Tell Me Your Story



~It takes a thousand voices
 to tell a single story.~

Native American Proverb

 This is a "cheat" blog.  I've gotten away from blogging and am actually doing some not-so-serious-serious writing thanks to my bestestest friend in funeral service, Mrs. Carrie-I-Am-the-proud-mother-of-the-cutest-happiest-baby-ever-Ewen.

Today I read a reflection at a conference and I thought I would share it with you. I know, I know, it's much more entertaining when I'm actually with you having a visit, but this will have to suffice.

A truly inspiring colleague of mine was doing a presentation about the importance of storytelling in hospice spiritual care. She asked if I could share a reflection, and this is what I wrote (give or take a sentence or two, after all, I do take poetic license wherever I see fit);

Preparing for this talk, I scoured the Internet looking for people's stories about what they learned while providing care for the dying, either as professionals or as friends.  After scrambling for half an hour, I thought, "McDishy!", You have your own stories to tell." Sometimes I am a bear of very little brain.

I have worked directly with people who are dying for over ten years.  I have spent countless hours listening to, and assisting people who are acutely aware that they are dying.  We're all dying, but my clients are much more aware of their limited time to do what they need to, and to tell their stories.

Whenever I share time with someone who is dying, not the time I take to do my assessments, or organize care, or give information, but the time that I spend  listening, I feel like I've provided a priceless service.  Nurses, OT's, PT's, Case Managers, and Physicians come and go with a list of tasks to complete.  When one of us stops and makes time for silence, that's when we, as caregivers give our true gift of self and are offered that same gift from our clients.

I have had the honour of listening to the stories of young children, and seniors who have lived through, and remember both of our great wars.  I have have been taken away by my clients to different countries, cultures, families, and time periods by way of their stories.

Most people bound to bed, are treated as if they have only ever been sick, weak and fragile, but the reality is that they have all lived vital, vibrant lives.  They still have the mortal desire to stamp their presence on the world, and often, storytelling is the last vehicle they have to do this.

I will never forget the story of a woman who spent her early married life by the seashore in England.  For her birthday every year, her husband would cook lamb and they would drink champagne.  He read poetry to her every night.

Thanks to her I believe in true love.

I remember another lady telling me about having to buy a wedding dress before her husband went off to war.  The family had no money, and by way of her youthful good looks and charm, she was able to convince a designer to give her a dress so that she could marry her sweetheart before he left for the war.

Thanks to her I believe in determination.

A gentleman stubbornly allowed me to visit over a period of a year, continually asking what on earth I could help him with, insisting that he was alone and he didn't matter.  For a year, I visited faithfully. On the day that he died, I made a visit, not knowing that it would be my last.  We discussed the death of his younger brother, and how he felt at that time. It was only then that he realized  he had been loved, and was loved now. 

Thanks to him I believe in hope.

A young man, suffering from extremely hard to control pain and symptoms always had a joke for me when I visited.  He smiled because he said there was no point complaining if this was all the time he had left.  He ate candy, and held parties from his hospital bed.  He smiled and laughed, and cried when he needed to.

Thanks to him I believe in the power of positive thinking.

My work is a blessing because I have the benefit of hearing my client's stories.  Each story is a gift with a timeless message.  Each visit is an exchange of stories and energy that cannot happen during any other time of life. 

For every practical thing I can do when I walk into someone's home as a care provider, I learn an infinite number of lessons about humanity, and I hope that my clients learn that they are not forgotten, they are not given up on, and that through their storytelling the meaning of their life becomes more clear. 

Every one of us is a master "Storyteller". We need to take time to tell our stories, because it is by way of this storytelling  we create and enrich our world.

Help Hospice continue to hear those stories. Click here to donate.

I Have a Story to Tell You

"Like all the best families,
we have our share of eccentricities,
of impetuous and wayward youngsters
and of family disagreements."


~Queen Elizabeth II ~

It is Sunday March 6, 2011 and I am at a cafe table in the middle of a mall.  I know, not my "uje", but I thought the shops opened at ten not eleven, so here I am waiting for one of the great sins of our time - the modern shopping mega mall - to lurch to life.

