Cancer Can Bite Me » Ruminations

On Charlatanism

PaduanBenedick — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 16:23:44 +0000

Good morning, dear reader. I’d like to begin by thanking everyone for their overwhelming support since I started blogging again. I deeply appreciate all the kind words that I have received. It’s very comforting to know that – even in the midst of the frustrations that life and continued treatments are throwing my way – there are friends who will lend an ear or a shoulder when needed.

Then last night I found the seedy underbelly of the blogging experience. The following comment was attached to my previous post (Echoes):

bryan-i’ll bet none of your doctors ever taught you how to fight cancer with food. no chemo, rad, or other drugs are needed. please consider contacting me. i teach my patients how to prevent/reverse cancer and other chronic diseases and think i can be of benefit to you and your family. [phone number redacted] dr. gbh

Additionally, the gentleman who posted this comment supplied his full name, telephone number, and e-mail address. We’ll get to those in a bit.

Oh, where to begin?

First – and let’s start with the obvious – the commenter refers to himself as “Doctor.” No, wait, sorry, he refers to himself as “dr.” Anyway, if he is to be believed, then that supposes he completed medical school. Which presupposes he completed college. Which presupposes he completed high school. Which – I would hope – presupposes that someone somewhere taught him what majuscules are. And how to use them to not make yourself look like an idiot. I know that text-speak is the cool lingidy with the kiddos these days, but do u rlly want a doc hoo t4lks lik dis? Yeah, that’s gr8.

Second, this comment was obviously made by someone who hasn’t ever read my blog before. Otherwise, he would have know that I’m currently cancer free and that the only surgeries I have left are reconstructive. Could he be suggesting that I can regrow my tongue simply by choosing the appropriate diet? What is this, The Peanut Butter Solution for Cancer Patients¹?

Third – wherein we begin to reach the true meat of my irritation – this man is obviously selling something. And he doesn’t expect me to notice. He is a predator who targets the emotionally vulnerable with hucksterism and mountebankery. Am I contending that diet is not an important part of dealing with cancer? Not at all. In fact, I used to joke that I would never get cancer because of the amount of hot sauce that I eat. You see, there are scientific studies linking the intake of capsaicin (the organic compound that makes peppers spicy) to a decrease in prostate and colon cancer in men. I put hot sauce in almost everything, so I hoped it would just clean me out entirely. But there is one important distinction. Those were scientific studies. The good doctor references no scientific research, doesn’t name the hospital or clinic where he works, nor provides any credentials of any sort. And his email address ends with “@hotmail.com.” Seriously? I’m supposed to take you seriously? But I’m afraid that there may be people who do, and who do so to their detriment.

I don’t want to be misunderstood here. I’m not advocating a complete rejection of alternative medicine or modes of treatment. I personally enjoy chiropractic and acupuncture. I find them relaxing. But I wouldn’t go to a chiropractor with a broken bone nor to an acupuncturist with appendicitis. Let me explain²:

Alternative medicine has, by definition, either not been proved to work or been proved not to work. You know what they call alternative medicine that’s been proved to work?

Medicine.

I’m not denying that there is a place for holistic treatments in the pantheon of modern medicine. But I do believe that such treatments are only part of a viable treatment regimen. To contend otherwise is short-sighted and destructive. There are times in any treatment where the invasive practices of surgery and chemotherapy and radiation become necessary. They were necessary in my case. If I had ignored that necessity, I would be dead now. But charlatans don’t care for that kind of detail. They’re only interested in making a buck. Snake oil, hair tonic, homeopathy (no, water doesn’t have memory, but thank you), and John Edward are no substitute for a real treatment.

So, doc, I shan’t be contacting you anytime soon. I hope no one else does, either.

Until next time, dear friends, be good to each other. And don’t try to sell each other a bag of tricks to solve a difficult problem – physical, emotional, or otherwise. Those just compound the problem.

—————

1 – Serious bonus points will be awarded to anyone who understands that reference.

2 – OK, I’ll let British comedian/musician/poet Tim Minchin explain it, since I’m borrowing from his fantastic 10-minute beat poem Storm. Fair warning, the poem does contain harsh language.

Why Did I Get Out Of Bed Today?

PaduanBenedick — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 03:01:30 +0000

Or, more aptly, For My Father

Good evening, dear reader.

