The importance of storytelling is well established. Stories enable us to make sense of our world, which literally keeps us from going insane (it’s true). They aid our survival, a fact I learned first-hand recently when my husband Vic had a medical emergency.
One Saturday morning, he inexplicably fainted at home, was taken to the hospital by ambulance and underwent four days of tests and observation. The resulting diagnosis was pneumonia and slightly elevated blood pressure, but the circuitous journey it took to get there was nerve-wracking and taught us both a lot.
Since he had what was initially an odd set of symptoms (unconscious, no obvious signs of pneumonia like coughing or congestion), the doctors relied heavily on our narrative – what Vic said he experienced and what I observed when I found him after he fainted. In fact, because it was so hard to find a correlation between Vic’s symptoms and what had occurred the morning he passed out, our short story became the foundation for virtually every treatment decision made during Vic’s time in the hospital.
In an effort to piece together the mystery, Vic was seen by many different physicians in the hospital (cardiologists, neurologists, internists) and was cared for round the clock by a team of nurses and aids. Almost every conversation began with us retelling our story. It was as if our narrative was a kind of rhetorical campfire around which everyone gathered to discuss Vic’s case. I was surprised by how closely each doctor listened every time we told our story. They watched our body language and documented what we said. They asked questions and repeated back what they thought they heard. Then, they used what we told them to decide which diagnostic tests to run.
Truthfully, it was unnerving how much the doctors relied on our story to help them choose diagnostic methods. What if we were telling it incorrectly, or forgetting some crucial detail? Consequently, the weight of accurately conveying the information (and doing so without dramatic embellishment) weighed heavily on us (but was obviously necessary).
Once the pneumonia diagnosis was made and Vic was released from the hospital, I started exploring the topic of patient narratives in medical diagnosis. Coincidentally, I found that it’s receiving a lot of attention right now and is the subject of new research. Turns out, medicine is undergoing the same transition as other industries, such as advertising and marketing, in regard to acknowledging the importance of storytelling.
In medicine’s case, this is a bit of a pendulum shift. In ‘olden times’, because medical knowledge and technology were in their infancy, doctors relied heavily – often exclusively – on patient narratives and intuition. Over time, as advances were made and new technology became available, doctors relied more on what ‘science’ told them. Patient narratives were considered unreliable because they were thought to be purely emotion-based.
In recent years, a shift has begun that places renewed emphasis on patient stories. The realization was that humans are not passive and, therefore, neither are their medical records. In fact, a patient’s medical record is now thought to be a living document that tracks multiple, intertwined representations of the individual. It helps physicians understand the little universe that is each person’s unique, individual body, and the stories and anecdotes it contains are what keep the document ‘alive’.
That makes sense to me, because after all, stories enable the same things in a medical context that they enable everywhere else:
1. Empathy
2. Analysis of information and acceptance of new ideas
3. ‘Sensemaking’ (that thing that keeps us from going insane)
4. Creation of unexpected innovations and breakthroughs
5. A sense of ‘control’ for someone who has suffered a traumatic event
The bottom line: Stories result in better medicine.
The medical community is starting to agree. As one researcher put it: “Anecdotes and imagination have led to some of our greatest scientific discoveries,” and “good doctors exist at the intersection of science & language.”
We definitely witnessed this among Vic’s caregivers. Over the course of the week, as more tests were run, and more physicians became involved, and we re-told our story, the shared narrative became progressively richer and fuller and more detailed.
And now, research has revealed something even more profound:
Stories don’t just enable better medical diagnosis and treatment. The act of telling and/or listening to a story can actually cause healing.
That’s right - a story itself can literally help heal the body of a listener, as it did in the case of patients being treated for high blood pressure.
Wow.
Here’s my follow-up question:
Is the reverse true? Can a story make a listener ill?
It would make (unfortunate) sense. Either way, storytellers clearly have a responsibility toward their audience, because their healing ability makes them more than mere storytellers.
It makes them physicians.
And since we all tell stories, and we all have the corresponding ability to contribute to the healing (or, potentially, the illness) of others, we are all physicians.
I will be thinking about that the next time I tell a story.