Jouissance: Joui-Sans

The knock of the knot –  Breast Cancer with a Lacanian Shape Angle Curve

The Real – Fear Intrigue Fortitude

Deride me not when I write sous rature! Part of my kick is the satisfaction achieved in the toying with language. Or even the loy of tanguage: tangle, wrangle, engage, joy, toy, employ. This chapter traverses the path between the lumpectomy and its clinical findings.  The chapter examines jouissance and the Lacanian Symptom in a manner that endeavours to simplify their guises. It questions how much control each of us has over our own health. Could you rot an apple with your mind? The final paragraph situates the patient face to face with the oncologists’ verdict on a day when other distracting matters took the cancer pedal off the gas!

Derrida’s first indebtedness to Heidegger lies in his use of the notion of sous rature (‘under erasure’). To write ‘Under Erasure’ is to write a word, cross it out, and then print both word and deletion. Visually the original word may be read and understood alongside its replacement. Once it has been crossed out, it is barred, its relevance is questioned. It is erased but still shows evidence of a path once taken. How does what it meant before compare with its meaning now? Meaning can be inferred in a transference from the symbolic of the writer into the personal imaginary of the reader. The reader already has a mille-feuille of layered of meanings to wrangle with.  How does writing “sous rature” add to the multitude of signifiers that vie for a priority of meaning?

Angles Curves Straights  From Something to Something Else
Breast surgery leaves a woman with cuts and scars: period. We do not know what will become of us when this journey begins. Surgeons hope for the best outcome but healing is individual. As these marks heal, some rise and wheal, some turn into thin, flat, silver slivers, others redder, wider jaggedness. Under the skin the flesh has been torn. This seismic movement may leave lumps, bumps or oddly smooths – more straights than curves, or more bulges than straights. How our bodies are left will never be static, always evolving. Our states will never be still: our mornings different to our evenings and our hormoanal tides, wild or tamed will shift the balance.

Jouissance is both how we feel and react to our inner drive to enjoy ourselves.  Jouissance is our individually chosen “carpe diem” how we choose to seize the day.  In their chapter metapsychology: from body to history, Bazan and Detandt (2013) propose that jouissance is in the order of “agieren” or taking action. In this sense the pleasure is felt more strongly in the action leading to the seeking of an object of desire than actually obtaining that desired object. They suggest that jouissance is related to the release of motor tension that brings relief to the drive. While pleasure implies the consumption or attainment of an object (objet petit a) jouissance is in the use of the body.

The Symptom
How we deal with life, particularly within the time of an evolving cancer journey depends on our calling, our ego and how we choose to channel the release of our libidinal drives. The Lacanian symptom is the way in which we pursue our jouissance. The symptom may take the form of a character trait, manifested as being over tidy or untidy, controlling of others or being subservient. It may compell us to seek solitude or reacquaint with friends. Seek wide outdoor spaces or stick to homely routines. It may take an artistic form. Often anxiety and the libido transformed in crisis becomes the organizing principle of the jouissance of the artist or writer. Thus our mode of jouissance is the Lacanian symptom. Our particular chosen activity and our way of enjoying it will be repeated. This is because it gives us each, (as the human subject) a consistency. Our chosen “passion” is part of who we are. The Lacanian symptom is the visible trace of the particular modality for the subject’s jouissance. It is how the subject takes action to manage the distracting, disruptive, destructive, flotsam-jetsam of the unconscious. Jouissance is about how we silence, quieten or use-up our internal individualised libidinal chitter-chatter. It is how we tame this unconscious background noise of the mind, whose volume is often ten fold when faced with an uninterpretable Real: cancer.

