Reading Breast Cancer Comics in the Waiting Room

One thing is for sure: having cancer involves a lot of waiting—and a lot of waiting rooms. I always like to have a book on hand, and since I have doctor appointments nearly every week, it seemed like a great opportunity to read all the breast cancer graphic memoirs I could check out from the library. (These are all considered “graphic medicine” since they fall at the intersection of healthcare and comics.) Here’s what I have been reading lately, while waiting for my name to be called:

The nurses got a kick out of this title: “Well, I never heard that one!” One tries to joke around and be friendly with the nurses, all the while knowing that any joke one says, the nurses have heard a thousand times. They still laugh and act surprised, all part of the theater of healthcare settings. Still, I believe this title did catch the nurse off guard. She said she would look it up (I know she won’t). This is the kind of interaction that Engelberg might have drawn a comic about with her signature naive style and approachable wit. Engelberg walks the reader through her treatment, but also her experience of it, making this a personal read, like catching up with a friend. When she reveals that the cancer has sent “mets” (metastasis) into her bones and brain, I fell into a funk. I’d been in some state of denial about my own diagnosis, trying to schedule emotional fallout around my teaching schedule, when the seriousness of the diagnosis caught up with me. Getting worse isn’t the typical path of storytelling, but it is a possible outcome.

I appreciate how Fies draws about his mother’s cancer in addition to his family dynamic surrounding treatment. He draws his fervent research period, trying to become an expert in a week, as well as arguing with his siblings and father about his mother’s care. This graphic memoir is particularly poignant for folks caregiving for their parents, but I also related to the mother character, who can’t seem to keep up with her treatment details, much to the frustration of her family. We learn that perhaps she maintains her optimism because she misunderstood something or forgot the details of a particular diagnosis/complication, which made me feel a bit better about being such as deer in the headlights when talking to oncologists.

The nurse asked me about this graphic memoir, Cancer Vixen, after seeing the hot pink, defiant cover. “I realize that the author and I are very different people,” I said. Aside from dressing up for my first appointment with the oncologist (“I want the doctor to think my life is worth saving,” I told my spouse.), I hadn’t worried much about my looks, lipstick, shoes, female competition, etc. once treatment started. I live in the desert Southwest, so I’m not even sure what a New York “it girl” is. You can probably tell that from this photo, which also documents my orthopedic loafers; I was probably also wearing an oversized Grateful Dead t-shirt that day, since I was on arm-movement restrictions still. Marchetto, on the other hand, is a New York “it girl,” who documents her breast cancer experience for popular magazines. She never fails to mention the kind of high heels and brand and shade of lipstick she wears to oncology appointments. “[Marchetto] is very afraid that her fiancé will dump her after her diagnosis,” I explained to the nurse. “Luckily, that’s not something I worry about.” The nurse turned to me an whispered, “I’ve seen it happen many times, though. Many, many times.”

I am still looking for someone like Kimiko in the local support groups. I laughed out loud when Kimiko’s support group peers become supercharged anime characters, leaping into action while saying that now they eat right, exercise, etc. Why do we think that cancer is supposed to make us a better person, like we will finally make good on a lifetime of failed New Years resolutions? “I bet that cancer really puts it all into perspective for you,” a woman recently said to me. It’s a losing bet at the moment, but I didn’t want to tell her that. It hasn’t made me a better person yet, but I might not be old enough to appreciate my cancer. Kimiko might understand that sentiment, since she was diagnosed in her twenties and takes the time in this book to unpack some of those cultural expectations we have about cancer and survivors.

Like many of the narratives on this list, Gullen brings the audience along on a classic cancer journey, from discovery, diagnosis, the details of treatment, to the end of treatment. She discusses the guilt she experiences being cared for by her husband and in missing moments with her four-year-old daughter, from school pick-ups to bedtime stories. Engelberg also mentions her son in a couple comics. I began to wonder if I could read an entire book about having cancer and having a child, perhaps something co-authored between parent and child, or if I would just weep the whole time.

This memoir spans from childhood to adulthood, and many characters are treated for cancer throughout, including the author. Hayden has this incredible ability to pull the audience into her mind at the moment, as a kid or a twenty-something or adult. I laughed so many times at how the exposition balances being both unreliable and true, as well as the small, explanatory call-outs in the images, which can sometimes feel like Easter eggs in the detailed panels. I wondered if this is a kind of coming of age story, learning what to shuck as you become yourself, like quitting writing novels to focus on comics. If, as Arthur Frank claims in The Wounded Storyteller, one of the ways that people frame their illness narratives mirrors Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey, where they receive a “boon” from their journey, maybe comics is that boon. Graphic medicine sure does seem to help, whether you’re drawing or reading it.

Have a graphic medicine recommendation? Let us know in the comments.