It’s officially October. Which means it’s officially National Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Now, I have a confession to make. This is the first time that I have really acknowledged NBCAM. This is not because I am heartless, or soulless, or even oblivious.

It’s because breast cancer is a very painful subject for me. I freely admit that I have horrible (read: non-existent) coping skills, and the way I deal with painful subjects is not to think about them.

However, this is one of those Important Things. So I am going to suck it up, and I am going to share with you WHY you will see multiple posts about boobies and the C word this coming month.

Once upon a time, there was a lady. And this lady, Mrs. Berth, was my mom’s BFF, only not in a cheesy Jr. High way, but in the they-shared-a-brain-and-were-joined-at-the-hip-and-spent-two-hours-on-the-phone-EVERY-DAY way. She had a daughter that was a year or so older than me, and we hit it off. And our two families became more like one really (really) big family.

And there are strange stories. Like the day it was “Chicken Butchering Day” and the toenails on the “removed” chicken legs were painted bright red. Or was it sparkly blue? I don’t remember. The point was the hilarity and oddness that followed this woman around….everyone should have someone like that in their life.

And she went on to have two sons, and those two sons were like brothers, because of that one-big-family thing. They’re older now, and probably wouldn’t appreciate my telling the internet that I used to change their diapers. But I SOOO did.

It was like having a second mom. Except that this was the mom that I could tell things too without worrying (too much) about being grounded later on. And who could talk to me about things that were weird to talk about with my own mom out(like sex, and boobs and such) And I got some really good advice from her. I didn’t listen to all of it, but that’s a different story.

Then the dreaded C word entered the picture. And it was awful. BUT we thought that it had been vanquished. Beaten down. She had been through the whole nine yards, chemo, surgery and radiation, and had survived!

In February of 2003, we found out we were wrong. It wasn’t defeated. It came back, and it came back PISSED. And it took her from us, in a matter of weeks.

And for quite a few years now, I’ve ignored it. Mostly. When I wasn’t pissed at the universe in general because she wasn’t here for things that I really wish she could be. My wedding. The birth of my children. When I decided to stop being stupid and go back to school. I really wish she could meet the kids.
It honestly was and is, for me, as thought I lost a parent.

But ignoring, and walling it off was easier than grieving and coping with it. But I’ve decided that this is wrong. (Yes, it took over half a decade to get there….sometimes I’m stubborn) I’m fairly certain that “festering wound” would not be how she would want me to deal with this. So instead, I’m going to get pro-active. Because I honestly don’t want to see anyone else deal with this. Ever.

I realize that’s not a realistic goal, but I am going to aim high.

And I’m going to make sure *you* (and everyone else in range) know how important it is to play with your boobs, and have them professionally squished yearly once you hit the magic age (50, fyi)

And this is why you will see the words boobs, breasts, honkers, the girls, tatas, et al repeatedly this month. And since a month is a really long time, and I have attention issues, you will see posts on other aspects of women’s health. So I guess you could more aptly say that it is, “Take Care of Your Girly Parts” month around here.

And I am so dedicating it Mary Jane

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