Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology

• Writing a Medical Memoir: Lessons From a Long, Steep Road

  Listen to ASCO’s Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology article, "Writing a Medical Memoir: Lessons From a Long, Steep Road” by David Marks, consultant at University Hospitals Bristol NHS Foundation Trust. The article is followed by an interview with Marks and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Marks shares his challenging journey of writing a memoir describing his patients and career. Transcript Narrator: Writing a Medical Memoir: Lessons From a Long, Steep Road, by David Marks, PhD, MBBS, FRACP, FRCPath  The purpose of this essay is to take hematologist/oncologist readers of the Journal on my challenging journey of trying to write a memoir describing my patients and career. This piece is not just for those who might wish to write a book, it also can be generalized to other creative writing such as short stories or other narrative pieces intended for publication. My experience is that many of my colleagues have considered doing this but do not know where to start and that many embarking on this journey lack the self-confidence most writers require. I also describe other issues that unexpectably arose, particularly my struggle to get the book to its intended target audience, and of writing about myself in such a personal way. In my book of semifiction, I tell the stories of my patients with leukemia, but also describe what it is like to be a physician looking after young patients with curable but life-threatening diseases. I recount my medical career and working in the United Kingdom's National Health Service (NHS), a very different health system to the one I experienced when I worked in Philadelphia during the early 1990s. Telling the stories of my patients with leukemia (and my story) was my main motivation but I also wanted to challenge my creative writing skills in a longer format. As a young person, I wrote essays and some poetry. As a hemato-oncologist, the major outputs of my writing have been over 300 scientific papers and a 230-page PhD thesis. The discipline required to write papers does help with writing a nonfiction book, and as with writing scientific papers, the first step is having a novel idea. I admired the work of Siddhartha Mukherjee (“The Emperor of all Maladies”) and Mikkael Sekeres (“When Blood Breaks Down”), but I wanted to write about my patients and their effect upon me from a more personal perspective. I obtained written consent from the patients I wrote about; nearly all of them were happy for me to use their first name; they trusted me to tell their stories. All of the patients' stories have a substantial basis in fact. I also wrote about colleagues and other people I encountered professionally, but those parts were semifiction. Names, places, times, and details of events were changed to preserve anonymity. For example, one subchapter titled “A tale of two managers” comprises events that relate to a number of interactions with NHS medical managers over 30 years. The managers I wrote about represent a combination of many people, but it would not have been possible to write this while still working at my hospital. I had wanted to write a book for years but like most transplanters never had the sustained free time to jot down more than a few ideas. In the second UK lockdown of 2020 when we were only allowed to go out to work and for an hour of exercise, we all had more time on our hands. A columnist in the Guardian said that people should have a “lockdown achievement”; this would be mine. This is how I went about it. I knew enough about writing to know that I could not just go and write a book. I considered a university writing degree, but they were all online: There was not the nourishment of meeting and interacting with fellow writers. I joined two virtual writing groups and got some private sessions with the group's leader. We had to write something every week, submitted on time, and open for discussion. In one writing group, there was a no negative criticism rule, which I found frustrating, as I knew my writing was not good enough and that I needed to improve. I had no shortage of ideas, stories to tell, and patients and anecdotes to write about. I have a pretty good memory for key conversations with patients but learned that I did not have to slavishly stick to what was said. I also wrote about myself: my emotions and the obstacles I encountered. To understand how I guided my patients' journeys, my readers would need to understand me and my background. I carried a notebook around and constantly wrote down ideas, interesting events, and phrases. Every chapter underwent several drafts and even then much was totally discarded. I was disciplined and tried to write something every day, realizing that if I did not make progress, I might give up. Most days the words flowed; refining and editing what I wrote was the difficult part. Very different to Graham Greene in Antibes. He would go to his local café, write 200-400 words, then stop work for the day and have his first glass of wine with lunch before an afternoon siesta. How would I tell the story? My story was chronological (in the main), but I felt no need for the patient stories to be strictly in time order. The stories had titles and I did not avoid spoilers. “Too late” is the story of a patient with acute promyelocytic leukemia who died before she could receive specialist medical attention. This had a devastating effect on the GP who saw her that morning. So, there were plenty of patient stories to tell, but I needed to learn the craft of writing. Visual description of scenes, plots, and giving hints of what is to come—I had to learn all these techniques. Everything I wrote was looked at at least once by my mentor and beta readers, but I also submitted my work for professional review by an experienced editor at Cornerstones. This person saw merit in my work but said that the stories about myself would only interest readers if I was “somebody like David Attenborough.” Other readers said the stories about me were the most interesting parts. So far, I have focused on the mechanics and logistics of writing, but there is more to it than that. My oncology colleague Sam Guglani, who has successfully published in the medical area, was very useful. I asked him how his second book was progressing. “Not very well.” “Why?” “It takes a lot of time and I'm not very confident.” Sam writes such lovely prose; Histories was positively reviewed yet even he still has self-doubt. Hematologists/oncologists, transplanters, and chimeric antigen receptor T cell physicians are often confident people. Most of the time we know what to do clinically, and when we give medical advice, we are secure in our knowledge. This is because we have undergone prolonged training in the areas we practice in and possess the scientific basis for our decisions. This is not the case when doctors take on creative writing. Few of us have training; it is out of our comfort zone. Nearly all new writers are insecure, in a constant state of worry that our outpourings are not “good enough,” that “nobody will like it.” Even high-quality memoirs may be hard to get published. I did not enter this thinking I would fail, and I have received feedback that I “can write.” But when you look at people who can really write, who have already been published, and earn a living from writing, you think that you will never be as good. Does this matter for a medical memoir? Yes, it does. I came to realize to improve it is important to surround yourself with people who read a lot and preferably with some who are well-regarded published writers. These people should offer unrestrained feedback, and you should take note. However, I learned you do not need to do everything they say—it is not like responding to the reviewers of scientific papers—your book should retain your individual stamp and cover what you think is important. I found there are risks in writing a memoir. Private matters become public knowledge to your family and friends. In a hospital you have lots of work relationships, not all of which are perfect. It can be a tense environment; you often have to keep quiet. Writing about them in a book, even if colleagues and events are disguised or anonymized, runs the risk of colleagues recognizing themselves and not being happy with how they are portrayed. Writing a book's first draft is hard; getting it to its final draft even harder but perhaps not harder than writing a major paper for JCO or Blood. (For me writing the discussion section of a paper was the most difficult task). However, finding an agent is perhaps the hardest of all. Every agent has their own laborious submission system. About a third of agents do not respond at all; they may not even read your book. Another third may send you a response (after up to 3 months) saying that the book is “not for me.” Three agents told me that their own experiences with cancer made it impossible for them to read the book while others said it was a worthwhile project but it was not their area of interest. That encouraged me. It required resilience to get Life Blood published. I did not have the skills to self-publish, but I found a publisher that would accept the book, provided I contributed to the costs of publishing. This was not easy either because my book did not have as much final editing as a conventional publisher provides. Getting the book to its target audience was another major challenge. A number of hematologic journals agreed to consider reviews of the book, and my colleagues were generous in offering to review it. However, I wanted my book to be read by people with cancer and their families: nearly all of us at some point in our lives. A digital marketing consultant helped me publicize the book on social media and construct a user-friendly Web site. I hope this reflection offers some encouragement for budding authors who are hematologists/oncologists. However, as all writers reading this will know, writing is a lonely pursuit; it is something you do on your own for long periods and you cannot be sure your work will ever see the light of day. One of the main ingredients is persistence; this is probably the main difference between people who finish books and those who do not. Of course there may be benefits to physicians from writing per se, even if it is never published, although most hematologists/oncologists I know are quite goal oriented. Was it all worthwhile? Yes, I think so. Writing about my career stirred up lots of memories and has been quite cathartic. Physicians often feel they have insufficient time to reflect on their practice. It made me reflect on my achievements and what I could have done better. Could I have worked harder for my patients (rarely) or thought of therapeutic interventions earlier (sometimes)? What about my professional relationships? In my efforts to do the best for my patients, was I sometimes too impatient (yes)? I hope the book inspires young people contemplating a career in hematology/oncology but also gives them a realistic idea of the commitment it requires; even relatively successful doctors encounter adversity. To all my hematologic/oncologic and transplant colleagues worldwide, if you think you have a book in you, find the time and the intellectual space, start writing but also get help. In telling the story of your patients you honor them; it is a very satisfying thing to do but there are risks. I have had lots of feedback from friends and colleagues, the great majority of it positive, but when my book was published, I prepared myself for more critical reviews. I learned a lot from writing Life Blood; at the end, I was a stronger, more secure writer and hematologist/oncologist, more confident that the story of my patients and career was worth telling and relevant to a wider audience. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Hello, and welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, which features essays and personal reflections from authors exploring their experience in the oncology field. I'm your host, Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. I'm Professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami. And what a pleasure it is today to be joined by Professor David Marks, a consultant at University Hospitals Bristol NHS Foundation Trust in the UK. In this episode, we will be discussing his Art of Oncology article, "Writing a Medical Memoir: Lessons from a Long, Steep Road." Our guest’s disclosures will be linked in the transcript. David, welcome to our podcast, and thanks so much for joining us. Professor David Marks: Thank you very much for inviting me. It's a real honor. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: David, I really enjoyed your piece. We've never had a "how to write a memoir" sort of piece in Art of Oncology, so it was a great opportunity. And, you know, I think 30 years ago, it was extraordinarily rare to have a doctor who also was a writer. It's become more common, and as we've grown, still among our elite core of doctor-writers, we've also birthed some folks who actually write in long form—actual books, like you did. Professor David Marks: I'd sort of become aware that I wasn't the only person doing this, that there were lots of people who liked creative writing, but they had difficulties sort of turning that into a product. This was the reason for sort of writing this. I'm hardly an expert; I've only written one book, but I sort of hope that my experiences might encourage others. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I think it's a terrific idea. And before we get started about the book, I, of course, know you because you and I run in some of the same academic circles, but I wonder if you could tell our listeners a little bit about yourself. Professor David Marks: So, I'm Australian. That's where I did my internal medical and hematology training in Melbourne. And then I did a PhD to do with acute lymphoblastic leukemia at the University of Melbourne. I then moved to London for three years to do some specialist training in bone marrow transplantation and some lab work, before spending three years in Philadelphia, where I did transplant, leukemia, and some more lab work. And then, mainly for family reasons, moved back to the UK to take up a post in Bristol. I have retired from patient-facing practice now, although I still give medical advice, and I'm doing some consulting for a CAR T-cell company based in LA. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Great. And can I ask you, what drew you to focus on treating people with leukemia and doing research in that area? Professor David Marks: I think leukemia is just such a compelling disease. From really the first patient I ever looked after, there was a person who is both life-threateningly ill, has had their life turned upside down. Yet, there is—increasingly now—there's an opportunity to cure them or, at the very least, prolong their life significantly. And also, its sort of proximity to scientific research—that was the attraction for me. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: There is something compelling about cancer stories in general. I think we talk about the privilege of doing what we do, and I think part of that is being invited into people's lives at probably one of the most dramatic moments of those lives. We're, of course, unwelcome visitors; nobody wants a diagnosis of cancer and having to have that initial conversation with an oncologist. But I wonder if, as doctors and as writers, we feel compelled to share that story and really celebrate what our patients are going through. Professor David Marks: So, that absolutely is one of my main motivations. I thought- there aren't, to my mind, all that many books out there that sort of try and tell things from both the patient with leukemia's point of view and the doctors looking after them. And I thought that their stories should be told. It's such a dramatic and frightening time, but I think the struggles that people go through in dealing with this—I think this is something I sort of felt people should have the opportunity to learn about. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, we're really honoring our patients, aren't we? Professor David Marks: Absolutely. When you think of the patients you've looked after, their courage, their steadfastness in dealing with things, of just battling on when they're not well and they're scared of things like dying—you've just got to admire that. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, yeah. David, you have a tremendous number of academic publications and have been transformative in how we treat people who have acute lymphoblastic leukemia. How did you first get into writing narrative medicine? Professor David Marks: Although I have written quite a lot scientifically, although that is incredibly different to creative writing, some of the same sort of care that one needs with a scientific paper, you do need for creative writing. I always liked English at school, and, you know, even as a teenager, I wrote some, you know, some poetry; it frankly wasn't very good, but I had a go. I came to a point where I wanted to write about my patients and a bit about my career. I had trouble finding the time; I had trouble finding the sort of intellectual space. But then COVID and lockdown occurred, and, you know, all of us had a lot more time; you know, we weren't even allowed to leave the house apart from working. So, at that point, I started writing. Prior to that, though, I had sort of kept a notebook, a quite big notebook, about stories I wanted to tell and events in my career and life that I wanted to tell. So there was something of a starting point there to go from. But when I first started writing, I realized that I just didn't know enough about writing. I needed to learn the craft of writing, and so I also joined a couple of writing groups. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's—I find that absolutely fascinating. I think there are a lot of people who want to write, and there are some who have the confidence to go ahead and start writing, right? Whether they know the craft or not. And there are others who pause and say, "Wait a second, I've done a lot of reading, I've done a lot of academic writing, but I'm not sure I know how to do this in a creative way." So, what was your first step? Professor David Marks: I had sort of notes on these stories I wanted to write, and I did just try and write the sort of two- to five-page story, but I then sort of realized that it was just—it just wasn't very good. And I needed to learn really all the basic things that writers need, like developing a plot, like giving hints of what's to come, using visual description. Those things are obviously completely different to scientific writing, and I—it was a bit like going back to school, really. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And how did you even find writing groups that were at the right level for someone who was starting on this journey? Professor David Marks: So, I got a recommendation of a sort of local group in Bristol and a very established sort of mentor who has actually mentored me, Alison Powell. But it is difficult because some people on the group had written and published a couple of books; they were way ahead of me. And some people were just really starting out. But there were enough people at my level to give me sort of useful criticism and feedback. But yes, finding the right writing group where there's a free interchange of ideas—that is difficult. And, of course, my—what I was writing about was pretty much different to what everybody else was writing about. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So, you joined a writing group that wasn't specific to people in healthcare? Professor David Marks: There was something at my hospital; it was a quite informal group that I joined, and that had a whole number of healthcare professionals, but that didn't keep going. So, I joined a group that was really a mixture of people writing memoirs and also some people writing fiction. And I actually found a lot of the things that people writing fiction write, I needed to learn. A lot of those skills still apply to a sort of non-fictional or semi-fiction book. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You write in your Art of Oncology piece—I think a very insightful portion of it—where you're identifying people who can give you feedback about your writing, and you're looking for honest feedback. Because there are a lot of people where you might show them a piece and they say, "Gee, this is David Marks, I better say something nice. I mean, it's David Marks after all.” Right? So, you don't want that sort of obsequiousness when you're handing over a piece of writing because you need truth to be told if it's compelling or if it's not compelling. How did you identify the people who could give you that honest feedback, but also people you trust? Because there are also people who might read a piece and might be jealous and say, "Gee, David's already going on this journey, and I wish I had done this years ago," and they might not give you the right kind of feedback. Professor David Marks: Yeah, I mean, one of the writing groups I joined, there was a sort of "no criticism, no negative criticism" rule, and I did not find that to be useful because I knew my writing, frankly, wasn't good enough. So, funnily enough, my wife—she's very lucky—she has this reading group that she's had for 25 years, and these are—they're all women of her age, and they are just big, big readers. And those were my principal beta readers. And I sort of know them, and they knew that I wanted direction about, you know, what was working and what was not working. And so they were fairly honest. If they liked something, they said it. And if there was a chapter they just didn't think worked, they told me. And I was really very grateful for that. The other thing I did at a sort of critical moment in the book, when I just thought I was not on track, is I sent it to a professional editor at Cornerstones. And that person I'd never met, so they had no—you know, they didn't need to sort of please me. And that review was very helpful. I didn't agree with all of it, but it was incredibly useful. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's fascinating. So, I've submitted pieces in venues where people can post comments, and I always force myself to read the comments. And sometimes that hurts a little bit when you get some comments back and think, "Oh my word, I didn't mean that." Sometimes those comments illuminate things that you never intended for people to take away from the piece. And sometimes you get comments where people really like one aspect, and you didn't even know that would resonate with them. So, any comments you can think of that you got back where you thought, "Oh my word, I never intended that," or the opposite, where the comments were actually quite complimentary and you didn't anticipate it? Professor David Marks: I was reviewed by an independent reviewer for The Lancet Haematology. And you've read my book, so you sort of know that looking after people with leukemia, you do encounter quite a lot of people who die. And she sort of, almost as a criticism, said, "Professor David Marks seems to have encountered an extraordinary number of people who've died." And I thought—almost as a sort of criticism—and I thought, "I'm sort of sorry, but that's the area we occupy, unfortunately." There's lots of success, but there is, you know, sometimes we don't succeed. So I found that—I found that hard to read. But when you open yourself up as a writer, when you talk about your personal things, you've got to develop a bit of a thick skin. And I really haven't ego about my writing. I sort of still feel it's very much in its formative stages, so I'm quite open to criticism. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And were there comments that you got that were—you were pleasantly surprised that people liked one aspect of the book, and you didn't know it would really hit with them that way? Professor David Marks: I think they particularly liked the patient stories. There's one thing in the book about a young woman who has this amazing experience of being rescued by CAR T-cell therapy. This young lady's still alive. And that very much sort of captured the imagination of the readers. They really identified her and wanted to sort of know about her and, you know, was she still okay and so on. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I remember there was a piece I wrote, and included a patient, and it was an entree to write about a medical topic, and my editor got back to me and said, "What happened to the patient?" Right? People get invested in this. We've done this our entire careers for, for decades for some people who've been in the field for that long, and you forget that it's still a diagnosis, a disease that most people don't encounter in their lives, and they get invested in the patients we describe and are rooting for them and hope that they do okay. Professor David Marks: Yeah, I found people got very involved with the patients, and I've had actually several sort of inquiries; they want to know if the patients are still okay. And I think that I can definitely understand that from a sort of human level. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So, you wrote a memoir. How long did it take you? Professor David Marks: I suppose from the time I really started writing properly, I'd say about two and a half years. So, quite a long time. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Two and a half years. That can be daunting to some people. What advice would you give them if they're thinking about going down this path? Professor David Marks: I think it's a very rewarding thing to do. It is hard work, as you and I know, and it's sort of extra work. The only way to find out if you can do it is to try to do it. And try and find some time to do it, but get help. You know, seek the company of other people who are more experienced writers and sort of find a mentor. Somehow, you've got to, I guess, believe in yourself, really, and trust yourself that what you're writing about is worthwhile. And yeah, I don't know that I have specific advice for people about that aspect of things. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, I think that's a great place actually to end: to tell people to believe in themselves and trust in themselves. And I want to encourage everyone listening to this podcast to please check out Professor David Marks' book, Lifeblood: Tales of Leukemia Patients and Their Doctor. It's a terrific read. David, thank you so much for joining us today. Professor David Marks: Thanks very much, Mikkael. It's been a pleasure. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's been delightful from my perspective. Until next time, thank you for listening to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. Don't forget to give us a rating or review, and be sure to subscribe so you never miss an episode. You can find all of ASCO's shows at asco.org/podcasts. Until next time, thank you, everyone.   The purpose of this podcast is to educate and to inform. This is not a substitute for professional medical care and is not intended for use in the diagnosis or treatment of individual conditions. Guests on this podcast express their own opinions, experience, and conclusions. Guest statements on the podcast do not express the opinions of ASCO. The mention of any product, service, organization, activity, or therapy should not be construed as an ASCO endorsement.   Show Notes: Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review. ADD URLhttps://ascopubs.org/journal/jco/cancer-stories-podcast Guest Bio: Professor David Marks is a consultant at University Hospitals Bristol NHS Foundation Trust in the UK.   Additional Reading: Life Blood: Stories of Leukaemia Patients and Their Doctor, by David Marks

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• Tamales: Celebrating a Mexican Christmas Tradition

