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Negotiating The Emotional Challenges of Conducting Deeply Personal Research in Health 1st Edition Alexandra "Xan" C.H. Nowakowski
Negotiating The Emotional Challenges of Conducting Deeply Personal Research in Health 1st Edition Alexandra "Xan" C.H. Nowakowski
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Negotiating the
Emotional Challenges
of Conducting Deeply
Personal Research in
Health
Public health researchers and clinicians regularly work with people who have
suffered physical and mental trauma. Knowing how to conduct a study or
treat a patient while navigating deep emotional issues requires special skills
and overall awareness of how trauma can impact the process and outcome of
those participating in research and/or receiving health care.
This book presents a diverse array of case examples from scholars of
health-related topics, focusing on biographical narratives as a window into
understanding key needs in trauma-informed scholarship and medicine.
Exploring stories from people of varied backgrounds, experiences, and con-
texts can help professionals within and beyond the academic research and
clinical care spheres create rewarding experiences for patients.
Negotiating the Emotional Challenges of Conducting Deeply Personal
Research in Health will be of interest to public health practitioners, educators,
and researchers as well as students.
Edited by
Alexandra “Xan” C.H. Nowakowski
J.E. Sumerau
First published 2018
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN, UK
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by
any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying
and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are
used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
Publisher’s Note
The publisher accepts responsibility for any inconsistencies that may have arisen during the conversion
of this book from journal articles to book chapters, namely the possible inclusion of journal terminology.
Disclaimer
Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders for their permission to reprint material in this
book. The publishers would be grateful to hear from any copyright holder who is not here acknowledged
and will undertake to rectify any errors or omissions in future editions of this book.
Dedication
Preface ix
Acknowledgments xvii
Editors xix
Contributors xxi
PART I
Rewriting the life course
1 Death check: Doing life and research with chronic autoimmune disease 3
ALEXANDRA “XAN” C.H. NOWAKOWSKI
PART II
Revising institutional logics
PART III
Rejecting stigmatization
10 But how does that make you feel? Racism and emotion management 117
DAVID SPRINGER
PART IV
Redirecting trauma
Index 177
Preface
As authors and editors in multiple formats to date, we know well that no book
is composed in isolation. There are always invaluable people who aid the pro-
cess whether or not their names show up on the cover of a given volume. As
such, we would like to thank everyone who, in one way or another, helped this
volume come to fruition, and especially note some of the people who played
primary roles in this process.
To this end, we cannot express enough gratitude to Lain A.B. Mathers
who, alongside offering a wonderful chapter in this book, has served admira-
bly as our editorial assistant and social media specialist at the “Write Where It
Hurts” blog (www.writewhereithurts.net) that gave birth to this volume since
its inception.
In a similar fashion, we are indebted to the talented authors who each con-
tributed chapters to this volume, and all the authors—whether found in this
volume or otherwise—who have contributed to the “Write Where It Hurts”
blog in the past two-plus years. When we began the blog, we never expected
the kind of support and participation we have received to date, and with the
help of many authors we continue to grow the space and encourage reflection
on the varieties of experience that inform research, teaching, art, and activism
within and beyond the academy.
At the same time, we are indebted to the people who have participated in
our “Write Where It Hurts” panels at academic conferences over the past
three-plus years, and especially to that first group who showed up brim-
ming with insights and ideas. The blog and this volume grew out of the seeds
planted in those conference panels, and we greatly appreciate the participants
and audiences who made (and continue to make) such panels possible each
year.
We would also like to note the powerful role played by supportive men-
tors in the overall trajectory that led to this volume. As implied in many of
the following chapters, supportive role models and mentors can have a pro-
found effect on academic careers and experiences. We have benefited from
such efforts from many people at Florida State University including, but
not limited to, Drs. Richard Nowakowski, Nancy Hayes, Gail Bellamy, Jill
Quadagno, Miles Taylor, Irene Padavic, Koji Ueno, John Reynolds, Terrence
xviii Acknowledgments
Hill, Petra Doan, Patricia Yancey Martin, John Taylor, Henry Carretta, Scott
Helzer, Janice McCabe, and Doug Schrock.
Finally, we want to thank the publishers of this volume for their helpful
and constructive comments, adjustments, and other efforts throughout the
process. As the authors of over eighty academic and literary works in our
careers to date, we know quite well how invaluable it is to work with a produc-
tion team that is helpful, professional, understanding, flexible, and committed
to quality. We have had the privilege of each of these elements in this process,
and we believe the volume has benefited greatly as a result.
