The Things Not Named

Joshua Doležal

Conversations about literary craft and the things not named that bring high quality to fiction, memoir, and poetry. Hosted by Joshua Doležal, creator of THE RECOVERING ACADEMIC. joshuadolezal.substack.com

  1. Jun 30

    Some Things You Remember Best Never Happened At All

    "A lot of what makes [memoir] good is what you leave out. You can’t interpret things for the reader." Dr. Sandeep Jauhar, author of “My Father’s Brain” Today, on “The Things Not Named,” I speak with Dr. Sandeep Jauhar, a cardiologist and the author of several books, including Intern, Doctored, Heart: A History, and My Father’s Brain: Life in the Shadow of Alzheimer’s. Below is an edited transcript of our conversation on Substack Live. Transcript: Joshua Doležal: Welcome back to The Things Not Named. I’m Joshua Doležal. Willa Cather said that the presence of the thing not named gives high quality to literature, and this year I’m applying that idea to medicine, asking how we might be more attentive to what goes unsaid in the clinic, in popular culture, and in the experience of illness on the patient’s side. I’m excited to have Dr. Sandeep Jauhar here today as my guest. Dr. Jauhar is a cardiologist and the author of four books: Intern, Doctored, and Heart: A History, as well as My Father’s Brain: Life in the Shadow of Alzheimer’s, which we’ll focus on today. My Father’s Brain takes an unflinching look at the toll that caregiving takes on families. It also delves into what happens in the brain as we age, how memory gives meaning to our lives and even changes with time, and how dementia complicates our understanding of what it means to have a self. In addition to his clinical work, Dr. Jauhar is a contributing opinion editor for The New York Times. He’s also appeared frequently on NPR, CNN, and MSNBC to discuss medical issues. And his essays have been published in The Wall Street Journal, Time, and Slate. You can follow him on X at @sjauhar and learn more at his website, sandeepjauhar.com. Dr. Jauhar, welcome and thanks for joining me today. Sandeep Jauhar: Yeah, thanks for having me. Joshua Doležal: So this is your latest book. Have you done a book tour? Are you currently making the rounds with it? Sandeep Jauhar: Yeah, well, the book came out in twenty twenty-three, so I’m sort of done with that part of it. But yeah, I mean, I sort of miss it. But yeah, no, it was a nice tour. I went to, you know, I don’t know, maybe seven cities and, yeah, it was fun. Joshua Doležal: So what’s that like? Do you have to take time off work to make the book launch happen? Is it kind of all-consuming for a bit? Sandeep Jauhar: Yeah, I think, you know, the first couple of months tend to be a lot of interviews, and, you know, talks, book talks. It takes some time out of my schedule, but, you know, it can be scheduled. So like I know when the book’s coming out, and I know how much vacation I have, and so it all tends to work out. Joshua Doležal: Why do you do it? I’ve asked this question of a lot of people. You know, doctors are busy people, and, you know, I assume there aren’t financial demands that require you to write books, and it’s hard to do with a family, as I know. I have three kids. Sandeep Jauhar: Yeah. Joshua Doležal: So when you work a job that typically has a high burnout rate already and then you’re writing on top of it, it seems like kind of a lot. So why do you stick with it? Sandeep Jauhar: Yeah. That’s a good question. It’s really a miserable hobby. No, writing, you know, as I’m sure you know, is really hard. It’s probably the hardest thing I do day to day. You know, harder than my medical practice really, which can get a little bit algorithmic, whereas writing demands a sort of creative impulse, and that’s why I do it, because I always wanted to make art, you know, in whatever way I could. I had that creative impulse, and I didn’t find really an adequate outlet for it within clinical medicine. And so I found a lot of aspects of medicine were fascinating, troubling, you know, sparked a lot of thought and created a lot of dilemmas in my mind. And I found writing was the way to try to help resolve some of those dilemmas. I mean, I do some writing as just pure advocacy. You know, I’ve written many, many op-eds in The New York Times about aging, ethics in medicine, and, you know, other aspects of public health and clinical medicine that, you know, I just want to bring out some point of view that I would like to be debated or I want to advocate for. But that’s really not my main impulse, especially when it comes to books. With books, you know, it’s just I really focus on creating the best art that I’m able to. Joshua Doležal: Well, it’s nicely said. I have kind of made a name for myself for being grumpy about the quality of new releases. You know, most of the craft touchstones that I look to for my own memoir writing and for fiction are ten years old now. Tobias Wolff, Mary Karr, some of the authors in your genre, Atul Gawande, Danielle Ofri, they were writing earlier, right? So the latest