Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology

Listen to JCO's Art of Oncology article, "Smell," by Dr. Alice Cusick, who is a Hematology Section Chief at Veterans Affairs Ann Arbor Health System and Assistant Professor at the University of Michigan Division of Hematology and Oncology. The article is followed by an interview with Cusick and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Cusick shares a connection to a cancer patient manifested as a scent. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Smell, by Alice Cusick, MD Dr. 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. Joining us today is Alice Cusick, Hematology Section Chief at the Veterans Affairs Ann Arbor Healthcare System and Assistant Professor at the University of Michigan, Division of Hematology and Oncology, to discuss her Journal of Clinical Oncology article, "Smell." Alice, thank you for contributing to Journal of Clinical Oncology and for joining us to discuss your article. Dr. Alice Cusick: Thank you so much for having me, Mikkael. I appreciate it. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's really a pleasure, and as usual, Alice and I discussed this beforehand and agreed to call each other by first names. I always love to hear your story first. Can you tell us about yourself? Where are you from, and walk us through your career, if you could. Dr. Alice Cusick: I'm a Midwesterner. I grew up in Iowa and Illinois and went to a small college in Illinois, played basketball, Division lll, and was an English Literature major. I took one science class and was going to be an English professor. And then my father's a physician. My senior year, I realized I don't think I could spend all my time in a library. I didn't feel like I was helping anyone. And so I talked to my dad, and he said, "Yeah, I think you could be a doctor." So I thought I would help people by being a physician. So I moved to Iowa City and spent two years working in a lab and doing science classes and took the MCAT, which was the first year they had the essay on there, and I rocked that. That was my highest score. I got into the University of Iowa and then went on to residency and fellowship at the University of Wisconsin, just in hematology. I didn't do solid tumors. And then went on, spent a couple years there, worked in Pennsylvania in more of a group practice, and then came back to academics at the University of Michigan about 10 years ago. And then five years ago, I became the Hematology Section Chief at the VA in Ann Arbor. So I work there full time now. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I love that story. I served on the admissions committee at Cleveland Clinic and Case Western when I was also a Midwesterner for 18 years. And I always wondered if instead of searching for science majors, we should be searching for English majors because I think there's a core element of medicine that is actually storytelling. Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, very much so. My father was a country doctor for many, many years in rural Iowa in the fifties and sixties. So he did house calls, and he talked about how you really got to know people by going to their house. And I'll never forget the first time that I did a full history and physical, I think I was maybe a second-year medical student, and I was telling him, "Oh, I'm so excited. I'm going to do my first history and physical." And he said, "Alice, don't talk to them about medicine right away or about their problems right away. Talk to them about something else. Get to know them because you know about sports, talk about sports." I said, "Dad, that's called establishing rapport." You know, that's what they had taught us. But it was intuitive to him. I'll never forget that he just said their story is important and how they live and where they live and who they live with is so important. It really helps you figure out their medical issues as well. And I've always tried to carry that through. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's funny what we glean from our parents. My dad was a journalist for the Providence Journal-Bulletin. He was a reporter for a couple of decades, and I almost feel like some of what I'm doing is acting as a reporter. It's my job to get the story and get the story right and solicit enough details from a patient that I really have a sense that I'm with them on the journey of their illness, so I can understand it completely. Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, very much so. And that's one of the things I really harp about with the fellows because sometimes I remember more of the social history than I do sometimes the medical history when I'm seeing a patient. I remind them, you need to know who they live with and how they live. It helps you take care of them. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, and that must be particularly germane with your patient population. When I was a medical student, my first rotation on internal medicine was at the Philadelphia VA, and it's actually what convinced me to specialize within internal medicine. What is it like caring for veterans? Dr. Alice Cusick: This is the best job I've ever had in my life. And I think because it speaks to my sense of duty that I got from my parents, particularly from my father, and I really feel I got back to my original focus, which is helping people. So that sense of duty and serving those who served, which is our core mission, this job is the most rewarding I've ever had because you really feel like you're helping people. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: How much do you learn about your patients' military history when you first interact with them? Dr. Alice Cusick: It can come up in conversation. It sort of depends on what the context is and how much you ask and how much of that is incorporated into what's going on with their medical history. It comes up a lot in terms of, particularly cancer, because a lot of cancers that veterans develop can be related to their military exposures. So it can come up certainly in that context. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You write about how your patient and his wife brought in photographs of his younger self. Can you describe some of those photos? Dr. Alice Cusick: So a lot of it was about the sports he was doing at the time. He was kind of almost like a bodybuilder and doing like martial arts. So there were some pictures of him in his shirt and shorts, showing how healthy he was. He was much younger, but it was such a contrast to how he was at that time as he was nearing death. But it really rounded out my understanding of him because, as we all know, when we meet people, we see them when they're at that particular age, and we may not have that context of what they were 20, 30 years ago. But that still informs how they think about themselves. I mean, I still think of myself as an athlete even though I'm much older. So that's important to understand how the patient thinks about himself or herself. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You know, it's funny you mentioned those two photographs. I- immediately flashed into my mind, I had a patient who also was a martial arts expert, and I remember he was in his early seventies and hospitalized, but he made sure to put up that photo of him when he was in his prime, in his martial arts outfit in a pose. And I've had another patient who was a boxer, and all he wanted to talk about whenever he saw me was his first experience boxing in Madison Square Garden and what that moment felt like of climbing into the ring, squeezing in between the ropes, and facing off in front of what must have been some massive crowd. Dr. Alice Cusick: Yeah. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Why do you think it was important to them to bring in those photos to show you? Dr. Alice Cusick: I think it was to help me understand what he had been. I think it was important for him, and because we had a relationship, it wasn't just transactional in terms of his medical problems. It was really conversations every day about what he was doing and how his life was going. And I think he really wanted me to understand what he had been. And so I felt really honored because I think that was important. It told me that his relationship with me was very important to him. I found that very, very humbling. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, I find it fascinating the details that patients offer to us about themselves as opposed to the ones that we solicit. I think it speaks to also the closeness of the relationship we have with patients when they want to share that aspect of them. They want to show you who they were before they were ill. And it's not a point of bragging. It's not flexing for them. I think it's really to remind themselves and us of the vitality of the person who's sitting in front of us or lying in front of us in the hospital johnny or sitting on an exam table. Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, very much so. And I've experienced that even with my own parents as they got older and were in the medical system. I remember vividly, my father had had a stroke, and the people taking care of him didn't understand what he had been. They didn't understand that his voice was very different. We kept asking, you know, "His voice is different." They had no concept of him beforehand. So that also really hit home to me how important it is to understand patients in the whole context of their lives. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And as a family member, do you think it's equally important to share that story of who somebody was before they were ill as a reminder to yourself and to the people taking care of a relative? Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, very much so. I think it's very helpful because it also makes you feel like you're supporting the loved one as well by, if they can't speak for themselves, particularly when they're very ill, to help people understand, it may help the physicians or any provider understand their illness better, especially if there's a diagnostic dilemma, thinking about going home, what are they going to need at home, those sorts of things. I think it's always important to try to provide that context. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Patients will often talk about their deaths or transitions to hospice as an abstract future. Do you think they rely on us to make the decision about a concrete transition to hospice, or do you think they know it's time and are looking for us to verbalize it for their family and friends? Dr. Alice Cusick: I think it depends on how much groundwork you've done beforehand. So when you talk about end of life with people well before that transition it's almost mandatory, I think it's very important. It makes the transition much smoother because then they understand what hospice is, and they can prepare themselves. When they're not prepared, I think it's much more of a very clear transition. So it's almost like you're shutting one door, disease treatment, and moving on to, "I'm just going home to die," versus when you're laying the groundwork and you make sure that it's about how you live. I always try to emphasize, it's how you want to spend your time. It's how you want to live. Hospice is helping people live the best they can for as long as they can. And if you haven't prepared people, I think then they think much more you're closing the door and you're just sending me home to die. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's tricky though, isn't it? Because as an oncologist or hematologist-oncologist, in our case, people look to us for that hope that there's still something to do and there's still life ahead of them. But at a certain point, we all realize that we need to transition our focus. But once we say that out loud, do you ever feel like it almost shuts a door for our patients? Dr. Alice Cusick: Again, it depends on the situation, and it depends on the support they have. It's different when you're dealing with somebody who's out in an outpatient world who has good family support and you've developed a relationship versus the patient who's taken a very sudden turn for the worse, and maybe is in the hospital, and things are more chaotic, and maybe they've been on very active treatment beforehand, but suddenly things have changed. So in my mind, it depends on the context that you're dealing with and what the relationship you have prior to. Maybe you're covering for your colleague, and you don't have a relationship with that particular family or that particular patient, but yet you have to talk to them. Somebody gets transferred from another hospital and you have a very brief relationship. And so I think the relationship kind of dictates sometimes how patients feel. But as long as you can help people understand the process of end of life as best as you can, I think that sometimes helps the transition. Some people are going to be angry no matter what. And that's totally understandable, angry about their family member dying, angry about what's happening to them if they're the patient. I think that's always part of the process, but it's hard to make things smooth all of the time. We do the best we can. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I was going to ask, has anyone ever been shocked when you start to talk about palliative care or hospice and never really did see it coming? Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, of course. I think, especially if you've been doing this for a while, you sometimes see the future. You know what's, well, I mean, not exactly, but you have a good sense of what's going to happen. And there can be times when you start talking about end of life and palliative care or hospice and people are shocked, particularly family members, family members who may not be there all the time, who may not have seen their loved one frequently and haven't just understood what the disease course has been. And that certainly can be shocking. And again, totally understandable, but it's my responsibility to try to smooth that over and help people understand what's going on and make it a conversation. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's a nice description of what we do. We make it a conversation. When talking about what you smelled that day when you saw your patient, you write, "Did I suddenly have a gift? Could I float through the hospital wards and smell the future? Or maybe I could only smell inevitability." It's a beautiful sentence. "Could I only smell inevitability?" What do you think it was that led you to know that his time had come? And I wonder, was it a distinct odor or what I refer to as a Malcolm Gladwell "blink" moment, you know, in which your 25 years of experience allowed you to synthesize a hundred different sensory and cognitive inputs in a split second to realize this was the time? Dr. Alice Cusick: I think I knew it was time because I had been seeing him so frequently and I knew him very well. The smell was very real to me. My husband and I disagree because I've talked to my husband about this. He thinks it was a real smell and that I did smell something. I think it was more that amalgamation of my experience and, as I said in the piece, a scent took the place of a thought. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Huh. Dr. Alice Cusick: But it bothered me so much, and that's when I talk about, "Did I have a gift?" You know, there are people who can smell diseases. There's a report of a woman who could smell Parkinson's disease. I thought, "Have I suddenly developed some sort of gift?" But in my mind, I thought, "You know, it was inevitability." I mean, it was inevitable that this gentleman was going to die of this disease. So that was my thought. I don't think I had a gift. I think it was smelling the inevitability that I understood through experience and knowing this patient so well. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Why do you think that smell haunted you so much afterwards? I mean, you really think about it and really dwell on it. I think in a way that any one of us would. Dr. Alice Cusick: I think because I thought there was something wrong with me. As I said in the piece, I thought it made my experience of that patient, my memory of that visit in particular and the whole relationship with him, I was thinking more about myself instead of thinking about him and his experience and his family's experience. And you know, you always grieve for patients, and it was interfering with my normal process. And so it really bothered me. In the end, it was more, "What was wrong with me?" This was weird, and it just sort of played with my usual understanding of how these things were supposed to go. And that's what really bothered me. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It is true. We really feel acutely our patients' loss, and it's so much more, I don't know if "acute" is the right word, or so much more meaningful when it's someone we've gotten to know over years, isn't it? Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, very much so. You grieve for them, you miss them. At the same time, you also, you know, especially with this patient, his death was how he wanted it. So helping someone with the, quote unquote, "good death", the death surrounded by family, the death where there is no suffering or as minimal suffering as possible, you do find that helps with the grief, I think, instead of thinking, "Oh, what did I do wrong? What did I miss?" You can make it somewhat helpful in processing the grief. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's perhaps one of the more exquisite aspects of the art of medicine is helping people with that transition in their final days and sharing in the emotions of that. It has been such a pleasure to have Alice Cusick, who is Hematology Section Chief at Veterans Affairs Ann Arbor Health System and Assistant Professor at the University of Michigan, Division of Hematology and Oncology to discuss "Smell." Alice, thank you so much for submitting your article and for joining us today. Dr. Alice Cusick: Oh, thank you so much. I really appreciate it. Dr. 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 have 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 Cancer Stories. 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. Guest Bio: Dr Alice Cusick is Hematology Section Chief at Veterans Affairs Ann Arbor Health System and Assistant Professor at the University of Michigan Division of Hematology and Oncology.

Listen to JCO's Art of Oncology article, "Are You Bereaved?" by Dr. Trisha Paul, who is an Assistant Professor in Pediatric Hematology/ Oncology and Palliative Care at University of Rochester Medical Center. The article is followed by an interview with Paul and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Paul reflects on a grieving father's question about her own bereavement. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Are You Bereaved?, by Trisha Paul, MD, MFA Dr. 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 experience 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. Joining us today is Trisha Paul, an Assistant Professor in Pediatric Hematology Oncology and Palliative Care at University of Rochester Medical Center to discuss her Journal of Clinical Oncology article, "Are You Bereaved?" At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Trisha, thank you so much for contributing this terrific essay to the Journal of Clinical Oncology and for joining us to discuss your article. Dr. Trisha Paul: Thank you so much for having me today, Dr. Sekeres. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So we agreed for everyone listening to call each other by first names, and then Dr. Paul just called me Dr. Sekeres. Dr. Trisha Paul: Still adjusting to being an attending. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That is fantastic. Dr. Trisha Paul: Thank you so much for having me, Mikkael. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That was great. Well, you already gave us a little bit of a hint. Can we start off by my asking you if you can tell us about yourself - where are you from - and walk us through your career thus far? Dr. Trisha Paul: Sure. I'm originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, born and raised there, and I completed my undergraduate medical school education at the University of Michigan. I proceeded to do a general pediatrics residency at the University of Minnesota and then went to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital for a combined fellowship in pediatric hematology oncology and hospice and palliative medicine. What brought me into this area of medicine was early experiences as a high school student volunteering at a children's hospital in my hometown. And that's where I found myself in a playroom, spending time with children with cancer and their families. And these experiences of being with patients and families and getting to know them outside of their illnesses was really what brought me to wanting to be not only a pediatric oncologist, but also a palliative care physician who could care for patients holistically. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Wow. So you were introduced to this field at a preternaturally young age. Dr. Trisha Paul: Yes, it's been more than a decade that I've been aspiring to be a pediatric oncologist and a palliative care physician, and I feel fortunate to be there now. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's fantastic. And I should say, given your University of Michigan pedigree, 'Go Blue'. Dr. Trisha Paul: Thank you. Go Blue! Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Although, at the time of this recording, Miami is undefeated in football, so, you know, go us. In your essay, I really love how you draw us as readers into your story. You signed up to volunteer at a writing workshop for bereaved parents of children who died from cancer. Can you set the scene for us? Where did this take place? How many people attended? And why did you sign up for the workshop in the first place? I can imagine this would be an incredibly moving experience. Dr. Trisha Paul: Yes. Day of Remembrance is an annual event hosted at St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. Many hospitals have similar events where we honor patients who have passed away and we invite their families back to campus to honor these patients. And I started my fellowship in 2021, and so we were still coming out of the pandemic. This workshop that I attended was the first time that I was having an opportunity to attend the annual Day of Remembrance. And at the time, I had completed my palliative care training, and I was wrapping up my pediatric oncology fellowship. The annual Day of Remembrance this year was hosted at a convention center on the banks of the Mississippi River, nearby and next to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. And it was a large convention center that kind of spans the horizon. And it's one of those spaces where you go for medical conferences typically, and it was interesting to walk into this convention center space and all these conference rooms and instead see poster boards that are sharing the stories and the lives of all these children and adolescents who had died over the past several years. One reason I think the timing of this event occurred for me was that I realized that I also knew several patients and families who might be in attendance at this event. I was several years into my fellowship at the time. And so I think the other reason I chose to volunteer at this event was I had spent a lot of time with patients and families whose child was approaching the end of their life, and I had kind of gotten to be with parents and siblings in that period of time. But what often happens for me as a palliative care physician and as an oncologist is the relationship is different after the child dies. And so for many of the patients I cared for as a palliative care physician, or as an oncologist, I wouldn't necessarily see these parents after the death of a child. There are some times where I've been able to see them at a memorial service, but otherwise we spend all this time with families leading up to a child's death. And often there's kind of this black box around them and their lives afterwards. And so I found myself really wanting to better understand the experiences of families after a child's death, which is what led me to participate and volunteer in the annual Day of Remembrance event. I did not want to just attend, I wanted to be able to do something concrete and actionable with these families to learn more about their grief. And for me, as a writer, volunteering at the writing workshop with bereaved parents seemed like a perfect way for me to be able to spend time with them. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Many of us as oncologists place boundaries between our interactions with patients, confining them to the workplace, but many do not. That you attended this workshop tells me that you may fall into the latter category. Was this a deliberate decision or something that evolved over time? And do you ever worry that erosion of such boundaries could contribute to burnout, or is it actually the opposite, that it reminds us of why we do what we do? Dr. Trisha Paul: Yeah, I think this is a great question that I have been asking myself for years and that I anticipate spending the rest of my career wondering about and rediscovering for myself each time I have a patient and a family before me that I am exploring what I want those boundaries to look like or what I want those relationships to look like. I think that for me, my thinking about this has evolved even throughout the course of my training. And I think I've better understood that these are decisions that are made on a very personal level as well as decisions that have to be reassessed with each patient and with each family that we get to care for during this time. And so I think I'm always asking myself about, beyond being an oncologist and beyond being a person's palliative care physician, how do I want to care for them as another person? Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Really nicely said. Did you recognize any of the parents at the writing workshop you attended or at the larger conference when you were there? Dr. Trisha Paul: I did. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And what was that like, seeing them out of context? Dr. Trisha Paul: In this specific situation, I think it was a little bit jarring in the sense that it was kind of this surprise, that especially these are patients I had cared for in the past several years, and so there was a little bit of a moment to recognize and place them in where we had seen each other before. And then there was this fleeting wonder about whether they also recognized me. Some of these are patients that I might have met while on service as a palliative care physician for a brief visit or an initial consultation. And so for some of those families that I knew, there was less longevity to the ways in which I had known them. And it was curious to wonder if they remembered me and then to wonder about that memory. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Did any of them? Did any of them come up to you and say, "Oh, Dr. Paul, it's good to see you again," or, "Do you remember me?" Dr. Trisha Paul: No, I did not have that happen. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I think jarring is a really interesting word to use. A lot of our interactions are so contextual, and I find it difficult when I run into a patient or a family member and I'm outside of work and have to remind myself of, not so much who they are, but where they are in their treatment course. And sometimes you forget because it's out of the context of our clinic rooms. Dr. Trisha Paul: Mm hmm. I think that's exactly right. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: The author and grieving father who led the workshop in your essay writes in your copy of his book that he thanks you for your work. The way you describe that and isolate that phrase in your essay is to the reader, I will use your word again, jarring. Why was that so jarring to you? Dr. Trisha Paul: It definitely felt jarring when I read those words in my book. There is something about the word work and kind of the connotations of work that separate it from a humanity of caring. It feels a little bit like an obligation or a task or a livelihood. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You think of what we do as a calling? Dr. Trisha Paul: I don't think the phrase of it being a calling resonates with me personally that much. But it is more than just a thing I do. I think that's the problem with work. I think it's undermining why a lot of us choose to do this. Which I think for many people, kind of this idea of a calling is how they think of it. I think the calling implies there's a lot more choice than I actually feel. Ever since some of the first patients and families that I met within this space, I understood that these are the people I wanted to spend the rest of my life caring for. And I guess that kind of sounds like a calling. But... Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I was not going to say it, but it sounds like a calling. You know that word, and I love how you reflect on semantics in this essay. The notion of a calling sounds so highfalutin and almost religious and as if we're being spoken to. But I don't know. I think you could define it as something that just feels right to you and something that you should be doing and that you fall into and you do not have as much deliberate choice in going into this field, but everything just feels right about it. Dr. Trisha Paul: I think that's exactly it. So I think it's just that you do not really question- for people who choose to do this work and to be with these patients and families, a lot of us from the time we arrive at the realization that this is what we want to do, we don't find ourselves really questioning it in a concrete sense because we understand it. It makes sense to us. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I think that's a great summary of that. It just makes sense to us. Dr. Trisha Paul: I think it's a mysterious idea to so many other people who don't do this work. And that's part of why it's interesting to a lot of people who just respond and say, "Oh, I can't imagine how you do this." Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it just feels as if we're contributing something so substantive to humanity by focusing on hematology, oncology, and particularly palliative care. I don't know about you, I do not know if you have children. I have certainly tried to impart to my children to do something meaningful, to do something that makes other people's lives better with whatever career they choose, because it's so meaningful not just to ourselves, but to other people. Dr. Trisha Paul: Mm hmm. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: We are talking about semantics. In your essay, you reflect on the notion of bereavement. Should we, as medical caregivers, cop to being bereaved, or are we misappropriating a word that really wholly belongs to close family members and friends of a person with cancer? Dr. Trisha Paul: Yes. And I think that this essay was me kind of struggling to wrap my mind around what this question means and kind of what my own reactions to this idea of what it would look like and feel like to call ourselves bereaved. And I don't have an answer to this question. I think it's a question that everyone in this work should consider and think about and what it means for them as an individual. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Are there patients you have lost whom you think about even one, two, three years later on a regular basis? Dr. Trisha Paul: Yes, I would definitely say so. I am early in my career, but I anticipate that that is kind of an essential way in which I do this work. It's part of my own practice, and it's dependent on each patient, but I find ways that I keep their legacy alive in my life. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. I thought a lot about your essay since I first read it, and I think it's okay to say that we grieve the loss of our patients. I think that is a form of bereavement. Dr. Trisha Paul: I think so too. I think that it was interesting to realize my own hesitation about specifically calling ourselves bereaved when we do, as clinicians, talk about grief and secondary grief and something about using the language of grief and grieving feels more appropriate and within our purview as clinicians. But something about specifically identifying as bereaved felt like a different step. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's closer, isn't it? I don't know, it feels like more of a personal relationship rather than a professional relationship to be bereaved. Dr. Trisha Paul: And I think that that's simultaneously terrifying and empowering as a way of acknowledging what the loss of a patient can do to us and also honoring the affection we have for people we care for. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I hope it's okay that we end on that phrase that you just said: It's both terrifying and empowering to admit to being bereaved and to feel that closeness to one of our patients. It has been such a pleasure to have Trisha Paul, who is an Assistant Professor in Pediatric Hematology, Oncology, and Palliative Care at the University of Rochester Medical Center to discuss her essay, "Are You Bereaved?" Trisha, thank you so much for submitting your article and for joining us today for this enlightening conversation. Dr. Trisha Paul: Thank you so much. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: If you have enjoyed this episode, consider sharing it with a friend or colleague or leave us a review. Your feedback and support helps us continue to have these important conversations. If you are 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 Cancer Stories. 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. Guest Bio: Dr Trisha Paul is an Assistant Professor in Pediatric Hematology/ Oncology and Palliative Care at University of Rochester Medical Center.

