Narrative Medicine Monday: Hospital Writing Workshop

Poet and physician Rafael Campo describes the magic that can occur in a “Hospital Writing Workshop.” Campo starts the poem at the end of his clinical workday, “arriving late, my clinic having run / past 6 again.” Campo is teaching a workshop for “students who are patients.” He notes the distinction that “for them, this isn’t academic, it’s / reality.” These are patients with cancer, with HIV, and Campo is guiding them through poetry and writing exercises to search for healing and respond in a unique way to their disease and suffering.

Campo outlines his lesson, asking the students to “describe / an object right in front of them.” Each interprets their own way, to much poignancy. One student “writes about death, / her death, as if by just imagining / the softness of its skin … she might tame it.” In the end, this poem is about the power of poetry and art for both the patient and the medical provider. It’s about how something as simple as a writing workshop can cause us to pause, “take / a good, long breath” and move through suffering to a kind of healing, to a kind of hope.

Continue Reading

Narrative Medicine Monday: My One, My Only

In the latest issue of Brevity, writer Michaella Thornton explains how she answers strangers about “My One, My Only.” At the grocery store with her toddler daughter, someone will invariably ask, “Is she your only child?” Thornton understands there are things that “give us away,” like “the way I narrate our grocery trip.”

When “someone asks the ‘only child’ question” at checkout, Thornton recalls the years of infertility treatments she endured: “Instead of conceiving a baby by a glacier-fed lake, we pray at the altar of reproductive medicine and lost causes.” Thornton wonders at it all, noting that the “human egg is a redwood among the rest of our sapling-sized cells. Think of the size of a period at the end of this sentence—that is the size of a human egg.”

She relays the grueling aspects of her experience with infertility treatments, the “pin-pricked stomach,” the “loneliness together” she endures with her husband. In the end, though, “as the doctors put my organs back into my body, as I throw up into a kidney-shaped pan” she is “crying over and over again to my newborn daughter, ‘I love you. I love you so much.'”

In this flash essay Thornton uses a moment with a stranger, an intrusive question many feel compelled to ask, to convey her experience with infertility, with IVF treatments, with the miracle that is her one and only child. She notes the “inadequacy of the question” strangers pose, and, in this short piece, takes us with her through “sublime sadness and joy.”

Writing Prompt: Have you had a stranger comment on the number of children you do, or don’t, have? How did you feel, what thoughts did it trigger when you received this question? Have you or someone you know struggled with infertility or are you a physician who treats this? What is it like for a patient to go through this treatment? Write for 10 minutes.

Continue Reading

Mark

I wrote the braided essay “Mark” a few years ago but never found the right home for it. On a bit of a whim, I submitted the flash piece to the 2019 EPIC Writing Contest and am so pleased it won Honorable Mention. Tonight, at a reception for the contest winners, I read the piece. A stranger came up to me right after, tears in his eyes, and expressed to me how much it meant to him, both because of his own history and that of his children. I won’t go into details, but was touched by his clear connection to the essay and told him I was grateful for sharing some of his own story with me.

As I walked back to my car, I realized: this is why I write, why I share. As a nonfiction writer, as a memoirist, as someone who writes about the raw issues of my life and of those in my life and work, I’ve struggled mightily this year with how much is appropriate to divulge, what stories should be shared with the larger world and which are written just for myself or my writing group or my children. What I’ve learned in recent years, though, is that the more we disclose, the more authentic we are with our stories, the closer we become to others. When I share my own struggles, my own failings, my own fears and hidden joys, people are compelled to open up regarding their own. Just like the stranger at this reading – there is comfort in camaraderie, in the recognition that we all struggle, we all have great challenges in life. Being completely authentic with others is therapeutic and connecting in a way I never imagined possible.

Though in this age of social media and superficiality and anonymous critiques, opening up about your vulnerabilities can be biting at best, crushing at worst. Knowing that creative nonfiction, poetry and memoir are in my writer’s blood, I’ll have to continue to wade through the murky waters of authenticity and exposure. A wholly unexpected interaction like I had tonight, though, makes me want to write more, share more, and connect more with others. That is, after all, what creating art and being part of humanity are all about.