Have you ever had one of those days during which a single question constantly recurs, “Why did I get out of bed today?” Today was one of those days; it would have been better had I just slept through it. Of course, sleep was a large part of my problem. In the wee hours of this morning, I awoke sobbing. I had been trapped in an all-to-real dream that kept me raw and shaken throughout the day. I’m hoping that writing about it, and why I have reacted so strongly to it, will help. This will likely be the single most personal entry I have written in this blog, so if you’re not in the mood for that kind of emotion, I suggest you move on.

I won’t go into too much detail about the dream – partly because I’m still trying to distance myself from the particulars – but I will give you the main point. In this dream, I lost my father to a heart attack. I was there when it happened, and – again – I could do nothing to stop it. Now, keep in mind, my father is quite well, currently enjoying a road trip with my mother to visit friends, and looks much younger than his years. I don’t believe the dream to be a premonition of any kind. Of course, once I awoke and realized I had been dreaming, it didn’t stop me from picking up the phone in the middle of the night to make sure that everything was alright.

So, you ask, and justifiably so, why is this obvious figment of my imagination still haunting me? Why can I not let it go? Perhaps because it has reminded me of how close I have come to committing one of those tragic errors in which stubborn men refuse to verbalize their emotions regarding one another. It has reminded me of things left unsaid and actions left undone for no reason.

Sure, we allow false reasons to build up in our minds. I allow the dozens of things about which we disagree (some big, some small – all made larger than they should be by my pride) to interfere, to cloud my judgment, to form – on occasion – the seeds of resentment. But who doesn’t disagree in one affair or another with a parent? I am thirty-two years old, and still have both my parents to call upon in my times of need. How fortunate am I? How selfish – and foolish - am I to take this for granted?

You see, dear reader, my father is my Superman. He always has been, and he always will be. He has more integrity and honor than any person I have ever met. And at times, I think I have hated him for it. I remember the times that I knew he could make my troubles go away – troubles I had inflicted upon myself through my own arrogance and foolishness – but he refused. At times like that, I could not see that he was forcing me to grow. To become someone better than who I was. I only felt my own short-sighted pain, and I resented his inaction.

But I have never thanked him for making those choices, which must have been unimaginably more difficult than I had ever considered.

My father has never wavered – to my knowledge – when standing up for what he believes. He is a man of conviction whose equal I am not likely to ever meet again. And on many of those convictions, we disagree. Yet in seeing him stand up for his, I have learned how to stand up for my own.

But for that lesson, I have never thanked him.

My father is often a man of few words, but those he chooses he does so wisely. This is a lesson I have not yet mastered, though I have seen it demonstrated so many times.

Don’t misunderstand me. There’s a bit of Clark Kent in there, too. I have seen moments of doubt, and of frailty, and of fear. But they were never moments of self-doubt, nor personal frailty, nor fear for himself. I have seen doubt furrow his brow when faced with the uncertain future of a dying son. I have seen the failty of his stalwart visage in the face of my pain. I have seen the ache in his eyes and his heart when he feared for my life as I lay in a hospital bed.

But for opening himself as he has done, for sharing his fear and doubt, for showing the me the man he is inside, I have never thanked him.

This is a mistake I can no longer bear to repeat.

Dad, for all these things, and so, so much more, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I love you.

Until next time, dear reader, take care of each other. And do not leave unspoken those things you cannot bear to remain silent for eternity.

Long Week Falling

PaduanBenedick — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 02:37:23 +0000

Warning: This post contains language that some may find offensive. Proceed with caution.

Good afternoon, dear reader. I hope this weekend finds you well and relaxed. This has been an interesting week with many conflicting emotions for me to battle. I’m doing my best to stay positive, but doing so has proven difficult several times over the past few days.

The major occurrence this week was a visit to my surgical oncologist. This was the first time I’ve seen him in three months or so. True to his nature, he has retained his very skillful approach to his practice of medicine as well as his totally rubbish bedside manner. After the standard weigh-in and minor interrogation by one of the staff nurses, I was visited by a junior doctor, one of the new members of my oncologist’s team. Apparently, those interns/residents with whom I spent my time in the hospital have gone on to better things. However, this new resident (I’m assuming) informed me that my case had become somewhat legendary around the hospital corridors. I found that mildly amusing.

