Make Space for the Suffering By Sue Robins
I’ve had stumbles in my ordinary life—a divorce, big moves, lost jobs, and financial woes. When I’ve fallen, I’ve always slowly gotten back up. This year I have been brought to my knees, but this time I’ve struggled to rise again.
O
n February 6, 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had invasive ductal carcinoma, early stage, which required surgery for a partial mastectomy and 20 rounds of radiation therapy.
When my doctor called that snowy day in February, I fell into a black hole of physical and emotional pain. Cancer starkly reminded me that nobody is guaranteed a pain-free life. Along with my diagnosis and treatment came suffering that was chained to my unexpected state of illness. Previously, I had shunned the word suffering. I have a child with Down syndrome, and the phrase “burden and suffering” has been slapped onto the backs of people with disabilities for a very long time. I have strongly asserted that my son is not a burden nor has he been suffering. Society and systems remain his burdens. My own cancer has forced me to reconsider the notion of suffering. Suffering is such a loaded word. If suffering means experiencing a threat to oneself, we all suffer at some point in our lives. In recounting my recent experiences in healthcare, I am struck by the many instances of unmitigated suffering that I endured in the hospital. I almost passed out from an unsedated fine wire insertion in my breast. A receptionist sternly scolded me. The nurse wouldn’t allow my husband in the room to hold my hand during an IV start. I unexpectedly had a needle full of blue dye injected into my nipple. A young radiation therapist chastised me. At the same time, I was struggling with my identity of suddenly being a sick person and looking my own mortality in the eye. I was often cold, in physical pain, and terribly alone.
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care | volume 32 issue 2
