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.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Disease’s Gifts

In “Disease’s Gifts,” poet Joy Ladin muses on fear and life and death in the face of illness. Ladin outlines the paradoxes of disease: “That you can be fearless / when fear is all you have” and that “you aren’t alone in loneliness.” This poem is an encouragement, a call to overcome and accept and succeed, even though “fear inverts / the meaning of success.” Ladin’s poem resonates because it offers words of hope while acknowledging the incongruity of illness. Disease can feel like “the end of the world,” and yet, Ladin contends, we all want to believe “you will survive it.”

Writing Prompt: What gifts, if any, have you experienced through illness? What role do you think fear plays in disease? Review Ladin’s list in the second to last stanza; what do you need to live? Write for 10 minutes.

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Free Write Friday: Rocks

One day, before the cancer resurfaced, before the papery pale skin that transformed her into a childhood memory, she told the young girl that stones with a complete circle were special. She taught her how to search for them along the rocky shore, barnacles and seaweed camouflage carpeting like a mold.

They’d stroll along the Sound, down a woodsy steeped path, down from the musty cabin, faces groundward, searching for the wishing stones. Sometimes a clear white ring signaled upward, demarcated from the the concrete grey base of an oblong rock.

Decades later she teaches her own daughter: look for the one with the ring, the sign of infinity round and round. Hold it in your hand, warm it, keep it. Or return it to the ocean; give it a new life among the rolling waters.

They like to collect the different stones, squat and oblong, granular and smooth. Such varied colors from the surface of the earth. They turn them over in their hands, so different. One small and delicate with a child’s tensile skin; the other spotted, weathered from decades of existence. They each make a wish, the girl tossing into the sea, the woman holding on, relegating her hopes to her pocket.

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