Aretha Franklin's Quiet Message About Cancer

Aretha Franklin died of pancreatic cancer, one of the most aggressive forms of the disease. Deservedly, the attention has been on the Queen of Soul’s remarkable career and such memorable hits as “Natural Woman,” “Say a Little Prayer” and "Respect."

But I’m also heartened by how the news of her death has been reported. In a small way, it demonstrates how far we’ve come in discussing cancer and how united we can be in finding a cure.

Not that long ago, many people refused to say the word “cancer.” It was called the “C-word” or remained unspoken entirely. The misconceptions about the disease often became the ultimate bogeyman for too many families.

When my brother, Eric, was first diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL) in 1966, our cleaning lady promptly quit. She was convinced that the disease was contagious and would infect her young son.

Today, we like to think that we have a better handle on such health issues. That we can be more honest about such tragic circumstances. But before Franklin’s passing, David Bowie, the rock-and-roll singer; Jack Kemp, the football quarterback and politician; Alan Rickman, the actor; and Donna Summer, the queen of disco died of cancer. What kind of cancer they had was not immediately made public, though.

While obituary writers at the New York Times, the Washington Post and other publications ask for the cause of death, families often refuse to name the specific form of cancer. Of course, that is their prerogative. Yet I think few families realize how beneficial it can be to move more of this into the light.

When I was researching “Cancer Crossing: A Brother, His Doctors and the Quest to Cure Childhood Leukemia,” I was struck by how clear and exact the leukemia doctors, the so-called “Cancer Cowboys,” were about ALL and other forms of cancer. Not only among themselves but with the patients’ families, too.

“Early on, so much was shrouded by fear,” says Dr. Donald Pinkel, the first director of St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. “Keeping everything a mystery didn’t help anyone.”

When the Cancer Cowboys took on childhood leukemia in the early 1960s, few in the medical community, even their fellow doctors, supported them. At the time, the textbook of pediatrics had only a page or two under the heading Leukemia, and policy was to make the patient as comfortable as possible -- the prevailing medical opinion being little else could be done.

Dr. Lucius Sinks, the director of pediatrics at Roswell Park Hospital in Buffalo, New York, when my brother was a patient there, says the doctors “decided more honest talk was needed and we were determined to try, even while so many others wanted to look the other way.”

Such an approach helped the Cancer Cowboys take the initiative against ALL. In the last half-century, childhood leukemia has gone from a 10 percent survival rate to the near 95 percent it has today.

Cancer can be so terrifying because it isolates patients and their families from the rest of their communities. Friends and other family members aren’t sure what to say, even exactly what is going on. That’s why it’s important for the individual stories to be told and heard.

David Bowie, for example, reportedly died of liver cancer. But that key detail only came out in a few publications after his death. If one was fighting liver cancer today, he or she might find courage in the great work Bowie did and how he chose to confront his form of cancer. “Talking about things, being together, almost always helps,” Pinkel says.

During my brother’s time at Roswell Park, about 50 chemotherapy patients were moved into germ-free rooms to better protect them against infection. Purified air entered the room via a designated inlet, and any visitors were required to be dressed in sterilized spacesuits. Patients in the units were instructed to keep a diary, either of written entries or on tape recordings.

While the science was cutting edge, many of the patients didn’t respond as favorably as expected. Dr. Jimmie Holland soon realized that the patients and even many of the nurses missed the simple act of touch, being closer together in the battle against the disease. As early as the third day inside the isolator unit, one patient said, “You just feel you are all alone in the world and everything is cold and there is no warmth.”

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Sometimes our humanity can be a valuable asset against cancer. Simply having the courage to say what we’re facing will help the next person better understand.