More punk, less pink, in Cancerland.

• Author: Clinton, Kate
• Position: UNPLUGGED - Cancer treatment - Column

The Farmer's Almanac predicts this winter will make last year's polar vortex look like a day at the beach. While global weirding can still force the poor crocuses up in November, here in the Northeast the fall colors have started to fade to winter's stark monochromatics.

The only surefire way to tell the real seasonal shift is when Starbucks changes from pumpkin-spiced lattes to holiday peppermint stick hot chocolate.

Midst the bronzed oaks and red maples, the leftover springy pastel pinks of October's annual Breast Cancer Awareness Month--on indicted football players'jerseys, on camo hunting jackets, on five-hour energy drinks, and on the back of the bus that just cut you off--are jarring.

(No one has written about the perky, pervasive, Pollyanna pink of breast cancer awareness better than Barbara Ehrenreich in her essay in The Guardian in 2010, "Smile! You've Got Cancer." I won't even try.)

After my partner's two-year battle with breast cancer, I am about as aware as a gal can get. The cancer was fast and aggressive--like her. From diagnosis to the disorienting "See you in three months!" send-off, it was a year and a half of mammograms, MRIs, zero to Stage 4 in fifteen minutes, appointments, waiting, second guessing, second opinions, waiting, mastectomies, recovery, chemotherapy, recovery, radiation, hospital time, and her darling bald head.

Oddly enough, when you are in the midst of breast cancer the last thing you really want is to be fully aware of what's happening.

That they have just removed your breasts and sent you home after a two-night stay.

That they are dripping cold red poison in your veins.

That they are radiating a "field" also known as your chest, tattooed with tiny black dots to help line up the zapper.

I believe that the body naturally seeks healing, so it's best to get out of the way. We found that a helpful out-of-body...