Media & Medicine

I’m an introvert. I recently took an online Myers-Briggs test a work colleague sent me, and I scored a solid INTJ. This categorization has been stable for me since high school. Though I do enjoy social events and meeting new people, as a true introvert, I find conferences exhausting. Medical or otherwise, the constant introductions, social navigating, and personal storytelling involved can prove daunting.

Last April, I was in Boston at a medical conference and had lunch with a group of women physicians. I struck up a conversation with the woman sitting next to me, trading the standard questions: where we’re from, our medical specialty, our interests. I told her about my passion for writing and narrative medicine and storytelling and physician wellness and bioethics and the humanities and, in turn, heard all about her upcoming book and the wonderful work she was doing in Boston.

A month later she emailed me, saying she had just attended a narrative writing event at her hospital, run by Dr. Suzanne Koven, and that what Dr. Koven was doing seemed very much aligned with my interests and the work I hoped to do in Seattle. Would I like a virtual introduction?

And that, as they say, is history. At least for my work and life. I spent over an hour speaking with Suzanne, learning about her path in both medicine and writing, and how she formed the Literature & Medicine program that has been running for over a decade. I knew I’d like Suzanne immediately when her first words to me were, “Well, let’s discuss our mutual favorite topic: narrative medicine.”

Under Suzanne’s guidance, I went on to establish a Literature & Medicine program at my own institution in Seattle, and she has since become Massachusetts General Hospital’s first Writer-in-Residence.

So when I heard that she and Neal Baer were starting a Media & Medicine course at Harvard, looking at how we can use storytelling to address pressing public health issues, I knew I wanted to be involved.

This past week, the inaugural Media & Medicine class met together in Boston for five days of lectures and networking, community and conversation. With a cohort of 50 people from all over the world, there was rich discussion and consideration of how we can use journalism and podcasting, op-eds and plays to address issues in healthcare.

I was impressed with the many innovative ideas, including implementing design thinking to tackle complex healthcare problems, weaving public health education into television and plays, and using solutions journalism to show that “better is possible” to enact change. Keynote speaker Dr. Leana Wen urged us to start with our authentic selves and stick with the voice we know. We collectively wrote op-ed pitches, practiced playback theater techniques, critiqued podcasts, and turned partner stories into playdough and pipe cleaner art.

I met an impressive group of healthcare professionals from all over the world, eager to expand on work in public health, mental health, health disparities, physician wellness, and chronic disease. We learned from each other, advised each other, helped with networking solutions and built our own community of advocates for storytelling and listening, which we’ll continue to grow over the next six months as we work on specific public health projects.

I had so many rich conversations, and heard from experts in media and storytelling. I’m leaving Boston invigorated and exhausted. I can’t wait to work on my own project, focusing on mental illness, and support and champion the work of my fellow colleagues. Although taxing for introverts like me, I’m so glad I had that conversation, shared my story with the women physicians I met at that conference back in 2018. It speaks to the power of personal connection, of telling our stories with vulnerability and hope, and this, I think, is what the Media & Medicine program is all about.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Flamingos

Poet Zeina Hashem Beck’s “Flamingos” in The Southeast Review reflects on the normalcy that persists, even in the midst of a child’s illness.

She begins in second person, as “the nurses pushed your bed into the OR.” The context quickly takes shape, the way a promise is made in response to outstretched arms “to see the flamingos / in the hospital garden downstairs.”

Hashem Beck signals there are expectations when caring for a loved one who is ill, but that we sometimes do the irrational: “The worried aren’t supposed to be hungry, / but I ordered food because it was reassuring.” The food represents a comforting nourishment, even if not consumed.

In “Flamingos,” Hashem Beck shows the divide between the “outside” world and that of the world of illness: surgery, the ICU, hospitals. In caring for her daughter, she is so removed from this alternate world that when she returns home for the simple act of a shower, she stumbles with the cadence of normalcy: “hair dripping, my arms full / of laundry, for a second I must have forgotten / my step, twisted & cracked my ankle.” A friend helps her to the emergency room, and all she can do is laugh, tell the doctor to “to fix my ankle, quick, I have a daughter / waiting in a room upstairs…”

“Flamingos” is a reflection on how life goes on, how “life will sometimes infect your daughter’s lung / & fracture your ankle in the same week.” There is a kind of apology, a stream of motherly advice in the end. The wisdom that even on mundane days, the days “the car doesn’t break down, / & the children are healthy, & your husband / loves you … you will be terrified nevertheless, / & sometimes empty. It’s ok if you forget / to put one foot in front of the other.”

