Close to Home ~ Personal Stories from Doctors

Yesterday I met Peggy Plews-Ogan who directs the Center for Appreciative Practice at my employer, the University of Virginia. Through her I found this lovely resource of personal medical narratives from physicians and doctors-in-training about their experiences. What strikes me about these pieces is the humanity revealed in patients but also their doctors.

Pictured Rocks ~ by CE Cameron

The traditional Western medical approach can save lives, but it has too often ignored quality of life. Both patients and doctors are treated as cogs in a system that dispenses prescriptions and procedures without regard to basic needs: patients, for example, need a caring, intentional presence paired with professional expertise; and practitioners need adequate rest, time, and compensation to do their jobs well.

I’ve been working on a health-mystery memoir for the past few years, and recently learned about the Narrative Medicine movement (e.g., Columbia University Narrative Medicine program). Physicians trained in this approach are taught to take a more personal approach to health care and listen to their patient’s stories about their health. These stories contain powerful clues on the journey to healing. But both a trusting patient and a listening, present practitioner are needed for those clues to be discovered.

This movement and resources like this inspire me because I’ve learned firsthand how telling our stories can help us through hard times and find our own best selves.

PS. Some additional questions including counterpoint to Narrative Medicine.

Kindred Spirits ~ Think Write Publish

Remember Anne of Green Gables? Petulant, earnest, downtrodden Anne. The concept of kindred spirits was such a revelation when her first dear friend, Diana, helped her feel a little less lonely. Each helped the other find her way.

—-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —-> —->

Perhaps this phrase stuck in my memory because I think we all seek our own kindred spirits, especially when we’re not sure where we’re headed or why, or even who we are at times. This month I’ve run into a few kindred spirits, people who are interested in the same ideas that I’ve had rattling around in my thoughts while I wonder, “Does anyone else think about this stuff?”

For example, Think Write Publish. Scholars are paired with writers to tell a true story about important scientific concerns, topics that might normally languish in an obscure academic journal. The enterprise was financed by the National Science Foundation, which is hard to beat for funding innovative, “transformative” projects. Transformative apparently now includes Creative Non-Fiction defined as a way of reaching people who don’t normally read research. You can read Issue 52 of the journal by the same name without a subscription, by clicking the Narratives tab here. If you teach writing or are just interested in how these essays got to be so readable, turn on the Yellow Test for a cool teaching tool, that shows how narrative works to tell an engaging story.

(Disclaimers etc: I’m not affiliated with Think Write Publish, or Creative Non-Fiction, though I do subscribe to the latter. I just think what they’re doing is cool. Also, my research lab is funded by NSF.)

Memorial Day 2014 ~ Remembering Ada Grace Cameron

It’s starting to feel like a long time that I’ve been alive. When I was born thirty years ago – though if we’re being precise, it was 33 years, in 1981 – my mother was 30 herself. She was a single mom and we moved in with my Grandma Ada Grace, mother of eight and schoolteacher again. Again, because Ada went back to teaching shortly before her husband Duncan Cameron, my mom’s beloved father, died of brain cancer at age 53, in 1971.

Nine years before that, my mom was a little girl of twelve leaving Escanaba, MI, to put down roots with her family in Greenville, MI, where I mostly grew up.

Some years before that, before her birth in 1950, my mom was only a hoped-for daughter, existing in the future of Duncan and Ada’s growing brood. They’d begun their family in World War II with three sons who saw little of their father at first, because when he wasn’t able to be with my grandmother, he was off somewhere fighting and experiencing stories he’d never tell, and getting what turned into brain cancer.

Before that, in the war years of the ‘40s, this country was still able to rally around a common good, and get it together to save metal and fuel so the soldiers overseas had what they needed to fight a clear and true evil that was trying to take over everything.

Diorama for Ada Cameron’s retirement | photo by CE Cameron

Before that, things are quite fuzzy because the primary sources in my life, the ones who are left, don’t speak much of those days, the Depression days of emerging efficiencies and still lots of people growing their own produce and learning to sew.