Finally, the oncologist himself arrived. After a few more questions and a brief examination of my airway, he consented to the removal of my trach tube. While at first the sensation was awkward, I acclimated very quickly. Suffice it to say, I’m thrilled to not have something lodged in my throat at all times. As he continued the exam, he was explaining the surgery to the new resident. As though he were oblivious to the fact that Adrianne and I were in the room, he made statements like, “This was as bad as a cancer of this type can be.” Once he finally acknowledged my presence again, he added, “We’re not out of the woods yet.” He then scoffed at the mention of the CT scan that was scheduled for two days later (by my chemotherapy oncologist) saying that I was not sufficiently past radiation therapy for the images to be of any use. He said that he wouldn’t ask for a CT until six months after radiation was over. When I offered to have the imaging center send him copies of the scan, he said point-blank, “No, they’ll be useless.” Charming, right? At least he’s a talented surgeon.

What gets to me is the fact that this gets to me. I hear the indifference in his voice and the warnings in his words, and I am immediately pulled back to the exact same place I was four or five months ago when this was going to kill me. I feel like all my progress is gone, all my resolve is gone, and I feel the same fear that almost overwhelmed me when this all began.

I don’t like feeling that way. I don’t want to feel that way. Quite frankly, I shouldn’t have to feel that way. A healthy respect for the legitimate concerns posed by this disease is one thing. Doom-and-gloom from a jackass physician is something entirely different. Is there no glimmer of hope, Doc? Really? My surgical margins were clear. The PET scan that was conducted before I began radiation therapy showed no signs of cancer anywhere in my body. I threw a (virtually) experimental combination of chemotherapy drugs at this monster while undergoing thirty-five radiation treatments (on the large side of the spectrum of radiation treatments). Not out of the woods? Thanks. Good to know. P.S., you’re a dick.

As for the rest of the week, I suppose it went alright. I think I’ve been hampered by the brush with the physician more than I consciously realize. I haven’t slept well. For much of the weekend, I simply felt off somehow. It’s hard to explain. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something, but I haven’t yet figured out what it is. Perhaps my subconscious doesn’t really exist.

Have you ever thought that you may be a figment of your own imagination? I’ve felt like that quite a bit lately. The person I was six months ago is gone. He simply does not exist any longer. For that matter, nor does the person who sat down and began penning this entry several hours ago. Between those times and now, there have been thoughts and ideas and fears and revelations that distinguish me from those men. The only me I know to exist is the one who is here at this very moment. Why should I fear my own mortality, my own death? The I who is is neither the I who was nor the I who will be.

Until next time, dear reader, take care of each other.

If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things. —Rene Descartes

Imprisoned in Fantasia

PaduanBenedick — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 19:23:53 +0000

Warning: This post contains profanity because I am not having a good day. Proceed at your own peril.

Good evening, dear reader. I don’t know why or how if happened, but I slept most of the day away. I wasn’t up particularly late yesterday evening, but somehow I managed to sleep for close to eighteen hours. I wish that I could say it had been restful. Rather, it was filled with violent dreams; one of them had a very movie-like feel to it. But the common thread in all of them is that I could not keep the people I cared about safe.

I’m awake now, but I feel like not much has changed. Since waking, I have explicably had the song Make a Man Out of You from Disney’s Mulan stuck in my head. And this is the first time in years that a Disney tune has reduced me to tears. But the song won’t go away with its fucking reminder of all that I no longer am, and I cannot stop crying.

In my dreams, I was powerless and afraid, scheming ways to safety because I was too much of a coward to stand up an fight. But my schemes were always found out, and those I cared about always suffered for them. And now that I am awake, there is no one to fight, I have already lost. I have been reduced to an echo of what I once was. And my family will suffer for it. I’d like to look for a better paying job, so that I could take better care of them, but who’s going to hire a tongueless urchin who can barely communicate? No, I’m stuck where I am. And what if someone were to threaten them? What could I do? These days, I need a cane to walk and an extra ten minutes to get anywhere I’m going. I am in no condition to defend anyone.

Maybe I just need the chance.

Until next time, dear friends, take care of each other.