Editors
The first time I tell my story in front of a class, I am literally shaking. Despite
the warm summer air that surrounded me while I walked in, portions of my
hands have turned white as printer paper. I press them against the podium,
gritting my teeth against the feeling as the circulation returns. My right
hand—the one I need more—spasms and curls into a rictus. I decide not to
write my name on the whiteboard. I may feel more uncertain at this moment
than I have at any other point in my career, but I feel equally confident that
these students will remember me.
I am here tonight as an example of the two things that have most defined
my life: living with chronic illness and studying chronic illness. I give a talk on
patient–provider communication (Hall, Roter, and Rand 1981) and patient-
centered medicine (Laine and Davidoff 1996). I discuss how social work-
ers can help to bridge the gaps in health care through which people often
fall (Bensing 2000). I join other scholars (Oates, Westin, and Jordan 2000)
in challenging the notion that evidence-based medicine and patient-centered
medicine are mutually exclusive frameworks. To introduce the academic and
professional content that I cover, I provide some context for the importance
of these lessons. That context just happens to be me, and the twenty-seven
years of life that I have lived in this body—years that often feel like time that
I have done. Yet, when someone asks my age, I tell this room full of suddenly
wide-eyed students, I think first that I am twenty-three plus four: the twenty-
three years before the night that was supposed to be my last and the four that
have followed after.
I am a teachable moment for this group, a living person in whom the
specter of death still hovers. I have cried on the shoulder of a social worker
in an empty hospital room, surrounded by people who will leave the ward in
body bags. I have sought counseling because thoughts of suicide became a bit
too concrete at times. I have a bottle of liquid potassium chloride stowed in
a shadowy corner beneath my bathroom sink. I could use it for maintenance
therapy, like I do with my time-release potassium tablets. I could also use it
for an entirely different purpose. The times where I have thought about buy-
ing syringes have been some of the most sociologically instructive of my life.
4 Rewriting the life course
Hovering on the brink of disclosure, I think about the possibility that my
silences have said as much as my stories may now (Charmaz 2002). Without
telling my own story, however, I cannot hope to break the systemic silence
that divides the personal from the so-called professional (Vickers 2002). This
divide is often especially sharp in academia, where notions of objectivity and
competence dominate (Myers 2007). I think that if I cannot do that, I might
as well be twenty-three again, and slip away into the darkness that has claimed
so many others with stories like mine. So I take the deepest breath my dam-
aged lungs can manage, and go back to the beginning, and allow myself to
remember.
I am four years old, the first time I stop breathing. My neurobiologist par-
ents rush me to the nearest hospital in their Volkswagen Jetta; I faintly recall
brushes of blue vinyl from the back seat against my cheek as my mother holds
me. This will be my first exposure to caregiver stress (Pearlin, Aneshensel, and
LeBlanc 1997) and gender differences therein (Yee and Schulz 2000). It will
not be my last. Years later, I will listen to my mother fall apart over the tele-
phone, promising to give me one of her kidneys, begging me to hang on until
she can be by my side. My father will sound thoughtful as he bites back tears,
explain that it may take a while for them to get standby flights, but that they
are on their way. I ask him to convince my mother to keep both kidneys; we
laugh together. Then I hang up and contemplate a life on dialysis as machines
hum around me, keeping me alive.
I am seven years old. I feel nervous about going skiing with my classmates.
My mother encourages me to eat breakfast, which I do, and then promptly
vomit up. Mom just strokes my hair and applauds me for trying to eat. I rush
her out of the bathroom so that I can use the toilet, my body now intent
on voiding all possible contents. It has been like this for as long as I can
remember. I get nervous or overly excited and my digestive system loses all
semblance of normative function. The list of foods that will make me vomit
is constantly evolving. My parents valiantly clean up vomit in a variety of
bizarre scenarios that will later seem comical. At that time, I am mortified.
I begin to view myself as a difficult child: the asthma diagnosis, the nebulizer,
the inhalers, the restrictions on what I can do, the vomiting, the diarrhea,
and the inexplicable intolerance for certain foods. I worry that I will exhaust
my caregivers, as often occurs in cases of persistent chronic illness (Bury
1991). They assure me that having me was the best decision they ever made,
but increasingly I reproduce the view of illness as deviance (Twaddle 1973)
within myself.
