Narrative Medicine Monday: When Patients Mentor Doctors

When Patients Mentor Doctors: The Story Of One Vital Bond” tells of physician Aroonsiri Sangarlangkarn’s longitudinal relationship with a patient she comes to call a friend. The bond between them affects her views on what can be gained through understanding patients on a more personal level.

Sangarlangkarn first meets Roger as part of a medical school program that matches up aspiring physicians with geriatric patients who provide mentorship on medicine from a patient perspective. She then encounters him again after she has finished her training and he is hospitalized under her care. She reflects on the value of her deep knowledge of his personality and history.

I liked reading about Sangarlangkarn’s own lengthy description, written years prior as a medical student, of the patient’s social history. It included intimate details such as Roger’s parents’ names, his boyhood aspirations and his favorite board game. When I was a medical student I remember taking a very detailed history of a woman who was in the hospital for treatment of her malignant tumors. I spent over an hour with her, just chatting with her about her history. No physical exam, no review of medications. The final typed up document I turned into my advisor was over two pages long. Now, as a busy primary care physician, I, like Sangarlangkarn, can see how the emphasis on efficiency causes time constraint that makes it difficult to have meaningful patient-physician conversation that could contribute to helpful personal knowledge. Sangarlangkarn laments that “our interactions with patients have become so regimented and one-dimensional that we no longer get to know the multifaceted person outside the hospital.”

What do you think about Sangarlangkarn’s suggestion regarding the value of patient home visits? This is often done for patients in hospice care or who are unable to physically get to a clinic. Home visits because of the time they require seem much more costly to the system but Sangarlangkarn argues that the value – the ability to get to know the patient on a different level – provides invaluable information. She writes: “To effectively provide care for someone, it’s important to learn who they are, what they eat, how they breathe.” She, in fact, due to her detailed knowledge of the patient, is the only one who eventually can get him the end of life care and support he needs.

Writing Prompt: Think about a time you visited an ill person at home, whether that be an apartment, house or adult family home. Describe what you saw, what you smelled, what you talked about, how you felt. What do you think can be gained by entering into a person’s living space? Alternatively, consider a patient you’ve known for years, maybe decades. What do you know about that patient because of a longitudinal relationship that might be of benefit to you if you had to deliver bad news or discuss different treatment options or medications? Write for 10 minutes.

 

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Free Write Friday: Chair

I found the chair on sale at a furniture store on the Eastside. Strolling past birch bunk beds and white washed dressers, I pause to consider the price and design of each rocking chair. Tucked in a corner in the back of the large display room, I sink down in the buttery striped cushions, rocking gently in a natural way. A bonus! Pulling a concealed lever reclines the entire contraption; head back I can snooze, envision holding my first baby in my tired arms. 

*

A carefully orchestrated nursery in my parents’ basement bedroom, painted a gender neutral green. Mid-winter in a chilly basement, as a new mom I dutifully get up every couple of hours to feed my newborn, wearily lower myself into the reclining chair, sturdy in the corner. Freezing, chest uncovered, I shiver uncontrollably in the black hours of the night, hormones swinging hot and cold. I lash out tearfully at my unsuspecting husband, begging for space heaters to warm my weary body.

*

The chair fits two: a toddler and a newborn baby boy, story time for extra cuddles. It sits comfortably in the newly remodeled bedroom corner, flanked by a large window and floor lamp. We know better now, use it mostly for reading and rocking, not for middle of the night feeds. It’s still the most comfortable place to nurse, cocooned by cushy armrests, a gentle flex of my toes provides the soothing back and forth. I look out the window at our backyard, a hill of our city beyond; I look down and find my two arms full.

