To be a person is to have a story to tell. — Isak Dinesen
Storytelling has been an integral to being human for thousands of years. Our stories have given us a way to engage, to share our experiences and find, in one another’s stories, themes and experiences we share. Storytelling began, in part, as an oral way of helping people make sense of their worlds. They were the mechanism by which traditions and wisdom passed from one generation to another. “There have been great societies that did not use the wheel,” author Ursula LeGuin once said, “but there have been no societies that did not tell stories.”
Tell me a story.
In this century, and moment, of mania,
Tell me a story.
(Robert Penn Warren, Tell Me a Story,” in New and Selected Poems 1923-1985)
Whether oral or written, what is it about sharing our stories that makes them so important? Storytelling, as several researchers suggest, is a powerful tool for patients and healthcare providers alike. It provides the patient a way to give voice to the experience of illness and, in turn, to begin to confront their illness, questions of care and mortality. There’s plenty of evidence from the significant body of work on writing and healing by James Pennebaker, PhD, showing that creating a story about one’s experiences in life can result in improved physical and mental health in many populations, whether written and verbal. For example, A 2011 study cited in the Annals of Internal Medicine showed that a storytelling intervention produced substantial and significant improvements in blood pressure for patients with baseline uncontrolled hypertension as effectively as taking additional medications. Moreover, research now suggests, the skills of storytelling, can result in improved health communication between doctor and patient.
“Telling and listening to stories is the way we make sense of our lives,” according to Dr. Thomas Houston, lead author of the hypertension study. “That natural tendency may have the potential to alter behavior and improve health.” Interviewed after the study in a 2011 New York Times article, he said, “Storytelling is human. “We learn through stories, and we use them to make sense of our lives. It’s a natural extension to think that we could use stories to improve our health.”
Their stories, yours, mine—it’s what we carry with us on this trip we take…we owe it to each other to respect our stories and learn from them.–Advice to a medical student by William Carlos Williams, physician and poet
Patient stories have begun to be recognized as an important aspect of the medical experience, thanks to the work of Rita Charon, M.D. She created the term, “narrative medicine,” a medical practice using patient stories in clinical practice, research, and education as a way to promote healing. The growth of expressive writing research ignited by James Pennebaker’s research also fueled the recognition that stories, written and shared, help us heal.
Stories offer insight, understanding, and new perspectives. They educate us and they feed our imaginations. They help us see other ways of doing things that might free us from self-reproach or shame. Hearing and telling stories is comforting and bonds people together….Being able to narrate a coherent story is a healing experience…. stories keep us connected to each other; they reassure us that we are not alone.–Miriam Divinsky, MD, Canadian Family Physician, 2007.
In the shock of a cancer diagnosis or the weeks of surgeries and treatments that follow, you may feel lost, even lonely. You may feel as if you’ve even been robbed of your voice, that you have nothing to say. But try to write. It doesn’t matter, at first, if you do little more than rant, pouring out your emotions on the blank page, but gradually, you’ll find a story begins to emerge, and you begin writing more and more. Writing helps you heal, and it helps you rediscover your life, one that is larger than cancer.
In my writing groups, it’s the stories of the cancer experience that first get written. Yet, while cancer may be the starting point, as our weeks together continue, other stories emerge, ones about a person’s whole life–stories of love, loss, family, childhood, the joys and sorrows that make each person uniquely human. Writing stories from other chapters of your life offers a way to understand and make sense of the whole life you’ve led, not just the chapter called “cancer.” Sharing them affirms your life, your legacy. They say: “This is my life. This was what I experienced. This is important to me. It is why I’ve become the person I am.”
I never tire of the stories written and shared in my writing groups. Everyone’s way of telling their stories are unique, and despite the common themes of a cancer diagnosis, those stories continue to humble and inspire me, even after nearly twenty years of leading expressive writing programs. I remember them long after the workshops end, even after some lives are sometimes lost to cancer. As I recall their stories, I see their faces. I remember their lives. “Death,” writer Jim Harrison wrote, “steals everything but our stories.” — (From: Larson’s Holstein Bull, in From: “Larson’s Holstein Bull,” In Search of Small Gods, 2009)
It’s why your stories matter. We are our stories. They shape us and act as the lens through which we see the world. Through story, we make sense of our lives, reclaim our voices, and even learn our stories have the power to touch others’ hearts. We create community out of shared story. Cancer may bring people together to my writing group, but it’s in the stories written and shared that we discover the glue that binds us together.
Stories—the small personal ones that bring us close as well as those of the larger world—foster compassion. In the telling of our personal lives, we’re reminded of our basic, human qualities—our vulnerabilities and strengths, foolishness and wisdom, who we are…, through the exchange of stories, [you] help heal each other’s spirits. — Patrice Vecchione, Writing and the Spiritual Life
Whether big or small, extraordinary or ordinary, of illness or of health, laughter or sorrow, your stories matter. Write them.
Writing Suggestions:
- Begin with something simple, like “the moment I first heard the words, “you have cancer,” I… Try remembering as much detail as you can from that moment: the quality of light, where you were sitting or standing, the doctor’s voice, what you felt or said…
- Try beginning with the first line of someone else’s poem, such as “As if your cancer weren’t enough…” (from “Guinea Pig, by Julie Cadwallader-Staub, Cancer Poetry Project, V. 1, 2001) or “The day I finished chemotherapy…” (from “Reminiscence” by Ruth M. James, Cancer Poetry Project, V. 1, 2001) or “No. I don’t want to hear about your uncle…” (from “The Cancer Patient Talks Back,” by Molly Redmond, Cancer Poetry Project, V. 1, 2001)
- Make a list of firsts: the first kiss, first haircut, first grade, first friend, first dentist appointment, first time you walked home alone from school… Write the story of a first.
- Write one of your favorite family stories.
- Write about a teacher, doctor or coach who first inspired you to do more than you thought you could.
- Write about something that made you angry, sad, frustrated, or giggle…
- Write about losing hair during chemotherapy or nausea or the infusion room. Perhaps there’s a poem lurking there.
- Write about something that always makes you laugh when you remember it.
- Write about what it’s like to write.
The point is, the smallest thing can bloom into a story, take you to memories and events in your life that matter to you. Start there. Set the timer for 15 minutes. Write nonstop until it rings. Then read what you’ve written. Chances are, there’s more to write. Try the same exercise the next day or later in the week. Keep writing. Your life, your stories matter.
… in order to make you understand, to give you my life, I must tell you a story—and there are so many, and so many—stories of childhood, stories of school, love, marriage, and death…–Virginia Woolf