The Clinical Famine: Why Survival Requires a Story

“Remember only this one thing,” said Badger. “The stories people tell have a way of taking care of them. If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive. That is why we put these stories in each other’s memory.”

(Crow and Weasel by Barry Lopez)

This quote from Barry Lopez’s allegorical novella might at first seem like a poetic ideal, far removed from the complex realities of modern healthcare. But in my work as a patient advocate, Badger’s wisdom isn’t just a philosophy; it’s a daily directive. It speaks to the ethical imperative of narrative stewardship: the deliberate, compassionate, and strategic act of receiving, protecting, and sharing the stories of those navigating illness.

Modern healthcare is a marvel of diagnostics and genetic profiles. From the outside, it appears abundant—a feast of medical progress. And yet, too often, patients leave clinics and hospitals feeling starved. I think of it as a clinical famine. Medicine provides the “food”—the science, the protocols—but it doesn’t always provide the story that gives that food meaning.

In a world governed by data and diagnosis codes, patients arrive fractured, reduced to symptoms, scans, and statistics. They bring not just a medical history but a story—the narrative of their fears, hopes, and the ways in which illness has reshaped their identity. These stories are not optional; they are essential. They tell us who the patient is beyond the chart, beyond the lab values, beyond the treatment plan.

This is the moment Badger describes when “stories come to you.”It is a sacred trust. To hear a story is to care for someone fully. It is to listen with an open heart, to hold their experience with respect, and to understand that the narrative itself is a vessel of humanity. When autonomy and identity are threatened by disease, the story becomes not merely information, but a lifeline.

Badger’s claim that “sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive” may seem extreme in a healthcare system focused on physical nourishment and medical intervention. Yet its truth is undeniable.

A patient can be physically treated and well-fed yet starve for meaning, connection, and acknowledgement. Chronic illness doesn’t just attack the body; it unravels a person’s life story. It unsettles the sense of the future. In these moments, medicine can provide sustenance, but a story—a shared narrative, a glimmer of hope, or even simply the act of being heard—can provide the strength to engage, the will to endure. It is the essential food of the human spirit.

I learned this firsthand as a cancer survivor. Finishing treatment felt like crossing a finish line, yet it plunged me into a bewildering liminal space without a map to guide me. The intensity of clinical oversight faded, and with it, the structured guidance that had shaped my days. From the outside, I was “recovered.” Inside, I was unmoored. There were no protocols for what came next, no scripts to follow. In that disorientation, I realised that survival is not only about treatment—it is about story. The narrative that connects past struggle to future hope became my compass, giving shape and meaning to a world that had suddenly become uncertain.

Seventeen years ago, I started Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer as a place to share my own experiences. Over time, I ran out of my story, but I continue to keep the blog alive as a space for others to share their own experiences, find connection, and pass on the wisdom that comes only from living through illness.

When Stories Become Essential

Stories are not decoration. A patient may receive all the medicine they need, yet without a story of the future—the reason to endure—the treatment becomes mechanical, stripped of context, and hope can falter. The “food” sustains the body; the story sustains the person inhabiting it.

Consider where a patient’s story becomes indispensable. For the clinician, it reveals obstacles that no lab test can detect—how work schedules conflict with treatment, or how cultural beliefs influence care choices. For the system, it humanises statistics, giving regulations weight and resonance. For other patients, it fosters connection, a sense that they are not alone. As Badger observes, “That is why we put these stories in each other’s memory”—to build collective wisdom, empathy, and resilience.

To share a story is to navigate a delicate art. It requires discernment and empathy. It is not about exploiting pain, but about empowering voice. Stories become bridges, humanising a landscape that is otherwise impersonal, procedural, and efficiency-driven.

The Tension in Healthcare

Healthcare systems are pressured, procedural, and efficiency-driven. Metrics dominate: lab results, imaging, risk scores. In this environment, stories can feel secondary. Ignoring them, however, creates blind spots. It narrows understanding, limits empathy, and perpetuates inequities. The story does not dilute care; it enriches it. It ensures the person behind the illness is never lost in the machinery of medicine.

Advocacy is the act of integration. Clinical expertise provides treatment; lived experience provides context. Medicine can save a life, but stories can make it livable. They restore identity, agency, and dignity. They remind practitioners that patients are more than a set of numbers. They remind society that survival is not only biological but also emotional, psychological, and relational.

By practising narrative stewardship, we help medicine remember what it was always meant to be: not just a science of the body, but an art of understanding the human being living within it. And in doing so, we ensure that every patient, no matter how complex their illness, always has their story to “take care of them.”