MINDA SANCHEZ: After leaving my dad's dead body in the hospital bed, alone in the care of strangers, I thought, was this what we were supposed to do?

Is this how we're supposed to die?

LIBBY STAPLES: Later that night, all I can think about is Margaret and what it looked like for her to fight for her life.

LACONIA THERRIO: When I finished the story, she goes, "What does that story mean?"

And I looked at her and I said, "My job is to tell the story.

You have to figure out the story for yourself."

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Living Soul."

Every single thing that we experience in our lives, we do so while inhabiting our bodies.

But as we all know, there is so much more than just the physical realm.

It's so very important to explore and appreciate our inner selves.

Sometimes, our bodies and our minds flow in perfect harmony.

At other times, not so much.

Tonight, our amazingly talented tellers are going to share their stories of overcoming both physical and emotional challenges.

♪ ♪ SANCHEZ: My name is Minda Sanchez.

I'm from Jamaica Plain, a neighborhood of Boston.

I'm a former I.T.

project manager turned death doula.

Death doula-- I am...

I have so many questions.

(chuckles softly) What is a death doula?

Well, a death doula is someone who provides practical, emotional, nonmedical support to people facing their end of life, as well as their families and their communities.

And has your transition into being a, a death doula, has that changed your own personal approach to life and death?

Yes.

Well, one thing is I see death everywhere.

Not that I see dead people, but you could see death on your plate, what you're eating.

Things had to come to an end for you to nourish yourself.

We see death in the fall and the changing of the leaves, um, and in the winters.

And then, spring seems so much more vibrant.

When you could see life in the context of death, too.

When you could be present with all the seasons, life becomes richer.

Do you feel that storytelling is a helpful tool in normalizing and demystifying conversations about death?

SANCHEZ: Everybody has a story about their life, and their life includes death, and their life includes fear of ending.

And if we can get curious about that full story, and if we can ask the questions and allow people space to tell them, then we can not be afraid of death.

When we could see death as part of the fullness of life.

♪ ♪ It was about midnight when my mom began stirring from sleep in her comfy reclining chair.

She signaled she wanted to get up, so I went to get her wheelchair ready.

Her breast cancer had spread deep in her bones, causing multiple small fractures in her hips, making her highly unstable when she tried to get up.

She usually waited for me to help her get up, but not this time.

I rushed in front and assumed a position of a hug so that she could shift her weight onto me, and I could get her onto her wheelchair.

We had done this dance dozens of times before, but this time she stopped midway.

Her legs were shaking underneath her.

I tried to get her back onto her recliner, but I couldn't make it.

So in slow motion together, we slid down the front of her recliner.

When we got to the floor, she looked up at me and said, "It's time."

I had heard those words before, in the same living room with my mom 17 years prior.

We were coordinating the care schedule for my dad when we heard him call us from his room.

We rushed over and he said, "It's time.

I'm dying."

My mom, the seasoned nurse, sprung into action, checking his vitals, increasing his oxygen, adjusting his position, asking him relevant questions.

Me, the I.T.

project manager with the fancy MBA, had no idea what to do with dying bodies.

And so, I froze.

Mom signaled me to make the call.

Call who?

Uh, the oncologist, the primary care doctor?

The oxygen tank guy?

God?

Who am I supposed to call?

How am I supposed to know what to do when someone's dying?

She said, "Call 911."

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My dad.

He's dying."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes."

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes, but he's having trouble."

"Can you check his mouth?

Is there anything obstructing his airways?"

"No, no, it's not that.

"He's got advanced prostate cancer.

He's full of tumors."

In a few minutes, the quiet of our house was severed by blaring sirens.

An ambulance, fire trucks, police were outside, along with neighbors lining up, wondering what was going on.

Large men came streaming in through the front door, bringing the chaos from outside into my dad's bedroom.

They asked questions.

They poked, prodded, assessed him.

They quickly moved him from his recliner onto a gurney, where he lay flat on his back.

I was beside myself.

My dad hadn't laid flat on his back in weeks.

It hurt him so much.

I said something to them, and they adjusted his position as they quickly wheeled him out the door.

I wanted to get him a sweater.

He was always so cold.

I wanted to put pillows underneath his swollen knees and thighs.

But these things were cast aside as the paramedics followed standard protocols of responding to a medical emergency.

Is that what this was?

A medical emergency?

The next thing I knew, I was in the waiting room of a hospital E.R.

greeting extended family members.

In pairs, we went to go visit my dad.

