Most kids have heroes at a fairly young age, but I was 21 before I found mine, and she was dying. Her name was Jory Graham. I had just moved to
The time was the early seventies and it was an era when even whispering the word cancer was beyond anything today's generation (who live among pink ribbons, traveling bowel exhibits and well-advertised golf tournaments for prostate cancer research) could possibly imagine. Let's just say that back then if it was known that you had cancer the good china was quickly removed from your place setting at a dinner party and you'd find a paper plate instead, and that’s if you were invited in the first place.
Perhaps Jory was the first public stigma fighter; I don't really know, since I hardly even knew the word stigma at the age of 21 - my life was about playing tennis, sailing, and getting my MBA. Yet there was something about her writing style and her guts that drew me to her; she had hero quality written all over her - at least to my way of thinking.
Jory wrote that she had found out by accident that there was little likelihood she would win her battle with cancer. She walked in late to a darkened auditorium at the
After hearing her horrible prognosis in such an unexpected way, I cannot even begin to guess what motivated Jory to use the rest of her time fighting the stigma of cancer, but I do know she did just that. I read her newspaper columns religiously as well as her book. I even attended (actually the proper description would be "crashed") her last speech. This was over two decades ago. I've no clear memory of what she said on that occasion, but what I do remember clearly is every detail about her and that day.
She arrived at the hospital's packed auditorium by ambulance. The attendants rolled her gurney onto a barren stage and elevated her head just a little so she could see the audience and reach the microphone. The room went completely silent as she gathered strength to tell the assembled doctors, nurses and healthcare administrators what living, and now dying, with cancer under their care was like. She also talked about being uninvited to social occasions when people learned she had cancer, although I don't remember her actually using the word "stigma".
After her presentation, people lined up to file one by one past her gurney on that barren stage, pen in hand to have her autograph their copy of her book. Having crashed the lecture, I knew the jig would be up if I took my place in the line without a medical lab coat, but I was beyond caring if I was to be summarily escorted out. I'm sure this room full of bright folks quickly figured out I didn't belong among them, but no one questioned me as I stood quietly in line waiting my turn and watching her become more and more tired until she could hardly lift a pen to sign her name.
