“Breast cancer’s industrial etiology, medicine’s misogynist and racist histories and practices, capitalism’s incredible machine of profit, and the unequal distribution by class of the suffering and death of breast cancer are omitted from breast cancer’s now-common literary form. To write only of oneself may be to write of death, but to write of death is to write of everyone.”

Medicine is supposed to be a neutralizing practice. We’re all human, we all have the same body, and medicine is there to help us all. Or so we think. In reality, especially the reality Boyer brings to our attention through her memoir, is that there are broad disparities in medicinal practice across multiple lines of socio-economic statuses. Medicine is not neutralizing, and there is no practice that we can really think of as neutral to the effects of race, class, gender. Boyer highlights this interwoven aspect, the fact that even her experience can speak for the experiences of everyone, especially by highlighting the privileges she has as well as the privileges she doesn’t have. What is neutralizing is the oppression we experience, although where and to what degree is always shifting. Capitalism, misogyny, and racism pervade all experiences, even those who seem to be in the most beneficial positioning from them. 

The Chicago Economic Experience is open 9:00am – 5:30pm, Monday – Friday in the Saieh Hall for Economics. There is no cost to enter.

Walking through the exhibit feels like stepping back to a time when no one would blink an eye at a deified poster of twelve white men. In the center of the circular, singular room is a pillar highlighting the honors and accolades of University of Chicago economists.

Video interviews run continuously in the background, even grabbing the attention of an unobservant guest. Speakers hang on the ceiling and make the voices sound as if they are coming from inside your head.

The most thought-provoking part about this exhibit, however, is what it neglects to mention.

Some section headers read: What is Chicago Economics?; Economics Everywhere, All the Time; The Influence and Impact of Chicago Economics. I thought here I might find what I was looking for. But no.

They talk about investment in human capital

They talk about the principles of agriculture

They talk about the Great Depression

They talk about “Enduring Influence”

Not the human capital disappeared during the Dirty War

Not the reversal of agrarian reforms across Latin America

Not shock treatment during Chile’s military dictatorship

Not Bolsonaro’s Minister of the Economy

The Chicago Boys

Saieh’s shrine has no room for this distinction.

Process notes: I did not know what I would find in this exhibit. I thought there might be some mention of the commonly known epithet: The Chicago Boys, which refers to the Chicago economists that consulted for fascist dictatorships in Latin America primarily in the seventies/eighties. The absence made me want it to be the focus of the piece.

Footnote: Alvaro Saieh is also an economist who studied at the University of Chicago.

I was surprised by, despite using scientific vocabulary, Boyer borrowed substantially and developed from literary and philosophical writings. Instead of telling a linear narrative, the book is almost pieced together with connected treatises interrogating cancer and her experience in fragments: specimens of the object of cancer each subjected to the dissection of an instrument she develops. It is almost as if she is establishing another form of science rooted in rigors of thought. On many occasions, her book reads like ethnography, less like a memoir. Unlike Agee, riddled with ethical and moral entanglements of studying another, Boyer’s study of herself as a “we”. As Sontag wrote, this we is between the too concrete and too abstract, but gives one really the liberty and agency to think.

Regardless of the cold tone, she nonetheless delivers turbulence of emotion with her writing. On page 29, she writes of her friend who drove to help get her diagnosis at lunch. At the end, Boyer matter-of-factly notes:”She then went back to work.” This sentence did a lot for me. It allows the reader to soak in the complex emotions without trying to capture a part by making sentimentalizing, imperfect descriptions. The silence and space it leaves also mirrors the actual situation; like she quoted from Audre Laurde in the Prologue, this was the space of silence around it. And she is not filling it up with pink noise.

In the last chapter of The Sickbed, Boyer quotes Bertolt Brecht, who states “the truth… must be written for someone, someone who can do something with it,”(133-4) To me, this encapsulates Boyer’s purpose in writing her memoir. This is the reason she tells not only her story but the story of objectification in the cancer industry, how breast cancer is gendered (accompanied with phrases such as “Attitude is Everything for Breast Cancer Survivor”(165), and the immoral practices of doctors and our healthcare system profiting off of disease. One thing that I noticed was the reiterated idea that we refuse to accept that our world is the reason that these diseases have expressed themselves in the way and prevalence that they have. Statements like half of people will get cancer is less outrageous if we believe it all comes from ourselves and do not think about the effects our environment have on our body. Boyer’s conversation to her daughter broke me a little, when she tries to reassure her daughter that she has a lower chance of breast cancer because she does not have the hereditary BRCA gene, but her daughter comments that instead of being genetically cursed, she is cursed “of living in the world that made you sick,”(131) Something that we have been trained to think is out of our control is not. I am reminded of the idea that a patient displaying “any potential for agency” is to “cease compliance” (65), where questioning the way that things have operated, even when there is no real way to know if treatments will work with certainty. Agency is framed as this horrible thing that will shorten your lifetime if wielded, but we should know that this is not the case.

