Some relationships stand the test of time—others unravel. In this week’s episode, both of our storytellers explore what it means to heal, let go, and move forward.

Part 1: Stuck in a monsoon on Kauai, Belinda Fu unintentionally ruins a friendship with a classmate.

Belinda Fu, MD, (“theImprovDoc”) is a physician, educator, and performing artist based in Seattle. She travels the country teaching about medical improv, using the principles of improvisational theater to improve wellbeing, health, communication, and patient care. (medicalimprov.org) She is also a Clinical Associate Professor of Family Medicine at the University of Washington. Belinda performs and directs improv theatre, studies jazz voice, makes really good popcorn, takes naps in the sun, and would like to say hi to your dog. belindafu.com

Part 2: Matt Storrs blames a dinosaur scientist’s theory for the end of his marriage.

Matt Storrs is a comedian and storyteller based out of NYC and originally from Phoenix, AZ. Matt created a solo show based upon the story in the episode entitled "Jurassic Heartbreak." It will next be performed at the Harrisburg Fringe Festival in July (https://www.hbgfringe.com/). He has also been featured on NPR and PBS. Matt is known for sharp stories and his esoteric comedy. Matt Storrs is a humor person. He can be found online at @mtstorrs

EPISODE TRANSCRIPT

PART 1

My plane touches down on the island of Kauai. It's underneath dark, heavy clouds. My friend Dan picks me up at the airport, and cheerful as ever he says, "Will you look at this rain."

Rain? I wouldn't call this rain. This is a rainstorm of biblical proportions. It rains for 40 days and 40 nights on the island of Kauai in March of 2006.

Now, Kauai, which is one of the Hawaiian Islands, is literally the wettest place on Earth. But that storm shatters all records.

Well, I'm on the island for a medical conference with my friend Dan. He's my classmate. We're both young doctors finishing up our family medicine residency program. And we're different, Dan and I. He's Nebraska nice and I'm California sassy. We're different, but we've bonded over the last three years through the kind of camaraderie that's forged through surviving hardships together. It turns out that learning to be a doctor is really hard.

Belinda Fu shares her story at Kane Hall in Seattle, WA at a show in partnership with KUOW and The Wild. Photo by Elizar Mercado.

We've worked many long hours in hospitals and ERs, ICUs, learning how to take care of people, their physical and their mental health through all stages of their life, from birth to death. And now we're tired.

So when we see this flyer for this conference in Hawaii, we're like, “Heck, yeah. Let's go. We deserve a break before graduation.”

I really need this break because I'm kind of burnt out, not just from residency but just because of life stuff, like another really bad breakup and feeling doubt about my career choice and physical exhaustion. I just need a break.

So, I pack all my frustrations up and decide I'm going to bring them to Hawaii with me, because I got a plan. I'm going to go to a couple lectures in the morning, but then I'm going to play hooky the rest of the time and cavort in the sunshine on the beach in Hawaii, releasing my frustrations out into the outdoors in the sun.

But there's no sun that weekend in Kauai. It's just rain. And not Seattle polite, drippy, depressing rain. No. The rain we have in Kauai that week is like nothing I've ever seen before. It falls from the sky like a solid steel sheet slamming down onto the roof, bending palm trees like they're begging for mercy. That week in Hawaii, rivers flood, dams break, homes are washed away. That storm is wild and relentless and destructive.

For us, to get to the conference hotel across the street, we have to cross a flooded street barefoot, up to our knees with swirling brown water filled with debris. And when we get to the lecture hall, we don't play hooky because there's nowhere to go. So we just sit in lectures all day long, occasionally startled when the wind slams against the door.

We do go snorkeling once, or at least we try. We swim in the ocean but the water is totally brown, so we can't see any fish.

We see a man waving at us from the shore, and we think, "Oh, he's going to tell us where the fish are." No, he's telling us to get out of the water because there's been a sewage spill.

So, we're just trapped in our little hotel room, which we're sharing to save money, Dan, me, and all the frustrations I brought with me.

I'm sitting there irritated, and Dan, ever nice and cheerful, wants to talk, so he reaches out. I'm grumpy so I withdraw. Dan reaches out, and I withdraw more. He reaches out and I withdraw, and this cycle continues as Dan gets hurt and confused. I'm getting agitated and more angry until, finally, I explode. I unleash all those frustrations out on Dan, lashing out at him with words while palm trees are lashing against the window. Finally, I snap at him, “Just leave me alone!”