Before that – not long before that – women had just got the vote and found it difficult to be more than teachers, nurses, and secretaries. That world is unimaginable to me now, here in these United States, even though the same world exists today for millions of women. It’s just that they live elsewhere, six to twelve time zones away. They live under cover, under secrets, under the control of the power hungry, and they are stronger than I can ever imagine, and braver than I can ever believe.

My grandmother bore eight children, and when her husband Duncan died, half their brood was still at home, all the ones after my fourth-born mother. When my Grandpa Duncan died, their youngest child was twelve.

What did my Grandma Ada feel, think, and say, when this happened? We know what she did: she kept teaching, and she somehow scraped them by. They had the house and plenty of space and it was walking distance to school, and people didn’t need all the stuff of today, the stuff that keeps us working and driving, preoccupied and indoors.

Was she grateful that she could teach in the 1970’s, given that the last time she taught, she’d had to keep it secret that she’d married my grandfather? (In the 1930s, a married woman in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was a pregnancy waiting to happen, and the teaching contracts prohibited marriage.) Did she think on those years ago, or did she wonder only about the now, about her new responsibilities as head of the household, and which bill would be highest that month?

How much and how deeply did she miss her “Dunc,” the man she loved ‘til her death, at age 91, in the same big house he bought them in little Greenville, in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan?

When I was small, that house was everyone’s rock, all us cousins who visited in the summers, the fruit of Duncan and Ada’s eight. My grandmother decorated in green, blue, and brown – drab Nixon florals that didn’t get anyone too excited, but which also weathered the years. My grandfather was a handsome man, I could see from his portrait hung above a green leather chair, and I thought of it always as his chair. I would go and sit beneath him and feel love emanating from above and from my grandmother, on the sofa across from me, where she watched TV after reading to me and bringing me soup.

Did my grandmother ever wish for early death, to see her Dunc again? Or did she wish against Fate, that he could meet all of us grandchildren who came after he passed, and it was most of us?

She loved us enough for both of them, making us meat pasties from scratch, sloppy Joes and potato salad, foods I loved, even though she said she couldn’t cook. She shooed us out to play and there was that one time – the only time I can recall – when she was cross with us. It was for fighting and being unkind. A clump of us sat in front of the TV, sniping away until she said, “You stop that, you kids! I’m tired of you being mean to each other.”

Did Ada think at night of her Dunc? Did she think of when she would see him again? Because she had her own kind of faith, in the Episcopals and the Democrats, and the notion that the poor deserved some help. She’d lived in a world where everyone was poor, and it was no one’s fault, not due to anyone’s being lazy. To the contrary, in her world, everyone had worked hard and still: poverty.

My Grandma Ada waited to see Duncan and talked more about him as she aged, spending 30 and then 40 years without him in that big house, making us food and shooing us outside. After my cousins and I grew up, she cooked for only herself, loading oatmeal with prunes, bananas, and nuts each morning. She liked ice cream and always had Tin Roof in her freezer, and she was never afraid to eat ice cream with you. She never called anyone fat, except herself, and not very often, because she wasn’t.

I inherited these gifts from my grandma: four metal mixing bowls, a serving tray engraved with a map of the world, an embroidered jewelry box, a diorama of her first-grade classroom that the other teachers made for her retirement.

And the priceless ones: Thrift. Hope. Love.

With thanks to Mary Cameron Mitchell for fact-checking this updated post. Mary writes:  “Fact check #1. My dad died in 1971 at age 53. My mother had gone back to teaching before they knew he was ill. There was a teacher shortage and my dad encouraged Ada to apply. Fact check #2. Ada wasn’t fired from her first teaching job for getting married or being pregnant. The contract stipulated that marriage would result in a termination of her job.” 