Writing Prompt: When you or a loved one is ill, do you feel the divide between the “outside” world and the one you’re living through? In what moments does that divide manifest? I like the allowance the poet gives, that’s it’s okay to forget to put one foot in front of the other. Have you ever experienced a situation when it felt like all you could do was put one foot in front of the other? What happened, or might have, if you didn’t? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” and the Challenge of Growing Up in Medical Training

I first read Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” as part of a generative writing workshop during a summer writing residency. Our small group gathered folding chairs around long tables set up in an old barn near the Stillaguamish River in rural Washington. I was taken with each of the readings poets Jane Wong and Claudia Castro Luna had us read, but “Girl” struck me most, with its unusual punctuation, jarring directness, and call to re-examine the lessons we receive.

Emergency physician and writer Dr. Naomi Rosenberg explains in a recent JAMA article how Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” resonates in a very different environment–with new physicians in a narrative medicine workshop.

Rosenberg comments on the unexpected “striking similarity” these physicians have to Kincaid’s young girl, joining “a system that demands they quickly learn the skills of their craft, the rules of survival, and the values they will fight for all while navigating their instinctive psychological responses to illness, injury, healing, injustice, and grief.”

Rosenberg and the “burgeoning narrative medicine department” at her urban hospital have used “Girl” in the residency didactic curriculum, medical school electives, and writing workshops for all health care system employees with a goal to “constantly explore ways to help physicians, nurses, staff, and students ‘develop attention.'”

She describes how when they ask the residents to read “Girl,” intially they are met with resistance. How could this lyrical prose about coming of age in an island culture relate to healthcare professionals who “treat gunshot and stab wounds, deliver babies, diagnose cancer, unclog dying hearts for a living?” And yet, the new physicians quickly make the connection: “‘It reminds me of residency,’ one obstetrics-gynecology resident tells us, ‘a million instructions and things to do. It’s all over the place, and rapid fire.'”

At the end of the session a simple writing prompt is given, “metabolizing their own experiences and taking a moment to string words together—something young physicians today rarely, if ever, get a chance to do.” The result is surprising: “an exploration of hierarchy, medical education, and the silent curriculum of growing up.”

I wrote about my own experience at Columbia’s Narrative Medicine workshop, where we did a similar exercise and I again encountered Kincaid’s “Girl.” I love Rosenberg’s use of this piece to help new physicians still finishing their training grapple with the accelerated nature of a medical residency, the growth and expectations that come with modern medicine. It also was interesting to learn that Rosenberg herself used “Girl” as inspiration for her own wrenching New York Times essay, “How to Tell a Mother Her Child Is Dead” which I wrote about here and is one of my own favorite pieces to use for reflection and discussion among healthcare professionals.

As Rosenberg recognizes, literature has a way of “again and again, deepen[ing] our inspection and understanding of the internal and external worlds.”

Writing Prompt: Take a cue from Rosenberg’s exercise and respond to “Girl” by writing instructions on how to be a healthcare professional (nurse, physician, pharmacist, etc.) Alternatively, write instructions on how to be a patient, or a patient’s parent or partner or child. Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Cooper’s Heart

Writer Rebecca Gummere writes in Oprah about the unimaginable loss she experiences when her infant son dies suddenly in her essay “Cooper’s Heart.” Gummere begins by describing the heart, how it starts in gestation, how it pumps throughout life: “Even the heart of a baby who lives just 42 days will pulsate more than 6 million times before its final, fluttering beat.” She then returns to October 1982, to the time when her son Cooper was born.

Just before discharge from the hospital, her pediatrician hears a heart murmur and suggests evaluation by a pediatric cardiologist, who performs an x-ray, then an ultrasound. The cardiologist receives the results and ushers the young couple into his office: “‘Do you know what a heart looks like?’ he asked, and I remember having one distinct thought: We should run.” Gummere captures the indelible urge as a patient, as a family member, to flee when faced with a difficult diagnosis.