wave seems to be much more grievance-driven. The craft emphasis seems to be lightened. And so I was so refreshed by your book because I was drawn into it with the questions it raised and, you know, the story it was telling. But there are these touches that really showed a high level of nuance and art, as you’re saying. So how did you learn the craft? Is that something you credit your editors with, or did you study it? How did you become an artist? Sandeep Jauhar: Well, I mean, I studied it in the sense that I read a lot of really good memoirs, you know. And, you know, I think to be a good writer, you have to be a good reader. And some of the names that you mentioned, you know, I’ve read their whole oeuvre. Tobias Wolff, you know, This Boy’s Life, one of my favorites. And there’s another book called Stop-Time, which is really one of the great memoirs, I think, in American literature. And I think it was an inspiration for This Boy’s Life. Great book. So I spent a lot of time, you know, before I started writing books. My first book was called Intern. I got the contract for Intern without a proposal, which tells you how much things have changed. But it was just an offer from my publisher, my still publisher, Farrar, Straus and Giroux. And I remember I was a cardiology fellow, and I just threw myself into... I didn’t know I was going to be able to do it, to write a book. I had never even thought of writing a book. And so I just kind of dived into reading great books for several months, you know. And you sort of know what resonates with you and the kind of style that resonates with you. And yeah, that’s how I studied it. I didn’t take a creative writing workshop and I didn’t get an MFA. But it was, I was sort of largely self-taught, I guess. Joshua Doležal: Yeah. Well, I think we learn language by imitation when we’re young. We mimic sounds. You know, the term for that is canonical babble. And, you know, it doesn’t mean anything, but it sounds like the things that mean something, and then eventually it becomes coherent. So I feel like with writing, imitation is kind of where we start, and then slowly we find our own voice and it becomes more coherent and meaningful. So we all have to be self-taught in that way, I think. One example real quick, and then I want to shift to some of the bigger claims and troubling questions that the book raises. Just as a kind of example, at the end of chapter three, you’re at a luncheon, or it’s an award banquet for your father. He’s featured and he gets the award, but then he gets anxious and wants to leave. And so in this book about his slow decline and progression through dementia, this is one of those painful examples of how far he’s come from the researcher that he was. But his inability to even, you know, really care about social cues anymore, he just, he got his award, so he wants to leave. And you have this kind of exchange where you’re irritated, you’re kind of embarrassed because it would look bad to everyone else if you left. You’re even a little bit cruel because he wants to take a taxi, and you remind him he doesn’t even know where he is. But then it ends with a kind of exchange that’s more affirming. I’m curious if you could kind of talk us through how you designed the end of that chapter, because it seems like you made some real choices there to put yourself in a certain light to show the reality of that exchange kind of painfully. But then you didn’t want to leave it with the cruelty. You wanted to soften that. So could you talk through some of the choices you made as you were writing chapter three? Sandeep Jauhar: Yeah, I mean, it was, I haven’t read the chapter in a long time but it was an awards banquet that my father was invited to, and I knew he wasn’t going to be able to go by himself. It actually happened to be at the university at which I am a professor of cardiology. So, you know, I was a little wary of the whole situation and how things were going to play out. And they played out sort of the way I expected, maybe a little bit worse. You know, at first it was okay, but then my father started making comments to people around the table. It was making them feel a little bit uncomfortable. And in the chapter, I think I reflected on why I was feeling the way I was, and I think it was because my father and I were very similar in so many ways. I mean, physically, we looked very much the same. The same sort of skin tone, facial features. And then he was also a writer of books. He wrote several. He used to... I don’t know if it was him or someone joked, “How many books have you sold?” And he’d say, “Dozens.” He’s written three books over about twenty years. You know, but they were scientific books, you know, more like textbooks. But, you know, he was always a person who was striving to make a name for himself. And in that sense, I understand where he was coming from. We were very similar, I guess, in that way. And so I was watching him decline, I was very afraid that this is going to happen to me one day. And of course, we know that Alzheimer’s is