Jewelry box, serving tray, mixing bowls

Jewelry box, serving tray, mixing bowls | photo by CE Cameron

Success is Making a Connection

Last night at the C’ville Indie Author Event at Telegraph, with The Artist’s Partner, someone asked, “How do you define success for your book?”

photo by Carolyn O'Neal

Cameron speaking at the Cville Indie Author Showcase ~ photo by Carolyn O’Neal

Here’s my answer:

Success is making a connection, whether to a stranger or someone more familiar. Success means that someone read the book and liked an idea, or even that someone paged through the book and said “neat format!” Success means that someone showed up at the book event and learned about the fabulous writing community here in Charlottesville, VA, or that someone plans to give the book to a relative who has had a loss.

Another author’s answer to the success question was “When strangers read it.” But that’s not the metric for me. No, my metric is: Are you a human being, also seeking? Did we have a conversation that we wouldn’t have had, otherwise?

I predict the 21st century will be one where cooperation, community, and connection will trump competition. The internet is revealing so many places for the former three C’s. People are doing work for free, work for fun, work for creativity all over the place, and it’s making this world a better place.

This holiday my uncles read the book. That was the best gift they could have given me. And when one of them said, “I think those women were just looking for companionship. That’s the most important thing in life,” I could only say that I agree.

Success is making a connection.

C’ville Indie Author Showcase Event ~ Thurs Jan 9

C'ville Indie Author Showcase Event ~ Thurs Jan 9

Telegraph is a local gallery and art boutique
110 4th St NE, Charlottesville, VA 22902

Title, Author, and Genre Information for event

1. Bowling For The Mob. Bob Perry with Stefan Bechtel. Sports Biography
2. Braver Than You Believe. Sue Mangum with Claire Cameron. Memoir
3. Warming! William Espinosa. Cli-Fi
4. Scary Mary. S.A. Hunter. YA Paranormal
5. Camila’s Lemonade Stand. Lizzy Duncan with Giles Jackson. Pre-K
6. Lotto’s Super-Awesome Unbelievable Park Adventure. Jan Ferrigan. Middle Grade
7. One Step Ahead of Your Future. Christine Ballard. Estate Planning How-To
8. Radical Doubt. Avery Chenoweth. Fiction

Learning to Be Myself at the Holidays

Even before I got divorced, I had trouble with holidays. Gifts – travel – lots of family visits in too little time – it could all be too much of a good thing. Or too much of a mixed bag (of mixed nuts…). And what’s more, those good things came tinged with a feeling of guilt, for feeling that way despite my blessings, or for being tired despite having plenty of time off.

Letting Go

Letting Go
photo by Claire Elizabeth Cameron
Halloween 2013, UVA Lawn

Then my world turned inside out and I was single again, the “kid” again at the holidays. Instead of a carefree kid waiting for Santa, I was the woman without a husband. Without children. Just myself. So I had to figure out how to “do” the holidays. That first year, I had to reinvent the simplest things, like how to find gifts when I was too sad to like anything in the stores. Or how to enjoy Thanksgiving when I was too distracted to really taste anything.

I finally decided to just be myself. Even though “myself” didn’t feel like much. So instead of traveling by airplane on the busiest day of the year, I drove four hours over a beautiful mountain to see family in Charleston, WV, on Thanksgiving. That weekend, I rested and walked when I needed to. For the first time at the holidays, I tried to just be present, and good to myself – whoever that was. It turned out to be OK. All the worrying I normally did, the fretting over details and whether others were enjoying themselves – turned out to be unnecessary. Being present and good to myself somehow translated into feeling more present and more good to the others around me.

This Thanksgiving, I’m going back to Charleston, WV. My circumstances have sweetened considerably and I have energy to share. But rather than worrying and fretting and planning, I’m going to try to live more in the moment. Oh, and be myself. It sure is easier than trying to be anyone else.

Free Kindle Download ~ Sat Nov 23 ~ Braver Than You Believe

Back by popular demand for 1 day only. FREE Kindle version giveaway, Braver Than You Believe, on Saturday November 23, 2013.

http://www.amazon.com/Braver-Than-You-Believe-Stories-ebook/dp/B00ES1CESS/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1384893378&sr=1-1&keywords=braver+than+you+believe