The cardiologist breaks the news that their newborn son will need urgent surgery. The surgery is successful and Cooper is admitted to the NICU, a place Gummere describes as being “neither night nor day but another kind of time altogether.” Cooper improves and Gummere is able to bring him home. He gains weight, “and once he was in a regular feeding routine, he was able to sleep. His cheeks grew round, and he kicked his legs in excitement. I let myself breathe.”

That December, when Cooper is 6 weeks old, Gummere notes one night that he seems cold: “Then this: He wakes, fussing, squirming. I change his diaper and notice he is cool, so cool to the touch, and his skin has gone white, his surgical scar now a harsh purple line against his pale torso.” Her husband is away on a business trip. She calls her pediatrician, who eventually suggests Cooper be hospitalized. She calls a neighbor and readies her toddler son, only to realize that Cooper “…is not breathing,’ I say, and I know it is true. ‘Call 911,’ I shout, and then everything is changed.”

Everything is changed, as Gummere describes her own pleading with God: “‘Please, God, not my baby, not my baby. Please don’t take my baby.’
At last one of the paramedics pronounces what we all know: ‘This baby is deceased.'” In the wake of this tragedy, Gummere, though devastated, consents to the mandatory autopsy that is required of a death at home, “allowing the hospital to do what it must.”

Gummere tells her 2-year-old son that “God is taking good care of our baby, but I am not sure I believe it, not sure at all.” We can sense her wrestling with the idea of a higher power: “I want God to be real. I need there to be Someone in charge, and I need there to be a heaven, some place where I know my baby is safe and cared for and loved.”

Several times after Cooper dies, Gummere asks God: Where are you now? Often when we face difficult or traumatic situations as patients or as healthcare professionals, our perception of God or a higher power can be alterered or challenged. Have you ever asked this question of God? Did you get an answer?

Over a year after her son’s heartbreaking death, Gummere delivers a healthy baby girl and she is “filled with joy and fear.” Understandably, she is constantly “on guard,” ready for the worst. As the years pass though, Gummere shares that “I am forgetting altogether about dusting the pictures of Cooper on the mantel.” What role does time play in Gummere’s experience?

Gummere begins searching for reasons, for some semblance of answers, and enters seminary. She shares her varied identities: “I am part scholar, part detective, both parts waiting to be struck like Paul on the road to Damascus, knocked facedown in the dust, then renamed, remade, given new eyes to see some revelation of God woven in the very fabric of the universe.”

Her understanding and faith, though, continues to be challenged. Throughout seminary, when a friend is diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, when a local teen dies by suicide, she wonders to God: Where are You now?

Seven years after he son’s death, Gummere enters chaplaincy training. Against her adviser’s advice, she chooses the local Children’s hospital where her own son was cared for and died. During this training, Gummere meets the same pathologist who performed Cooper’s autopsy. At her request, the pathologist goes over her son’s autopsy in great detail and then shares “his role in training medical students and his special area of interest, the heart-lung system, describing how he procures and preserves the organs during the autopsy to use them in teaching…. He is quiet for a long moment and then says, ‘I still have your son’s heart and lungs. Do you want to see them?'”

Gummere describes what she finds in the morgue, how the pathologist reaches “down into the bucket, he brings up all that remains of my son, and in the next instant I hold in my hands the heart that had been inside the infant who had been inside of me.”

She is eventually able to “begin to do a new thing, to move beyond grief and guilt into wonder, to celebrate what I was part of creating— not what was lost but what was alive, what moved and pulsated deep inside of me, what seems to be in some way part of me still.”

Gummere asks “What is God?” And shares that her own answer to this question has shifted over time. Ultimately, Gummere discovers that there is no answer, but “there is love, the kind that binds us to each other in ways beyond our knowing, ways that span distance, melt time, rupture the membrane between the living and the dead.”

Writing Prompt: Think of a tragedy you’ve encountered – in your own life or in the life of a patient. Did this experience affect your view of God or a higher power? Alternatively, think of a time, for you or a patient, when “everything is changed.” What happened in that moment and what questions did you struggle with afterward? Did the passage of time alter those questions or the answers? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Who Heals the Healer?

