How cancer made me a better citizen
If you want to get more politically engaged, there are cheaper and less painful ways to do it, but for me, cancer is pushing me to be a better citizen. I was diagnosed with breast cancer in July 2016, or what we can now refer to as “the good old days” before we elected a pussy-grabbing, Russia-loving cable news enthusiast as president.
Convinced that journalism was my calling, I went to college for “Print Journalism” (remember that?), and from 2007–09 I worked at a newspaper. I still remember election night 2008, and count it as one of the best nights of my life. But when you work in news, particularly community news, it isn’t really appropriate to be politically active.
After that, I learned about social justice when I volunteered at an intentional service community welcoming refugees. I went back to school for public health, and for most of my late 20’s I was aware of the news. Topics that were close to my heart — refugees, civil rights, public health — would catch my attention, but it was passive. When Trayvon Martin was murdered, when no justice was served, when the stories of black men and women being killed by police started to rise to public consciousness — My heart would break, I would be furious — but what did I do? Tweet about it? Argue with family members? So.. basically nothing? Yeah.
And then came the most recent presidential elections. In North Carolina, you can’t avoid politics. During the primaries I was informed. I voted. I encouraged others to vote, but again — how did I contribute?
I’m not a person who looks for silver linings. This is not that. But cancer is a common thread in a few of the reasons why I’ve started looking for ways to participate as a citizen vs. just providing commentary.
- Logistics!
There’s lots of downtime during cancer. Even before my mastectomy and chemo, I started to spend more time at home. I didn’t want to talk about cancer, but I also didn’t want not talk about cancer.
After surgery, and then once chemo started, if an activity couldn’t be done from the couch, there was a good chance I wasn’t going to do it. I had lots of time to read and watch the news. I listened to political podcasts and started following more smart people on Twitter. When the city of Charlotte erupted into protests after police shot and killed Keith Lamont Scott in September, I vowed that once I was recovered, I would do more than just observe from the sidelines.
2. Rage!
Cancer strips you down to your rawest self. Everyone copes with their diagnosis in their own way, but I chose anger.
Intellectually, I’d come to terms with having cancer, but deep down I was (and still am) furious about it. “Fuck cancer” takes on a whole new meaning when cancer is the thing threatening to ruin all your plans. Fuck the fear that woke me up in the middle of the night. Fuck the pain it causes people who care about me. Fuck spending all my money on treatment. Fuck having to get a wig for my wedding day. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck you cancer, you are not the boss of me.
But cancer doesn’t care how mad you are. So, instead of focusing my anger at my own cells, I was relieved to find that current events provided an external focus. Fuck white nationalism. Fuck locker room talk. Fuck the corrupt FBI. There is no justice in cancer, but it I believed* that “justice for all” was possible for America.
3. Come at me, bro
Cancer has a way of focusing your time and energy, including the part devoted to fear. Death seemed so tangible, that while I was planning a wedding, I couldn’t let myself think too far ahead. My hair was falling out, my nose was bleeding and once a week I had a needle in my chest for four hours creating a cycle of insomnia and fatigue that left me curled up on the couch for days.
Yup, that seems like enough stuff to be afraid of. The things that made political engagement less comfortable before, like the idea that someone might judge me? Or I might have to give up time I’d normally spend on myself? Or that speaking out can be dangerous?
Self preservation — for what?
If you choose to fighting cancer, you realize that it is the treatment itself that makes you feel the worst, and you have to start asking yourself what you’re trying to preserve. Am I going to survive cancer and then use the rest of my time on Earth to try to stay comfortable?
If I can face death and loss and pain, I’m not going to be afraid of discomfort. I’m not going to ignore the fact that as a white person, I’m always in less danger than other people when speaking out. If I can fill myself with toxic chemicals and remove parts of my body to save myself, I can start investing time and energy into making things safer for other people too.
4. When your body tries to kill you, everything else seems less scary … except the government (which may also be trying to kill you.)
My husband, who had been the more impassioned poll watcher on election night, had to console me when it was clear who had won.
My first tears were for myself, my mom and all the other people with cancer. Yup. Now Paul Ryan is going to take away the Affordable Care Act, and insurance companies are going to let people like us die because we are so expensive. That treatment that we are going to need for decades? The protection for those of us with pre-existing conditions? Gone, gone, gone. Dead, dead, dead.
Next, I cried because, like many white liberals, I’d never considered that there were major elements of the government and populace that didn’t value the basic things I did — justice, caring for the poor and displaced, rejecting racism and sexism.
I’m embarrassed to admit that it took 30 years to understand what it feels like to not trust your government. My husband, who isn’t white, rightfully rolled his eyes at my “revelation.” Elizabeth, black people have always known that. I thought it knew that, but I didn’t.
If it wasn’t for cancer branding sick people “Expensive & Expendable,” I don’t know that I would have ever had the opportunity to catch this glimpse of what it is like to feel disposable and unprotected. Even now, I know that my experience is vastly different than people who have been treated this way forever for things like race, religion, gender identity, etc.
Like many of my friends, I was in mourning. Call me a special snowflake, call me a bitter loser — ( I already told you I don’t care, remember?) — but eventually, I started to look for ways feel less powerless. I started to look for nuance and understanding with people I don’t agree with. I started to connect with other people who felt like I did.
Luckily, I was about two weeks out from chemo on January 21 — just in time for the Women’s March in Charlotte. I’m still getting my energy back, but I’m starting to find ways to be more actively engaged.
I am by no means an expert. I’m still figuring out how to best use my energy, time and money. I imagine that I’ll have a lot of opportunities over the next four years to learn.
So while I’m not grateful for cancer, I’m grateful that the experiences of the last few months have challenged me to see things differently and take responsibility for what it means to be a participant in democracy.