Silence. There's not much more to say. The damage was done.

We don't talk much for the rest of the week. The rain continues but the conference ends and we fly back to Seattle, leaving the damaged island behind us, but bringing our damaged friendship with us.

We graduate and we go our separate ways. Dan moves out of state and he does not call me when he comes back to visit. We're Facebook friends, so there's the occasional thumbs up or “Happy birthday,” but it's not the same. There's this tension between us. Over time, that tension grows in me and it gnaws at me, because I know that this was my fault.

See, over the years that pass, more storms come my way, life storms, like a cancer diagnosis or my parents getting sick, my dog getting cancer and a failed job, another bad breakup. And with each passing storm, I'm forced to grow up and learn some essential human life lessons. I learn that I need to recognize my emotions and name them. I need to identify what it is I need and ask for it. And I learned that especially during storms, I'm the kind of person that needs some alone time to rest and recover, to take care of my own personal and mental health so that then I can take care of others and be the compassionate and kind and patient person that I want to be, to be a good doctor, a good partner, a good friend.

I know now what it is that I did in Hawaii to cause that much damage, but I don't know how or if I can fix what I broke.

Then it's 13 years after Hawaii and I find myself hopping up and down on a frozen sidewalk in Omaha, Nebraska, in the middle of the winter, in the middle of the night on my way to see Dan at a bar. Dan lives in Omaha and I'm in town for a medical conference. I decided it's time.

So I reach out to Dan, and I say, “Would you like to meet up and talk?”

And he's like, "Sure. Well, why don't you come down and meet up with my wife and my friends at a bar?"

I think, "Oh, a bar maybe isn't the best place to have a deep conversation, but that's okay because it's a start." So I say yes.

So, I'm walking down the street avoiding the patches of ice. It's very cold in Omaha. I'm walking down the street when, suddenly, pain stabs me in the gut. Great. I'm about to pass a gallstone. For those of you who are fortunate not to know what that is, the gallbladder is the sac that lives inside your liver and it has bile in it, which is good because it helps dissolve your food. But it's not good that the gallbladder also sometimes makes rocks.

The rocks don't do anything if they just stay there, but sometimes they try to get out and that's bad. Now, I've been told that passing a gallstone is a similar pain to having a baby. I've never had a baby but I have passed gallstones and it's really bad. I do have surgery to have my gallbladder removed, but that's four weeks after the Omaha trip.

So there I am in Omaha, walking down the street. Suddenly, I'm in pain. I'm, like, jumping up and down, which doesn't work, but I'm doing it anyway to see if I can make this pain go away. I think maybe I should leave, but no. I'm here on a mission. I'm going to talk to Dan, so I keep going. So even though I'm in pain and I'm sweating, though it's freezing outside, I keep walking down that sidewalk till I get to that bar.

I see the sign and I push through the doors and I stumble into a tiki bar. There's a fake lava rock wall and there's a giant tiki statue with a big grin. The bar is packed with people and they're holding their tropical drinks with the little flower and the umbrella. I'm sweating because it's really hot in here now and my pain is getting worse, but I see Dan over there.

So, I weave my way through the tables and I collapse in the empty chair next to him. And Dan, ever cheerful, and now a little drunk, is like, “Hey, it's so good to see you. Let's get you a drink.”

I'm like, “Dan, it is so good to see you, but I think I have to go.”

“What? You just got here.” He's confused and disappointed.

“I know, but I don't feel so well.” My ears are ringing, my pain is getting worse. “I think I need to call an Uber."

He looks mad. I get it and I want to try to talk to him, but this pain is getting worse and worse and worse.

Then suddenly, the room goes dark and thunder starts rumbling and lightning starts flashing and this wall of water starts rushing down behind the bar. They're having an indoor tropical rainstorm. People are squealing with delight and my head is pounding. I feel like the room is closing in on me, because my pain is just getting worse.

Just then, a bartender appears holding this giant bowl of cocktails that's on fire. He's walking towards us and the flames are going. People are laughing and my ears are ringing. My pain is getting worse and worse and worse. Then just as they're about to set the fire down in front of us, my pain surges through me and I pass out.