He was hooked up to various beeping and blinking machines in a cold and brightly lit antiseptic room.

As an immigrant without access to medical care growing up, my dad felt comfortable in a hospital.

This place was like an extension of his American Dream, a place for hope, possibility, miracles.

A few hours after we arrived at the hospital, with my immediate family surrounding him, my dad suddenly woke up from his sleep.

He sat up with energy we hadn't seen from him in a long time, opened his eyes wide, stretched out his arms, and gazed wildly at something beyond us and unseen by us.

And then, just as suddenly, he collapsed back in his bed, exhaled for the last time, and died.

We sat there, stunned, and cried while the patient in the next bed over snored loudly.

In the car on the way home, after leaving my dad's dead body in the hospital bed alone in the care of strangers, I thought, Was this what we were supposed to do?

Is this how we're supposed to die?

Is there another way?

Years later, when it was my mom's time, I trusted I knew what to do.

I still was no nurse, but I did have her written wishes, which she had discussed with me and other family members.

So, when she looked at me from the floor of her living room and said, "It's time.

I'm dying."

I said, "I know.

I see you."

I didn't take her vitals.

I didn't call 911.

I put pillows underneath and around her.

I covered her with a warm blanket.

I caressed her hair.

I gave her a kiss, and I called my sisters.

I told them it was time for the death vigil, a concept I had just learned from a book I was reading by a death doula, not knowing that this experience would plant the seed of transition for me from an I.T.

professional to a death doula myself.

For eight days, my mom was held in loving care by family, friends, and hospice workers.

We took shifts sitting by her bedside.

We played soft music she liked.

We shared stories and fond memories.

My nine-year-old cuddled up with her in her bed.

I thanked her for loving me, and for allowing me to take care of her during this special, sacred time.

When the gaps between her breaths got exceedingly long, I gathered everyone around her bed.

Some sang, some prayed.

I sat silently as we watched her let out her final breath.

There was no medical emergency.

No chaos, no drama, beeping machines or antiseptic rooms.

As the light came streaming in through her bedroom window, I sat there, stunned, by the beauty of connection and care that filled the room.

I was tender, broken, and more fully human.

Struck with awe... at the sheer wonder of being alive.

(quietly): Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ STAPLES: My name is Libby Staples.

I live in Bethlehem, New Hampshire.

Um, I live with my ten year old son, Will, and our menagerie of animals.

And I am a town administrator for the town of Franconia, New Hampshire.

Tonight, you'll be sharing a story.

I'm wondering what appeals to you most about listening to stories?

It's sort of like why I like living in a small town.

There's something about sharing your story with somebody else that it doesn't matter, uh, where you're from, um, your experiences.

We all share this experience of being human.

Uh, there's this point of connection, um, that I am smitten with.

As you were preparing this story, what was the most meaningful part to you in the process of getting ready to go and do this?

For me, it's about allowing myself to take up space.

So even though I am terrified to do this, um, for a variety of reasons, I feel so thankful and grateful that I can be here and enjoy this feeling of being able to be present, and taking up the space that I get to take up.

Conversely, I wanted to ask, what was the most challenging part about this process for you?

This is so out of my comfort zone, um, to be in front of a camera, to be in front of, um, an audience.

All new, delightful and terrifying.

♪ ♪ Much like prison, where cigarettes are a form of currency, Charter Hills Behavioral Health, circa 1994, had its own form of currency, and it was these individually wrapped butterscotch candies.

These things were literally, and figuratively, gold.

And the keepers of this currency were the nurses.

So they would dole them out, based on what they would consider good behavior.

So, taking our meds, following directions, basically, not exhibiting any of the behaviors that got us stuck in Charter Hills in the first place.

So for me, as long as I wasn't acting too "eating disorder-y," I would be rewarded with one of these candies.

Now, Charter Hills was split into two separate sections.

The addicts were on one side, and all of the rest of us were on the other side.

It was a real mental health melting pot.

(laughter) And during the day, the addicts got to play kickball, and the rest of us were crammed into a tiny room off the gym, in a room they used for art therapy.

Our art therapist, Karen, would pass out blank white pieces of paper to us all at the table.

I say blank, and one side was blank, and then the other side contained various case notes from other patients in the hospital, so... You know, just think of it as highly unethical and probably illegal scratch paper.

(laughter) She would then dump out a big box of markers on the table, and she'd say the same thing every time.

She'd say, "I want you to draw the future as you imagine for yourself, when you're well."

Which sounds lovely, right?

