?

Log in

[personal] Cancer, privilege and dialect - Lakeshore
An author of no particular popularity

Jay Lake
Date: 2012-04-10 05:50
Subject: [personal] Cancer, privilege and dialect
Security: Public
Tags:cancer, culture, gender, health, healthcare, personal, race
I was thinking yesterday about privilege and experience in our society, specifically in the context of my cancer journey. It's an interesting intellectual trail, at least to me. Most of this is stuff I've said before, but this iteration of my thoughts gave these ideas and this personal history of mine some added dimensionality.

Both on the face of it and deep down, I am the beneficiary of most forms of transparent privilege in contemporary American society. I'm white, male, slightly taller than average, with a short English name and a college education. To put it in one framing, I am a card-carrying birthright member of the patriarchy. To put it in another framing, I fit into many people's default conception of responsible authority. As I've sometimes joked, if I were 50 pounds lighter and $500,000 richer, I would be The Man. (Well, and maybe dress a little more formally and wear a little less ink on my skin.)

This privilege shows up in everything from the way I'm treated at shop counters to my well-paying high tech job. And believe me, I'm very, very aware of that. I try quite hard to not leverage my position in society when that's under my control. There are surely far more places where it is not only not under my control, but completely invisible to me. That's why they call it "privilege", after all.

Yet even in those terms, I'm not quite what I appear to be on the surface. There are some important invisible differences. Born and raised overseas, I'm a Third Culture Kid, which gives me a worldview fairly lateral to that of the average American white dude of my generation. As a survivor of sexual abuse in my early grade school years, I embody psychological, emotional and sexual characteristics that aren't reflective of a stereotypical middle class upbringing. As a long-time sufferer from chronic depression (roughly age 12 through age 25), including one hospitalization for a suicide attempt, I have a nonstereotypical mental health history. And though I am a straight-identified cis-gendered man, my sexuality is a lot more complex and dimensional that the heteronormativity implied by those labels.

None of that stuff is visible from a casual encounter with me, nor can it be discerned in most of what's written about me on the Internet. Yet those experiences and aspects strongly inform who I am. Even so, they're pretty holistically a part of me. I don't have a special sense of identification as an "abuse survivor" or a "Third Culture Kid" or whatever. They're just me. An inherent component of my acculturation and socialization.

Cancer, on the other hand, has been very different.

For the first time in my life, I've had a major portion of my privilege revoked. That's the privilege of being healthy (and not having to worry about my continued health). Like most forms of privilege, it's invisible to the people who possess it. The privilege of health was certainly invisible to me until I lost it. While I wouldn't pretend for a moment to complain that the chronically ill are an oppressed minority, we do pay huge prices for our conditions. Many of those prices aren't obvious outside the privacy of our own lives, and many of them unappreciated or misunderstood by others.

As a simple and obvious example, the entire conservative framing of the debate around healthcare reform is profoundly insulting to someone who actually has to deal with pre-existing conditions, out of pocket payments, lifetime treatment caps and end-of-life issues. You're worried about Sarah Palin's completely fictional death panels? Try an insurance company's policy review process sometime. The private market is not your friend once you become a net healthcare consumer. As we all do, eventually.

Cancer has also dragged me through emotional and mental terrain every bit as dreadful as what put me in the hospital back in 1980. The depression this time isn't chronic. Rather, it is savagely situational. And no less hideous or damaging for that.

Cancer has imposed costs on me that are largely invisible to others but no less staggering. These range from the trivial (increased home heating expense due to decreased cold tolerance) to the substantial (lost income from months of writing time lost, delaying book production). Not to mention the horrendous direct costs of out of pocket expenses, deductibles and co-pays ranging as high as $200 per week while on chemotherapy. And all that with good health insurance, conservatives opposed to HCR take note.

Even there, I am very lucky. My white, male, middle class privilege has brought me to a profession and a job where I can perform my duties even when too sick to leave the house. I am paid well enough to address most of those extra costs, even though it strains me financially.

Most of all, cancer has brought me to a new domain of experience. This is one I wouldn't wish on anyone, anywhere for any reason, but here I am.

So many of the markers of status, success, and vulnerability arise from the conditions of our birth. We're all born into an ethnic identity, a gender, a social and economic class. Any of those things can potentially be changed, some at much greater personal cost than others, but none of them are easy to revise.

But there are also experience domains that change and shape who we are. Women who've undergone pregnancy and childbirth have something in common that no one who hasn't been on that journey can really understand. Likewise combat veterans, or emergency responders, or emergency room physicians, or the desperately poor. I have been none of these people, I have done none of these things.

