Women and Narratives of Illness

One of the things I admire about women is their ability to see humor in the most hideous situations and write that humor into engaging narratives that can almost make you forget you are reading about brain surgery/chemo therapy/insert your own worst medical fear here kind of stuff. At this point, since cyberspace is no longer in its adolescence, humor almost becomes a tool of solidarity for many women who participate in online communities that create a space for sharing medical information and experiences with treatments and procedures (for example, there is an asynchronous discussion board solely for women with stage 4 breast cancer, quite worthy of its own post, but not today).

I hate to sound sexist (no, really, I do), but, very often, when men face pain or get sick, they whine. (Please note--my esteemed opinion on this matter comes from my observations of, well, basically one guy, and it was my dad.) And whining is just not very interesting discourse. Hence, you do not see many men writing books like Karen Duffy's Model Patient: My Life as an Incurable Wise-Ass.

Don't get me wrong--I do not buy into the damaging "if you just have a good attitude and see the humor in everything your condition will improve" Pollyanna rhetoric--I actually find that idea repellant. Women have a right to have and express their rage, fears, and frustrations with illness--I just happen to enjoy the obvious strength that is shown when they channel those emotions into prose that does anything but make an audience see them as victims of the caprices of either their bodies or modern medicine (or both).

What made me think of all this today was a random book I came across in the public library this morning. It was too hot to do anything but read, so I trekked downtown and pulled about six books off the shelf, none of which had anything to do with my current teaching or research interests. One in particular, Never Apologize, Always Explain: How One Woman Regained Her Self-Respect After an Ileostomy and Made a New Life for Herself, literally made me laugh out loud in the library, which is rather rare. Here is the small passage that did it for me--it concerns the author's (Patricia Stout Skilken, who was pretty young at the time of her operation) preparation for surgery--the anesthesia is beginning to take effect, and she labors to clarify what she should expect after the procedure:

'"I asked," Isn't it a little messy when you go to the bathroom?'" Don't say shit, I thought. It sounds so immature and I don't want to sound immature, I want to sound sarcastic because sarcasm sounds tough and in control, and if I am in control I can beat this bastard."
'"No, you will wear a plastic pouch taped over the new opening, and your small bowel will empty into the pouch.'"

The hell with maturity.

'"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?'"

The way that she narrates how she turned on a dime to disrupt the expected passive, patient politeness is brilliant. It's the raw honesty--the universality, I suppose, of that reaction that's so fantastic. It's kind of like breaking through the wall to question, and demand an answer for, the absurdity of what she's about to go through. And believe me, this narrative is filled with whining of her own and the recounting of some unbelievably histrionic scenes (one of which involves Skilken throwing a food tray at a cranky nurse). And I actually ended up wanting her to just get a grip several times throughout my reading--she was, afterall, throughout this whole mess, surrounded by a massive support system that included both of her parents, her husband, and her children--but what ultimately kept me glued to the book was the fact that it was beyond entertaining.