Christmas has Arrived!


Well jingle all the way! Christmas arrived just before the cherry blossoms – I was beginning to get worried.

Of course, while getting my main Christmas present was a wonderful achievement in its own right, the actual present is also rather interesting. Following relays of emails to and from Ireland and the U.S. (but more than likely an automated response teller based in Lahore or somewhere like that) my years subscription for the New Yorker arrived only three months late. Whose fault it was shall remain buried in the annals of poxy online ordering systems and poor familial communications.

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The Making of a Modern Disease


When my grandmother died from leukemia I had no concept of what it was she was suffering from. For that matter, I had no concept of what any cancer was, and I would still refrain from trying to explain what it is, or more importantly what it is like to suffer from it.

From what I can tell though, cancer changes you and the people around you, it is your life as much as it can take your life.

Below is an article from the New Yorker about the perceptions and reactions in the past hundred years related to cancer, and specifically cancer treatment. I think it makes a much better stab at giving an idea of what the disease actually is.

Cancer World

The making of a modern disease.

by Steven Shapin

This is how it starts. Carla wakes up one morning feeling that something is wrong. She has been having headaches, but not of the normal, take-a-pill-and-relax type. These headaches come with a sort of numbness, and now she notices some other things that aren’t as they should be. There are bruises on her back that she can’t explain; her gums have been going pale; and she’s very, very tired. She goes to her doctor, but he can’t tell her what’s wrong. Try some aspirin, he says; maybe it’s a migraine. The aspirin doesn’t help, so she finally asks for some blood tests and soon she winds up at Massachusetts General Hospital, in Boston, where a young and talented physician gives her the preliminary diagnosis: acute lymphoblastic leukemia (A.L.L.). Carla knows nothing about lymphoblasts, or why she’s going to have to have a bone-marrow sample taken, but she knows about leukemia. It’s cancer of the blood. She’s terrified, and she may not be in a state of mind to take in the oncologist’s reassurance that A.L.L. is “often curable.”

Carla now enters not just a cancer ward but a cancer world. The ward is what the sociologist Erving Goffman once called a “total institution,” like asylums, armies, prisons, monasteries, and Oxbridge colleges—an institution that strips you of your identity and equips you with a new one. She’s given a case number, a bracelet, a hospital gown. Some of her physicians will know her name and what she was before becoming a cancer patient, and some will not. Her chemotherapy ward is an environment made sterile in order to protect her soon to be therapeutically devastated immune system from infection, so her relations with family and friends are reconfigured along with the rhythms of her days and weeks. She’s now a case.

Continue reading at newyorker.com »–›



Why the Revolution Will Not Be Tweeted.


This article from the New Yorker which I just finished reading is somewhat related to an article I wrote previously about Facebook and the Neil Postman book Amusing Ourselves to Death. Basically, this looks further into the disconnection that a tool like Facebook can cause. In this case it is related to social activism and the ‘friends’ and the networks we are involved with on Facebook. I’ll allow the article to speak for itself:

Small Change

Why the revolution will not be tweeted.

by Malcolm Gladwell October 4, 2010

At four-thirty in the afternoon on Monday, February 1, 1960, four college students sat down at the lunch counter at the Woolworth’s in downtown Greensboro, North Carolina. They were freshmen at North Carolina A. & T., a black college a mile or so away.

“I’d like a cup of coffee, please,” one of the four, Ezell Blair, said to the waitress.

“We don’t serve Negroes here,” she replied.

The Woolworth’s lunch counter was a long L-shaped bar that could seat sixty-six people, with a standup snack bar at one end. The seats were for whites. The snack bar was for blacks. Another employee, a black woman who worked at the steam table, approached the students and tried to warn them away. “You’re acting stupid, ignorant!” she said. They didn’t move. Around five-thirty, the front doors to the store were locked. The four still didn’t move. Finally, they left by a side door. Outside, a small crowd had gathered, including a photographer from the Greensboro Record. “I’ll be back tomorrow with A. & T. College,” one of the students said.

 

Continue reading at newyorker.com »–›