  2. Jun 23

    If You're Dying, I'm The Person You Want In The Room

    "I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve walked into a patient’s room and their chart tells me they should be dead and they’re not, and I don’t know why. And I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve walked into a patient’s room where the chart says they should be fine, and they are very, very much not fine, and you have to figure out why. And I don’t know that I would have ever really been able to figure any of that out without humanities education." — Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz, RN, BSN Today, on “The Things Not Named,” I speak with Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz, a critical care nurse, English major, and one of the best writers I ever taught, on what a nurse sees that doctors don't, why the humanities prepared her for the clinic, and what living with autism taught her about high-stakes care. Below is an edited transcript of our conversation on Substack Live. Transcript: Joshua Doležal: Welcome back to “The Things Not Named.” I’m Joshua Doležal. Willa Cather famously said it’s the presence of the thing not named that gives high quality to literature. This year I’m asking that question of medicine. How might we all be more attentive to what goes unsaid in the clinic, in popular culture, and in the experience of illness from the patient’s side? My guest today is Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz. Shelley’s a former student, one of the best writers I had the honor of teaching, so this is going to be a special episode for me. Shelley’s both an RN and a BSN, both nursing degrees, and also holds a master’s in public administration from Drake University in Des Moines. She’s had to recreate herself multiple times since graduating with a BA in English and writing from Central College in 2007. She graduated just a couple years after I started teaching there. And her path really goes to show how much you can do with an English major. Today, Shelley’s an adult critical care float RN, and a day that begins as a cardiology nurse may switch to ED trauma and then to surgical charge nurse all in a 12-hour shift. It sounds to me like she’s living a real-life episode of The Pitt. Shelley lives in Iowa with her spouse, Damon, two stepsons, and several spoiled animals, including her horse, Vinny, who’s taught her everything she knows about being a human. So welcome, Shelley. Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: Hi. Long time no see. Joshua Doležal: Yep, yep. So The Pitt, that rings true? Or is it not like it seems? Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: I haven’t actually watched it yet. I need to, but I don’t get an awful lot of downtime. I’m a very outdoors person when I’m not at work. So downtime, I’m usually trying to power down, so I usually read. I know people have talked to me about it, but I’ve seen clips, enough to know that it’s more familiar to what my day looks like than maybe other medical shows. Definitely, we’re not Grey’s Anatomy, but The Pitt is more familiar from what I’ve seen. Joshua Doležal: So you work three 12-hour shifts or four 12-hour shifts? Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: I am weekend package, so I work every Friday, Saturday, Sunday, 12 hours. Our shifts usually start 7:00 AM and they end at 7:00 PM, but then we have a half hour we stay for a report to the ongoing team, and then the team that comes on for overnight is from 7:00 to 7:00 AM, so we basically split the day right in the middle. Joshua Doležal: Wow. That’s a long workday. Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: It’s like three days, but then you get four days off, and there’s trade-offs. You get used to it. It’s definitely a culture shock when you first start it when you’re in nursing school, but you get used to it. Joshua Doležal: I have to tease you a little because the reason we’re speaking is a text I got from you after, I think, another one of these interviews where you were saying, oh, you’re talking to doctors and we nurses are the ones who really see what’s happening in the trenches. So I was paying attention, so hopefully we can hear a few of those war stories today. Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: Yeah. I mean, we wouldn’t function without the doctors and they are the marching orders. They give us the list of things to do. Obviously, they’ve spent a great deal of time in practice learning, and when all else fails, we have to defer to them. But generally with rounds, especially in med-surg, they will come around, and they’ll hang out with the patient for maybe 10 minutes. They’ll give me the list of instructions for the day, and then we won’t see them again until that time tomorrow. And then everything else that happens to the patient is up to me. And so it’s up to me to notice, to change things, come up with ideas. I can message them when things are not looking okay, when I have concerns. But basically, the rest of the day is, I have to figure it out and then include them if I need help. So as much as patients believe their doctor is just, like, right there, they’re not. Joshua Doležal: Do you think the average person just doesn’t understand how much of the actual care is done by people like you? Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: Yeah. I have most... Probably every week, I’ll have at least one patient who has a lot of anxiety, and so, you know, will question everything that we’re doing. Like, did the doctor want this? Did the doctor want that? Who are you? Why am I not... Or they’ll sleep through their doctor rounding, and the doctor won’t want to wake them up, and they’re going entirely off what I’ve told them and charted. And then they’ll be mad because they haven’t seen their doctor, but their doctor has gone through the chart. So there’s, every week you’ll have somebody just not quite understanding how the system operates in a hospital. It’s a little bit different in critical care. Doctors are more accessible, and they’re more frequent. But once you go to, like, a step-down unit or a med-surg unit, you won’t see them nearly as much, and they’re much less involved. Joshua Doležal: I want to get back to that, but maybe we can kind of double back to the beginning. So you got a degree in English, and I have actually forgotten what you were planning on doing with that initially. You were thinking about a career in writing, I believe, at the time. So help us understand how you went from the English degree to nursing. Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: So I started out... As a kid, my mom was a pediatric nurse, and she let me play with her textbooks. I did all her CEUs. She brought home stethoscopes. And so I grew up in a medical family. We were always talking about it. And I had originally thought maybe I’d go to school to be a veterinarian or a nurse, but then I, I was 18 from a small town, and I was anxious, and I was far away from home, and the first semester of college as a bio major was just hard. And so I picked up an English class, which writing had always been just something I loved to do, and then I fell in love with it in school. And that was the time, you know, where everything was different in college than it is today. You were very encouraged to just follow your passion, and you would be able to find something to do, and it was going to be no big deal, and that, you know, a BA would open doors for you. So, you know, sure, go switch to English and writing. I loved it. Had a great time. Towards the end of it, the housing crisis happened. So I was going to have to get creative, but I had originally wanted to move to Des Moines with my ex-husband, and he was in pharmacy school, and I love politics and history, and I really wanted to write grants and work at downtown Des Moines, and that’s where the MPA came from. And then the housing bubble broke. So my first job, I was a collector team lead for Wells Fargo. It was... Joshua Doležal: I remember that. Shelley DeWeerdt Hintz: ...not writing at all. And did that for a couple years because you got what you could get a job doing at the moment, and then moved quite a bit with my husband. Eventually ended up purchasing a pharmacy in small town Iowa. So not anything to do with writing, but it was a very, you could either teach, like, elementary school, middle school in the area, or you could have like a small business. And so my ex-husband was the pharmacy guru, and I managed everything else of that pharmacy. But so I, in order to do that, I got my pharmacy technician license. And then when I decided to leave my ex-husband, I went to Cedar Rapids because that was where I had my horse and all my friends were. So it was 2020, it was the pandemic, and I needed to be able to pay my bills right away. And so I got a job at the hospital I work at right now as a pharmacy tech because I had that license. They needed people. People did not want to come work in a hospital at that time. So I started there and it was amazing. Like, I was bringing all sorts of meds upstairs, and they were also asking for help from non-nursing staff to help answer phones and walk patients, and it was all hands on deck. And I’m the crazy weirdo who watched all that happen and was like, I want to do that. And it sort of reminded me that I did want to do that when I was a kid. And then when the divorce was finalized, obviously I was supposed to be getting some money from it, and it was all worked out, but I... Something in my gut told me that I shouldn’t count on that forever. And my entire world outside of work was around my horse. And I rode, I was always out there. That’s my people. And my horse is very expensive. And without the money I was supposed to be getting through the divorce, I was never going to make enough money to pay my bills and pay for my horse on a pharmacy tech job. So something just told me I just needed to do something that was going to make it so I could keep my horse even if my ex-husband flaked. And I decided to go back to school as an adult. I worked full-time, went to nursing school full-time. Don’t recommend. Not the most fun. But

