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A Juicy and Definitely Scientific Qualitative and Quantitative Comparison of Cure vs. Care

Words and imagery by Miriam Saperstein

On a watercolour painting background of red, blue, purple and peach wavy shapes, words read: A Juicy and Definitely Scientific Qualitative and Quantitative Comparison of Cure vs. Care “Cure saves lives; cure manipulates lives; cure prioritizes some lives over others; cure makes profits; cure justifies violence; cure promises resolution to body-mind loss” —Eli Clare, Brilliant Imperfection, xvi “Because, once we are all ill and confined to the bed, sharing our stories of therapies and comforts, forming support groups, bearing witness to each other’s tales of trauma, prioritizing the care and love of our sick, pained, expensive, sensitive, fantastic bodies, and there is no one left to go to work, perhaps then, finally, capitalism will screech to its much needed, long-overdue, and motherfucking glorious halt.” —Johanna Hedva, “Sick Woman Theory” In the heat dome Kendra builds a shower chair. Kip and I make plans to lay in bed all day and watch the L Word with A/C blasting. I’ve never seen it. When my legs swell up, I panic. I blame myself for not believing in a cure. (There is no cure.) The rain begins. The trees thrashing. I love them so much when Kendra says “thank you Hashem for watering the plants.” I want to run outside and lay in the mud without my glasses, eyes to the sky as rain drops take shape inches from my cornea. I check my weather app, amazed at how the heat is breaking. I realize I’ve opened the weather for northern Michigan. I was supposed to go there this week. Instead, I will take a cold shower in Philly. This will be a huge deal for me. The storm pauses. The heat rises. Is there no cure? Jane and Erin come to visit. We all sit on the bed across from the window a/c, talking about the merits of freezer bread v. loaves in the breadbox, where are the ton’s lesbians in season three of Bridgerton, whether clinical pastoral education credits should be a requirement for the rabbinate.
On a watercolour painting background of red, blue, purple and peach wavy shapes, words read: Chaplains are the only hospital workers who record observations in a patient’s chart using their name. Kendra says the required diction feels antiseptic, cleansed of a human touch—and still, “Ms. Saperstein expressed sadness at not being able to leave their room,” seems measurably more humane than “Patient was compliant but unable to stand without heart palpitations.” My love sits on the edge of the bed, excited to tell me about the animal videos the hospital chaplains watch on their breaks. Yesterday when I could barely tolerate the sound of the air conditioner, we lay next to each other on top of the blankets and I couldn’t look at their face lest my heart rate spike and I relapse. Today I have the luxuries of touch, and sound. I’m so lucky every night is a sleepover with my best friend. My mom calls Kendra to say goodnight. She wants to check in. Jane and Erin took the trash to the curb and watered the flowers. It’s over 90 at dinner time in a heatwave spanning Chicago to Philly. I encouraged them to take ice cubes to hold on their walk home. Some things are meant to be felt, not measured. Is care innate or learned? Like lesbianism, or a fear of rotting bread inherited from one’s mother. Why do we measure what we hate? Why do I need a cure? I learn from skimming a research study that the first “wearable fitness technology” launched in 1965. Unsurprisingly, the marketing campaign was designed to encourage exercise to “fight obesity.” I want: a fatness of love. Thick thighs and juicy data, a biofeedback loop of care,
On a watercolour painting background of red, blue, purple and peach wavy shapes, words read: sending videos of cuddling pandas to my sick friends, a blood pressure cuff to measure how my heart spikes when you walk into our room after a long day at the hospital, still so much care saved up for me. Tell me how much you love me. We can use a metric that no one else can quantify.

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