  Listen to ASCO’s Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology article, "Tamales” by Megan Dupuis, an Assistant Professor of Hematology and Oncology at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. The article is followed by an interview with Dupuis and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dupuis reflects on how patients invite their doctors into their culture and their world- and how this solidified her choice to be an oncologist. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Tamales, by Megan Dupuis, MD, PhDI do not know if you know this, but tamales are an important—nay, critical—part of the Mexican Christmas tradition. Before I moved to Texas, I certainly did not know that. I did not know that the simple tamal, made of masa flour and fillings and steamed in a corn husk, is as essential to the holiday season as music and lights. Whole think pieces have been written in The Atlantic about it, for God’s sake. But, I did not know that. A total gringa, I had grown up in upstate NY. We had the middle-class American version of Christmas traditions—music, snow, Santa, and a Honey Baked Ham that mom ordered 2 weeks before the holiday. I had never tried a homemade tamal until I moved to Texas. We had relocated because I was starting a fellowship in hematology/oncology. A central part of our training was the privilege of working at the county hospital cancer clinic. Because we were the safety-net hospital, our patients with cancer were often under- or uninsured, frequently had financial difficulty, and were almost always immigrants, documented or otherwise. In a typical clinic day, over 90% of my patients spoke Spanish; one or two spoke Vietnamese; and typically, none spoke English. From meeting my very first patient in clinic, I knew this was where I needed to be. Have you ever been unsure of a decision until you have been allowed to marinate in it? That is how I felt about cancer care; I had not been sure that my path was right until I started in the county oncology clinic. I loved absorbing the details of my patients’ lives and the cultures that centered them: that Cuban Spanish is not Mexican Spanish and is not Puerto Rican Spanish; that many of my patients lived in multigenerational homes, with abuelos and tios and nietos all mixed together; and that most of them continued to work full-time jobs while battling cancer. They had hobbies they pursued with passion and lived and died by their children’s accomplishments. I learned these details in the spaces between diagnosis and treatment, in the steady pattern woven in between the staccato visits for chemotherapy, scans, pain control, progression, and hospice.  In one of those in-betweens, my patient Cristina told me about tamales. She had faced metastatic breast cancer for many years. She was an impeccable dresser, with matching velour tracksuits or nice slacks with kitten heels or a dress that nipped in at the waist and flared past her knees. Absolutely bald from treatment, she would make her hairlessness look like high fashion rather than alopecia foisted upon her. Her makeup was always painstakingly done and made her look 10 years younger than her youthful middle age. At one visit in August, she came to clinic in her pajamas and my heart sank. This was a familiar pattern to me by now; I had taken care of her for 2 years, and pajamas were my canary in the coal mine of progressing cancer.  So on that sunny day, I asked Cristina what her goals would be for the coming months. The cancer had circumvented many of her chemotherapy options, and I only had a few left. “Doctora D, I know my time is limited…” she started in Spanish, with my interpreter by my side translating, “but I would really like to make it to Christmas. My family is coming from Mexico.” “Oh that’s lovely. Do you have any special Christmas plans?” I ventured, wanting to understand what her holidays look like. “Plans? Doctora D, of course we are making tamales!” She laughed, as though we were both in on a joke. “Tamales? At Christmas?” I asked, signaling her to go on.  “Yes yes yes, every year we make hundreds and hundreds of tamales, and we sell them! And we use the money to buy gifts for the kids, and we eat them ourselves too. It is tradicio´ n, Doctora D.” She underlined tradicio´ n with her voice, emphasizing the criticality of this piece of information. “Okay,” I said, pausing to think—December was only four months away. “I will start a different chemotherapy, and we will try to get you to Christmas to make your tamales.” Cristina nodded, and the plan was made.  Later that evening, I asked one of my cofellows, a Houston native, about tamales. He shared that these treats are an enormous part of the Houston Christmas tradition, and if I had any sense, I would only purchase them from an abuela out of the trunk of a car. This was the only way to get the best homemade ones. “The ones from restaurants,” he informed me, “are crap.”  So summer bled into fall, and fall became what passes for winter in Texas. On 1 day in the middle of December, Cristina came into clinic, dressed in a colorful sweater, flowing white pants, black boots, and topped off with Barbie-pink lipstick. “Cristina!” I exclaimed, a bit confused. “You don’t have an appointment with me today, do you?”  She grinned at me and held up a plastic grocery bag with a knot in the handles, displaying it like a prize.  “Tamales, Doctora D. I brought you some tamales so you can join our Christmas tradition.” I felt the sting of tears, overwhelmed with gratitude at 11:30 in a busy county clinic. I thanked her profusely for my gift. When I brought them home that night, my husband and I savored them slowly, enjoying them like you would any exquisite dish off a tasting menu. Sometimes, people think that oncologists are ghouls. They only see the Cristinas when they are in their pajamas and wonder why would any doctor ever give her more treatment?  My answer is because I also got to see her thriving joyfully in track suits and lipstick, because I got to spend countless in-betweens with her, and because I helped get her to the Christmas tradiciones I only knew about because of her. And in return, she gave of herself so easily, sharing her life, her passion, her struggles, and her fears with me. Caring for Cristina helped me marinate in the decision to become an oncologist and know that it was the right one. And if you are wondering—yes. Now tamales are a Christmas tradicio´n in the Dupuis household, too. Mikkael Sekeres: Hello, and welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, which features essays and personal reflections from authors exploring their experience in the oncology field. I'm your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I'm a professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami. What a pleasure it is today to be joined by Dr. Megan Dupuis from Vanderbilt University Medical Center. She is Assistant Professor of Hematology and Oncology and Associate Program Director for the Fellowship program. In this episode, we will be discussing her Art of Oncology article, "Tamales." Our guest's disclosures will be linked in the transcript. Both she and I have talked beforehand and agreed to refer to each other by first names. Megan, welcome to our podcast, and thank you for joining us. Megan Dupuis: Oh, thanks so much for having me, Mikkael. I'm excited to be here. Mikkael Sekeres: I absolutely loved your piece, "Tamales," as did our reviewers. It really did resonate with all of us and was beautifully and artfully written. I'm wondering if we could just start—tell us about yourself. Where are you from, and where did you do your training? Megan Dupuis: Sure. I'm originally from upstate New York. I grew up outside of Albany and then moved for college to Buffalo, New York. So I consider Buffalo home. Big Buffalo Bills fan. And I spent undergrad, medical school, and my PhD in tumor immunology at the University of Buffalo. My husband agreed to stick with me in Buffalo for all twelve years if we moved out of the cold weather after we were done. And so that played some factor in my choice of residency program. I was lucky enough to go to Duke for residency—internal medicine residency—and then went to MD Anderson for fellowship training. And then after Anderson, I moved up to Nashville, Tennessee, where I've been at Vanderbilt for almost four years now. Mikkael Sekeres: That's fantastic. Well, I have to say, your Bills have outperformed my Pittsburgh Steelers the past few years, but I think I think we have a chance this coming year. Megan Dupuis: Yeah. Yep. Yep. I saw they were thinking about signing Aaron Rodgers, so we'll see how that goes. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, not going to talk about that in this episode. So, I'm curious about your story as a writer. How long have you been writing narrative pieces? Megan Dupuis: I have always been a writer—noodled around with writing and poetry, even in college. But it was when I started doing my medicine training at Duke that I started to more intentionally start writing about my experiences, about patients, things that I saw, things that weighed either heavily on me or made a difference. So when I was at Duke, there was a narrative medicine writing workshop—it was a weekend workshop—that I felt like changed the trajectory of what my interest is in writing. And I wrote a piece at that time that was then sort of critiqued by colleagues and friends and kicked off my writing experience. And I've been writing ever since then. We formed a narrative medicine program at Duke out of this weekend workshop experience. And I carried that through to MD Anderson when I was a fellow. And then when I joined at Vanderbilt, I asked around and said, "Hey, is there a narrative medicine program at Vanderbilt?" And somebody pointed me in the direction of a colleague, Chase Webber, who's in internal medicine, and they said, "Hey, he's been thinking about putting together a medical humanities program but needs a co-conspirator, if you will." And so it was perfect timing, and he and I got together and started a Medical Humanities Certificate Program at Vanderbilt about four years ago. And so- Mikkael Sekeres: Oh, wow. Megan Dupuis: Yeah. So I've been doing this work professionally, but also personally. You know, one of the things that I have been doing for a long time is anytime there's an experience that I have that I think, “Gosh, I should write about this later,” I either dictate it into my phone, “write about this later,” or I write a little message to myself, “Make sure that you remember this experience and document it later.” And I keep a little notebook in my pocket specifically to do that. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it's really a fabulous, updated use of technology compared to when William Carlos Williams used to scribble lines of poetry on his prescription pad and put it in his rolltop desk. Megan Dupuis: Although I will admit, you know, I don't think I'm much different. I still do prefer often the little leather notebook in the pocket to dictating. It'll often be when I'm in the car driving home from a clinic day or whatever, and I'll go, “Oh, I have to write about this, and I can't forget.” And I'll make myself a little digital reminder if I have to. But I still do keep the leather notebook as well for the more traditional type of writing experience. Mikkael Sekeres: I'm curious about what triggers you to dictate something or to scribble something down. Megan Dupuis: I think anything that gives me an emotional response, you know, anything that really says, “That was a little bit outside the normal clinical encounter for me.” Something that strikes me as moving, meaningful—and it doesn't have to be sad. I think a lot of novice writers about medical writing think you have to write only the tragic or the sad stories. But as often as not, it'll be something incredibly funny or poignant that a patient said in clinic that will make me go, “Ah, I have to make sure I remember that for later.” I think even surprise, you know? I think all of us can be surprised in a clinical encounter. Something a patient says or something a spouse will reflect on will make me sit back and say, “Hmm, that's not what I expected them to say. I should dive into why I'm surprised by that.” Mikkael Sekeres: It's a great notion as a starting point: an emotional connection, a moment of surprise. And that it doesn't have to be sad, right? It can be- sometimes our patients are incredibly inspirational and have great insights. It's one of the marvelous things about the career we've chosen is that we get to learn from people from such a variety of backgrounds. Megan Dupuis: That's it. It's a privilege every day to be invited into people's most personal experiences, and not just the medical experience. You know, I say to my patients, “I think this cancer diagnosis is in some ways the least interesting thing about you. It's not something you pick. It's not a hobby you cultivate. It's not your family life. It's a thing that's happened to you.” And so I really like to dive into: Who are these people? What makes them tick? What's important to them? My infusion nurses will say, "Oh, Dr. D, we love logging in and reading your social histories," because, yeah, I'll get the tobacco and alcohol history, or what have you. But I have a little dot phrase that I use for every new patient. It takes maybe the first five or six minutes of a visit, not long. But it's: Who are you? What's your preferred name? Who are your people? How far do you live from the clinic? What did you used to do for work if you're retired? If you're not retired, what do you do now? What are the names of your pets? What do you like to do in your spare time? What are you most proud of? So those are things that I ask at every new patient encounter. And I think it lays the foundation to understand who's this three-dimensional human being across from me, right? What were they like before this diagnosis changed the trajectory of where they were going? To me, that's the most important thing. Mikkael Sekeres: You've so wonderfully separated: The patient is not the diagnosis; it's a person. And the diagnosis is some component of that person. And it's the reason we're seeing each other, but it doesn't define that person. Megan Dupuis: That's right. We're crossing streams at a very tough point in their life. But there was so much that came before that. And in the piece that I wrote, you know, what is the language? What is the food? What is the family? What are all of those things, and how do they come together to make you the person that you are, for what's important to you in your life? And I think as oncologists, we're often trying to unravel in some way what is important. I could spend all day talking to you about PFS and OS for a specific drug combination, but is that really getting to meeting the goals of the patient and where they're at? I think it's easy to sort of say, “Well, this is the medicine that's going to get you the most overall survival.” But does it acknowledge the fact that you are a musician who can't have neuropathy in your fingers if you still want