I'll do that. But you're about five months off--Breast Cancer Month is in October. And in spite of her newfound healthfulness, I know she'd like a box of Leonidas--white chocolate with hazelnut. When October rolls around, then I'll put on a pink ribbon for her--and my grandmother--and everyone touched by the disease. But not now. This is Mom Month.