Except for none of the colored markers worked!

They had all long since run dry.

The only markers that worked were the brown, the gray, the black, and the tan, you know?

And honestly, it didn't really matter what future I imagined for myself.

In that room, the only thing that mattered was what Karen wanted us to draw.

And Karen wanted us to draw something cheery.

Have you ever tried to draw a cheery picture with brown and gray and black and tan?

Because it is tricky.

But I did it.

And I was rewarded with a terse nod of approval and a butterscotch candy, right?

I'm sitting there with that butterscotch in my hand.

I'm like, "Whoo!"

I have got this system figured out.

I knew exactly what I was there to do.

My job was to get as many of those butterscotch candies as I could, because butterscotch meant that I was being good, and being good meant that I was getting out.

So, that is what I did.

And I was pretty good at it, too.

I had a pretty enviable collection.

A collection I had to hide, though, from my roommate, Margaret.

Now, Margaret was an 82 year old woman.

I have no idea why she was in Charter Hills in the first place.

But that lady could not stop with the butterscotch candy.

And when she had one in her mouth, she was already furiously unwrapping the next.

It was a never-ending cycle.

And when the nurses would come into our room at night to do bed checks, they'd always find Margaret in bed with a butterscotch.

And they'd say, "Margaret.

"You can't be in bed with a butterscotch.

You'll choke."

But every night, it was the same.

So finally, they made it one nurse's job to come into our room at night, remove Margaret's butterscotch candies.

And this made Margaret miserable.

And it also made her miserable to be around because she couldn't stop talking about it.

And one night, I had had all I could take.

And I thought about my collection under my bed.

- Hmm.

- Yes.

(laughter) And I thought... if I give her one candy, right, she'll be quiet long enough for me to fall asleep.

So, I did.

She unwraps the candy.

She pops it in her mouth.

Silence.

I am just about to fall asleep when I hear a sound that truly can only be the sound of hard candy being sucked violently into a windpipe.

I open my eyes, and it is like a scene from a movie.

Margaret's got her hands wrapped around her neck.

Her eyes are bulging.

I leap from my bed.

I run to the nurses' station, yelling, "Margaret's choking on a butterscotch candy!"

All the nurses turn to scowl at the poor woman whose job it is to remove the candy.

Like, "Nice going, Wendy!"

And we all take off running for the room.

Now, I have no memory of how they actually removed the candy from Margaret.

But I do remember exactly the way that candy looked as it left her, sailed across the room, hit the wall, and fell to the hospital room floor.

Margaret sat up, gasping for breath, and Wendy, seeking vindication, turns to Margaret and asks, "Hey, Margaret, where'd you get that butterscotch candy?"

(laughter) And I know that the jig is up, right?

I have to be honest that I'm the one that gave her the candy.

And when I am, they are going to take away my collection.

And with that, they're going to take away any proof that I had that I was being good, and any hope I had that I was getting out of this place anytime soon.

And that is exactly what happened.

I really nailed that.

So, later that night, I'm trying to just settle down, and all I can think about is Margaret, and what it looked like for her to fight for her life and to fight to not fade away.

And it's not lost on me in that moment that I had been trying to do exactly the opposite.

I had been trying and fighting to fade into nothing.

And I didn't want to do that anymore.

So, the next day, in art therapy, I'm sketching out my imagined future in sepia tones.

(laughter) And as I'm drawing, I'm thinking about what it means to be well, instead of what it means to be good.

And as I'm drawing, I realize I'm taking up all of the space on the paper.

And I close my eyes, and I let myself feel what it feels like to take up space in the chair, and to take up space in the room.

And for the first time, I like the way that feels.

The night before, Margaret almost lost her life.

But at the same time, somehow, I got a piece of mine back.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ THERRIO: My name's Laconia Therrio.

I'm originally from New Orleans.

I now live in Stanford, Connecticut.

Been there almost 40 years.

A chaplain at the local hospital, a psychotherapist, and a professional storyteller.

And, uh, I just love working with people.

What kind of stories do you most enjoy telling?

I most enjoy, Wes, telling, uh, folktales.

I know personal storytelling is big, and I am doing a personal story today.

But there's something about getting in touch with a folktale that an audience will go, "Boy, there's a lesson for me there."

And I like it because, the person chooses the lesson for themselves, as opposed to somebody pointing the finger and saying, "This is the lesson you need."

What is your preparation like, when you're, you know, working on a story?

What does that look like for you?

What's that process?

I'll write the story out longhand first.