My throat is sore, and I'm congested. Opting for the lesser of the evils I'm having some sort of unsweetened iced drink to try and keep my throat from drying up and dying.  Surprisingly, there is a starling in here, hopping from table to table. Not quite like the cafes of St. Germain, but the bird helps create at least a quirky, if not convincing atmosphere.

It reminds me of the afternoon I spent a few years ago channelling Hemingway at Les Deux Maggots. Ahh, April in Paris! I remember surfacing from the tangled beauty of the Paris metro into a postcard of red geraniums standing at attention in wrought iron window boxes. 

There in the cafe, across from the church, I found a little table under the canopy and began to write. As the afternoon wore on, I managed to make my way through lunch, completely backwards. I began with a cafe americano, followed by an espresso with chocolate cake, followed by chicken, salad, and finally, a lovely glass of french wine.  Actually it was more than one glass of wine, but when you're with Hemingway in spirit, who's counting? 

That was one of the most perfect afternoons of my life, and I'm sure, if you were here beside me sipping a cup of tea and munching on some homemade treaties, the story would take much longer to tell. I would fill in the gaps of the story; like how it was the first time I ever saw geraniums and liked them, that the energy and people in the cafe were amazing, that the waiter was a grey-haired, balding sweetheart whose patience allowed us to converse despite my merciless butchering of his exquisite mother tongue, and why I felt compelled to travel to Paris in the first place.

But this isn't the story I want to tell you. I want to tell you a story that you already know.  After all, what are we but manufactured characters of our own stories?

We go back. Despite our absorption into the individual self, the entertaining tales of our shenanigans in friendship and love are second to the narrative soil of the genes in which we are rooted.  Our mind reaches back in time as tree roots burrow deeper into the rich earth.

Despite our dysfunction, the skeletons tap on the closet doors of our mind and threaten to tumble out along with our heirloom scars.  Despite this delicate balance, we long to know we came from love.  Greater than the shallow love of skin on skin, greater than the dutiful love of being fed and clothed, we long to know we are from a love that binds eternity and purpose.

This morning, enjoying a breakfast of cheese, figs and pastry, a collection of long lost family photos stared back at me from my laptop.  Seven of us, in perfect two-or-three-year-gapped chronological order smiled back at me from my past.  Not one of us was older than 18.  We knew our place in that order, and we held each other up like each thread holds together a tattered blanket.

We knew our stories; That Peter fell asleep under a box on the porch when he was a toddler. Unable to find him, a panicked mom warranted a full search by our local police constable until rolly little Peter stretched and yawned after his nap and inquired as to what the fuss was all about.

And there was quiet Melanie, with her Holly Hobby infatuation and collection of Tetley tea figurines lined up on her bedroom window sill. 

Tim, eldest, quiet, and gentle. Its' funny how the most tender of souls are damaged and lost in the teenaged jungle of feel good temptation.  I looked up to Tim, and I loved him because he was good.

Paula. The second oldest of the crew. Athlete, blond beauty and fashionista. Her dream was to live in the city one day.

Donald. He was my age, but an old soul. Many have said I have an old soul, but if I have an old soul, Donald's was ancient. Even in kindergarten he was repentant. He hummed constantly with the stress of religious guilt.  The other five of us would rib him, but God save you if you weren't blood and wanted to take a swing.  We stuck together.

The baby was Matthew.  He will forever be the image of the curly blond baby holding up the end of the family helix as the seven of us paraded in front of the video camera and up the staircase one Christmas eve.

The group of seven. Sharing stories only the seven of us will know, along with all of the plot twists, treachery and jubilation that all families experience.  But these are our stories; before the drugs, the alcohol, the pill, marriage, divorce, breakdowns, and birthing another generation.

This morning as I ate my breakfast, those seven children looked back at me.  We were smiling. We were innocent. We did come from love. Despite the individuals we are now, and giving the world another generation, we go back, weaving this new blood into the family story.