  3. May 26

    Why This Doctor Reads Detective Fiction

    “What we now consider modern diagnosis, and the literary genre of detective fiction, arose around the same time and mutually influenced each other. We cannot understand the way we do diagnosis today without tracing this prehistory.” — Dr. Lakshmi Krishnan Today, on “The Things Not Named,” I speak with Dr. Lakshmi Krishnan, physician, scholar, and director of medical humanities at Georgetown University, on why diagnosis and detective fiction grew up together, and what doctors and patients lose when humanities is stripped from medical education. Below is an edited transcript of our conversation on Substack Live. Transcript: Joshua Doležal: Welcome back to The Things Not Named. I’m Joshua Doležal, and my series this year is based on a famous phrase from Willa Cather, who said that it’s the presence of the thing not named that gives high quality to literature. So this year I’m asking that question of medicine. How might we all be more attentive to what goes unsaid in the clinic, in popular culture, and in the experience of illness from the patient’s side? My guest today is Dr. Lakshmi Krishnan, and she’s the first in the series to talk about teaching, so that’s going to be a real treat. Lakshmi is an assistant professor of medicine and director of medical humanities at Georgetown University. Her work spans history of medicine, literary studies, and clinical research. She writes about how doctors know, how they think they know, and what impact those stories have on patients’ diagnosis and research. Her scholarship appears in journals such as JAMA, The Lancet, and BMJ Medical Humanities. She’s also been featured in STAT News, The History Channel, and Voice of America. She publishes The Workup with Dr. Lakshmi Krishnan, a Substack on medicine and culture, and is writing a book for Johns Hopkins University Press, which we’ll definitely talk about, titled The Doctor and the Detective: A Cultural History of Diagnosis. Lakshmi was born in Bombay, India, and is a proud immigrant. Her childhood was spent in England and most of her young adulthood in the southern United States, quite a few different regions there, and she adores all things theater, swimming, curating playlists, and weekly trips to the DC Public Library. So welcome, Lakshmi. Lakshmi Krishnan: Thanks so much for having me. This is great. Joshua Doležal: I can’t wait to dig into all of this. I’m fascinated by all of your personal interests, but I wanted to start with your origin story. So fascinating. I grew up in Montana, went to college in Tennessee in the South, did my graduate work in the Midwest, in Nebraska. I spent some time in South America. I’ve also been to Prague a few times. So I don’t know that I’ve been shaped by all those places quite the same way as you, because these were formative years for you. But I’d like to know more about your story. You’re from Mumbai originally, but you grew up in the UK and the southern US. So how have each of those places contributed to who you are now and how you think today? Lakshmi Krishnan: I think it’s interesting, because at first glance, these are places that don’t necessarily have much in common. So yes, I was born in Bombay, now Mumbai, but I still have the pre-90s, very colonial name in my head. But that was really formative. I was born there and was raised for a good chunk of my young childhood, and then actually went back to part of elementary school there in a joint family. So there’s a lot of storytelling. There’s a lot of trading health stories. That’s very much in our culture. I think the things that you observe when you’re a small child and are embedded in are at work often subconsciously. But I still have very strong memories of our family doctor who paid house calls and would come over with this beaten-up leather bag, and lived down the way in this particular neighborhood in Bombay. He was very much a local character, very much a pillar of that neighborhood. He’d come over and do all the checkups, like the young kids — it was a joint family, so cousins, aunts and uncles, parents, then the grandparents. The grandparent visits usually took longer because they had more things going on in terms of health conditions, and he would get plied with cups of tea. I just remember the storytelling that was such a big part of that. And then we moved to the UK and lived in four or five different places in the span of about four years. So even within the UK, broad regional variation, like London to Salford, which is just outside of Manchester, in the north, and then back down to Nottingham, which is in the south of the country, or kind of the Midlands, I suppose. And when you’re the kid who’s always new in school, who’s always finding their footing, I think that part of my experience was very lonely in a lot of ways. I was an only child at the time. My sister was born later, so I’m no longer an only child. But books were a huge — they were a constant and an anchor. And so I think that kind of reading habit, and reading as a source of solace and comfort, and knowing that I wasn’t the only person who had been an outsider in different places, was really big. And then we moved to the US, and we moved to East Tennessee, actually, which was new again. So I guess, as such retrospective narratives go, if I have to assign some coherence to this — my interest was always in connecting across these experiences, even if on a surface level they seemed, southern England to the southern United States to a huge, densely populated city in India. Finding points of connection and commonality was, I think, very important for my internal coherence as a person. And I guess that translated in some way to the work that I do, or to the paths that I followed. Things that seem on the surface disconnected might not be, and you might actually find really surprising connections. So yeah. I could go on, but I’ll stop there. Joshua Doležal: I went to college in Tennessee, in East Tennessee actually. So I’m curious — I was in Bristol, the birthplace of country music. In fact, not Nashville, but Bristol. And so I had a crash course in barbecue and NASCAR and all kinds of things there. But where were you? Lakshmi Krishnan: Johnson City. Joshua Doležal: Johnson City. Wow. Pretty close. What years? Lakshmi Krishnan: We were there from 1995 to — my folks moved to North Carolina in 2021, so a significant — I mean, I went to middle school and high school in Johnson City. Then I left. I went to North Carolina for college. But that was, and is still, home in a lot of ways. Joshua Doležal: How interesting. I’m sure much older than you. I was in college there at that time. I started college in ‘94 and graduated in ‘97, so we overlapped, very close proximity, for two years without knowing. So interesting. I don’t know if you believe in coincidences, or plans, but that’s pretty remarkable. Lakshmi Krishnan: So interesting. The Tri-Cities. Joshua Doležal: Yeah. I played baseball there, and in those days funding for athletics was a different thing, especially at a small school. So we did fundraisers like go clean the NASCAR raceway after the Bristol 500. Lots of character-building experiences like that. So, Lakshmi, you have an MD and a PhD in English, which is kind of an unusual combination. So I want to talk about those two degrees. I’m sure you had lots of people telling you not to get the PhD in English. Maybe I’m wrong about that. But one of them is the degree that everyone pushes for down the STEM path, right? Go be a doctor. The PhD in English is the one that everybody’s like, well, what can you do with that? It’s not practical. So when did you know you wanted both? And what was the through line that connected them for you? And am I right or wrong that people questioned the second one? Lakshmi Krishnan: You’re absolutely right that people questioned the second one. I’ll answer the first question first. So it was kind of an odd and winding road. In undergrad, I was an English major and I was pre-med. I went to Wake Forest for college, and it was a very liberal-arts-heavy curriculum, which was wonderful. We had divisional requirements — you had to take philosophy, some kind of theology, you had to take a couple of lit classes. That kind of didn’t matter to me, because I was interested in those courses anyway and would have taken them anyway, but it was nice to have it as part of the structure. But at that time, majoring in a humanities field and being pre-med was very atypical. I think then, as now, there have been critical mentors or teachers or professors who’ve been supportive and who’ve believed in this nontraditional curriculum, this nontraditional path for me. And that was the case at Wake. I had a few English professors who either were very interested in STEM or were medical humanists, and I didn’t even have the language to articulate that at the time. They were sort of like, you can do both of these things. If you’re interested in them, you might have to take extra — you might be on an overload a couple of semesters because of organic chemistry lab or things like that. But generally, I felt like I was well supported. It was really post-undergraduate that I got more pushback. So the plan had been to go to medical school. I didn’t really know how to make sense of a PhD in English plus medical school. But really, it came down to funding, which is the frank and blunt answer. I got a scholarship to go to England to get a master’s. And at that time I was like, I could get a master’s in a STEM field, but I’m going to be doing that in medical school. I’m going to be doing the science thing. I love literature. When will I again have this opportunity? So for me it was — maybe my scarcity mindset was helpful, because I was like, I’ll never again get the chance to be funded to do this work. So I did the master’s, and

