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