to play? Right? So those things become incredibly important when we're deciding not just treatment planning, but also what is the time toxicity? You know, do you have the time and ability to come back and forth to clinic for weekly chemotherapy or what have you? So those things, to me, become incredibly important when I'm talking to a person sitting across from me. Mikkael Sekeres: Do your patients ever get surprised that you're asking such broad questions about their life instead of narrowing down to the focus of their cancer? Megan Dupuis: Sometimes. I will say, sometimes patients are almost so anxious, of course, with this new diagnosis, they want to get into it. You know, they don't want to sit there and tell me the name of the horses on their farm, right? They want to know, “What's the plan, doc?” So I acknowledge that, and I say to them in the beginning, “Hey, if you give me five minutes of your time to tell me who you are as a person, I promise this will come back around later when we start talking about the options for treatments for you.” Most of the time, though, I think they're just happy to be asked who they are as a person. They're happy that I care. And I think all of us in oncology care—I think that's... you don't go into a field like this because you're not interested in the human experience, right? But they're happy that it's demonstrable that there is a... I'm literally saying, “What is the name of your dog? What is the name of your child who lives down the street? Who are your kids that live far away? You know, do you talk to them?” They want to share those things, and they want to be acknowledged. I think these diagnoses can be dehumanizing. And so to rehumanize somebody does not take as much time as we may think it does. Mikkael Sekeres: I 100% agree with you. And there can be a selfish aspect to it also. I think we're naturally curious people and want to know how other people have lived their lives and can live those lives vicariously through them. So I'm the sort of person who likes to do projects around the house. And I think, to the dismay of many a professional person, I consider myself an amateur electrician, plumber, and carpenter. Some of the projects are actually up to code, not all. But you get to learn how other people have lived their lives and how they made things. And that could be making something concrete, like an addition to their house, or it can be making a life. Megan Dupuis: Yeah, I love that you say that it is selfish, and we acknowledge that. You know, sometimes I think that we went into internal medicine and ultimately oncology... and I don't mean this in a trite way: I want the gossip about your life. I want the details. I want to dig into your hobbies, your relationships, what makes you angry, what makes you excited. I think they're the fun things to learn about folks. Again, in some ways, I think the cancer diagnosis is almost such a trite or banal part of who a human is. It's not to say that it's not going to shape their life in a very profound way, but it's not something they picked. It's something that happened to them. And so I'm much more excited to say, “Hey, what are your weekend hobbies? Are you an amateur electrician?” And that dovetails deeply into what kind of treatment might help you to do those things for longer. So I think it is a little bit selfish that it gives me a lot of satisfaction to get to know who people are. Mikkael Sekeres: So part of what we're talking about, indirectly, is the sense of otherness. And an undercurrent theme in your essay is otherness. You were an 'other' as a fellow in training and working in Texas when you grew up in upstate New York. And our patients are also 'others.' They're thrust into this often complicated bedlam of cancer care. Can you talk about how you felt as an 'other' and how that's affected your approach to your patients? Megan Dupuis: I think in the cancer experience, we are 'other,' definitionally, from the start, for exactly the reasons that you said. I'm coming to it as your physician; you're coming to it as my patient. This is a new encounter and a new experience for both of us. I think the added layer of being this person from upstate New York who didn't... I mean, I minored in Spanish in college, but that's not the same thing as growing up in a culture that speaks Spanish, that comes from a Spanish-speaking country—the food, the culture. It's all incredibly different. And so the way that I approached it there was to say, “I am genuinely curious. I want to know what it's like to be different than the culture that I was raised in.” And I'm excited to know about that thing.   And I think we can tell—I think, as humans—when somebody is genuinely curious about who you are and what's important to you, versus when they're kind of just checking the boxes to try to build a relationship that's necessary. I think my patients could tell that even though I'm not necessarily speaking their language, I want to know. I ask these questions because I want to know. I think if you go to it from a place of curiosity, if you are approaching another person with a genuine sense of curiosity... You know, Faith Fitzgerald wrote her most remarkable piece on curiosity many, many years ago. But even the quote-unquote “boring” patient, as she put it, can have an incredible story to tell if you're curious enough to ask. And so I think that no matter how different I might be culturally from the patient sitting across from me, if I approach it with a genuine sense of curiosity, and they can sense that, that. that's going to build the bond that we need truly to walk together on this cancer journey. I think it's curiosity, and I think it's also sharing of yourself. I think that nobody is going to open up to you if they feel that you are closed to sharing a bit of yourself. Patients want to know who their doctor is, too. So when I said I asked those five or six minutes' worth of questions at the beginning of a new patient encounter, I share that info with them. I tell them where I live, how long it takes for me to get to clinic, who my people are, the name of my dog, what I like to do in my spare time, what I'm proud of. So I share that with them too, so it doesn't feel like a one-way grilling. It feels like an introduction, a meeting, the start of a... I don't want to say friendship necessarily, but a start of a friendliness, of a shared communal experience. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it's a start of a relationship. And you can define 'relationship' with a broad swath of definitions, right? Megan Dupuis: That's right. Mikkael Sekeres: It can be a relationship that is a friendship. It can be a relationship that's a professional relationship. And just like we know some personal things about some of our colleagues, the same is true of our patients. I was wondering if I could pick up on... I love that notion of curiosity that you brought out because that's something I've thought a lot about, and I've thought about whether it could be at least one way to combat burnout. So could you put that in context of burnout? Do you think maintaining that curiosity throughout a career is one potential solution to burnout? And do you think that being open with yourself also helps combat burnout, which is counterintuitive to what we've always been taught? Megan Dupuis: Wow. I think that this is such an important question, and it's almost like you read my justification for a Medical Humanities Certificate Program. One of the foundational arguments for why I thought the GME should support the creation of this program at Vanderbilt was because we hypothesized that it would improve burnout. And one of the arms of that is because it engenders a sense of genuine curiosity. When you're thinking about the arms of burnout: it's loss of meaning in your work; it's depersonalization of patients, right, when they're treated as objects or numbers or a ticket in the system that you have to shuffle through; when it's disconnection from the work that you do. I absolutely think that curiosity is an antidote to burnout. I don't think it's the whole solution, perhaps, because I think that burnout also includes systemic injury and structures of our medical healthcare system that no individual can fix in a vacuum. But I do think when we're thinking about what are the changes that we as individual physicians can make, I do think that being open and curious about your patient is one of the best salves that we have against some of these wounds. You know, I've never left a room where a patient has shared a personal story and felt worse about it, right? I've always felt better for the experience. And so I do think curiosity is an incredibly important piece of it. It's hard, I will acknowledge. It's hard for the speed that we move through the system, the pace that we move through the system. And I'm thinking often about my trainees—my residents, my fellows—who are seeing a lot, they're doing a lot, they are trying to learn and drink from the fire hose of the pace of medical development, checking so many boxes. And so to remain curious, I think at times can feel like a luxury. I think it's a luxury I have boomeranged back into as an attending. You know, certainly as a resident and a fellow, I felt like, “Gosh, why does this attending want to sit and chitchat about this person's music career? I'm just trying to make sure their pain is controlled. I'm trying to make sure they get admitted safely. I'm trying to make sure that they're getting the right treatment.” And I think it's something that I've tried to teach my trainees: “No, we have the time. I promise we have the time to ask this person what their childhood was like,” if that's something that is important to the narrative of their story. So it sometimes feels like a luxury. But I also think it's such a critical part of avoiding or mitigating the burnout that I know all of us face. Mikkael Sekeres: I think you touched on a lot of really important points. Burnout is so much more complicated than just one inciting factor and one solution. It's systemic. And I love also how you positioned curiosity as a bit of a luxury. We have to have the mental space to also be curious and engaged enough in our work that we can take interest in other people. I wanted to touch on one more question. You write in your essay that a patient in pajamas is a canary in the coal mine for deteriorating health. And I completely, completely agree with that. I can vividly recall a number of patients where I saw them in my clinic, and I would look down, and they had food spilled on their sweatshirt, or they were wearing mismatched socks, or their shoes weren't tied. And you thought to yourself, “Gee, this person is not thriving at home.” Do you think telemedicine has affected our ability to recognize that in our patients? Megan Dupuis: Yes, I do think so. I can remember vividly being a fellow when COVID first began in 2020, and I was training in an environment where most of my patients spoke Spanish or Vietnamese. And so we were doing not just telemedicine; we were doing telephone call clearance for chemotherapy because a lot of the patients didn't have either access to the technology or a phone that had video capability. A lot of them had flip phones. And trying to clear somebody for chemotherapy over the phone, I'll tell you, Mikkael, was the number one way to lead to a recipe of moral injury and burnout. As a person who felt this deep responsibility to do something safe... I think even now with telemedicine, there are a lot of things that you can hide from the waist down, right? If you can get it together enough to maybe just put a shirt on, I won't know that you're sitting there in pajama bottoms. I won't know that you're struggling to stand or that you're using an assistive device to move when you used to be able to come into clinic without one, or that your family member is helping you negotiate stepping over the curb in clinic. These are real litmus tests that you and I, all of us, use when we're deciding whether somebody is safe to receive a treatment. And I think telemedicine does mask some of that. Now, on the other hand, does telemedicine provide an access point for patients that otherwise it would be a challenge to drive into clinic for routine visits and care? It does, and I think it's been an incredible boon for patients who live far away from the clinic. But I think we have to use it judiciously. And there are patients where I will say, “If you are not well enough to get yourself to clinic, I worry that you are not well enough to safely receive treatment.” And when I'm thinking about the rules of chemo, it's three: It has to be effective, right? Cancer decides that. It has to be something the patient wants. They decide. But then the safety piece—that's my choice. That's my responsibility. And I can't always decide safety on a telemedicine call. Mikkael Sekeres: I completely agree. I've said to my patients before, “It's hard for me to assess you when I'm only seeing 40% of you.” So we will often negotiate them having to withstand the traffic in Miami to come in so I can feel safe in administering the chemotherapy that I think they need. Megan Dupuis: That's exactly right. Mikkael Sekeres: Megan Dupuis, it has been an absolute delight getting to chat with you. It has been just terrific getting to know you and talk about your fabulous essay, "Tamales." So thank you so much for joining me. Megan Dupuis: Thank you for having me. It was a wonderful time to chat with you as well. Mikkael Sekeres: Until next time, thank you for listening to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. Don't forget to give us a rating or review, and be sure to subscribe so you never miss an episode. You can find all of ASCO's shows at asco.org/podcasts. Thank you again.   The purpose of this podcast is to educate and to inform. This is not a substitute for professional medical care and is not intended for use in the diagnosis or treatment of individual conditions. Guests on this podcast express their own opinions, experience, and conclusions. Guest statements on the podcast do not express the opinions of ASCO. The mention of any product, service, organization, activity, or therapy should not be construed as an ASCO endorsement.  Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review. Guest Bio: Dr Megan Dupuis is an Assistant Professor of Hematology and Oncology at Vanderbilt University Medical Center.  