    Why This Doctor Reads Detective Fiction
  4. Apr 28

    What's Named And What's Withheld

    “That's what a storyteller's job is. What do you relay and what do you withhold? And frankly, that's the chronic illness storyteller's mode as well. What am I going to tell this doctor in front of me and what am I going to withhold?” Dr. Michael Stein, author of “A Living: Working-Class Americans Talk to Their Doctor” Michael Stein is a physician, a health policy researcher, and author of 15 books — six novels and nine books of nonfiction. He’s currently Chair and Professor of health law, policy, and management at the Boston University School of Public Health and has also taught at Brown University. Michael is a frequent contributor to The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, and the New York Times. He’s also been featured on NPR’s Fresh Air and in O Magazine. In his spare time, he is Executive Editor of the Public Health Post. Below is an edited transcript of our conversation on Substack Live. Transcript: Joshua Dolezal: Welcome back to The Things Not Named. I’m Joshua Dolezal, and my guest today is Dr. Michael Stein. Willa Cather famously said that it’s the presence of the thing not named that gives high quality to fiction, drama, and poetry. So this year I’m asking that question of medicine. How might we all be more attentive to what goes unsaid in the clinic, in popular culture, and in the experience of illness from the patient’s side? Michael’s recent book addresses that question because he’s giving voice to a lot of people who normally don’t get to tell their story in popular culture or in medicine, so that’ll be a treat today. Michael is a physician, a health policy researcher, and author of 15 books — six novels and nine books of nonfiction. He’s currently Chair and Professor of health law, policy, and management at the Boston University School of Public Health and has also taught at Brown University. Michael is a frequent contributor to The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, and the New York Times. And he’s also been featured on NPR’s Fresh Air and in O Magazine. In his spare time, he’s also the executive editor of the Public Health Post. Welcome, Michael. Thanks for joining me today. Michael Stein: Josh, thanks for having me. This is great. Joshua Dolezal: I want to get to your latest book, A Living, which you’ve modeled after Studs Terkel’s classic, Working. But first, I’ve talked with almost everyone on this series about craft and how they think of themselves as a writer. And I’d kind of like to start with when you first started thinking of yourself as a writer, what some of your formative influences were, any significant mentors you had that shaped you as a writer. What’s your origin story? Michael Stein: Right, great. Thanks again for having me. So my origin story is — I think the first book that influenced me as a quasi-adult was in my 20s when I read a biography of Robert Lowell. And I thought that was just a fascinating life. And he was obviously a poet primarily, and I was writing poems at that point. And I spent many years doing poetry, which I published all over the place, and came into contact with the famous editor Gordon Lish, who had reached out to me and asked me to send things to his magazine. So I started to send some things to a journal that he was running called The Quarterly. And so I wrote a lot of poems early on. At the same time, around then I had done some work as a journalist, which was not creative writing but an important kind of writing. I had done that in college and I thought of doing a career — I sort of reached the fork of do I do medicine or do I do journalism? And so, of course, being who I am, I chose both. I ended up going to medical school and was still sort of writing journalism pretty much through medical school. I paid for medical school working as a journalist for Nature magazine and went to occasional medical school classes. And I was writing a lot of poetry. Then years passed and I had children, and I started one night — when I was up feeding children in the middle of the night — to write fiction. I wrote six novels, published six novels over the next number of years. And then along the way, I just decided to come and try to start writing about medicine directly. So I went back to writing nonfiction about medicine. My writings have gone all over the place since then. As you said, I’ve written a lot of books — six novels, eight books of nonfiction — and they range from my recent book, A Living, to more straightforward essays, to public health arguments. I wrote a book called Me Versus Us, which explains to people the difference between public health and practicing medicine, because I now work in a public health school. So I’ve flittered. Joshua Dolezal: Well, so coming back to nonfiction is actually coming back to your roots. And I think I had it wrong — I thought you’d started as a fiction writer and then sort of came to nonfiction later. But it sounds like the essay form, personal form, and your journalistic training was really the foundation. Michael Stein: Yes, I think so. But very different, obviously, from journalism. I’ve always taken my nonfiction to be — having gotten to it really through fiction — a more creative form than I ever considered journalism, which I considered a public service as opposed to my personal writing. So a little different. Joshua Dolezal: Here’s an unfair question, and it probably differs because I know you’ve published 400 scholarly articles too, and all these modes are very different. But when you’re thinking more in the literary sense in nonfiction, or perhaps even in fiction, how do you know good writing when you see it? When you hear about craft, what does that mean to you when you’re making decisions in your writing process? Michael Stein: Well, I would have to say it’s a great question, and I probably see what you’re calling good writing differently at different times in my life. I think what I’ve considered good or enjoyable or meaningful to me — I’ve read different things at different times where, when I went back to reread, they didn’t appeal to me in the ways that they had the first time, which is telling me that I probably have a bit of a shifting view. Having written novels, I became much less interested, for instance, in writing — and therefore stopped writing — naturalistic literary fiction. It just wasn’t so interesting to me as a form anymore. It’s not to say that I don’t like stories, but for the moment, I’ve probably read over the past 10 years, when I pretty much stopped writing fiction, fewer novels than I read in the first 20 years when I was writing fiction. It would take a lot unless the fiction I was reading had something experimental or interesting to me. So technical format changes interest me. But I think what’s a satisfying read — which is sort of what you’re asking me at the moment — depends on my goal of what I’m reading it for. Is it just pleasure or is it something that I’m interested in because it’s a subject I’m thinking of writing about and I want to see the lay of the land? But in general, I think like everybody else, I’m interested in tension. I’m interested in pathos. I’m interested in some investment in a character or in solving a mystery. I’m interested in the theme, which is probably what’s going to draw me to something in the first place. And I’m interested in variation. And as I said, usually these days I’ve been interested in technical questions. So all of my books, as you’ve read, have slightly different forms. I try to ask myself different technical questions, which I think I did when I was writing fiction as well. Can I write a mystery and can I write it from backward to forward? I would ask myself these things and then try to set out to do them. So I think I’ve bounced around both in what I consider satisfying and therefore what I consider good. I don’t know that there is a single “good” for me. Joshua Dolezal: Well, I guess we’re all hopefully evolving — we’re not stuck in our sensibility. But so the book we’re talking about today, A Living: Working Class Americans Talk to Their Doctor, is really kind of unique stylistically for your books. I had my suspicions as I was reading it and then discovered in your closing that you did, in fact, intentionally style it after Studs Terkel’s classic oral history, Working, which I think was published in 1974 — people talk about what they do all day. And so in this kind of form, you’re not doing the typical thing that a nonfiction writer does, which is act as a friend to the reader, as Henry James said, as a guide that frames things, contextualizes things, analyzes things. You do that a little bit around the edges. But really, this is a book where your patients tell their own stories in their own voices, much more like a curated or edited oral history form. So I’m curious why you chose that style. What about Terkel’s project felt necessary for you now to revive? And why is your voice so absent from this book compared to all the others? Michael Stein: So let’s put the Terkel comparison and the absence aside for a second and just give you my context for this book. A Living came out in 2025. Four years ago, I wrote a related book with a related structure called Broke. And Broke was similarly about talking to patients about money. So I’m a primary care doctor. I work in an inner city and I see people who are broke. That’s the primary focus of my work. The patient group I’m best known for is taking care of people with HIV or people with addictions. So I’ve naturally grown to populations that are vulnerable and generally poor. And people were just talking to me all the time about money. It was just a constant part of our conversations. And I just thought, nobody writes about how money influences the lives of people. And so here enters two things with Broke. One is I’

