I'm having very small, very mean thoughts right now. I'm not very proud of them.
Mostly, I want to know when National Carcinosarcoma of the Fallopian Tube Awareness Month is.
I tell you what, I'll settle for a week. OK, a day. At the very least, give me five minutes, just long enough to read this.
When my mother was diagnosed with Carcinosarcoma of the Fallopian Tube, we were told it was incredibly rare. We sort of thought that was fun, that if you had to have cancer, isn't it fun to not have a run-of-the-mill cancer. My mother liked to smile and say her cancer was as special as she was.
But the truth is, it was lonely dealing with a rare cancer. Very. There were no support groups for any fallopian cancers. There were no fundraisers. No special ribbons. No websites. No calls for clinical trials. Hell, there was no accepted protocol for treatment.
There was nothing beyond, "Huh. I never knew you could get cancer there."
And then she died, my fabulous, funny, smart as a whip mother.
Almost five years later now, the sudden saturation, seeing all this pink everywhere, being bombarded at the grocery, in the newspaper, on TV, on the internet, has me feeling very separate and and very small and like somehow the horrible thing that killed my mother isn't of interest to anyone else.
It's not that breast cancer hasn't touched my family. I've had two aunts battle breast cancers, one besting and one succumbing.
But if I had to pinpoint the cancer that has personally impacted my life the most, it would be my mother's, one so rare no ribbon color need ever be assigned to it, no foundation need ever be founded, no support groups need ever be formed.
In fact, the chance of Carcinosarcoma of the Fallopian Tube afflicting you or someone you love is so remote, you really need never give it a second thought.
But please do. Just for five minutes. For her. For me.