Global to Local: The Doorway Project

IMG_3706Dream big. Take calculated risks. Be innovative and creative. Work collaboratively. Be open to learn from other countries and other communities and support the global to local connections. Dare to be labeled woo-woo. Remember nurse power!

Those are the lessons I have been learning—or relearning lately as I help launch the Doorway Project, a campus-community interprofessional innovative collaborative project aimed at reducing if not ending youth homelessness in the University District of Seattle. It is a form of public scholarship and includes creative data-gathering and design modalities including participatory community mapping, photo voice, and participatory digital storytelling videos. It’s final product will be a youth-centric human/community designed community cafe modeled after the amazing Merge Cafe in Auckland, New Zealand. It is ambitious and audacious and it just might work.

We have our kick-off and first pop-up community cafe and community participatory design activities this Sunday, December 3rd, noon-4pm at the lovely community center University Heights in the U District of Seattle. Here is an edited down 4-minute version of a longer interview I did today with our local U District public radio station KUOW 94.9 FM. Many thanks to them and especially to Producer Andy Hurst whose mother happens to be a nurse.

Solastalgia: Homesickness and Climate Change

BC642845-1D42-466F-870C-CC1456A62A08Population health effects from climate change are established scientific facts. Like anti-vaxxers (anti-vaccinators), climate change deniers are not only wrong-headed, they are dangerous to everyone’s health (and to planetary health). Case in point: beware of the pets of anti-vaxxers since many seem to be refusing rabies vaccinations for their cats and dogs/ see “Anti-vaxxers now refuse to vaccinate pets” by Nick Thieme, Slate, August 3, 2017; at the same time, global warming is increasing the spread of rabies among animal hosts such as foxes in Alaska/ see “Ecological niche modeling of rabies in the changing Arctic of Alaska” by Huettman, Magnuson, and Hueffer, Acta Veterinaria Scandinavica, March 20, 2017. And as a reminder, rabies in humans is almost 100% fatal (source: CDC).

The Centers for Disease Control has developed an excellent graphic depiction of the impact of climate change on human health, shown here:

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Of special note in this graphic is the fact that mental health impacts are shown twice, associated with both severe weather and with environmental degradation.

A recent (November 25, 2017) NYT article illustrates the mental health effects from climate change for people who live in Rigolet, Labrador. As Livia Albeck-Ripka states in the article “Why Lost Ice Means Lost Hope for an Inuit Village” there are increases in depression, substance abuse, domestic violence, and suicide related to the disorienting environmental changes and increased isolation for villagers. “An unpredictable environment means disempowerment,” she writes and links this with the stirring up of the intergenerational trauma of colonization for indigenous people. But she also points out that mental health effects from climate change and environmental degradation affect us all. She quotes Australian philosopher Glenn Albrecht as stating, “We weren’t around when the asteroid wiped out dinosaurs, but now we have humans in the 21st century who are trying to deal with a change to the world which is unprecedented.” Albrecht coined the term Solastalgia: “a form of homesickness one experiences when one is still at home.”

But what can we individually and collectively do about climate change and about the health effects of climate change? Perhaps the most important action is to become better informed and more civically engaged in respect to these topics. The Lancet has a good website: Tracking the Connections Between Public Health and Climate Change which includes a synthesis of scientific evidence in The 2017 Report of The Lancet Countdown. In the US reliable sources of information include the CDC (resources linked above) and the American Public Health Association (APHA). The APHA graphic “How Climate Change Affects Your Health” (included below) is a bit overly-busy and heavy on the gloom and doom (and curiously does not include mental health), yet could spur helpful discussion in certain settings:

Climate_Change_Overview

Another great resource that is geared towards a young adult audience is the Seattle-based environmental news site Grist, with the vision of working for “a planet that doesn’t burn and a future that doesn’t suck.” Their funny and informative (a good combination) “Ask Umbra” eco-advice column is worth following. Take a look at Umbra’s “21-day Apathy Detox” for great ideas on brushing up on civic engagement related to environmental justice and climate change. My two favorites are “Day 5: Read More Than Dead White Men” and Day 20: Art Brings Life to Social Movements.” 

Get involved. Do what you can to beautify and “green” the places where you work, live, and play. Work upstream for social and environmental justice. Bloom where you are planted. Those are some of the thoughts I’ve had this fall as I’ve been involved with this year’s University of Washington Health Sciences Common Book Changing Climate, Changing Health: How the Climate Crisis Threatens Our Health and What We Can Do about It by Paul R. Epstein and Dan Ferber (University of California Press, 2011).

