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.