Category — cancer

As experiences come into your life, you begin to recognize how one situation compares and relates to another. For example, my recent bout with the side effects of a treatment meant to improve and protect my bones from the ravages of bone cancer and osteoporosis triggered the thought of how the side effects of integration have affected the lives and lifestyle of socioeconomically disadvantaged blacks in America.

The once a month infusion treatment, or intravenous injection, was supposed to alleviate the pain and prevent further disintegration or breaking of my bones. I suffered great side effects of chills and aching the first time the drug was administered, but when the injection time was increased, those particular side effects decreased. The treatment continued month after month, but I began to notice I was having difficulty breathing.

It began with the feeling of excess fluid and a rattling breath sound. The problem impeded my ability to perform any physical activity, walking, cleaning, showering, having sex, etc. All effort was labored and distressful. My doctors ordered x-rays, scans, and echo-grams to try to find out what was causing the “pleural effusion” I was suffering; but to no avail. The situation kept getting worse.

Along with complaining, I began to do research into the side effects of the many drugs and supplements I am taking for my various ailments which include Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, anemia, breast cancer, bone cancer, osteoporosis, and kidney disease. Some of the medications mentioned difficulty in breathing, but the doctors seemed to ignore that as a cause. Since the infusion was the latest treatment, to me it became the most suspicious.

As a required precaution, prior to receiving the treatment, a blood test to see if the creatinine level in my kidneys is low is taken as the medication negatively affects the kidneys. For the past three months, my tests have come back with the level too high because the tumor in my cancerous breast erupted and caused bleeding. The loss of blood caused the kidneys to be drier, causing the creatinine level to go higher, which negated my infusion treatment. So while my body has been healing from the tumor eruption, it has also been withdrawing from the side effects of the infusion, which has allowed my breathing to return to normal. I am regaining my strength and ability to function as before. Thank God!

When I awoke this morning the correlation of experiencing side effects from a medical treatment fit into the framework of the black Underclass in America experiencing the side effects of integration.

For many blacks, successful assimilation became a reality. However, according to Bill Cosby, beloved TV father and celebrity, the “lower economic people” or black Underclass, are “knuckleheads walking around…not holding up their end.” To Mr. Cosby, the Underclass has not gotten with the program of living in an American, integrated society and their inability to appropriately function has become very obvious.

In recent statements, Mr. Cosby, has spoken on their lack of language skills, their poor parenting, their spending habits, their dress, their lifestyle, their reflection of ethnicity, even the naming of their children. We all recognize him as a very funny comedian, but what has and is happening to our people is no joke.

Integration was a wonderful concept from a basic human standpoint. All people should be allowed the freedom of their “inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” and the U.S. prides itself in that ideal. But along with the powerlessness to pursue the better things in life, there were many blacks who were unable to escape their environment even after the opportunity was presented due to a lack of money and education, or simply because they wished to remain in the comfort zone of their surroundings.

The side effects of such great change in their surroundings became most severe when nearly all of the educated, prominent, role models moved from the black neighborhoods to white suburbs and left the less fortunate behind. The ones left were forced to continue surviving as best they could without direction and the leadership and guidance that had always been available. The motivators and mentors disappeared, leaving only folks of basically the same status. So the vulnerable ethnic group developed their own ways of life and became a culture (Underclass) within a culture (black) within a culture (white or American). The culture of the black Underclass includes a language and moral code which often seems harsh and even barbaric to those from the outside.

But the resourceful group has now increased in such numbers and have gained the attention of outsiders through the widespread popularity of rap and hip hop music, clothing and hair styles, piercing and tattoos, etc. Those who are thriving with conventional lifestyles are taking notice. Particularly as another side effect of integration has been the adoption by mainstream youth of many of the Underclass habits and social standards; including the use of the “N” word.

The further side effects of the full acceptance and incorporation of the black Underclass language, dress, and customs, has made some middle- and upper-class blacks, like Mr. Cosby, criticize and denigrate them in order to try to set them apart. But it can’t be done. Just as I can’t separate my breathing from what is happening to my bones, all descendants of slaves are segments of the whole, parts of the body. It is our legacy. All we can hope for is to find ways to alleviate the side effects which are affecting us.

If Mr. Cosby really wants to help, rather than rant to his peers; he should go to people who would benefit the most from hearing what he has to say. Speak to them and I believe they will listen. He should tell them about his own side effects and challenges. As a matter of fact, the black Underclass has been waiting for someone who made it out and overcame the struggle to come back and give them some honest relief. After all, isn’t that what all those suffering from side effects really want and need?

As I get older I spend more and more time thinking about the past. On this particular occasion I am remembering how many historical moments I’ve witnessed, either being personally involved, or as a spectator in front of my T.V. screen. And although I might have been many miles away, all of the events had an effect on me as I can still remember where I was, but more particularly, how I felt about them.

My first memory is that of my father coming home after World War II. I was 3 years old. I was awaken very early by this handsome smiling man in an Army uniform. Until his death in 1983, he steered me through segregation in Louisiana, then relocated our family to San Francisco where we shared visions of the civil right demonstrations and man’s first steps on the moon from our living room.