I am eleven years old and the pain in my pelvis seems to come from nowhere.
One moment I feel fine and the next I am bent over double in the bathroom,
confused and frightened in the limited portion of my consciousness that has not
been shattered by pain. Over time, this pain entrenches and becomes constant,
a burning ache punctuated by stabbing sensations that radiates throughout
my body. I tell no one. I sit in classes and cross my legs as hard as possi-
ble, hoping for relief that never comes. I consider asking my parents to take
Death check 5
me to the doctor, but remember the horror on their faces when I would stop
breathing, or vomit constantly, or experience such terrible diarrhea that my
skin would pucker at the wrist. I learn to numb out, not knowing at the time
that chronic pain can change the very structure of the brain (May 2008) and
disrupt important cognitive functions (Baliki et al. 2008). I focus on being
strong, on not burdening others, doing gender (West and Zimmerman 1987)
at both ends of the spectrum. I will later reflect on this as an early cornerstone
of my self-awareness as a genderqueer scholar of health.
I am thirteen years old, my stomach tied in knots from eating a small
amount of food. I feel nauseated all the time. Like many people with painful
chronic conditions, I have also begun to feel relief from controlling what I eat
for a combination of cognitive and physical reasons (Plata-Salamán 1996).
I begin to have trouble keeping food down even when I do not feel especially
anxious. Perhaps in part because I am female, the consequences of my tacit
acceptance of my gastrointestinal symptoms often meet with neutral or posi-
tive social feedback. Some of my teachers express concern; I change the sub-
ject, ask to borrow a book or get critique on a paper. My parents worry. This
will become a constant over the next few years—hugs in which my bones are
counted, sad looks as I donate clothes that once fit.
I am nineteen years old. My research career almost grinds to a halt as it is
just beginning. After fainting in the shower several times, I decide to visit the
student health service. I am vomiting so much that I struggle to keep water
down. The doctor looks at my blood work and frowns, fingers the downy hair
that my body has begun growing to keep itself warm. She tells me I need to
be in the hospital. I protest, knowing even then that hospitalization often
marks the beginning of a long process of biographical disruption (Bury 1982)
in people with chronic diseases. I am admitted to a hospital in New Jersey,
close to home. I am placed on a special ward for people with eating disorders,
despite my protests that my problems go a lot deeper than disordered eating.
My inchoate feelings (Karp 1997) spill out like tears. Something is very wrong.
Please listen to me.
My concerns are mostly dismissed, but the hospital grants me the mercy
of an endoscopy, which reveals that I have gastritis and an infection in the
wall of my stomach. I am given antibiotics, antinausea medication, and an
acid reducer. I beg to be discharged so that I can go back to school, which
I do. Things get steadily worse—the pain, the vomiting, and the diarrhea.
Sometimes I pass nothing but an odd greenish liquid for weeks at a time. One
night I vomit a quart of black slime into the bathroom sink, only to be carried
back to bed by my 110-pound mother. This disturbs me on some level, but I
ignore it in favor of focusing on my schoolwork. I do not have the sense—
or more likely, the self-respect—to feel truly horrified until it is much too
late. My memories of this time blur together to an unusual degree, a haze of
pain that I refuse to do anything about and papers I push through it to write.
I graduate magna cum laude and put my political science degree to use in a
government job that I am told on my third day I will leave for graduate school
6 Rewriting the life course
and a career in academia. I wonder at the possibility of focusing on my future
when I question my desire to live from one minute to the next.
I am twenty-two years old. All of my clothes are falling off and my hair has
begun to fall out. The constant pain in my pelvis has become so agonizing that
I begin to consider suicide. This disturbs me enough that I use my new health
insurance card to visit a primary care doctor and explain the pain as best I
can, how it feels and where I think it comes from, and my history of having
my entire reproductive system checked for everything from endometriosis to
cancer. He refers me to a gynecologist who asks if I have ever had my blad-
der examined. I sit bolt upright and ask if he thinks I have interstitial cystitis,
which other doctors had told me I could not have because I did not have issues
with continence. Within three weeks, I am diagnosed by a local urologist and
having surgery to destroy the scar tissue that has built up on the nerves in my
bladder, creating a constant flow of pain signals. Three days after surgery, I
realize that I do not feel pain in my pelvis. Then a strange sense of emptiness
swallows me whole and I begin to exhibit symptoms of posttraumatic stress
disorder—apparently not uncommon in survivors of chronic pain (Turk and
Monarch 1996).
