Mending 5: absence
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing.
At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
These moments speak volumes to the richness of our humanity. And in sharing your words you support the production of neurochemicals like dopamine and oxytocin that activate your body’s healing potential and your brain’s capacities to overcome challenges in ways that cannot be understated.
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Your expression is where we find the intersection of Narrative Medicine and Functional Nutrition: in the recognition that everything is connected, we are all unique, and all things matter.
Each monthly issue of mending is a journey into a landscape of words, healing, and personal interpretation. They will be inspired by the gentle wisdom of poets and artists and the reflective insights of our guest contributors.
Why does this matter? Because in the riddle of healthcare, amidst the supposed precision of diagnoses and treatments, the human story often whispers, seeking to be heard. mending leans in and listens to these whispers. It invites you to do the same for yourself.
It’s time to explore the depths of your own narrative and the fabric of your human condition, beyond your signs and symptoms, or maybe in concert with them. Join me as we weave together threads of empathy, inquiry, and understanding. mending is more than a newsletter— it’s a dialogue, and initiation, and a celebration of the stories that make us human, illuminating their integral role in our paths toward healing.
Mending 5: absence
Father
by Matthew Dickman
In the un-story
of my life
I am three years old
and my father
lifts me
into the air
and then catches
me again and again,
pulling me into him.
Or
I am thirteen
years old and my father
sits on the porch
with his arm around
me and says yes, yes,
look, everything
will be fine, I’m here.
In the un-story
he has his ties
and pressed shirts
hanging in
the closet next to
my mother’s blouses.
The smell of his
cologne washes over
everything like a pot roast
roasting all
Sunday. But in this story
of my life my father’s
sons have to
call him again
and again and again
and again
like small children
hitting a drum
they can’t stop hitting.
They have to beg
for his attention,
and one even dies,
in his way, for him,
and like life, is buried,
without him.
In the story
of my life I inherit
the fathers
of other kids, other
sons. How lucky
am I?
Fathers with names
like Joseph,
Yosef, Josiah, Yasef,
meaning he will add.
Meaning he will
lift you up and catch you.
Meaning he will
sit with you, and your
sorrow will be his
too. Fathers with names
like Ernie, Ernest, Ernesto,
Arnošt, meaning kindness.
Meaning he will walk
among the lepers
of your actions
and listen to them.
Meaning he will not fail you
even as you fail yourself.
Right now dusk is moving
around the house
like a bad babysitter
waiting for her boyfriend
to come over, re-applying
her eyeliner. Outside
some coyotes are lighting
up the air like teenagers.
Meanwhile in the story
of my life
I lift my three-
year-old up into the air
and then catch
him but also catch
myself. In the story of
my life I put
my arm around
my thirteen-year-old
But also around
myself. When I feed
them I feed
myself. When I cool
a fevered forehead
with a cold
rag I cool my own
anger. When I leave
I also return to them
and return
to myself. I know
there are
really three children
in the story of my life.
I must make a home
for each of them.
Question: What lines in the poem resonate with you most? Why?
Contributor Answer: This poem was jarring from the opening lines. I can’t say it was resonance that pulled me in, but rather a deep sense of unrelatability. I don’t know what it’s like to be lifted into the air by my father as a toddler. Either I have no memory of it, or it never happened. Most likely the latter. When I was thirteen, there was no father on the porch to put his arm around me. No father to call again and again and again. No man’s attention to beg for. I hadn’t the faintest idea how to reach him. Everything was not fine. Because he was not there.
Reader: What lines in the poem resonate with you most when you read this poem? Why?
Writing Prompt: Write about an absence in your life that shaped who you are today.
Contributor Response: The absence of my father forced me to take on adult responsibilities long before I reached adulthood. Less play, more work. Less stupid mistakes, more stony-faced maturity. While in a sense Fred’s absence robbed me of parts of my adolescence that I’ll never get back, it gave me a head-start on manhood. It taught me how to be responsible, accountable, and independent beyond my years. And I doubt my work ethic would be what it is had he done his job. I’m proud of what I made of his absence, but it also leaves me a bit miffed. Man up. (Definitely some work to do there.)
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write to the prompt: write about an absence in your life that shaped who you are today”
Reader: Reader: Now it’s your turn! Feel free to hit ‘reply’, set your timer for 5 minutes, and write to the prompt: write about an absence in your life that shaped who you are today.
You can also send your responses and feedback to scribe@andreanakayama.com
Guest contributor: Sean Croxton is a business coach who helps certified health coaches clarify their messaging. His company, Simple Clear Marketing, uses proven frameworks to create social media content and website copy that build trust and authority with the right clients.