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. 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. Guest Bio: Dr. Alexis Drutchas is a palliative care physician at Dana Farber Cancer Institute.

Listen to JCO's Art of Oncology article, "Reflection" by Dr. Jamie Riches, who is an Assistant Professor at Columbia University and Director of the Hematology Oncology Hospitalist Service. The article is followed by an interview with Riches and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Riches shares a deeply personal narrative, reflecting on the profound personal and professional impact of losing her young family member to cancer, illuminating the intimate intersection of grief, loss, and healing. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Reflection, by Jaime C. Riches, DO If I stand this way, with my shoulders back, my chin lifted, if I hold my breath for a moment, my skin fits my bones just right. Each subtle motion is an effort to make my clavicle more prominent, to manifest my ribs. I feel so ignorant about beauty. I was at the side of her hospital bed as she uncovered herself and asked me to look away. Her eyes, glassy and hollow, met mine. "I'm so ugly right now." It's an interesting piece of practicing medicine, to be an observer of bodies, their look, their feel, and their function. Which lines are strength and which are fatigue…which ones are scars and how they have healed. My words were soft and aching, "You are beautiful" I said, knowing that her skin fits her bones too tight. They are almost all that's left. My 38-year-old cousin's oncologist is my colleague, my friend. When she was diagnosed, he reminded me that there were excellent treatments available. I reminded him that none of them would allow her to see her children start kindergarten. Redefining excellence, I thought, sounded like a cancer center's marketing strategy that just missed the mark. As I looked away, a piece of me splintered. It isn't the same when it's someone you know, when it's someone you love. Maybe I feel shame for underappreciating my own fertile marrow, my fat and muscle, and my own existence. Maybe it's guilt for dedicating my whole life to work that can't save her, for being the one to look her mother in the eye and say she can't be saved. Maybe, just sadness. This lonely world, that only exists right at the bedside, is like a magically devastating song and I am humming the rhythmic asynchrony of being a doctor, and just being. "From where do we yearn?," I wonder. It's from within these little spaces we look to fill the absence of something beautiful. The moments that we're longing to be a part of. We are all mothers—the seven of us now in her room, aunts and cousins united by a last name—by the successes and losses we previously thought unimaginable. We've known the brittle anticipation of a new life, the longing, the joy of spending time, and the sense of simply existing in these spaces. We are the daughters and sisters of firefighters. We are women who know the low bellow of the bagpipes, women who own "funeral clothes." We've tried to disinherit the same shades of blue, and all of our distance has brought us right here, where they're making her comfortable. She knows that her time has been spent. Her eyes are the color of her favorite flower, a yellow rose, and her once sterile room appears almost sunlight by the garden of bouquets. Her mother is sitting by her side, gently moving her fingers across what would be a hairline, the way you would touch a newborn in those moments when you're just realizing you didn't know you could love someone so much. There's a song running through my head, "Golden Slumbers" (The Beatles, Abbey Road, 1969). Even playing in my memory, it gives me chills, starting right beneath my jaw and circulating through my limbs. Once, there was a way To get back homeward Once, there was a way To get back home Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry And I will sing a lullaby Nothing illustrates the frailty of existence like a mother preparing for her inevitable goodbye. Once you see it, you can be certain that biology is imperfect. We're convinced that we're grieving throughout the whole of motherhood, as our babies become grown people of their own, as they live their lives. But it isn't grief. We're simply living a life that is singular, in a series of moments that are final. "Golden Slumbers" doesn't actually seem to end. It just subtly transforms into the next track as if they were one, and before the chills are fully absorbed, you're struck by something totally new…triumphant trumpets. When her breath stopped, it wasn't held. I don't think she realized the bravery it took to leave this world with such grace, to be unlonely. I've been witness to so many punctuated pulseless yawns, but not this one. I wish I knew by which of these wounds am I softened and by which I am hardened, but I don't. They heal, with secondary intention, naturally and slowly, from the inside out. 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. Today, I am so thrilled to be joined by Jamie Riches, who is Assistant Professor at Columbia University and Director of the Hematology Oncology Hospitalist Service. We'll be discussing her absolutely gorgeous article, "Reflection." At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Jamie, I want to thank you so much for contributing your essay to the Journal of Clinical Oncology, and welcome you to discuss your article. Jamie Riches: Thank you so much for having me. Mikkael Sekeres: I have to say, I was so moved by this and just loved the writing. I don't drop the 'G word', gorgeous, very often when describing pieces, but this was truly moving and truly lovely. Jamie Riches: Thank you. Thank you so much. It was a really deeply personal story to me. Mikkael Sekeres: So I wonder if you can tell us a little bit about yourself. Where are you from, and walk us through your career? For example, where did you do your training? Jamie Riches: Well, I am from Brooklyn, New York, and I did my training at an osteopathic medical school in Harlem called Touro, and my residency training at what used to be called St. Luke's-Roosevelt, and now is Mount Sinai West after many of the New York City mergers. I did a chief resident year at Memorial Sloan Kettering and started my oncology hospitalist career there for many years and have been at Columbia now for three years. Mikkael Sekeres: Wonderful. Isn't it interesting how the institutions of our youth are no longer, and that seems to happen at a faster and faster pace? Jamie Riches: I know. I feel the need to reference the old name sometimes when I'm discussing it. Mikkael Sekeres: Can you tell us a little bit about your own story as a writer? How long have you been writing reflective or narrative pieces? Jamie Riches: I have probably always been a jotter. I think that's for as long as I can remember, and I've enjoyed that process. And I think once I was an undergrad, I studied chemistry, I majored in chemistry, but I really filled up a bunch of elective time with writing classes and learning what I could about the processes of writing. And I guess almost 10 years ago now, I enrolled in the graduate certificate program in Narrative Medicine at Columbia. And that program helped me explore a little bit in terms of form and function and in terms of really relating my writing to my own personal experience as a physician. Mikkael Sekeres: And if I'm not mistaken, the field of narrative medicine was really in part born at Columbia, wasn't it? Jamie Riches: It was. Yeah. Rita Charon was the founder of the practice as a field, yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: And what was it that that experience- what did the formal training teach you that you couldn't have figured out on your own by the iterative process of reading and writing? Jamie Riches: I think there's something to having a group of people critiquing you that really allows you to become better in any field, in any practice. And I think there's something to having a, you know, a relatively safe space to explore different ways of doing something. For example, writing poetry, which I really hadn't done much of before and have done a bit of since. I think having a space where there are both educated critics and experts being able to look at your work and say, "This is working and this isn't," was really helpful for me. Mikkael Sekeres: You know, I've heard with writing, the notion that your first critics should be people you trust and feel as if you're in a safe space with because you're so vulnerable with writing. Even exposing it to relative strangers in a formal course can be, I don't want to use the word damaging, but I guess damaging, or at least get you out of a safe space that you need for writing. Do you have an inner circle that you trust for your writing? Jamie Riches: I do. I do. Mikkael Sekeres: If you feel comfortable doing so, can you tell us what prompted you to write this piece? Jamie Riches: This piece just sort of came out. This piece is real, and it's a real experience, and the processing of this experience has happened on so many different planes for me, and writing is really one of them. And once I sat down and said, "Let me write some of this down," it just kind of poured out. Mikkael Sekeres: Sometimes we write to process. I once heard somebody say that writing is the only time in life when you get a free redo, right, or a do over. We say something or we post something on social, and it's out there in the universe. But with writing, it's very personal, and we can look at a paragraph or a sentence and say, "Gee, that just doesn't feel right," and rework it if it's not communicating exactly what I was hoping it would. The other aspect of writing, of course, is that it allows us to ruminate on something that's just occurred and to try to make sense of it. Do you think that was some basis for writing this? Jamie Riches: I think so. And I think maybe just relating one really specific experience into the greater realm of the work that we do every day, and how that experience both stood on its own, but also is woven into so many other patient encounters and encounters with families. And that's a form of processing, I think, for sure. Mikkael Sekeres: Can you tell us in your own words about the main character in this piece and what was going on? Because you write it in a lovely way that allows the reader to discover what's transpiring gradually, but if you could tell us in your own words, who is this person? Jamie Riches: Yeah. So the person that I'm talking to in some parts of the story and talking about in much of the story is my cousin, Patrice, who was diagnosed with bladder cancer at 38 years old and who has had interactions with the medical field as a patient but is not a physician, is not a medical professional, and so had a lot of questions and a lot of trust and reliance on those of us in the family who had some medical knowledge and experience. And so I wound up being pretty intimately involved in her care as a family member, and that was really a fine line in a lot of ways because my friends and colleagues were the care team, and I was the family member. And many of us have been in that position in many different ways, but it's always a fine line. And she was young, and she was very positive throughout really the course of her illness. She had twins who were two years old at the time of her diagnosis. And I think, I'm a little bit speechless now, as you can see, I think she just was so incredibly graceful, and I think I used this word in the story, throughout the entirety of her illness, which included multiple lengthy hospitalizations where she had spent time away from her children. And I still don't know how she did it with the patience and the thoughtfulness and the love for everyone else that she did. Mikkael Sekeres: You really honor her in this piece and paint such a beautiful portrait of her. In the essay, you write, "It's an interesting piece of practicing medicine to be an observer of bodies, their look, their feel, their function. Which lines are strength and which are fatigue, which ones are scars and how they've healed." It's a beautiful couple of sentences. In this case, you aren't really playing the role of doctor, are you? Can you talk a little bit more about when that line's blurred between being a family member and and the practice of medicine when people are relying on you to help out with their medical care? Jamie Riches: Yeah, I think most of us know this gray area fairly well, and the gravity of the situation really dictates how blurry the line is. And it's true, I wasn't the doctor in this situation, and I had as much information about the scans and the clinical picture and the day to day trajectory and the lab results and the toxicity profiles and the data from the studies that the regimens were approved based on. And that made it impossible to step out of the doctor role or mentality, and I also wasn't making the formal recommendations by any means, but I think it's hard to sort of exempt yourself from that space once you're in it. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. I think we also sometimes don't realize how even the smallest contribution we have in advising somebody about their medical care becomes very, very meaningful and how much those words can have an effect on somebody. I recall my uncle was diagnosed with acute leukemia, so that's right in my bailiwick, of course. And I remember talking with him about transplant and being as neutral as humanly possible about whether he should proceed with the transplant given the characteristics of his leukemia. And months later, after he had gone through the transplant, he said, "You know, I went through this even though you really advised me not to." So as neutral and trying not to sway someone and giving advice as we are, people hear us differently. Did you find that also with your cousin? Jamie Riches: I did. I phoned into one of her oncologist appointments, and her oncologist, who I have to say is wonderful and who I have the utmost respect and really love for, who took great care in taking care of her, went through in detail everything they could about her disease and about treatment options and really explained everything, and took a minute and said, "Okay, do you have any questions?" And my cousin said, "No, whatever Jamie thinks." So I said, "Okay, well, we'll chat a little bit later." But that made me realize, which I think I just hadn't before, how much having an opinion matters. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, and that it's a gift to people when they can cede some of that decision making or some of that knowledge to somebody else and feel as if they don't have to take it on themselves. Jamie Riches: Yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: I want to read one other quote from your piece. I could just reread the whole piece, I enjoyed it so much and keep quoting it. You write, "We've known the brittle anticipation of a new life, the longing, the joy of spending time, the sense of simply existing in these spaces. We are the daughters and sisters of firefighters. We are women who know the low bellow of the bagpipes. Women who own funeral clothes." There's a lot that swims beneath the surface, I think, in that quote, that family members get together at births and deaths, that these become the occasions for the family to get together, that we put on uniforms for them, and that they happen frequently enough that we actually own the uniform to be part of them. Is that what defines us as families? Is that what we've come to? Or how about us as physicians? We own uniforms as physicians also. Are the gatherings, the only gatherings we have with our colleagues at tumor boards when we discuss successes and failures of our patients? Jamie Riches: That's a great question and a great reading, and thank you for these questions. I think every family is different, obviously, and I won't speak for the masses here, but there is a bit of a structure to the events that you're expected to attend and that you're expected to not be absent for, to sort of show up for. And those events are sort- you're right, you know, births and funerals and weddings, and they have a bit of a code to them. And as physicians, it's interesting to think about things like tumor board as the gathering spaces, because although as colleagues we're not families, we are the closest thing to going through some of these moments together. And I think these moments at the bedside, and I use that term so often because I work in the hospital, and I am literally often sitting in a hospital bed holding someone's hand, talking to them. Those are the moments that we feel. We feel them in our bodies. I can feel it right here, and I'm touching my chest when I say that. I don't get that same visceral feeling from looking at most scans, looking at most lab reports, or even having academic conversations with people. And I think that you're right, things like tumor board or even other academic conferences really are the gathering spaces for physicians, but that makes me question if those are the spaces that matter most. Mikkael Sekeres: I think that's a great point also to end our time together. It has been such a true, true pleasure to have Jamie Riches on our JCO Cancer Stories podcast to talk about her gorgeous piece, "Reflection." Dr. Riches is Assistant Professor at Columbia University and Director of the Hematology Oncology Hospitalist Service. Thank you so much again for submitting your piece to us. Jamie Riches: Thank you so much. Mikkael Sekeres: And thank you to our listeners for choosing JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. 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 have 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. 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. Guest Bio: Dr Jamie Riches is an Assistant Professor at Columbia University and Director of the Hematology Oncology Hospitalist Service.

