Joan and Bertolt and the Distance of Cancer

I woke up this morning to learn that an old friend and mentor died of Cancer yesterday. I don’t know what kind of Cancer she had, but it seems to have progressed rather quickly and painfully. While Joan is certainly not the first person I have known to die from Cancer, she is the first person to do so while I’m in the process of surviving Cancer, so it’s a little more personal. There is no comfort to be gained from distance. In fact, there is no distance.

Please don’t misunderstand. I require no reassurances. While the Chemo can make me feel like death, I have little concern that mine is imminent. In no way do I feel like Joan’s dying has brought me face-to-face with my own mortality. I’m not being brave; I’m simply responding to the positive PET scan results, the words of my Doctor and the nature of my particular brand of Lymphoma. For someone who spends their days immersed in make-believe worlds, I've the soul of an empiricist. (Irony acknowledged.)

I’m not sure how to describe my reaction to the news of Joan dying. There is certainly the rolodex of memory, as one would expect. She was my teacher, then she was my friend. We traveled to Bali together… twice. I am thinking of the lessons she taught me, and the experiences we shared, but there is an added dimension. It’s not so much “there but for the grace of G-d…,” rather it is a sense of reflection where I would expect sadness.

It is true what I said above, “there is no distance.” Cancer and I sleep in the same bed, we wear the same clothes and eat the same food. Our Facebook status is “in a relationship.” I guess I’m a monogamist, though, and while I’m in a relationship with Cancer I don’t really have the energy for anyone else’s relationship with Cancer. I hope that doesn’t sound callous; it’s certainly not a calculated response. I love Joan, and wish that I had a chance to sit and talk with her one last time.

As I write this, I am reminded of Bertolt Brecht, one of my favorite theatre practitioners, probably best known as the playwright of The Threepenny Opera and Mother Courage and Her Children. He took ideas first advanced by the director Erwin Piscator and developed an approach to theatre commonly known as the Alienation Effect. The idea was revolutionary because it ran counter to Aristotle’s notion of catharsis, wherein an audience’s emotional investment in art precipitates a renewal in response. Brecht eschewed emotional manipulation, and preferred his audiences to acknowledge the artifice of theatre. He didn’t want audiences to suspend their disbelief, he wanted them to see the world as it really was. Brecht saw the psychological realism championed by Stanislavsky and early-20th century American dramatists, as escapist, and he sought something more akin to analytical understanding. He wanted to engender an emotional distance between his audience and his art. So, I think that’s what’s going on with me and Joan’s death… the Alienation Effect.

I beg your indulgence with the unexpected turn. A lecture on Theatre History and philosophy is not where I saw things going when I started writing about my friend. I think she’d be pleased, though. She made theatre that made people think, and if I’m thinking about her through a theatrical lens, I can’t imagine she’d object. One day, I’m sure I’ll take the time to jot down some memories, lessons and laughs that we two shared. She even yelled at me a time, or two, which I undoubtedly deserved. For now, I don’t have the space. With no premeditation or agenda, and with no lessening of my affection and admiration, I will maintain distance even within my proximity to Joan and her disease.