Among the most memorable historical event is the bombing of the Twin Towers. I remember, because I was rushing around getting ready for work, turned the T.V. on, and saw the first building with smoke pouring out. I awoke my son and joked about someone flying into the building…then the plane hit the second building and life changed for real, not like the imagined panic we expected with Y2K.

Many, many hours I watched the O. J. trial, and stood with him awaiting the verdict, but I lost respect for him totally when he took that victory we all cheered for and wiped his ass with it.

On a lighter note, I remember the day Paris Hilton was born. The newspaper announcement made me smile as it does now…at last, there was another girl named “Paris.”

Princess Di’s wedding and funeral; Rodney King’s beating and the ensuing riot; the assassinations of M. L. King, John and Robert Kennedy, and Malcolm X; the murders of the Mayor and Supervisor in San Francisco; the Jim Jones massacre; Patty Hearst being on the run; the fire-bombing of the MOVE group in Philly; the Columbine killings; and Viet Nam held a grip on my heart for many years. People leaving under suspicious, awful, very painful circumstances became all too familiar.

Totally unfamiliar was the pain of losing my oldest son, Tracy, age 41, in December of 2004. He was just here one day, and gone the next. Since then I’ve lost two infant grandsons. What I’ve accepted is that we all have a time to go. This knowledge has surprisingly given me some comfort, and helped me prepare for my own transition.

Most of the 60s is unfortunately foggy as I was a “hippy“ more or less on the weekends, but I remember dancing all night to disco music in the 70s, and eventually evolving spiritually. The 80s seemed to release much of the pressure I had been experiencing for years as I became a senior and, for awhile, a Republican. In 1988 I suffered the tumult of a toxic relationship and became involved in a child abuse case.

In the 90s I ran a non-profit child abuse prevention organization; saw cotton for the first time; and got divorced. The new century brought a return to school and a much-desired A.A. degree. I got engaged, and retired. But life and its history making activity hasn’t slowed one bit. In the last few years, I’ve become a published author, an avid online networker, and been diagnosed with breast and bone cancer.

Michael and so many others I loved have died. The tsunami, the San Francisco and Haiti earthquakes caused devastation and death, and no one can remember weather like we’re having, but all is not gloom and doom. The cell phone and world wide web have changed so many things forever. The release of Nelson Mandela, and the election of President Barack Obama have given many of us hope that the future in many instances will be brighter.

When my youngest grandchild, who is 9 months old, grows older and looks back on her historical moments, I hope they are not dominated by tragedy and madness, but rather positive advancements, stimulating ingenuity, greater understanding and lasting peace. Still, I wouldn’t have missed this life’s human experience for anything in the world, and I believe that when I leave this time, there will be no need to ever return; so lets just hope it won’t be soon.

It’s Sunday morning. I hear many voices  and step out onto my patio to see hundreds of marchers coming from the Capitol building up the street. I live in Sacramento, the capitol city of California. The marchers are wearing colorful tees emblazoned with captions and names…Ed and Sue, etc. They are marching to raise money for cancer research. Having recently been diagnosed with breast and bone cancer, their symbolic walking for a hopeful cure took my mind back, as I have a tendency to do lately, to other Sundays before all this.  

I was born in 1943 in Shreveport, Louisiana and Sundays were always days buzzing with activity. We lived in a small “shotgun” house. Its three rooms lined up one behind the other. Mama and Daddy slept in the front room. 

Mama was always the first to arise. She would pass through our room, my two sisters’ and mine, hastily putting on her apron headed to the kitchen, where brother slept, to start the coffee. Soon the strong aroma and Mama’s persistent urgings would pull us from our beds, wiping sleep from our eyes. 

Without indoor plumbing, running hot water, or the privacy and convenience of a bathroom, we were nevertheless soon washed, combed and dressed. Breakfast  was served and eaten, and Daddy’s putting on his hat was  the signal to proceed from the comfort of our home to walk the several blocks to Shiloh Baptist Church to hear Rev. James bring the sermon. 

With a smile, my mind returns to my patio and I think how so long ago that was, and how everything is so much different today. Mama and Daddy are long gone, and my siblings are grandparents and I’m a great-grandparent. When we talk on the phone, because now we live distances apart, we discuss our health issues mostly. But sometimes we go back into the vaults of our memories and take out a precious event like my Sunday morning remembrance and share a laugh or two. As we remember it, despite our circumstances, life was good then; and even with all the changes, we end up agreeing that life is also still pretty good now.

The type of breast cancer I have is a rare form contributed to by excess estrogen. According to my surgeon who diagnosed the cancer, the bones also produce estrogen, so the medicine they are giving me to reduce the estrogen feeding the cancer could also possibly cause osteoporosis, which is why he tested me for the problem, but we found out I already have it.

As a result, I will need to take calcium and vitamin D to build up my bones to avoid the possibility of fractures from the slightest trip or fall. Like most black people, I remember being told we have heavier or thicker bones than other ethnic groups, but regardless of that being the case, we are in need of more attention to our skeletal structure than we previously have been led to think.

Women over 40 should have a Dexa scan for bone density to be sure that they do not require a boost in their calcium intake, along with a mammogram to test for breast cancer (which I had refused for years). With the lactose intolerance from which so many black people suffer, we need to know that we should look into ways other than consuming milk to keep our bones healthy. We often hear it said that we “learn something new every day,” so I hope that this information will be something of value to your continuing good health.

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