2 year cancer-free mark, “that was really good. Why does she keep talking about being skinny?”
It’s a valid question. So I thought I’d explain.
Cancer is a disease that seems to scare the collective shit out of us all so badly that we are always looking for a way to explain why it exists, and then to say, see, that’s why I won’t ever have cancer. Breast cancer is even worse than other cancers in this regard. There’s the infamous “is it in your family?” question that people ask, since now everyone and her mother is “aware” of the BRCA gene, but no one seems clued in to the fact that only a tiny percentage of women with breast cancer of any age are actually BRCA positive. Besides that genetic factor, however, which is clearly not your fault, most of the other breast cancer risk factors we focus on have to do with things that are already sensitive subjects for women. Things like drinking, and diet, and exercise habits, and breast density.
Things like weight.
See, being overweight is one of the only known risk factors for breast cancer, along with a sedentary lifestyle (isn’t that a risk factor for most bad things?). I have to point out that almost all risk factors are determined for estrogen-positive breast cancer, and are studied primarily in post-menopausal women. Risk factors for triple negative breast cancer are mostly unknown, and researchers seem completely at a loss to explain risk factors in young women. But I digress.
Now, if one is overweight and becomes diagnosed with breast cancer, I’m not sure what one is supposed to do with that information. Hang her head in shame? Because, look, just about everyone in this country is overweight; we focus on this as a major public health issue all the time.
So most people are overweight. And yet, most people don’t get breast cancer.
And furthermore, only 5% of the 1 in 8 women who will have breast cancer in her lifetime are under age 40 at diagnosis. Only 2% are like me, and are diagnosed before age 35.
How many of us are overweight at diagnosis? Is weight even actually an issue for very young women with breast cancer? The answers aren’t clear.
And yet we have to constantly be told to watch what we eat, to try to be thin, to be active, or the presumption is that cancer will return and it will be our fault.
But what if we were already thin and active, and we got that shit anyway? It starts to get tiring.
I want people to get out of my size 26 pants and start thinking about how this focus actually makes breast cancer survivors FEEL.
It is a strange burden for someone like me, someone who has always been naturally small and then went through a period in her life, like many women, when I wasn’t small anymore. I gradually put on about 15 pounds over the 11 years I took birth control pills. When Gabe and I met, I was 27 years old, a healthy size 4, at 5’5” and about 125 pounds. Even then, I felt big to myself, having been tiny throughout my teens, graduating from high school at 5’4” and maybe 100 pounds.
Then, I got pregnant, gained about 40 pounds, and had one hell of a time losing that baby weight. I would nurse 8 times daily, work out 3 hours a day and eat small portions of healthy food and it didn’t make a difference. I never ovulated after Lenny’s birth, even though I was having regular periods starting about three months after I weaned her. I had my thyroid checked and it was borderline abnormal but not enough to warrant treatment. And I’m telling you, I just knew something wasn’t right. Well, now we know what it was—my hormones had blown up and I had the beginning glimmers of triple negative breast cancer. But of course, we didn’t know that then.
When I got pregnant with Augie, after taking clomid for one cycle, I weighed about 140 pounds and was a size 8. I felt enormous, though Gabe told me I looked amazing. The day before Augie was born I weighed 178 pounds—more than my husband. Then, I gave birth to that crazy kid, and everything changed.
Damn, did that little boy jumpstart my metabolism and bring me back to myself—my real self, the way I always was before medication and pregnancy. Within six months of his birth, I was down to what I had been when I got married. I just kept losing. I had a ton of energy and started having normal cycles when he was 3 months old even though I was exclusively nursing. When he was 11 months old and I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I weighed what I weigh now: 117 pounds. I was a size zero or a size two, as I am today.
I finally felt like myself again, and then this shit happened. And now every day I have to ask myself if I had breast cancer because it was hard for me to lose the baby weight, or because I gained weight from the pill. All the while, I know that it might be the other way around—cancer might have done a number on my hormones, making it hard to lose weight. Who knows? Wasn’t it bad enough to just have had those issues, without putting the guilt of cancer on top of it? And isn’t it bad enough that I was thin and healthy and feeling great, and then I found out I had cancer growing in my body for years, and now my thinness is considered some kind of requirement for making it to age 40 when other people have no such judgment on their frame? Isn’t it bad enough what breast cancer actually does to your body, and to your body image?
Isn’t cancer bad enough?
