When I was a little girl, I was fascinated by stories and their seemingly magical ability to transport me to faraway places with exciting characters and events.

As an adult, this fascination and love for stories is ever present in both my personal and professional life. As a teacher, I strongly encourage my students to use stories, both real and imaginary to connect with an audience. Yet, I have come to realize that stories are about more than connection or mere entertainment. Stories also have the potential to repair the damage that illness has done to our lives. In essence, stories are evocative. They get us thinking about our experiences and expressing emotions, and as such, stories can become great catalysts for healing.

In 1996, my father had a stroke and subsequent heart attack. Since that time, he has had five major cardiovascular surgeries and numerous hospitalizations due to cardiac episodes. Quite frankly, I was devastated by his illness and the prospect of losing him. His illness and my fear of death consumed every aspect of my life. As part of a doctoral class in narrative analysis of health care, I was encouraged to write the story of my father's illness. What emerged was a series of vignettes or journal entries that chronicled my experience of the illness. I found that writing these stories was therapeutic and cathartic because they provided a place "to put" my pain. I can now revisit this experience if I need to, but I no longer have to carry my pain around with me all the time, because stories made it possible for me to heal.

The Catholic Ladies

Things are the same - the pictures, the colors, the chairs, the uniforms and the smell, that smell of illness. Everything is the same as when I was last here. The Max Farrar CICU waiting room does not change. But, I on the other hand will never be the same. Each time I am here (this makes five times), I change. I once was a novice, but now I am a veteran of waiting. Actually "waiting room" doesn't even begin to capture the reality of what goes on here - the "begging room" would be a more appropriate name. I sit here begging God to let my father live - let him make it through just one more surgery. I have found that in this place, there is no future, and the past is too painful to even think about. In this place, time just hovers.

But, I am lucky. I know the routine - remember I'm a veteran. I look around at these other people. They are lost - in a daze - just as I must have been. I am sitting across from a 40-ish lady whose husband had a heart attack and is undergoing bypass surgery. She is accompanied by her husband's sister and father. The two ladies are reading a Catholic Study Bible. For hours now, they have been reading the Bible and silently crying. I try not to look at them and their tears. I think it is shameful that we have to be on display with our pain and fear. I don't cry in front of these people. Instead, I go to the bathroom where I can be alone with my tears.

These Catholic ladies don't know that it will take a long time for the nurse liaison to come out for the update of how things are going. They say every 30 minutes, but that doesn't always happen.

A nurse just came out. She is asking a family to move to the Consultation Room. The Catholic ladies are watching this too. They don't even know to be afraid of that room - that room usually means bad news. "God, please don't make me go there."

I'm back to the begging again. As I look around, there are so many people. Odds are that someone is going to receive bad news. Someone usually does when I'm here. It's strange, how everything, even in sickness, is a competition of sorts.

Mama is here now. I wonder if she is watching the Catholic ladies too. The doctor comes out and Daddy is now in recovery. We can see him in a few hours during the CICU visitation.

The Catholic lady's husband is out of surgery also. She doesn't know that it takes forever to get the patients all ready at the same time for visitation. I know not to get hung up on a certain time. It may take another hour before they let visitors in.

That's odd. I have always been "Daddy's little girl," but now I have to get a pass to see him. I'm now a "visitor." Illness reduces all of us to something we don't want to be.

We are about to enter the CICU. The Catholic ladies are waiting with us. I know they don't know what to expect. They've been told about the tubes and the blood, but no one can really prepare you for this.

The door is open. We have to file in. I try not to look around. I know not to look around. We have to wash our hands. The water is warm. My heart is pounding. I hate the smell of this place. It smells of sickness, blood, suffering, and death. I hate this place. Put on a smile - Daddy hates to see you sad.

We are on our way home now. We are about to get on the elevators so we can leave this place. I tell Mama that I'll be right back. I don't want her to see what I'm doing. I walk over to the Catholic ladies and give them my rosary - my special rosary that has been with me each of these five times. With tears in their eyes, they take it. I tell them that I don't need it anymore because I've been lucky.

Through writing "The Catholic Ladies" and the other vignettes, I was able to move beyond the role of victim and take a more proactive role in my father's recovery. In my final vignette, I write of leaving my pain behind and rejoining my life.

Although my particular situation involved writing a story, it could very well have been expressed through dance, poetry, music and various other art forms. Regardless of how the story is presented via the arts, it has the potential to be both therapeutic and cathartic because it provides a place "to put" one's pain. This catharsis can ultimately serve as a catalyst for advocacy, because it is only when we have truly come to terms with the illness experience that we can work for change and help others.

Questions for Discussion

1. The author writes of art as an avenue for recovering one's voice. This recovery of voice, or sense of self, is part of the healing process. In what other ways can the arts (music, dance, literature, art, etc.) participate in the healing of the body and the mind?

2. The author describes herself as an artist, who has found healing power in her art. Is art just as powerful for the audience as for the artist? Why or why not?

3. Historically, Western cultures have not paid as much attention to the connection between the body, spirit and mind as some Eastern cultures. Should Western physicians take a more holistic approach to medicine that would incorporate the arts into the healing process? If so, how should such medical practices be funded?

4. What works of art, particularly in the genres of music and literature, have contributed to social healing in American history (consider the Civil Rights movement, Vietnam, the Civil War, etc.)?

5. Consider your favorite movies, books, songs, and plays. Why do you enjoy them? What benefit(s) do you derive from them? Do these benefits contribute to your health?

Bibliography

Campo, Rafael. What the Body Told. Durham: Duke University Press, 1996.

Frank, A. W. The Wounded Storyteller. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995.

Malchiodi, Cathy A. The Art Therapy Sourcebook. McGraw-Hill/Contemporary Books, 1998.

Milburn, Michael P., Ph.D. The Future of Healing: Exploring the Parallels of Eastern and Western Medicine. Crossing Press, 2001.