Listen to JCO's Art of Oncology article, "A Fight Bigger Than Myeloma" by Dr. Adeel Khan, an Assistant Professor of Medicine and Public Health at UT Southwestern. The article is followed by an interview with Dr. Adeel Khan and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr. Khan shares the story of a patient whose multiple myeloma diagnosis and treatment serves as a reminder of the civil liberties progress we've made and that we have more to go. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: A Fighter Bigger Than Myeloma, by Adeel M. Khan, MD, MPH, MS I met her during the early part of my clinical training in hematology/oncology. She was in her late 70s, dressed in a rust-colored cardigan and a headwrap with patterns that reminded me of Ghanaian kente cloth. Her eyes were sharp, her tone polite but direct. You could tell from the moment she spoke that she had lived a life where she had to advocate—for herself, for her family, for her place in rooms that were not always welcoming. Her chart said "multiple myeloma, R-ISS II," but it did not say that she had first come to an emergency room at least a year earlier complaining of back pain and fatigue and had been told it was probably arthritis or old age. It did not mention that she had seen three different doctors before someone ordered the laboratory tests that finally began to work up her anemia and increasingly compromised kidney function. It would take another trio of doctors to eventually order a magnetic resonance imaging whose ghostly lytic lesions led down the path to a bone marrow biopsy and her cancer diagnosis. When I brought this up gently during one of our early appointments, she looked at me and said, "They don't hear pain the same when it comes from someone like me." As a Black woman from the Deep South, she had grown up learning how to navigate a health care system that did not always believe her. She told me stories about being dismissed, misdiagnosed, and interrupted. She was born into an era of structural violence where she would be ignored at best and mistreated at worst. She carried the weight of those moments, but she also carried strength, and clarity, and the kind of dignity that made people sit up straighter in their leather chairs when she entered the room. She was one of the most quietly revolutionary people I have ever known, having grown up during a time of civil rights activism. She had even taken part in bending Dr King's long arc of the moral universe toward justice and could share story upon story from her glory days. Her myeloma treatments were not easy. Chemotherapy rarely is. She shared that there were days when her body was tired of fighting, when her bones ached, her blood counts dropped, and her neuropathic pain throbbed. In the back of my mind, I thought how tragic it was that her delayed diagnosis added unnecessary complications and whether she too thought of that. She was fully mindful of the issues people with her skin color faced in our American healthcare system and society as a whole and revealed how that motivated her to carry forward. "If I don't take up space here," she told me once, "then someone else like me won't either." Over the course of our visits, I came to understand that she did not see her myeloma as the hardest fight of her life. Not by a long shot. Her primary struggle was centered on life in Birmingham in the 1950s where separate but equal was still the law of the land; her mother cleaned houses, her father worked odd jobs, and her own prospects were uncertain. She admired the writings of Richard Wright and Jean Toomer and was not shy in sharing her passions. One day, during a particularly tough visit—her disease had progressed and we were down to limited options—I found myself meandering. We went through the usual workup and discussions: laboratory test results, symptoms, and treatment options. I offered the prospect of clinical trials, but she shook her head gently and said, "I've done my time in experiments—I can't give myself to a system that gave my people so little." I paused. It was the first hint of what would become a larger conversation—not just about medicine, but about history. She was well aware of the atrocities of the Tuskegee syphilis trials in her home state, the Kligman experiments on incarcerated Black men, and the forced sterilization of women of color. As dependent upon medicine as she was in her old age, it carried a bloody stain of dehumanizing racism that soured her against it. Outwardly, I had little in common with her. As a young South Asian man growing up in times more conscious of racial injustice, I was far removed from these historical crimes. Although I learned of them during my education, I did not internalize their impact on the patients in front of me in clinic. But through her I came to comprehend just how scarring and enduring these events can be and how they can rob someone of trust. And the truth is the health care system had not treated her well. She had personal stories of doctors who did not believe her pain, nurses who assumed she was uneducated, and being passed over for better options, better care, and better answers. "But I kept showing up," she said. "Because that's what we do. We show up even when we're not wanted." Her stories to me were revelations. In her younger years, she had helped organize teachers at her school when they tried to fire a fellow Black teacher who seemingly spoke too loud in a meeting. She had lived through redlining, through the crack epidemic, through watching young Black men vanish into prisons, and still she rose every day and worked as a public school teacher for decades. She worked for a system that largely did not work for her. I came to admire that about her—that in simply living day-to-day life with plain dignity and acute awareness of society's issues, she promoted change by living it. "You want to talk about cancer?" she once said, half laughing. "Try walking into a bank in 1972 with a good credit score and a Black face. That's a disease this country still hasn't cured." Curiously, she did not say these things with bitterness. Not even anger, really. Just clarity. Like someone who had long ago made peace with the truth, even if it was sharp. In clinic, she challenged my every assumption—about treatment tolerance, about compliance, about who is difficult, and who is "advocating." And she taught me to look differently at the ways bias lingers in medicine. Not just in data or policies, but in subtle moments: the tone we use when explaining options, the hesitations in our tests and referrals, and the assumptions we may not even realize we are making. And she did not just expect good care—she demanded it. She told me early on, "Don't you treat me like I'm anything other than your mother." That landed. And in seeing patients before me now, I remind myself to wonder who they were in their past lives, what baggage burdens them, and how it all shapes their perspectives. So from my view, she fought multiple myeloma with everything she had, but from hers, she fought something bigger: an entire system shaped by inequality. And ultimately, she made me better to realize that, not just as a doctor, but as a human being. In my years since knowing her, completing my training, and beginning my practice, I reflect on her grace. I think not just about her life, but what it means to practice medicine in a world that often forgets what patients carry with them into the clinic—generations of weight, of injustice, of strength. 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. I am so happy that today we are joined by Adeel Khan, who's Assistant Professor of Medicine and Public Health at UT Southwestern in Dallas to talk about his Journal of Clinical Oncology article, "A Fight Bigger than Myeloma." Our guest's disclosures will be linked in the transcript. Adeel, thank you so much for contributing to JCO and for joining us to discuss your article. Adeel Khan: Thank you so much for having me. It's a pleasure to be here. Mikkael Sekeres: Adeel, I don't want to be disingenuous to our readers by acting as if we've just met. You and I have known each other for a decade since you were still in your training. I wonder if for our listeners you can tell us a little bit about yourself, where are you from and and walk us through your career so far. Adeel Khan: More than happy to. So, I grew up mostly in Oklahoma, but I've sort of lived around in the Northeast and here in the Southwest where I am currently. I did college at the University of Oklahoma. I did medical school at the University of Michigan. I did residency with good fortune at the Cleveland Clinic where I happened to get to know you and have continued to know you since. I did my fellowship then in hematology oncology at Beth Israel Deaconess in the Harvard system and along the way of all that I did a Masters of Public Health at Harvard and a Masters of Science and Epidemiology at Columbia, and that pinball finally settled here to UT Southwestern here in Dallas which I am very happy to make my second home. Mikkael Sekeres: That's great. I will say just for our listeners you've been a superstar since the moment you were a resident. It's been a real treat for me to get to know you over the years. Adeel Khan: Thank you so much. Mikkael Sekeres: Can you tell us a little bit about your own story as a writer? You're a good writer. We get submissions from some really good writers every single week. It's a real privilege to be an editor for the Art of Oncology section and it's always reinvigorating to me to see how many good writers there are in medicine. How did you start your journey as a writer and how long have you been writing reflective narrative pieces? Adeel Khan: I would say if I went back to let's say high school, you know, people tend to be divided into kind of like the sciency types versus the literary arts types and you're kind of an either/or, you know, you didn't really have as much crossover then. But you know, I actually didn't mind when we had an essay due and I liked writing back then, and when I entered college I did a minor in English because I actually did enjoy that and I just liked the idea of being able to put your thoughts on paper in a way immortalizing them. Adeel Khan: And then as I sort of pursuing medicine more and more, publishing is really- it has all kinds of flavors to it and scientific publishing is obviously what has been emphasized, but you know, there's so many things to talk about within medicine. There's the science and the art of the field, and as I've moved along, I've written different pieces focusing really on patient stories and interactions. And I think my motivation has always been that as I have gotten particularly nowadays increasingly busy, I've had the fortune and misfortune of becoming more and more busy, it's easy to lose the opportunity to really connect with people that makes what we do meaningful. And so in those times when you know, and they can be rare, but when you really get to connect with someone in front of you who you're helping to care for, it's really refreshing and it's rejuvenating and I've tried to keep that with me as long as I can as I've gone through my journey. Mikkael Sekeres: There's a lot of jumping off points from what you just said, Adeel. I wonder if I can start with do you consider yourself an English major who's good at science or do you consider yourself a scientist who's a good writer? Adeel Khan: I think I'm too humble to say either. I think I was really a science major who just happened to like writing and reading and kept that as a part of myself. Mikkael Sekeres: Because I think there are a cadre of doctors who are actually English majors and have learned to turn science into storytelling and that's their entrée into science and medicine. I remember I talked for a while with David Scadden about this. He's a brilliant translational scientist who's based at Mass General who also teaches a writing course to the Harvard undergrads and who was an English major when he was an undergrad at Case Western. We've talked about this, about how there are people, I'll include myself in this, who just think different, who probably have these liberal arts brains and they figured out a way to convert science into a way a liberal arts person can understand it. Adeel Khan: Yeah, I mean narrative medicine has been I think around all along and it has only kind of been recently named as a field, but I mean it very much speaks to that that there's so much more than just G proteins in medicine. Mikkael Sekeres: I'm thrilled to hear that by the way. You mentioned you were an English minor. Are there particular writers who are an influence on you or can you talk about what's the most recent book or article you've read? Adeel Khan: Oh, that is a great question. Paulo Coelho is someone I've liked for a long time, The Alchemist. I really liked it because I read it after I had lived in Egypt. I lived in Egypt between college and med school as a study abroad program, and I had actually been to the Faiyum Oasis where the protagonist in that story ends up. And so it was just a fascinating story to me that I could trace some of the steps that are discussed in the book and it's so much- it's a story about self discovery which at that phase of life that I was in was you know, very much a theme of my own life. And so that's one that definitely stands out in my head. Mikkael Sekeres: Do you think reading pieces outside of medicine makes you a better scientist? Adeel Khan: I think absolutely. I think it makes you a better human being. In some ways I lament that so much of what I do reading now is so much just about what's in the field, what's new in myeloma, what's new in hematology oncology and I sort of miss the escape to reading other things and being able to pursue it. And even broader than just what a novel really offers. I mean, I grew up reading comic books too and I've always loved superheroes and fiction whether it's Star Wars and other things. And really they're just stories and the medium- there might be connotations whether it's a comic book or a or a novel, but they're just different mediums, but the fact that they're just stories is fundamental. I actually think to myself that it's so fascinating that the earliest piece of writing that we've really retained as human beings is we believe, the Epic of Gilgamesh, which is really a story of a superhero when you think about it, you know, and it's it's fiction, it's phantasmic in so many ways. But it speaks to how stories are just vital as people. Mikkael Sekeres: And what is it about graphic novels or my kids now of course call them graphic novels. We're not allowed to call them comic books. Adeel Khan: As they've been renamed, yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: What is it about graphic novels or comic books or the story of a hero that appeals to us in medicine? Adeel Khan: I think it's in some ways a parable of what we're doing. There's something so powerful and fundamental about this idea of good-evil and we can rename it in different ways, but that you're trying to overcome something that's an issue, an obstacle. And when you think about what we do in- particularly in oncology, that's very much what we're trying to do. We're trying to overcome an illness, a disease, to try to help the person in front of us. And it has different aspects to it. It could be someone pursuing something in a lab, it can be treating someone in front of you in clinic, but that simple dichotomy of there's something good about what you're doing because there's something bad in front of you is just the fundamental that runs through it all. Mikkael Sekeres: It's fascinating. I wonder if 30, 40, 50 years ago people would have said, "Oh, it's because the doctor is the hero," but we don't view ourselves that way anymore. The patient is the hero. I love how you posit this as a good versus evil, the evil of course being cancer and the good everything that our patients do and that we try to to help to do to overcome that. Adeel Khan: For sure. Mikkael Sekeres: You wrote a really great essay about a woman who was a patient of yours. Can you tell me a little bit about what inspired you this time to make this connection and to write about this woman? Adeel Khan: Within the past year or so as I had been just really- the fortune and misfortune of getting busier, I lamented that I just wasn't able to spend as much time with patients in the way that I used to. One of the beauties of medical school and you know, to some degree residency and certainly fellowship is that you just have a little bit more time as a trainee, student and trainee where you can really bond with your patients I think a little bit more. And so in trying to kind of refresh my motivation, I was thinking about just kind of randomly some stories that I've kept in the back of my mind and this patient's story is one that stood out to me as I was recalling things. It was so fascinating to me because she had the disease which I now focus on. And the way that she viewed it and the way that she viewed it as a part of her life was just so different than what I think most people think of. And in that way it was very revitalizing that her focus in her life was part of a broader theme of the way that I think she viewed society. And this was just one piece of her own part of that much, much larger puzzle. Mikkael Sekeres: You really write lovingly about her and about how meaningful her context was in how you cared for her and what her experience was in the medical system. I wonder if I can read a little bit of what you wrote because it really did grab me as well. I'm going to start out by quoting you where you say, "Outwardly, I had little in common with her. As a young South Asian man growing up in times more conscious of racial injustice, I was far removed from these historical crimes. Though I learned of them during my education, I did not internalize their impact on the patients in front of me in clinic. But through her, I came to comprehend just how scarring and enduring these events can be and how they can rob someone of trust." Wow, there's a lot there. Could you start with what was your perspective as a young South Asian man growing up in Oklahoma and what your view was of racial injustice compared to what her experience was of racial injustice? Adeel Khan: Yeah, I have to admit I don't know that I thought that much of it back then and I think that that's part of what it is. You know, being someone who was South Asian, I'm Pakistani, I have Indian roots, and coming into American history and as we learned about it there's so much about slavery and the theme of slavery unfortunately and and the struggles that enslaved peoples have. And you know, as a relatively recent immigrant, I didn't see myself in that narrative. I didn't see myself in that historical reality. But I knew about it intellectually, you know, I knew about the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiments, you know, I learned about all these things and and you learned about how atrocious so much of it is. But again, not being so directly connected, I did not put myself in that same role as someone to view it so close to myself. I will say it hit a little bit more after 9/11 when you know, I was randomly stopped at airport security a little bit more often in those days and again, I think that speaks to racial injustices, you know, I was certainly profiled looking back then, I've been held by TSA in the past, but even that is very minor compared to what African Americans have dealt with here. And this patient in just kind of sharing her tidbits during our time together, I was not directly asking her so much of this. She was really offering a lot of it to me as we would talk and she would be very generous in sharing parts of her story. And over time I kind of understood the broader narrative of her life. You know, it was clear how much of all that was actually in the forefront of her head. Adeel Khan: And I think she might have been a little bit more unique in the way that she kept it there, but she was hyper vigilant of issues of society and the roots that brought a given society to where it is here. I kind of got to know her, this is during the COVID pandemic and this was after the injustice of what happened to George Floyd and so it was a theme that I think people were talking about more and so I think she felt comfortable in saying really what was quite a bit that was stewing in the back of her head seemingly at all times. Mikkael Sekeres: It's so interesting you talk about what you endured after 9/11 as being, I'm going to quote you now, "minor" compared to what she's been through, but even a minor affront like that can really compromise your trust. You write about her, "As a Black woman from the deep South, she had grown up learning how to navigate a healthcare system that did not always believe her." Can you expand on that a little bit? How is it that the healthcare system didn't believe her and what can we do going into interactions with patients from different backgrounds where we're incorporating that there's a compromise of trust and we have to make up for that? Adeel Khan: Yeah, and I think you know, it's so unfortunate that so many people have stories like this where, in her case really it was back pain that was her presenting symptom. This is long before she knew me. And she'd had the back pain for quite some time, but being an older woman, she was in her 70s at that time, she was not in phenomenal health for other reasons. It sounds like she was just kind of ignored, told that it was old age, tendon changes, she did not have meaningful imaging for some time. When she finally did after seeing a slew of different providers, that's when it was revealed like there's something more significant here. And then when you kind of piece that a little bit retrospectively and I think she certainly sensed this and I did when I- hindsight's always 20/20, when I looked through things, it's like, well, this probably could have been caught much earlier. It's just that no one really I think listened to what she was speaking to with her pain and the gravity that was actually behind it. And it just speaks to the fact that I think we have to be more thoughtful in what we take away from patients and not to ignore even small comments because they might be revealing of something much bigger behind them. Mikkael Sekeres: You quote her, you have some really great quotes in your essay where you just listen to what she says and transcribe it because what she says is very meaningful. And one of the quotes you provide from her is, "They don't hear pain the same when it comes from someone like me." Wow. "When it comes from someone like me," someone like her, how was it that people weren't hearing her description of pain, something that was different that was going on in her body and how can we be more attentive to people when they complain about things like pain? Adeel Khan: It's unfortunate that there's even known data to show how depending upon a patient's melanin content in their skin, how likely they are to get pain medications and what happens to them is different and this is an unfortunate example of that where I think she just wasn't heard properly. And so it wasn't addressed properly and she was not shy about saying that. I mean I think she sensed that. She was very clear in feeling that herself and in wanting to have better care, she was still prevented and hence why she had to go from provider to provider. Mikkael Sekeres: You've lived in a bunch of different places in the country. I mean, following your path, you've been in Oklahoma, you've been in Michigan, Ohio, Massachusetts, and now Texas. Do you think that we as providers have to have different levels of sensitivity depending on where in the country we're practicing and how some of our patients' trust in healthcare may have been compromised in those different parts of the country? Adeel Khan: I think absolutely. I mean this particular patient was from Alabama which has a heavy history that she was again very aware of and for those of us reading history books are also very aware of too. And it's interesting how, while the U.S. is in some ways- has some aspects that are monolithic, but it's very much not so. It's very patchy and people are different, you know, if I take one theme that we're talking about here is obviously racial injustice, but if you take something like obesity, you know, prevalence rates are very different throughout the country and attitudes surrounding it are also very different. And I think we do- ought to be mindful that in treating the patient in front of us, it's not done without context. And so how they view their illness and their situation is going to be different depending upon the state, depending upon the city, depending upon actually even the era that they grew up in. So I would say now, if you took actually a similar patient, but you put her in a very modern context post-year 2000, she's likely to have different feelings of the situation around her than someone who was born in this case in the 1940s. And that just speaks to the fact that circumstances change and we should be recognizing that as providers, even though it's not always easy to. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, it just emphasizes how very important it is to know the history of the place where we practice and how it's affected our patients' perceptions of healthcare and trust and being cared for, particularly now as there's such a movement to whitewash that history and eliminate it from major institutions like the Smithsonian. It has been such a pleasure to have Adeel Khan here. He is Assistant Professor of Medicine, Public Health at UT Southwestern in Dallas and wrote just a great JCO article called "A Fight Bigger Than Myeloma." Adeel, thank you so much for submitting your article and for joining us today. Dr. Adeel Khan: Thank you so much for having me. It's been a pleasure. 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 have 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 JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. 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. Guest Bio: Dr Adeel Khan is an Assistant Professor of Medicine and Public Health at UT Southwestern.

