A classic sketch featuring Dana Carvey as Tom Brokaw aired on Saturday Night Live in 1996. The comedic premise has Brokaw (Carvey) pre-taping former President Gerald Ford obituaries to “cover all contingencies,” while Brokaw prepares to spend the winter in Barbados, presumably then unavailable to cover breaking news. Brokaw is reporting the fictional/possible “Gerald Ford shot dead” story, when his producer prompts Brokaw to include the word “senseless” (marker 1:10 in the linked video). Brokaw reports, “Gerald Ford shot dead today at the senseless age of 83”; the crowd erupts in laughter.
Of course it’s not the age of former President Ford that is senseless, but his assassination. This post is not on the mechanics of humor, but there is something instructive about this joke, grounded in what we mean by “senseless.” President Ford’s age is easily accounted for, and not something arbitrarily assigned to the President. Indeed, we could verify the President’s age by examining evidence such as the year recorded on his birth certificate. What we could not account for are the motives, thoughts, and attitudes of the imagined assassin. Hence, it is appropriate to say, “shot dead, senselessly,” rather than, “senseless age of 83.” Brokaw’s inappropriate insertion of “senseless” upon the producer’s request plays as a joke about language and about the “thoughtless anchor” trope, who only reads the prompter but, in some sense, does not know what they are saying. (For another salient example, see Will Ferrell’s Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, “Go fuck yourself, San Diego,”)
Senselessness in the context of Carvey’s Brokaw cashes out as some feature of an event or thing that we cannot account for. It is inexplicable. It confounds us. It is senseless. Someone’s reported age is not senseless. The unlikely assassination of a former President is senseless. Let this be a stand-in definition for ‘senseless’: something for which an account cannot be given. Hopefully I have provided adequate motivation to pick up this concept and apply it. Regardless, nothing all that important turns on the definition we settle on for ‘senseless.’
My loved ones identify senselessness in my glioblastoma diagnosis. There is no known cause for glioblastoma. There is no known cure for glioblastoma. This characterizes the disease as a double whammy: no prevention and no cure; utterly senseless. Adam was diagnosed with glioblastoma at the senseless age of 34.
Fortunately, we are not doomed to senselessness. We can see our way out of it by appeal to a recurring theme on my blog: narrative medicine.
Read the following description of one responsibility of clinical practice from Arthur Kleinman, quoted in Dr. DasGupta and Dr. Charon’s article on personal illness narratives: “Rather than technical adherence to any strict format of history taking, empathetic witnessing involves ‘the existential commitment to be with the sick person and to facilitate his or her building of an illness narrative that will make sense of and give value to the experience’” [emphasis added].
Kleinman’s claim, endorsed by Drs. DasGupta and Charon, prescribes that clinicians are assigned the task of helping persons under their care to construct their narratives, that is, to tell their stories, and in so doing, to find sense in the circumstances and by some measure render the experience valuable.
I floated an analysis of ‘senseless’ to be an event or thing that cannot be accounted for. If you get on board with that definition, then making sense, as Kleinman orders, of the senseless, involves giving an account for one’s circumstances. Easily done, maybe, when you pick out your own agency in a circumstance, but with so many cancers generally, and glioblastoma, particularly, there is no accounting for the disease and no role for personal agency. Personal agency features heavily in our acceptance and moving forward with the diagnosis, but causally, pre-diagnosis, there was nothing I could have done to prevent my brain cancer; this is what I mean by no role for agency. The circumstance seemingly remains senseless. Is there another interpretation on offer? I suggest an alternative.
Rather than seek meaning in the senseless, a Sisyphean task, as I have said, there is no accounting for glioblastoma, what if I were to recast the circumstances in a new way, not as Adam with brain cancer that has no cause and is thereby senseless, but let us examine the outcome, when I interpret the circumstances as Adam, the graduate-trained philosopher, nearly ten years of experience training, consulting, and facilitating organizational change management in professional settings, with a supportive family, a strong social network, and relatively unimpaired cognitive functioning relative to this stage of his disease, save for his neuro-fatigue, seizures, headaches, frequent breaks, etc. On this revised reading of my circumstances, I have done nothing to change the constants that are included in the story–I still have brain cancer; there still is no cure, but I recast the circumstances in such a way to mitigate the threat of those things for which we cannot account.
