Today we’re going to talk about what I like to refer to as the healing power of storytelling, and what that means. Is there anything to it? How does it work? What happens between us when we share our personal stories, and why it’s important that we do.
This fascinates me because, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m a family physician. I practiced medicine for over thirty years…until I retired because my other passion in life is writing…and, you know, sometimes you have to make tough choices.
Plus…I had a story in me that I really wanted to tell.
Anybody else??
The point is that we ALL have a story to tell, but most of us never get around to sharing it. Instead, we make up excuses. We tell ourselves we don’t have time to write. We don’t know where to begin, or how to put it into words. We tell ourselves that what we have to say isn’t important. That no one else will care about it. Sometimes shame silences us. We blame ourselves for what happened to us. We have been conditioned to keep secrets. Perhaps it's just too painful, or sad, or maddening to revisit.
So…our stories go untold…and as such, I’m telling you…they wreak havoc on our bodies. The anger we bottle up, the sorrow that never fades, the shame we keep under lock and key all take a toll on us. They raise levels of stress hormones and inflammatory chemicals in our bodies that raise the heart rate, elevate BP, and raise blood sugar levels. This can lead to all kinds of problems in adulthood--hypertension, heart disease, diabetes, and autoimmune problems like lupus and RA. Not to mention anxiety and depression.
Think of it. If someone produced a pill that could lower your blood pressure, control your blood sugar levels, and elevate your mood, we would all buy stock in it, wouldn't we? So…why not invest some time and effort into storytelling? Unless we explore the anger, or despair, or confusion that is at the root of our pain, nothing anyone says or does will touch the cause of our suffering. All the medication in the world will not solve the problem.
There is, in fact, science to support the idea that telling our stories can help us heal. We know that storytelling can lower levels of inflammatory hormones in the body, because we can measure them. In studies where half the subjects were asked to write about a traumatic episode they had experienced and half wrote about a neutral topic like the weather or a favorite food…heart rate, BP, and sugar levels fell in the first group as compared to the neutral group. Their brain waves actually changed. Functional MRI scans of their brains demonstrated synchronization in electrical activity between the storyteller and listener. We don’t have time today to go into the science behind storytelling as a healing practice, but I’ll be around all weekend, so stop me if you’re interested.
The point is
that telling our stories affects us in ways we can measure and observe. When
you give your story a title, describe how it unfolded, and name the characters
that populate it, you may begin to understand why it still disturbs your peace
so many years later. If someone you trust is listening, you may come away with
an entirely fresh perspective on it. You may finally be able to forgive
yourself or the person who hurt you. You may be able to cast aside some of the
things you’ve always imagined were wrong with you, but never were. Your BP and
sugar levels may come down. Anxiety and depression may improve.
As a physician, I listened to patients’ stories all day long. The history, or story, of the present illness. The past medical history, or story. The patient’s family history, or story.
That, of course, was back in the days when I could scan my schedule for the day and envision every patient, I knew them that well. With a quick glance at the schedule, I knew who was getting ready to start chemo, who had just welcomed their first grandchild into the world, whose mother was recently transferred to the dementia unit. I knew because I had asked about it, the patient told me the story, and I made a note of it in the chart.
Nowadays, rather than dictating a note about the clinical
encounter (a.k.a. narrating the patient’s story), you open an electronic
medical record (EMR) that presents you with a confusing array of bulleted
items, complicated charts, and abbreviated details. You can easily pick out a
list of symptoms that were problematic at the patient’s last visit, when they
started, how often they occurred, and how long they lasted. You know what tests
you ordered and how you treated him, but you might not remember anything else
about the patient because nothing else is recorded there. He looks like any
other older patient with diabetes, or heart failure, or COPD…because you missed
the fact that he’s a decorated Vietnam veteran. You can’t understand why your
pregnant patient is so anxious because you failed to ask
about her sister who had three miscarriages in a row. You don’t know because
you didn’t get that part of the story.
If you’re a healthcare provider, it's easy to understand how missing details can make it hard to come up with the correct diagnosis. You miss the fact that your patient’s headaches started the day she discovered a pack of condoms in the back of her daughter’s dresser drawer. You have no way of knowing that the patient’s heartburn and indigestion have been a problem because of the pile of unpaid bills that are collecting on the kitchen counter. Or that your patient has insomnia because he is headed for a divorce.
Sharing our stories helps us heal. It is built into healthcare. It can’t be ignored.
The stories we share in the back of an ambulance, or in the examination room, or at the bedside are the same stories we share with our families and our best friends. They make us who we are. They help us process what happens to us. They embody our unspoken fears, our deepest sorrows, our greatest regrets…which is why we don’t tell them. It’s hard to put them into words.
It took me fifty years to get mine down on paper.
How long will it take you?
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