  5. Mar 31

    The Things Not Named — With Kimberly Warner

    “Some things can’t be healed. They just need to be held. Narrative medicine does a great job with this — sometimes the healing is in the holding.” Kimberly Warner, author of “Unfixed” Thank you to Mr. Troy Ford, Annette Laing, , Jill Swenson, and many others who tuned into my live interview with Kimberly Warner last week. Kimberly Warner Bio: Kimberly Warner is a filmmaker, author, and patient advocate whose work explores what it means to live fully in a body that doesn’t always cooperate. After studying pre-med and biology at Colorado College and pursuing graduate training in naturopathic and classical Chinese medicine, she left a clinical path for a creative one. In 2015, a rare neurological condition upended her sense of balance. That experience became the seed of Unfixed Media, a multimedia platform for chronic illness storytelling that has been recognized by PBS, Harvard Medical School, and the Invisible Disabilities Association. Her debut memoir, Unfixed, was serialized on Substack, picked up by Empress Editions, and earned a Publishers Weekly Editor’s Pick and a Kirkus review calling it “genre-defying.” Kimerly is a member of the Global Advocacy Alliance, the PPAA (Patient and Physician Advocacy Alliance,) and a visiting faculty member with Global Genes. She also serves on the editorial board of the Journal of Health Design and is an ambassador for the Vestibular Disorders Association). The full transcript of our conversation is available below. Transcript: Joshua Doležal: Welcome back to The Things Not Named. I’m Joshua Doležal, and my series this year is titled for a phrase from Willa Cather. Cather famously said that it’s the presence of the thing not named that gives high quality to fiction, drama, and poetry. So this year I’m asking that question of medicine: How might we all be more attentive to what goes unsaid in the clinic, in popular culture, and in the experience of illness from the patient’s side? My guest today is Kimberly Warner. Welcome, Kimberly! Kimberly Warner: So great to be here. I love that you are exploring the white space, the unnamed, and that you’re putting that into the realm of clinical care this year. That’s fascinating to me. Joshua Doležal: It seems appropriate for illness and especially for your story. So, lots of mouthfuls there in your bio. You’ve been really active, it seems, in medical communities as a patient advocate and also as a storyteller. Kimberly Warner: Yeah, it was not intended. I certainly didn’t set out to go that direction. Although I do remember even in high school when I told my parents I’m going to medical school. And my parents said — well, my father was a physician and they said, do you really want to work with patients all day? And what’s the reality of that? And I said, no, I want to be a high school health teacher. And they’re like, how are you going to pay off your school loans? And I’m like, I don’t know, I’ll figure that out. But it’s interesting to look, you know, 35 or 40 years later and see how education has become a really big part of the way that I work with healing. And a lot of that has come through my own personal struggles and personal insights through living with a body that doesn’t always feel great. Joshua Doležal: I mean, it’s great that you’re using storytelling as a form of advocacy because I think it’s underutilized. And we were talking before we went live about narrative medicine and how it began at Columbia University. But there’s a long tradition of doctors writing about medical practice and really giving voice to things that can’t be said in the examining room or in the operating room. And I first came to this in graduate school. I was learning about deconstruction theory and this idea that all reality is constructed by language. And I kept wondering, well, what about the body? You know, the body has a kind of grammar. The body has a way of making sense of things and finding balance. So it’s not all relative, as Derrida and others would say. So I got into medical history and wrote a dissertation on the medical humanities and taught for many years courses like illness and health and literature, where I would have loved to have featured your book. It’s nice to be sharing that with folks on Substack this year. But I want to get back to your memoir, which is the first in this year’s series of illness narratives. I’ve been mostly interviewing doctors who are either in the process of writing a memoir or have written memoirs. My conversation last week with Damon Tweedy centered on his second book about mental illness and integrating mental health care into general medicine. So you’re the first author of an illness narrative. And before we dive into that, could you just give us a brief synopsis of your book for anyone who hasn’t heard of Unfixed or doesn’t know anything about it? Kimberly Warner: Yeah, I’d be happy to. I’ve got the little dust jacket summary here, and I can read that to you. But I’ll preface it with — it’s not your classic illness narrative in the sense that it’s a weaving of two different types of narratives, though they are both about identity, because anybody that’s lived with chronic illness knows that that really can crush our identities. There is — it’s not — true in the sense that I have a stack of favorite illness narratives here, and a lot of them are just like, this was the diagnosis, and this is the journey with that, and this is the resolution. And mine is much more complicated, let’s say. But here’s the dust jacket summary for those that don’t know. Unfixed: A Memoir of Family Mystery and the Currents That Carry You Home, is a haunting exploration of identity, loss, and the unsteady ground of becoming. When a midlife DNA test reveals that the man who raised her isn’t her biological father, Kimberly Warner is drawn into two parallel mysteries — one excavating the silence surrounding her beloved father’s death, the other tracing the absence of a stranger whose blood shapes her very being. As she unravels the secrets hidden beneath her family’s story, another rupture emerges, this time in her body. A mysterious illness takes hold, leaving her adrift in dizziness and a growing awareness that her body knows truths language cannot hold. Joshua Doležal: Nice. And I’ve got my copy here, so I’ll put a link in the show notes for anyone who wants to order it. So you are braiding two stories. Why did you not tell them separately? Kimberly Warner: Because they were completely linked, to the point where I think that the DNA revelation when I turned 40 was very much a catalyst for the disassembly that was happening in my neurology at the same time. And I think many — anyone listening that knows about vestibular disorders, especially ones that are neurologically related instead of within the ears, can often be heightened or triggered by extreme states of panic. And I was definitely going through a protracted panic attack and a real disorientation to who I was and who I had known myself to be for 40 years. So while I don’t think it was a direct link, I think there are a lot of factors that were happening. It was definitely a piece that pulled the rug out from underneath me and quite literally created the sensation of living on water, which is what this Mal de Débarquement that I have — that is the actual symptom. The experience of it is living on water. So you can’t really disentangle the illness from your life circumstances and it’s all part of the same fabric. Absolutely. And I don’t know if that’s always the case. I’m not going to say that everyone gets an illness because something psychological shifts in their life story. But for me, it did play a huge role. And I think, unfortunately, because of that, I also wasn’t diagnosed for five, five and a half years. And a lot of that was because of the multifactorial events that were happening. Based on which doctor I saw to try to figure out why I was so dizzy, they were either looking at the psychological issues and doing trauma work and brain spotting and everything under the sun, or concussions on the other end of the spectrum. So it made it very difficult to diagnose what was going on. Joshua Doležal: All of the people I’ve interviewed so far are doctors, and in a doctor memoir, doctors write about patients. The patients don’t always have the chance to write back. Your book is coming from the other side of that. When you’re going through your diagnostic journey — years of dizziness with no explanation and so on — I’m wondering if you really struggled with other people’s stories being projected onto you. I know with neurological conditions, it kind of literally is in your head, right? And there’s a kind of condescending form that that takes. So did writing Unfixed feel like you were reclaiming the narrative for yourself instead of being a character in someone else’s story? Kimberly Warner: Yes. And I’ll say that when I started writing this, it was 2018. So this was still pre-diagnosis, but it was also right on this precipice of me being so tired of pursuing cures. So I was resting in this place of trying to, like you said, reclaim all of what had just happened to me — including the DNA discovery and the dizziness and all the subsequent things that happened because of that. The loss of job, the loss of friends, nearly the loss of my relationship. And I was trying to just piece it all back together for myself. This was not intended to be something to be read by the world. It was very much just, let’s get this down on paper as much as I possibly can so I can remember the details. So as you know, when you read this, there’s certainly trauma in this, but there was also so much magic and love that was happening throughout this. And that was a really important part that I didn’t want to forget. And so i

