Costco

i wrote a profile for english. this is it.

I walked in and was suffocated with the color pink. I’ve been to more than a few princess parties in my day, but those were merely practice sessions for what I was experiencing. Where I was right now, there were pink balloons hanging on to every chair and stair railing, a pink backdrop for pink-ified photos with friends, and on the table in the back was a mountain of cookies and sweets either bathed in pink food coloring or covered with pink sprinkles. It was almost all too much, all this pink. I’d read in the news that using the color pink was numbing society to the real problem. While sitting on the couch, I started to believe it, but then she walked in.

Rewind to six months ago, Friday, August 19, 2011, and you will find Desirae Ogden in her car in the parking lot of Costco. She had just returned from a rather successful grocery trip with her three young daughters. Earlier that morning, she dropped her only son off at junior high. Today was his very first day at Hillcrest Junior High School, and you could tell by the way he walked in to that building that he was ready for this. 

A few weeks earlier Desirae found a lump in one of her breasts and just assumed that it wasn’t a problem. Her family had a history of benign fibroids that simply needed minor surgery to remove. Thinking this was the case, she went to her doctor who ordered an ultrasound so they could see what was going on. The doctor also called for a mammogram just for precaution’s sake because Desirae was over 30. Everything looked fine, except for the nasty lump the size of a large pea. The doctor doing the ultrasound suggested that she have a biopsy so they could better see what that pesky lump was made of. She went in for the biopsy on Thursday and everything went well; she felt great, and was confident that the lump was truly just a fibroid. They said they would call Friday with the results.

Back in the Costco parking lot, Desirae packed the groceries and her girls in to her van when her phone rang. There was a Dr. O’Neill on the other end of the line with her test results. The doctor said, with a blank tone to her voice, “Well, Desirae, we got the results back from the biopsy and it looks as if there were some cancer cells that showed up. I am very sorry.” Desirae started the car, and instead of driving home, turns the opposite direction to her husband Mark’s work.

The next few weeks were a blur of waiting for tests, having various surgeries, and trying to keep life somewhat normal for her kids. In between hiking, dance, and ice skating were events with big words like gene testing (which came out negative), PET scan, and Port-A-Cath. It was determined that Desirae should start chemo on September 28, and that she did.

She walked in to the medical center with Mark, and was very quiet while they administered the “Red Devil” through the port-a-cath above her left collarbone. Today was her very first day of being a breast cancer survivor, and you could tell by the way she walked in to that building that she was ready for this. 

Life continued on as normal as possible for the next five months, except now with chemo treatments every 2-3 weeks. In October, her hair was gone; in November, her husband was called to be the bishop in their ward; in December, a birthday, a wedding anniversary, and Christmas; in January, hair started coming back in the form of peach fuzz; and on February 1^st, Desirae went in for her very last chemo treatment. 

That brings us to the pink that I was drowning in. It was called a “Pink Party” by some and a “Happy No More Chemo-day” by others. Either way, it smelled just as sweet. I went over at about 1:30 to help decorate, and even then, there was already so much pink. It was my job to add even more pink to the situation, so I did. Friends and family started trickling in around 2:30, and Desirae got back from chemotherapy at 2:45 and that’s when everything changed. The party went from 0-60 in about a half a second. Crying while laughing and laughing while crying became commonplace, and it wasn’t unusual to see someone covered head to toe in pink.

Perhaps using the color pink is a bit numbing for some, but for others it’s a way to unite. It’s a common ground that people can be on. In the war on breast cancer, it’s the battle cry for those fighting it, and their families. It lends its arm out to those in the deepest depths of doubt and pain and pulls them out with the love that can only come from those that have experienced the same trials. Sitting on Desirae’s couch, I knew that I was in the midst of a bona fide superwoman; and that from this day forward, pink was no longer just a color for me.

i'm not completely pleased with my conclusion, so if you have any suggestions on how to improve it, i would be more than appreciative. 

i love you, desirae.