So it is with cancer patients. We share an immediacy of mortality that's unknown among the healthy, and differently shaped for people with other illnesses. We share a medical experience in the form of chemotherapy that is brutal beyond description, one of the most barbaric frontiers of contemporary healthcare. We share a profound sense of loss — loss of innocence, loss of hope, financial loss, emotional loss.

And that gives us a common dialect that cuts across lines of ethnicity, gender, class and really anything else. I can participate in conversations with fellow cancer survivors that have profoundly different meanings than even those exact same words shared with someone in baseline health.

This experience, cancer, is the first time in my life that I have felt different. Even those other lateral aspects of my character and upbringing that I noted were and are just part of me. Like being right-handed, or having pale eyes. Cancer feels imposed, unignorable, impossible to evade or escape or outlive. It's a gut-wrenching lesson in being on the other end of life's big stick.

Most of all, perhaps, cancer gives me far more to say, and far less time to say it in. If I do die of this soon, which seems rather more likely than not these days, I will regret most what cancer kept me from them by stealing these years away both before and after my death.

What must it feel like to have such regrets from the moment of one's birth?

Post A Comment | 11 Comments | Share | Link






Deckard7
User: deckard7
Date: 2012-04-10 13:45 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Thank you for sharing.
Reply | Thread | Link



Tom
User: voidampersand
Date: 2012-04-10 14:37 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
"Privilege is invisible until you lose it." I like the way you put it. Privilege is a hard thing to talk about, because of its invisibility. This might actually get someone to stop and think.

Oh, and kill cancer.
Reply | Thread | Link



mcjulie
User: mcjulie
Date: 2012-04-10 14:49 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Beautiful and eloquent.

This post, and you.
Reply | Thread | Link



Rafe
User: etcet
Date: 2012-04-10 14:52 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
As I've sometimes joked, if I were 50 pounds lighter and $500,000 richer, I would be The Man. (Well, and maybe dress a little more formally and wear a little less ink on my skin.)

I think that, as our generation (loosely defined as folks on the youthful side of 50) assumes the more senior leadership positions, The Man will loosen the fuck up, because we're a more inked, holed, and interestingly-garbed group. While the Woodstock generation ossified, they were still somewhat less staid than the folks before them, and we can continue down that path, even if it's with tiny incrementals like arm tattoos and kilts at the workplace.

As for the clarity of knowing there is a THE END looming indistinctly ahead, one of the better takes on that I recall was from The Crow, where Big Shot mentions a parent telling him, "Child is over the day you realize you're going to die." With the advances in modern medicine, as well as a host of other societal enhancements/changes/creeps that have contributed to what some sociologists are calling "prolonged adolescence," this seems generally, if not always specifically, applicable.

Edited at 2012-04-10 02:53 pm (UTC)
Reply | Thread | Link



russ: zen
User: goulo
Date: 2012-04-11 08:59 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Keyword:zen
The juxtaposition of Jay's post and a mention of The Crow reminded me of the epitaph I read years ago at Brandon Lee's grave.

"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five time more. Perhaps not even that. How many times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."
Reply | Parent | Thread | Link



shelly_rae
User: shelly_rae
Date: 2012-04-10 15:40 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Next year will begin my 50th year on this great green planet of the clocks. I'm already considering how to celebrate it. Of those 50 years I've spent 31 of them in cancer land--you can check out anytime you like but you can never leave. I've spent more time in hospitals than any person I know who doesn't work there. And yet, because it's important to let folks know they are not alone I go and will go, with others to their chemos, radiation, therapy, whatever. Sometimes we monkeys just need friends.</p>

Good on you for doing this publicly Jay, for sharing your journey.

Good luck and be well.
Anon

Reply | Thread | Link



randy_smith2
User: randy_smith2
Date: 2012-04-10 20:04 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Jay, you have spoken from the heart. I thank you for your courage and vulnerability in doing so. By sharing, you have given all of us a glimpse into the depth of who you are and what it is like to live with cancer. I was also wondering if I could share your message with a couple of parishioners of mine who are having similar experiences in dealing with cancer, but may not have quite the gift for articulation that you have. Please let me know.
Reply | Thread | Link



Jay Lake
User: jaylake
Date: 2012-04-10 20:14 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Randy, please feel free to share this as you see fit. (Anything I post is for public distribution.) And thank you.
Reply | Parent | Thread | Link



Swan Tower: swan
User: swan_tower
Date: 2012-04-10 20:16 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Keyword:swan
This was hard to read, but important. Thank you.
Reply | Thread | Link



MG Ellington
User: xjenavivex
Date: 2012-04-11 00:25 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Thank you
Reply | Thread | Link



mmegaera
User: mmegaera
Date: 2012-04-15 18:23 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
There are few things more rotten on an emotional level than situational depression when you have no control over the situation.
Reply | Thread | Link



browse
my journal
links
January 2014
2012 appearances