Listen to JCO Global Oncology's Art of Global Oncology article, "Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India" by Dr. Vangipuram Harshil Sai, who is a fourth semester medical student at All India Institute of Medical Sciences. The article is followed by an interview with Harshil Sai and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Sai shares his personal reflection of a visit which transformed into an education in silence, stigma, and the unseen aftermath of survivorship for young women in India. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India, Vangipuram, Harshil Sai A Summer Afternoon and A Story That Stayed The summer break of my fourth semester of medical school offered a fleeting reprieve from the relentless immersion in textbooks and caffeine-fueled study sessions. I had envisioned a few weeks of rest—a pause from the algorithms of diagnosis and the grind of multiple-choice questions that had become my daily rhythm. But one humid afternoon altered that plan. I accompanied my mother—a senior medical oncologist—to her clinic in a Tier 2 city in Southern India. Over the years, I had seen her not just as a clinician but as a quiet force of empathy. She was one of those remarkable physicians who listened not just to symptoms but also to stories. Her practice was rooted in presence, and her calm resilience often made my academic anxieties seem trivial. I settled into a corner chair in the waiting area, where the air was tinged with antiseptic and that uncomfortable waiting room stillness—an alert hush between uncertainty and news. Patients waited in quiet constellations: a man turning the same page of a newspaper, a teenage girl watching her intravenous drip as if it held answers, and a couple clasping hands without meeting eyes. It was in this atmosphere of suspended quiet that Aarthi entered. She was a young woman whose presence was composed yet tentative. Her story would become a quiet inflection point in my understanding of medicine. She was 24 years old, embodying the aspirations tied to a recent engagement. A postgraduate in English literature and a practicing psychologist; she carried herself with a rare blend of intellect, poise, and cultural grace that, in the eyes of many families, made her a deeply desirable bride. Her sari was immaculately draped, her posture measured and calm, yet in the way her fingers intertwined and her eyes briefly lowered, there was a trace of vulnerability—a shadow of the turmoil she carried within. She came alone that day, stepping into the waiting room with a composed demeanor that only hinted at the weight she bore in silence. What began as a day to observe became the beginning of something far more enduring: a glimpse into how healing extends beyond treatment—and how survival, though silent, often speaks the loudest. The Diagnosis That Changed the Wedding The consultation was precipitated by a clinical presentation of persistent neck fullness, low-grade fevers, and drenching night sweats, which had prompted a fine-needle aspiration before her visit. The atmosphere in the room held an implicit gravity, suggesting a moment of significant change. My mother, with her characteristic composure, initiated a diagnostic process with a positron emission tomography-computed tomography and biopsy. As usual, her steady presence provided reassurance amid the uncertainty. A week later, the diagnosis of classic Hodgkin lymphoma, stage IIB, was confirmed. Rapid initiation of ABVD chemotherapy would provide an almost certain pathway to remission and an excellent prognosis. Yet, this clinical assurance did not extend to personal tranquility. Aarthi made a deliberate choice to share the diagnosis with her fiancé—a considerate and empathetic individual from a well-regarded family. Their wedding preparations were already underway with gold reserves secured and a vibrant WhatsApp group of 83 members chronicling the countdown to their big day. Shortly thereafter, a prolonged silence settled, eventually broken by a call from a family member—not the fiancé—indicating that the family had decided to terminate the engagement because of apprehensions about future stability. The union dissolved without public discord, leaving Aarthi to navigate the subsequent journey independently. As expected, 6 months of chemotherapy culminated in a clean scan. Her physical health was restored, but an emotional chasm remained, unrecorded by clinical metrics. Yet beneath that silence was a quiet resilience—a strength that carried her through each cycle of treatment with a resolve as steady as any celebrated elsewhere. The regrowth of her hair prompted a conscious decision to trim it shorter, seemingly an assertion of autonomy. Her discourse on the illness shifted to the third person, suggesting a psychological distancing. Her reactions to inquiries about the terminated engagement were guarded. She would yield only a restrained smile, which intimated a multifaceted emotional response. Her remission was certain, yet the world she stepped back into was layered with quiet hurdles—social, cultural, and unseen—barriers far more intricate than the disease itself. Survivorship Without A Map In the weeks that followed Aarthi's diagnosis, I began to notice a quiet but consistent pattern in the oncology clinic—one that extended beyond medical recovery into the unspoken social aftermath. Among young, unmarried women in India, survivorship often came with a parallel challenge of navigating shifts in how they were perceived, particularly as marriage prospects. In Indian families where marital status is closely tied to stability and future security, a woman with a cancer history, even after complete remission, somehow came to be quietly perceived as less suitable. Proposals that had once moved forward with confidence were paused or reconsidered after disclosure. In some cases, financial discussions came with requests for additional support framed as reassurance rather than rejection. These changes were seldom explicit. Yet, across time, they pointed to a deeper uncertainty—about how survivorship fits into the expectations of traditional life scripts. For women like Aarthi, the narrative shifted toward caution. There were subtle inquiries about reproductive potential or disease recurrence and private deliberations over disclosure during matrimonial discussions, even within educated circles. Meanwhile, my observation of the disparity in how survivorship was interpreted across genders in our country left a profound mark on me. A 31-year-old male investment banker who had recovered from testicular cancer was hailed in local media as a testament to fortitude. Male patients seemed to gain social capital from their cancer journeys. This suggested a cultural framework where female value was quietly reassessed, influencing their post-treatment identity through unstated societal perceptions. Digital Ghosting and the New Untouchability Within the digital landscape of curated profiles and algorithmic matchmaking, the reassessment of female survivorship acquired a new dimension. In one instance, a sustained exchange of text messages ended abruptly following the mention of cancer remission. The final message remained unanswered. This form of silent disengagement—subtle, unspoken, and devoid of confrontation—highlighted how virtual spaces can compound post-treatment vulnerability. Designed to foster connection, these platforms sometimes amplified social distance, introducing a modern form of invisibility. Similar to employment status or religion, a cancer history has become another addition to a checklist used to evaluate compatibility. When Medicine Ends, but Society Does Not Begin As a medical student, I felt a growing discomfort. Our curriculum equips us to manage treatment protocols and survival metrics but rarely prepares us for the intangible burdens that persist after cure. What captures the weight of a canceled engagement? What framework supports the quiet reconstruction of identity after remission? Aarthi's path, echoed by many others, revealed a dissonance that medicine alone could not resolve. The challenge was not solely the illness but the reality that she was now unqualified to return to her normal life. Medicine delivers clean scans and structured follow-up, but social reintegration is less defined. In that space between biological recovery and social acceptance, cancer survivors often stand at the edge of wholeness—clinically well but navigating a quieter uncertainty. A Different Ending Two years later, Aarthi's journey took a quiet turn. At a spiritual retreat in Bengaluru, she met an ear, nose, and throat resident who had lost his father to lung cancer. Their connection, shaped by shared experiences, evolved into a partnership grounded in empathy and mutual respect. They married the following year. Their invitation carried a brief but powerful line: "Cancer Survivor. Love Thriver. Come celebrate both." Today, they comanage a private hospital in Hyderabad. Aarthi leads psycho-oncology services, whereas her partner performs surgeries. He often notes that her presence brings a calm to the clinic that no medication can replicate. Aarthi's journey continues to guide me as I progress through my medical training, reminding me that cure and closure often follow separate paths. Healing, I have come to understand, extends beyond the clinic. It often unfolds in quieter spaces where scans no longer guide us. The real curriculum in oncology lies not only in staging and response rates but in recognizing the many transitions—social, emotional, and cultural—that survivors must navigate long after treatment has concluded. Social stigma is often a second metastasis—undetectable by imaging but present in tone, hesitation, and traditions that quietly redefine survivorship. For many women of marriageable age, treatment marks not the end of struggle but the start of another kind of uncertainty. These survivors carry wounds that do not bleed. Yet, they persist, navigate, and redefine strength on their own terms. Aarthi's quiet resilience became a point of reckoning for me, not as a medical case, but as a guide. Her story is not one of illness alone, but of dignity quietly reclaimed. "Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."—Khalil Gibran. 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. In oncology, we often focus on treatment and a way to find a cure. But what about the expectations and challenges a patient may face from their diagnosis, and even discrimination, especially in different cultures? Today, we're going to examine that space with Harshil Vangipuram, a medical student from India whose JCO Global Oncology article, "Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India," touches on this complexity after treatment. Harshil, thank you for contributing to JCO Global Oncology and for joining us to discuss your article. Harshil Vangipuram: Thank you for having me, Dr. Sekeres. I was raised by a family of oncologists, my mother being a senior medical oncologist and father a senior radiation oncologist. I had exposure to contrasting worlds, which were resource constrained and a cutting edge technology world. And I have unfulfilled curiosity, and I'm still learning, forming ideals. I also see patients as my teachers, so I think that might be helpful. Mikkael Sekeres: Thank you so much for a little bit of that background. So, tell us a little bit about your journey through life so far. Where were you born and where did you do your education? Harshil Vangipuram: I was born in a state called Gujarat in the western part of India. My father got transferred to the southern part of India, so I did my education there. That's it, yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: Okay. That's enough. You're not that old. You haven't had the sort of training and final job that a lot of us have gone through. So, what about your story as a writer? How did you first get interested in writing, and how long have you been writing reflective or narrative pieces? Harshil Vangipuram: I read some books from Indian authors and from foreign, too. And they actually inspired me how patient care was being seen around globally. I always used to carry a hand note. I used to write what I used to see in the clinical postings here at AIIMS. And actually, journaling started as a stress relief for me, and slowly, after hearing patients' stories, it almost became an obligation to write about them. Mikkael Sekeres: Obligation, you use that word, which is such an interesting one. How did writing become an obligation? What did you feel obliged to do when writing about some of the patients you were seeing for the first time? Harshil Vangipuram: Many of them were having struggles which were not seen by everybody. And I got astonished by their confidence and resilience in those situations. So, I thought that I should write about them so that everybody knows about it. And these social stigmas were never talked by anyone around them. So, I felt that if I could voice them, others might eventually know about them. So, that's pretty much the reason I wrote. Mikkael Sekeres: It's so interesting. The people we meet every single day, particularly in hematology oncology, bring such fascinating backgrounds to us, and they're backgrounds that may be unfamiliar to us. And I think that as doctors and writers, we do often feel obliged to tell their stories from the mountaintops, to let other people in on some of the aspects of life and medical care that they're going through and just how inspiring some of these patients can be. Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah, yeah, very true. Very true. Mikkael Sekeres: You mentioned that your mom is a medical oncologist. What kind of influence did she have on your decision to enter medicine and perhaps your own specialty one day? Harshil Vangipuram: Observing my mother practice influenced a lot, and she taught me that medicine is not only about treating a patient, but also listening to their problems. It may be more present in the room. The textbooks I read didn't capture live experiences. I always thought that stories will stay with people longer than actual survival curves. Writing filled that gap between what I studied and what I felt in the OPD. Mikkael Sekeres: It's a great phrase you just whipped out. Patients' stories will stay with us longer than survival curves. Can you tell us a little bit about where her clinic is located? You said in southern India. Can you describe the types of patients she sees? Harshil Vangipuram: It's a small town called Nellore in Andhra Pradesh state. The patients are, most of the time, from a rural population where decisions are mostly family-driven and there's a tight community surveillance and the stigmas are more overt, too. A few of them can be from urban population also, but they have subtler discriminations towards stigmas. Mikkael Sekeres: Can you explain a little further what you mean by decisions are often family-driven? Harshil Vangipuram: If we take marriage, it is often seen as an alliance between two families that are trying to increase their social value, their economic status, and respect in the society. In arranged marriages, for suppose, it's basically driven between these concepts. Mikkael Sekeres: I don't know if it's too personal to ask, but are your parents in an arranged marriage? Harshil Vangipuram: No, not at all. Mikkael Sekeres: So not all the marriages in the clinic are arranged marriages. Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: You know, when you said that decisions are family-driven, you mentioned that people are in arranged marriages. And I wanted to talk a little bit about the stigma you highlight in your essay. I'll talk about that in a second. I thought you were going to go down a route about medical decisions being family-driven, meaning people have to support their families, and getting medical care is costly and takes time away from work, and that sometimes influences decisions about treating cancer. What examples have you seen of that in shadowing your mom? Harshil Vangipuram: I have seen patients who have Hodgkin's lymphoma, breast cancer, and ovarian cancer, who were in the age of 25 to 35, who were getting married. Many of them actually got their engagements broken. And many of them got rejected at matrimonial apps. Many of them also had been told to increase the dowry that is given actually in the form of financial security. Mikkael Sekeres: In your essay, you describe a woman who is engaged and who has a new diagnosis of Hodgkin lymphoma. Can you talk a little bit about the process of getting engaged and marrying in southern India? Harshil Vangipuram: We have the arranged marriage, love marriage, and hybrid, which is kind of arranged and kind of in love. Mostly, these problems really occur in arranged marriages. In love marriages, we don't see that that often because both are understanding about themselves and their families. And both families actually accept them both. Mikkael Sekeres: What's the process of going through an arranged marriage? What happens? Harshil Vangipuram: It can be through parents, relatives, or any known ones or through peers. We just find a man or woman who has a similar caste, who has a good financial income, and people who are respected by the society. And obviously, both the families should have aligned interests for them to accept the marriage. Mikkael Sekeres: About how often are marriages arranged and how often are they love marriages in southern India where you live? Harshil Vangipuram: Almost 90% of the marriages are arranged here. Mikkael Sekeres: Wow. So, your parents were unusual then for having a love marriage. Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: In your essay, you write, and I'm going to quote you now, "Among young, unmarried women in India, survivorship often came with a parallel challenge of navigating shifts in how they were perceived, particularly as marriage prospects. In Indian families where marital status is closely tied to stability and future security, a woman with a cancer history, even after complete remission, somehow came to be quietly perceived as less suitable." Wow, that's a really moving statement. I'm curious, what stories have you seen where, in your words, women became less suitable as a marriage prospect? Harshil Vangipuram: For women, the most important thing in a marriage is, what do you call, a family honor, fertility, and economic status in the community. So, after a long dose of chemo, many people think that people become infertile. In India, basically, we have many misconceptions and stigmas. So, people obviously think that people who have got cancer can spread it to their children or are infertile and are often excluded out of the society as a marriage prospect. Mikkael Sekeres: Gosh, that must be devastating. Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: Does the same occur for men? So, is it also true that if a man has cancer, that he is perceived as less fertile, or it may be perceived that he can pass the cancer on to children? Harshil Vangipuram: Here, after a man beats cancer, they start to celebrate it, like they have achieved something, and it's not like that for a woman. Mikkael Sekeres: In your essay, you do write about a happy ending for one woman. Can you tell us about that? Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah, a cancer survivor obviously met her true love of life in Bengaluru, who was an ENT resident then. And his father died from lung cancer. So obviously, he knew what it felt to beat cancer. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, he'd been through it himself. And the irony, of course, is that most cancer treatments that we give do not lead to infertility, so it's a complete misperception. Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah. Mikkael Sekeres: Tell us about your future. What are the next steps for you in your training and what do you hope to specialize in and practice? Harshil Vangipuram: Actually, I'm working on another paper which involves financial toxicity after treatment and post treatment depression. I think it would be completed in another year. And after that, after my med school is completed, I think I'm going to pursue oncology or hematology as my branch of interest. Mikkael Sekeres: Wonderful. It's thrilling to hear that somebody who is as sensitive to his patients and both their medical needs and their needs outside of medicine will be entering our field. It'll be great to know that you'll be taking care of our future patients. Harshil Vangipuram: The pleasure is all mine, sir. Mikkael Sekeres: Harshil Vangipuram, I want to thank you for choosing JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology and for submitting your great piece, "Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India" to JCO Global Oncology. To our listeners, 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 have these important conversations. If you're looking for more episodes, 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 from the Sylvester Cancer Center, University of Miami. Have a good day. 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. Guest Bio:Dr Vangipuram Harshil Sai is a fourth semester medical student at All India Institute of Medical Sciences. Additional Reading Impact of Gender of the Child on Health Care–Seeking Behavior of Caregivers of Childhood Patients With Cancer: A Mixed-Methods Study | JCO Global Oncology

Listen to ASCO's Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology article, "Brown Paper Bags" by Dr. Stephanie Graff, who is an Associate Professor of Medicine at Brown University and Director of Breast Oncology at Brown University Health in Providence Rhode Island. The article is followed by an interview with Graff and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Graff shares how she handled receiving a gift from a patient. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Brown Paper Bags, by Stephanie Graff, MD, FACP, FASCO Minor demographic features of the patients described have been altered to honor their privacy "Why are you being weird about opening the bag?" he asks. The gift that William brought me is still sitting on the edge of the clinic examination room counter, the proverbial elephant in the room. He presented it to me the moment I entered the examination room, excited as a child giving their first Christmas gift. I have demurred, stating I will open it later. I have tried to avoid opening the bag, explaining that I do not like opening gifts in front of people. William is as tenacious about me opening this gift right now as he is about facing his disease. I treat William for male breast cancer. I have always called him William because it is what the electronic medical record says as his preferred name. It is his first name, and when I verified on our first meeting what he preferred to be called, he said "William is fine," but just like the Sheryl Crow song says, "I'm sure it's Bill or Billy or Mack or Buddy." 