In order to emphasize the what we can do about it, I’ve been part of a team attempting to green the ugly weed-filled concrete planters in the main courtyard at the University of Washington Health Sciences—a courtyard with entrances to the Schools of Nursing, Medicine, Dentistry, the UW Health Sciences Library, as well as the UW Medical Center. The photos at the beginning of this post show the planters in their current (dismal, depressing) state, along with my tiny (art project!) protest sign next to a fake flower “blooming” in a pot. Our team wanted to plant spring bulbs and a healing garden full of water-wise herbs like rosemary and lavender, as well as indigenous healing herbs and native wildflowers. We have had a seemingly endless series of meetings with people from the medical center, the health sciences schools, the building and grounds folks, and the UW Sustainability group. Something that would appear to be easy to do is not. As I understand it, the (ugly concrete/example of Brutalist “raw concrete” architecture) Health Sciences building where this courtyard is located, is crumbling and leaking inside, including in the rare books collection of the library. We have been told that we can’t plant anything until the courtyard infrastructure and water membranes are replaced, which would cost millions of dollars ($7.5 million to quote one reliable estimate).

This is a somewhat trivial problem when compared with other environmental issues affecting our most vulnerable populations, but it is a daily reminder of the negative mental health effects of environmental degradation—including from poor choices for our built environment and health institutions.

Me Too and Misogyny

img_1223Kudos to rad woman Tarana Burke who started the #MeToo movement that is helping bring to light (and to the town square) the rampant sexual violence especially against women and girls in our country (although boys and LQBT folks are also highly affected). I am all for thorough investigation/corroboration of claims of sexual violence—which is what has happened in the vast majority of recent cases. Being an ‘out’ woman with a history of sexual abuse/assault, it is heartening to find the cultural tide beginning to shift on this topic. More women and other marginalized people are feeling empowered to speak up about their experiences and are (mostly) being supported in speaking their truths. Of course, there will always be the narrow-minded, misogynistic folks (mostly men) who will be quick to dismiss these claims as “yet another case of women lying” or “recovered memories” or any of the other lame excuses they can come up with. As Ms. Burke reminds us, this movement is about amplifying (and supporting) the voices of victims of sexual violence. Misogyny is very much alive and un-well in our country.

Ten Kind Suggestions for Being a Literary Citizen

I love this so much I am sharing it here. We need more kindness in this crazy world. I had the great pleasure of sitting next to Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo on an AWP panel in Los Angeles several years ago. We were discussing ways to build community for writers and especially for female and other underrepresented writers.

Source: Ten Kind Suggestions for Being a Literary Citizen

Field Notes on Witnessing

IMG_9363On this sunny Sunday in Seattle, I awake and find my essay, “Witness: On Telling” published in the Field Notes section of Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine. This is one of my most digging deep and making it real sorts of essays I have ever written. It is the second part of a two part bookended longer essay on the complicated role of witnessing to the traumas of others and of ourselves. The second essay is titled “Witness: On Seeing” and both are part of my forthcoming book collection of essays and poems, Soul Stories: Voices from the Margins.

In this essay I explore how and why and in what forms we tell (and listen to) stories of trauma and what Arthur Frank terms “deep illness.” I parse out the typology of illness stories as presented in his landmark book, The Wounded Storyteller. I challenge health care providers to increase our capacity to listen to—and to hear—different types of illness stories, including the more distressing (and closest to the reality of trauma) chaos stories.

And I look forward to being part of the upcoming (October 20-22) Northwest Narrative Medicine Conference in Portland, Oregon. I’ll be giving a Saturday keynote address titled “Endurance: The Limits of Resilience” and a Sunday writing workshop titled “Radical Self-Care for Social Justice and Health Equity.”

Soul Stories: The Book and I

IMG_2241One midwinter’s day in Seattle in 2009, I sat at my desk at home writing a federal grant proposal for investigating ways to improve health care for homeless young people. I stopped typing midsentence and gazed out the window at the rain and wind rippling the bamboo leaves in my garden. I asked myself what I was doing with my life.