I have no idea how long I'm out. I feel like I'm at the bottom of a dark well and the sounds of the bar far away above me. But through the darkness I hear a voice and it's Dan's voice.

Dan says, "Damn. I always knew she was dramatic, but this is a bit much."

Dan's well‑deserved sarcasm yanks me out of the darkness and pulls me back into the room, into the light. I blink and look around and my ears aren't ringing anymore. My pain is subsiding and the thunderstorm has passed, and, apparently, so has my gallstone.

Dan is staring at me strangely. Understandable.

I look at him like, “Ah, I think I just passed a gallstone.”

“What?”

I'm like, “I know. Terrible timing, right? I want to stay and talk, but I think I need to go lie down. But I really wanted to talk to you. Can I call you tomorrow?”

He's like, “Uh, sure. Yeah. Okay.”

“Thank you. I'm so sorry. My Uber is here. I got to go.” And I'm gone.

The next day, I'm supposed to fly back to Seattle, but there's a snowstorm in Seattle and so my flight home is canceled, so I'm in Omaha an extra day. Dan invites me over for lunch. And over takeout Cambodian food, Dan and his wife and I talk and catch up over all these last 13 years, although kids run in and out showing us their toys and their artwork.

Then his wife very graciously excuses herself and the kids and leaves Dan and I at the kitchen table.

Dan sheepishly apologizes for what he said the night before and I sheepishly apologize for how I behaved in Hawaii 13 years ago. We talk and we forgive.

The next day, I fly home. Four weeks later, I have surgery and they take my gallbladder out. The pathologist says they tried counting all the stones that were in my gallbladder, but there were too many so they gave up. Apparently, I had been carrying a lot of pressure around for many, many years and now it's gone.

Five years pass since that night in Omaha and Dan and I are still Facebook friends, but we interact more. We chat more and we like more things and we comment and we joke, and sometimes there's even hearts.

We haven't seen each other in person yet, but I hope we will someday. I know things will never be the same as they were before Hawaii and that's okay. I didn't expect that, but at least the tension is gone.

Both Mother Nature and human nature can cause a lot of damage during stormy weather, but with time, forgiveness, and grace, we can learn how to weather a storm.

Thank you.

PART 2

So, for a fair amount of time, I blamed the theory of a dinosaur scientist for the end of my marriage.

Let me back up. So, when I was a little kid, I loved dinosaurs. I still love dinosaurs. It was one of the defining things of my personality when I was a kid. I knew every dinosaur name, every dinosaur fact. It was who I was. And it was so integral to who I was, it got involved in most of the stories I would tell too.

Matt Storrs shares his story at QED Astoria in Queens, NY in May 2024. Photo by Zhen Qin.

Like, I got invited to tell a story at a storytelling show and I told a story about how, when I was in elementary school, on Valentine's Day one year, I got dinosaur valentines with temporary tattoos on them and I handed them out to everybody in my class. And to make sure everybody was connected to the story I was telling, I passed out dinosaur temporary tattoos in valentines at that show after my set.

It was great. People were putting them on, some weren't. And then one person came up to me and was like, "Hey, what can you do to get that dinosaur tattoo on my body?"

I was like, "Oh, well, I could go to the bar and I could get like a napkin and some water…”

They're like, "No, no, no. What can you do to get that on my body?"

So I proceeded to do something very unsanitary. I licked it onto their forearm. It's the best way to apply a temporary tattoo. They don't want you to know that.

Some of you are probably picking up that that person was hitting on me. I didn't pick that up. That conversation ended and I started passing out more temporary tattoos, pontificating about my love of dinosaurs to anyone that would listen.

I was so obsessed about that and so many other things that I felt like I was never going to find love. So when I finally did and I eventually got married to my wife, for this story we'll call her Wilma.

Is that two on the nose? Wilma.

I felt so lucky. I felt like there were two things in my life that I truly knew. I knew about dinosaurs and I knew that I was in love and that I was loved.

One night when Wilma woke me up and asked me to move out of our house, I was absolutely shocked. It didn't make any sense to me. But I knew enough not to stick around. I moved out. I moved into my brother's place.

And one of the things that had defined who I was as a person had just been ripped out from under me. So, of course, I did what anyone would do when something like that happened. I started doing research about dinosaurs.