We must be swift as a coursing river
With all the force of a great typhoon
With all the strength as a raging fire
Mysterious as the dark side of the moon

Quick Hit: The King of Pop

PaduanBenedick — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 14:28:05 +0000

Good morning, dear reader. I know that there have already been thousands of blog posts written about the passing of Michael Jackson. Many questions have been asked about his legacy, about how he will be remembered. Which will stand out in the public psyche in one hundred years? Will is be his undeniable status as the one of the greatest performers in the history of music, or will it be the fallen genius who was almost surely a pedophile? Will there be a way to balance the two images that we create? Will we ever truly grasp that the real Michael Jackson is in all likelihood entirely dissimilar from the social construct that is a result of tabloid media, celebrity culture, and our own imaginations?

Perhaps you can tell by my opening tone that I am – and will always be – a huge Michael Jackson fan¹. Yes, I recognize there are certain problems here. I’m not going to defend him blindly. I see the path into which MJ fell as a consequence of the abuses that he suffered as a child himself. Childhood – real, authentic childhood – became the unattainable unicorn of his life; and his world shattered as he tried to reclaim it. This is not a defense; it is merely an observation. If you’re interested in a well-reasoned and articulate exploration of the troubles that plagued Michael, I can direct you to a couple of blogs I fancy penned by writers more knowledgeable and articulate with the subjects of abuse and psychological trauma than I (just email me – paduanbenedick [at] gmail [dot] com – if you’re interested).

I am sorry that Michael died before he could begin the type of transformative healing that we saw in John Lennon through the 1970s. John was an especially virulent misogynist in his youth and early career; but, interestingly enough, it was feminism that healed him. Have you ever heard his song Mother? Painful, honest, and gripping, it is one of his most impressive songs – and one of the hardest to really listen to². I wish that Michael had found the opportunity and the Muse for that type of healing.

I’d like to take the opportunity to share my favorite of Michael Jackson’s songs with you. There are at least a dozen candidates for “favorite,” I know, but this one usually wins out for me. Songs like We Are the World and Black and White that directly confront human issues and frailties are wonderful and brilliant and moving. But this one – this one is Gandhi set to music³. Released as a single six days after I turned eleven years old, from the album Bad, I give you Man in the Mirror. Enjoy.

I’ll be back later today with a proper update, my friends. I hope you each have a great day.

Until next time, take care of each other.

Make that change.

_____________________

1 – I believe that I own every one of his albums. They’re in a box in the garage with most of my CDs. Digging them out this weekend would probably be worth the collateral embarrassment of finding the countless discs collectively entitled I Can’t Believe i Actually Used to Listen to This Crap.

2 – Dammit, there’s just no way to refrain from ending that sentence with a preposition without being way too awkward.

3 – You must be the change you wish to see in the world – Mahatma (Mohandas) Gandhi

On Self-Awareness, Part One

PaduanBenedick — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 03:41:05 +0000

As I reach the four-week mark since coming home, I have to marvel at the amount of change that has occurred in such a short span of time. And if I were to stretch that window back another two weeks or so, the difference is even more profound. Three weeks ago, I was anxious to get home so that I could begin reclaiming my life. However, when I finally got home, it was all I could do to stand or walk for five minutes at a time. Seriously. For the first week or so, whenever we went to the grocery store or the box store, I’d be that slightly off-center dude in the mechanized cart / wheelchariot of death contraption who was trying in vain to refrain from running over small, wayward children. And, of course, many people scoffed at me at first. I suppose this is understandable; from a certain perspective, it wasn’t particularly clear that I was in any way physically injured; plus, I still look relatively young. Then the person glaring would notice the trach tube, and the monstrous swelling on the left side of my jaw, and the fact that my suture lines were still leaking some odd combination of bodily fluids (yeah, I was sexy, I know); it was at this point that the floor became the most fascinating thing that person had ever seen.

On some levels, the whole experience was unnerving and anoying. On others, it was totally hilarious. However, it was a keen reminder to me about a few important issues – prejudice, judgmentalism, and self-awareness. I’m sure that I am as guilty of it as anyone else. I know that there have been times I have watched an apparently able-bodied person step lightly out of a car parked in a spot marked for disabled persons. But do I really know? Sure, when the driver jogs quickly across the street, it’s probably a safe bet that the placard is for someone else; still, how simple it is to fall into the most common of prejudices – that only that which can be seen is relevant.