Continue Reading

Narrative Medicine Monday: History Taking in the Anatomy Lab

Bethany Kette writes about “History Taking in the Anatomy Lab” in the latest issue of JAMA. Kette describes how in medicine we almost always start with the history of the patient, then move on to the physical exam. Kette notes though that “there is one time in our medical careers when we are instructed to perform the most thorough physical examination possible without learning so much as the patient’s name:” that of dissecting a cadaver in anatomy lab.

Now, fifteen years removed from that anatomy lab and ten years into my primary care medical practice, I can attest to the value of history-taking in a relationship developed over time: “It is a closeness and privilege that can provide purpose and meaning to routine acts of medical care.” Yet as medical students learning anatomy through the very intimate process of dissection, we receive very little information about our donors, only their age and cause of death.

In order to better understand the life of the woman who donated her body, Kette created the Obituary Writing Program at Georgetown. Kette developed the program with input from the Literature and Medicine Track director (how great that this is a track in a medical school!) and an obituary writer for the Washington Post. The result allows interested medical students to craft a real narrative about their donors, discover stories “that reveal a life.”

Kette interviews her donor’s son and learns that the woman was a “small-town farm girl” who graduated from Georgetown University School of Medicine: “She had literally stood in my footsteps in the same formaldehyde-scented labs in which I had spent the past year with her as my teacher.” The woman eventually retired from medicine to become a painter and was a “devout Catholic;” her faith informed her drive to help others. The medical students who participated in Kette’s program read the obituaries they had written during a ceremony at the end of the year, part of expressing gratitude to the donors themselves and to their loved ones for the gift of the donor’s bodies.

Kette’s program puts “history in its rightful place before the physical— students now interview the families of their donors before making the first cut in anatomy lab.” It also serves as a reminder to those of us well into medical practice that a person’s rich history, their life lived outside the hospital bed or exam room, is what we’re striving in medicine to help them return to, and what matters regarding their health, in the end.

Writing Prompt: If you are a physician, what do you recall about your initial interactions with your cadaver in anatomy lab? What did you know about the person’s history? What did you wonder or invent? Consider writing the obituary or life story of a well-known relative, friend or patient. How does outlining this narrative affect your relationship to this person? Write for 10 minutes.
Continue Reading

Narrative Medicine Monday: My Grandmother’s Body

Author Anna Leahy writes about “My Grandmother’s Body” in Sweet, an online literary journal. Leahy describes the funeral director, who arrives when called, wearing “his funeral-director suit.” The professional Leahy witnesses is experienced, noting “the stairs’ ninety-degree turn / without changing pace.” The director asks “if he might / lift her himself to carry her downstairs” and Leahy finds a kind of comfort in this. She thinks, “What a relief / to think of her last moment at home, cradled / in the man’s arms.”

Leahy’s poem is a snapshot of a moment and a man, revealing the funeral director’s practicality and reverence for his work and the relief this provides for those who love the deceased. We often reflect on the last moments right before a person dies, but Leahy’s poem, like Lisa Knopp’s “Leaving the Body,” focuses instead on those just after: the weighty finality, the people who interact with the body and the importance this holds for those still living.

Writing Prompt: Have you been near a dead body, either of a loved one or of a patient? What was the experience like? How was the body retrieved, and to where? How did you feel about how this was accomplished? Alternatively, think about your impressions of the funeral director as described by Leahy. Consider writing the scene from his point of view. Write for 10 minutes.

Continue Reading

Book: My Caesarean

Today’s the day! My Caesarean, published by Experiment Books, launches – just in time for Mother’s Day. I’m proud to be part of this anthology that Publishers Weekly calls “an enlightening reading experience for both those who’ve had C-sections and those who may.” In “Upside Down,” I wrote about having a planned primary C-section with my first baby, who was breech. Each story in this collection is unique, but the thread of shared experience reveals a true sisterhood. Happy Book Birthday to My Caesarean!

Continue Reading