Unrest, the Film

As I lay in my own bed watching the film Unrest, it struck me as incredibly unfair that scores of patients (85% of patients are women), who have Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) have to fight for understanding from the world every day. I am a woman healing from breast cancer, a kind of cancer that’s suffered from the exact opposite problem than ME – a pink onslaught of awareness that is teetering on overexposure.

I never had anybody question my symptoms. When I presented to my family physician with a lump in my left breast, the slow cogs of the health care machine began to move to put me on the treadmill to diagnosis. Once diagnosed, I was sitting at a surgeon’s office one week later and under the knife two weeks after that. Radiation came two months later and that was that (except for my struggle with my mental health collateral damage).

As Jennifer Brea so brilliantly illustrates in her film, ME has no such diagnostic machine. Early in the film, her husband Omar Wasow wisely advises Jennifer as they are on their way to the Emergency Department:

If you say too little, they can’t help you.
If you say too much, they think you are a mental patient.

What he says is true. Presenting at the hospital is tricky business. I’d add, there should be nothing wrong with being a mental patient, but of course there is. There’s plenty of stigma and disbelief that comes with mental or emotional symptoms. That should not be so, but it is. ME is not ‘just in your head’ but what if something else was? Care and compassion should not be dismissed simply because there’s been no found biological cause.

But of course I’m being naïve. Patients, and dare I say, women, are dismissed all the time. Even in breast cancer, common as it may be, women are, encouraged to deny the realities of their own body, as the great Audre Lorde says. Our side effects are scoffed at and dismissed, we are told we are lucky that we aren’t dead and to be quiet and be positive. There’s great pressure on those who have had cancer to ‘get back to normal’ and even worse, to be ‘better than ever!’ Nothing ever goes back to normal after a glimpse into death. But many in our families and in health care are uncomfortable with any narrative other than the ‘I’m cured!’ heroic story. This is not our reality.

There are many remarkable elements in Jennifer Brea’s Unrest film. Jennifer made the film from her bed. This makes me pause and wonder what able-bodied me has accomplished lately. She tells not only her story, but the story of other people around the world with ME too. This is not a story of redemption – there is no happy ever after. This is real life. She’s not afraid to be vulnerable and for that I applaud loudly. It is tough to put yourself out there, but it is absolutely necessary too. You witness her pain, her struggle and ultimately, the love of her husband too. Like Rana Awdish’s In Shock book, Unrest is a love story too. It is a story about caregiving administered with deep affection.  At one point her husband Omar tells Jennifer, you bring joy to my life every day.  This is a tender insight into what most people don’t understand about caregiving, as I say about caring for my son with Down syndrome – it is done for love.

My friend and former colleague Kathy Reid works in a pain clinic. She told me the first thing that she tells new patients is I believe you. So many times their pain has been scoffed at or minimized.

If people arrive at your doorstep in pain – any kind of pain – emotional, physical, mental, spiritual – do not dismiss them. Do not turn away. It is the job of the healer first to listen and then to believe.

To find out more about ME, check out the Tools section on the Unrest website. Us patients need to stick together – breast cancer, metastatic breast cancer, other cancers, ME, other chronic diseases. It doesn’t matter. The only way change is going to happen is if we pause in the fierce war to compete for resources to lift each other up.

I’ll end with quoting the entirety of Audre Lorde’s famous words from The Cancer Journals, dedicated to Jennifer Brea:

I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I have made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit in a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences.

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