Dr. Huma Farid asks “Who Heals the Healer?” in her recent essay in JAMA, and her answer might surprise you. Farid describes weeping alongside her patient early in her obstetric training when she delivers a stillborn baby. The gravity of this experience affects Farid deeply as she reflects on human suffering, recognizing “that my work would encompass taking care of women at some of the worst times in their lives.”

As Farid progresses in her career, though, she realizes that she no longer has the same reaction, the same connection to the suffering of her patients: “My eyes dry, I wondered, when was the last time I had truly connected with a patient, empathized with her sorrow, and allowed myself to feel a sliver of her pain?”

Farid acknowledges that at that time she was also going through her own personal difficulties, and that despite this, she did her best to “remain empathetic and kind” to her patients: “I tried to give as much of myself as I could, but I felt like I had a finite, limited reserve of empathy.” Do you view empathy as a finite resource, or have you experienced a similar limited reserve to connect with your patients?

Farid’s commentary really resonated with me. It seems a simple statement to say doctors are human too, but it’s a reality we often forget. Most doctors are incredibly resilient and, even so, it only takes one personal life stressor to topple the precarious balance of mental and emotional rigors that come with being a physician in today’s healthcare environment. As Farid notes, the decline in empathy “may be driven by the demands of modern medicine and exacerbated by personal experiences.”

When I experienced my own significant personal life upheaval a few years ago, I, like Farid, “was still able to perform my clinical duties and to provide good patient care despite struggling to be empathic. However, studies have demonstrated that physician empathy improves both patient outcomes and patient satisfaction….” Ideally, for both the patient and physician’s sake, we would find ways to combat the decline in empathy that is an inherent byproduct of the current healthcare environment.

Ultimately, Farid determines that empathy “enables us to understand and connect with a patient’s perspective, an invaluable resource in an environment that has become increasingly polarized and rife with divisions.” Farid describes an interaction with a patient where she “mostly listened” and, in return, receives heartfelt thanks and hugs. Through that emotional and physical connection, Farid regains a piece of her “profoundly and imperfectly human” self. May we all find a way to move in that direction.

Writing Prompt: Farid wonders “what it meant for me that I had lost some ability to feel a patient’s pain.” If you’re a healthcare professional, have you lost some of that ability throughout your medical training or career? Think about a time you failed to have empathy for a patient’s suffering or, as a patient, that you felt your healthcare provider had little empathy for your pain. Alternatively, describe a time that your empathy has been “rekindled.” Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: The Oncologist

Poet Carole Stone writes about “The Oncologist” in the Bellevue Literary Review. Stone starts with the questionnaire she receives: “Do you have an appetite? No. / Are you anxious? Yes.” I think of all the questionnaires we hand out to patients to save time, to make sure we get vital history, to screen for other issues that might not be readily apparent just by looking at the reason the patient came in. As a primary care physician, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a patient for knee pain or seasonal allergies or a Pap smear, who actually wants to discuss their depression or panic attacks or fear of developing the same chronic illness as their cousin.

In Stone’s brief poem, though, she reveals the multitude that is assumed, that is missed, by these questionnaires and by the rote interventions that follow. Stone shares her inner dialogue when the woman suggests counseling and a writing group: “I imagine an unsharpened pencil, / and a blank page, / tell her, no.

In the end, the patient and the oncologist miss a connection. Stone asks herself “Is this denial?” But verbalizes only that she has “nothing to say.” In modern medicine’s pressured office visits, sometimes the most important communication, how the patient is really feeling, what they are thinking, the opportunity to get to know a person beyond their disease, gets lost in all that goes unsaid between patient and doctor.

Writing Prompt: Stone declines the woman’s offer to try counseling or a writing group, commenting on her “stranger’s eyes.” Have you encountered a similar situation with a medical professional where they felt like a stranger? What is the balance of intimacy and intrusion when caring for someone who is gravely ill, has cancer or a debilitating chronic disease? Consider writing about a medical questionnaire you received and what it did and did not reveal. Alternatively, try writing about this exchange from both the patient and the oncologist’s point of view. Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Bill of the Month

NPR’s recent “Bill of the Month” highlighted a Montana man’s kidney dialysis that landed him with a bill of half a million dollars. The story describes how Sovereign Valentine, a 50-year-old personal trainer, discovered he was in kidney failure and in emergent need of dialysis. After discharge from the hospital, he and his physician wife returned to their small town in Montana and were told he’d need dialysis three times a week, with two options for treatment centers about 70 miles from their rural home.