1 William is electric. He lights up the examination room, engages my staff while playfully ribbing them, and has a laugh that reverberates down the hallway. He comes to each visit with a colorful story about the events that have transpired since our last appointment, vividly painting images of his children and grandchildren and his life outside the clinic walls. He swells with pride discussing his grown children like a new mother showing off photos of her baby. "Ryan just finished the most beautiful presentation deck for work. You should see it. Those slides! I bet he would show it to you." Ryan works in banking or finance or insurance—I cannot remember—but I confess I never took William up on the offer to see the slide deck. Abruptly, William stands up, moving faster than an elderly patient with metastatic cancer should be able to move. In a single swift movement, he grabs the brown paper bag from where I abandoned it on the counter and drops it in my lap. "Open it!" I sigh deeply, carefully unroll the top, and peek in. "I got those for the mister!" he exclaims. Inside is a bag of Werther's hard caramels. As relief floods me, I laugh a deep, slow laugh of appreciation for this 70-something man and his ability to brighten the world around him in the most surprising ways. During our last clinic visit, he told me hard caramels take the chemotaste out of his mouth, and I had confessed that my husband is also Werther's devotee, but prefers the soft chews. William made a case then and there for the hard caramels and told me I should try to get "Mr Dr Graff" to make the change. He approached the soft caramel versus hard caramel discussion with the intensity of a high school debate champion. Needless to say, the Graff household now alternates our caramels—enjoying both hard caramels and soft chews. "Seriously. What gives with you and the bag?" he probes again. I recognize that William is not going to let this go. He is too astute and persistent. So, I decided to tell him the whole truth about gifts from patients and brown paper bagsThat first year as an oncology fellow, after months on inpatient consults, I finally started outpatient clinics just as the holidays season began. The patients, many of whom had deep and long relationships with the attending oncologists—the same relationships I was eager to build, the relationships that drove me to oncology as a profession—brought in gift after gift, homemade cookies, handmade quilts, and jars of homemade jam. It was rarely something elaborate as the patients knew the faculty could not accept anything too over the top, but it often showed the same tender thoughtfulness that you show a dear friend or favorite relative. Their favorite coffee. A T-shirt of a favorite band. Or something jovial, like a rival sports team or college's coffee mug. It was during this time of the busy holidays, maybe the second week of December, in my own fellow's clinic, that one of my patients with solid tumor arrived with a small brown paper bag. He of course had synchronous primary malignancies that in no way aligned for a simple plan of care and was experiencing dreadful side effects, which seemed to be the way of fellow's clinic. I had been seeing him quite often, pouring every ounce of my nascent skills into trying to help him through his treatment. He handed me the bag, and in my enthusiasm and naivety and holiday spirit, I bubbled with excitement thinking "oh, he brought me a little gift!" But my own thoughts were pouring over him saying "I brought this in for you because…" and as he was saying the rest, I tore open the bag, all the while with my eyes on him as he spoke, and plunged my hand into the bag, grabbing the…what exactly…cloth something…to hear him saying…. "…because I wanted you to see how bad this diarrhea is! Pure liquid. Bloody. Constant. I can't even make it to the bathroom," he was saying. Yes. I was holding—in my bare hand—his soiled, blood-stained underwear. Merry Christmas. I have not excitedly torn open a mystery gift or plunged my hand into a bag since. This is not a lesson that took more than one time to learn. In retrospect, perhaps my patient did give me a tremendous gift that day. I was given a true under-standing of his side effects, of what it means to have grade 3 diarrhea, hemorrhoidal bleeding, and fecal incontinence. If there was any chance I did not believe patients before that day, I have always believed patients since—no need to bring me evidence in a little brown bag. Thanks. I'm good. By this point in my retelling of the story, William was nearly doubled-over in laughter, red-faced, and barely able to breathe or stay in his chair. Thus, our little ritual began. William continued to bring me gifts in brown paper bags at every visit for the rest of his time as my patient. Always small tokens. A pocket pack of Kleenex during cold season. A can ofsoup "to warm my hands," which are perpetually cold during physical examinations. A small handmade Christmas ornament. Sometimes, he would put a bag inside a bag, inside a bag…laughing like an evil super villain, while I nervously unpacked his brown paper bags of torture. William elected to go to hospice care appropriately, living a few months with a good quality of life with home hospice. A few weeks after his passing, his son arrived at the registration desk and asked to speak with me. When I went to the front of the clinic to invite him back, to hug him, and tell him how much his father mattered to all of us at the cancer center, he handed me a brown paper bag. "He insisted" was all William's son said. I opened it, genuinely concerned what I might find this time, nervously peeking into the bag. It was a copy of William's obituary, thanking the cancer center for all the care we had shown him and for inviting him to be part of our lives as much as we were a part of his. This is the greatest gift—the gift of impact. Of knowing my care mattered, of knowing we were truly on the same care team. I carry my patients and their families with me through life, recalling their anecdotes, wisdoms, and warnings at just the right moments. I save their precious words in a box of cards I keep at my desk. I also have a collection of hilarious, insightful, peculiar, and profound assortment of little gifts that made a patient think of me—a curio of curiosities, a microcosm of my career. I think this is why patients give these small tokens in the first place—to make tangible the gratitude, the emotion, and the bond that is ex-changed between the patient and the oncologist. In giving, we are connected. Gifts speak for us when the weight of emotion and the vulnerability of truth are too much. A gift says "you matter in my life" as much as a gift says "I want you to feel how life altering the diarrhea I have been experiencing at home has been." I have received both those gifts. They have changed me. So, I do not know—I am thinking maybe it is time I go back to plunging my hand straight in? Because in the end, somewhere down there at the bottom, that is where all the good stuff is hidden. 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 am your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I am Professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami. Today, I am so excited to be joined by Dr. Stephanie Graff, Associate Professor of Medicine at Brown University and Director of the Breast Oncology Program at Brown University Health in Providence, Rhode Island, to discuss her Journal of Clinical Oncology article, "Brown Paper Bags." Our guests' disclosures will be linked in the transcript. Stephanie, I am so excited to have you here. Welcome to our podcast, and thank you for joining us. Dr. Stephanie Graff: It is such an honor to be here and to discuss this with you. Mikkael Sekeres: Stephanie, I have to say, I feel like I know you so well because I have read your writing over years, and there is an intimacy to how you write and an honesty to it where I really feel as if we are sitting together over a table drinking an International House of Coffee mocha blend, talking about our recent trip to Paris. But I am not sure all of our listeners know you quite as well, so I am wondering if you can tell us a little bit about yourself. Dr. Stephanie Graff: Sure. So I am on the JCO Art of Oncology editorial board, and live in Providence. So you and I have many shared interests. I love to write and I love to read, and I think that how you described my writing reflects my communication. I think that I tend to be really honest and open with patients about, about everything, about both myself and their disease. And I think that that is really what you are capturing in my story writing. I am an avid reader. I read just nonstop and write a variety of different styles of writing. I have written several breast cancer related texts, obviously academic papers. I have confessed to you in the past that I write poetry, but it is for myself. It is very unlikely to end up in the pages of JCO. I like writing stories like this when I feel like a story has been percolating in my mind for a while. Mikkael Sekeres: Boy, there is a lot of jumping off points I want to take from what you just said, of course. Maybe we can start with your writing process. What triggers a story and how do you face the dreaded blank page? Dr. Stephanie Graff: I think it is different for different stories. Often, it is something that has been the struggle or the relived experience that I keep turning over. And I find that like when I am walking my dog in the morning or when I am running on the treadmill, that sometimes the same moments keep coming back up in my mind: a difficult patient encounter, a heartwarming patient encounter, a challenging conflict with a peer or colleague. Those are the things that I keep going back to. And I think that as I go back to it over time, I craft that narrative. And crafting the narrative is also what helps me work through the story and cement it as a lesson that I learned from or that becomes a memory that is important to me, and ultimately makes it easy to just sit down and write, which is often, I do just sit down and write the whole story and it comes out pretty much in the form I end up submitting. But I think that that is because I have spent so much pre-contemplative thought before I get to pen to paper. Sometimes it is, with this story, and I think I had said this in my original cover letter with "Brown Paper Bags," one of my nurses, my nurse practitioner, actually had gotten a gift from a patient that was actually wildly inappropriate for her, both as a gift from a patient and for her as an individual. And she had like brought it back to our shared workspace and was like, "Guys, like, what do I do with this?" And it prompted all of us to share our stories of like really fantastic things that patients have given us, really weird things that patients have given us, and just to end up laughing hysterically about the funny moments and getting a little teary-eyed thinking about the way that we hold on to some of those memories. Mikkael Sekeres: I love that whole description. First of all, starting with your writing process. I think we all come out of a room sometimes where we have been meeting with a person, and our stomach just turns. There is something that did not sit right with us about the interaction or there is something that was really special about the interaction. And I think if we are thoughtful people and thoughtful doctors, we ruminate over that for a while and think to ourselves, "What was it that was really special about that, that really worked that I can actually apply to other patients?" Or, "What was it that did not work, that something that went south where I probably need to change my behavior or change how I am entering an interaction so that does not happen again?" Dr. Stephanie Graff: Yeah, I think about it like those, you know, I am sure you have the same experience I do that a lot of your early childhood memories are actually photos of your early childhood that you can remember more clearly because you have the picture of them, and certainly the same is true for my own children. But I think that having that description, that powerful visual description of a photograph from a moment, helps you cement that memory and treasure it. And I think that the same is true with writing, that when we have an experience that if we are able to make it tangible, write about it, turn it into a song, turn it into a poem, turn it into a piece of art, whether that is, you know, an interpretive dance or a painting, whatever your expression is, that is going to be something that becomes a more concrete memory for you. And so regardless of whether it is a good memory or a bad memory, I think sometimes that that is how we learn and grow. Mikkael Sekeres: I think that is spot on. I believe there are some theories of memory also that talk about accessing the memory over and over again so that you do not lose it and you do not lose the connections to it. And those connections can be other memories or they can be anything that occurred with our five senses when the event actually occurred. Dr. Stephanie Graff: Yeah. That- so one of my favorite books is Audrey Niffenegger's book called The Time Traveler's Wife. Have you read that? It is- the gentleman has a, you know, genetic condition in the fictional book that makes him travel in time and he like leaves his body, his clothes are on the floor and travels back and he is drawn to moments that are important to him. So he is drawn back constantly to the moment he met his wife, he is drawn back constantly to the moment his parents died. And I think that that is true, right? Our memory takes us back to those really visceral, important moments over and over again. Mikkael Sekeres: So you mentioned before, one of the jumping off points I wanted to explore a little bit more was when someone gets an unusual gift and brings it back to the workroom and there is that moment when everyone looks at it and the person says exactly what you said, "What do I do with this?" Right? And it is interesting that it is even a question because sometimes there is a really weird gift and there are certain people who would just immediately put it in the trash, but as oncologists, we do not, do we? Dr. Stephanie Graff: No. Mikkael Sekeres: That is not an option, but we want to know what it is we can do with it. So I do not know if you can remember any particularly unusual gifts you received or your colleagues received during that conversation and then what do you do with them? Dr. Stephanie Graff: Yeah, I think that sometimes they are, I mean, honestly, like the truth is is that I have them, right? Like they are all over my life, these little trinkets and doodads, even to the point that sometimes I give gifts that are inspired by my patients, too. Like two Christmases ago, I gave all of my colleagues as their Christmas gift these blown glass octopuses because one of my patients was obsessed with octopi and it like had led to several conversations, and they have obviously eight arms, we all know that, but they have numerous hearts, they have this very complex, empathetic brain, they are thinking and feeling, very cool, cool animals if you really start to learn and read about them. And I really started to think both about how much we had all kind of rallied around this one patient and her unique love of octopi, but also like how much that animal represents what it means to practice team based care, to have this larger than life heart, to feel like you are more than one brain, like you have eight arms because you work with these really great people. So I wrote that much more eloquently than I am doing right now in a card for my team and gave them these glass octopuses for Christmas. And so, you know, I think that our patients, it is not always even a physical gift. Sometimes it is just sharing their stories that ends up staying with us. Mikkael Sekeres: And that must not have been that long after the documentary was released about the man who had this special relationship with an octopus as well. So do you save the gifts given to you by patients? Why or why not? Dr. Stephanie Graff: So, obviously we get a lot of things like food and we just eat that, right? I am sure your clinic is a collection of boxes of chocolates and, so in Rhode Island, there is a lot of Portuguese patients and so we get a lot of like Portuguese bread and things like that too, which is delicious. So we have all sorts of food all the time and that just gets eaten. I do save patients'- and I realize we are not on camera for our viewing audience, but I have bizarrely, so one patient gave me this red devil, which is amazing because Adriamycin, which is obviously a really common breast cancer drug, is called the "red devil." And this is kind of a famous folk art carving by Alexander Girard. I think the actual real one is in Philadelphia at their art museum, but she was like, "You gave me the red devil, so I am going to give you the red devil." And like, I think that is hilarious. Like, I will save that forever. But I have so many other patients that have given me like little angels because I like meant a lot to them or helped them through this difficult moment. And I have all of those things, right? And so I have this kind of funny little shelf of angels and devils in my office, which is, I think, amusing. And then, obviously I wrote about the brown paper bags. You know, that patient filled it with little things like butterscotches and a can of soup and an instant hot cocoa mix. It was stuff that like you can realistically use. It kind of comes and goes. It is not necessarily something that you have forever. I had all three of my children during my time, one in fellowship and two as a practicing oncologist, and I was practicing in the Midwest then. I have a wealth of absolutely gorgeous quilts, baby quilts, that were made by my patients for my kids. And I have saved every single one of those. I can tell you which patient made it for which child because those are just such heirlooms to me. Yeah, lots of really great things. I am curious about you. You have to have these treasures too in your life. Mikkael Sekeres: Oh, absolutely. Isn't it remarkable that people in the face of life threatening illnesses, and I probably have a patient population specializing in acute leukemia and myelodysplastic syndromes where their illness is often more acute than, than your typical patient in your patient population even, but even during those times, I am always so moved how people take the time to ask about us and want to know about our lives as physicians and take the time to give a gift. And sure, I have my own shelf of curios, I think that is how you refer to it in your essay, from patients and it is very meaningful. There was one patient I treated who was a baseball fan. We were both living in Cleveland at the time. I am a Yankees fan. Both my parents are from the Bronx, so they raised me the right way, of course, even though I was raised in Providence, Rhode Island. And she was a Red Sox fan, and every time she came to visit me, she would wear red socks. It became this ongoing joke. She would wear her red socks and I would remember to wear my Yankees socks. So when we reached the five year mark, she was cured of her leukemia, she gave me a framed box of red socks to hang up. So, yeah, we have these stories and they are immediately evocative of the person we took care of and built a relationship, hopefully a long term relationship with. Gift giving in oncology can be nuanced at times. Why do you think patients give gifts and why are they meaningful to us as caregivers? Dr. Stephanie Graff: I mean, I think that gift giving at its heart is sometimes just a more comfortable way to express emotion for so many patients, right? And humans, right? We give gifts to celebrate births, weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, major holidays, right, for our own friends and family. And so it makes sense that that cultural or social tradition exists where we give gifts to acknowledge and celebrate that someone is important and a part of our life. And so often, I think it is just a way for a patient to say, "You have been here for me, I see you, I see the work you do, I appreciate you." So it is a way to say thank you that to any individual patient feels bigger than just the words. Obviously, I want to say as- if any patient stumbles onto this podcast, just the words are more than enough and we do not even need that. Like it is my greatest honor to care for the patients that allow me to enter their lives and care for them. Like, I do not need them to tell me thank you. I certainly do not need them to give me a gift, but I think that is a big part of why patients do it. But I think another part of it is that in many ways, you know, we have all seen that when somebody is diagnosed with cancer, that they have this real reckoning with their family and friends where people that they thought were very good friends do not know how to show up for them. And so sometimes they see these shifting dynamics in their friend groups, especially maybe for our younger patients or mid aged patients that just their friends are so busy. There is lots that goes on, right, that I think that often the gift is saying, "Thank you for showing up." We were a constant in their life during that time and for many of my patients, they do not have that constancy from the other people in their life. And so again, if anyone stumbles onto this podcast and someone in your life that you love is diagnosed with cancer, the most important thing that any of us can do for someone battling a chronic illness is just show up. And I often tell people even uninvited, like, show up and offer to take their laundry back to your house, show up and drop off a meal because I think that the people saying, "Well, let me know what I can do," is not helpful because it is really awkward to tell people what to do when you are battling an illness. Mikkael Sekeres: That notion of presence is just so important and you enunciated it beautifully. When my patients say to me, "Oh, I want to get you something," I always respond the same way that you do. I always say, "Your good health is the greatest gift that I could hope for," and just the, just the words and the presence are enough. I wanted to end quoting you to yourself and asking you to reflect on it. You write, "I carry my patients and their families with me through life, recalling their anecdotes, wisdoms, and warnings at just the right moments." Stephanie, what are those moments when you lean on the anecdotes and wisdom of your patients? Dr. Stephanie Graff: Patients will say things to me about - oh gosh, I will get all teary thinking about it - you know, patients say things to me who are my, you know, stage four metastatic patients about what has mattered to them in life. And it makes it so easy for me to leave that thing undone and go home at the end of the day because none of them say, "It really mattered to me that I spent that extra hour at work or that I got that promotion or that raise." I am in the habit of, when I meet patients for the first time and they are at a visit with their husband or their wife or their partner, I will ask how long they have been together. And when patients tell me that it has been decades, 40, 50, 60 years, I will ask what the secret is, because I am at 17 years of marriage and I'd love to see 63, which is my record for a patient story. And my one patient during a visit, the wife and I were talking and I asked how long they had been married. We had already had a pretty long visit at that point when it came up, and the whole visit, the husband had just sat in the corner, very quiet, had not said a word. For all I know, he could have been nonverbal. And she said, "Oh, we have been married 60 years." And I said, "Oh my gosh, what is the secret?" And before she could even open her mouth, he goes, "Separate bathrooms." I think about it all the time. Like any time I am like annoyed with my husband getting ready in the morning, I am like, "Yep, separate bathrooms. It is the key to everything." Bringing those little moments, those little things that patients say to you that just pop back up into your mind are so wonderful. Like those rich little anecdotes that patients share with you are really things that stay with you long term. Mikkael Sekeres: So it does not surprise me, Stephanie, that you and I have settled on the same line of questioning with our patients. I wrote an Art of Oncology piece a few years ago called exactly that: "What I Learned About Love From My Patients," asking the exact same question. It was a fascinating exploration of long term marriage from people who say, "Oh, you have to have a sense of humor," which you always hear, to some things that were just brutally honest where somebody said, "Well, I could not find anybody better, so I just settled," right? Because they are in the oncologist's office and sometimes people will speak very dark truths in our clinics. But my favorites were always the people where I would ask them and the husband and wife would turn to each other and just hold hands and say, "I do not know, I just love her." And I always thought to myself, that is the marriage for me. Dr. Stephanie Graff: My husband and I trained together. He was a fellow when I was a resident. So we had one rotation together in our entire careers and it was in cardiology. Like he was like the fellow on cardiovascular ICU and I was the resident on cardiology. And the attending had been prodding this woman who had heart disease about how she needed to be more physically active and said something to the extent to the patient about how he could tell that she was more of a couch potato, that she really needed to get more active. Mind you, this is a long time ago. And her husband, I mean, they are older patients, her husband boldly interrupts the attending physician and says, "She may be a couch potato, but she is my sweet potato." And my husband and I every once in a while will quip, "Well, you are my sweet potato" to one another because we still, we both remembered that interaction all these years later. Like, that is love. I do not know what else is love if it is not fighting for your wife's honor by proclaiming her your 'sweet potato'. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, I cannot say just how much of a treat it has been to have you here, Stephanie. This has been Stephanie Graff, Associate Professor of Medicine at Brown University and Director of the Breast Oncology Program at Brown University Health in Providence, Rhode Island, discussing her Journal of Clinical Oncology article, "Brown Paper Bags." If you have enjoyed this episode, consider sharing it with a friend or colleague or leave us a review. Your feedback and support helps us continue to have these important conversations. If you are 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. Thank you 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. Show Notes: Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review. Guest Bio: Stephanie Graff, MD, FACP, FASCO is an Associate Professor of Medicine at Brown University and Director of Breast Oncology at Brown University Health in Providence Rhode Island Additional Reading: What My Patients Taught Me About Love, by Mikkael Sekeres