    The Things Not Named — With Kimberly Warner
  6. Mar 24

    The Things Not Named — with Damon Tweedy

    Thank you Kae, Lori, Michelle Ray, and many others for tuning into my live video with Damon Tweedy! Damon Tweedy Bio: Dr. Damon Tweedy, is a psychiatrist, author, and leading voice on race, medicine, and mental health. He’s a professor of psychiatry at Duke University School of Medicine and a staff psychiatrist with the Durham Veterans Affairs Health System, where he co-leads an integrated primary care mental health team. A graduate of Duke School of Medicine, he also earned a law degree from Yale Law School, focusing on health policy and medical ethics before returning to Duke to complete his psychiatric training. Dr. Tweedy is the bestselling author of Black Man in a White Coat, which takes a hard look at racism and American medicine. The book was a New York Times bestseller and was named a top nonfiction book of the year by Time Magazine. His latest book, Facing the Unseen, explores the struggle to center mental health within medicine and was recognized by Nature as one of the best science books of 2024. The full transcript is available below. Transcript: Joshua Dolezal: Welcome back to The Things Not Named. I’m Joshua Dolezal, and my series this year is based on one of Willa Cather’s famous passages. She said that it’s the presence of the thing not named that gives high quality to fiction, drama, and poetry. And so for my series this year on the medical humanities, I’m applying that principle to how we might all be more attentive to what goes unsaid in the clinic, in popular culture, and in the experience of illness from the patient’s side. My guest today is Dr. Damon Tweedy, psychiatrist, author, and leading voice on race, medicine, and mental health. He’s a professor of psychiatry at Duke University School of Medicine and a staff psychiatrist with the Durham Veterans Affairs Health System, where he co-leads an integrated primary care mental health team. A graduate of Duke School of Medicine, he also earned a law degree from Yale Law School, focusing on health policy and medical ethics before returning to Duke to complete his psychiatric training. Dr. Tweedy is the bestselling author of Black Man in a White Coat, which takes a hard look at racism and American medicine. The book was a New York Times bestseller and was named a top nonfiction book of the year by Time Magazine. His latest book, Facing the Unseen, explores the struggle to center mental health within medicine and was recognized by Nature as one of the best science books of 2024. So thanks for joining me, Dr. Tweedy. Damon Tweedy: Yeah, it’s a pleasure. Joshua Dolezal: So Damon, maybe we can start with your family origins. If I’m not mistaken, you and I are both first-gen college students. So it was kind of a long road that you took from where you were born and raised to Duke and then also to Yale. Damon Tweedy: Yeah, so, you know, growing up, it didn’t feel that way. But now, looking back — I’m 51, almost 52 — it does feel like, yeah, you know, it was quite a journey. So I grew up in a two-parent home, mom and dad, both of whom traced their families back to America’s origins, right? Back through segregation, even back to slavery — because I have an 1860 census my dad showed me of some of his relatives. And so they grew up from Southern Virginia, grew up during the time of segregation. My parents are still living, they’re elderly now, and literally, you know, the things that we read about in textbooks were their lived experience. The Civil Rights Movement came to them when they were in their early 20s. So their whole first 20 years were in that space. And so that undoubtedly impacted how they experienced the world, see the world. And so for me, I grew up — so my dad worked in a grocery store, a food store. Mom worked in a sort of government, kind of administrative secretarial type work. And I had an older brother and we were in a community that was all Black, literally 100% Black, a very working-class sort of Black community outside of Washington, D.C. Back in those days, busing was still around. And so we were bused to a neighboring district that was all white. And so those are probably my first earliest kind of signs of, okay, you’re different. And what do people make of you by being different? And so for me, that difference was that, you know, I was kind of really into math and numbers — I was sort of an odd kid in that way, really into that. So I excelled in math, but I was also one of the Black kids bused to a school that was all white. And there were a lot of perceptions among teachers there about the Black students not being capable or being somehow, you know, a problem — things that we sort of all hear about. And so for me, I was finding myself in a space where, at the same time, I was a top student. And so people didn’t know what to make of me — the teachers and sometimes my classmates — because there were all these perceptions about what it meant to be a Black person, you know, largely negative, right? And so I experienced that sort of duality at a very early age. When I