In Illness and Culture in the Postmodern Age, David B. Morris highlights this distinction between disease and illness: “The power to make us sick or well inheres not only in microbes or medications but in images and stories…the main assumption underlying the distinction between between disease and illness is that knowledge falls into two broad categories, objective and subjective” (36-37).

While many things within this quote (and, in fact, his entire book) interest me, for the sake of this particular entry, I’m intrigued the idea of stories and their relation to this division of knowledge into subjective and objective…basically, I am interested in the role of the narrator and storyteller.

As a patient, the role of storyteller is so important. We bring our subjective experiences with illness—the actual process of living with conditions—to our doctors, who hope to match up what we tell them with a different type of knowledge, science. So the details we choose to disclose, how we disclose them, and the narrative we establish about our illnesses often shape our diagnostic journeys. Certainly there are countless tests out there whose results can confirm, refute, or re-cast our stories, but what we describe to our physicians sets the whole process in motion. If I say I generally have pain and fatigue or I say I have pain in my trunk accompanied by muscle weakness and tenderness that worsens after exertion, then I am giving my doctor two different avenues to explore that might share some similarities but can lead to very different destinations.

So what does it means to be the storyteller? It should be pretty easy, right? But that’s not always the case. I know from firsthand experience that assumptions, fears, and self-consciousness can really affect what I say and how I say it: I don’t want to sound like a complainer if I list too many symptoms, I don’t want to seem like I’m making a big deal out of nothing, I don’t want to deal with more tests so I might not mention certain problems I’ve noticed. In addition, despite my best intentions and the short lists I’ve made in preparation, sometimes I get so wrapped up in a particular conversation with a doctor that I forget to touch on other details…we’re threading a different narrative line and I’m unable to shift its focus.

My incomplete narrative may be authentic to my subjective experience in many places, but it is not whole. But can it ever be?

As a writer, the role of the narrator and storyteller is inherent in every step of the writing process. In order to create atmosphere, emotion, or a factually accurate account that is concise enough, we’re constantly choosing certain details and facts over others: what does my reader need to know about the background of a situation to understand a current dilemma? If I’m trying to illustrate a particular aspect of a relationship or make a specific point, what other information about the dynamic do I need to cover? If I’m writing about a scene where something good happens, is it disingenuous to leave out negative moments that were also part of the back story if they interfere with the true (but incomplete) moment I am describing?

And of course this process is filled with the same types of obstacles that occur when we’re asked to be narrators of our illnesses: how do I come across to my reader? Does the situation I have described make sense or does the reader need more information? Will I hurt or offend anyone I have portrayed? Will anyone care about what I have to say? I am the one deciding which facts to include, so even if my finished product yields a cohesive storyline, I know it might not be a complete one.

This tension is not unique to the position of patient or writer, but since I exist within both modes, it’s interesting to look at how they intersect. I think there will always be that push and pull between the subjective (our experiences) and the objective (science, facts, historical record), but that’s what makes both medicine and writing so dynamic.