Listen to ASCO's JCO Oncology Practice Art of Oncology article, "No Versus Know: Patient Empowerment Through Shared Decision Making" by Dr. Beatrice Preti, who is an Assistant Professor at Emory University. The article is followed by an interview with Preti and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Preti explores the challenges which may prevent oncologists from fully engaging with patients during shared decision making. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: No Versus Know: Patient Empowerment Through Shared Decision Making, by Beatrice T.B. Preti, MD, MMed, FRCPC During a recent clinic, I saw three patients back-to-back, all from minority backgrounds, all referred for second opinions, all referenced in the notes for being different forms of difficult. Refused chemo, refused hospice, read one note. Refused surgery and chemo, read another, unsure about radiation. Yet, despite the documented refusals (I prefer the term, decline), they had come to my clinic for a reason. They were still seeking something. As an oncologist trained in a program with a strong emphasis on shared decision making between physician and patient, I approach such situations with curiosity. I consider optimal shared decision making a balance between the extremes of (1) providing a patient complete choice from a menu of treatment options, without physician input, and (2) indicating to a patient the best course of treatment, in the eyes of the physician.1 This is a balance between beneficence (which can often turn paternalistic) and patient autonomy and requires a carefully crafted art. Many of my consults start with an open question (Tell me about yourself…?), and we will examine goals, wishes, and values before ever touching on treatment options. This allows me to take the knowledge I have, and fit it within the scaffold of the patient in front of me. A patient emphasizing quantity of life at all costs and a patient emphasizing weekly fishing trips in their boat will receive the same treatment option lists, but with different emphases and discussions around each. Yet, many physicians find themselves tending toward paternalistic beneficence—logical, if we consider physicians to be compassionate individuals who want the best for their patients. All three patients I saw had been offered options that were medically appropriate, but declined them as they felt the options were not right for them. And all three patients I saw ended up selecting a presented option during our time together—not an option that would be considered the best or standard of care, or the most aggressive treatment, but an option that aligned most with their own goals, wishes, and values. This is of particular importance when caring for patients who harbor different cultural or religious views from our own; western medicine adopts many of its ideas and professional norms from certain mindsets and cultures which may not be the lenses through which our patients see the world. Even when a patient shares our personal cultural or religious background, they may still choose a path which differs from what we or our family might choose. It is vital to incorporate reflexivity in our practice, to be mindful of our own blinders, and to be open to different ways of seeing, thinking, and deciding. I will admit that, like many, I do struggle at times when a patient does not select the medically best treatment for themselves. But why? Do we fear legal repercussions or complaints down the road from not giving a patient the standard of care (often the strongest treatment available)? Do we struggle with moral distress when a patient makes a choice that we disagree with, based on values that we ourselves do not hold? Do we lack time in clinics to walk patients through different options, picking the method of counseling that allows the most efficiency in packed clinical systems? Is it too painful a reminder of our mortality to consider that, especially in the setting of terminally ill patients, aiming for anything other than a shot at the longest length of life might be a patient's preference? Or are we so burnt out from working in systems that deny us sufficient choice and autonomy (with regards to our own work, our own morals, and our own lives) that, under such repeated traumas, we lose touch with the idea of even having a choice? I have a number of patients in my clinic who transferred care after feeling caught between one (aggressive) treatment option and best supportive care alone. They come looking for options—an oral agent that allows them to travel, a targeted therapy that avoids immunosuppression, or a treatment that will be safe around dogs and small children. They are looking for someone to listen, to hold their hand, to fill in the gaps, as was told to me recently, and not skirt around the difficult conversations that both of us wish we did not have to have. Granted, some of the conversations are challenging—requests for ivermectin prescriptions, for example, or full resuscitation efforts patients with no foreseeable chance of recovery (from a medical standpoint) to allow for a possible divine miracle. However, in these cases, there are still goals, wishes and values—although ones that are not aligned with evidence-based medical practice that can be explored, even if they are challenging to navigate. As my clinic day went on, I spoke with my patients and their loved ones. One asked the difference between hospice and a funeral home, which explained their reluctance to pursue the former. Another asked for clarification of how one treatment can treat cancer in two different sites. And yet still another absorbed the information they requested and asked to come back another day to speak some more. All questions I have heard before and will continue to hear again. And again. There is no cure for many of the patients who enter my GI medical oncology clinic. But for fear, for confusion, perhaps there is. Cancer wreaks havoc on human lives. Plans go awry, dreams are shattered, and hopes are crushed. But we can afford some control—we can empower our patients back—by giving them choices. Sometimes, that choice is pitiful. Sometimes, it is an explanation why the most aggressive treatment option cannot be prescribed in good faith (performance status, bloodwork parametres), but it is a choice between a gentle treatment and no treatments. Sometimes it is a choice between home hospice and a hospice facility. I teach many of the learners who come through my clinic about the physician's toolbox, and the importance of cultivating the tools of one's specific specialty and area of work. For some (like surgeons), the tools are more tangible—physical skills, or even specific tools, like a particular scalpel or retractor. For others, like radiologists, it might be an ability—to recognize patterns, for example, or detect changes over time. For those of us in medical oncology, our toolbox can feel limiting at times. Although we have a handful of treatments tied to a specific disease site and histology, these often fall short of what we wish we could offer, especially when studies cite average survivals in months over years. But one of our most valuable tools—more valuable, I would argue, than any drug—is the communication we have with our patients, the way we can let them know that someone is there for them, that someone is here to listen, and that someone cares. Furthermore, the information we share—and the way we share it—has the potential to help shape the path that our patient's life will take moving forward—by empowering them with information to allow them to make the decisions best for them.2 Although having such conversations can be difficult and draining for the oncologist, they are a necessary and vital part of the job. My clinic team knows that we can have up to six, seven such conversations in the course of a half-day, and my clinic desk space is equipped for my between-patient routine of sips of tea and lo-fi beats, a precious few moments left undisturbed as much as possible to allow a bit of recharging. By finding a safe space where I can relax for a few moments, I can take care of myself, enabling me to give each of my patients the time and attention they need. When patients thank me after a long, difficult conversation, they are not thanking me for sharing devastating, life-altering news of metastatic cancer, prognoses in the order of months, or disease resistant to treatment. They are thanking me for listening, for caring, for seeing them as a person and affording the dignity of choice—autonomy. I have had patients make surprising decisions—opting for no treatment for locally-advanced cancers, or opting for gentle treatment when, medically, they could tolerate stronger. But by understanding their values, and listening to them as people, I can understand their choices, validate them, and help them along their journey in whatever way possible. Providing a choice affords a suffering human the right to define their path as long as they are able to. And we can give patients in such situations support and validation by being a guide during dark days and challenging times, remembering that medically best treatment is not always the best. When a patient says no to offered options, it does not (necessarily!) mean they are rejecting the expertise of the physician and care team. Rather, could it be a request to know more and work together with the team to find a strategy and solution which will be meaningful for them? 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. Today we're joined by Beatrice Preti, Assistant Professor at Emory University, Adjunct Professor at Western University, and PhD candidate with Maastricht University, to discuss her JCO Oncology Practice article, "No Versus Know: Patient Empowerment Through Shared Decision-Making." At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Beatrice, thank you so much for contributing to JCO Oncology Practice and for joining us to discuss your article. Beatrice Preti: Well, thank you so much for having me today. Mikkael Sekeres: It's an absolute treat. I was wondering if we could start with sort of a broad question. Can you tell us about yourself? What was your journey like that landed you where you are right now? Beatrice Preti: Oh goodness, that's a very loaded question. Well, I am originally from Canada. I did all my training in Canada at a couple of different schools, McMaster, Queens, Western University. Before medicine, I was always interested in the arts, always interested in writing, always interested in teaching. So that's something that's really, I guess, come forth throughout my medical practice. During my time at Western, I trained as a gastrointestinal medical oncologist, so that's my clinical practice. But on the side, as you've noted, I've done some work in medical education, got my Masters through Dundee, and now doing my PhD through Maastricht in the Netherlands, which I'm very excited about. Mikkael Sekeres: That's fantastic. What's your PhD in? Beatrice Preti: Health Professions Education. Mikkael Sekeres: Wonderful - can never get too much of that. And can I ask, are you at the stage now where you're developing a thesis and what's the topic? Beatrice Preti: Yeah, absolutely. So the program itself is almost exclusively research based. So I'm thinking of more of a social psychology side, looking at impression management and moral distress in medical trainees, and really along the continuum. So what we're looking at is when people act in ways or feel that they have to act in ways that aren't congruent with what they're feeling inside, why they're doing that and some of the moral tensions or the moral conflicts that go along with that. So a good example in medicine is when you're with a patient and you have to put on your professional face, but inside you might be squirming or you might be scared or worried or anxious or hungry, but you can't betray that with the patient because that would be unprofessional and also unfair to the patient. Mikkael Sekeres: Wow, that's absolutely fascinating. How does that change over the course of training? So how does it change from being a medical student to a resident or fellow to a junior faculty member? Beatrice Preti: So I'm only one year into the PhD, so I don't have all the information on this as yet. Mikkael Sekeres: You don't have all the answers yet? What are you talking about? Beatrice Preti: Yeah, they're telling me I have to finish the PhD to get all the answers, but I think that we certainly are seeing some kind of evolution, maybe both in the reasons why people are engaging in this impression management and the toll it takes on them as well. But stay tuned. It might take me a couple of years to answer that question in full. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, I just wonder as a, you know, as a medical student, we go into medical school often for reasons that are wonderful. I think almost every essay for somebody applying to medical school says something about wanting to help people, right? That's the basis for what draws us into medicine. And I wonder if our definition of what's morally right internally changes as we progress through our training. So something that would be an affront to our moral compass when we start as a medical student may not be such an affront later on when we're junior faculty. Beatrice Preti: Yes, definitely. And I think there's a lot of literature out there about coping in the medical profession because I think that by and large, especially in the lay community, so premedical students, for example, but even within our own profession as well, we don't really give enough credence to the impact a lot of the things that we do or witness have on us personally. That lack of insight doesn't allow us to explore coping mechanisms or at least think things through, and oftentimes what we're seeing is a survival instinct or a gut reaction kick in rather than something that we've carefully thought through and said, you know, "These situations are stressful for me, these situations are difficult. How can I cope? How can I make this more sustainable for me, knowing that this is an aspect of medicine that really isn't escapable." Mikkael Sekeres: What a fascinating topic and area to be studying. I can't wait for all of the findings you're going to have over the course of your career. But oncology is a field that's, of course, rife with these sorts of conflicts. Beatrice Preti: Yeah, definitely. Mikkael Sekeres: I'm curious if you can talk a little bit about your own story as a writer. You say you've always been a writer. How long have you been writing reflective pieces? Beatrice Preti: Oh, goodness. So there's certainly a difference between how long I've been writing reflective pieces and how long I've been writing good reflective pieces. I can vaguely remember, I think being perhaps 10 years old and writing in school one recess period, sort of both sides of a loose leaf piece of paper, some form of reflection that would have ended up straight in the rubbish bin. So that was probably when it started. Certainly in medical school, I published a fair bit of reflective writing, poetry. That continued through residency, now as a junior attending as well. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, you're excellent at it and I can't see any rubbish can that would accept your pieces for the future. If you feel comfortable doing so, can you tell us what prompted you to write this particular piece? Beatrice Preti: Yes. So this piece was written Friday night around 9:00, 10:00 at night, literally at the end of the clinic day that I described. Coming on the heels of talking about coping, I think for many people in medicine, writing is a coping mechanism and a coping strategy that can be quite fruitful and productive, especially when we compare it to other potential coping strategies. Sometimes it's certainly difficult to write about some of the things we see and certainly it's difficult sometimes to find the words. But on this particular night, the words came quite easily, probably because this is not an isolated incident, unfortunately, where we're seeing patients coming for second opinions or you're encountering patients or you're encountering people who you are not directly treating in your everyday life, who express frustrations with the health care system, who express frustrations with not feeling heard. I think all you have to do is open social media, Facebook, Reddit, and you'll see many, many examples of frustrated individuals who felt that they weren't heard. And on one hand, I'm not naive enough to think that I've never left a patient encounter and had that patient not feeling heard. I'm guilty of many of the same things. Sometimes it's nothing that we've done as physicians, it's just you don't develop a rapport with the patient, right? But it made me think and it made me wonder and question, why is there this mismatch? Why are there so many patients who come seeking someone who listens, seeking a solution or a treatment that is maybe not standard, but might be a better fit for them than the standard? As you know, oncology is very algorithmic, and certainly, as many of the the fellows and residents who come into my clinic learn, yes, there are guidelines and yes, there are beautiful flow charts that teach us if you have this cancer, here's the treatment. But for me, that's only half of the practice of oncology. That's the scientific side. We then have the art side, which involves speaking to people, listening to them, seeing them as people, and then trying to fit what we're able to do, the resources we have, with what the patient's goals are, with their wishes or desires are. Mikkael Sekeres: I completely agree with you. I think sometimes patients come to our clinics, to an examination room, and they look at it as a place to be heard, and sometimes a safe space. You'll notice that, if you've been practicing long enough, you'll have some couples who come in and one of our patients will say something and the partner will reflect and say, "Gee, I never heard you say that before. I never knew that." So if people are coming in expecting to be heard in a safe space, it's almost nowhere more important to do that when it comes to treating their cancer also. Beatrice Preti: Yes. And as I say again to many of our learners, different specialties have different tools to treat or help alleviate sickness, illness, and suffering. For example, a surgeon has quite literal tools. They have their hands, they have their eyes, they're cutting, they're performing procedures. By and large, especially in medical oncology, we are quite limited. Certainly I have medications and drugs that I can prescribe, but in the world of GI oncology, often these are not going to lead to a cure. We are talking about survival in the order of months, maybe a year or two if we're very lucky. So the tool that we have and really the biggest, best treatment that we can give to our patients is our words and our time, right? It's those conversations that you have in clinic that really have the therapeutic benefit or potential for someone who is faced with a terminal illness and a poor prognosis more so than any drug or chemotherapy that I can give as a physician. Mikkael Sekeres: I love the notion that our words and our time are our tools for practicing medicine. It's beautiful. You mentioned in your essay three patients who, quote, and you're very deliberate about using the quote, "refused" because it's a loaded term, "refused" recommended medical intervention such as chemotherapy or surgery. Can you tell us about one of them? Beatrice Preti: Ah, well, I would have to be quite vague. Mikkael Sekeres: Of course, respecting HIPAA, of course. We don't want to violate anything. Beatrice Preti: But I think that was another thing too on this day that struck me quite a bit that it was three patients back to back with very similar stories, that they had been seen at other hospitals, they had been seen by other physicians - in one case, I think a couple of different physicians - and had really been offered the choice of, "Here is the standard of care, here is what the guidelines suggest we do, or you can choose to do nothing." And certainly in the guidelines or in recommended treatment, you know, doublet chemotherapy, triplet therapy, whatever the case may be, this is what's recommended and this is what's standard. But for the patient in front of you, you know, whose goal may be to go to the beach for two months, right? "I don't want to be coming back and forth to the cancer center. Can I take a pill and maybe get blood work a few times while I'm there?" Or you have a patient who says, "You know, I tried the chemotherapy, I just can't do it. It's just too strong. And now they've told me I have to go to hospice if I'm not going to take the recommended treatment." While in the guideline this may be correct for this patient who's in front of you, there may be another option which is more, in quotes, "correct", because, is our goal to kill as many cancer cells as we can? Is our goal to shrink the cancer as much as we can? Is our goal even to eke out the maximum survival possible? As an oncologist, I would say no. Our goal is to try to line up what we can do, so the tools, the medications, the chemotherapies, the drugs that we do have in our tool kit, and the symptom medications as well, and line those up with what the patient's goals are, what the patient's wishes are. For many people, I find, when faced with a terminal illness, or faced with an illness with poor prognosis, their goal is not to eke out the last breath possible. They start to look at things like quality of life. They start to look at things like hobbies or travel or spending time with family. And oftentimes, the best way to facilitate that is not by doing the most aggressive treatment. Mikkael Sekeres: In my memory, you evoke an essay that was written for JCO's Art of Oncology by Tim Gilligan called "Knuckleheads" where he had a patient who was, big quotes, "refusing" chemotherapy for a curable cancer. And one of his colleagues referred to the patient as a knucklehead and they asked Tim to see the patient to try to suss out what was going on. And Tim, he used one of our tools. He talked to the person and it turns out he was a seasonal construction worker and it was summer and he was a single dad where the mother of his children wasn't involved in their care at all. And the only way he had to make money during the year was the work he did during the summer because he couldn't work in the winter. So for very primal reasons, he needed to keep working and couldn't take time to take chemotherapy. So they were able to negotiate a path forward that didn't compromise his health, but also didn't compromise his ability to make a living to support his family. But again, like you say, it's that people bring to these interactions stories that we can't even imagine that interfere with our recommendations for how they get cared for. Beatrice Preti: That's a beautiful example of something that I really do try to impress on my learners and my team in general. When someone comes to you and if a recommendation is made or even if they are skeptical about a certain treatment pathway, there is always a 'why'. One of the challenges and one of the things that comes with experience is trying to uncover or unveil what that 'why' is because unless you address it and address it head on, it's going to be very difficult to work with it, to work with the patient. So as you said, it's common people have family obligations, job obligations. Oftentimes as well, they have personal experience with certain treatments or certain conditions that they're worried about. Perhaps they had a loved one die on chemotherapy and they're worried about toxicities of chemo. And sometimes you can talk through those things. That needs to be considered, right? When we talk about shared decision-making, you, the patient, and it might be an experience that the patient has had as well that are all in the room that need to be taken into account. Mikkael Sekeres: You invoke the phrase "shared decision-making," which of course, you talk about in your essay. Can you define that for our listeners? What is shared decision-making? Beatrice Preti: Oh, goodness. There are different definitions of this and I am just cringing now because I know that my old teachers will not be happy regardless of what definition I choose. But for me, shared decision-making means that the decision of what to do next, treatment along the cancer journey, etc., is not decided by only one person. So it is not paternalism where I as the physician am making the decision. However, it's not the patient unilaterally making their own decision as well. It's a conversation that has to happen. And oftentimes when I'm counseling patients, I will write down what I see as potential treatment options for this patient and we will go through them one by one with pros and cons. This is usually after an initial bit where I get to know the patient, I ask them what's important to them, who's important in their life, what kind of things do they enjoy doing, and trying to weave that into the counseling and the discussion of the pros and cons. Ultimately, the patient does make the choice, but it's only after this kind of informed consent or this informative process, I guess, so to speak. And for me, that is shared decision-making where it's a conversation that results in the patient making a decision at the end. Mikkael Sekeres: You know, it's so funny you use the word 'conversation'. I was going to say that shared decision-making implies a conversation, which is one of the reasons I love it. It's not a monologue. It's not just us listening. It's a back and forth until you know, we figure each other out. Beatrice Preti: Yes. Mikkael Sekeres: I wonder if I could ask you one more question. In your essay, you ask the question, "Do we struggle with moral distress when a patient makes a choice that we disagree with based on values that we ourselves do not hold?" Do you think you can answer your own question? Beatrice Preti: So this is getting to my academic work, and my PhD work that we spoke a little bit about in the beginning. I think it's something that we need to be mindful of. Certainly in my training, certainly when I was less experienced, there would be a lot of moral distress because we are not all clones of each other. We are people, but we have our own beliefs, we have our own backgrounds, we have our own experiences. There are times when people, and not just in medicine, but certainly in medicine, certainly patients make decisions that I don't quite understand because they are so different from what I would make or what I would choose for myself or for a family member. On the flip side, I think I've gotten myself, and I've had enough experience at this point in my career, to be able to separate that and say, you know, "But this is someone who has clearly thought things through and based on their own world view, their own perspectives, their own life experiences, this is the choice that's best for them." And that's certainly something that I can support and I can work with a patient on. But it takes time, right? And it takes very deliberate thought, a lot of mindfulness, a lot of practice to be able to get to that point. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, I think that's a beautiful point to leave off with here. We've been talking to Beatrice Preti, who is an assistant professor at Emory University and an adjunct professor at Western University, and a PhD candidate with Maastricht University to discuss her JCO Oncology Practice article, "No Versus Know: Patient Empowerment Through Shared Decision-Making." Beatrice, thank you so much for joining me today. Beatrice Preti: Absolutely. Mikkael Sekeres: If you've enjoyed this episode, consider sharing it with a friend or a colleague or leave us a review. Your feedback and support helps us continue to have 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 JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. 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. Guest Bio: Dr Beatrice Preti is an Assistant Professor at Emory University Additional Material: Knuckleheads, by Dr Timothy Gilligan and accompanied podcast episode.

