So this is Christmas – you should be writing

you-should-be-writing

This week I wrap up my narrative inquiry course and look ahead to the very last (!!!) class in January. We began the EdD last summer with a doctoral seminar (aka: this is what you are letting yourself in for, and here’s a film about Hannah Arendt smoking on a couch). This January’s class is the second and last doctoral seminar (aka: I hope you were paying attention because this shit is about to get real). In June we have “comps” (aka: stand up there and prove you know what you’re talking about, and we’ll let you do some research for reals). Just in case you thought it was smooth sailing after that, there’s the research proposal next and then the infamous institutional ethics hurdle and then…… we are deemed ready to go off and gather data followed by a long period of writing, crying and dark nights of the soul. Next, that fledgling dissertation runs the gamut of revisions and re-revisions before a final submission. Oh, and then a defense. But yay, last class….

The narrative inquiry course has solidified my thinking about how I want to do my research. I knew that my story would be part of the work, but didn’t have a good idea of whether that was possible. Now I do. I am going to write a series of stories using the data from my participants, and my narrative will be part of that. I’ve also become increasingly interested in poetry. I am thinking I might use it as several placeholders or introductions to sections in the writing.

The research is on “coming out”, I have been reflecting on and reshaping some of my memories – in part to prepare and practice. Here is a gift you didn’t know you wanted – a glimpse into negotiating LGB disclosure with patients having radiation therapy treatments for cancer.

Happy Christmas – see you next year!

 He is one of them and all of them, my next patient

The bluff King of Orangeville, or Orillia, or far away Bobcaygeon

Doesn’t like the traffic, supports the Jays (don’t we all) and this disease

This indignity has caught him, like a poleax, right between the eyes

He’s warming up on day 3, unlike my hands – but you know what they say

We cover the weather (seasonal), the traffic (catastrophic) and his daughter’s wedding

He needs a suit, the wife is asking if he’ll be well enough, will he, will he?

How about that diarrhea, that pain, will he last, will he last, what do I think?

I demur, I support, I encourage. I pat his hand as we leave the room

Not long, keep still, we can see you on the cameras, wave if you need us.

Then we’re back, he smiles – my girls, my girls, you take good care of me.

How lucky your husbands are, to have such kind and clever girls.

I pull up his pants; lift him as he grips me tight, catching his breath

He looks at my bare hand, smiles. I should introduce you to my son.

By the time the words come, he has left the room. Same time tomorrow.

I move the machine back around. Seen and not seen, there and not there.

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