Jouïs-sens (to hear meaning) Jouis-sens (to enjoy meaning)
The Real is the yet unsymbolised. It often looms up alongside a life changing event: a bereavement, an illness, a trauma, a cancer diagnosis. It often brings us in touch with our mortality and the ephemerality of life. This dance around the Real is an unconscious delving into our unconscious, stirring of our fears, fuelling and symbolising our imaginings, whilst relentlessly giving no respite. There is no escape from the Real. It catches us unawares from an angle seen awry. It is a sudden recognition of something unrecognisable. This misrecognition, a méconnaissance is where the subject becomes alienated in language, adrift beyond the symbolic, beyond expressible description. The impenetrable le mur du langage “wall of language” leaves the unnamed Real of the unconscious entrapped. The unnamed essence that is the unconscious will haunt us even more persistently in sleep. Sleep, where in our dreams anything goes. Where contradictions unify and nothing is prohibited because there is no “no” in our dreams. The unconscious is independent of language, a place where no meaning has been inscribed. In psychoanalysis however, unconscious meaning may move to the dominion of the preconscious, awaiting the intermediary of language. (J)ouïs is taken from ouïr to “hear” as the analyst listens. Progressively the analysis takes form through a matter of suturing and splicing until meaning is heard, jouïs-sens (to hear the sense or meaning). The desired psychoanalytic outcome being: Jouis-sens – I enjoy, I make sense – Enjoy-meant!

In Écrits, “Psychoanalysis and its Teachings” Lacan views the symptom as inscribed in a writing process. The symptom is a pure jouissance addressed to no-one because it is the manifestation of the way a subject enjoys (jouit) their unconscious, (Seminar “L’angoisse” 1962-63). Creative outlets during times of crises are undertaken for their own sake, if others can be appreciative then all well and good, but in the first instant they are a release, a way to channel the raw libidinal energies of the bodily drives. Creative outlets are a way to deal with the un-symbolised unconscious as the Real seeks a translation. The Real clamours to be symbolised with its “compelling and potentially horrifying alien material persistence” (Žižek 1997: 55–106; Braunstein 2003; Declercq 2004). It demands an outlet as it squeezes through the register of the Imaginary.  Perhaps eventually it may succumb to a conscious translation in the more manageable symbolic realm. Although primarily the traumatic material of the Real is unsymbolised knowledge which nags submerged. It is latent, only occasionally rising (often with anxiety) as knots in our language and thought.

When Jean Hyppolite asks: “What use does the Symbolic have?” Lacan answers: “The Symbolic, the Imaginary and the Real are useful in giving its meaning to a particularly pure symbolic experience, that of analysis.” Since the symbolic dimension is the only dimension that cures, “The symbolic order is simultaneously non-being and insisting to be, that is what Freud has in mind when he talks about the death instinct as being what is most fundamental: a symbolic order in travail, in the process of coming, insisting in being realised.” Thus the “conquest of the symbolic order is essential for the human being to accede to a humanized structure of the real.” (S3 p.198).

Lacan was fond of saying “the Real is impossible,” impossible in that we cannot express it in language because the very entrance into language marks our irrevocable separation from the Real. Nevertheless in the event of acknowledging the materiality of our existence the Real overwhelms us. It forces a recognition that is perceived as traumatic as it punctures and threatens our very “reality” and drives us toward Lacan’s sense of jouissance.

Repetition and Joui-Sans
In Lacan’s later period he maintained that our methods of jouissance facilitate an achievement of libidinal-consistency by expressing-out our anxiety-evoking encounters with loss and lack. Through jouissantesque activities the holes that burrow into the pain of the Real are explored. During this (artistic, therapeutic or psychoanalytic exploration) unspeakable materials may begin to be brought to light symbolically, rather than being felt as psychogenic and enigmatic somatisations. The symptom is brought to the fore through repetition. In repetition we seek to recapture the first thrill of jouissance. Yet repetition is the curious link between the pleasure principle aka jouissance and the hidden mask of the death drive that is camouflaged behind this joy. Pleasure turns to displeasure as there is no recapturing the intensity of the very first instance of pleasure. There is no repeating the depths of ecstasy felt for the first creation, achievement or mastery. The death drive encroaches and its shadow looms larger in sync with the momentum of repetition. Pleasure turns to displeasure and eventually pain because repetition dilutes and slowly annuls the initial thrill into a consistency and evenness. There is no way to re-live the first hit of joy because everything after the first “buzz” is a reminder, a reminiscence, a substitute which never-quite has the real authenticity of the first time. If the pleasure endures, there is only so much pleasure one can take before it becomes painful pleasure.  Thus jouissance is suffering, (S7, 184).  Our jouissance mutates toward the frustration of an embittering joui-sans.  For an interesting article see  Bazan and Detandt (2013)

