The Elements of a 7 Year Story

In 1972, when I was 21, I had surgery to remove a malignant tumor on my thyroid gland. In the hospital a nurse came into my room when I was alone and told me not to worry – I could expect to live a full thirty years.

Thirty years later, in the spring of 2002, my sister was getting ready to attend something called a digital storytelling workshop on the anniversary of my surgery. On a whim, I asked if I could go with her. Secretly, I thought that maybe a trip together would give her something to remember me by.

My sister and I saw each other regularly but always in the context of family events and had never taken time to do things together alone as adults. Even as children, I felt that our relationship mimicked that of our parents – one a performer, one always the audience. It’s a pleasure to buy a ticket for the show of your choice, something entirely different to never be allowed to leave the audience.

Frankly, I knew my computer skills were better than hers and so I offered to help her. However, my sister has multiple sclerosis and she took my offer of help to mean that I had appointed myself to be her travel companion because she was incapable of traveling alone.

We flew into San Francisco and, as we traveled, I was surprised to find that we could look at exactly the same scene and see two entirely different things. I suppose that was the first indication of how little we knew each other at the time.

I understood that my sister wanted creative control over the story – she had been the one to find the training, she had written the script, and she had a vision for the finished piece. I did know the technology better and picked up the new editing software more quickly. But, true to our history, she would call her husband long distance to ask for help rather than let me show her how to do a task. Little irritations began to grow larger and soon I began to doubt that the week would leave her with the kind of memory that I had hoped for.

On the last morning of the workshop, I was awakened by her voice, shouting to her husband over the phone in another room. She was furious that I dared to come with her, angry that I thought she needed help physically, and completely unaware of my real reason for coming. Her conversation went on forever and, by the time she hung up, I was more hurt and humiliated than I had ever been in my life. And, true to course, I didn’t say a word about it to her.

As I dropped her at the door of the center that morning, I told her that I was going to return the rental car and would not be back until it was time to see the finished pieces, leaving her to finish the story alone. She was stunned, asked why I would do such a thing and made me promise to come back to help. My heart wasn’t in it. I just wanted to get home – and away from her – as fast as I possibly could.

On the return flight, she pressed me for reasons as to why I was so quiet, why I had almost skipped the last day of class, a thousand other whys. I finally admitted that I thought she intended for me to hear her phone conversation and how much it hurt me. I think she was truly surprised, but her surprise didn’t lead to empathy. She explained my feelings away for the rest of the flight.

I had endured this from her for so many years in front of whoever might be there. On that flight, I made up my mind that no matter when or where the next attack happened, I would use the same tactic in return. Maybe if she experienced it, she would finally stop.

Interestingly enough, a couple of years later, she asked me to make the trip to California with her again and I agreed. Things started off much more easily. This time I had my own script for a story and my own computer. Our good moods lasted through most of the week and we enjoyed conversations late into the night in our hotel room. But one day I dared to say something casually in a discussion group, “You know, we were talking last night and I told my sister…” She stopped me immediately, openly, and said, “Well, I certainly never agreed with you.”

Another hurt made public. Now – make her see. So I smiled, looked her in the eyes, and said, “Just take a deep breath. Sometimes you just need to take a deep breath.” It didn’t make any sense, but the shock on her face told me I had gotten to her. I also realized instantly that she had no idea why I had done it. It hadn’t worked and I knew in that moment that I would never deliberately say something to hurt her again.

Another flight home, suffering her humiliation this time. I never even explained what prompted my comment to her. I just told her it would never happen again and I’ve tried to live up to that.

But, once the words “Once upon a time…” are written, the story has begun and it tells itself in its own way in its own time. Since then, we’ve made other trips, had happy flights home, told stories in two voices. Our first trip together initiated a narrative building less on tension and more on laughter, shared respect, and genuine concern as we continue. I hope it drags on far longer than a good story should and tempts any listeners with too many possibilities for diversion from the story they expect to hear.

We may tell it in different ways, but it will always have the same ending. We are sisters.


For more information on digital storytelling, check the Center for Digital Storytelling's website at www.storycenter.org.

Long Distance

I drove to Atlanta today and, for the first time in ten years, never turned on the radio or CD player. I really didn't want the distraction. I thought about the weekend I was getting ready to spend with my mother and sister; i thoguht about the tremendous amount of work I had to do; I let myself daydream.

But, suddenly, it hit me - what I really wanted to do was talk to my father, and although I knew in the same instant that he was gone, my hand reached for the cell phone. For that second, I was certain that it was possible to contact him hust by opening the phone. If I just hadn't remembered, maybe I could have said what I needed to say - that I haven't found "home" in Atlanta since he died, that he would be proud of all four grandsons, that I would love to talk gardening with him, that just hearing him laugh again would be a blessing. Maybe, for once, I would have the good sense just to listen.

Bess, the Therapy Dog

Following the November Presidential election, I considered Barack Obama’s call for Americans to become engaged in volunteer activities. I wondered how I might combine that with my weight loss goals for exercise. Through luck, we stumbled across Therapy Dogs, a national volunteer program where dogs and their owners are certified to visit hospitals, nursing homes, Alzheimer’s units, etc. I decided to give it a try with Bess.

At just under 70 pounds, Bess is much less dog than her brother Harry. Harry is 100 pounds of pure muscle and sweetness. However, he is so big and strong that he is very hard for me to manage. Bess is cuddly, goofy, playful, and sort of on the flaky side, which I think makes her a great temperament for Therapy Dogs.

We made our first observation visit to a school for children with disabilities. Bess managed the wheelchairs, walkers, and children approaching her from all sides without any problems. I have to admit that she was more interested in the other dogs there than the children, but she is getting the idea.

There are so many new experiences for her in these visits – being around children, the chance to be away from her more dominant brother, longer rides in the car, rides on elevators, the chance to spend time one-on-one with me. And meeting dogs, dogs, and more dogs of every size, breed, and description.

Two days ago we attended a spring safety event at one of our state university campuses. College kids were just the right size for Bess. I was amazed how quickly she fell into the behavior I expected from her. For once, she didn’t jump on anyone new. And, halfway through the visit, pizzas were delivered for the students to snack on. Needless to say, no pizza crust went to waste, thanks to the 6 dogs in attendance.

Last night we successfully completed our 3rd and final observation at Shriners Hospital for Children here in Greenville. We visited about 20 patient rooms. Dogs climbed up on chairs to be near tiny patients; one or two immediately jumped up on the beds in order to be within petting distance. Bess, however, preferred the child who followed us in a wheelchair, especially after she found that he was supplied with a stash of Teddy Grahams. I learned the hard way that I will need to wear lace-up walking shoes from now on. Bess was so enthusiastic that she nearly pulled me out of my comfortable slip-ons. I envisioned myself flying around the halls of the hospital like a kite, pulled by a big blonde Labradoodle who seemed to take very little notice of the human attached to the other end of her leash.

I’ve noticed Bess go into the closet off my office several times today, to see if her special leash and collar for Therapy Dogs are still hanging there. They are right where we can both keep an eye on them and, as soon as our credentials come to us from the national office, we’ll be using them to make more visits.

And, in the meantime, I’m going to get some private training lessons with Harry. He is so empathetic and so smart that I know he needs to experience this, too.