Here’s my gripe. We focus so much on women’s bodies and what they look like, how they are shaped, and it’s ridiculous.
I wish being small had saved me from having breast cancer. But it didn’t. I also don’t think that having extra post-baby weight for a few years gave me breast cancer. It just seems like people want to be able to look at you and know why something bad happened, and we focus on the size of breast cancer survivor’s bodies because we are collectively obsessed with focusing on women’s bodies in general.
I have heard so many ludicrous things about my body since this so-called journey began. Apparently, these 34bs are just an abomination of smallness in the breast lexicon, as mammography technicians, surgeons, nurses, and others remark about my “small breasts.” Before cancer, I never thought I had small breasts. Perky, yes, but you know, I thought they were nice. They seemed adequate. Boys and men seemed to like them pretty well. All of a sudden, they were problematic, annoying for mammograms, difficult for the purpose of lumpectomy, and full of that god-awful “dense breast tissue” that apparently is trying to kill us all.
I have heard that I didn’t burn badly from radiation because I don’t have body fat on my chest and therefore “there’s nothing too deep to burn—you know, it’s like deep-frying a turkey; the fat burns hottest.”
Wow, you really just said that to me.
I’ve been told that I won’t feel this injection or this 7 inch needle, but oh wait, yes you will, you’re thin, so it will hurt. I’ve been told I should get a port even though “it will look weird on you because it will stick up on your chestbones.”
“Your arms are thin but muscly so therefore your veins really roll, and it might be hard to get this IV in.”
Did you just blame your professional incompetence on my goddamn VEINS?
“Surgery will be easy on you! You’re skinny! We love skinny patients!”
We don’t love you back.
“You would have never felt that tumor if you had weighed even 10 pounds more.”
Thanks for scaring the shit out of me as I eat this piece of pizza.
“Wow you are in great shape! Keep it up! That’s the best defense against cancer.”
Well, it didn’t help me before.
You get what I’m saying. One of the most infuriating things about being a woman going through a difficult medical issue is how you are suddenly just DEFICIENT. Everything about me was suddenly wrong: my breasts, my veins, my everything. They gave me a chemo dose based on a 126 pound woman when I was lucky to weigh 113 going into treatment each time. It’s like they wished I was someone else, because then life would be easier for them. Do you think men have to listen to this shit? I’m sure men with testicular cancer are not subjected to tirades about their misshapen balls, chastised for having beer bellies or for having chicken legs, or told that their ventricular structure is just WRONG.
Here’s what I really want to get at—can we just stop? Stop talking to women about their body types all the time? I’ve been hearing this since I was a little girl: oh you’re skinny. Well, sue me. Now don’t I sound like a bitch saying that?
Yes, apparently I do. According to a recent article in Glamour magazine, women (more than men) are judged based on their body type for different personality traits by strangers. Heavier women are more likely to be considered lazy, on the one hand, and nice on the other. Thin women are seen as competitive and driven and also…bitchy.
I’ve heard that one before. Friends joke that they call me that skinny bitch. Girls in high school would say, hey you’re skinny…I hate you. People are always surprised when I am laid back. I work out a lot and people assume that’s because I’m vain, rather than that I’m just a hopeless insomniac or because I don’t want to die from recurrent breast cancer. Think about it. You look at someone and think it’s ok to call her a bitch, or say that you hate her? I know they are figures of speech, joking expressions. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me.
So, I talk about being skinny, even though I’m not actually skinny, because people talk at me about it all the time. Gabe said to me a few weeks ago, I just don’t get it. You’re not skinny. You have a soft belly and strong legs and arms and that bodacious booty! Why do people say that to you?
The sad thing was, his comment kind of hurt my feelings. And that fact highlights that there’s 36 years of reasons for me talking about this now.
When I was a tiny little kid, I found out I had epilepsy. The medication was really toxic and did a number on me. Eventually it made me gain weight, at the same time that it made me never want to eat. My parents worried that I had an eating disorder. In third grade, when I was no longer tiny but also not big at all, a boy asked me if I was pregnant. I was eight. And I still remember that.
When I was hit by a car in 4th grade, I was weighed in the emergency room as they medicated me and contemplated surgery that never took place. I secretly hoped to weigh 50 pounds because I thought that would be a nice round number. I was disappointed to only weigh 45. Upon telling this story years later, laughing at the fact that I was able to distract myself from my own potential death or paralysis by focusing on the scale, a friend told me “Damn Katy. There are healthy three year olds who weigh 45 pounds.”