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• The First Hero: A Son Reflects on His Father’s Illness

  Listen to ASCO’s Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology poem, "The First Hero” by Christopher Kim, who is a research assistant at Institute for Stem Cell Biology and Regenerative Medicine at Stanford University. The poem is followed by an interview with Kim and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Kim reflects on his post-surgery sonnet. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: The First Hero, by Christopher Kim, BS  When he is like this—eyes closed, face still— he is unfamiliar. He wears a face younger than usual; fragile limbs washed in fluorescent light, eyes blurred with a diagnosis or ripe hyacinths or the last words we shared. Be good, son. Be bright. When he is still, anesthetized into memory, so too are the aphids in the garden. Lines of buzzing bodies descended from flight but clustered in quiet surrender. Fathers of sons who are trying to heal, who are failing, who retreat into the silence of sterile rooms. A heartbeat stutters and everything sings. Like the birds we watch outside the ICU window: how they peck at unyielding concrete and fill themselves with sharpness, their bodies frenzied, their bodies temporary.   Mikkael Sekeres: Hello and welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, which features essays and personal reflections from authors exploring their experience in the oncology field. I'm your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I'm Professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami. Today, I am so thrilled to be joined by Christopher Kim. He's a research assistant at the Institute for Stem Cell Biology and Regenerative Medicine at Stanford University. In this episode, we will be discussing his Art of Oncology poem, “The First Hero.” At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Both he and I have agreed to address each other by first names during the podcast. Chris, welcome to our podcast and thank you for joining us. Christopher Kim: Of course. Thank you so much for having me. It's just such an honor to be here. Mikkael Sekeres: We absolutely loved your poem. It was incredible and addressed a topic I think a lot of us face at some point in our lives and that's when we see a family member who's sick. Before we get into that, I was wondering if you can tell us a little bit about yourself. Where are you from and how did you get to this point? Christopher Kim: Absolutely, yeah. As you mentioned before, I'm working as a research assistant at the Stanford Medical School and I pretty much only recently graduated from college so I feel like I'm still in this like ‘in between’ stage. I'm a Bay Area native. I went to Stanford for undergrad, just kind of stayed on with the lab that I worked with while I was an undergrad. I would like to go on to medical school in the future. I'm learning a lot working as a research assistant, getting some hands-on experience with basic biology research. And another thing about myself is I'm an avid musician, play violin, play guitar. I like to sing. And of course, I really enjoy writing as well. Mikkael Sekeres: That's a great background. Well, we definitely need more doctors who are writers, musicians and singers. So you fit that bill. And then the fact that you do some lab based research is just amazing. You sound like a polymath. Christopher Kim: Oh, I don't know about that. I try my best. Mikkael Sekeres: Can you tell us a little bit about your own story as a writer? How long have you been writing poetry? When did you get started? And how did you get started? Christopher Kim: Yeah, absolutely. So, I've always written sort of on my own, so I don't think I ever had the courage to share my writing with others because, you know, it's kind of a vulnerable thing to share your inner thoughts with someone. So I have been kind of writing on my own since maybe late middle school and early high school. That's when I started putting my thoughts onto paper. But I only recently started to submit my poetry to, you know, these journals because, you know, after a while I was thinking, I think they're worth sharing with others because maybe some people may be going through similar situations where they can feel a little bit encouraged by the words that I write in terms of, you know, feeling the emotions that they feel. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, lucky for us, you made that decision. So when you were an undergrad, did you take any writing courses? Because it's interesting, you've been in the area of writing since you were in middle school, high school. That must have continued through college. And sometimes formal courses help us refine those skills. But then there are also plenty of examples of people who just did it on their own. Christopher Kim: Absolutely. The main writing course I took, funnily enough, they weren't really creative writing courses. They were more rhetoric based or kind of just like the regular English writing classes at college undergraduates take. However, I did have a group of friends who I would share my writing with. I think that was like the most important part of my sort of evolution as a writer. Because before I would just kind of write on my own and maybe kind of hide it away, you know, in my little locked box, I guess. But then having this opportunity to meet other people my age, my peers, who, you know, I finally gained enough kind of courage to– I say courage, but I really mean, like I finally gained enough comfort to share it with them. And, you know, gaining their feedback and seeing their response was really the most important part of, I think, my writing in college. So not necessarily like formal classes, but more like the people I met and how they responded to my writing, which is- I'm really thankful for them. Mikkael Sekeres: You know, it's so interesting because there is this temptation to be like Emily Dickinson and write your poems and squirrel them away in your desk and never show them to anyone. And then, you know, the body of your work is discovered posthumously, which I think is kind of sad. I mean, you know, great that we have Emily Dickenson poetry, but it would have been nice that, you know, she had known how appreciated she was during her lifetime. Christopher Kim: Oh, absolutely. Mikkael Sekeres: And I think the hardest first step is that word that you use, courage. The courage to identify people outside of ourselves, to share our poetry with, or our narrative pieces. So how did you find those people? Christopher Kim: It's often the case that, you know, you make your closest friends when you kind of struggle together. So I think a lot of these friends I met were through taking courses together that were difficult and that sort of combined, I don't want to say misery, that's maybe too strong a word, combined struggle against one common goal. I think that's when we started becoming close. And then it was like outside of a writing context. But I think, I don't know, it's like part luck and part finding these people in these classes and then having conversations with them late at night and then eventually going towards sharing your arts, whatever. Some of them are musicians. They share their music. Some of us share our writing. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. No, I hear you. There's that shared experience of being in difficult situations. I think a lot of us who've gone through undergrad and med school and then became doctors and started our training, we have incredibly close friends. We met in our residencies and fellowship because those were major stressor points in our lives and major transitional phases also when we felt that we grew. The other aspect that I've heard in identifying people to be first readers of your poetry or prose is to identify people you trust. People who are friends will give you a good read, will be appropriately critical, and will also be encouraging. You need those people to feed back to you truth about the quality of your writing and provide substantive criticism that helps you grow as a writer. Christopher Kim: Definitely agree. You know, you’ve found your true friends when they're not afraid to criticize you because they're so close to you and they really want you to be better. So, yeah, I definitely agree with that. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. And those who will take it seriously where, I think plenty of times in my own life where I've given a piece of writing to somebody, hoping for good feedback, and then you feel like you have to hound them to finally get that feedback. And obviously they're not invested in it, as opposed to a trusted body of readers where they are going to take it seriously, they're going to read it closely, and then they're going to get back to you without you feeling as if you're imposing on them. Christopher Kim: Absolutely. Yeah. It's very valuable once you've found that group of people or friends, and you know, I still contact them regularly today. So, yeah, as you mentioned, you know, I think it's definitely like maybe a lifelong process or lifelong friendship where you can always go back to them for sort of that support. And you also are able to provide that support for your friends, too. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. I'm curious about your writing process. What triggers you to start a poem? And, you know, how do you face that dreaded blank page? Christopher Kim: Bay Area traffic can be very long and the commute can be pretty rough. Mikkael Sekeres: Not at all like that in Miami, by the way. In Miami, we just breeze through traffic. Yeah, not at all. Christopher Kim: I would love to visit someday to compare. But yeah, Bay Area traffic can be pretty rough. As much as I love podcasts and music, there comes a point where I kind of run out of things to listen to after a while. So I really found myself driving along, but then letting my thoughts wander. And funnily enough, that's when my creative inspirations hit. Maybe it's because there's something about driving that's like the perfect amount of not thinking. You know, it's like an automatic process and that let’s your– obviously I'm paying attention to the road - but you kind of let your mind wander through creative thoughts, and that's on place of creative inspiration. I've had close family members who have struggled with cancer specifically, and other serious health issues, and I've had experiences being a caretaker for them, like ‘The First Hero’. Being in that position really inspires you to write, I think, for me. Mikkael Sekeres: So I wonder if I could follow up on that and if you're only comfortable doing so. Can you tell us what prompted you to write “The First Hero”? Christopher Kim: So it's kind of a combination of experiences. My grandfather struggled with cancer for a long time, and eventually he passed away from cancer. Mikkael Sekeres: I'm sorry. Christopher Kim: I appreciate that. Thank you. And he had cancer when I was a young child, which luckily went into remission for a couple years. But then later on, you know, as I started college, that's when it came back, and that's when he passed. And I think seeing his struggles with cancer, that was one big part of inspiration for this poem. But also another thing was my father also went through some health issues where he had to go through surgery and a long period of recovery, and he still kind of struggles with some issues today. And seeing people that you love that much in a position where it's really hard, especially when they're father figures in your life. They're your grandfather and your father. And, you know, when you're a kid, you know, your dad is like, they’re a superhero. Your dad is the hero who can do anything, who can achieve any answer, any question you have, who can build anything you want, can buy you things, you know, all that stuff. But now seeing them in this reverse state of being vulnerable and not being able to do too much, it really affected me. And those two experiences were my main inspiration for this poem. Mikkael Sekeres: That was really beautifully said, Chris. I'm a parent of three, and I think that it comes with a lot of responsibility to remember that just carrying the title of mom or dad implies so much to one of your own children that you have to remember the import of everything that you do for them, for your kids, and everything that you say. And it carries just that much added significance because of the role we play as parents. It's so interesting to hear it enunciated by you in that way as well. And I think part of what makes good parents, there are a thousand things that go into the formula of a good parent, and we only know for sure if we made it, if, depending on the amount of therapy our kids have to go through when they're older, right? I think part of that, though, is remembering the great responsibility that comes with just simply the title of being a parent. Christopher Kim: Absolutely. Mikkael Sekeres: You started to talk a little bit about this. I'm curious about how the dynamic between parents and children changes when a parent is sick. Christopher Kim: Yeah, it's kind of a reversal of roles in a way, because your parents, when you're born, you're the most vulnerable. They're responsible for sort of ushering you into this world, keeping you alive. Seeing your parents grow older and seeing them aging is a tough experience. And my mom often tells me whenever she would see her parents, after a while, in her mind, she still sees her parents as when they were their younger selves, when she was younger. But then suddenly it would hit her that they're, like, much older and that also makes you feel a little bit more aware of how you are aging and how much older you are. But at the end of the day, they're always going to be your parents. Mikkael Sekeres: They really are. Our parents age and we age with them, and we evolve in how we view parents, and we all go through this, and I don't think it ever ends until your parents pass. I'm sure you're familiar with this. There's a saying that you never really become an adult until your parents pass. Christopher Kim: You mentioned that you're more aware of what parenthood is as you get older. I mean, obviously I don't have any kids myself, but I'm sure my parents always USED say to me, you know, “You’ll understand when you have kids.” Mikkael Sekeres: You sort of do. You sort of do. Christopher Kim: I sort of do. Right, exactly. Mikkael Sekeres: My dad always said to me that parenting is unskilled labor. So you sort of get it when you're a parent, you're still really figuring it out. Christopher Kim: Absolutely. Yeah. And the older I get, it's like I realize. I think I've gained more appreciation for the sacrifices my parents have made for me, and I've definitely taken their parenthood lessons to heart for whenever, if I choose to have kids later on. Mikkael Sekeres: So that's great. I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear that, Chris. I wanted to end with one last question for you. Are there poets who've been a particular influence on you or favorite poets you want to name? Christopher Kim: One name that kind of comes to mind is there's a poet named Ocean Vuong. Their work blends together personal history and like, family history with beautiful lyricism. They always feel like musical in a way. Their words kind of often linger on with you long after. Mikkael Sekeres: That's great. Well, listen, Chris Kim, I'd like to thank you so much for joining us on today's podcast and for your absolutely beautiful poem, “The First Hero.” Christopher Kim: Thank you so much for having me. I'm super thrilled to be on. This is my first podcast ever, so it was such a great experience. I felt so welcomed. So thank you for, you know, hearing my thoughts or listening to my thoughts. I appreciate it. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, you're good at them. Keep them up. Until next time. Thank you for listening to JCO's Cancer Stories: The art of Oncology. Don't forget to give us a rating or review and be sure to subscribe so you never miss an episode. You can find all of the ASCO shows at asco.org/podcasts. Until next time. Thanks so much for joining us.   The purpose of this podcast is to educate and to inform. This is not a substitute for professional medical care and is not intended for use in the diagnosis or treatment of individual conditions. Guests on this podcast express their own opinions, experience and conclusions. Guest statements on the podcast do not express the opinions of ASCO. The mention of any product, service, organization, activity or therapy should not be construed as an ASCO endorsement. Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review.  Guest Bio: Christopher Kim is a research assistant at the Institute for Stem Cell Biology and Regenerative Medicine at Stanford University.

