Narrative Medicine Monday: Ikiru

Today’s Narrative Medicine post highlights a first: a movie. As part of preparation for this week’s Columbia Narrative Medicine Workshop, I watched a 1952 Japanese film, Ikiru. This movie, directed by Akira Kurosawa, outlines the life and death of a man with end stage cancer.

I happen to also be facilitating a Literature & Medicine gathering this week, where the topic is “Confronting Mortality.” In it, we are reading Tolstoy’s novella “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” which similarly shows a man facing a terminal illness and wrestling with the meaning of his life and the nature of his painful death.

In Ikiru the protagonist, Mr. Watanabe, has not missed a day of work in 30 years at the same tedious government job. The narrator notes that “he’s only killing time, he’s never actually lived.”

I’m certainly not a movie critic, but several things stood out to me, looking at this film through a narrative medicine lens. First, his physicians insist on withholding the terminal nature of Mr. Watanabe’s illness, stating it’s a “mild ulcer” only, even when Watanabe begs them for the truth. This scene reminded me of a panel on cultural issues in bioethics I attended many years ago. On the panel was a bioethicist from Japan, and he explained the cultural influence of withholding the true prognosis or even diagnosis of an illness from a loved one; that a physician might deliver a terminal diagnosis to a patient’s family member rather than to the patient themself.

We get flashbacks in the movie to understand the central character more. His wife died when his son was young and he never remarried. Although they live together still, Watanabe and his son have a difficult relationship; they struggle to really communicate and Watanabe in fact is never able, despite several efforts, to actually confide his diagnosis and angst to his son.

Mr. Watanabe comes across a stranger who he asks to show him “how to live” and they gamble and dance and drink, but ultimately he finds little lasting pleasure in these endeavors.

The central character then turns to an old colleague, a young woman, trying to decipher her vitality, her zest for living. Through this interaction, he resolves to get a park built for the community. In the end he succeeds, battling the bureaucracy he was a part of himself for decades. It seems the completion of the park gives the dying man some semblance of peace, a legacy solidified, which produces the meaning he was struggling to find.

Writing Prompt: At one point in the film, Watanabe tells a colleague “I can’t afford to hate people. I haven’t got that kind of time.” What are the different ways you’ve seen patients who are terminally ill react to facing their limited time? Did they give up hate? Or something else? In Mark Doty’s poem “Brilliance” the patient initially gives up investing in anything he can’t finish. Why do you think Watanabe decided that the playground would be his last project, his last investment in what little energy and time remained? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: A Tense Moment in the Emergency Room

Author and physician Danielle Ofri’s latest piece in The Lancet outlines “A Tense Moment in the Emergency Room.” Ofri describes the concern of an African-American medical student as a “young man stormed into the doctors’ station… and held up his toddler. ‘My baby’s choking and you guys aren’t doing anything.'” The medical student knows she is least senior of the gathered medical professionals, but she also is the “only African-American person among the white doctors” and is “acutely aware of the fraught dynamics,” given the child’s father is also African-American. She considers stepping forward to assist, even though per her estimation the child is not in imminent danger. Instead, she holds back. Ultimately, the “highest person in the medical hierarchy” asks the man to return to his room and the situation escalates.

Ofri notes what anyone who has visited or worked in a hospital is keenly aware of: the hospital is a stressful place. Given the already heightened tension, if you “[a]dd in issues of race, class, gender, power dynamics, economics, and long wait times … you have the ingredients for combustion just hankering for tinder.” The broader issue is that “racial and ethnic disparities in medical care are extensive” and “implicit or unconscious bias is still entrenched in the medical world.” How have you witnessed this issue in giving or receiving medical care yourself? Do you know if the organization you work at, or receive medical care from, is working to address implicit bias in medicine?

The medical student’s reaction to the father differed from her white colleagues: “When the father stormed into the doctors’ station, she saw fear and concern; her fellow physicians saw aggression.” These issues are complicated by the various power dynamics that exist in medicine. On one hand, the medical student wonders if she would be treated similar to the father if she were a patient there, given they are both African-American and therefore “look the same to the outside world.” However, in that situation she was both “part of the powerful group—the doctors—but as a medical student, she was singularly powerless… a medical student might just as well be part of the furniture.”