There is no accounting for glioblastoma, or my having the disease, that is all senseless, confounding, inexplicable, but there is a way to tell my story, to construct my narrative, that makes sense of things, or at least better sense of them than I possessed pre-reflectively. I repeat for emphasis: I recast the circumstances in a way that made sense, in such a manner to mitigate the threat of those constants that are senseless. We may infer from Kleinman’s direction that making sense aids the storyteller in finding value in the experience. What I have done here in a few short paragraphs that reflect my many months wrestling with my disease, is to set aside those things for which I cannot make sense. I allow the disease, and my having it, to be senseless, but as Kleinman orders, I can make sense of and find value in the experience. More accurately: I distinguished the particulars that make up the experience from the experience itself. Some facets of my experience, the cause of glioblastoma, for example, are senseless, but my illness experience is much, much greater than the diagnosis.
I penned an open letter to Senator John McCain last week, on the heels of his glioblastoma diagnosis. I received countless article comments, tweets, and emails. One email related the story of a person whose dad died from glioblastoma when this person was still a child, only 12 years old, too young to understand the complexities and difficulties of daily living with brain cancer. This person, then child, emailed to tell me that my letter of advice and support to the Senator helped this person to better understand what life was like for that person’s father. By constructing my narrative in new lights, lights seeking to shine brightly on the experience that can be made sense of, allowing the senseless particulars to remain as part of the experience, but their threat mitigated, I found value in my experience by sharing my story with others.
We find sage advice at the intersection of comedy and medicine. Unsurprisingly. These both are unique expressions of humanity. Comedy and medicine are experiences far greater than the particulars that make them up.
Clinicians and professionals aid a person in crafting their narrative with the purpose of distinguishing those things for which we cannot account from the experience itself, when performed successfully, sense can be made of the senseless, and value can be found in the experience, even an illness experience, but just like comedy, we get better with practice.
 DasGupta, Sayantani, and Rita Charon. “Personal illness narratives: using reflective writing to teach empathy.” Academic Medicine 79, no. 4 (2004): 351-356.
7 responses to “Making Sense of the Senseless”
Thanks for your helpful insights, hard won and very valuable.
I have found that my glioblastoma multiform is “all in my head”. Most of my problems in life, so far, have been “all in my head” anyway. I’m 71 years old and despite the drama of my disease have somehow not lost my sense of humor. My 1 year survival anniversary is approaching (Sept. 14, 2016 Dx) and I still find humor on a daily basis because we humans really are funny most of the time. It’s kind of like the Dali Lama says when asked what surprised him most about humanity “Man. Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. An then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.” My version of this is that man sacrifices his sense of humor in order to deny reality, then “seriously” struggles to adjust reality which cannot be changed anyway (this is not surrender to my condition). I must look at the humorous part of the small things. Just yesterday, having held my urine for two hours before an Avastin infusion, the treating nurse handed me the ice cold towelette to cleanse with before checking for less than optimal kidney function (protein). Of course, my gbm has caused a bit of incontinence so while addressing the small cup also provided by the nursely person, I had to think once again “It’s all in my head”. For me, this is the only way to deal with the ridiculous even when it is necessary. When I forget something I have the easiest excuse “I have an extra hole in my head, something must have escaped”.
Re: “I have an extra hole in my head,” when I forget something I always say, “they must have cut that part out!”
I don’t know if this is “funny/comedy”, but when my anorexic sister who struggles with osteoporosis (74y.o.) saw me after I was off life support and 35 pounds lighter, congratulated me on my weight loss. A senseless comment? We are a funny lot.
Some days comedy, some days tragedy, and all days, a combination of both.
I love the combination of comic
and tragic. My dad was clergy as I understand was yours. I know a God of compassion with a great sense of humor. Label myself a “hybrid”. Thanks again for blogging.
Thanks again for your sharing. You’ve inspired me, again, to read quotes by Ernest Hemingway and probably will reread The Old Man and the Sea after Chuck Klosterman’s 2016 book “Thinking About the Present As If It Were the Past///But What If We’re Wrong?. Another darn philosopher who compels me to use the limited portion of my brain that remains. May the Spirit continue which moves in you continue to be as is. You, as Hemingway, bleed nobly through your writing. Forgot the exact quote.