Why modern medicine must relearn art of patient stories

In many ways, narrative medicine is a rediscovery of what our traditional healers always knew: that a patient’s story is central to healing. [iStockphoto]

The only claim I have to the field of medicine is that my mother, Loice Kagai Amugonyoro, was a doctor in Navuhi village, where I was born. She practiced medicine without ever setting foot in a medical school. Her knowledge came from the wisdom of generations. It was handed down through oral tradition, observation, and experience. Yet, in many ways, she embodied the very essence of what the world now calls narrative medicine.

As a boy, I took a keen interest in what she did. My mother was a multitasker. She was a herbalist, counselor, surgeon, and midwife. She moved from home to home, always responding to the calls of the sick and expectant mothers.

I vividly recall the nights she would be called to help deliver a baby. I would hold a torch and walk beside her along the narrow village paths in the night. She always wore a calm face, a quiet confidence born of experience and compassion. I suspect I inherited that kind of countenance.

When we arrived at the home, I would sit in a nearby room. Mischievously listening to the voices next door,  the cries of pain and the murmured words of comfort from women who gathered to encourage the mother in labour. And then, suddenly, a baby’s cry would pierce the night. My mother would emerge, her face glowing with satisfaction. I would lead the way back home, proud to be part of her nocturnal missions of mercy.

Looking back, I now realize that my mother practiced narrative medicine long before it had a name or an academic discipline. Her strength lay not only in her herbs or knowledge of childbirth. No. It lay in her extraordinary gift of listening. She never hurried her patients. She would sit by their bedside or under a tree, listening to their stories, about their aches, their fears, their families, and their farms. The stories were part of the cure. She understood that every sickness had a context, and every patient carried more than physical pain.

Modern medicine, for all its sophistication, has often lost this art of listening. The hospital, with its machines, forms, and impatient queues, has replaced the listening ear with a checklist. Yet illness is never merely biological. It is also emotional, social, and spiritual. Healing, therefore, demands more than drugs. It demands understanding.

This is the insight behind narrative medicine. This concept was popularized by Dr Rita Charon at Columbia University in the United States. She defines it as “medicine practiced with the narrative competence to recognize, absorb, interpret, and be moved by the stories of illness.” In essence, it is the marriage of science and storytelling. It is the union of diagnosis and empathy.

Across the western world, leading universities such as Columbia, Temple and Minnesota have introduced narrative medicine into their medical curricula. Students read literature, write reflections, and learn to interpret patients’ stories with the same care they would give to a poem or novel.

When I recently asked my personal doctor, Dr Kilavuka, whether he had encountered this concept during his medical training in Kenya, he shook his head. “We were trained to diagnose and treat diseases,” he said. “Not to listen and read stories.”

That response made me reflect deeply. Could this be one reason why many doctors in our hospitals appear impatient, rushing from one patient to another without listening to the stories behind the pain? A patient who feels heard is more likely to trust the doctor, follow instructions, and recover faster. Healing begins when the patient’s story meets the doctor’s attention.

That is why I believe literature should walk hand in hand with medicine. Our schools of medicine should integrate courses in narrative medicine and literature. Doctors and nurses should be trained not only in anatomy and physiology but also in the anatomy of stories that patients bring to the clinic.

Narrative medicine draws from hermeneutics, the art of interpretation and phenomenology, the study of lived experience. It also draws from narratology, the analysis of storytelling and literary studies, which teaches us to read with empathy and imagination. These are not abstract ideas. They are practical tools that help healthcare workers understand the person behind the patient.

In many ways, narrative medicine is a rediscovery of what our traditional healers always knew: that a patient’s story is central to healing. African medicine has always been holistic. It listens to the story of the body, the family, and the community. The herbalist, the seer, and the midwife were also storytellers. They understood that healing is not only about curing a disease but about restoring balance and meaning. You cannot heal Ezinma in Things Fall Apart if you do not know the story behind her life.

Our modern healthcare system, pressured by time and burdened by bureaucracy, needs to rediscover the patient’s story. The human voice must not be drowned by the hum of machines. Healing is not only a scientific act. It also requires presence, empathy, and imagination. You should be worried that the Social Health Authority (SHA), does not mention narrative medicine in all its statutes. 

As I think of my mother, I realize that she was not only a village healer but also a philosopher of compassion. Her medicine was not written in books but lived through care, attention, and storytelling. In her world, healing was a conversation between the healer, the patient, and the unseen forces of life.

Narrative medicine brings us back to that sacred conversation. It reminds us that a story well told and well heard can be as powerful as a prescription.