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.