The other day, I took my kids for something to eat after school. We went to Moe’s, a southwest grill, and just after we’d parked, four women exited the restaurant. They were dressed in bright pink medical scrubs, which prompted Joey to ask what he always asks when he notices an obvious display of pink: “Is that cancer?”
“Is what cancer?” I asked.
“Are they cancer?” he replied.
“No,” I told Joey and then explained that (1) people are not cancer and (2) the color pink doesn’t always mean cancer. I told him the women we saw probably just work for a doctor, or a dentist, or someone of a medical persuasion. They must just like the color pink, I told Joey. He was happy with that.
The color pink has some true staying power in Joey’s world. For him, cancer and pink go hand in hand. They do for me too. And I suspect that for both of us, because of our dance with breast cancer over the past three years, they always will.