Ofri contends that in the medical field we often justify our behavior in tense encounters “because we surely know that we are not racist, or sexist, or homophobic. We are good people and we have chosen to work in a profession dedicated to helping others, right? How could our actions possibly reflect bias?” Ofri calls us to seek out stories, to listen to one another. Medicine, after all, “remains an intensely human field: illness is experienced in human terms and medical care is given in human terms. We humans bring along our biases and stereotypes—that is true—but we also bring along our ability to communicate and to listen.” I know this is a skill I need to continually cultivate in my own practice. How might you listen better today?

Writing Prompt: Have you experienced a similar situation as this medical student regarding power dynamics, wether related to race, class, gender, or level of training? Think about such an event, either during your medical training or when encountering a medical professional as a patient. How did the people around you react differently? How did you react? Did your perspective of the incident change over time? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Trying to Help

Poet and physician Dianne Silvestri outlines practicalities near the end of life in her Hospital Drive poem, “Trying to Help.” She begins with an entreaty: “Don’t forget when I die” and from there imparts instruction. She implores the reader “Remember the penciled page … that lists all important numbers.” She both instructs, but also attempts to absolve of any guilt: “It’s okay if no one peruses / my binders, journals, and files.” In the end, there is the sincerity of a small request, that “if you resume dance lessons, / please miss me … a little.”

Silvestri’s blend of instruction and request is both practical and wrenching. The narrator is preparing their loved one for that which cannot be prepared for. Her words are both freeing and binding. They offer solace in a hopeless situation.

Writing Prompt: Have you had a loved one or a patient who reacted to dying similarly to the narrator of this poem: putting things in order, advising their loved one about practicalities? How was this received? Who do you think the narrator is trying to help? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Hammond B3 Organ Cistern

Poet Gabrielle Calvocoressi conveys what it feels like to experience a reprieve from wanting to kill herself in The New Yorker‘s “Hammond B3 Organ Cistern.” She begins with the wonder: “The days I don’t want to kill myself / are extraordinary. Deep bass.” Calvocoressi is nearly at a loss for words: “There should be a word for it. / The days you wake up and do not want / to slit your throat.” Clearly, though, she finds them, unflinching in her descriptions of suicidal thoughts. She wants the world to celebrate with her on the days she does not experience this urge: “Come on, Everybody. / Say it with me nice and slow / no pills no cliff no brains onthe floor

What Calvocoressi portrays is the visceral reality that erupts for a person who knows the severity of of suicidal urges and wakes to find “I did not / want to die that day.” Calvocoressi wonders, “Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels.” In this extraordinary poem, Calvocoressi does.

Writing Prompt: Have you suffered from a serious illness that may feel different from one day to the next, such as severe depression? What does it feel like on the “good” days, the days your illness is improved or in remission? Can you relate to Calvocoressi’s exuberance for this state, the “deep bass,” the “leaping?” Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: The Insulin Wars

Dr. Danielle Ofri’s opinion piece in the New York Times last week outlines “The Insulin Wars.” As a primary care physician who cares for hundreds of patients with chronic diseases, including diabetes, I could relate to Ofri’s frustration and outrage on behalf of patients and providers.

Ofri describes how her patient’s insurance company keeps changing the insulin that is preferred and therefore covered. This can be challenging for both the patient and the prescriber to keep up with, and there can be serious health consequences if there is a gap in use of this critical medication.

Ofri notes that “[b]etween 2002 and 2013, prices tripled for some insulins.” She offers several reasons that this is the case, but highlights that insurers use “pharmacy benefit managers, called P.B.M.s, to negotiate prices with manufacturers. Insurance programs represent huge markets, so manufacturers compete to offer good deals. How to offer a good deal? Jack up the list price, and then offer the P.B.M.s a ‘discount.'”

The end result for patients who can’t cover the costs of this vital medication may mean self-rationing, fluctuating blood sugar levels, and rejected prescriptions. For physicians, “it’s an endless game of catch-up.” It’s also a “colossal time-waster, as patients, pharmacists and doctors log hours upon hours calling, faxing, texting and emailing to keep up with whichever insulin is trending. It’s also dangerous, as patients can end up without a critical medication for days, sometimes weeks, waiting for these bureaucratic kinks to get ironed out.” There can be dire consequences for a diabetic patient to have short or long term uncontrolled diabetes.

In trying to get her patient’s insulin switched to an acceptable alternative, Ofri discovers that the insurance company “now had no insulins on its top tier. Breaking the news to my patient was devastating.” Ofri realized that the insurance company had found a way to place the burden on physicians and patients: “Let the doctors be the ones to navigate the bureaucratic hoops and then deliver the disappointing news to our patients. Let patients be the ones to figure out how to ration their medications or do without.” This piece highlights a sobering fact too common in modern medicine: the system often gets in the way of the best interest of the patient. We can, we must, find a better way.