Home after the lumpectomy
Home, but wounded again. Just as my body had completely recovered from the biopsy the proper surgery was done already. For weeks the biopsy aftermath had continued to zap its zings of nerve healing pain. The pain wasn’t immediate but began a week after the intervention. It was a deep abrupt “high pitched” pain arriving with no warning. Now home after the lumpectomy I was facing another state of external and internal disrepair. It was a place of limbo with no health certainties. Thrown back into a strange day-to-day without yet having a medical verdict. Hemmed in by the hourly “what if” thoughts: If the cells had spread to the lymph my prognosis would alter. The incision was below the arm pit. It was hidden, covered by a large square of gauze and a wedge of waterproof bandage. Ablutions followed post surgery care instructions. It would withstand a soft daily shower but not a baptism of emersion. I tended it cautiously. A trickle of water poured like a delicate vintage. Whilst feeling more brazen with the healthy good-side, I was more todo-terrano, enjoying the normality for functional manhandling: relishing a one-sided hot shower and the rougher texture of a dry towel.

Exercises for post surgery breast healing
I felt sad for my condemned pampered breast. Would it prove to be innocent or a traitorous accomplice harbouring the most evil malignancy? The bandage strips were strapped up tightly to give decent support all day and the maternity bra was helpful and comfortable to sleep in. It’s amazing how the body fixes itself. Every day it felt a little better. I continued to maintain the stretch exercises by using the routine sheet I’d been given to prevent stiffness. The first stages of limbering were standing poses. Reaching my arms up, stretching higher each day. The tissue tension was most noticed in the Winging It exercise. Placing hands behind the head, with elbows askew and gradually brought inwards to touch.breast exercise2Then the same but lying down: hands behind head and bringing elbows to touch, then lowering them to the floor. Ouchy, now that stretch was trickier! At first it was impossible to push my arms to the floor. The skin was taut and tight, but slowly over days it improved. breast exerciseThen a particular standing stretch I’d discovered (which wasn’t on the instruction sheet) was also incredibly hard: bringing the arm on the injured side across. Holding the right arm (of the injured side) out stretched to the right then bringing it ahead and then diagonally across the body to the left. What a tug to the back muscles that caused!

Comforting Accessories
leeping was difficult. My dream idea was a mattress designed with a chest slot similar to the above. I didn’t go for this but would be interested in hearing of its efficacy. After the surgery my preferred position, sleeping face down, was on-hold indefinitely. To be pain-free the injured side needed to be maintained parallel. Not so easy to keep the breast aligned on top. It helped to prop a pillow along the side of my body adjacent to the breast, to keep it from sinking to the side. The parallel arm slightly elevated. I found a site with some interesting breast pillows but following surgery I didn’t find them useful.

Power of Thought – Healing v Harming
A ten day wait lay ahead. What would the outcome be? The ideal scenario would show clear margins with no lymph involvement. But thought power was not going to change the verdict. You can’t seriously wish yourself well or think yourself sick…can you? I tried not to let my mind wander through the consequences.  But around this time there was an article that created a bit of a furore. It was about the power of positive versus negative thinking. apple powerBrow furrowed and lips pursed in thought. Can you rot an apple more quickly by throwing it a barrage of hateful thoughts. Well apparently so. Everyone would agree that you can’t wish yourself to win the lottery. You can’t really create a voodoo-like hex to wish ill on yourself or indeed others. Wishful thinking is surely as it sounds: wishful. A timely article indeed to show the power of scepticism and how a damaging mind-set supposedly causes actual bodily harm.

Bewilderment – Be Wilder I Meant!think
So the “C” diagnosis is a long fall down. Hitting the ground takes longer than you may think, with some of us hanging on before falling further. The diagnosis leaves survivors in a minefield of bewilderment. Now this is a word for a little Lacanian mischief. A word that states it is “meant” to “be” “wilder”. In this wilderness one is left to roam, to be separated, estranged, isolated, from the logical sense and meaning of “the other”. In this wilderness the patient may forget the symbolism of what is said or read. Instead being left to tune in to the body, filtering-away the white-noise of the outside. Instead listening to an imaginary dialogue of a future yet to be lived. Pre-diagnosis leaves the mind to wander and wonder. The realm of the wandering leaves us wondering where the next trip wire may be.

