The Man at the Bow: Remembering the Lives People Lived Prior to Cancer

Listen to JCO's Art of Oncology article, "The Man at the Bow" by Dr. Alexis Drutchas, who is a palliative care physician at Dana Farber Cancer Institute. The article is followed by an interview with Drutchas and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr. Drutchas shares the deep connection she had with a patient, a former barge captain, who often sailed the same route that her family's shipping container did when they moved overseas many times while she was growing up. She reflects on the nature of loss and dignity, and how oncologists might hold patients' humanity with more tenderness and care, especially at the end of life.

TRANSCRIPT

Narrator: The Man at the Bow, by Alexis Drutchas, MD

It was the kind of day that almost seemed made up—a clear, cerulean sky with sunlight bouncing off the gold dome of the State House. The contrast between this view and the drab hospital walls as I walked into my patient's room was jarring. My patient, whom I will call Suresh, sat in a recliner by the window. His lymphoma had relapsed, and palliative care was consulted to help with symptom management. The first thing I remember is that despite the havoc cancer had wreaked—sunken temples and a hospital gown slipping off his chest—Suresh had a warm, peaceful quality about him.

Our conversation began with a discussion about his pain. Suresh told me how his bones ached and how his fatigue left him feeling hollow—a fraction of his former self. The way this drastic change in his physicality affected his sense of identity was palpable. There was loss, even if it was unspoken. After establishing a plan to help with his symptoms, I pivoted and asked Suresh how he used to spend his days. His face immediately lit up. He had been a barge captain—a dangerous and thrilling profession that took him across international waters to transport goods.

Suresh's eyes glistened as he described his joy at sea. I was completely enraptured. He shared stories about mornings when he stood alone on the bow, feeling the salted breeze as the barge moved through Atlantic waves. He spoke of calm nights on the deck, looking at the stars through stunning darkness. He traveled all over the globe and witnessed Earth's topography from a perspective most of us will never see. The freedom Suresh exuded was profound. He loved these voyages so much that one summer, despite the hazards, he brought his wife and son to experience the journey with him.

Having spent many years of my childhood living in Japan and Hong Kong, my family's entire home—every bed, sheet, towel, and kitchen utensil—was packed up and crossed the Atlantic on cargo ships four times. Maybe Suresh had captained one, I thought. Every winter, we hosted US Navy sailors docked in Hong Kong for the holidays. I have such fond memories of everyone going around the table and sharing stories of their adventures—who saw or ate what and where.

I loved those times: the wild abandon of travel, the freedom of being somewhere new, and the way identity can shift and expand as experiences grow. When Suresh shared stories of the ocean, I was back there too, holding the multitude of my identity alongside him.

I asked Suresh to tell me more about his voyages: what was it like to be out in severe weather, to ride over enormous swells? Did he ever get seasick, and did his crew always get along? But Suresh did not want to swim into these perilous stories with me. Although he worked a difficult and physically taxing job, this is not what he wanted to focus on. Instead, he always came back to the beauty and vitality he felt at sea—what it was like to stare out at the vastness of the open ocean. He often closed his eyes and motioned with his hands as he spoke as if he was not confined to these hospital walls. Instead, he was swaying on the water feeling the lightness of physical freedom, and the way a body can move with such ease that it is barely perceptible, like water flowing over sand. The resonances of Suresh's stories contained both the power and challenges laden in this work.

Although I sat at his bedside, healthy, my body too contained memories of freedom that in all likelihood will one day dissipate with age or illness. The question of how I will be seen, compared to how I hoped to be seen, lingered in my mind. Years ago, before going to medical school, I moved to Vail, Colorado. I worked four different jobs just to make ends meet, but making it work meant that on my days off, I was only a chairlift ride away from Vail's backcountry. I have a picture of this vigor in my mind—my snowboard carving into fresh powder, the utter silence of the wilderness at that altitude, and the way it felt to graze the powdery snow against my glove. My face was windburned, and my body was sore, but my heart had never felt so buoyant.