My encounter with cancer has affected a bit of a change in how I view things (I realize that this statement is an enormous shock to your sensibilities, dear reader). As I hope has become obvious to those who have read this blog throughout, I am now making a conscious effort to be more present and aware of the infinity of each precious second that I have to enjoy. Six months ago I was taking my life for granted; it seems there is very little I would not now trade to have one night of experiences from that time again.

As I mentioned yesterday, I would like to write a bit concering why I have recovered more rapidly than projected – or, at the very least, my own opinion of why. Were I to reduce it to its barest components, it is awareness. Please understand, this is not to say that I consider myself uniquely aware, enlightened, or at all beyond anyone else. Simply put, this is the summation of my recent experiences and observations.

When I speak of awareness, there are so many facets that can reflect their own individual meaning for the subject. Regarding my speech, for instance, the primary facet of my awareness is the ownership of and familiarity with all the sensations associated with the process. You see, dear reader, I first stepped onto a stage and in front of an audience over twenty-five years ago; as many of you know, hiatus or two aside, I have never really left the stage. Because of the experiences this avocation has given me, because of my training and my desire to improve, I learned to pay close attention not only to the sound of my voice, but also to the feel of it. The dialects and imitations into which I would so readily drift were a product of that attention to detail. For example, did you know that Sean Connery and Jimmy Stewart have almost identically formed voices? Find someone who can perform a reasonable impression of both men; that person will tell you. For me, both voices were formed in the precise middle of my mouth. The major difference is, of course, Connery’s dialect.

Because I have spent so many years paying attention to how words feel, I believe that I was able to rejoin the ranks of the speaking more easily than anticipated. I’m hoping that this translates to other aspects of my recovery as well; though, honestly, I’m not too sure how it would. This is the point that I believe becomes the reverse of those benefits that I mentioned in yesterday’s update. Since I have spent so much time noticing how things feel – and it’s worth mentioning, I believe, that I minored in Dance while pursuing my B.A., so kinesthetic learning and muscle memory are also deeply incorporated into my daily life – I wonder if it is not easier for me to imagine minute differences, to conjure psychosomatically a previously unnoticed tic or aberration. How will this affect my recovery? Will I let my imagination run away with me? It was (and is) of great comfort to receive the results of last week’s PET scan; it is one thing fewer that can summon up fearmongers in my head.

I will continue this conversation soon, dear reader. I would like to continue cultivation of my self-awareness; I would like your assistance, if I may be so bold as to beseech you for it. Details will follow in Part Two.

For now, I have a Daily Update to pen.

Namaste.

Quick Hit: Experience

PaduanBenedick — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 14:13:35 +0000

This quote showed up in my RSS feed reader and I absolutely had to share it. Given everything that I’ve been dealing with lately, these words really speak to me.

Experience is not what happens to you; it is what you do with what happens to you.

- Aldous Huxley

What do you think?

Also, speaking of Aldous Huxley, he and George Orwell both wrote famous (and rightfully so – they’re both brilliant) novels about dystopian futures. The interesting contrast is this – in Orwell’s dystopian future, what we fear has risen up to control us; however, in Huxley’s vision, what we love has coddled us into unquestioning submission.

With everything we see in American society today – rampant consumerism (even in a depression), “reality” television, celebutantes, pain and suffering and love and lust as entertainment – I’m beginning to fear that Huxley was far more prophetic than Orwell. Unfortunately, Huxley’s vision is far more tempting, far more insidious, and far more difficult to escape than that of 1984.

Do you thing I’m wrong?

An Important Anniversary

PaduanBenedick — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 21:26:41 +0000

While this blog focuses on cancer and my personal experiences, I do feel that from time to time it is important to look beyond those things. For example, today is the twentieth anniversary of a major event in the worldwide struggle for freedom. I choose to remember on this day that there are those whose battles are harder than mine, whose resolve is stronger, and whose vision is more epic.

Tienenman Square, 4 June 1989

To borrow from Wil Wheaton, a man who is a personal inspiration to me on a number of levels, “Because, in China, they aren’t allowed to remember.”

Poetry Thursday – Haiku, Can You?

PaduanBenedick — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 20:07:54 +0000

I feel my illness
Dying with a silent scream.
Inside there is joy.

Waves of compassion
Carry my heart to safety.
Thank you, my dear friends.

Haikus are easy.
But they don’t always make sense.
Refrigerator.¹

The easy path isn’t.
Uncried tears give no solace.
My life is my own.

