Mom's hip nipples & breast cancer awareness (from '13)

(737 words)

Me and the girls were coming home from seeing Pittsburgh’s giant rubber duckie when Nana told us the story of her migrating nipples.

It was a very surreal day.

I had trouble believing something that consequential could move around so easily.

And I’m talking about her nipples, not the great big duck, which I understand can be moved with a tug boat and steel cables.

So many conversations with my dear mother -- she’ll be 81 in December -- are surreal these days. It’s a running soundtrack of our hour-long drives from her home in Pittsburgh’s South Hills to visit in our Latrobe home. 

I ought to podcast them.

I drive a 2007 Saturn Vue, but when she’s in the car it feels like we’re motoring down the Parkway East in that psychedelic boat the Gene Wilder character skippered in the first and still-superior Willie Wonka movie from 1971.

I have trouble separating hallucination from reality.

She has dementia, but it’s a sly sort. She’s at a stage where she’ll sometimes do and say things that will have you conclude, yep, she’s lost it. Then in the very next sentence she’ll make perfect sense.

The combination disorients and I find myself spending the next few days trying to reconstruct the bizarre conversations.

That’s why today, four days later, I can’t get her nipples off my mind.

Odd, because I swear I remember her telling me I was a bottle baby.

All the pink fountains are to blame. It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month and many of the city fountains are splashing pink. My car mate daughters, ages 13 and 7, thought that was very cool.

“Why are the fountains pink?” Mom asked.

I explained to her the symbolism. As she lost both her breasts to cancer in 1982, I thought it might be good for her granddaughters to hear about her experience.

Now I’m not so sure.

Because the thrust of Nana’s story didn’t deal with the gravity of this killer disease, prevention or how lifestyle choices can impact women’s health. It dealt instead with migratory nipples.

“I don’t remember the operation,” she said. “All I remember is looking down and seeing my nipples on my hips.”

The recollection enlivened Josie and Lucy.

“Your nipples were on your hips?” asked Josie.

She explained when the doctors told her they were removing her breasts, they said the could save the nipples by temporarily transplanting them to her hips where they’d be nurtured until they could be put back where they belonged.

I hadn’t heard this story. Or maybe I had. I was about 20 when it happened. I was very self-centered at the time and, I’m sure, pre-occupied with the quest for finding handy access to female nipples that weren’t attached to my mother.

Now, I wanted to know all about her hip nipples.

Where they comfortable? Did she have to be careful when she put her keys in her pockets? Could Dad have taken one -- or two -- for the team and had them put on him just below his own?

I looked into the rear view mirror and saw Lucy, the youngest, had zipped down her top and was looking back and forth on her chest like she was observing a volley at a tennis match.

“I remember a lot of discussion with the doctors,” she said. “They said we didn’t have to to save them, but most women did for cosmetic reasons. So when they removed my breasts they took the nipples off and sewed them into my hips.

“A few months later, after the reconstructive surgery, they put the nipples back where they belonged. I don’t think anyone’s seen them ever since.”

We spent much of the remainder of the drive discussing where else Nana’s nipples could have gone with, inevitably, our stupid dog playing a donor role.

It seemed to me like a lost opportunity.

I had hoped my Mom would explain the danger and difficulties associated with surviving breast cancer; that maybe the girls would glean some worldly sympathy for the sisterhood, something their mother and I strongly encourage.

And I was hoping this post would have some heartfelt gravity about how men can support the women in our lives and encourage them to fight this cruel disease.

Instead, in the end it’s just a little piece about nipple mobility.

I guess it’s something I just had to get off my chest.

Related . . .

Listening to classic rock with my senile Mom

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a nose

My gay friend John

Seeing red over NFL pink

A flamboyant shade is making an unwelcome intrusion amidst all the splendid fall foliage.

It’s pink and it’s everywhere. It’s on buildings, advertisements and all over every aspect of the televised extravaganzas that make up the manly broadcasts involving the NFL.

Has anyone else noticed this or am I the only one?

Of course you have and of course you know the reason why.

The panoply of pink is in support of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It is the third leading killer cancer (second is colorectal whose awareness month is March, by the way). The National Cancer Institute says about 40,000 women will die from breast cancer this year.

I remember being devastated 30 years ago when my Mom was diagnosed. It was a grim 18 months of fears, false hopes and tenuous success that cost her both her breasts. She’s been cancer-free ever since.

So please believe me when I say I adore breasts and the women who sport them.

What I despise is symbolism.

And the epidemic of pink infuriates me because it allows people who should be doing more to fool people into thinking they’re doing anything.

Of course, I’m thinking primarily of the craven greed maestros who run the NFL.

They dress their players, their coaches, their referees, their goal posts and every aspect of their telecasts in pink. There are pink towels, pink cleats, pink hats and pink jerseys you can purchase with the proper credit card at NFLSHOP.com

Understand, this isn’t about women’s health. This is purely about marketing.

This is part of the NFL scheme to feminize our most masculine game. They’re eager to to cultivate the nearly 50 percent of the population that doesn’t reflexively reach for the remote every Sunday at 1 p.m. Plus, every time they release a new jersey, they know many of their loyal fans will shell out money to buy the trendy new color schemes.

Not wishing to be so cynical, I thought it wise to do a little research before I began tossing around inflammatory accusations about such a sensitive topic.

And I found out I was wrong.

I’m not cynical enough.

See for yourself at www.nfl.com/pink. It has important health messages, but the quoted gist of the month-long program is: “To help support this important cause, purchase your NFL pink merchandise at NFLSHOP.com.”

It says nothing about “a portion of proceeds will go to benefit . . .” or if the NFL will match any donations.

No, the colossal organization that spent the summer childishly arguing about how to divvy up $9.3 billion in revenue wants you to write a check, but seems reluctant to write one of its own.

Rather than a month of garish gridiron pink, I’d prefer seeing Roger Goodell announce, “Today the NFL owners and players together presented the American Cancer Society with a check for $50 million. We are asking the companies that run beer, car and sneaker commercials during our broadcasts to do the same.”

I guess I’m just like Cosmo Kramer from “Seinfeld.” And, really, the parallels are many. We’re both terrific mooches, devote our days to harebrained schemes and skate through life without any visible means of support.

But I’m talking primarily about our refusal to wear the ribbon. It nearly cost Kramer his life in the 1995 episode “The Sponge.”

He generously devotes his morning to an AIDS walk, but begs off when he’s asked to wear the AIDS ribbon. Whether it’s for reasons of fashion or if, like me, he has a philosophical aversion to symbolic gestures, it doesn’t say.

All we see is that two militant gay men named Cedric and Bob attack Kramer for refusing to wear the ribbon.

At least I’m inferring they’re militant gays. That too is left unsaid. All we know is the men act like an affectionate couple, are ribbon bullies and in a previous episode showed an affinity for Elaine’s antique armoire.

And when they find out Kramer won’t wear the ribbon they go medieval on his ass.

I wouldn’t want that to happen to me. And I wouldn’t want to slight anyone who may be going through the very real tribulations of breast cancer.

I just want everyone to understand nothing’s really being done about breast cancer just because Steeler coach Mike Tomlin wears a ballcap with pink accents.

I’ll be more impressed when October is more about giving the green than wearing the pink.