When my mother was in her 80s, she had a devastating stroke. The doctors told us—my brother, sister, and I—that she had no hope of recovering a meaningful life.
For weeks, we sat vigil by her bedside in the ICU hoping for a miracle that never came. On the sad day that we decided to withdraw life support, we brought our children (six grandchildren in all) to the hospital to say goodbye.
The nurses removed her breathing tube and we waited. Only soft sniffles and the occasional stifled sob broke the heavy silence. But our mother’s heart beat on.
We began telling each other stories of Mom and Grammy. My older siblings related their memories of the flood our home had weathered—an event that happened before I was born. The grandchildren recalled being taught how to play gin rummy or crotchet an afghan square or how to drop a stream of bubbling hot fudge into a cup of cold water to check for the soft ball stage of doneness.
We ordered a takeout lunch. Then takeout dinner. By 11 pm and more than twelve hours off the ventilator, it was clear to us that our mother was not going to die that day. Our original plan had been for all of us to be with her when she passed. But as the children started to get cranky or nod off, we made a new plan. One of us adult children would stay with her at all times until she passed. I was elected (or volunteered; I can’t remember which) to stay since I was the one in the medical field and also lived closest.
But as we bundled kids into coats and hugged each other goodbye, our mother’s heartbeat suddenly started to fall. To the 70s at first. Then 50s. Then 30s. We instinctively moved closer. We touched her shoulder, her face, her hair. We held hands with her and with each other. The sobs and sniffles that had filled the room before were gone. Now it was filled with only love.
The story we tell ourselves is this: My mother wanted us all to be together with her as she passed. She enjoyed listening to our stories. She relished our laughter. She even appreciated the crabbiness of the little ones.
We tell ourselves that when plans changed to having only one of us nearby to see her to the other side, she changed plans herself, opting to make that journey sooner rather than later. We tell ourselves she took control and went peacefully.
This story comforts us in our grief. But the truth is I don’t know the truth. I don’t know if my mother suffered. I don’t know if she was ready to die. I don’t think she suffered, but I can’t know. All I have is this story I tell myself.
But this is the power and the beauty of narrative. By telling our own stories in our own way, we can take ownership of our experience.
Writing gives us a way of processing events, contextualizing interactions. It is not just the fact that something stressful happened to us or the fact that we bore witness to great suffering that causes us to suffer. It is our emotional reaction to it that must be considered on the page.
In writing about it, we come to see the meaning of these happenings (or more accurately, we extract our own meaning from them). Writing lets us take lessons learned with us as we move on. It also gives us the opportunity to leave behind on the page aspects of that account that no longer serve us well.
We are not simply re-writing history or searching for a happier ending when we write our truths. We are divining meaning for ourselves from difficult circumstances. Maybe in revisiting a painful event, we are able to see some value in adversity. Searching for the positive in the negative when we write can allow us to not only disengage from that negative experience but also to grow from it. Our writing helps us to take a step back from what is causing us stress or confusion and learn something useful from it.
Writing also gives us agency in our circumstances. Writing about the event gives us a certain power, not over the event itself—we cannot change that—but we can control the narrative. We can understand our place within that larger story and learn and grow from the experience moving forward.
Some years ago, I presented a writing workshop for healthcare professionals at a symposium at the University of Iowa’s Carver School of Medicine called The Examined Life conference. Nellie Hermann, the creative director of Columbia University’s Narrative Medicine program, was a fellow presenter. She had just written a novel called The Cure for Grief which was based on a true experience in her life.
After her presentation, an audience member asked her why she wrote her story as a novel instead of a memoir and more broadly, why she wrote in general. Her answer resonated deeply with me at the time and has stuck with me to this day. She said, “We write to have power over something we can never control… the past.” This is another rationale for reflective writing. The practice gives us control of the narrative.
In an example from my own life, when I wrote my first memoir Crash: A Mother, a Son, and Journey from Grief to Gratitude, I chose not to name the drunk driver. I felt that to name him would only serve to give him a level of humanity that I did not feel he deserved. It was a tiny literary decision—not to name a character—but it gave me a sovereignty I would not have had, had I not been a writer. In this way, writing is power.
Proust said, “Ideas come to us as the successors to grief and griefs, at the moment when they change into ideas, lose some of their power to injure the heart; the transformation itself, even for an instant, releases suddenly a little joy.” Proust understood that processing our experiences with words releases some of the grief and loss we feel and, in some instances, brings its own solace to our hearts.
The story I tell myself about my mother’s death may be true. In fact, I think it is. But for me, the larger point is that writing about her death helped me to process the many feelings I had about it. Grief. Guilt. Regret.
Cultivating a daily writing practice takes time. Give yourself about 30 minutes in a quiet place. Put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and just write with no thought to spelling, grammar, or punctuation.
Write whatever comes to mind, even if it is just “nothing is coming to mind.” It’s enough to loosen the wiring, to untangle the knots of thoughts in our over-worked minds.
Then just wonder on the page. Ask yourself questions. Give yourself a prompt. “I wonder” is a good one. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d told my friend how I really felt.” “I wonder why I didn’t.” Then just write.
Sometimes insights come during the writing session. You understand what was holding you back. You may even find a way forward with a vexing issue in a relationship. Sometimes that understanding comes later, as you read over your words, or as they just bump up against each other in your brain.
Writing may feel forced or difficult at first. You may think “This is stupid.” Or “What am I doing?” But with practice, you will more quickly settle into the place where words flow. Where connections are made. Solutions found. Permissions granted. Where the story you tell yourself becomes the story you knew to be true all along.
References
1. Pennebaker JW and Seagal JD. Forming a Story: The Health Benefits of Narrative. J Clinical Psych. 1999;55(10): 1243-1254.
2. Kaminer D. Healing processes in trauma narratives: a review. South African Journal of Psychology. 2006;36(3):481-499.
3. Lepore SJ and Smyth JM. The Writing Cure: How Expressive Writing Promotes Health and Emotional Well-Being. Washington DC. American Psychological Associates. 2002.
4. Westrate NM and Gluck J. Hard-earned wisdom: exploratory processing of difficult life experiences is positively associated with wisdom. Dev Psychol. 2017 Apr;53(4):800-814.
5. Proust M. Du Cote de Chez Swann. First volume of In Search of Lost Time. 1913.
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