Ribbons (#136)
I don’t know what colour I’d give that ribbon of memory, but it's one of my favourite colours.
We all stared incredulously at the minivan: Me, in my early 20s; three first cousins (once removed), in their 40s; a family friend, in their 50s, and my great-uncle, in his 60s.
We stared at the busted Dodge Caravan - that pinnacle of grocery-getting performance - in the vain hopes that staring at the vehicle would somehow will more fuel into the bone-dry tank.
Of course, this does not work. And of course, we were at the bottom of a hill - a highway off-ramp, to be precise, with a gas station mocking us in the distance, over two miles away.
What to do? We had just finished a trip up Sulphur Mountain in Banff; some hiking, others riding the gondola, but all of us exhausted. Yet, no one is stopping to help. It doesn’t seem worth a call to a tow truck, given how close the gas station was. And it would take far more time to nominate one of us (me) to walk for gas. At least, this is the rationale that I superimpose on the fragments of memory of the event - because some of us are exceptionally tired by now.
Perhaps there was another ribbon of logic entirely, now lost. But it doesn’t matter now.
We simply begin to push.
The pink ribbon movement began as a grassroots effort in the early 1990s when 68-year-old Charlotte Haley1 handmade peach ribbons to raise awareness about the lack of funding for cancer prevention research. SELF published a story about her endeavor and later requested the rights to her peach ribbon…Haley, whose family tree was riddled with breast cancer, didn’t want to go commercial. So, in 1991, the editors at SELF created a ribbon in another color: pink.23
I don’t know what my great-uncle’s favourite colour was.
If I had to guess, looking at old photos of him (healthy, clad in comfortable hiking pants and shirt, with a sparkle in his eyes and a shit-eating grin), I’d imagine it was red or some variation on khaki or a deep brownish-black - colours that are reminiscent of the rich tones of the coffee he used to quaff by the carafe or the Inuit art he used to pause and admire when we passed by galleries.
I can’t imagine it was yellow. And yet, everywhere he was looking, that’s all he could see: A man in his 60s - who recently skied in New Hampshire, hiked, and volunteered as a driver for people needing shepherding to and from hospital appointments - now staring in the mirror at the gradient of his skin turned from a mid-tone peach to an oaken yellow.
And I don’t think it was purple. And yet, here was his new, abridged reality: A cancer so dark and insidious - yet somehow being represented by a shade so vibrant.4
The shit-eating grin didn’t stretch as far as it used to when he’d make a wry observation or wildly insane comment out of left field, followed by a deep, nigh-evil laugh that used to fill a room. I hadn’t heard it on this trip, of course. We were living in a funeral, and I was a pallbearer, watching wordlessly as he began to shut doors to rooms in a house that couldn’t be repaired anymore.
We were in the middle of this funeral tour - his final look at his beloved Rockies and his beloved nieces (my cousins, and now fellow van-pushers) - when the minivan broke down. He sat in the driver’s seat, gear in neutral, and steered us towards the gas station.
One of my cousins, noticing the odd looks on people passing us by, realized that it was all women pushing what was clearly an entitled man on a hot summer’s day. And since he had the window down to take direction and listen to the progress, she decides to let him have it:
“You miserable bastard!! Of course, you have to make the women push you around. I hope you’re enjoying the shade, you sonofabitch!!”
It’s hard to push a van while laughing, but soon, the rest of us start in on him. All manner of curse word is lobbied at the front of the vehicle as it crept towards the Esso Gas Station. People continued to pass us by, horrified - perhaps at the language if they had their windows rolled down, but more likely the image of, clearly, a horrible old man.
And that’s when I heard it: A deep, rich laugh from the driver’s seat.
Smiling, we continued to push on, with this brightly coloured ribbon of a spirit not yet ready to die, to be forever woven throughout our memories.
Today is World Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Day. To learn more or to donate, visit Pancreatic Cancer Canada.
Breast Cancer Action. (n.d.) In Memoriam: Charlotte Haley, Creator of the First (Peach) Breast Cancer Ribbon.
To add insult: “…a general pink ribbon is not trademarked, so, yes, anyone can put a ribbon on anything. The industry is completely unregulated, so anyone [emphasis added] can make products that are pink and say they are donating money to breast cancer, and no one is held accountable. This sexist one two punch has created a proliferation - an unchecked growth one could argue - for one cause while also not doing a whole lot to help that cause.” (Source)
“The pink ribbon means well—it’s bringing awareness to breast cancer and screening exams,” said Kagy. “But we’re already there. People are already getting screened. They’re already doing self-exams. What patients really want to know is whether the money spent during Breast Cancer Awareness Month is funneling into research that will save lives.” (Source)
It was one woman’s favourite hue and her daughter asked for it to be the symbol after her mother passed. I’d probably do the same as that daughter if I knew his colour, I suppose.
Oh! Bryn, this is wonderful - what fabulous memories so beautifully told. A wonderful tribute to a special man, whom you've described in so many shades of colour. 'A ribbon of spirit' - that's gorgeous.
This is so beautiful, and funny. A perfect memory.