Then I memorize the first paragraph and the last paragraph of the story.

And then I do stick figures with the body of the story, because if I learn the images of the story, then I'll tell the story from my, uh, from my images instead of word-for-word.

Because if I do it word-for-word and I forget a word, I freeze.

I'll be in New Canaan, Connecticut in two weeks, and I'll tell the same stories four times to the different classes.

And I think if you took a video of each story, even though it's still the story, I use different words, depending on what the audience's eyes are giving back to me.

I serve as a hospital chaplain in Stamford, Connecticut.

One of my favorite units to go to is the pediatrics wing.

One morning, as I walked in, the nurses, they said, "Laconia, we're glad you are here."

I said, "Why?"

And they said, "We have a 13-year-old girl, "and she tried to hurt herself.

We think you might be able to help her."

I like kids, and I like the challenge of kids.

So, I went to the girl's bedroom.

A 24-hour attendant was with her in the room to help keep her safe.

I knocked on the door.

She was sitting upright in her bed.

She looked up at me.

She said, "Hello."

I said, "Hello."

I said, "Can I come in?"

And she goes, "Sure."

And so, I walked into her room, and there I'm sitting at the edge of the bed, and she's sitting directly in front of me.

I said, "My name's Laconia, and I am a chaplain."

Her response-- "What's that?"

"Well, I'm a minister.

It's like a priest or a rabbi, but I work for the hospital."

"Oh."

"So, one of the questions I always ask patients is, why are you here?"

And her answer was, "I tried to hurt myself."

I noticed the nonspecificity of her answer, and I decided to leave it alone.

When I work as a chaplain, I hardly ever tell stories.

As a chaplain, you hear stories.

But these words leapt out of my mouth.

"You know, in my other life outside the hospital, "I am a storyteller.

"And I think I have a story "that fits your situation.

"But I can't tell the story unless you give me permission."

She looks at me, she goes, "Shoot."

(audience murmurs) And this is a story that I told.

Once, there was a boy.

And it was his job to take two water pots a half-mile down the stream.

He would fill both water pots up, and then he would walk back up the stream, and place the water pots on the ground.

One morning, he got up, he placed both water pots on his shoulders.

He walked the half-mile down to the stream, and he filled the water pots up.

He walked back up to the top of the hill, placed the water pots on the ground, but the water pot on the left went, "(sighs)" And the boy said, "What's wrong?"

The water pot said, "Well, you fill my brother and I up, "and when we get to the top of the hill, "my brother is full, but I've got a crack on my side.

"I am leaking.

I am only half full.

"I am not doing my job."

The boy said, "Did you see anything as you walked up along your side of the trail?"

"No," said the pot.

"Tell me what you see tomorrow."

The next morning, he takes both water pots.

He walks the half-mile down to the trail, down to the stream, and he fills the water pots.

He walks back up, he places them on the ground, and the water pot on the left went, "(sighs)" "What's wrong?"

"I, I am not doing my job.

I've got this crack in my side."

"Did you do what I asked?"

"Yes."

"Did you see anything?"

"Yes."

"What did you see?"

"Flowers and herbs."

"What colors were they?"

"Yellow, gold, green, mauve."

And then the boy said, "You don't get it, do you?"

And the cracked pot said, "Get what?"

He said, "I knew you had a crack in your side.

"And one day when you weren't looking, "I went along your side of the trail "and planted the herbal seeds and the flower seeds.

"When you weren't looking, "I went along and picked up the flowers, "and we put them in a vase.

And I take the herbal seeds and we cook with them.

And only then did the cracked pot truly understand.

I noticed that the girl was just intently looking at me.

And when I finished the story, she goes, "What does that story mean?"

And I looked at her and I said, "My job is to tell the story.

"You have to figure out the story for yourself.

"I'm going to be here until 4:00 today.

"If you think you figure out the story, you can always have me paged."

I left her room at 10:45, never expecting her to call.

Around 02:30 p.m., I was paged to the pediatrics wing.

I walked to her room.

Not only was a 24-hour attendant with her, but her mother was in the room.

I said, "You asked me to come back."

And she says, "I figured out the story."

Out of confidentiality, I said, "Would you like your mom to leave?"

And she said, "No, I want my mom to hear this."

And I said, "Okay, what does this story mean?"

And she said, "That story is about me.

"I'm the cracked pot.

"And that story teaches me that I can be cracked and okay."

She cried, her mother cried, and I cried.

She got the story.

(cheers and applause) ♪