Writing

Tin House: On Acceptance, Rejection and Taking My Time

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The Tin House Winter Workshops are held on the Oregon Coast, in the small town of Newport. The quirky Sylvia Beach Hotel is an appropriate literary-themed home base, each room named after a famed author and decorated in the style of their particular genre. I applied to the nonfiction workshop at the last minute, feeling dejected from recent rejections and once again questioning my validity as a writer, as a creator of art. When I saw the instructors for this year’s nonfiction workshop though, I knew I needed to apply.

I’ve admired Esmé Weijun Wang‘s work and, in fact, met her briefly at AWP 2019. I asked her to sign my copy of The Collected Schizophrenias after an awkward non-conversation where I blurted out something about being grateful for her essays. (I am not good around celebrated authors or actors, let me just apologize in advance. Or in retrospect. Sorry, Bradley Cooper.)

Attending my first writing workshop with Tin House and with Esmé was a gift I didn’t realize I needed at this stage of my career. My small cohort of incredible women writers were generous in their feedback and kindness. Their critiques were insightful, their encouragement sincere.

Esmé and the other talented instructors, T Kira Madden and Sophia Shalmiyev, each gave lectures and readings (one of which, I surprised myself by crying through.) Other highlights included the book exchange, dive bar karaoke, participant readings, and moonlit morning runs on the compact coastal beach.

One night we talked about our writing goals for the year and I mentioned my participation in #Rejection100, a group whose purpose is to celebrate the act of trying. Sometimes, I feel too uneducated in the literary world, sometimes I feel too old. Sometimes I feel my voice is too privileged or too uninteresting to have anything of significance to add to the conversation.

T Kira’s lecture, and time with these writers, gave me permission to move beyond my own expectations and the world’s requirements of my work. She challenged us to ask questions of ourselves: What are you writing toward? What are you writing about? How do we reframe our ideas of what “no” means? I like the idea that in nonfiction we are “chasing the question, honoring the unknown.”

Esmé asked us on the last day of the workshop what we’re taking away with us, what we are offering to our fellow participants, from this time on the coast. I said I would take away, and offer, permission. Permission to, as T Kira encouraged, lean into my interests, to listen to my mistakes. Permission to write into the paradox, to take my time. I am impatient and this rushed world fuels this tendency. In writing, in creating, in listening to the story that is tumbling within, I’m learning to take my time, allow rejection to serve as a teacher, not a declaration of who I am. I’ll continue to honor the unknown, and give myself permission to chase the question. Even if I don’t know quite where I’m headed.

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Narrative Medicine

Narrative Medicine Monday: My Human Doctor

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Dr. Sara Manning Peskin writes in the New York Times about the fallibility of physicians and its emotional toll in “My Human Doctor.” Peskin introduces us to her patient, Shirley, who was given a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. This patient finds that in assuming this chronic, often debilitating, disease, even the very word itself “crippled her. She’d stopped driving, stopped working, and adjusted to the stigma of having a chronic disease.” After a hospitalization due to a serious reaction to one of her medications, it was discovered that “Shirley might not have had multiple sclerosis at all.”

Peskin reflects that in medical training we do discuss errors but “[w]e don’t talk about the emotional trauma of hurting a patient. Instead, most physicians cope with guilt, self-doubt and fear of litigation in private. After our patients, we become ‘second victims’ of our mistakes.” Given the recent spotlight on depression and burnout in medicine, Peskin highlights an important point that we ignore to our peril. Some organizations are realizing this and offering more programs such as Balint, peer support groups, and expanded counseling services to explore and address this emotional trauma.

When Peskin suffers the consequences of a mistake made by her own physician, the response she receives is “‘I can’t turn back time.'” Peskin experiences first hand that “[a]pologies are difficult for doctors, not only because we have to cope with hurting someone, but also because we are scared of the legal implications of admitting culpability.” Peskin outlines how the U.S. system differs from many other countries, where the “‘no-fault’ system is based on injury from medical care and not on proof of physician negligence…” and “doctors and patients remain on the same side, and more patients get paid.”

Peskin does end up apologizing to her patient, Shirley, for the misdiagnosis of multiple sclerosis. They were then able to move forward in the doctor-patient relationship and discuss Shirley’s adjustment to the “possibility of not having a chronic disease.”

Writing Prompt: Think of a time your doctor made a mistake. How did they approach the error? Did they apologize? If you’re a physician, think of a mistake that you or a colleague made that is particularly memorable. What happened and how did you respond? How did the situation affect the patient-physician relationship? Consider writing about this experience from both the patient and the medical provider’s perspective. Write for 10 minutes.

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