Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology

American Society of Clinical Oncology (ASCO)
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  • MEDICINA
  • DUAS VEZES/MÊS

Embark on an intimate journey with heartfelt narratives, poignant reflections, and thoughtful dialogues, hosted by Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. The award-winning podcast JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology podcast unveils the hidden emotions, resilient strength and intense experiences faced by those providing medical support, caring for, and living with cancer.

  1. HÁ 3 DIAS

    Smell: The Scent of Inevitability

    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 p

    24min

  2. 25 DE NOV.

    Are You Bereaved? Allowing Yourself to Grieve a Patient

    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 d

    22min

  3. 11 DE NOV.

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

    Listen to JCO's Art of Oncology article, "The Man at the Bow" by Dr. Alexis Drutchas, who is a palliative care physician at Dana Farber Cancer Institute. The article is followed by an interview with Drutchas and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Dr. Drutchas shares the deep connection she had with a patient, a former barge captain, who often sailed the same route that her family's shipping container did when they moved overseas many times while she was growing up. She reflects on the nature of loss and dignity, and how oncologists might hold patients' humanity with more tenderness and care, especially at the end of life. TRANSCRIPT Narrator: The Man at the Bow, by Alexis Drutchas, MD  It was the kind of day that almost seemed made up—a clear, cerulean sky with sunlight bouncing off the gold dome of the State House. The contrast between this view and the drab hospital walls as I walked into my patient's room was jarring. My patient, whom I will call Suresh, sat in a recliner by the window. His lymphoma had relapsed, and palliative care was consulted to help with symptom management. The first thing I remember is that despite the havoc cancer had wreaked—sunken temples and a hospital gown slipping off his chest—Suresh had a warm, peaceful quality about him. Our conversation began with a discussion about his pain. Suresh told me how his bones ached and how his fatigue left him feeling hollow—a fraction of his former self. The way this drastic change in his physicality affected his sense of identity was palpable. There was loss, even if it was unspoken. After establishing a plan to help with his symptoms, I pivoted and asked Suresh how he used to spend his days. His face immediately lit up. He had been a barge captain—a dangerous and thrilling profession that took him across international waters to transport goods. Suresh's eyes glistened as he described his joy at sea. I was completely enraptured. He shared stories about mornings when he stood alone on the bow, feeling the salted breeze as the barge moved through Atlantic waves. He spoke of calm nights on the deck, looking at the stars through stunning darkness. He traveled all over the globe and witnessed Earth's topography from a perspective most of us will never see. The freedom Suresh exuded was profound. He loved these voyages so much that one summer, despite the hazards, he brought his wife and son to experience the journey with him. Having spent many years of my childhood living in Japan and Hong Kong, my family's entire home—every bed, sheet, towel, and kitchen utensil—was packed up and crossed the Atlantic on cargo ships four times. Maybe Suresh had captained one, I thought. Every winter, we hosted US Navy sailors docked in Hong Kong for the holidays. I have such fond memories of everyone going around the table and sharing stories of their adventures—who saw or ate what and where. I loved those times: the wild abandon of travel, the freedom of being somewhere new, and the way identity can shift and expand as experiences grow. When Suresh shared stories of the ocean, I was back there too, holding the multitude of my identity alongside him. I asked Suresh to tell me more about his voyages: what was it like to be out in severe weather, to ride over enormous swells? Did he ever get seasick, and did his crew always get along? But Suresh did not want to swim into these perilous stories with me. Although he worked a difficult and physically taxing job, this is not what he wanted to focus on. Instead, he always came back to the beauty and vitality he felt at sea—what it was like to stare out at the vastness of the open ocean. He often closed his eyes and motioned with his hands as he spoke as if he was not confined to these hospital walls. Instead, he was swaying on the water feeling the lightness of physical freedom, and the way a body can move with such ease that it is barely perceptible, like water flowing over sand. The resonances of Suresh's stories contained both the power and challenges laden in this work. Although I sat at his bedside, healthy, my body too contained memories of freedom that in all likelihood will one day dissipate with age or illness. The question of how I will be seen, compared to how I hoped to be seen, lingered in my mind. Years ago, before going to medical school, I moved to Vail, Colorado. I worked four different jobs just to make ends meet, but making it work meant that on my days off, I was only a chairlift ride away from Vail's backcountry. I have a picture of this vigor in my mind—my snowboard carving into fresh powder, the utter silence of the wilderness at that altitude, and the way it felt to graze the powdery snow against my glove. My face was windburned, and my body was sore, but my heart had never felt so buoyant. While talking with Suresh, I could so vividly picture him as the robust man he once was, standing tall on the bow of his ship. I could feel the freedom and joy he described—it echoed in my own body. In that moment, the full weight of what Suresh had lost hit me as forcefully as a cresting wave—not just the physical decline, but the profound shift in his identity. What is more, we all live, myself included, so precariously at this threshold. In this work, it is impossible not to wonder: what will