Today, I do not feel so warrior-like.

I am tired of the fight. I am weary of the vigilance. And I am exhausted by seeing all those super-hyped ladies in pink crowding the TV screen on The Today Show.

It’s the dawning of “Pink Month,” October’s annual focus on breast cancer awareness. This month, the grocery stores are festooned in pink crepe paper with smiling ladies’ images on posters flying overhead telling you they’re survivors. You’ll buy bottled water, shave cream, milk and bread all adorned in pink labels — just so you don’t forget. In some cases, you might even purchase a few things that actually contribute to The Cause. (Buyer beware: not everything in pink means it’s a contributor.) At work, someone will solicit a donation for her walk. And on Facebook, your friends (me included) will guilt you into giving, like you’ve never given before.

I’ll get those Making Strides emails out later. I’m just having trouble finding the energy right now.

I wish I had more enthusiasm for The Cause right now. I wish I could be all smiles about Pink Month. But I cannot. It actually makes me quite melancholy every year:

• I hate the memory of my personal battle. It was hell — made worse by my employer at the time, who reduced my pay for “non-performance.” I will be paying off loans the rest of my life …
• Beyond the emotional scars, I hate the ugly physical scars it left — and the embarrassment I feel, nine years later.
• I hate that I still have to see doctors every year — and that this year I had to have a partial hysterectomy to head off the potential of developing related ovarian cancer.

Those feelings come and go. I know I’ll snap out of it and carry on. And I’ll be one of those smiling ladies in pink on Sunday when I participate in the Cardinals’ Crucial Catch festivities.

But there’s more — beyond my singular experience — that truly gives me pause:

• I hate that my friend has lymphedema and has to wear a compression sleeve for the rest of her life. I hate that she lost her sisters to the disease, too.
• I hate that we’ve just marked the second anniversary of my step-cousin’s and stepsister’s deaths due to breast cancer. Both were on their third battles when they succumbed.

Most of all, today, I HATE that my folks are on a trip to the East Coast to say goodbye to Charlie, my stepdad’s brother. He has metastatic breast cancer and he will not live much longer.

Charlie, by the way, is the second man I’ve known to have breast cancer.

I am troubled that one in eight women will develop invasive breast cancer in her lifetime. But no one mentions the men. Of course the odds are much lower (like 100 times less), but how is it that I know TWO guys with this disease?

If some women feel embarrassed to talk about breast cancer, or to even check in for screening, can you imagine how these men must feel?

Everyone has a story. I am reminded that my story is my own and no one else’s. But, what’s wearing me out right now is ALL the stories I know:

Ruby, Ann, Charlene, Colleen, Charlie, Nicola, Pat, Mary, Lana, Scott, Meg, Linda, Amanda’s mom, Stacey’s mom, Sadie’s aunt, and all the friends and colleagues who’ve reached out to me in the past nine years for my insights and “expertise.”

It’s exhausting.

This warrior is very, very tired.