Listen to Journal of Clinical Oncology's Art of Oncology poem, "Transcription: Phone Call, 2018" by Elane Kim, a student at Harvard College. The poem is followed by an interview with Kim and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Kim shares her poem that lingers in the spaces between words; a mother and daughter navigating illness and memory. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: Transcription: Phone Call, 2018, by Elane Kim Spiculated mass, irregular contours. Can you come to translate these words? Something in the lung. Yes, I am eating well. Birds, green ones, are nesting outside the window. Singing as if they aren't young but dying. Lately, I have been singing. Since we last spoke, the snow has melted into pearls. Rare and pale, glittering like it's the last time you'll ever see it. Will you come see it? In Korea, we say magpies bring good luck. I dreamt of one the last night I slept well. Though you are my daughter, I feel like a child. In our language, the word for cancer comes from the character for mouth. The fruit you bought is too tough to swallow. The cough is worse in the mornings and after rain. When you were younger, you loved the rain. If I could do anything, I would like to see the snow. To see it for the first time again, the cold a shivering afterthought. Time passes in pieces: one appointment, then the next. Monday, can you ask the doctor about the prescription? Will it be stronger? Every new day is an empty one. No appetite. No warmth. I hope I did not give you a rotten body, my body. Will I be stronger? I feel a shattering inside. Hello? You are breaking up. Remember to eat well, daughter. Remember to call home. 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 are joined by Elane Kim, a student at Harvard College. In this episode, we will be discussing her Art of Oncology poem, "Transcription: Phone Call 2018." At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Elane, what a joy to have you on our podcast. Welcome and thank you for joining us. Elane Kim: Thank you so much for having me - very excited. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So am I actually. Elane, I was wondering, I think you may be one of the youngest authors we've accepted a piece from. You had an absolutely gorgeous poem that you submitted to us and we were so thrilled that you chose us for your submission and ultimately that we were able to publish it. Elane Kim: Oh, that's so exciting. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So, can we start out with just kind of some general questions about you? Can you tell us about yourself? Where are you from? And walk us through how you reached this point in your career. Elane Kim: I'm originally from California, but I moved to the East Coast for college and I'm also a writer. I love to write fiction and poetry. When I first started writing, I wrote for fun for a really long time, but I started to kind of take it seriously in middle school because I went to this one slam poetry event and I remember I went home and I told my mom, "I am going to be a poet." And so ever since then, I've been writing poetry and it's been really awesome for me because it's my way of expressing myself and translating my world into words and having a space where I'm able to experiment fearlessly. So I love to write and it's been a journey for me because I started publishing little poems here and there. And now my debut full length is coming out early next year with a small and lovely press. So I'm very excited and also honored to be on this podcast with you. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Elane, I can tell you as a parent of a daughter who's a rising senior in college, it's every parent's dream when your child comes home and says, "I want to be a poet." So the question I wanted to ask is, are you a writer who dipped her toe into medicine or are you an aspiring doctor who dipped her toe into writing? Elane Kim: Oh my gosh, it's hard to say. I really love science, but I also really love writing. So I think maybe it comes from a place of wanting to do both because I also think that, I don't know, I really, really admire doctors for everything they do because from everything I've seen, I feel like medicine is a place where I think you need to have very deep empathy in order to proceed. So I also think writing is a place where you need empathy and so I think maybe a little bit of both. It's sort of hard for me to see which angle. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: That's okay. You still have a couple years in college and, of course, the rest of your life to figure that out. But I think you're right. We obviously meet a lot of doctors who are writers. That's probably the main phenotype of the sort of person who submits something to the Art of Oncology at JCO. But I've always felt there's a lot of overlap between the two because inherently medicine is about storytelling. A patient comes to us with a story of illness. We tell that story to ourselves, to our colleagues when we're getting consults, and eventually we're trying to find the denouement of that story, where we have an answer for the story of illness. So I think it's great that you're still open to both aspects of this, writing and medicine, and I completely agree with you. I do think there's a lot of overlap between the two. Elane Kim: I think that's really beautiful. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Tell us about your journey as a writer then. So you talked about going to a poetry slam, but of course, you had to have gone there with a piece of poetry to participate. So when did you start writing poetry? Elane Kim: I always wrote poetry for fun. I loved making cards and stuff for my parents and my family for every little event. So I was my own like Hallmark factory. So I used to write really silly things and so whenever like people wanted cards or anything, I always had a poem ready. But then I started taking it seriously after this slam poetry event. I feel like slam poetry is very rooted in emotion and performance. And so all the poets there are so awesome and they really like are able to get into character and share their story in a very like raw way, which I thought was so, so awesome. And it was sort of the first time I had seen poetry as less of a vehicle for like a Valentine's Day joke or something and more of an actual story with like a punchline with a lot of character and individuality. And so that was sort of a space where I saw all these poets who were so excited about what they were doing and able to tell a story about something bigger than themselves. And so I think that was kind of a turning point and little middle school me, I was like, "This is totally what I want to do and totally something I want to pursue." And although I no longer am like strictly in the spoken word space, I still think every single poem should be read aloud and should be shared with people in a space where everyone's listening and everyone's able to gain something new from it. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's beautifully stated. And you know, that notion of reading words aloud is so important and that's advice that I give to some of my mentees even in scientific writing. As they're moving along, I'll actually say to them, "Okay, now read that paragraph or those sentences out loud and tell me if they make sense." And as they're reading them, they'll often realize, "Wait a second, it's constructed the wrong way. And I'm burying the lead or the grammar doesn't quite work out." And they rewrite it. So I love the fact that you talk about writing as something that should be read out loud. I think that's true whether you're writing creatively with poems or narrative pieces or even in scientific writing. Can you tell us what prompted you to write "Transcription: Phone Call 2018?" Elane Kim: Kind of like the title suggests, I wrote this poem after I had a phone call with a loved one that really stayed with me because I think there were a lot of, I guess, distances that were traversed through that phone call and it was a little bit more about what was left unsaid as opposed to what was said. So the poem is- it kind of addresses this, but there are language barriers, generational gaps, and also like the weight of illness that's bearing on this conversation that sort of bleeds into everyday life. And so I was thinking a little bit about how people can often carry conversations across physical distance and also emotional distance, especially in immigrant families, for example, where a lot of the times communication is something more emotional or cultural rather than something that's, you know, said through sentences. And so I think that the poem is both like a literal transcription of a phone call that's like spliced up, but also maybe like an emotional transcription where we're trying to preserve this moment of love and tenderness between a mother and a daughter. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's really a terrific piece. I keep saying this over and over again. You captured so much in so few words, which of course, is the goal of poetry. One of the things that I loved about your poem is how you captured the fractured nature of phone calls, particularly if you're hearing bits and pieces on either side of the phone call. You start the poem focusing on otherness. I mean, right out of the gates, on being an outsider. Your first line is "Spiculated mass, irregular contours," which is some of our medical speak. And then the next line immediately says, "Can you translate these words?" You're already saying the person, the character who's speaking that line doesn't get it, right? It doesn't make sense to them. They need help in figuring it out. Can you talk about this from the perspective of coming from another country or culture and as a neophyte to medical terminology? Elane Kim: Definitely. It's so awesome that you're able to notice all these small details and everything. That's so awesome. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's a testimony to your writing. You're a great writer. Elane Kim: That's so kind of you, but I'm very excited to get to talk about all this. Yeah, like you said, there's like an insider/outsider dynamic. I guess as somebody who might be new to this country, there's also somebody who's new to medicine and how there can be a lot of barriers there where if you don't have somebody who's acting as somebody who can be in both worlds at once and translate these things, then you're sort of left in the dark. And I think the role of translator is very important here because you're not totally in one world or the other. You're kind of this floating being who is in charge of traversing both worlds and bringing, in this case, the mother from one to the next. But because of this, I think that sort of suggests that the person who is receiving the phone call is not totally comfortable in one world or the other world. They're sort of playing this mediator role. And I think that also maybe speaks to belonging in this poem as well. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. It really emphasizes how critical it is, particularly with serious diagnoses in medicine like cancer, that people bring with them another set of ears, or sometimes we'll joke and we'll say they bring an ectopic brain with them, someone else who can listen because it's not only the medical terminology that people trip over, but like you say, it's the emotions of the diagnosis and how receptive people are to the information. So they need somebody else there as another source of truth and another advocate to ask the right questions and also make sure that what the patient is hearing is what's being said and vice versa. So, are there poets who've been particular influences on you and if I could ask, who and how? Elane Kim: When I was first starting out, I really appreciated slam poets and I still do. I love slam poets. I remember I would go home and watch YouTube videos like over and over of these poets performing their work. For example, I really love Sarah Kay. I also really love Hieu Minh Nguyen. Both of them, oh my gosh, so, so awesome. And I think they bring a lot of, especially Sarah Kay, she brings a lot of whimsy into her work and also a lot of naturalistic references and also like scientific references that you wouldn't necessarily expect. Like, she has this one poem about these birds called starlings and when they fly together, they fly in the big shape of another starling, which is really fascinating, but also very poetic. I listened to that. I was like, "Wait, that is so awesome that nature knows to do that." So things like that, I think I take a lot of inspiration from whenever there's something I learn about in, say, like my bio class. I'm like, "Write that down, write that down." Because I'm like, "Oh, that could be something I put in my next poem." But I also really love a lot of Asian and Asian American writers who have been big inspirations to me. I really love Jenny Xie. She has a collection called Eye Level, which blows me away every time I see a poem from it. I also love Chen Chen. He has this one poem, "When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities," and I love that poem. It was one of the first poems I really fell in love with. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: You've given me and our listeners a list of people to look up and to read. It's great. I'm curious about your writing process. What triggers a poem and how do you face the dreaded blank page on your computer? Elane Kim: So the way you avoid that is you never have it for too long. My method of writing, tried and true, is I have this one document where I collect everything and it's like my scraps and even the most random, like, 'this would never go in a poem' random like throwaway lines, I put them all in one ginormous document. I don't know what I'm going to do if I lose access to it, to be honest, because it's like many, many pages. Basically, I just collect everything there. Like I will be in class and I will hear someone say something that's like just in a conversation, but I'm like, "Wait, that's kind of poetic." And I write it down or like walking down the street and I'm looking at the water. I'm like, "Huh, that water looks a lot like this." And I write that down. And so I have this huge, huge running document that has all these random lines. And so for me, I think writing is less about going into a document and like just type, type, type, type. It's more about for me like, how can I take these fragments and put them into a story? Like these random fragments. How can I tell a story out of these pieces that seem disparate initially? For me, I don't have a blank page for too long. My issue is like, how can I make this random mess of words into something that actually tells a story? But I think that's the most fun part of writing also is like putting together this puzzle. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I have to say it's also the most fun part of medicine. We're handed chaos in oncology and we're asked to put it together into a story and hopefully a story with a happy ending. So that's great. Elane Kim: I love that. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So you're welcome to write that down in your scraps. Elane Kim: Oh my gosh, it's going in there. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So, I wanted to end by actually quoting the end of your poem, which was amazing. And the poem reads like this and one of the characters says, "I feel a shattering inside. Hello? You're breaking up. Remember to eat well, daughter. Remember to call home." And it's a marvelous, marvelously unsettling ending where both the phone call and the character are breaking up, while the character maintains her concern for her daughter. Do you think she's retaining some control of a cancer that obviously has gone beyond her control by expressing her maternal concerns about her daughter's welfare? Elane Kim: Definitely. I think this poem is a lot about how the mother experiences this loss of control. I think there's a moment where the mother and daughter sort of switch roles during the process of her care. She talks about how she starts to feel like a child again or she starts to feel less like a mother and more like the daughter. But I think at the end of the day, the way she expresses her care for her daughter is the way that she always has through like these small gestures. No matter how sick she is, her first concern is always her daughter and whether, you know, she's getting her meals in and just hearing her voice over the phone is something that she looks forward to. And so I think being able to like put somebody else above yourself even when your body is at its most sick is something that, I don't know, I think I find it very sad, but also I think a lot of mothers would also relate to putting your child above other things in moments of illness. And so I think it's a very poignant moment, but also, yeah, one that kind of rings true. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's a poignant moment in an extremely poignant poem and beautifully written. We've been talking to Elane Kim about her poem, "Transcription: Phone Call 2018." Elane, I want to thank you so much for joining us today. You are so incredibly accomplished and I can't wait to read all of your future pieces as well. Elane Kim: Oh, thank you so much. Narrator: 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 or follow us 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, thanks 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: Elane Kim is a student at Harvard College.