Writing Prompt: Have you encountered a similar issue with insulin, either as a patient or as a physician? Have you seen other vital medications involved? What frustrates you most about the situation? How does this issue affect the patient-physician relationship? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Narrative Gatherings

The first Medical Humanities Twitter Chat, or #medhumchat, happened January 2nd and was curated by Dr. Colleen Farrell, an internal medicine resident. Although I wasn’t able to fully participate (bath time for my three kids, as often is the case, was not a well-controlled event that offered much down time for a Twitter chat), I was able to go back and read the lively conversation.

Farrell notes in this follow up post the role the humanities play in helping “make sense of the seemingly senseless suffering and heartbreak I witness daily as a doctor.” This seems a common sentiment among medical providers today, as varied opportunities in narrative medicine expand.

Farrell’s blog post lists the Medical Humanities Chat readings and questions, along with a few responses from participants. It’s an interesting format to interact with medical professionals and patients from all over the world.

The next Medical Humanities Chat will be this Wednesday, January 16th at 9pm EST, on the topic of Racism & Medicine. I’m hoping, bath time willing, to be able to participate in this important discussion.

Locally, I recently attended the Northwest Narrative Medicine Collaborative‘s inaugural Seattle event, a medical moth with the theme of “My First Time.” The event sold out in just a few weeks and the stories told were varied, often humorous, and resonant with the crowd of both medical providers and the general public.

The next Seattle NW Narrative Medicine Collaborative event is yet to be announced, but I know is already in the works.

The popularity of these opportunities to share our stories, consider a narrative, process the intimate and at times wrenching role we as medical providers play in health and illness, highlights the thirst for such contemplation and conversation among increasingly burnt out physicians and frustrated patients. I find myself, ten years into my own career in primary care, seeking out such community, eager to help cultivate ways to gather and share.

I hope, wherever you are, you can find or foster similar opportunities to share your story, consider your patients’ narratives, and use the humanities as a tool for further introspection and connection.

Writing Prompt: Consider reading the pieces Dr. Farrell selected for the first #medhumchat and answer the questions posed in written form. Were your answers similar to the ones posted during the live chat? Did you gain a different perspective after reading through the conversation? Did any of your answers or reactions to the readings surprise you? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: The X-ray Waiting Room in the Hospital

“The X-Ray Waiting Room in the Hospital” by author Randall Jarrell thrusts us into his “big shoes and wrinkled socks,” and one of those “much-laundered smocks” that all the patients wear. Jarrell laments “[t]hese new, plain, mean / Days of pain and care…” and that “routine / Misery has made us into cases.” He describes the “machine” that each smocked patient suffers in, and the reader gets the sense that Jarrell is referring to more than just the mechanics of the x-ray, but also the greater “machine” that is medicine.

Jarrell was an American poet and critic who lived in the mid 20th century but his commentary on the patient’s experience of modern medicine still rings true. Jarrell wants each “nurse and doctor who goes by” to acknowledge him and each patient as an individual, but instead finds that “we are indistinguishable.”

Jarrell concludes that instead of trying to “make friends” with the medical professionals and get them to recognize his individuality, “It is better to lie upon a table, / A dye in my spine.”

Writing Prompt: As a patient, have you ever felt “indistinguishable” from other patients to your medical provider? If you’re a medical professional, do you agree with Jarrell’s assertion that “this routine / Misery has made [patients] into cases?” Can you think of a time when a patient has become merely a case, to you or a colleague? What are the consequences of this, to both the patient and they physician? How can we help doctors and nurses to see patients as individuals again? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Brilliance

Poet Mark Doty’s “Brilliance” shows a dying man changing his perspective near the end of life. In Doty’s poem, the man has “attended to everything, / said goodbye to his parents, / paid off his credit card.” He gives away his pets, finds the risk of owning too great, realizes that he “can’t have anything.” When someone suggests he get a bowl of goldfish, he replies “he doesn’t want to start / with anything….” For just a moment, the man allows himself to imagine the goldfish he might like: “hot jewel tones, / gold lacquer.” The fantasy, though, is fleeting because “I can’t love / anything I can’t finish.” Eventually he recants that decision, saying “Yes to the bowl of goldfish. / Meaning: let me go, if I have to, / in brilliance.”

