Everyone has a Story to Tell: The Universal Appeal of MCW’s MedMoth

From the August 11, 2023 issue of the Transformational Times

Milo proofreading the author

Everyone has a Story to Tell: The Universal Appeal of MCW’s MedMoth

Bruce H. Campbell, MD FACS

Dr. Campbell tells why MCW’s MedMoth has been important to the community. Everyone has a story to tell ...

Life in medicine—from medical school to retirement—is an endless string of tasks, both difficult and mundane. Each task requires some level of attention, an intentional response, and timely documentation. We are not alone; our colleagues in pharmacy, nursing, genetic counseling, social work, chaplaincy, and other patient-facing professions face their own interminable streams of duties. Once the paperwork for each encounter is pushed into someone else’s inbox, we are on to our next assignment. And the next. And the next. We rarely glance up to see the horizon. 

When we do take a moment, though, we can be amazed by what surrounds us. MedMoth offers that opportunity. 


MCW’s MedMoth over the years

MCW medical student Scott Lamm (MD 2022), who has a passion for theater, organized a team of students and staff that launched the first MedMoth in 2019. The team’s work included recruitment, workshops, marketing, and even creation of a logo. Cassie Ferguson, MD was the faculty advisor and Kern Institute Program Director Cassidy Berns provided vision and logistical support. 

The first MedMoth Stage - 10/10/2019

Three workshops helped potential storytellers craft and rehearse their performances. On October 10, 2019, seventy-five attendees celebrated the twelve student, resident, and faculty storytellers as they shared spoken word performances that shared both medical and non-medical moments in their lives. The event created an inclusive and judgement-free experience that fostered new connections.

Each MedMoth since then has included storytelling workshops (some run by Milwaukee’s storytelling organization, Ex Fabula) and has featured five- to seven-minute storytelling performances by students, faculty, and staff. Stories have ranged from cross country trips to relationship disasters to mountain treks to experiences as an EMT to moments of great insight. Some have been humorous and others tragic. All have been well-received and extraordinary. 

Storytelling is one of life’s great equalizers. Stories told by the M1 are equally valid and important as those told by the gray-haired professor. Everyone is heard and celebrated. 

The Kern Institute has provided financial and logistical support since MedMoth’s inception. Recently, MedMoth has also received funding from the Charles E. Kubly Foundation. 


Stories vs. anecdotes

How do stories differ from anecdotes? As Sarah Austin Jenness, executive producer of The Moth, explains, “an anecdote is a funny - this thing happened. It's a moment. A story has an arc. A story has stakes. A story has a beginning, middle and an end.” 

MedMoth enables participants to identify life events that they want to share and helps them discern the elements of their story arc. The workshops build skills. At its most basic level, the participants learn that an anecdote might share the details of a difficult patient encounter. A story, however, explores how that difficult patient encounter changed a student’s view of what they want to do for the rest of their life. 


So, why might storytelling be important in medicine?

As we numbly move through our to-do lists each day, we might fail to see how our interactions are changing us or the people with whom we interact. Pausing to truly attend to someone else’s story might help. More importantly, building skills as storytellers might allow each of us to be more aware of the stories that inhabit our work every day. 

Others need and want to hear the stories of medicine, as well. People outside of healthcare think what we do is amazing. Maybe they are fascinated by our intimacy with suffering and death. Maybe it’s our proximity to bodily fluids. Whatever. People are curious to peek behind the curtain that shields our days from public view. 

MedMoth is a safe place in our community to hear stories and gain insights. With a little practice and support, each of us can build skills and share our own stories. We are part of the journey. 


Bruce H. Campbell, MD FACS, is a retired professor in the Department of Otolaryngology and Communication Sciences at MCW. He is one of the faculty advisors for MedMoth and is on the editorial board of the Transformational Times.

An MCW MedMoth story: The Dangers of Boredom

From the August 11, 2023 issue of the Transformational Times

The Dangers of Boredom

Linda Nwumeh, Class of 2025

Here is a story that Linda Nwumeh shared as part of the MCW MedMoth live stortelling event on November 17, 2022 ...

I was a very mischievous child.