In 9th grade, my English teacher berated me for my size all the time. Now, she was a heavy woman, and kids made fun of her for that, which was terrible. But I wasn’t like that—I never would have made fun of someone for being big—my mother raised me right. I didn’t like her much, because her class was boring and she was mean to me, but I never said a negative word to her or about her and I continued to get straight As. But really, who was this teacher to ask me if I was anorexic? To tell me I shouldn’t wear shorts because my legs were so skinny? To ask me if I ever ate? Me, that 14 year old who ate like a horse and was just getting used to the idea that girls did this thing called “dieting,” since no one did that in the neighborhood where I grew up, where I often heard such backhanded compliments as “well, you’re fine for a skinny white girl,” or “at least you’ve got a nice booty.”
For a. At least. What bullshit. What man has to listen to this crap? You can be as skinny as Mick Jagger, as big as Tony Soprano or as ripped as 50 Cent, and some women will still be throwing their panties at you trying to get next to you. Guys just work what they’ve got, buy clothes based on their actual body measurements, and focus on other things. And we let them. As a society, we give them permission to be themselves.
I mean, Gabe will talk about how he wishes he could get huge guns like some guys, he will glance a little wistfully at his own muscular arm, and then he will shrug and move on with his life. When we moms were relaxing on mother’s day after the breast cancer walk, we were talking at one point about legs, because I was hot and I needed to put some shorts on and other moms don’t like their legs and therefore don’t wear shorts. The guys were all at the park talking about the Avengers or something, and one of them kept stripping down out of the multiple layers of clothes he was wearing. I’m doubtful that the shape of legs, the relative hairiness thereof, or anything else related to any one of their bodies was on the agenda that day at the park.
We do this, because we are taught at very young ages to do this. I can’t stand having to listen to people comment on my daughter’s size. Yes, goddamn it, she’s little. So freaking what. SHE IS SIX YEARS OLD. Why are you looking at her body? “oh, she’s so tiny!” “She’s such a peanut!” “Do you feed her? “ (Yes, idiots have asked me if I fucking feed my daughter). “She’s so petite! The boys must love her!” What? Are you sick?
Not off the mark, though. Little boys have said they like Lenny because she’s cute and little. Dads have remarked about how thin she is, and said that it’s good she got my body type and not Gabe’s. Thanks for making me know that you have checked out both me AND my little kid.
We had to switch pediatricians because of Lenny’s small stature. He kept telling us she wasn’t big enough, she wasn’t heavy enough, and that we should feed her butter and whipped cream to fatten her up. Seriously—that was his medical advice. He made me feel like a bad mother. And other people made me feel that way too, as they glanced askance at my small baby and talked about how proud they were of their kid who was 90th percentile. What was that about? Were these moms implying that their baby could kick my baby’s ass? What is WRONG with people? Anyway, finally we changed doctors and he, being a very slight man himself, never seemed to take much notice. She sleeps all night? Is active? Smart? She’s fine. At one point he was worried because she only showed up as 2nd percentile on the weight scale.
“Look Doc, I’m second percentile too. Someone has to be second, or they wouldn’t be percentiles, would they?”
He laughed at that, and then helped me stop Augie from escaping the room in a mad flash.
And I thought to myself, second percentile. Yes, that’s true. And she can do cartwheels on the balance beam. She can do multiple pull-ups in a row. She can hang on a bar in the park forever, holding up her 34 pounds with those impressive little biceps. She’s not lacking in the brains department either. Hell, she’s arguably smarter than me. And her doctor. And lots of other people.
And of course, she is fine, but her size has its advantages and its disadvantages. It will be both easy and difficult to find clothes that fit. She will be noticed, for better or worse. She will be aware of herself when she shouldn’t have to be, because she will remember how everyone talked about her being little from the time she was born. For every nice, reasonable respectful boy who is attracted to her in part because of her petite size, there will be another who preys on her for the same reason.