it be like when it is me? Will I be seen as someone who has lived a full life, who explored and adventured, or will my personhood be whittled down to my illness? How can I hold these questions and not be swallowed by them? "I know who you are now is not the person you've been," I said to Suresh. With that, he reached out for my hand and started to cry. We looked at each other with a new understanding. I saw Suresh—not just as a frail patient but as someone who lived a full life. As someone strong enough to cross the Atlantic for decades. In that moment, I was reminded of the Polish poet, Wislawa Szymborska's words, "As far as you've come, can't be undone." This, I believe, is what it means to honor the dignity of our patients, to reflect back the person they are despite or alongside their illness…all of their parts that can't be undone. Sometimes, this occurs because we see our own personhood reflected in theirs and theirs in ours. Sometimes, to protect ourselves, we shield ourselves from this echo. Other times, this resonance becomes the most beautiful and meaningful part of our work. It has been years now since I took care of Suresh. When the weather is nice, my wife and I like to take our young son to the harbor in South Boston to watch the planes take off and the barges leave the shore, loaded with colorful metal containers. We usually pack a picnic and sit in the trunk as enormous planes fly overhead and tugboats work to bring large ships out to the open water. Once, as a container ship was leaving the port, we waved so furiously at those working on board that they all started to wave back, and the captain honked the ships booming horn. Every single time we are there, I think of Suresh, and I picture him sailing out on thewaves—as free as he will ever be. Mikkael Sekeres: Welcome back to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. This ASCO podcast features intimate narratives and perspectives from authors exploring their experiences in oncology. I'm your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I'm Professor of Medicine and Chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami. What a treat we have today. We're joined by Dr. Alexis Drutchas, a Palliative Care Physician and the Director of the Core Communication Program at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and Assistant Professor of Medicine at Harvard Medical School to discuss her article, "The Man at the Bow." Alexis, thank you so much for contributing to Journal of Clinical Oncology and for joining us to discuss your article. Dr. Alexis Drutchas: Thank you. I'm thrilled and excited to be here. Mikkael Sekeres: I wonder if we can start by asking you about yourself. Where are you from, and can you walk us a bit through your career? Dr. Alexis Drutchas: The easiest way to say it would be that I'm from the Detroit area. My dad worked in automotive car parts and so we moved around a lot when I was growing up. I was born in Michigan, then we moved to Japan, then back to Michigan, then to Hong Kong, then back to Michigan. Then I spent my undergrad years in Wisconsin and moved out to Colorado to teach snowboarding before medical school, and then ended up back in Michigan for that, and then on the east coast at Brown for my family medicine training, and then in Boston for work and training. So, I definitely have a more global experience in my background, but also very Midwestern at heart as well. In terms of my professional career trajectory, I trained in family medicine because I really loved taking care of the whole person. I love taking care of kids and adults, and I loved OB, and at the time I felt like it was impossible to choose which one I wanted to pursue the most, and so family medicine was a great fit. And at the core of that, there's just so much advocacy and social justice work, especially in the community health centers where many family medicine residents train. During that time, I got very interested in LGBTQ healthcare and founded the Rhode Island Trans Health Conference, which led me to work as a PCP at Fenway Health in Boston after that. And so I worked there for many years. And then through a course of being a hospitalist at BI during that work, I worked with many patients with serious illness, making decisions about discontinuing dialysis, about pursuing hospice care in the setting of ILD. I also had a significant amount of family illness and started to recognize this underlying interest I had always had in palliative care, but I think was a bit scared to pursue. But those really kind of tipped me over to say I really wanted to access a different level of communication skills an

    26min

  4. 30 DE OUT.

    Reflection: When Cancer Affects a Family Member

    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

    21min

  5. 14 DE OUT.

    A Fight Bigger than Myeloma: Race Relations and Bias in Medicine

    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 yo

    26min

  6. 9 DE OUT.

    Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India

    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

    24min

  7. 12 DE SET.

    Brown Paper Bags: Beware of Patients Bearing Gifts

    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

    31min

  8. 2 DE SET.

    No Versus Know: Patient Empowerment Through Shared Decision Making

    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

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Sobre

Embark on an intimate journey with heartfelt narratives, poignant reflections, and thoughtful dialogues, hosted by Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. The award-winning podcast JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology podcast unveils the hidden emotions, resilient strength and intense experiences faced by those providing medical support, caring for, and living with cancer.

Informações

  • Criado por
    American Society of Clinical Oncology (ASCO)
  • Anos de atividade
    2018 - 2025
  • Episódios
    100
  • Classificação
    Livre
  • Copyright
    © American Society of Clinical Oncology
  • Site do podcast
    Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology

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