Writing Prompt: Have you ever been at a place in your life when you didn’t want to start with anything new? What prompted that feeling? If you’re a medical provider, think of a time you’ve seen a shifting perspective in patients near the end of life. Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Reasons for Admission

I opened up a nondescript brown package last week to discover Bellevue Literary Review‘s latest issue, showcasing a beautiful new redesign.

In this 35th issue, Gaetan Sgro’s poem “Reasons for Admission” reveals the complexities surrounding modern day hospitalizations. Sgro notes that often the reasons are contradictory: “Having just gotten insurance. Never having had insurance…. Because you are terrified of dying alone. Because you are terrified of living alone.” Sgro is clearly attune to the many and varied kinds of hospital admissions, including the seemingly non-medical. I like Sgro’s play on words that shows two hospitalization realities: “Because of a broken system. A positive review of systems.”

Writing Prompt: This poem is part of Bellevue Literary Review‘s “Dis/Placement” issue. Why do you think this poem fits this theme? If you work in a hospital, list the reasons, obvious or more subtle, each of your current patients was admitted. Alternatively, think of a patient who has been admitted for one of the reasons Sgro lists in his poem. What was their story? Write for 10 minutes.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: How Storytelling Can Help Young Doctors Become More Resilient

Physician and author Dr. Jessica Zitter shows “How Storytelling Can Help Young Doctors Become More Resilient” in her recent essay in the Harvard Business Review. We know that this issue is vital to increasingly stretched and stressed medical providers, the consequences of which are discussed in previous Narrative Medicine Monday posts here and here. I wrote a short piece in Pulse for their “Stress and Burnout” issue that outlines a typical day for a modern primary care physician and have also studied and taught narrative medicine as a tool to better care for our patients and ourselves. Zitter has a unique perspective on the particular challenges for physicians and patients in end of life care, given she is board certified in both critical care and palliative care medicine.

Zitter addresses this issue through a “new program which uses storytelling to help young doctors reflect on how they handle the emotional and psychological toll of caring for suffering patients.” She opens up to a group of new physicians about running the code of a young woman in the ICU, the resistance to letting a patient go, even when nothing remains other than suffering: “We are expected to be brave, confident, and above all, to never give up.  And all the more so in particular cases, such as when a patient is young, previously healthy, or has a condition that appears reversible on admission. And in cases when our well-intended but risky interventions might have actually made things worse, it is almost impossible to let go.”

When the experienced Zitter suggests that they instead institute pain management and sedation rather than attempt resuscitation the next time her heart stops, the physicians-in-training bristle. She questions a culture that promotes doing everything, including “this technique, that intervention, a whole host of options that would never have saved this woman.” Zitter admits she gives in to the other physicians, decides to fight “to the end, the way real heroes do.” The result is tragic. “The patient died a terrible death.”

Zitter reflects on this experience and shares it in the hope that it will help other young physicians who will certainly encounter the same, given that our culture and medical training makes it so “we often feel unable to question or diverge from scripted approaches — ones which may actually cause more suffering than benefit.”

To combat this, Zitter looks to storytelling, asserting that “[d]ata show that the use of stories to process the challenging experience of being a doctor increases empathy, enhances wellness and resilience, and promotes a more humanistic health care culture.” After Zitter shares her story with the group, others begin opening up about their own experiences and a “genuine conversation proceeded, one which addressed the emotional pitfalls and psychological challenges of this work.”

Zitter is also part of a 2016 Netflix documentary called “Extremis.” This short film takes a hard look at the grueling decisions patients’ families, and the physicians who inform them, make near the end of life in the ICU. In it, you can appreciate the need to “provide safe spaces for healthcare professionals to reflect on and process their own suffering. Then we will be fully available to do the hard work of patient-centered decision making in the moments when it is really needed — at the bedside of a dying patient.”

Writing Prompt:  Have you had to help make decisions for a patient who is critically ill in the ICU? What issues came up? How was your interaction with the medical team that cared for your loved one? Alternatively, consider watching the short documentary “Extremis” and write about a moment that struck you or perhaps changed your way of thinking about end of life care. If you’re a medical professional, think of a time you witnessed an end of life situation when the patient experienced more suffering than was necessary. Do you agree that our culture contributes to performing “risky interventions” that “might have actually made things worse,” because we insist on fighting “to the end, the way real heroes do?” How do you think sharing such stories might promote wellness? Consider writing about a challenging situation from the perspective of the attending doctor, the resident, the patient, the nurse, the family member. Write for 10 minutes.

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