Inspiration: Narrative Medicine

Inspiration: Narrative Medicine

 "When we write about what we know and about what we don't know, we encounter mystery."  (Aimee Mepham, 2020)

Ever hear of Narrative Medicine?  I hadn’t until recently.  Narrative medicine combines close reading of literature and reflective writing to help healthcare providers deal with the stress of medicine and develop sympathy for their patients. The writing can be of any genre—fiction, poetry, or creative non-fiction.  

The idea of including a patient’s experience within the scientific practice originated in the 1910 Flexner Report, a book about healthcare in the US and Canada.* In the last part of the twentieth century, the concept morphed into curriculum at medical schools. Columbia University offers a Master of Science Narrative Medicine that broadens the scope of the field to include patients writing their own stories.  

I discovered narrative medicine after taking “Narrative Medicine: Stories of Illness & the Power of Reflective Writing” with Aimee Mepham, a graduate of Columbia’s Masters program, during NCWN’s Cabin Fever Conference this past weekend.

Mepham said reading guidelines when practicing narrative medicine, include

·         Observing: what sensory details are provided?

·         Recognizing the perceptive: doctor, nurse, patient, all three?

·         Identifying the form: fiction, non-fiction, poetry

·         Recognizing the voice: the point of view

·         Identifying the mood: how do you feel after reading the piece?

·         Observing the motion:  To what place does the story take you?

These guidelines are good for close reading, whatever the reason.  And, to keep in mind with our own writing. 

She left us with a couple of prompts: 

    “I felt anchored when…”

    “The hospital corridor was dimly lit…”

Would you like to write about your experience with the pandemic, the self-isolation, or other loss, grief, or illness you have experienced?  If you do, and would like to share it, send it to me (Carol) as a .doc, .docx, or .rft. and I’ll post on the WMO Blog. In line with blog postings, please keep it under 300 words.

by  Carol Phillips

*Published by Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching, the book had a huge (and, in my opinion from my limited understanding, not all together good) influence on how and by whom medicine is practiced today.  However, Flexner did introduce the notion that not only did a doctor need scientific knowledge but also insight into, and sympathy for, the human condition

Literary Happenings 4/22

Upcoming:  Not much folks.  If you hear of anything, please let me (Carol), or Rick know.

Poem of the Day:  Celebrate Poetry Month by sending a poem to me, Carol, so I can post it on our blog.  Remember, it will be considered published.  Not a poet?  Visit the blog daily to read what your fellow writers are up to.

NCWN Online writing class:  "Revealing Character Through Dialogue" with Xhenet Aliu, assistant professor of Creative Writing at the UNC-Greensboro. This is the Network's first offering in their 2020-2021 series of online classes $35 members; $45 non-members. 

Creative Nonfiction Online Class: Self-Guided Course: Writing the Tough Stuff (April-May)".  This self-guided four-week course will present strategies for strong creative nonfiction writing about  loss, trauma, or other major life changes. Each week will include a written lecture, specific reading recommendations tied to the lecture, and a writing assignment. $24.99

Poem: Requiem for a Lay-Z-Boy

Requiem for a Lay-Z-Boy

The Lay-Z-Boy chair sits at the curb today

Broken down into two pieces for garbage pick up

Rain falling, man and dog mourning its demise.

It was a relic of his bachelor days

Blue plaid arms spread wide in welcome home,

A throne’s embrace for a working man.

A wife brought children who claimed it for their own

Leaving video game and sleepover detritus

Of cheesy chip crumbs and spilled soda behind.

Still, the man would shrug off the missing arm cover

And crank up the foot rest, snoring on an upholstered island

While family life and a succession of dogs swirled about him.

The children grew and left, the red hound died,

And a new little dog scratched and curled in the chair’s lap.

Gray duct tape levied the foam padding against leaks.

Finally, a spring day, washing pollen off the porch

Wiping down rockers and a little painted table,

Chimes tinkling, cushions airing, the man acquiesced.

He carried the old relic out, replaced it with the porch recliner

Sleek brown with plastic arms, a foot rest. No embrace,

But still, the patient understudy, waiting to serve.

That night, the little dog whined. The man took him out,

Considered bringing the chair back inside but a steady rain

Drenched it. He drove to work in the gray, depressed.

The Lay-Z-Boy chair sits at the curb today

Broken down into two pieces for garbage pick up

Rain falling, man and dog mourning its demise.   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          by Cindy Brookshire 

                                                            2020

Poem: Lineage

Lineage
   

I have no child,
only a dead mother
and her Irish sweater.
I sink into its tight knit,
warm as her arms
around me.

She visits my dreams,
tells me her secrets—
my uterus is a tomb,
my child is madness,
voices I can’t reason away.

Her madness is my legacy.
Her thumbprint is forever stitched
on my brow.

I am my mother
I am my child

                             by Patty Cole

Poem: In Honor of the 168

In Honor of the 168

Hordes of reporters milling around,

Interviewing each other.

Desperately searching for an illusive scoop.

They can’t interview the 168.

National media provides blitz coverage,

Hourly, then by the minute.

Everything you don’t want to know.

What about the 168?

What did he say, what was he wearing,

What does he think?

As if this was important.

What about the 168?

Constant repetition almost makes him a folk hero,

A man admired for his stoicism.

He’s the hot news today.

What about the 168?

National media giving advice to the survivors,

Telling them how they are supposed to feel, to act, to think.

As if these national hotshots knew anything.

What about the 168?

Second by second, we hear how he died,

Eye-witness accounts are the Holy Grail.

Much ado about the demise of a killer.

What about the 168?

True justice would have been better served,

If no one bothered to attend.

He would have been exterminated, unnoticed.

And that would honor the 168.

                               By AL Manning

                                 June 11, 2011, Sixteen years, two months after

                                   the Oklahoma City Bombing 

Note:  Today is the 25th anniversary of Oklahoma City Bombing

Poem: The Writing Poem

The Writing Poem

Driving out the words--computer is on fire.
Plot twists so absurd--can't quench protag's desire.
No time for scene cards--mind races three steps ahead.
Killing adjectives--words by the score before bed.
Die bastard adverb--using all senses, yahoo.
Monstrously good verb--maybe I'll start book two.

Now, sit down, shut up and please leave me alone.
By Hemingway's ghost, I'm writing to the bone.

                                                               by Rick Bylina

Poem: Layers

Layers
first line is from “Onions” by William Matthews.

How easily happiness begins by dicing onions.

You dice. You cry. You get it out.

For a dash of drama, put the “Warsaw Concerto”

on the stereo. It pries open Sunday confessions.

The outer layers of the song like the onion

are strong. A torrent of spice and tears

runs wildly over my cutting board.

The heart is splayed open with the horns’ fortissimo.

When the onions are transparent and mellow,

the Concerto dwindles down to a soft, still voice,

the piano sings and the onions whisper in the pan.

                                                      By Patty Cole

                                                       from   A Way I Sing  

                                                       published by The Main Street Publishing Company