Fighting Back - 3: The Patient Activist

Posted by JohnD Sat, 13 Oct 2007 22:28:00 GMT

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I have a hard time being a patient or thinking of myself in that role. In one sense, to be a patient means to be sick, to be under treatment by a medical professional, to be undergoing all sorts of tests and therapies. See the trend there – the intolerable passive voice says it all. I am having things done to me – I am leaving it to others to cure me. Of course, they ask for my cooperation (be a good patient), which means I should do what they tell me to do. “Patient” comes from a Latin word that means “to suffer.” And suffering comes in two varieties: you suffer when you feel pain and you suffer when you allow something to be done. Both fit the classic role of the patient – you’re in pain and you allow doctors to treat you. So, what’s wrong with that, especially if you seek out the best treatment you can find?

The problem is that none of the treatments I’ve encountered can get the job done. I can’t wait around for treatments to work on their own. If I don’t take an active role in treatment, then nothing will help for long. That’s because the human factor, the will to heal, makes such an enormous difference. As I found in dealing with cancer, I have to function as a partner with each new tool I use and see it as one element of an overall strategy for getting better. As is true of every depressed person, though, there are those times when I am so severely ill that my active contribution to healing fails. Standing up can be hard enough, let alone trying to wage a campaign against the illness. The hope then is that whatever external treatments are applied will soften the impact of depression so that I can get back enough energy and presence of mind to activate myself once again. That’s the partnership.

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Fighting Back - 2: Becoming an Activist

Posted by JohnD Fri, 31 Aug 2007 22:28:00 GMT

Photo Credit: Ann Triling

As I came to accept and believe that depression wasn't the result of my failings or weaknesses, but a major illness, a malignant condition, then I needed to deal with treatment more consciously. Up to that point, I had been through a lot of talking therapies and the newer medications, but while each approach helped for a while, nothing was effective for very long. I realized I had to become more active in my own treatment, and I had learned how to do that from another disease I had recently had to combat. That was cancer. But what I found was that I couldn't do much about that disease until I had confronted a deepening depression.

I wouldn't wish a cancer diagnosis on anyone, however much you might learn from it. Nothing concentrates the mind so wonderfully, to paraphrase a sage of the 18th century, as the knowledge that you have a growing thing inside your body that will kill you if left untreated. That triggers every intense emotion in the human repertory.

I couldn't think about anything else and had to get hold of all the information I could find to understand what this was and, more bluntly, what my chances of survival were. The first article I read, in Scientific American, announced in its lead sentence that many with this type of cancer are doomed to a long, slow, agonizing death. That magazine popped out of my hands and landed across the room as if by lightening strike. Hey! Don't tell me that, you idiots, at least not right up front! I scoured the shelves in the library and found a few things of interest but then was gripped with an embarrassed fear about checking them out. I didn't want anyone to think that I might actually have this killer problem. I tried to think how I might disguise my frightened need amid a barrage of books about other subjects, normal things, like carpentry and cars and architecture. I tried to come up with excuses I might mutter as I faced the person at the counter (this was a small town, after all, and I actually knew some of those folks). But in the end, it was too painful to be seen carrying those cancer books around, and I just scanned them while standing amid the crowded shelves, trying not to be noticed.

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