While talking with Suresh, I could so vividly picture him as the robust man he once was, standing tall on the bow of his ship. I could feel the freedom and joy he described—it echoed in my own body. In that moment, the full weight of what Suresh had lost hit me as forcefully as a cresting wave—not just the physical decline, but the profound shift in his identity. What is more, we all live, myself included, so precariously at this threshold. In this work, it is impossible not to wonder: what will it be like when it is me? Will I be seen as someone who has lived a full life, who explored and adventured, or will my personhood be whittled down to my illness? How can I hold these questions and not be swallowed by them?

"I know who you are now is not the person you've been," I said to Suresh. With that, he reached out for my hand and started to cry.

We looked at each other with a new understanding. I saw Suresh—not just as a frail patient but as someone who lived a full life. As someone strong enough to cross the Atlantic for decades. In that moment, I was reminded of the Polish poet, Wislawa Szymborska's words, "As far as you've come, can't be undone." This, I believe, is what it means to honor the dignity of our patients, to reflect back the person they are despite or alongside their illness…all of their parts that can't be undone. Sometimes, this occurs because we see our own personhood reflected in theirs and theirs in ours. Sometimes, to protect ourselves, we shield ourselves from this echo. Other times, this resonance becomes the most beautiful and meaningful part of our work.

It has been years now since I took care of Suresh. When the weather is nice, my wife and I like to take our young son to the harbor in South Boston to watch the planes take off and the barges leave the shore, loaded with colorful metal containers. We usually pack a picnic and sit in the trunk as enormous planes fly overhead and tugboats work to bring large ships out to the open water. Once, as a container ship was leaving the port, we waved so furiously at those working on board that they all started to wave back, and the captain honked the ships booming horn. Every single time we are there, I think of Suresh, and I picture him sailing out on thewaves—as free as he will ever be.

Mikkael Sekeres: Welcome back to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. This ASCO podcast features intimate narratives and perspectives from authors exploring their experiences in oncology. 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.

What a treat we have today. We're joined by Dr. Alexis Drutchas, a Palliative Care Physician and the Director of the Core Communication Program at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and Assistant Professor of Medicine at Harvard Medical School to discuss her article, "The Man at the Bow."

Alexis, thank you so much for contributing to Journal of Clinical Oncology and for joining us to discuss your article.

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: Thank you. I'm thrilled and excited to be here.

Mikkael Sekeres: I wonder if we can start by asking you about yourself. Where are you from, and can you walk us a bit through your career?

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: The easiest way to say it would be that I'm from the Detroit area. My dad worked in automotive car parts and so we moved around a lot when I was growing up. I was born in Michigan, then we moved to Japan, then back to Michigan, then to Hong Kong, then back to Michigan. Then I spent my undergrad years in Wisconsin and moved out to Colorado to teach snowboarding before medical school, and then ended up back in Michigan for that, and then on the east coast at Brown for my family medicine training, and then in Boston for work and training. So, I definitely have a more global experience in my background, but also very Midwestern at heart as well.

In terms of my professional career trajectory, I trained in family medicine because I really loved taking care of the whole person. I love taking care of kids and adults, and I loved OB, and at the time I felt like it was impossible to choose which one I wanted to pursue the most, and so family medicine was a great fit. And at the core of that, there's just so much advocacy and social justice work, especially in the community health centers where many family medicine residents train.

During that time, I got very interested in LGBTQ healthcare and founded the Rhode Island Trans Health Conference, which led me to work as a PCP at Fenway Health in Boston after that. And so I worked there for many years. And then through a course of being a hospitalist at BI during that work, I worked with many patients with serious illness, making decisions about discontinuing dialysis, about pursuing hospice care in the setting of ILD. I also had a significant amount of family illness and started to recognize this underlying interest I had always had in palliative care, but I think was a bit scared to pursue. But those really kind of tipped me over to say I really wanted to access a different level of communication skills and be able to really go into depth with patients in a way I just didn't feel like I had the language for. And so I applied to the Harvard Palliative Care Fellowship and luckily and with so much gratitude got in years ago, and so trained in palliative care and stayed at MGH after that. So my Dana-Farber position is newer for me and I'm very excited about it.