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  16:32
• I Hope So Too: Creating Space to Hope with Patients and Families

  Listen to ASCO’s Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology article, "I Hope So Too” by Dr. Richard Leiter from Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. The article is followed by an interview with Leiter and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Leiter shares that even in the most difficult moments, clinicians can find space to hope with patients and their families. TRANSCRIPT  Narrator: I Hope So Too, by Richard E. Leiter, MD, MA  “You’re always the negative one,” Carlos’ mother said through our hospital’s Spanish interpreter. “You want him to die.” Carlos was 21 years old. A few years earlier he had been diagnosed with AML and had undergone an allogeneic bone marrow transplant. He was cured. But now, he lay in our hospital’s bone marrow transplant (BMT) unit, his body attacked by the very treatment that had given him a new life. He had disseminated graft-versus-host disease (GVHD) in his liver, his lungs, his gut, and, most markedly, his skin. The BMT team had consulted us to help with Carlos’ pain. GVHD skin lesions covered his body. They were raw and weeping. Although the consult was ostensibly for pain, the subtext could not have been clearer. Carlos was dying, and the primary team needed help navigating the situation. As his liver and kidney function declined, the need to address goals of care with Carlos’ mother felt like it was growing more urgent by the hour. Difficult cases, like a young person dying, transform an inpatient unit. Rather than the usual hum of nurses, patient care associates, pharmacy technicians, and unit managers going about their daily work, the floor becomes enveloped in tension. Daily rhythms jump a half step ahead of the beat; conversations among close colleagues fall out of tune. “Thank goodness you’re here,” nurse after nurse told my attending and me, the weight of Carlos’ case hanging from their shoulders and tugging at the already puffy skin below their eyes. I was a newly minted palliative care fellow, just over a month into my training. I was developing quickly, but as can happen with too many of us, my confidence sat a few steps beyond my skills. I thought I had a firm grasp of palliative care communication skills and was eager to use them. I asked for feedback from my attendings and genuinely worked to incorporate it into my practice. At the same time, I silently bristled when they took charge of a conversation in a patient’s room. Over the ensuing week, my attending and I leaned in. We spent hours at Carlos’ bedside. If I squinted, I could have convinced myself that Carlos’ pain was better. Every day, however, felt worse. We were not making any progress with Carlos’ mother, who mostly sat silently in a corner of his room. Aside from occasionally moaning, Carlos did not speak. We learned little, if anything, about him as a person, what he enjoyed, what he feared. We treated him, and we barely knew him. Each morning, I would dutifully update my attending about the overnight events. “Creatinine is up. Bili is up.” She would shake her head in sadness. “Doesn’t she get that he’s dying?” one of the nurses asked us. “I feel like I’m torturing him. He’s jaundiced and going into renal failure. I’m worried we’re going to need to send him to the ICU. But even that won’t help him. Doesn’t she understand?”  We convened a family meeting. It was a gorgeous August afternoon, but the old BMT unit had no windows. We sat in a cramped, dark gray family meeting room. Huddled beside Carlos’ mother was everyone on the care team including the BMT attending, nurse, social worker, chaplain, and Spanish interpreter. We explained that his kidneys and liver were failing and that we worried time was short. Carlos’ mother had heard it all before, from his clinicians on rounds every day, from the nursing staff tenderly caring for him at his bedside, and from us. “He’s going to get better,” she told us. “I don’t understand why this is happening to him. He’s going to recover. He was cured of his leukemia. I have hope that his kidneys and liver are going to get better.” “I hope they get better,” I told her. I should have stopped there. Instead, in my eagerness to show my attending, and myself, I could navigate the conversation on my own, I mistakenly kept going. “But none of us think they will.” It was after this comment that she looked me right in the eyes and told me I wanted Carlos to die. I knew, even then, that she was right. In that moment, I did want Carlos to die. I could not sit with all the suffering—his, his mother’s, and his care team’s. I needed her to adopt our narrative—that we had done all we could to help Carlos live, and now, we would do all we could to help him die comfortably. I needed his mother to tell me she understood, to accept what was going on. I failed to recognize what now seems so clear. Of course, his mother understood what was happening. She saw it. But how could we have asked her to accept what is fundamentally unacceptable? To comprehend the incomprehensible?  At its best, serious illness communication not only empathetically shares news, be it good or bad, but also allows patients and families adequate time to adjust to it. For some, this adjustment happens quickly, and in a single conversation, they can digest difficult news and move to planning the next steps in care for themselves or their loved ones. For most, they need more time to process, and we are able to advance the discussion over the course of multiple visits. My attending led the conversations from then on. She worked with the BMT attending, and they compassionately kept Carlos out of the intensive care unit. He died a few days later, late in the evening. I never saw his mother again. I could not have prevented Carlos’ death. None of us could have. None of us could have spared his mother from the grief that will stay with her for the rest of her life. Over those days, though, I could have made things just a little bit less difficult for her. I could have protected her from the overcommunication that plagues our inpatient units when patients and families make decisions different from those we would make for ourselves and our loved ones. I could have acted as her guide rather than as her cross-examiner. I could have hoped that Carlos stopped suffering and, genuinely, hoped he got better although I knew it was next to impossible. Because hope is a generous collaborator, it can coexist with rising creatinines, failing livers, and fears about intubation. Even in our most difficult moments as clinicians, we can find space to hope with our patients, if we look for it. Now—years later, when I talk to a terrified, grieving family member, I recall Carlos’ mother’s eyes piercing mine. When they tell me they hope their loved one gets better, I know how to respond. “I hope so too.” And I do. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Hello and welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, which features essays and personal reflections from authors exploring their experience in the oncology field. I'm your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I'm professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center at University of Miami. Today I am thrilled to be joined by Dr. Ricky Leiter from the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. In this episode, we will be discussing his Art of Oncology article, “I Hope So, Too.” Our guest’s disclosures will be linked in the transcript. Ricky, welcome to our podcast and thank you so much for joining us. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Thanks so much for having me. I'm really excited to be here. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Ricky, I absolutely adored your essay. It really explored, I think, a combination of the vulnerability we have when we're trying to take care of a patient who's dying and the interesting badlands we're placed in when we're also a trainee and aren't quite sure of our own skills and how to approach difficult situations. But before we dive into the meat of this, can you tell us a little bit about yourself? Where are you from and where did you do your training? Dr. Ricky Leiter: Sure, yeah. Thanks so much. So I grew up in Toronto, Canada, and then moved down to the States for college. I was actually a history major, so I never thought I was going to go into medicine. And long story short, here I am. I did a Post-Bac, did a year of research, and ended up at Northwestern Feinberg School of Medicine for med school, where I did a joint degree in medical humanities and bioethics. And that really shaped my path towards palliative care because I found this field where I said, “You know, wow, I can use these skills I'm learning in my Master's at the bedside with patients thinking about life and death and serious illness and what does that all mean in the broader context of society.” So, moved from Chicago to New York for residency, where I did residency and chief residency in internal medicine at New York Presbyterian Cornell, and then came up to the Harvard Interprofessional Palliative Care Program, where I did a clinical fellowship, then a research fellowship with Dana-Farber, and have been on faculty here since. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Fantastic. Any thoughts about moving back to Canada? Dr. Ricky Leiter: We talk about it every now and then. I'm really happy here. My family's really happy here. We love life in Boston, so we're certainly here for the time being. Definitely. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And the weather's so similar. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Yeah, I’m used to the cold. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I apparently did not move to Miami. I'm curious, this may be an unfair question, as you have a really broad background in humanities and ethics. Are there one or two books that you read where you think, “Gee, I'm still applying these principles,” or, “This really still resonates with me in my day to day care of patients who have cancer diagnosis”? Dr. Ricky Leiter: Oh, wow, that is a great question. There are probably too many to list. I think one is When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, which I didn't read in my training, I read afterwards. And I think he's such a beautiful writer. The story is so poignant, and I just think Paul Kalanithi's insights into what it means to be living with a serious illness and then ultimately dying from cancer as a young man, as someone in medicine, has really left an imprint on me. Also, Arthur Kleinman. The Illness Narratives, I think, is such a big one, too. And similarly, Arthur Frank's work. I mean, just thinking about narrative and patient stories and how that impacts our clinical care, and also us as clinicians. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And I suspect us as writers also. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Absolutely. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: We imprint on the books that were influential to us. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Certainly. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So how about your story as a writer? How long have you been writing narrative pieces? Is this something you came to later in your career, or did you catch the bug early as an undergrad or even younger? Dr. Ricky Leiter: So I caught it early, and then it went dormant for a little while and came back. As a history major, as someone who is humanities minded, I loved writing my papers in college. Like, I was one of those nerds who got, like, really, really excited about the history term paper I was writing. You know, it was difficult, but I was doing it, particularly at the last minute. But I really loved the writing process. Going through my medical training, I didn't have as much time as I wanted, and so writing was sort of on the back burner. And then actually in my research fellowship, we had a writing seminar, our department, and one of the sessions was on writing Op-eds and perspective pieces. And we had a free write session and I wrote something sort of related to my research at the time I was thinking about, and Joanne Wolfe, who was helping to lead the session, pediatric palliative care physician, she said, “You know, this is really great. Like, where are you going to publish this?” And I said, “Joanne, what do you mean? I just wrote this in this session as an exercise.” She said, “No, you should publish this.” And I did. And then the bug came right back and I thought, “Wow, this is something that I really enjoy and I can actually make a difference with it. You know, getting a message out, allowing people to think a little bit differently or more deeply about clinical cases, both in the lay press and in medical publications.: So I've essentially been doing it since and it's become a larger and larger part of my career. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's absolutely wonderful, Ricky. Where is it that you publish then, outside of Art of Oncology? Dr. Ricky Leiter: So I've had a couple of pieces in the New York Times, which was really exciting. Some in STAT News on their opinion section called First Opinion, and had a few pieces in the New England Journal as well, and in the Palliative Care Literature, the Journal of Palliative Medicine. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Outstanding. And about palliative care issues and end of life issues, I assume? Dr. Ricky Leiter: Sort of all of the above. Palliative care, serious illness, being in medical training, I wrote a fair bit about what it was like to be on the front lines of the pandemic. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, that was a traumatic period of time, I think, for a lot of us. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Absolutely. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I'm curious about your writing process. What triggers a story and how do you face the dreaded blank page? Dr. Ricky Leiter: So it's hard to pin down exactly what triggers a story for me. I think sometimes I'm in a room and for whatever reason, there's a moment in the room and I say, “You know what? There's a story here. There's something about what's going on right now that I want to write.” And oftentimes I don't know what it is until I start writing. Maybe it's a moment or a scene and I start writing like, “What am I trying to say here? What's the message? And sometimes there isn't a deeper message. The story itself is so poignant or beautiful that I want to tell that story. Other times it's using that story. And the way I think about my writing is using small moments to ask bigger questions in medicine. So, like, what does it mean to have a good death? You know, one piece I wrote was I was thinking about that as I struggled to give someone what I hoped would be a good death, that I was thinking more broadly, what does this mean as we're thinking about the concept of a good death? Another piece I wrote was about a patient I cared for doing kidney palliative care. And she was such a character. We adored her so much and she was challenging and she would admit that. This was someone I wanted to write about. And I talked to her about it and she was honored to have her story told. Unfortunately, it came out shortly after her death. But she was such a vibrant personality. I said, “There's something here that I want to write about.” In terms of the blank page, I think it's overcoming that fear of writing and procrastination and all of that. I think I have a specific writing playlist that I put on that helps me, that I've listened to so many times. You know, no words, but I know the music and it really helps me get in the zone. And then I start writing. And I think it's one of those things where sometimes I'm like, “Oh, I really don't like how this is sounding, but I'm going to push through anyways.” as Anne Lamott's blank first draft, just to get something out there and then I can play with it and work with it. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Great. I love the association you have with music and getting those creative juices flowing and picking ‘le mot juste’ in getting things down on a page. It's also fascinating how we sometimes forget the true privilege that we have as healthcare providers in the people we meet, the cross section of humanity and the personalities who can trigger these wonderful stories. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Absolutely. Absolutely. It's such a privilege and I think it often will go in unexpected directions and can really impact, for me certainly, my practice of medicine and how I approach the next patients or even patients years down the road. You remember those patients and those stories. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Right. You write with such obvious love and respect for your patients. You also write about that tenuous phase of our careers when we're not yet attendings but have finished residency and have demonstrated a modicum of competence. You know, I used to say that fellowship is really the worst of all worlds, right? As an attending, you have responsibility, but you don't have to do as much of the grunt work. As a resident, you do the grunt work, but you don't really have the responsibility. And in fellowship, you’ve got it all. You've got to do the grunt work, and you have the responsibility. Can you tie those two concepts together, though? How does our relationship to our patients change over the course of our careers? Dr. Ricky Leiter: Early on, if you think about the imprinting of patients as you go down the road, so many of the patients who have imprinted on me were the ones earlier in my career, before I was more formed as a clinician because of experiences like the one I wrote about in “I Hope so Too,” where the skills are forming, and sometimes where it's smooth sailing, and sometimes we're muddling through. And those cases where we feel like we're muddling through or things don't go as we hope, those are the ones that really leave an impact. And I think it's those little moments that sort of nudge your career and your skill set in different ways. I think the patients now, they still leave a mark on me, but I think it's in different ways. And I think oftentimes it's less about my skills. Although my skills are still very much developing, even, you know, almost a decade out, they impact me differently than they once did. I feel more confident in what I'm doing, and it's more about my relationship to this situation rather than the situation's impact on my skills. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Got it. Got it. It's interesting. I once wrote a piece with Tim Gilligan, who also spent some time at Dana Farber and is a communications expert, about how there's this kind of dualism in how we're trained. We're trained with communications courses and how to talk to patients, and it almost does the opposite. It kind of raises the flag that, “Wait a second, maybe I've been talking to people the wrong way.” And as you get more mature in your career, I almost feel as if you revert back to the way you were before medical school, when you just talked to people like they were people and didn't have a special voice for patients. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Yeah, I think that's right. And I think in palliative care, we spend so much time thinking about the communication. And this was the most challenging piece about fellowship because then- and our fellowship directors told this to us, and now we teach it to our fellows. You know that you come in, the people who choose to go into palliative care, have a love of communication, have some degree of skill coming in, and then what happens is we break those skills down and teach them a new skill set. So it gets clunkier before it gets better. And the time I was writing about in this piece was August of my fellowship year, exactly when that process was happening, where I'm trying to incorporate the new skills, I had my old way of doing things, and it's just not always aligning. And I think you're right that as the skills become embedded, as you go on throughout your career, where it feels much more natural, and then you do really connect with people as people still using the skills and the techniques that we've learned in our communication courses, but they become part of who you are as a clinician. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Nicely put. Your story is particularly poignant because the patient you described was dying from the very treatment that cured his leukemia. It's this, I'm going to use the term badlands again. It's this terrible badlands we sometimes find ourselves where, yes, the treatment has been successful, but at the cost of a human life. Do you think that as healthcare providers, we react differently when a patient is sick, from side effects to our recommendations, as opposed to sick from their disease? Dr. Ricky Leiter: I think we probably do. It's hard because I think every patient in every case pulls at us in different directions. And this case was Carlos, who I called him, it was such a challenging situation for so many reasons. He was young. He really couldn't communicate with us. We were talking to his mom. Like, there were so many layers to this. But I think you're right. that underlying this, there's a sense of “We did everything we could beautifully, to cure him of his disease, and now he's dying of that, and what does that mean for us as clinicians, physicians. That becomes really hard and hard to sit with and hold as we're going back every day. And I say that as the palliative care consultant. So I can only imagine for the oncology team caring for him, who had taken him through this, what that felt like. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, you describe, again, beautifully in the piece, how the nursing staff would approach you and were so relieved that you were there. And it was, you know, you got the sense- I mean, obviously, it's tragic because it's a young person who died, but you almost got the sense there was this guilt among the providers, right? Not only is it a young person dying, but dying from graft versus host disease, not from leukemia. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Absolutely. There was guilt because of what he was dying of, because of how he was dying that he was so uncomfortable and it took us so long to get his pain under control and we really couldn't get him that balance of pain control and alertness that we always strive for was pretty much impossible from the beginning. And so it was layer upon layer of distress and guilt and sadness and grief that we could just feel every day as we stepped onto the floor. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. I don't know if you've ever read- there's a biography of Henry Kaplan, who was considered the father of radiation therapy, where there was this incredible moment during his career when he presented at the AACR Annual Meeting the first cures for cancers, right? No one believed it. It was amazing, actually curing cancer. And then a couple years later, people started dribbling into his clinic with cancers because of the radiation therapy he gave, and he actually went into a clinical depression as a result of it. So it can affect providers at such a deep level. And I think there's this undiscussed guilt that permeates the staff when that happens. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Absolutely, absolutely. It's right there under the surface. And we rarely give ourselves the space to talk about it, right? To really sit down and say, how are we approaching this situation? How do we feel about it? And to sit with each other and acknowledge that this is horrible. It's a horrible situation. And we feel guilty and we feel sad and we feel grief about this. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's been just terrific getting to know you and to read your piece, Ricky Leiternd, a we really appreciate your writing. Keep doing what you do. Dr. Ricky Leiter: Oh, thank you so much. It's a privilege to get the piece out there and particularly in JCO and to be here with you. So I really appreciate it. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Until next time, thank you for listening to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. Don't forget to give us a rating or review and be sure to subscribe so you never miss an episode. You can find all of ASCO's shows at asco.org/podcasts.   The purpose of this podcast is to educate and to inform. This is not a substitute for professional medical care and is not intended for use in the diagnosis or treatment of individual conditions. Guests on this podcast express their own opinions, experience and conclusions. Guest statements on the podcast do not express the opinions of ASCO. The mention of any product, service, organization, activity, or therapy should not be construed as an ASCO endorsement.   Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review.  Guest Bio: Dr. Ricky Leiter is from the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

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  24:28
• You Don't Bring Me Flowers: Hospital Policy vs. Patient Joy

  Listen to ASCO’s Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology article, "You Don't Bring Me Flowers” by Dr. Kathryn Cappell, who is an Assistant Research Physician at the National Cancer Institute. The article is followed by an interview with Cappell and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Cappell shares the difficulty in protecting oncology patients without taking away things that bring them joy. TRANSCRIPT  Narrator: You Don’t Bring Me Flowers, by Kathryn Cappell, MD, PhD Easter morning dawned a beautiful spring day in Washington, DC. Soft sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through my bedroom window. My children woke up early, and I listened to their shouts of delight as they found their baskets, brimming with grass and chocolate eggs wrapped in pink and purple foil. Later that morning, I drove to a local hospital where I was rounding. Cherry blossom trees bursting with pink flowers bloomed throughout our peaceful neighborhood, and their showers of pollen had coated my car windows in a soft dusting of green. I put my arm out the car window and caught the heavy scent of flowers as fresh air flooded in. The fifth patient on my rounds, Evelyn, had been in the hospital for 22 days. This morning, as the charge nurse, Frances, and I entered the room, I noticed a vase brimming full of bright pink flowers beside her bed. Evelyn caught my eye and looked guiltily at her lovely bouquet. “I know it’s against the rules,” she said, “but my son brought them, and they make me so happy.” Fresh flowers were indeed against ward policy. Theoretically, flowers could introduce fungal spores that could float through the air and lodge into the vulnerable lungs of our neutropenic patients. Evelyn was not the only patient who had received flowers. On that Easter day, the elevator area outside the oncology ward bloomed with forbidden flowers mistakenly brought by other loving sons. Frances kindly offered to take a picture of the flowers for Evelyn and print it out. Frances explained that this way she could still enjoy the picture while protecting herself and other patients on our ward. I found myself unsure; I wanted Evelyn to have the joy of the flowers during her long hospitalization. I could picture her son, a lumbering man in his 60s, carefully selecting the flowers last night. He was a quiet man, and I got the impression that bringing flowers was a way for him to share his feelings about his mother. Evelyn had been separated from her family for almost a month and was isolated in a hospital room without the ability to even open a window to enjoy a fresh breeze. She had maintained her gentle and positive attitude throughout, bravely battling complications from chemotherapy. The flowers probably brought her a little chance to savor the beauty of Spring and reflect on the love from her son. I did not want to take that from her. Still, I knew the importance of ward policies and protecting our vulnerable patients. I dislike taking things from my patients, but I have been diligently doing so for most of my career. As a medical student and resident, I remember oncology patients struggling to tolerate a neutropenic diet devoid of many fresh fruits and vegetables. A generation of doctors advised patients that the neutropenic diet was necessary to protect them from infections. I recall one young boy with leukemia repeatedly asking for fresh blueberries and the medical team insisting he follow the neutropenic diet. He eventually got sicker and died; I am not sure if he ever got a blueberry. I think of him with a lingering tension that we did him wrong by taking away something that could have brought him joy before he died. This is particularly true because the neutropenic diet has now been largely debunked.1 The modern oncology patient enjoys the blueberries that only 20 years ago we would have assiduously removed from the room. Like the neutropenic diet, there is little evidence that fresh flowers pose a significant infection risk. Fungal spores could theoretically also come into the ward on fresh fruits and the dusttracked in on employee shoes, yet we ban neither of these. The CDC hospital infection control recommendations note that there are minimal evidence-based studies in this area but cautiously recommend against flowers in areas where immunosuppressed patients are located.  The lack of evidence is reflected in varying hospital policies regarding flowers; some major medical centers ban flowers on the oncology ward and others do not.  I stood before Evelyn with her pink flowers, as she implored me to overrule the policy and allow her to keep them. Bright sunlight shone in through her window and the room felt stuffy and closed, in stark contrast to the lovely outdoor scene. The flowers did add a hint of beauty to an otherwise sterile-appearing room. The vase that held these was clean and the water crystal clear. If we tested the flowers and water, would it be brimming with fungus that would subsequently endanger Evelyn and others on the ward? Who knew? In the absence of evidence, I followed the rules. Evelyn’s face fell as I concurred with Frances that it was ward policy to not allow flowers in the room. She was too polite to argue, and though she looked disappointed, her demeanor toward Frances and me did not change. Frances took a picture of the flowers and brought the picture back to Evelyn. The flowers were carefully moved to the oncology elevator lobby. I finished my rounds, put in orders, wrote my notes, and went home to my children. The afternoon was as lovely as when I went into work that morning. My kids rushed at me as I got out of the car, eager for a promised afternoon Easter Egg hunt. My son climbed on the apricot tree in front of our house, and little flower petals fell to the ground as the branches shook from his weight. He was still at an age where he would often pick dandelions in the yard and tuck these carefully behind my ear. It is his simple way of expressing love and it makes me feel cherished. I pictured him, a grown man, bringing flowers to me in the hospital someday, and how painful it might be to have those taken away. I could not quite shake the feeling I had made the wrong decision. I mentally reassured myself that it was hospital policy to take away Evelyn’s flowers, and after all, it was for her own protection. Was it not? Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Hello and welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, which features essays and personal reflections from authors exploring their experience in the oncology field. I'm your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I'm Professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami. Today, we're joined by Dr. Katy Cappell, Assistant Research Physician at the National Cancer Institute. In this episode, we will be discussing her Art of Oncology article, “You Don't Bring Me Flowers.” At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Katy, welcome to our podcast and thank you so much for joining us. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Thank you. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's such a delight to have you here. Can you just start by giving us a little bit of your background? