Greetings, writers. Today I want to introduce a new series that will appear on FromNothingToNovel. It’s called Writing About What Hurts. As we know, pain can be downright horrible to experience the first time it bites us in the A$$. And oftentimes it hurts even more to talk it after the fact.
What, then, is it like to write about what hurts? What does such writing offer both writers and readers?
In this post, I explore answers to these questions to make room on FromNothingToNovel for more somber content than we usually put out there. While we want to retain our encouraging and sometimes cheeky flair, we also want to include stories that represent a range of human experiences.
In this pilot entry in the Writing About What Hurts series, I’ve decided to share my journey with thyroid disease. Although my trusted friends and family are familiar with what I’ve gone through, I’ve only now, four years after the diagnosis, decided to talk about the ordeal publicly. Starting with this pilot entry, I have several goals for launching the series as a whole:
- Reflect on painful experiences
- Explore best practices for turning pain into literature
- Support other writers who write about hurts of their own
- Invite current and new contributing authors to share their experiences
First, here’s the hurt
Early 2013, I stepped shakily into the University of Tennessee Medical Center, flanked on either side by my parents. I was going in for a second operation, one week after the first, which revealed I had malignant tissue eating away at my thyroid.
I was terrified enough to ask my parents, “Y’all … am I gonna die in here?” My parents, of course, kept their faces cheerful and said what they knew to be true: “No, gal, you’re not gonna die in here.”
Hours later I was stitched up and discharged and everybody said the worst was over. I wanted to believe them, ’cause heck, the malignant tissue was gone and my next step was to get on Synthroid, a hormone to replace what my body could no longer produce. I was ready to feel good as new.
But I didn’t. It turns out that Synthroid, the T4 version of the chemical my body is supposed to convert to active T3, doesn’t work efficiently for me. Over the past four years, my original dose of 100mcg rose to a whopping 175mcg, as doctors attempted to address my symptoms of hypothyroidism. And more recently, an open-minded doctor agreed to trade 25mcg of my T4 dose for a straight shot of T3. Yes, there is a such thing. We wanted to see if the straight shot could bypass the conversion that my system refuses to perform on its own.
These adjustments have helped, thank God. And full-body scans indicate there’s no more malignant tissue inside me. By all accounts, I’m lucky. By all accounts, my experience could’ve been a lot worse. I am grateful for the recovery I have experienced and the support of people close to me.
What happens after the hurt?
Even after years’ worth of adjustments, living without a thyroid still takes a toll, because no amount of replacement hormone can ever perfectly mimic what my body used to produce naturally. But as much as those little pills disappoint me, I commit myself on a daily basis to dealing with the hurts, past and present, in productive ways.
For my own edification, I read everything I never wanted to know about thyroids, hormones, pharmaceuticals, and the inadequacies of Western medicine. I also lay plans for a longer project about the pharmaceutical side of thyroid disease, so I can depict, in narrative, the ways in which conventional treatments can limit patients’ quality of life.
Do you have a hurt that you want to write about? Maybe it’s a medical issue, like mine. Maybe it’s heartache from a broken relationship. Maybe it’s losing a loved one or surviving a traumatic experience. Whatever it is, it’s worth your effort to see a project through.
One of our contributors Joan Hicks Boone has already completed a memoir, The Best Girl, that lays bare one of her childhood hurts. As she explains in her recent post, this form of writing offers us valuable opportunities to heal at the same time that we help others.
So how do we start? Tears aside, it’s easier than you might think. By surviving a painful experience, you already have the raw ingredients of a great story. You’ve got conflict, tension, high stakes, and hardship. You’ve also got a protagonist putting one foot in front of the other in order to succeed.
Stay tuned for my next Writing About What Hurts post, exploring strategies for getting the pain down on paper in a way that empowers you and your readers.
If you write about what hurts, what do you gain and what do you hope to achieve by doing so? We’d love to read your ideas in the comments!