They chose a center in Missoula, but soon after the outpatient treatments started, they were contacted by “an insurance case manager…warning them that since Fresenius was out of network, they could be required to pay whatever the insurer didn’t cover. The manager added that there were no in-network dialysis clinics in Montana, according to [his wife’s] handwritten notes from the conversation.”

Valentine’s physician wife attempted to get a quote on how much the dialysis might cost, but was unable to get a specific, or even rough, estimate. The NPR story highlights a law from 1973 that “allows all patients with end-stage renal disease like Sov to join Medicare, even if they’re younger than 65 — but only after a 90-day waiting period. During that time, patients are extremely vulnerable, medically and financially.” The outpatient dialysis center billed them $524,600.17. The NPR story notes that because of the law, there is “an incentive to treat as many privately insured patients as possible and to charge as much as they can before dialysis patients enroll in Medicare.”

Part of what is so disconcerting (and relatable for me personally) about this particular patient’s situation is that his wife is a physician, a person who would presumably have an advantage in navigating the system. She “knew it was important to find an in-network provider of dialysis.” Even with her extensive practical knowledge, she found herself and her loved one in an untenable situation.

Eventually, the patient’s wife contacted the state insurance commissioner and learned that there actually was an in-network dialysis clinic that had not turned up in other searches. Through this experience, Valentine discovered new insight into her patients’ challenges: “It’s very, very frustrating to be a patient, and it’s very disempowering to feel like you can’t make an informed choice because you can’t get the information you need.”

Writing Prompt: Have you had a time you were surprised by a medical bill, or found yourself ill and needing treatment when you didn’t have any health insurance? How did you feel? Consider writing a letter in second person to the insurance company, to the hospital, to yourself at that time, to the healthcare system as a whole. If you’re a medical provider, think of a time you tried to help a patient navigate the system regarding a medical bill. What was the experience like? Did anything surprise you? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Hospital

Poet and essayist Marianne Boruch illuminates a scene from a “Hospital.” Her poem provides a contrast of what an outsider might experience and the reality of those who work in such a place. She notes that “It seems / as if the end of the world / has never happened in here.” For patients and their loved ones, their worst day, their worst moment, often occurs in the confines of the hospital.

The narrator expects more, a kind of signal, of “smoke” or “dizzy flaring” but instead she waits, watching people go by as if on a conveyor. She sees “them pass, the surgical folk– / nurses, doctors, the guy who hangs up / the blood drop–ready for lunch…” They are going about their day, their work. She catches them at “the end of a joke,” but misses the punch line. Instead, it is lost in “their brief laughter.”

Boruch’s reflection reminds me of Mary Oliver’s lines in Wild Geese: “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. / Meanwhile the world goes on.” Boruch’s poem reveals the dichotomy of a hospital: while some can be devastated, others go about their day, wearing their designated uniform of “a cheerful green or pale blue.”

When I have been a patient, or the loved one waiting for word, the usually familiar hospital is completely transformed from how it exists for me as a physician. Boruch captures these parallel worlds in her poem, and gives the reader space for reflection on their disconnect.

Writing Prompt: Think of the last time you were in a hospital as a patient, as a visitor, as a medical professional. What did you observe? How did your experience differ based on the reason why you were there? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: What I Learned Photographing Death

Caroline Catlin shares her riveting story of how photographing those with terminal illness gave her perspective about her own cancer diagnosis in the New York Times’ What I Learned Photographing Death.”

Catlin volunteers with Soulumination, a nonprofit organization that documents moments between critically ill individuals and their families, including the end of a child’s life. As I also live in Washington State, I had heard of this remarkable organization and the unique and thoughtful service they provide. Catlin’s piece, though, also reveals the perspective of these volunteer photographers. As Catlin describes, her role is to enter a room “ready to capture the way that love honors the dying. Witnessing these small moments helps me come to terms with my own mortality.” Her experience echoes that of many who work in the medical field. She too is a kind of caregiver for these families, wielding a camera rather than a stethoscope.

