The past couple of years, when November rolled around, you would start to see pictures of me like this:

This would be your Mr. Topp, participating in Movember. That happy time when men all over the world grow a mustache to raise money and awareness of prostate and testicular cancer.

This year, I have opted not to participate; it seems a waste of time to me.

Everybody does it

A big part of the reason why is that everybody participates. When November rolls around, I am treated to a Facebook and Twitter (and Tumblr and RSS feeds …) full of photographs of gentlemen gradually growing a mustache. And women, too, wearing false mustaches.

Not because they are trying to raise money or awareness for cancer, for the most part. But because they are participating in Movember. Movember is cool.

This year, they even put a mustache on Big Ben to start the festivities. Look at it:

If everybody knows a couple dozen people participating, that seriously draws down the amount any one person can raise. My non-participation is not going to affect the amount raised, just who raises it — those people who would have given to me will instead give to one of the many, many other participants. Just as some who would have donated to my mustache last year did not because they had already donated to another’s.

It’s too easy

Beyond the mass of people doing it, it is an essentially a lazy activity, growing a mustache. All it takes is to not shave the upper lip. Built in with a high-profile excuse (“it’s Movember!”) to tell your boss/girlfriend/customer, it’s the lazy man’s approach to charity. Compare to people who donate their time to charity, or who run marathons to raise money — these people work and deserve support.

People recognise this, and give less. And the lazy nature of the charity drive does not lead those participating to try to raise more — too many are simply doing it because Movember is cool.

So how much money is raised?

£22 million last year, according to the Independent. But that’s with over a quarter million raising money, making it less than £100 per person. Compare to the London Marathon, where most participants are raising (at least) ten times that much money. Participating in smaller events also raises significantly more per head — for example, by running the Bath Half Marathon, Karen raised £500 with little trouble (and a lot of work).

While £22 million sounds like a lot of money – is a lot of money – it pales in comparison to how much could be done by a quarter million people who were actually investing time and effort in something. Nevermind the half million more who probably “participated”, but did not bother to raise any money at all.

So this year, I am spending November with a hair-free upper lip, and thinking of making an effort. This blogger would rather make a real difference than sport a mustache.

Tomorrow, we move home.

And apparently we have a moving-home tradition. And by “we”, I mean “Karen”. Karen has a moving-home tradition. And that tradition is this:

Do something physically exhausting a week after the move.

Last time she celebrated our move by giving birth the next week.

This time, she’s taking it easy. Just a simple walk. A twenty-six mile walk. At night. To raise money for Cancer Research UK. In memory of my mother.

It should be noted that my wife may be crazy.

But I like her this way, and think you should support her in this insanity – and support Cancer Research UK in the process. Please go sponsor her.

The following post is (approximately) what I said at my mother’s memorial on Saturday night. The kernel for many of these ideas already existed in a draft article that I had titled cancer is an asshole. As I am presently short of imagination, that title remains.

Also, cancer is an asshole.

A couple of days ago, somebody made a comment to me about how my mother had battled cancer.

“Battled”.

I disagree. While many of my mother’s treatments may have deserved the war-like analogy, there was never anything war-like about her demeanor. I never saw her so much as grit her teeth, nevermind dig the metaphorical ditch that the term brings to mind. Instead, she threw herself into projects that embraced those she loved: Knitting sweaters for her grandsons, Mischa and Johan; making a stained glass window for Maggie.

Another common expression often used regarding those who have died of cancer is “suffered”. “She suffered from cancer.”

Did my mother suffer from cancer?

There were certainly hard times over the past ten years, but suffered does not describe my mother any more than battled does. She taught herself to ski backwards, to better teach disabled children to ski. This does not seem like an action a suffering person would take.

When her hair fell out, she used it as an excuse to build what was, perhaps, the largest wig collection in Waterloo.

Faced with cancer, she did not isolate herself or lean on others. She taught herself new skills, gave herself new experiences, and helped others.

No. Rather than battle or suffer, my mother lived with cancer. She traveled the world with her husband, Tom. She doted on her grandchildren.

I have heard her give several different reasons for her early retirement, but don’t believe any of them. I think she was simply too busy living her life to spend any more time in an office. After her cancer diagnosis, she became more involved, more engaged, and more giving. All this despite already possessing all these characteristics in abundance.

She lived.

My mother never allowed the focus to rest on her, or on her cancer. Her life shone brightly for her community, her friends, and her family. Today, we are carrying on that tradition.

Marcia did not want today — a time when friends and family come together — to be about her, but about you; about the people she loved.

And I hope that a little bit of her has rubbed off on each of us. That when we experience our own hard times, we can look to her example, and rather than battle or suffer, we too can live.

It’s four in the morning, the end of Movember
I’m writing you now just to see if you’ll give here
London is cold, but I like where I’m living
And my top lip’s still warm all through the evening.

I had big plans to rewrite the entirety of Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Raincoat in a mustache-themed Weird Al parody to finish the month.

Alas, not all plans pan out. We got you going with the first verse (above). Please continue in the comments.

And donate! This ‘tache is not just for you.