I should know. Especially in high school, I knew that my petite frame was one aspect of my general attractiveness to boys. It also made me a target, as boys who liked to wield their comparative large size and strength over others chose me as easy pickins. This fact made me hyper aware of my surroundings at all times, and, I’ll admit, it made me mean. I learned how to fight. I got good at it, even as I knew I could never win these fights based on strength or size alone. One time, when I was a senior, I went to an informal dance at my high school. A boy who had preyed on me before picked me up, trapping my arms at my side over my head, like I was a rag doll. He was high on something, and he told me he was taking me into the boys’ bathroom. He must have remembered that other time he picked me up and started to molest me, when I punched him in the face and head with my hands until he let me go, more out of shock than pain. There was no way I could fight him with the way he was holding me. He was a football player, so much bigger and stronger than me. He told me there was nothing I could do about it. I looked around and realized that even though there were thousands of kids there, no one was going to help me. My friends couldn’t see me, other people weren’t paying attention, and his friends were in on the whole thing, I’m sure. I thought I was beat. I was terrified. Then I realized something. I was sober, and I was smarter than him. I had to have some kind of advantage. What was it? Oh…
So I straightened my arms into a diving pose, sucked in my breath, made myself smaller and narrower than I thought was possible, and slipped right out of his grasp. I landed on my hands and feet, and I ran.
I told someone this story years ago and she said, I guess the moral of the story is that it’s good to be strong, so girls should work on that, but it’s also just good to have your wits about you.
I said, the moral of the story is that boys and men shouldn’t be sexual predators. My size and strength have jack shit to do with anything.
So let’s just stop. Stop talking about who is skinny fat, whatever that is, who is strong, who is curvy, who is tall or short, who is lopsided.
Someone once asked, ain’t I a woman? And I say, yes, you are. If you have two x chromosomes, you are a woman, so stop trying so goddamn hard to prove it. Apple, pear, or hourglass shaped? Still a woman. 2nd percentile or 98th? Still a woman. Big floppy breasts, small perky breasts, mastectomy scars? Still a woman. Long flowing hair, short pixie cut, bald as the day you were born? Still a woman. Long legs? Stumpy legs? Big muscles? Pencil arms? Curves all over the place? No curves at all? Gay? Straight? Kids? No kids?
Still a woman.
Is your body functioning correctly? Than claim it, own it. Not everyone is so lucky.
Still a woman. A woman who had breast cancer, and had to hear about her body, her hair, and her face all the time when she was worried about her life. That's the skinny, folks.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Day 747: What's In a Word? The "Skinny" on Breast Cancer
Posted by Katy Jacob at 6:29 PM
Labels: adolescence, body image, BRCA, breast size, exercise, gender, identity, motherhood, pregnancy, risk factors, sexuality, triple negative, weight, weight loss
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
The whole thing is sort of mind-blowing and I feel like I have so many comments but I don't want to write a novel, either.ReplyDelete
My older son was in the (approximately) tenth percentile from the time he was born until he went through puberty, I think. As long as they are steadily growing (even if they are the same percentile), they're fine. I can't believe that a doctor today would tell you to help Lenny gain weight by feeding her that kind of stuff. Gah.
I am all for a world in which we don't focus on body issues. How do we make that happen?
Amazing post Katy. To me, the worst part of it all is how we women are so harsh to each other, drawing the wrong conclusions, and wasting time being jealous or judgmental instead of being supportive. We come in all shapes and sizes for all sorts of reasons. Why haven't we figured out that it's what's inside that matters?ReplyDelete
Do you know the saying "Shit happens"? There is a level on which "Cancer happens" - and it has nothing to do with who you are, what you look like, what your genes are like, or anything else. It just happens. Many cancers arise out of a mistake in cellular reproduction. In fact, a friend of mine, Dr. Claude Merrin, once Chief Of Oncology at Swedish Covenant Hospital, once told me that, "If you live long enough, you will get cancer". Many people, MOST people, die of something else, first. Heart attack. Auto accident. Something else. But the way our cells reproduce - the way DNA replication works - there WILL eventually be an error. An error that could lead to cancer. And someday, if you live long enough, it will.ReplyDelete
Unfortunately, for some people, "the day" comes sooner than others.
I just thought that maybe you should know that.
Oh, how I was teased for being skinny. And, oh, how I HATED that word. The worst was when they called me "Olive Oyl" and when they wrote it my yearbook. MY yearbook! I know no one wants to hear the skinny girl complain about it. But, like everything else in life, it did/does have its downsides. Maybe not as many downsides as being overweight, but still.ReplyDelete
Wow, just wow. Thank you, your words are a combo ass-kicking and full body hug that takes your breath away.ReplyDelete
Found my way here from Roots of She. My gratitude for your honest authentic story.