I will still be here
When sun rises tomorrow.
You can count on it.

__________________

1 – Hat tip to my good friend Chris and his awesome t-shirt collection for the third stanza.

P.S. – No, they’re not good, but my spontaneous poetry never is. Just felt like flexing a slightly different mental muscle for a few minutes.

(Except that third one, which isn’t mine)

The Danger of Ableism

PaduanBenedick — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 01:25:21 +0000

There number of -isms in our culture is large. Sure, there are the obvious ones like racism and sexism. There are other, often less considered, members of the family as well, such as homophobia, ageism, and sizism. Yes, strides – sometimes great ones – have been taken to ameliorate them, but by no means are they gone. They still poison our society in ways too numerous to count. Today, I’d like to get on the soapbox for a bit about one of the lesser known relatives in the -isms family – ableism. Simply put, ableism¹ is the prejudice or discrimination against those who are physically disabled; it is the unquestioned practice of designing the world as though we all have the same physical abilities and the same physical limitations.

Let me give you some background on my experience with ableism. In my professional life, I spend a great deal of time dealing with website design, maintenance, and programming. As we live in the so-called Information Age, the ubiquity of the internet as a facet of everyday life is becoming more accepted and less questioned as time goes on. But how many of you have ever thought about how a visually impaired person views the internet? Visual impairment can take many forms – nearsightedness, farsightedness, color blindness, complete blindness, etc. How do users who suffer from these conditions access the same technologies and information that those who do not share their impairment utilize on a daily basis? The answer is two-fold. The primary portion of the resolution is good design; if web pages and web utilities are conscienciously designed with all users in mind, there are many ways to ease the difficulties that may be experienced by impaired users. The second portion of the resolution is assistive technology; assistive technologies are created to augment the abilities of a user so that he or she may utilize information as easily as possible.

Over the past two years, I have become the primary advocate for an assertive position regarding the implementation of good design and adherence to the tenets laid down by the W3C with regards to the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). My suggestions have, on occasion, been met with resistance, because it does require more time and more effort to create a well-rounded design that is utilizable by everyone. However, I still contend that those who create technologies bear the responsibility to insure that those systems are functional for the greatest number of users possible.

Previously, I had little personal stake in this issue. While I am nearsighted, my vision is correctable to 20/20 with contacts or glasses. While not with regard to my vision, I learned today just how much more of a stake I have in this issue now. On the to-do list for the morning was “pay the electric bill,” a simple and routine task that is easily accomplished every month. Today, however, I noticed something different. I’m sure that you, dear reader, have experience with the glorious invention that is the automated phone tree. Yes? I see the nods in the audience, so I shall continue. As you navigate your way through the string of questions, usually guided by a female resident of the Uncanny Valley, you have choices to make and information to communicate. Most of the time, it seemed to me, there was the option of speaking your selection or using the keypad to respond to a prompt. But what happens when that second option is no longer an option? What is no one was concerned with accessibility and good design for the speech impaired and neglected to make possible the use of the phone’s keypad to respond to queries? Such is the case for my electric company, much to my chagrin. After a hard fought battle, I was able to force the system to understand my “yes,” but anything beyond that was a lost cause.

This was a intriguing experience for me. Over the past three weeks, I have realized that I have a speech impediment for the time being. However, in my communications with human beings, I have been able to go slowly, choose my words carefully, and – with patience on everyone’s part – make myself understood. The computerized voice on the other end of the line today was not so forgiving. Today, for the first time, I felt disabled.

I will be writing a letter to my electric company in which I request that they examine modifying their system. I do not know if any change will come of it, but I cannot believe that I am the only one of their customers affected in this manner. I will also resolve to be more mindful in my daily life of my own tendencies towards ableism. May I ask the same of you, my friend? Please, consider it.

If you are interested in learning more about ableism in today’s world, please know that I am hardly the most knowledgeable and articulate on the subject. I would heartily recommend that you visit Shakespeare’s Sister or Feministing, two of my favorite blogs, where issues such as these are routinely discussed.

______________________

1 – Further, ableism is defined by the ABC-CLIO Companion to the Disability Rights Movement (edited by Fred Pelka) as “that set of often contradictory stereotypes about people with disabilities that acts as a barrier to keep them from achieving their full potential as equal citizens in society.”