I used to truly revel in wreaking havoc on the peace others enjoyed, but my pranks were usually harmless. As an example, I once hid under my parents’ bed for hours until I heard that they were about to call the police to report me missing. (They did not find this funny.)

I quickly learned that the punishments I’d receive for misbehaving while at home far outweighed the consequences of misbehaving at my preschool, and I took complete advantage of this fact to fit all of the mayhem my soul desired into the school day. I fought with other students over toys, swore, and generally did the things I would never dream of doing at home until the day was over. As a result, I absolutely loved preschool. The only thing I loved at school more than mischief was our kind and loving teacher, Mrs. P. Even as a four-year-old, I could sense that she truly loved children and wanted the best for all of us.

However, there was one thing I absolutely dreaded at school ― naptime. At noon every day, Mrs. P would turn on smooth jazz music, dim the lights, close the blinds, lay out cots in neat and evenly spaced rows, and send us to bed for an hour. She would walk slowly and quietly between these rows for the entire hour ― checking that we were still alive I presume ― and if she saw that you were awake, she would quietly shush you and continue her slow, quiet march between the cots. The problem was that I could never actually fall asleep during naptime, and my four-year-old brain could not handle the boredom. Day after day, I lay down on my right side for the entire hour with my left eye completely closed and my right eye open just a sliver, listening to the sounds of Mrs. P’s quiet footsteps. Mrs. P could never tell that I was awake, and for a while, this touch of visual stimulation was enough to prevent me from going absolutely insane from boredom. But one day, this was simply not enough.

We were about ten minutes into naptime when an aberrant urge entered my four-year-old mind. As I watched Mrs. P make her daily journey between the cots, I wondered if she would notice whether I was awake if I started to slowly move my leg. Excitement gripped my mind ― this was like a game, one that I would lose if she shushed me. I slowly, slowly moved my leg closer and closer to the edge of the cot as she approached, watching her like a hawk with the sliver of my right eye that was still open. She walked past me without skipping a beat. Success!

As she rounded the corner and began to make another lap, the dopamine rush had already started to disappear. It was time to raise the stakes of this game. With my foot already at the very edge of the cot, I wanted to know if she would notice and shush me if I dropped my foot onto the floor as she made her way past me. An ambitious plan, but I felt that I was up to it. What was the worst that could happen?

My nerves were on fire as she approached the cot, but it was then or never. I dropped my foot onto the floor, and almost immediately felt her own foot barrel into mine. There was a surprised yelp and a loud crash as she fell, followed by Mrs. P’s pained wail.

All of the lights came on immediately as a next-door teacher ran into the room, and the rest of my classmates were awake and crying in seconds. I watched in absolute horror as Mrs. P continued to scream in pain from her position on the floor, explaining that she hadn’t seen my leg and that my foot must have fallen off the cot while I was sleeping. Within minutes, the preschool classroom was awash in red lights, and Mrs. P was taken away in an ambulance.

We spent the rest of the afternoon writing “get well soon” letters for Mrs. P.

I didn’t know whether I could feel any more guilty, but after Mrs. P walked in on crutches the next day with her leg in a cast, my heart sunk. She explained that she wouldn’t be able to chase us around the room and playground as usual, but that she would try her best to make class as normal as possible. The nail in my coffin of guilt was when Mrs. P saw over the course of the day that I wasn’t engaging in my usual mischief, pulled me aside, gave me a hug, and assured me that none of this had been my fault, as I had been asleep.

However, the damage to my desire to do mischief had already been done. I had transformed almost overnight from a mischievous child to one that was exceedingly well-behaved and considerate in an attempt to atone for my sins, and this change in behavior was noticed even by my parents. I had diverted my energy into learning at school rather than misbehaving at school, and this change in trajectory was certainly necessary for me to have discovered the love

of learning that drives me today as a third-year medical student. I only wish this hadn’t come at the cost of Mrs. P’s leg.

(P.S. I do not know if Mrs. P ever walked again, as she was still on crutches with her leg in a cast during my preschool graduation ceremony.)

Linda Nwumeh is a third-year medical student at MCW-MKE from the Chicago suburbs. She is part of the student editorial team for the Transformational Times and the MedMoth planning committee. In her free time, she enjoys writing, cooking, and tending to her plants.