In Anne Boyer’s The Undying, she discusses how the “non-common literary form” of breast cancer neglects to mention the significance of factors such as the impact of misogyny in medicine, capitalism’s impersonal pursuit of profit, racist and classist divides, and the general mention of suffering and death at all. Although all of these aspects must be further emphasized when discussing breast cancer, I was particularly struck by her emphasis on the absence of discussing suffering and the potential negative health consequences of breast cancer. I believe this largely sets apart her memoir from “common” discourse about breast cancer especially in considering breast cancer commercials wherein, as Melanie mentioned, there seems to be a great deal of support and positivity expressed, but the individual painful experiences of people with breast cancer are left out. Boyer does not leave behind the graphic and painfully raw aspects of experiencing breast cancer in her memoir and in doing so seems to be acting as a part of the “coming together” of those with breast cancer to invent the “sufficient language” to speak of one’s suffering with that is sought after in exposure to medicine, but often not found. This reminded me of a recent case wherein a commercial by Frida Mom was denied approval for showing during the Oscars by ABC this year due to it being apparently “too graphic.” The commercial was for postpartum recovery products for new mothers and included a scene wherein an exhausted new mom is woken by her child at night and gets up with padded underwear to refill a peri bottle in the bathroom while clearly in pain. This advertisement is not violent, political, or sexual in nature and is not outright religious or portraying weapons, but feminine hygiene and pain relief seem to be banned as well. It is not too graphic, it is not trying to manipulate, it is real. As Boyer notes, people with breast cancer are seeking to understand the reality of what they are facing and medical institutions often don’t provide a true picture, leaving no preparation for the reality that will ultimately be faced, yet it seems that when medical companies such as Frida Mom do try to provide a true picture of suffering for women, it is not allowed. This all seems to lead back to discussing who the public narrative of breast cancer is for. It should not just be for the survivors, friends and family of those with breast cancer, and general public, but should be for those experiencing it and currently suffering. By denying a true representation, suffering included, of breast cancer I believe these individuals are denied the subject matter they are seeking and deserve.

There was a lot to wrapped up in Anne Boyer’s Undying: a critique of capitalism, a feminist inraveling of illness, and a profound reflection on being a human being experiencing pain and death and fear in a body. Wren and Allison have both noted how Boyer critiques the way cancer has been represented as a source of epiphany or, more generally, an instrument for reflection in both media and literature as well as by the loved ones of cancer patients. I was struck by Boyer’s reflections on what it means to represent sickness even as the sufferer. As Nayun noted, Boyer said she would “rather write nothing at all than propagandize for the world as is” (116). Her “fear of turning the pain into a product” reminded me a lot of Agee’s wariness surrounding his own representation of poverty and suffering for an audience who would largely see the piece as entertainment, or as an opportunity to feel informed (134).  I keep coming back to this question or observation because it feels like the central worry in a class on writing for social change. Even Boyer, someone who does not need to worry about telling another’s story from the outside — given that she’s telling her own, that is — tells her story in a language and culture that consumes these stories in perverse and unproductive ways. I think both Boyer and Long Soldier use poetic language as a means of expanding and complicating our notions of narrative. This allows them to break outside of the cultural constraints imposed on writing and storytelling for social change. On 113, Boyer discusses how “what being a writer does to a person is make her a servant of those sensory details” which can be dangerous as “the senses are prone to showing’s lies.” By declaring that “showing is a betrayal of the real, which you can never quite know with your eyes in the first place,” Boyer throws a wrench in our traditional understanding of “good writing” and also of “truth.” To be honest, I’m not completely sure what exactly she means when she discusses the deceptiveness of showing as opposed to telling, but I found this complication to be a good example of the ways in which she expands and complicates the conversation not only about sickness, but about writing and more generally being a person with a body, through the type of language and musing a poet produces best. 

Immediately, the conventional image surrounding breast cancer is broken down. In the beginning chapter, it is mentioned that cancer, or more specifically, breast cancer has become oversaturated in society. The image presented to society is that of the “survivor.” This leaves out the complete experience of cancer. It also leaves out those who do not survive. I never really thought about it like that. I always thought the “survivor” image was cancer patients taking back their narrative, so that it no longer was just one of sickness and death. This is not to say that this was not true, but that it becomes a question of who’s right is it to change that narrative? Because by doing so, all cancer patients are pushed into having that narrative thrust upon themselves. That must be so frustrating. Boyer immediately calls this out, so that expectations of a “positive”, “smile-only” experience is not expected from this memoir. Instead, the narrative of breast cancer is changed by her recounting of the indescribable, hard parts of fighting it. For example, she tackles the detachment that comes from having machines invade and measure your body constantly. Being asked “How are you feeling?” or “Rate your pain on a scale of 1-10” made her realize that there is no descriptive measurement for how you are feeling. Mikey mentions this desensitization and the brutal honesty of her medical experience when he writes how she doesn’t describe drugs administered as “miracles,” but rather as “poison.” Rarely, does she feel better, and when she does, it’s at what cost? These sections were particularly hard to read, especially if one is coming in with the “survivor-experience” mindset.