Unfortunately, at that time, there was a new theory about how the dinosaurs went extinct. One of the fundamental things, if you know anything about dinosaurs, is that the dinosaurs went extinct when a meteor hit the earth in the Yucatan Peninsula and caused widespread damage across the entire world.

But this theory posited that there were hundreds of thousands of years of volcanic eruptions. Those volcanic eruptions made the earth so inhospitable, all the dinosaurs were well on their way out. Reading that, it felt like everything I knew was gone.

I couldn't help but looking at that data and going through all of that, starting to process the pain and the grief of the loss of my relationship. And looking at all of the little instances in our relationship, not unlike the eruptions that they were talking about in the data, and how those were kind of indicators of what was going to happen in my relationship.

For instance, the first time that we met one another, the story that we told people was that we had met in college just randomly. We had a mutual friend and we had met outside of a class. That was the fun story we told everyone.

But a few years into our relationship, she revealed the truth, which was that mutual friend had shown Wilma my Facebook profile and said, “You would really like this guy.” So what she did was she just tracked my Facebook for a few weeks, because there were no privacy settings at the time, found out where I was going to be on campus and then came up to me, and said that we had met at a party that weekend, which was weird because I hadn't gone out that weekend, and that we had this mutual friend.

Because I was a 19‑year‑old boy and an attractive person was into me, I didn't ask any questions. When that came up a few years into the relationship, I still didn't ask any questions. I didn't talk about how uncomfortable that made me or how uncomfortable it made me that we were lying to people about the fundamentals of our relationship. I should let it go.

And I thought about the first time we went to a party, the first time we went out together and we went to a fraternity party. She had been in a sorority. When we went to the party, the fraternity guys made it clear that I was not welcome at this party.

So I went up to Wilma and I'm like, "Hey, I'm going to leave. We can hang out sometime later this weekend, maybe this week."

And she's like, "Okay, that's fine. Maybe I'll just go home with somebody else instead."

And I asked, "Why did you say that?"

She was just silent.

I didn’t press her on that. And when we hung out later that week, I didn't bring it up again. I created and helped create a dynamic in our relationship where we were never going to talk about the things that made us upset or do anything. We were going to try and make the other person realize it.

When I, later on in our relationship, got so immersed into our relationship that, one night, we were at a bar. Again, I was distracted. I was talking to friends, I was having a good time, not paying enough attention, admittedly, to Wilma.

But when I realized, “Hey, I need to go back. I need to talk to my wife. We got to hang out.” I went back and she was talking to a guy at the bar, a tall guy, bald, clear prison tattoos on his arms and his neck.

I went up and, again, I didn't pick up on the circumstance that was happening that some of you may have picked up on already.

I introduced myself. I'm like, "Hi, I'm Matt. What's your name?"

And he's like, "Hi. I'm Chris. My friends call me ‘Crazy Chris’ because I've been to prison.”

Still not picking it up.

I'm like, “Well, Chris, have you ever considered getting your civil rights restored?”

He had not, and so for the next two hours I talked to Chris about how to get his civil rights restored instead of paying attention to my wife.

I'm happy to report that within two years, we were able to get Crazy Chris's civil rights restored. Also, within two years my marriage was over.

In the aftermath of me moving out, I was going back consistently to the house to get my things, texting her, making sure she was aware that I was coming. One day, I went and I got my clothes and I decided I would update my iPod on the shared Mac computer we have. This is how long ago this was.

I plugged it in and in the corner of the screen I saw a bunch of text messages start popping up. Those text messages made it clear that my ex had started seeing somebody that I had considered one of my best friends, if not my best friend in the world. Not Crazy Chris. At that moment, it felt like any hope for survival for the environment of our relationship was completely gone. It felt like a meteor had completely destroyed and eradicated absolutely everything that I knew.

I went back and I looked at the theory as I was piecing my life back together and, well within the time frame of both of us, creating a new environment, our own lives separately, figuring out who we were going to be. I looked at that theory again and I realized I was mistaken when I had first seen it. I thought that it was them arguing that it was these volcanic eruptions that destroyed the dinosaurs. That's not what they were arguing ever. It was that those volcanic eruptions made the environment so inhospitable that when that meteor hit the Earth, there was no chance of survival.

So, when that meteor hit my relationship, just like when it hit the Earth and destroyed the dinosaurs, ultimately, it was merciful.

Thank you.