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: I've been practicing mainly in hematologic malignancies, and at the time of the writing of this article, I was an Assistant Research Physician at the National Cancer Institute. Before that, I trained at University of Miami, actually, where you work, for my bachelor's. Then I went to University of North Carolina for an M.D. Ph.D., and then I was at Stanford for my residency, followed by NCI for my fellowship. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's great. I didn't know about your University of Miami connection. I feel like I have to throw up a U to you on our video recording here. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yes. Your screen looks very recognizable from my undergrad. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it's great to be reunited then with you. I was wondering if I could ask you to talk a little bit about your writing process. When did you start writing and when do you find the time to write? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah. So this is actually my first story that I've written in a long time, probably in 20 years. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Wow. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: I started writing this story because when I was rounding at this hospital, I always noticed the flowers being absent in rooms. And I liked to chart my notes at the nurse's station where a lot of patients would come and check in. And when they were checking in, I'd often hear people getting their flowers taken away and moved to the lobby. So I've been thinking about the piece for a long time, just from rounding and while I was listening to all these conversations about patients losing their flowers. So that's where it came from. And it's my first piece. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's really amazing. It's a phenomenon we witness all the time when people with all of the best intentions bring things into patients who are in the hospital for three or four weeks, like those patients who are getting treatment for acute leukemia or those who are undergoing a transplant to try to make their room more recognizable and more homelike for them. And then we often see those things whisked away because of hospital policies. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah, definitely. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: When you're writing, does an essay all come out at once or do you revisit it? So how do you refine your writing to transform it into a work of art? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: This piece, I started writing, probably, actually a year ago. It took me a long time to get started, to the point where I was thinking about it for a long time, thinking about the piece, for almost a year. I can remember that because I started thinking about it at ASH 2023, and I hadn't really finished it till ASH 2024. And during that time, a lot was going on in my head about how I would structure the piece. And then once I had started writing it, I went through multiple revisions before I got the courage to submit one to JCO. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I love how you frame it in terms of the courage to submit to JCO. I just read a post from Adam Grant, who's an economist and writes about kind of our actions in the workplace, and he mentioned the point that we often will put something off out of fear. It's not some kind of deliberate action on our part to avoid doing something that we don't want to do. It's really fear and fear of failure and fear of anxiety that prevents us from doing something. So you talk about courage. I think the flip side of courage is fear. Describe what that's like, that first moment that you decide, “Okay, I'm going to write a piece, and I want to write something that's public, that other people will see.” Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah. I think most people, when they write, it's a very personal thing to share something that you've written, especially if you've been thinking about it in your mind for quite a long time. That's actually part of the reason I don't write very often is because of that. And I think you're right that it comes from fear of sharing it. So I started out by, I was just going to write this for myself. And then as I got more comfortable with it over time, I decided, “Well, I might as well share this piece to see what happens.” Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Did you bounce the idea off of friends or colleagues to kind of see what their reaction would be before you kept taking those steps that eventually led to a completed piece and submitting it to JCO? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yes, I did bounce it off a friend who had the same experience in the same hospital with flowers getting taken away from patients. So I checked to see if other people had had the kind of same reaction to it as I had. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's great. It's always helpful to have a cadre of supportive readers when you first start writing - people who are going to talk about what's great about your piece and then give you advice that you can trust that's more helpful in revising it. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yes. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I love how in this piece you explore the tension we face as hematologist-oncologists between recommending what we feel is medically appropriate for our patients and feeling as if we've taken away some of their agency and some of their liberty. Can you discuss this in a little more detail? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: You'd think that the hardest thing about being a hematologist-oncologist would be knowing all the drugs and knowing what you should do, but I think that that's actually one of the easier parts. The harder part is these kind of interactions that arise because I think they have an emotional component to them and that makes it harder to do, day in and day out, dealing with those things. I mean, I think hospital policies are important and they're there to protect people. So I think, in the end of the story, I did do what the hospital policy said to do. And I think that that's in some ways important to make sure we have a good environment for everybody on the ward. But I think it's really painful as a doctor to have to make those decisions where it impacts someone's agency and someone's joy and what they're getting out of a day to day life, especially when they're in the hospital for a really long time. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Was there something that you could do to make up for it? So sometimes we'll take something away like beautiful flowers for fear of introducing infection in a ward where people are immunocompromised. But we can make up for it by saying, “Okay, but we're okay with you bringing food in from the outside.” Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah. So the nurse in the story, I mean, she definitely was trying to make up for it. She was a very sweet nurse with helping me. She went and printed out the picture of the flowers, which I think is one thing you can do, but another thing I've seen a lot of patients do and family members do is bring in paper flowers. They decorate the room in other ways, which I think makes it meaningful and still nice for people. And I think the nurses on our ward did a great job doing that too. They decorate the rooms and try to still keep a very nice environment. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's terrific. What other things do family members do to try to make the room more of a home environment? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Bringing in their own blankets for people so they have their own comforter on the bed is a big one. Bringing in pictures of family members, putting them on the walls, on the windows. Bringing in food from home I think is very important. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I completely agree. And there was a recent study looking at neutropenic precautions in a transplant unit and whether or not those actually improved the outcome of patients, and it turns out it didn't. So we've had these incredibly restrictive diets for patients that I think we can feel much more comfortable now relaxing and allowing people their comfort foods, which you, as a University of Miami graduate know, here involves a lot of Cuban food. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah, definitely. But I think that that neutrophenic diet is a great parallel to that. We start instituting things that kind of take away people's agency in something that brings them joy, but we might not have that great of evidence for it. And it really does impact people's happiness, I think, in a lot of ways and comfort in the hospital. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. And that's so important for getting through this ordeal of being in the hospital sometimes for weeks. You start and end the essay writing about your family, and this beautifully illustrates the freedom that they and you have compared to your patients who are confined to the hospital on a lovely holiday weekend. How do you navigate what must feel almost like survivor's guilt of being free from the hospital when others aren't, and being able to shift your focus to the joy of being around your children enjoying their holiday. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah, I think children help you focus it themselves. When I come home, they're pretty focused on what they want. They want their Easter egg hunt in the morning. They need their Easter baskets. So that alone brings you back into a different world. I come back, and suddenly I'm thinking about where the Easter eggs are going to go. That helps me a lot doing that. But I also think most people in oncology, most onc physicians, it is a difficult separation. You do think about your patients outside of work hours. That is something that's hard to do. But I'd say my children actually help me with that, getting my mind onto something different because they're just so active and they have so much going all the time. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's interesting how you frame that also, how your children help you. I remember distinctly one time my daughter asked me, “How was work?” And I said, “Oh, it was a hard day because I had to tell somebody some bad news.” And she very deliberately said to me, “You need to separate what you tell us at home from what happens at work. We don't want to hear your sad stories.” Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Oh, that's a sad story in itself. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it is, right? But it was kind of very helpful to me to realize that, yes, we do have to- we have to compartmentalize, not only for our own health, but also for the health of our family. We've chosen this path in our lives, which is this incredible opportunity to be around people who have a cancer diagnosis at a pivotal point in their lives. But our family hasn't necessarily made that same choice. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: The children don't understand it 100%. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Do you feel as if hematologists-oncologists are better at compartmentalizing maybe than other professionals in medicine? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: I'm not sure. I feel like a lot of medicine has those sad points that are difficult. So I think psychiatry is a good example of that. That's hard to, I think probably, very difficult to compartmentalize. So I'm not sure. I think other physicians also have difficulties with it. But I do think we see a lot of difficult scenarios more than other groups. So that could make it that we're better at compartmentalizing. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You mentioned in your essay, you refer to your patient's lumbering son. I love that phrase, the lumbering son who brings her the flowers. Do you think it helps to see that backstory to what's going on in your patients' lives? There's a risk of almost too much empathy, of knowing too much about it, and therefore having an even more difficult time separating yourself. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: For me, I think it helps with patient care a lot to know their family so you know where they're going back when they leave the hospital. You kind of know what helps, you know what they value. So I think in a lot of ways it does help for patient care to know what they're coming from in terms of family members. I do think sometimes getting too involved and knowing too much about the situation and attaching to it emotionally can make it hard to be objective. So I think that it's important to keep some distance there in terms of being able to make good decisions for your patients as well. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You mention looking at people's rooms and seeing the photos up on the wall. I always think we worry about the patients most who don't have any photos up on the wall and what kind of support system they're going back to when they're discharged from the hospital. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Yeah, I definitely agree. That's definitely something I think about as well. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You end this beautiful essay by asking the question, and I'm quoting you now, “I couldn't quite shake the feeling I'd made the wrong decision. I mentally reassured myself that it was hospital policy to take away Evelyn's flowers. And after all, it was for her own protection, wasn't it?” And I'm wondering, I'm going to put you on the spot a little bit, Katy, can you answer your own question? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Boy, I'm not sure if I can still. I think that's part of where the tension in the piece arises from. I think when you're in a hospital, you're working as a team, and part of the thing I think about is nurses are an important part of that team and they structure the ward. So I don't think it's just my decision. I think it's a hospital decision as a team. And I do think there's a component of fairness. If you're going to say it to one patient, that's the policy, it should be the policy to all patients. So in some ways I reassure myself about that. But in the other side of me, it still makes me a little sad. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, it's well stated. I'm wondering that the hospital in which you work changed their policy or did your previous position change their policy? Dr. Kathryn Cappell: I haven't actually mentioned this story to them yet or asked them to change their policy. I do feel it's pretty common at the different hospitals. I've worked at seeing a policy similar to this, so I haven't asked. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, Katy, I want to thank you for joining us today on the podcast. Your writing is elegant, the tale that you tell resonates with all of us, and it's been just delightful getting to know you even better. Dr. Kathryn Cappell: Great to meet you as well. Thank you for having me on. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Until next time, thank you for listening to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. Don't forget to give us a rating or review, and be sure to subscribe so you never miss an episode. You can find all of ASCO's shows at asco.org/podcasts. Thank you again.   The purpose of this podcast is to educate and to inform. This is not a substitute for professional medical care and is not intended for use in the diagnosis or treatment of individual conditions. Guests on this podcast express their own opinions, experience and conclusions. Guest statements on the podcast do not express the opinions of ASCO. The mention of any product, service, organization, activity, or therapy should not be construed as an ASCO endorsement.     Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review.  Guest Bio: Dr. Kathryn Cappell is Assistant Research Physician at the National Cancer Institute.  

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