got to high school, my middle school was a local Black neighborhood school, but then I tested into a magnet program in high school. Little did I know at the time how powerful a school it was in terms of some of the people who went there and what they achieved. But it was a magnet school that was pretty much all white and Asian within a school that was otherwise Black. And so I was in these magnet classes with white and Asian students, but the rest of the school was mostly Black. And there was always this sort of tension between — where do I fit in in these two worlds? And so that was sort of a common theme, and it played out in a lot of really kind of crazy ways. One story I can tell real quick that will encapsulate this. In high school, in 10th grade, I was in a chemistry class — literally the only Black student in a class of 30 students. And one day, our school was a school of excellence, and so they brought in several leading politicians to sort of talk about our tech program and how great it was. And so at that time — given my age — this was Governor Bill Clinton before he was president, and several people across both parties. And they sort of took them around our school to the tech programs. So here I am, the only Black student in that class. And before they get to our particular classroom, there’s suddenly four or five other Black kids in the class who are just sort of there, positioned. And then you see where I’m going with this? And then suddenly, as soon as these political people leave, those kids are just kind of told to leave. And so I’m back here as the only Black student in the class. And I’m looking around like, what the hell just happened? And no one had any reaction. It was like no one else seemed to get what had just taken place. And that sort of in some ways encapsulated my perspective of being different, you know, and having to navigate two worlds. So my first book sort of starts with me being a medical student, but that’s sort of the backdrop to that. And so when you get to medical school at a place like Duke, that’s just accentuated — that whole idea of two worlds. The world of the doctors, you know, mostly white and Asian. Then there’s the world of patients and the community that you’re around, which is largely Black. And how do you navigate those two worlds? And so that was sort of the tension that I experienced at a young age, but it just really was accelerated in a medical setting. Because for me, you know, part of what attracted me to medicine was the idea that it was objective, that it was concrete. It was data-driven. You know, it doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside. A bone is a bone. A blood vessel is a blood vessel. And so that’s part of what appealed to me. It’s like I could contribute to society, but in a very concrete way. And so it was really kind of a shock to the system to get into medicine and realize that it was sort of in some ways the same old thing in terms of those problems that I’d experienced as a young person. Joshua Dolezal: Yeah. One of the philosophers that I used in my dissertation was Helen Longino, whose iconic book is called Science as Social Knowledge, kind of questioning this idea that science is just objective because it always takes place in a context that is social, and that certain questions get privileged and certain research gets funded and all of that. We’re the same age. So I remember Clinton when I was in high school and all of that. Two questions came up as you were telling a little bit of that story. One — you said that you tested into this program. I know that recently there’s been some debate about whether standardized tests are actually exclusionary, whether they set arbitrary barriers for diversity in college. And I know during COVID, a lot of those standards were just taken away. And yet I’ve heard other writers talk about this — Thomas Chatterton Williams is another one who felt like standardized testing was the only way that he got noticed at all, that he would have been lost in the cracks if it hadn’t been for some kind of merit-based way of breaking through. So I’m curious what your thoughts are on that, whether standardized testing is actually a way of bringing more diverse voices into medicine or whether it’s been kind of exclusionary. Damon Tweedy: I think it’s a mixed picture. I think it depends on how you use it. I think that if it’s used — like, a number in and of itself — it has to be — it’s going to sound crazy to some people, but a number has to almost be contextualized. Like, if you take, let’s say, an SAT score — let’s just say 1,200, right? Now, 1,200, depending on what your background is leading up to that place, that could be a not-so-good score, that could be an exceptional score, depending on what your background is and what you sort of had to over

    The Things Not Named — with Damon Tweedy

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Conversations about literary craft and the things not named that bring high quality to fiction, memoir, and poetry. Hosted by Joshua Doležal, creator of THE RECOVERING ACADEMIC. joshuadolezal.substack.com