This young writer and photographer describes how in October she herself became a patient, eventually being diagnosed with malignant brain cancer. Catlin highlights how, since her diagnosis, she’s bonded with the people she’s photographing in a new way, including a teenager who shared mutual baldness: “The fact that I am sick and young has helped me form new connections with the people I am photographing.”

Catlin describes photographing the birth and death of a baby who was born with a condition that wasn’t survivable. She writes with heartbreaking clarity how “[h]e was perfect, but he did not cry,” how she captured “[h]is arm…gentle across his mother’s face — I clicked the shutter to save this gesture.”

Catlin is clear on her purpose in doing this difficult work: “When I am in those rooms, I am present with the sole goal of finding the moments within grief that feel the most gentle and human.” She also has discovered moments that speak to her own confrontation with mortality, such as when a child cries over the loss of his sister, then goes on to play near her body. She recognizes the resilience that exists in this world, that her friends and family “will also continue to live on if I die too soon.”

In the end, Catlin’s revelation is that “grief is centered not in pain but in love.” This is the lesson that she shares with us, the encouragement that “in our most horrific of moments we are met with small pricks of bright light, piercing and strong.”

Writing Prompt: In this piece, Catlin expresses how her work with Soulumination gave insight into her own experience with cancer and facing mortality. If you’re a medical provider, what has your work revealed to you about your own mortality? Alternatively, think about a time you stepped into another person’s story, during a particularly challenging time, either as a friend or family member or stranger. What did you learn from walking alongside that person, listening or observing? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: What almost dying taught me about living

Writer and speaker Suleika Jaouad urges us to rethink the binary nature of health and illness in her TED talk “What almost dying taught me about living.”

Jaouad, diagnosed with leukemia herself at the young age of 22, questions the narrative of cancer survivor as a hero’s journey. She recalls that “the hardest part of my cancer experience began once the cancer was gone. That heroic journey of the survivor… it’s a myth. It isn’t just untrue, it’s dangerous, because it erases the very real challenges of recovery.”

Jaouad finds herself discharged from the hospital and struggling with reentry to life. She had spent all of her energy just trying to survive, and now needs to find a new way of living amidst expectations of constant gratitude and labels of heroism. 

Her assertion is that often the most challenging aspect of a jarring interruption to life occurs after the inciting event or episode, in her case, cancer, has resolved. It is the attempt in weeks, months, years after to readjust to the daily act of living that can be the most grueling. She notes that “we talk about reentry in the context of war and incarceration. But we don’t talk about it as much in the context of other kinds of traumatic experiences, like an illness.” Jaouad urges us instead to accept that there is a spectrum of health and illness, and we should “find ways to live in the in-between place, managing whatever body and mind we currently have.”

Through writing a column about her experience fighting cancer and reentry into the world of the well, Jaouad begins getting letters from a vast array of people who relate to her story, her inspiration that “you can be held hostage by the worst thing that’s ever happened to you and allow it to hijack your remaining days, or you can find a way forward.”

Jaouad herself seems to find a way forward by sharing her story and connecting with others. Her struggle certainly resonates with me and my own recent life interruption. This concept of the nonbinary nature of well and unwell is also important for medical providers to consider. As primary care physicians, we are the ones who not only deliver a life altering diagnosis, but also who continue to care for patients long after their bodies recover or continue on with a chronic disease. I’m looking forward to reading Jaouad’s book on this topic, Between Two Kingdoms, out next year.

In the end, Jaouad concludes that we need to “stop seeing our health as binary, between sick and healthy, well and unwell, whole and broken; to stop thinking that there’s some beautiful, perfect state of wellness to strive for; and to quit living in a state of constant dissatisfaction until we reach it.”

Writing Prompt: Jaouad assures us that every single one of us will have our life interrupted, either by illness or “some other heartbreak or trauma.” Think of a a time your life has been interrupted. What was the hardest aspect for you? What was your experience of “reentry?” Alternatively, think about the concepts of health and illness. What do these words mean to you, either as a patient or as a medical provider? Write for 10 minutes.

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