Mikkael Sekeres: Sounds like you've had an amazing career already and you're just getting started on it. I grew up in tiny little Rhode Island and, you know, we would joke you have to pack an overnight bag if you travel more than 45 minutes. So, our boundaries were much tighter than yours. What was it like growing up where you're going from the Midwest to Asia, back to the Midwest, you wind up settling on the east coast? You must have an incredible worldly view on how people live and how they view their health.

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: I think you just named much of the sides of it. I think I realize now, in looking back, that in many ways it was living two lives, because at the time it was rare from where we lived in the Detroit area in terms of the other kids around us to move overseas. And so it really did feel like that part of me and my family that during the summers we would have home leave tickets and my parents would often turn them in to just travel since we didn't really have a home base to come back to. And so it did give me an incredible global perspective and a sense of all the ways in which people develop community, access healthcare, and live.

And then coming back to the Midwest, not to say that it's not cosmopolitan or diverse in its own way, but it was very different, especially in the 80s and 90s to come back to the Midwest. So it did feel like I carried these two lenses in the world, and it's been incredibly meaningful over time to meet other friends and adults and patients who have lived these other lives as well. I think for me those are some of my most connecting friendships and experiences with patients for people who have had a similar experience in living with sort of a duality in their everyday lives with that.

Mikkael Sekeres: You know, you write about the main character of your essay, Suresh, who's a barge captain, and you mention in the essay that your family crossed the Atlantic on cargo ships four times when you were growing up. What was that experience like? How much of it do you remember?

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: Our house, like our things, crossed the Atlantic four times on barge ships such as his. We didn't, I mean we crossed on airplanes.

Mikkael Sekeres: Oh, okay, okay.

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: We flew over many times, but every single thing we owned got packed up into containers on large trucks in our house and were brought over to ports to be sent over. So, I'm not sure how they do it now, but at the time that's sort of how we moved, and we would often go live in a hotel or a furnished apartment for the month's wait of all of our house to get there, which felt also like a surreal experience in that, you know, you're in a totally different country and then have these creature comforts of your bedroom back in Metro Detroit. And I remember thinking a lot about who was crossing over with all of that stuff and where was it going, and who else was moving, and that was pretty incredible. And when I met Suresh, just thinking about the fact that at some point our home could have been on his ship was a really fun connection in my mind to make, just given where he always traveled in his work.

Mikkael Sekeres: It's really neat. I remember when we moved from the east coast also to the Midwest, I was in Cleveland for 18 years. The very first thing we did was mark which of the boxes had the kids' toys in it, because that of course was the first one we let them close it up and then we let them open it as soon as we arrived. Did your family do something like that as well so that you can, you know, immediately feel an attachment to your stuff when they arrived?

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: Yeah, I remember what felt most important to our mom was our bedrooms. I don't remember the toys. I remember sort of our comforters and our pillowcases and things like that, yeah, being opened and it feeling really settling to think, "Okay, you know, we're in a completely different place and country away from most everything we know, but our bedroom is the same." That always felt like a really important point that she made to make home feel like home again in a new place.

Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, yeah. One of the sentences you wrote in your essay really caught my eye. You wrote about when you were younger and say, "I loved those times, the wild abandon of travel, the freedom of being somewhere new, the way identity can shift and expand as experiences grow." It's a lovely sentiment. Do you think those are emotions that we experience only as children, or can they continue through adulthood? And if they can, how do we make that happen, that sense of excitement and experience?

