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lemons, squeeze out a smile,” “Don’t wait for your ship to come in . . . swim out to meet it,” and much more of that ilk. Even in the relatively sophisticated Mamm , a columnist bemoaned not cancer or chemotherapy but the end of chemotherapy and humorously proposed to deal with her separation anxiety by pitching a tent outside her oncologist’s office. Positive thinking seems to be mandatory in the breast cancer world, to the point that unhappiness requires a kind of apology, as when “Lucy,” whose “long-term prognosis is not good,” started her personal narrative on [http://breastcancertalk.org] breastcancertalk.org by telling us that her story “is not the usual one, full of sweetness and hope, but true nevertheless.”

    Even the word “victim” is proscribed, leaving no single noun to describe a woman with breast cancer. As in the AIDS movement, upon which breast cancer activism is partly modeled, the words “patient” and “victim,” with their aura of self-pity and passivity, have been ruled un-P.C. Instead, we get verbs: those who are in the midst of their treatments are described as “battling” or “fighting,” sometimes intensified with “bravely” or “fiercely”—language suggestive of Katharine Hepburn with her face to the wind. Once the treatments are over, one achieves the status of “survivor,” which is how the women in my local support group identified themselves, A.A.-style, when we convened to share warstories and rejoice in our “survivorhood”: “Hi, I’m Kathy and I’m a three-year survivor.” My support group seemed supportive enough, but some women have reported being expelled by their groups when their cancers metastasized and it became clear they would never graduate to the rank of “survivor.” 2

    For those who cease to be survivors and join the more than forty thousand American women who succumb to breast cancer each year—again, no noun applies. They are said to have “lost their battle” and may be memorialized by photographs carried at races for the cure—our lost brave sisters, our fallen soldiers. But in the overwhelmingly positive culture that has grown up around breast cancer, martyrs count for little; it is the “survivors” who merit constant honor and acclaim. At a “Relay for Life” event in my town, sponsored by the American Cancer Society, the dead were present only in much diminished form. A series of paper bags, each about the right size for a junior burger and fries, lined the relay track. On them were the names of the dead, and inside each was a candle that was lit after dark, when the actual relay race began. The stars, though, were the runners, the “survivors,” who seemed to offer living proof the disease isn’t so bad after all.

    Embracing Cancer

    The cheerfulness of breast cancer culture goes beyond mere absence of anger to what looks, all too often, like a positive embrace of the disease. As “Mary” reports, on the Bosom Buds message board: “I really believe I am a much more sensitive and thoughtful person now. It might sound funny but I was a real worrier before. Now I don’t want to waste my energy on worrying. I enjoy life so much more now and in a lot of aspects I am much happier now.” Or this from “Andee”: “This was the hardest year of my life but also in many ways the most rewarding. I got rid of the baggage,made peace with my family, met many amazing people, learned to take very good care of my body so it will take care of me, and reprioritized my life.” Cindy Cherry, quoted in the Washington Post , goes further: “If I had to do it over, would I want breast cancer? Absolutely. I’m not the same person I was, and I’m glad I’m not. Money doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve met the most phenomenal people in my life through this. Your friends and family are what matter now.” 3

    The First Year of the Rest of Your Life , a collection of brief narratives with a foreword by Nancy Brinker and a share