Echoes of you’ll be fine, they’ll figure it out are reassurances from the “big Other” – hopeful sound bites used as part of the illness language schema. So I wait, impotent and expectant, silently numbing scepticisms of any half empty glass. How will one accept and cope if faced with a sorry verdict. It is my body. If it is rotten at its core it will still be my body. Things could still swing back to the knife. Further slices required if there weren’t clear margins. If the lymph were to be affected then all sorts of possibilities open in the road ahead. Iffing and butting are impossible to surpress and they help the psyche prepare.

Word and Action
Ten days after the surgery the essential appointment arrived. My mind wasn’t actually tuned in. The admissions secretary assured us (I wasn’t alone) that my early appointment was not running late. My preoccupation was distracting. I needed to be seen to have the healing process checked. Beyond that it was all ce la vie. An automaton, I needed to leave. My eyes were darting to the time.  The door opened punctually at 10am. How efficient would this be? Entering the clinical room, the dressings were removed, the red-rawness of the scar was positively appraised and the skin-tissues were left to support themselves. In preparation, my underwear seams had been cut away to leave room for the bare skin. All was repairing nicely. We had a train to catch. My mind was not on my situation. We had to leave this appointment and leggit to the station. We couldn’t miss the train and arrive late. A week after my lumpectomy operation, my step-sister had been ingressed into a hospice. She had barely arrived there before passing away from stage 4 breast cancer. Two years earlier her symptoms had been leg and back pains and her prognosis the most grim. My appointment was at ten and her funeral, fifty miles from London was four hours later. Dressed once again we were escorted to hear my verdict. What had the surgeon found? We jostled into a tiny room with three oncologists preparing to tell the news. Hear it and run was the voice in my head. It was good news. The best news: low grade, small area of cells (<15mm) clear margins and no sign of trespass to the lymph. I didn’t want to stay to negotiate my treatment. Deep inside, I knew that they would follow the clinical protocol.  Even if I had questions the “treatment package” was set in stone. Right now I had to leave. Perhaps they’d expected a bit more of a battle from me or at least a barrage of my usual questions. My chair scraped the floor as I pushed back and arose to gather my coat. We must have cut a strange silhouette in our angular black funeral attire. We barely shook hands before pelting out into the street to pay our respects to someone who’d been dealt a harsher hand and was waiting for her final farewell.


Op. Day – 2. The Wire, Why Her?

The knock of the knot –  Breast Cancer with Lacanian Angles

Queueing behind the curtain

Soon after our arrival the first batch of patient patients were called by name. Addressed by a woman in crocs hugging a clipboard and chewing a pen. Each already signed off to their fate. Permission slips of all possible legal outcomes acknowledged in ink. I agree to… How they moved: toddling off, a macabre scene in its sombre innocence, as they were led away behind their clinical tour guide. The morning sunlight edged forward casting tubules of fairy dust, as a caretaker rhythmically mopped. Then nothing: an ellipses, ripples on still water. Time in its own dimension of now and then. An anticipation of next and another beat of the heart. Ten minutes later “our” subset were called. A mirror image where they’d gone right, we were led left. Equally obedient, six men and six women. As a member of the latter set once inside we were separated again. Our bay was female. The ladies placed their bags upon their beds. Oh cosy inmates. Each bed, made into a cubicle by a thin curtain tracked by ceiling rails. I was empty handed.
“Alice:How long is forever? White Rabbit:Sometimes, just one second.” ― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Confidently or cluelessly or trustingly, I’d left my “just in case” rucksack in the waiting room with my dedicated personal waiter. Yes I’m very fortunate to have my significant other there awaiting – but the choices leading to what made us “us” are another rambling story of on-line intrigue, anonymity and perseverance. Did he feel the weight of the bag or the weight of the wait? The white coats granted me permission to return – to retrace those steps through heavy security doors. Several long prismatic corridors, sometimes with glaring blinking windows, other times gloomy claustrophobic burrows. Hey I’m back, I escaped the group. My nose twitched: clinical smells. The abandonned mop waited. The rucksack which included the cell phone was held aloft. A final “final kiss” and this Alice chose to start again. Or was I the rabbit? Or was there really any choice at all? Enjoy your jouissance!