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: I think that's such a good question and one I honestly think about a lot. I think that we can access those all the time. There's something about the newness of travel and moving, you know, I have a 3-year-old right now, and so I think many parents would connect to that sense that there is wonderment around being with someone experiencing something for the first time. Even watching my son, Oliver, see a plane take off for the first time felt joyous in a completely new way, that even makes me smile a lot now.

But I think what is such a great connection here is when something is new, our eyes are so open to it. You know, we're constantly witnessing and observing and are excited about that. And I think the connection that I've realized is important for me in my work and also in just life in general to hold on to that wonderment is that idea of sort of witnessing or having a writer's eye, many would call it, in that you're keeping your eye open for the small beautiful things. Often with travel, you might be eating ramen. It might not be the first time you're eating it, but you're eating it for the first time in Tokyo, and it's the first time you've had this particular ingredient on it, and then you remember that. But there's something that we're attuned to in those moments, like the difference or the taste, that makes it special and we hold on to it. And I think about that a lot as a writer, but also in patient care and having my son with my wife, it's what are the special small moments to hold on to and allowing them to be new and beautiful, even if they're not as large as moving across the country or flying to Rome or whichever. I think there are ways that that excitement can still be alive if we attune ourselves to some of the more beautiful small moments around us.

Mikkael Sekeres: And how do we do that as doctors? We're trained to go into a room and there's almost a formula for how we approach patients. But how do you open your mind in that way to that sense of wonderment and discovery with the person you're sitting across from, and it doesn't necessarily have to be medical? One of the true treats of what we do is we get to meet people from all backgrounds and all walks of life, and we have the opportunity to explore their lives as part of our interaction.

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: Yeah, I think that is such a great question. And I would love to hear your thoughts on this too. I think for me in that sentence that you mentioned, sitting at that table with sort of people in the Navy from all over the world, I was that person to them in the room, too. There was some identity there that I brought to the table that was different than just being a kid in school or something like that.

To answer your question, I wonder if so much of the challenge is actually allowing ourselves to bring ourselves into the room, because so much of the formula is, you know, we have these white coats on, we have learners, we want to do it right, we want to give excellent care. There's there's so many sort of guards I think that we put up to make sure that we're asking the right questions, we don't want to miss anything, we don't want to say the wrong thing, and all of that is true. And at the same time, I find that when I actually allow myself into the room, that is when it is the most special. And that doesn't mean that there's complete countertransference or it's so permeable that it's not in service of the patient. It just means that I think when we allow bits of our own selves to come in, it really does allow for new connections to form, and then we are able to learn about our patients more, too.

With every patient, I think often we're called in for goals of care or symptom management, and of course I prioritize that, but when I can, I usually just try to ask a more open-ended question, like, "Tell me about life before you came to the hospital or before you were diagnosed. What do you love to do? What did you do for work?" Or if it's someone's family member who is ill, I'll ask the kids or family in the room, "Like, what kind of mom was she? You know, what special memory you had?" Just, I get really curious when there's time to really understand the person. And I know that that's not at all new language. Of course, we're always trying to understand the person, but I just often think understanding them is couched within their illness. And I'm often very curious about how we can just get to know them as people, and how humanizing ourselves to them helps humanize them to us, and that back and forth I think is like really lovely and wonderful and allows things to come up that were totally unexpected, and those are usually the special moments that you come home with and want to tell your family about or want to process and think about. What about you? How do you think about that question?

Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it's interesting you ask. I like to do projects around the house. I hate to say this out loud because of course one day I'll do something terrible and everyone will remember this podcast, but I fancy myself an amateur electrician and plumber and carpenter and do these sorts of projects. So I go into interactions with patients wanting to learn about their lives and how they live their lives to see what I can pick up on as well, how I can take something out of that interaction and actually use it practically. My father-in-law has this phrase he always says to me when a worker comes to your house, he goes, he says to me, "Remember to steal with your eyes." Right? Watch what they do, learn how they fix something so you can fix it yourself and you don't have to call them next time. So, for me it's kind of fun to hear how people have lived their lives both within their professions, and when I practiced medicine in Cleveland, there were a lot of farmers and factory workers I saw. So I learned a lot about how things are made. But also about how they interact with their families, and I've learned a lot from people I've seen who were just terrific dads and terrific moms or siblings or spouses. And I've tried to take those nuggets away from those interactions. But I think you can only do it if you open yourself up and also allow yourself to see that person's humanity. And I wonder if I can quote you to you again from your essay. There's another part that I just loved, and it's about how you write about how a person's identity changes when they become a patient. You write, "And in that moment the full weight of what he had lost hit me as forcefully as a cresting wave. Not just the physical decline, but the profound shift in identity. What is more, we all live, me included, so precariously at this threshold. In this work, it's impossible not to wonder, what will it be like when it's me? Will I be seen as someone who's lived many lives, or whittled down only to someone who's sick?" Can you talk a little bit more about that? Have you been a patient whose identity has changed without asking you to reveal too much? Or what about your identity as a doctor? Is that something we have to undo a little bit when we walk in the room with the stethoscope or wearing a white coat?

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: That was really powerful to hear you read that back to me. So, thank you. Yeah, I think my answer here can't be separated from the illness I faced with my family. And I think this unanimously filters into the way in which I see every patient because I really do think about the patient's dignity and the way medicine generally, not always, really does strip them of that and makes them the patient. Even the way we write about "the patient said this," "the patient said that," "the patient refused." So I generally very much try to have a one-liner like, "Suresh is a X-year-old man who's a barge captain from X, Y, and Z and is a loving father with a," you know, "period. He comes to the hospital with X, Y, and Z." So I always try to do that and humanize patients. I always try to write their name rather than just "patient." I can't separate that out from my experience with my family.

My sister six years ago now went into sudden heart failure after having a spontaneous coronary artery dissection, and so immediately within minutes she was in the cath lab at 35 years old, coding three times and came out sort of with an Impella and intubated, and very much, you know, all of a sudden went from my sister who had just been traveling in Mexico to a patient in the CCU. And I remember desperately wanting her team to see who she was, like see the person that we loved, that was fighting for her life, see how much her life meant to us. And that's not to say that they weren't giving her great care, but there was something so important to me in wanting them to see how much we wanted her to live, you know, and who she was. It felt like there's some important core to me there. We brought pictures in, we talked about what she was living for. It felt really important.

And I can't separate that out from the way in which I see patients now or I feel in my own way in a certain way what it is to lose yourself, to lose the ability to be a Captain of the ship, to lose the ability to do electric work around the house. So much of our identity is wrapped up in our professions and our craft. And I think for me that has really become forefront in the work of palliative care and in and in the teaching I do and in the writing I do is how to really bring them forefront and not feel like in doing that we're losing our ability to remain objective or solid in our own professional identities as clinicians and physicians.

Mikkael Sekeres: Well, I think that's a beautiful place to end here. I can only imagine what an outstanding physician and caregiver you are also based on your writing and how you speak about it. You just genuinely come across as caring about your patients and your family and the people you have interactions with and getting to know them as people.

It has been again such a treat to have Dr. Alexis Drutchas here. She is Director of the Core Communication Program at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and Assistant Professor of Medicine at Harvard Medical School to discuss her article, "The Man at the Bow."

Alexis, thank you so much for joining us.

Dr. Alexis Drutchas: Thank you. This has been a real joy.

Mikkael Sekeres: If you've enjoyed this episode, consider sharing it with a friend or colleague, or leave us a review. Your feedback and support helps us continue to save these important conversations. If you're looking for more episodes and context, follow our show on Apple, Spotify, or wherever you listen, and explore more from ASCO at ASCO.org/podcasts. Until next time, this has been Mikkael Sekeres for the ASCO podcast Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology.

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Show notes: Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review. Guest Bio: Dr. Alexis Drutchas is a palliative care physician at Dana Farber Cancer Institute.