Listen to ASCO's Journal of Clinical Oncology Art of Oncology article, "A Whipple of Choice" by Dr. Carl Forsberg, who is an Assistant Professor of Strategy and History at Air Force War College. The article is followed by an interview with Forsberg and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr Forsberg shares his experience with an uncommon cancer treated by a new therapy for which no directly relevant data were available. Transcript Narrator: A Whipple of Choice, by C. W. Forsberg, PDH I sat across from a hepatobiliary surgeon on a gray October afternoon. "To be frank," he told me, "we don't know what to recommend in your case. So we default to being conservative. That means a Whipple surgery, even though there are no data showing it will improve your outcome." The assessment surprised me, diverging from my expectation that doctors provide clear recommendations. Yet the surgeon's willingness to structure our conversation around the ambiguity of the case was immensely clarifying. With a few words he cut through the frustrations that had characterized previous discussions with other physicians. I grasped that with an uncommon cancer treated by a novel therapy with no directly relevant data, I faced a radical choice. My situation that afternoon was worlds away from where I was 5 months earlier, when I was diagnosed with presumed pancreatic cancer at the age of 35. An early scan was suspicious for peritoneal metastasis. The implications seemed obvious. I prepared myself for the inevitable, facing my fate stoically except in those moments when I lingered next to my young son and daughter as they drifted to sleep. Contemplating my death when they were still so vulnerable, I wept. Then the specter of death retreated. Further tests revealed no metastasis. New doctors believed the tumor was duodenal and not pancreatic. More importantly, the tumor tested as deficient mismatch repair (dMMR), predictable in a Lynch syndrome carrier like me. In the 7 years since I was treated for an earlier colon cancer, immune checkpoint inhibitor (ICI) immunotherapy had revolutionized treatment of dMMR and high microsatellite instability tumors. One oncologist walked me through a series of recent studies that showed extraordinary responses to ICI therapy in locally advanced colon and rectal tumors with these biomarkers.1-4 He expressed optimism that my cancer could have a similar response. I embarked on a 24-week course of nivolumab and ipilimumab. After 6 weeks of therapy, a computed tomography (CT) scan showed a significant reduction in tumor size. My health rebounded as the tumor receded. This miraculous escape, however, was bound by the specter of a Whipple surgery, vaguely promised 6 months into my treatment. At the internationally renowned center where I was diagnosed and began treatment with astonishing efficiency, neither oncologists nor surgeons entertained the possibility of a surgery-sparing approach. "In a young, healthy patient like you we would absolutely recommend a Whipple," my first oncologist told me. A second oncologist repeated that assessment. When asked if immunotherapy could provide a definitive cure, he replied that "if the tumor disappeared we could have that conversation." My charismatic surgeon exuded confidence that I would sail through the procedure: "You are in excellent health and fitness—it will be a delicious surgery for me." Momentum carried me forward in the belief that surgery was out of my hands. Four months into treatment, I was jolted into the realization that a Whipple was a choice. I transferred my infusions to a cancer center nearer my home, where I saw a third oncologist, who was nearly my age. On a sunny afternoon, 2 months into our relationship, he suggested I think about a watch-and-wait approach that continued ICI therapy with the aim of avoiding surgery. "Is that an option?" I asked, taken aback. "This is a life-changing surgery," he responded. "You should consider it." He arranged a meeting for me with his colleague, the hepatobiliary surgeon who clarified that "there are no data showing that surgery will improve your outcome." How should patients and physicians make decisions in the absence of data? My previous experience with cancer offered little help. When I was diagnosed with colon cancer at the age of 28, doctors made clear recommendations based on clear evidence. I marched through surgery and never second-guessed my choices. A watch-and-wait approach made sense to me based on theory and extrapolation. Could duodenal tumors treated by ICIs behave that differently from colorectal cancers, for which data existed to make a watch-and-wait approach appear reasonable? The hepatobiliary surgeon at the regional cancer center told me, "I could make a theoretical argument either way and leave you walking out of here convinced. But we simply don't know." His comment reflects modern medicine's strict empiricism, but it foreclosed further discussion of the scientific questions involved and pushed the decision into the realm of personal values. Facing this dilemma, my family situation drove me toward surgery despite my intuition that immunotherapy could provide a definitive cure. The night before I scheduled my Whipple procedure, I wrote in my journal that "in the face of radical uncertainty one must resort to basic values—and my priority is to survive for my children. A maimed, weakened father is without doubt better than no father at all." To be sure, these last lines were written with some bravado. Only after the surgery did I viscerally grasp that the Whipple was a permanent maiming of the GI system. My doubts lingered after I scheduled surgery, and I had a final conversation with the young oncologist at the cancer center near my home. We discussed a watch-and-wait approach. A small mass remained on CT scans, but that was common even when tumors achieved a pathological complete response.5 Another positron emission tomography scan could provide more information but could not rule out the persistence of lingering cancer cells. I expressed my low risk tolerance given my personal circumstances. We sat across from one another, two fathers with young children. My oncologist was expecting his second child in a week. He was silent for moments before responding "I would recommend surgery in your situation." Perhaps I was projecting, but I felt the two of us were in the same situation: both wanting a watch-and-wait approach, both intuitively believing in it, but both held back by a sense of parental responsibility. My post-surgery pathology revealed a pathological complete response. CT scans and circulating tumor DNA tests in the past year have shown no evidence of disease. This is an exceptional outcome. Yet in the year since my Whipple, I have been sickened by my lack of gratitude for my good fortune, driven by a difficult recovery and a sense that my surgery had been superfluous. Following surgery, I faced complications of which I had been warned, such as a pancreatic fistula, delayed gastric emptying, and pancreatic enzyme insufficiency. There were still more problems that I did not anticipate, including, among others, stenoses of arteries and veins due to intraabdominal hematomas, persistent anemia, and the loss of 25% of my body weight. Collectively, they added up to an enduringly dysfunctional GI system and a lingering frailty. I was particularly embittered to have chosen surgery to mitigate the risk that my children would lose their father, only to find that surgery prevented me from being the robust father I once was. Of course, had I deferred surgery and seen the tumor grow inoperable or metastasize between scans, my remorse would have been incalculably deeper. But should medical decisions be based on contemplation of the most catastrophic consequences, whatever their likelihood? With hindsight, it became difficult not to re-examine the assumptions behind my decision. Too often, my dialogue with my doctors was impeded by the assumption that surgery was the obvious recommendation because I was young and healthy. The assumption that younger oncology patients necessarily warrant more radical treatment deserves reassessment. While younger patients have more years of life to lose from cancer, they also have more years to deal with the enduring medical, personal, and professional consequences of a life-changing surgery. It was not my youth that led me to choose surgery but my family situation: 10 years earlier, my youth likely would have led me to a watch-and-wait approach. The rising incidence of cancer among patients in their 20s and 30s highlights the need for a nuanced approach to this demographic. Calculations on surgery versus a watch-and-wait approach in cases like mine, where there are no data showing that surgery improves outcomes, also require doctors and patients to account holistically for the severity of the surgery involved. Multiple surgeons discussed the immediate postsurgical risks and complications of a pancreaticoduodenectomy, but not the long-term challenges involved. When asked to compare the difficulty of my prior subtotal colectomy with that of a pancreatoduodenectomy, the surgeon who performed my procedure suggested they might be similar. The surgeon at the regional cancer center stated that the Whipple would be far more difficult. I mentally split the difference. The later assessment was right, and mine was not a particularly bad recovery compared with others I know. Having been through both procedures, I would repeat the subtotal colectomy for a theoretical oncologic benefit but would accept some calculated risk to avoid a Whipple. Most Whipple survivors do not have the privilege of asking whether their surgery was necessary. Many celebrate every anniversary of the procedure as one more year that they are alive against the odds. That I can question the need for my surgery speaks to the revolutionary transformation which immunotherapy has brought about for a small subset of patients with cancer. The long-term medical and personal consequences of surgery highlight the urgent stakes of fully understanding and harnessing the life-affirming potential of this technology. In the meantime, while the field accumulates more data, potentially thousands of patients and their physicians will face difficult decisions on surgery verses a watch and- wait approach in cases of GI tumors with particular biomarkers showing exceptional responses to ICI therapy.7,8 Under these circumstances, I hope that all patients can have effective and transparent conversations with their physicians that allow informed choices accounting for their risk tolerance, calculations of proportionality, and priorities. 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 at University of Miami. Today, we are so happy to be joined by Dr. Carl Forsberg, Assistant Professor of Strategy and History at the Air Force War College. In this episode, we will be discussing his Art of Oncology article, "A Whipple of Choice." At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures. Carl, it is such a thrill to welcome you to our podcast, and thank you for joining us. Dr. Carl Forsberg: Well, thank you, Mikkael, for having me. I'm looking forward to our conversation. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So am I. I wanted to start, Carl, with just a little bit of background about you. It's not often we have a historian from the Air Force College who's on this podcast. Can you tell us about yourself, where you're from, and walk us through your career? Dr. Carl Forsberg: Sure. I was born and raised in Minnesota in a suburb of Minneapolis-St. Paul and then went to undergraduate on the East Coast. I actually started my career working on the contemporary war in Afghanistan, first as an analyst at a DC think tank and then spent a year in Kabul, Afghanistan, on the staff of the four-star NATO US headquarters, where I worked on the vexing problems of Afghanistan's dysfunctional government and corruption. Needless to say, we didn't solve that problem. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Wow. Dr. Carl Forsberg: I returned from Afghanistan somewhat disillusioned with working in policy, so I moved into academia, did a PhD in history at the University of Texas at Austin, followed by postdoctoral fellowships at Harvard and Yale, and then started my current position here at the Air Force War College. The War Colleges are, I think, somewhat unusual, unique institutions. Essentially, we offer a 1-year master's degree in strategic studies for lieutenant colonels and colonels in the various US military services. Which is to say my students are generally in their 40s. They've had about 20 years of military experience. They're moving from the operational managerial levels of command to positions where they'll be making strategic decisions or be strategic advisors. So we teach military history, strategy, international relations, national security policy to facilitate that transition to a different level of thinking. It really is a wonderful, interesting, stimulating environment to be in and to teach in. So I've enjoyed this position here at the War College quite a lot. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, I have to tell you, as someone who's been steeped in academic medicine, it sounds absolutely fascinating and something that I wouldn't even know where to start approaching. We have postdoctoral fellowships, of course, in science as well. What do you do during a postdoctoral fellowship in history and strategy? Dr. Carl Forsberg: It's often, especially as a historian, it's an opportunity to take your dissertation and expand it into a book manuscript. So you have a lot of flexibility, which is great. And, of course, a collegial environment with others working in similar fields. There are probably some similarities to a postdoc in medicine in terms of having working groups and conferences and discussing works in progress. So it was a great experience for me. My second postdoc occurred during the pandemic, so it turned out to be an online postdoc, a somewhat disappointing experience, but nevertheless I got a lot out of the connections and relationships I formed during those two different fellowships. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, there are some people who used the pandemic as an excuse to really just plow into their writing and get immersed in it. I certainly wrote one book during the pandemic because I thought, "Why not? I'm home. It's something where I can use my brain and expand my knowledge base." So I imagine it must have been somewhat similar for you as you're thinking about expanding your thesis and going down different research avenues. Dr. Carl Forsberg: I think I was less productive than I might have hoped. Part of it was we had a 2-year-old child at home, so my wife and I trying to, you know, both work remotely with a child without having childcare really for much of that year given the childcare options fell through. And it was perhaps less productive than I would have aspired for it to be. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's terrifically challenging having young children at home during the pandemic and also trying to work remotely with them at home. I'm curious, you are a writer, it's part of your career, and I'm curious about your writing process. What triggers you to write a story like you did, and how does it differ from some of your academic writing? Dr. Carl Forsberg: Yeah. Well, as you say, there is a real difference between writing history as an academic and writing this particular piece. For me, for writing history, my day job, if you will, it's a somewhat slow, painstaking process. There's a considerable amount of reading and archival work that go into history. I'm certainly very tied to my sources and documents. So, you know, trying to get that precision, making sure you've captured a huge range of archival resources. The real narrative of events is a slow process. I also have a bad habit of writing twice as much as I have room for. So my process entailed a lot of extensive revisions and rewriting, both to kind of shorten, to make sure there is a compelling narrative, and get rid of the chaff. But also, I think that process of revision for me is where I often draw some of the bigger, more interesting conclusions in my work once I've kind of laid out that basis of the actual history. Certainly, writing this article, this medical humanities article, was a very different experience for me. I've never written something about myself for publication. And, of course, it was really driven by my own experiences of going through this cancer journey and recovering from Whipple surgery as well. The article was born during my recovery, about 4 months after my Whipple procedure. It was a difficult time. Obviously kind of in a bad place physically and, in my case, somewhat mentally, including the effects of bad anemia, which developed after the surgery. I found it wasn't really conducive to writing history, so I set that aside for a while. But I also found myself just fixating on this question of had I chosen a superfluous Whipple surgery. I think to some extent, humans can endure almost any suffering with a sense of purpose, but when there's a perceived pointlessness to the suffering, it makes it much harder. So for me, writing this article really was an exercise, almost a therapeutic one, in thinking through the decisions that led me to my surgery, addressing my own fixation on this question of had I made a mistake in choosing to have surgery and working through that process in a systematic way was very helpful for me. But it also, I think, gave me- I undertook this with some sense of perhaps my experience could be worthwhile and helpful for others who would find themselves in a situation like mine. So I did write it with an eye towards what would I like to have read? What would I like to have had as perspective from another patient as I grappled with the decision that I talk about in the article of getting a Whipple surgery. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: So I wonder if I could back up a little bit. You talk about the difficulty of undergoing a Whipple procedure and of recovery afterwards, a process that took months. And this may come across as a really naive question, but as, you know, as an oncologist, my specialty is leukemia, so I'm not referring people for major surgeries, but I am referring them for major chemotherapy and sometimes to undergo a bone marrow transplant. Can you educate us what makes it so hard? Why was it so hard getting a Whipple procedure, and what was hard about the recovery? Dr. Carl Forsberg: Yeah, it was a long process. Initially, it was a 14-day stay in the hospital. I had a leaking pancreas, which my understanding is more common actually with young, healthy patients just because the pancreas is softer and more tender. So just, you know, vast amount of pancreatic fluid collecting in the abdominal cavity, which is never a pleasant experience. I had a surgical drain for 50-something days, spent 2 weeks in the hospital. Simply eating is a huge challenge after Whipple surgery. I had delayed gastric emptying for a while afterwards. You can only eat very small meals. Even small meals would give me considerable stomach pain. I ended up losing 40 lb of weight in 6 weeks after my surgery. Interestingly enough, I think I went into the surgery in about the best shape I had been in in the last decade. My surgeon told me one of the best predictors for outcomes is actual muscle mass and told me to work out for 2 hours every day leading up to my surgery, which was great because I could tell my wife, "Sorry, I'm going to be late for dinner tonight. I might die on the operating table." You can't really argue with that justification. So I went in in spectacular shape and then in 6 weeks kind of lost all of that muscle mass and all of the the strength I had built up, which just something discouraging about that. But just simply getting back to eating was an extraordinarily difficult process, kind of the process of trial and error, what worked with my system, what I could eat without getting bad stomach pains afterwards. I had an incident of C. diff, a C. diff infection just 5 weeks after the surgery, which was obviously challenging. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah. Was it more the pain from the procedure, the time spent in the hospital, or psychologically was it harder? Dr. Carl Forsberg: In the beginning, it was certainly the physical elements of it, the difficulty eating, the weakness that comes with losing that much weight so quickly. I ended up also developing anemia starting about two or 3 months in, which I think also kind of has certain mental effects. My hemoglobin got down to eight, and we caught it somewhat belatedly. But I think after about three or 4 months, some of the challenges became more psychological. So I started to physically recover, questions about going forward, how much am I going to actually recover normal metabolism, normal gastrointestinal processes, a question of, you know, what impact would this have long-term. And then, as I mentioned as well, some of the psychological questions of, especially once I discovered I had a complete pathological response to the immunotherapy, what was the point to having this surgery? Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: And the way you explore this and revisit it in the essay is absolutely fascinating. I wanted to start at the- towards the earlier part of your essay, you write, "The surgeon's willingness to structure our conversation around the ambiguity of the case was immensely clarifying." It's fascinating. The ambiguity was clarifying to you. And the fact that you appreciated the fact that the surgeon was open to talking about this ambiguity. When do you think it's the right thing to acknowledge ambiguity in medicine, and when should we be more definitive? When do you just want someone to tell you, "Do this or do that?" Dr. Carl Forsberg: That's a great question, which I've thought about some. I think some of it is, I really appreciated the one- a couple of the oncologists who brought up the ambiguity, did it not at the beginning of the process but a few months in. You know, the first few months, you're so as a patient kind of wrapped up in trying to figure out what's going on. You want answers. And my initial instinct was, you know, I wanted surgery as fast as possible because you want to get the tumor out, obviously. And so I think bringing up the ambiguity at a certain point in the process was really helpful. I imagine that some of this has to do with the patient. I'm sure for oncologists and physicians, it's got to be a real challenge assessing what your patient wants, how much they want a clear answer versus how much they want ambiguity. I've never obviously been in the position of being a physician. As a professor, you get the interesting- you start to realize some students want you to give them answers and some students really want to discuss the ambiguities and the challenges of a case. And so I'm, I imagine it might be similar as a physician, kind of trying to read the patient. I guess in my case, the fact was that it was an extraordinarily ambiguous decision in which there wasn't data. So I think there is an element, if the data gives no clear answers, that I suppose there's sort of an ethical necessity of bringing that up with the patient. Though I know that some patients will be more receptive than others to delving into that ambiguity. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Well, you know, it's an opportunity for us to think holistically about our patients, and you as a patient to think holistically about your health and your family and how you make decisions. I believe that when we're in a gray zone in medicine where the data really don't help guide one decision versus the next, you then lean back towards other values that you have to help make that decision. You write beautifully about this. You say, "In the face of radical uncertainty, one must resort to basic values, and my priority is to survive for my children. A maimed, weakened father is without doubt better than no father at all." That's an incredibly deep sentiment. So, how do you think these types of decisions about treatment for cancer change over the course of our lives? You talk a lot about how you were a young father in this essay, and it was clear that that was, at least at some point, driving your decision. Dr. Carl Forsberg: Yeah, I certainly have spent a lot of time thinking about how I would have made this decision differently 10 years earlier. As I mentioned the article, it was interesting because most of my physicians, honestly, when they were discussing why surgery made sense pointed to my age. I don't think it was really my age. Actually, when I was 23, I went off to Afghanistan, took enormous risks. And to some extent, I think as a young single person in your 20s, you actually have generally a much higher risk tolerance. And I think in that same spirit, at a different, earlier, younger stage in my life, I would have probably actually been much more willing to accept that risk, which is kind of a point I try to make, is not necessarily your age that is really the deciding factor. And I think once again, if I were 70 or 60 and my children, you know, were off living their own lives, I think that also would have allowed me to take, um, greater risk and probably led me to go for a watch-and-wait approach instead. So there was a sense at which not the age, but the particular responsibilities one has in life, for me at least, figured very heavily into my medical calculus. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: It's so interesting how you define a greater risk as watch and wait, whereas a surgeon or a medical oncologist who's making recommendations for you might have defined the greater risk to undergo major surgery. Dr. Carl Forsberg: And I thought about that some too, like why is it that I framed the watch and wait as a greater risk? Because there is a coherent case that actually the greater risk comes from surgery. I think when you're facing a life and death decision and the consequence, when you have cancer, of course, your mind goes immediately to the possibility of death, and that consequence seems so existential that I think it made watch and wait perhaps seem like the riskier course. But that might itself have been an assumption that needed more analysis. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: Do you think that your doctor revealing that he also had young children at home helped you with this decision? Dr. Carl Forsberg: I think in some ways for a doctor it's important to kind of understand where your patient is in their own life. As a patient, it was interesting and always helpful for me to understand where my physicians were in their life, what was shaping their thinking about these questions. So I don't know if it in any way changed my decision-making, but it definitely was important for developing a relationship of trust as well with physicians that we could have that mutual exchange. I would consider one of my primary oncologists, almost something of a friend at this point. But I think it really was important to have that kind of two-way back and forth in understanding both where I was and where my physician was. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: I like how you frame that in the sense of trust and hearing somebody who could make similar considerations to you given where he was in his family. One final question I wanted to ask you. You really elegantly at the end of this essay talk about revisiting the decision. I wonder, is it fair to revisit these types of decisions with hindsight, or do we lose sight of what loomed as being most important to us when we were making the decisions in real time? Dr. Carl Forsberg: That's a great question, one that is also, I think, inherent to my teaching. I teach military history for lieutenant colonels and colonels who very well may be required, God willing not, but may be required to make these sort of difficult decisions in the case of war. And we study with hindsight. But one thing I try to do as a professor is put them in the position of generals, presidents, who did not have the benefit of hindsight, trying to see the limits of their knowledge, use primary source documents, the actual memos, the records of meetings that were made as they grappled with uncertainty and the inherent fog of war. Because it is, of course, easy to judge these things in hindsight. So definitely, I kept reminding myself of that, that it's easy to second guess with hindsight. And so I think for me, part of this article was trying to go through, seeing where I was at the time, understanding that the decision I made, it made sense and with what I knew, it was probably the right decision, even if we can also with hindsight say, "Well, we've learned more, we have more data." A lot of historical leaders, it's easy to criticize them for decisions, but when you go put yourself in their position, see what the alternatives were, you start to realize these were really hard decisions, and I would have probably made the same disastrous mistake as they would have, you know. Let's just say the Vietnam War, we have our students work through with the original documents decisions of the Joint Chiefs in 1965. They very frequently come to the exact same conclusions as American policymakers made in 1965. It is a real risk making judgments purely on the basis of hindsight, and I think it is important to go back and really try to be authentic to what you knew at the time you made a decision. Dr. Mikkael Sekeres: What a great perspective on this from a historian. Carl Forsberg, I'd like to thank you, and all of us are grateful that you were willing to share your story with us in The Art of Oncology. Dr. Carl Forsberg: Well, thank you, and it's yeah, it's been a, it's a, I think in some ways a very interesting and fitting place to kind of end my cancer journey with the publication of this article, and it's definitely done a lot to help me work through this entire process of going through cancer. So, thank you. 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. Until next time, thank you so much. 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. Guest Bio: Dr. Carl Forsberg is a Assistant Professor of Strategy and History at the Air Force War College.