I am twenty-three years old and immersing myself in work to avoid dealing
with the wreckage of my psyche after years of chronic pain and its social and
emotional consequences. My weight continues to drop and my gums recede
to the point that I can see bone beneath some teeth. I will later be told that if
I do not have extensive surgery on my mouth, I will probably lose all of my
teeth and portions of my lower jaw to infection. That winter, I contract a virus
that makes my digestive symptoms spiral out of control. I develop enteritis
and never recover, instead visiting the bathroom a dozen times a day to pass
liquid and eventually blood. I begin to experience tremors and shooting pains
in my limbs—tetany, I will later learn, caused by catastrophic potassium loss.
I continue to go to work and maintain my household, doing little else
except sleeping. My heart flutters in my chest. I faint in the shower again,
coming to in a cold sweat. By the time my vision begins to blur at the edges
and my lungs constrict painfully with every breath, I am hearing voices that
whisper and rasp incoherently. My sinuses constantly fill with the scent of raw
onions, a smell that I still associate with death. I become aware on some level
that I am probably dying, wonder if I even want to survive this, or if I should
simply let nature take its course. I leave work one day, feeling terribly ill, my
legs shaking so badly that I can barely drive myself home. I lie down on my
living room couch, struggling to breathe. My vision tunnels and fades. I won-
der how I will drive back to work in the morning, and it is this thought that
leads me to conclude that I might as well go to the emergency room.
The doctor in the emergency room affirms that yes, I am dying. I have
a serum potassium of 2.1 mEq/L, the lowest he has ever seen in a living
human being. He explains that even though my heart is still functioning—
remarkably with no arrhythmia—I am at risk for slipping into a coma from
which I will never return. I think about Terri Schiavo, who also died from
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XXI.
Ja kun voisi uskoa, että lapsi, jota Anna kantoi, on oma lapsi, olisi
helpompaa ja elämä vieläkin voisi muuttua, sammua kirvelevä suru
edes hetkiseksi, mutta sitäkään ei voinut.
Tähän saakka oli häntä pitänyt yllä heikko toivo siitä, että
jotenkuten saattaisi kaikki vielä selvetä ja muuttua. Oli syntynyt
sairaalloinen mielikuva, joka saattoi joskus ajattelemaan, että kaikki
olikin ehkä vain leikkiä, keksitty kiusaksi hänelle. Pikku Matti voi olla
hänen samoin kuin toinenkin. Anna vain kiusaa häntä sanoakseen
joskus, että se onkin ollut vain leikkiä, pilaa kaikki tyyni.
— Kenelle?
— Sinä olet ollut aina hyvä toveri ja ystävä minulle, virkkoi hän
tukahtuneesti Jannelle. Etkö tekisi minulle vielä yhtä palvelusta?
— Ja sitten…
— Ja sitten?
— Niin teenkin.
— Sitten?
Tuomas pysähtyi.
— Onkohan tämä nyt vaan kaikki oikein, että sinä näin…? arveli
Kustaava veljelleen.
— En minä sitä tarkoittanut. Sitä minä vain, että kun sinä näin
vapaaehtoisesti…
Siihen se nyt jää kaikki, toiselle. Parhaiksi kun ehti kiintyä, täytyy
siitä luopua.
Itsemurha!
Laine repäisi irti venheen ja pyörre alkoi sitä vetää alas, mutta nyt
tunsi Tuomas jo voiman käsivarsissaan jännittyvän. Venhe kääntyi
ylös ja ponnistaen äärimmilleen sai hän sen nousemaan.
Hetkiseksi tuli painava ajatus, että hän oli aikonut häpeäänsä vain
lisätä, eikä miehen tavalla sitä kantaa, mutta se häipyi yhtä pian kuin
painajainen äsken. Hän tunsi yöllä taistelleensa suuren taistelun,
käyneensä kuoleman läpi. Ja niin kuin uudestaan aloittaisi hän nyt
elämänsä.
Hän oli pyrkinyt. Pimeys oli ympäröinyt hänet joka puolelta. Miten
hän oli niin saattanutkaan…?
*****
Janne nyökkäsi.
— Nyt minä vasta lähdenkin, virkkoi hän hiljaa. Tule sinä sitten,
kun joudut. Ehkäpä siellä toisessa maailmassa voimme aloittaa uutta
elämää.
Anna nyyhkytti.
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.