Images from MCW's Spring 2023 MedMoth

MCW's Spring 2023 MedMoth

Thanks to all of our particiapnts, leaders, audience members, and sponsors (The Charles E. Kubly Foundation and the Kern Institute) for a great evening of storytelling, learning, and community. 

It was an evening that celebrated character, caring, flourishing, and practical wisdom.

 

 Brett Linzer, MD

Mohan Dhariwal, DO, PhD

Jon Lehrmann, MD

Shannnon Majewski, CMP, CMM, HMCC, VEMM

David Hotchkiss

Amber Y Bo

Chrystal Amini-Hajibashi

Meg Summerside

Emily Daly

Corey Briska

Linda Nwumeh

Adina Kalet, MD, MPH

Bearing Witness to Pain

 From the January 27, 2023 issue of the Transformational Times

MedMoth Story

 

Bearing Witness to Pain 

 

 

By Meghan Schilthuis 

 

 

Meghan Schilthuis, a third-year medical student at MCW-Milwaukee, shares an impactful patient encounter from her first clinical rotation. This story was shared as part of the 2022 MCW MedMoth storytelling evening…  

 

I began my M3 year this past June on my pediatrics rotation, excited to convert knowledge gained from many hours spent studying for the USMLE Step 1 into “the real world” of patient care. I spent my first two weeks in outpatient clinics and had a lot of fun interacting with relatively healthy kids. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I moved to the inpatient portion of the rotation and began a week of night float at the Children’s Hospital of Wisconsin.  

 On my second or third night, my intern and I got a call about an adolescent boy who would be coming up to our team. I began looking through his chart and learned that this boy, who I’ll call Zack, was being admitted with concern for infection in the context of extensive burns suffered a few months prior. My heart fell when I read that these burns were the result of an attempt to end his own life. What sort of situation would we be walking in to?  

When Zack arrived on the floor, my resident and I went to go see him together. We found him lying in bed, heavily bandaged, and clearly in a lot of pain. After we gathered some history and did as much of a physical assessment as possible, Zack’s mom looked at my resident and asked, “Could we speak out in the hall for a couple of minutes?” I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow my resident out into the hall, but felt like I should stay behind with Zack. 

 As my resident and Zack’s mom walked out, I had a brief moment of panic; what could I do or say that could possibly help him feel any better? I had no medication to offer him. His skin was so painful to the touch that I couldn’t offer a hand of comfort. I settled for asking him about the stuffed frog he had. He suddenly stopped writhing, locked eyes with me, and exclaimed, “I wouldn’t have done it if I knew it would be this much pain!” Even though we hadn’t talked about how he got his burns, we both knew exactly what “it” he was referring to.  

I fought back any chance for my eyes to well up with tears. “I’m sorry you’re in so much pain. We’re going to do everything we can to help you feel better.” Even though I knew I probably shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but think of my little brother who is the same age as Zack; my little brother who loves to play football and baseball, concoct interesting culinary combinations, and learn new songs on his bass guitar. How could a middle schooler like Zack be saddled with so much pain at such a young age? 

After a few minutes, Zack’s mom came back with my resident and said to me, “I’m sorry, Zack can be a little dramatic.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry,” I told her as I waved goodbye. My resident and I left to staff the case with the attending before our next admission. 

The busyness of the rest of the shift kept me occupied, but I found myself thinking about Zack as I drove home and got ready for bed. When I called my mom to catch up the next day, I shared some of the story with her. She could tell that I was still feeling badly about Zack. She encouraged me to stop worrying about him, which sounded a little harsh to me at first, but she was correct in pointing out that my concern would not change things for Zack. 

Even still, I left our conversation wondering how physicians can best bear witness to their patients’ suffering without allowing it to consume their thoughts. 

In my interaction with Zack, I felt a tension between my strong desire to alleviate his pain and an uncertainty about how to do that. Even though I felt like there was little I could do for him at the time, looking back, I hope that our brief connection helped him feel less alone in that moment. 

I never saw Zack again after that night and don’t know what happened. Wherever he is today, I hope he’s healing and doing well.  

 

Meghan Schilthuis is a third-year medical student at MCW-Milwaukee. She is one of the student leaders of MCW’s MedMoth storytelling event.