Meeting Michael my Chaperone

The curtained bay was cold. A draught from the adjacent window. I watched as my legs took refuge under the blanket provided. Automaton. Self preservation. A nurse came by to take blood pressure and I asked if I was going to have the blue-dye injection or the wire insertion. Blinking I knew the protocol by heart, in theory at least. Ah yes she said, yes, Michael will be here shortly to escort you. I had time to locate the loo and then meet my anaesthetist (another tall white coat) and then Michael arrived, flying in from a previous quest. I imagined him as an invincible Icarus sweeping down valiantly as the plot twists in a medical dystopian version of Brazil.

Magazines Out of Time

In a jot we’d left River View and had entered the specialised breast clinic zone. Michael said to wait. He’d be back. So here I waited. Waiting again but that was fine. It was part of the conveyer-belt process: not too fast. I did what I was told. No need to think. At 8:40 I was spotted and given another blanket. As I sat I fed it between my knees. Me myself and I. I studied the corridor. There on the side table lay magazines. I never had been a fan of those glossies out-of-place in a clinical world. So much for anti-bacterial gel when some of those magazines obscenely revealed their date of issue as being five years previously. Five years. The golden aspiration of those who hope to be survivors or in remission after this bleak diagnosis. Those magazines ensconced in their own timeless gasp of horror.

Rabbit in the wire

Led to the ultrasound and wire insertion room. Upon the surgical couch they discussed how I should lay. The cancer being situated high up, situated in an almost under arm area of breast tissue. This meant that lying flat was not possible. How can they view the eleven o’clock flesh? Those of you who understand or have observed the behaviour of the larger breast will know that once prone they don’t sit pert and neat, aloft on the chest. They relax out and downwards sinking with gravity into the arm pit. They sank and took eleven o’clock along with them, daliesque. As my accused breast sank, so the clinician realised a sideways stance would be the only way. Wriggled into a “recovery” type position my face was still able to glance behind. The ultrasound screen was in view. I wasn’t going to turn into a pillar of salt…frozen in time, that would be too easy an end. This adventure required a willing participation in the suffering ahead. But at least I had a front row seat to view the performance. Let’s repeat: Enjoy your jouissance!
Wire Wound

With plenty of reassurance the area was numbed. A local anaesthetic needle glinted and was applied around the areola. Fortunately I’d been quick to ask exactly where that “sharp” was going in. This was déjà vue, I was here only yesterday and I’d read the blogs. I knew the lesson and this lessened the shock. Sharp scratch and it stung like a bee. For those who need details of the level of pain: the depth reached by the needle filled anaesthetic was barely felt, before even more anaesthetic was introduced. The area was numbed, comfortably numb and then came the posturing for the wire. Compliant I was shifted leg and buttock. Next the re-posturing of the breast. The professional with her hands-on-job to move mountains. Like Muhammed if that mountain didn’t come to her she would grasp “it” with more vigor. The guilty “it” that numb part of myself that had betrayed me and led me to here. That apologetic breast which so carelessly, innocently, flaunted cleavage on the beach less than only a month ago. Placing the wire in the flesh of course required some manhandling of the floppity yet fibrous tissues. Manhandle is that an outdated term? Handled like a man, by a woman? Floppity and yet not so floppity. This is dense tissue we’re dealing with here. A lollipop figure. This is tissue with a mind of its own. Tissue that fills tensely according to the hormonal tides. The hands on approach with a push-pull pressure increased to extract the needle after the wire was in place. The experts apologised for their exertion. Almost straddling my body and heave-ho! My, my that was a struggle to retrieve. In my googling I’d already read about this possibility. The shared experience put me at ease. It was a physical effort to achieve and retract but now with the wire in place the needle was out. Pretty painless. The ends of the wire were flattened and taped across my skin. A brooch but not one of valor. I was the receptacle. I contained the treasure, I was the x that marks the spot. I was the prize ready for the next monochrome photo shoot. I didn’t pay much attention to the what, nor the why. No bravery just obedience.

Enjoy your jouissance!