I didn’t see any reason to.Īnd then I was having lunch with an Asian American friend and mentioned I was going to get my annual mammogram. Busy with work, kids, community and church activities, I never talked about my secret. And then, at age 32, I had a healthy baby girl. My husband and I waited for two years, until it was safe. When I finished my last chemotherapy, I shouted, “I’m done! I’m done!” I hoped to never visit an infusion center again. A 2019 study by eight researchers at six universities predicted that stigmatization and self-shame can lead to a lower quality of life among Chinese American breast cancer survivors. And this behavior wasn’t just emotionally taxing - it could have been taking a physical toll as well.Ī 2017 study in Germany showed that cancer-self shame is associated with a poorer quality of life among cancer patients. I was determined to appear strong, perfect. Yet, instead of seeking the support of friends and fellow churchgoers, I suffered in silence. But back then, I stayed in bed for hours after having the toxic chemicals dripped into me. With new drugs, patients experience less nausea and other side effects after a round of chemo. Six weeks of radiation and then months of chemo. I was shell-shocked.ĭoctors were able to save my breast, but the chemo cocktail regimen was grueling. I didn’t think young women, much less young Asian women, got breast cancer. Two days later, after my diagnosis, sobs racked my body. A doctor used a needle to extract fluid from the bead in my breast. When my husband urged me to get the lump in my breast examined, I didn’t think much of it. What kind of rational person believes such nonsense? A friend’s Chinese-American neighbor treated her like a pariah after she got breast cancer, refusing to speak to her for years. You might think this kind of stigma is exaggerated. Some might even believe cancer was contagious. I thought Asian Americans would ghost me if they believed bad luck would befall them if they associated with me. My shame stemmed from East Asian beliefs that I or my ancestors did something to bring about this misfortune. Stigma about cancer led me to keep my illness hidden. I saw tears on the cheeks of my teenage children. Twenty-eight years of secret-keeping just spilled out.
Minutes before I spoke, I begged myself not to cry. I had delivered announcements before, but this time was different. I took in the encouraging smiles on the faces of close friends. Gripping the podium in my sweat-stained blue dress, I looked out at the 300 congregants in my Chinese-American church. These anecdotes convinced me I had to speak up. Another declared she would rather die than get one. Four years ago, a Chinese-American friend told me she has never gotten a mammogram. Worse are the stories of people who have told me this fear stopped them from potentially life-saving preventative care. I lived in fear that my Chinese-American friends would shun me if I told them what I had endured. For 28 years, I kept my breast cancer a secret. And Chinese Americans may be especially vulnerable to cancer self-stigma, according to research published through the University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer and the Chinese University of Hong Kong in 2019. Some believe that illness results from karma or bad choices. It’s a complicated problem, with complicated cultural roots, like the shame and fear that stems from thousand-year-old East Asian traditional beliefs.
Asian Americans have the lowest rate of cancer screening among all ethnic/racial groups in the country. The Center for Disease Control and Prevention reported in 2017 that cancer is the leading cause of death among Asian or Pacific Islander Americans.
Only by chance, I didn’t become a statistic. I am alive 32 years later only because of sheer luck. The next day, my husband said, “Call your doctor.
0 kommentar(er)