I was a tenured professor teaching community health and health policy to nursing students at a large university. I was a nurse practitioner working with homeless teens and young adults in a community clinic. I loved teaching and I loved my work as a nurse, but this type of writing was not what I longed to do. I needed to find a way to merge my work in health care with my love of writing—of real writing, not the stiff, academic, formulaic writing required by my academic job, and certainly not the cold, distant medical writing in my patient clinical chart notes. Real writing to me was expressive, creative writing—reflective writing that allowed the “I” back into the frame, as, of course, I am doing now. So, as if it were a crystal ball, I typed into my computer’s search engine the words “healthcare” and “literature.” Among the results were links to narrative medicine and to the Narrative Medicine program at Columbia University in New York City. Developed over the past several decades by physician and literary scholar Rita Charon and her colleagues, narrative medicine (as defined by Charon) “fortifies clinical practice with the narrative competence to recognize, absorb, metabolize, interpret, and be moved by the stories of illness.” (…)

And as for real writing within my own life? In retrospect, it was fortuitous that I submitted my last federal health care grant back in 2009, at a time of extreme funding cutbacks during our country’s Great Recession. The reviewers’ feedback was that it was a worthwhile proposal and that it would have received funding if it had come in a year or so earlier, when they had more money. Around that same time, I sat in a faculty meeting where a successful older researcher showed a PowerPoint slide with a series of rolling hills leading off into the distance and a road with National Institutes of Health (NIH) grant signs, one after the other, leading over the hills and fading into the sunset. Her point was that this was how our lives as university researchers should look: this slide represented our marching orders. I stared at the slide and then whispered to a colleague, “and then you die.”

I have nothing against NIH or the researchers who stake their careers on NIH or similar grants, but I knew that slide did not represent the life I wanted. I was forty-nine years old at that point, and my mother had died the year before; the sunset in the slide seemed very real. My husband had also recently commented that if I had used the same amount of time, effort, ink, and paper that went into my grant-writing, I would have written a book manuscript—or several—by then.

Instead of revising and resubmitting my rejected NIH grant proposal, I began to write what became my first published book, a medical memoir titled Catching Homelessness: A Nurse’s Story of Falling Through the Safety Net. This was a book about my work with and spiral into homelessness as a young adult. Through the writing of Catching Homelessness, I did what I consider real writing. The act of researching and writing the book, a book which wove in pertinent events from my personal as well as professional lives, helped give some narrative cohesion to my own fractured and oftentimes confusing existence.

While writing a later chapter of that book, “Greyhound Therapy,” which deals with gender-based violence, I brushed up against a then mostly closed door to my own childhood traumas. I made the decision to keep that door closed: to open it within Catching Homelessness would have led away from the main purpose of the book, which was to illustrate the complexities involved with homelessness and its attendant ills. I knew that to open the new door would require a much different book, one that contextualized the effects of trauma on individuals and communities, and the ways that narrative and storytelling factor into health and healing.

That much different book became Soul Stories: Voices from the Margins. The opening of that door and the personal exploration of what was behind that door led to this book. In writing it, I allowed myself to stray from the clear objective facts of science and medicine into the murkier subjective part of what it means to be human, and what it means to find healing in the face of trauma. This book is the result of that labyrinthine journey.

Note: The above is an excerpt from the Preface of my book manuscript Soul Stories: Voices from the Margins, currently accepted for publication by an academic press, details to follow.

Northwest Narrative Medicine

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Narrative medicine, Pacific Northwest style, strikes me as something worthwhile. Frontier, boundary pushing narrative medicine. Pencils (and pens, and laptops) with golden wings! We now have (thanks to the folks in Portland, Oregon) a Northwest Narrative Medicine Collaborative.  Next month (October 20-22nd) they will hold their second annual Narrative Medicine Conference in Portland, Oregon. I am honored to be a part of it and will be giving a keynote address titled “Endurance Test: The Limits of Resilience” in which I’ll examine the unintended consequences of the often saccharine sweet resilience research and will, instead, propose the concept of endurance in our work and lives. Endurance, as described by psychiatrist and anthropologist Arthur Kleinman, makes so much more sense to me than does resilience—especially in the times we are living through. Kleinman writes:

“What helps us endure? And I mean by endure withstand, live through, put up with, and suffer. I do not mean the currently fashionable and superficially optimistic idea of ‘resilience’ as denoting a return to robust health and happiness. Those who have struggled in the darkness of their own pain or loss, or that of patients or loved ones, know that these experiences, even when left behind, leave traces that may only be remembered viscerally but shape their lives beyond.”  (Arthur Kleinman, “The art of medicine: how we endure.The Lancet. January 11, 2014. 383: 119-120.)