Since my breast cancer diagnosis, I wrestle with a lot of things. Two biggies are truth and certainty. My cancer diagnosis (x2) and the medical mishaps that followed violently severed every strand of trust that tethered me to my body and to the medical profession (both conventional and otherwise).
I am only beginning to acknowledge the depth and meaning of that loss. To feel deeply unmoored; to physically recoil from scientific evidence presented as “truth” or “fact” is made more difficult by the fact that I am a medical journalist.
Specifically, for the past 15 years I’ve reported on women’s health. I’ve written hundreds of articles on topics such as how to protect yourself from cancer; how to live strong after cancer, how bright light might cause breast cancer, and (my personal favorite) top cancer-fighting supplements.
So here’s my question: How can I continue to write about health in a way that meets my needs and my editors’ needs? How can I embody the voice of authority my editors demand? Expect? How can I continue to participate in and profit from the propagation of a “journalistic certainty” that is deeply disturbing to me?
If anyone has any answers, please let me know.
Until then, I will share an Emily Dickinson poem; if, for no other reason, than to know where I put it. I know nothing about poetry, but last month, when I stepped through the doorway of Dickinson’s home, a perky volunteer handed me the poem below. The poem was in easy-read type on a pale green sheet of paper. The leaflet has floated around my desk every since, daring me to lose it, taunting me with the suggestion that it might contain the answer to my questions. Maybe it does.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant –
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind –
Emily Dickinson, 1872