Aniisah Bibi Aboo Bakar Kara
Writing from an outsider’s perspective is challenging. Claiming we can “walk into someone else’s shoes” can feel pretentious. According to Brene Brown, a renowned researcher and social worker, the proper approach is “…to learn how to listen to the story you tell about what it’s like in your shoes and believe you even when it doesn’t match my experience” (Brown, 2022, Atlas of the Heart: Mapping Meaningful Connection and the Language of Human Experience).
Some stories are so compelling that they draw the readers into the realm of the storyteller. Years ago, I encountered an insightful analogy on illness by Susan Sontag, an acclaimed American writer, who wrote that every human holds dual citizenship- one in the realm of the well, and another in the realm of the sick. Although we prefer the former, we may find ourselves forced into the latter. Confronting unexpected turbulence in life can be destabilizing, as Sarah Mandel writes in Little Earthquakes: A Memoir,
“We are creatures who crave certainty. But life, it turns out, is a study of uncertainty”.
During visits to hospitalized patients who rarely received visitors, I encountered two women: one with amputated legs, the other blind. The former asked me to give coconut water to the latter who laid silently on the cold hospital bed, looking unkempt. I later learned that she had spent some time in the hospital and, abandoned by her family, was being transferred to a nursing home. I often felt like a good Samaritan, masking my discomfort when faced with life’s fragility. How did she feel about leaving the hospital? Do we have the right to judge her family? These questions linger unanswered.
I have shared many stories with friends, family, and strangers- these were invaluable exchanges. My first press article, shared with a friend, resonated with her hospitalization experience. While some doctors praised my initiative to contribute to the betterment of healthcare, others offered different perspectives. These feedback humbled me, as my caregiving experience and research offered only glimpses into medicine’s complex world governed by healthcare professionals and inhabited by patients.
Reflecting on my writing, a proverb shared by my lecturer after my father’s demise resonates: “A grief shared is a grief halved”. It underscores why I persist in this field despite its emotional toll. We cannot erase others’ suffering, but we can listen with empathy.
Humans share their stories to feel heard and understood, forging bonds even with strangers. My driving tutor, though barely acquainted, narrated her miscarriage story, revealing the pain hidden behind her bubbly personality. The breast cancer survivors I interviewed for my thesis taught me selflessness and hope amid vulnerability. Countless stories fill my memory.
Patient advocacy and narratives are transforming healthcare dynamics globally. Gratitude is owed to doctors and healthcare professionals for their unseen sacrifices, even amidst patients’ occasional unpleasantness, which is often a response to pain and loss. Stories abound of doctors positively impacting patients’ lives amid treatment hardships. One relative’s doctor’s advice during her own battles became her mantra for bravery.
Doctors’ interactions with patients often reveal shared experiences of pain and suffering. Some of my relatives’ doctors were comfortable enough to share stories of their hospital stays as patients. I advocate for narrative medicine not just to amplify voices of patients but to empower practitioners, allowing them to explore and express their own vulnerabilities.
Incorporating narrative medicine in the clinical practice can prove to be challenging since it has its own pitfalls. However, dear readers, we all have stories residing inside of us – stories that matter because they shape who we are as individuals throughout our lives.