The breast cancer commercials make it seem as though there is so much support, but the story of individuals is different. For example, Boyer talks about losing friends who couldn’t handle having a friend with cancer. She also mentions the positive effects of this: their image of her as healthy remains intact. She also mentions the feeling of having to pay back society if she survives. Is she expected to become like the people in the commercials: telling her story to anyone who would listen? Bragging about the new treatments and care received at the hospitals she attended? Does she then lose control of her narrative? Addressing all of these things is her way of tearing down the traditional narrative around breast cancer.

The winding roads around Lake Springfield are especially green at the beginning of summer. They meander around the water, from open prairie to where the trees wrap shadily around the road, keeping the asphalt cool. At night, the lights from City Water, Light and Power reflect off the black water, making it almost like you are standing above the stars. On this lake there is a little zoo that is closed at night, but has public parking. 

My dark green truck pulled into the parking lot of the Henson Robinson Zoo after she had suggested we stop to roll. The paint was beginning to fall off the gate we had parked in front of. A chain was hung across with an orange sign that read “closed.” In all honesty, that sign was not going to stop anyone from entering illegally, but who on Earth is going to try to break into a public zoo in Rochester, Illinois? 

I have not been here for a long time. As a kid, I loved the animals. Australia, Africa, Asia, North and South America. Over eighty species native and exotic living together in the zoo. Koi fish swim in a bond just feet away from a barn where children can feed goats and pet cows. The Zoo Choo Train comes around every fifteen minutes. Peacocks are allowed to just roam around the grounds. In elementary school, how could you not love that?

But, with age comes reality. Now, with smoke in my lungs and a few years under my belt, Henson Robinson only makes me sad. I am sad not because this zoo is dying (though I do fear for the ultimate fate of the animals). I am sad because even in its hay day, the Henson Robinson Zoo was hodge podge of good intentions but poor execution. Eagles with roofs over their heads. Bobcats whose only exercise is walking to and from the food bowl. Crocodiles in ponds that dried up weeks ago. 

Despite the suffering it causes, I find it difficult to find any emotion other than pity for the zoo. It catalyzed my passion for the Earth and her creatures. It is the reason I am sad. 

Process Notes: 

This assignment was more difficult than I had initially anticipated it to be. What I struggled most with was to think of a story from my past that had some weight to it and also had something to do with my chosen topic- climate change. I realize that a rundown zoo is not directly related to climate, but I think this piece touches on the way human beings treat nature and could maybe be worked into something that addresses the globe as a whole. I originally tried to make this as impersonal as possible, but I could not get what I was trying to say across without introducing some first person. If I were to continue this piece for my final project, I’m wondering what might work– specific stories/pictures from the zoo? If you have any ideas on how I could tie this into something about human impact on climate, I am all ears!

When reading The Undying I was struck by the way Boyer’s writing is so personal and so dehumanizing. That is to say, she takes the reader on the journey of her illness with her, allowing them to experience events as she does. The reader gets to hear her internal thoughts, but they are never overly emotional. She writes with a kind of dry tone that reminds me of Carmel, and it works really well with the everyday-ness of what she writes about. The dehumanizing aspect of medicine is made very clear by the way Boyer describes her treatment. She is constantly being poked, prodded and quantitatively evaluated as if her caregivers do not even see her as a human being. This is made obvious when she describes a cancer patient’s name and birthdate as equivalent to a barcode. This lack of empathy displayed by the medical world made me really upset as they are supposed to be people you can turn to when there is nowhere left to go, or at least in an ideal world. This is highlighted by the way Boyer describes the medicine she is given. Drugs people typically describe as “miracles” and “lifesavers” she describes as honestly as possible- poison. Despite all of the pain and suffering throughout this book, there is a courageousness to these women that can only be seen as admirable. One instance that stuck out for me was the story about Fanny Burney’s unanesthetized mastectomy was undeniably hard to read, but extremely inspiring.

After reading Undying for the third time this quarter (in truth, I’ve continually reread it), I was struck this time by the ways in which the tales of cancer patients are so often told not by themselves, but by the peripherals. The stories are told by partners, friends, family members, all of whom are affected by the patient’s cancer, but not by the actually sufferer. Like Allison, I found a quote from page 111 to be of great interest regarding this phenomenon. It’s this idea that one person’s suffering seems to spur other people’s “epiphanies” that I found quite thought-provoking. When people with cancer are seen, so often through the eyes of those who are close to them, it is their appearance that is noticed, not their raw, true feelings. I think that that was why I was–and am–so entranced with this text. Boyer has undertaken this very deep, intense project of interweaving all of these different threads of personal experience, collective experience, and also this address of expectation.

On page 256, the author addresses they ways in which she finds herself altering her appearance to obscure, or perhaps simply defamiliarize, exhaustion. This push to hide or to pretend, to perform health, is particularly noteworthy for me for a couple of reasons. For one, feeling as if one must hide their own, personal struggles in order to preserve the comfort of others is an intensely familiar experience. It also ties back to my topic, this idea that women try to so hard to appear as if it’s all effortless or as if it’s a duck-on-the-water situation, even when it’s just not. Boyer’s acts here, the ways in which she keeps up the never-ending facade of womanhood in the face of the grim reality of cancer should be addressed.