*

It’s wedged at the edge of the baby’s crib, a twin Jenny Lind bed frame lodged against the opposite wall. The two girls share now, eventually the oldest will turn preteen and retreat to the basement bedroom but for now she savors sharing space with her little sister. My youngest baby is almost a baby no more, a few short months and a toddler she’ll be. I savor the early morning and bedtime nursing, rocking gently in the dark quiet room. Occasionally the door bursts open with exclamations from my three year old about treasure maps, from my six year old brandishing school artwork to admire. My baby and I pause for a second, then resume the rocking, suckling. She gazes up at me through long lashes, wrapped in a patterned throw my grandmother crocheted of flowers and hexagons decades ago.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Things My Daughter Lost In Hospitals

Toni L. Wilkes reveals her daughter’s illness journey through her poem “Things My Daugther Lost In Hospitals” in the journal The Healing Muse. I’m struck by how she alternates between the physical, tangible losses (“a pear-shaped gallbladder”) and the more unexpected costs (“her husband’s patience”). As a reader, I almost miss the surprising and heart wrenching losses, placed innocuously among the more conventional ones. I’m compelled to return to each line and deconstruct the poem, in search of these melancholy nuggets that reveal the true toll.

Writing Prompt: List all of the things you’ve lost or gained by being a medical provider. Alternatively, list all of the things you’ve lost or gained through an illness. Consider the concrete (i.e. money) and the more intangible (i.e. time). Write for 10 minutes. 

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Free Write Friday: Baby Food


She starts kicking her legs vigorously as I place her in the high chair, a physical exclamation at the excitement of an anticipated meal. I can’t get the candy-colored bib fastened to her neck soon enough, can’t assemble the tiny coated spoon or stout glass jars fast enough. She’s impatient for nourishment. 

There’s a pop as I twist open the jar of apples and blueberries, banana cinnamon oatmeal, sweet potatoes and chicken. Her legs kick again, pistons pumping. Her tiny mouth opens mechanically, a trap door to her gustatory system: open, shut, open, shut. She knows the loaded spoon is coming and the hatch complies. I know when she’s eager like this she’ll complain if I don’t shovel fast enough, if I don’t keep up with her hunger for more. 

If I feed her a taste she disapproves of there’s a pause in the rhythm, she considers for a moment and gives a tiny grunt. She might accept another small bite of the spinach and peas or grainy carrots. I imagine her letting it roll on her tongue but the texture or consistency or substance just doesn’t agree. So she’ll shove out her lower lip in defiance and reject the offensive flavor, sealing her mouth tight to reject the advances of my spoon. 

I quickly switch to an alternative option, a fruit I know she’ll accept: the old reliable apples or pears. A little dribble of saucy food on her chin, I scoop it up and into her mouth. This is a dance between us two, coordinated and practiced, we each anticipate the next step. It takes effort, these three meals a day. It’s messy and repetitive. I’m still nursing in between the solid food servings and the combination makes some days feel like my only job is to provide her sustenance.

I look at my two older children who shovel their own food, who can make their own pb&j sandwiches, who can take their own dishes to the sink and help unload the dishwasher. It won’t be long before this baby won’t need me; she’ll be able to feed herself.

I know when she slows her tempo, I can follow suit. Her legs stop pumping so frantically, her squeal of impatience subsides. She looks around the room, turns her head to the side, regards her siblings. I imagine her savoring the food a bit more carefully, considering what this mama of hers is providing, developing her own tastes, her own preferences, becoming the person she is.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Line of Beauty

Arlene Weiner writes of her post-surgical incision in “Line of Beauty,” a poem featured in the online narrative medicine journal Intima. The narrator’s physicians describe her incision site as “beautiful.” She notes the young surgeon admired her incision site “with feeling” but then left her undressed. The reader gets the impression he is appreciating his handiwork but forgetting about the patient it belongs to. Have you ever felt that way about an interaction with a medical provider?

I like how Weiner contrasts this surgery, an “insertion,” with her previous ones, including “a chunk of back punished for harboring promiscuous cells.”

Writing prompt: Think about the different words we use to describe medical procedures or ailments. How might a patient’s description differ from that of a medical provider? Does it matter what words are used? Have you ever had a doctor use a word that surprised you? Write for 10 minutes.

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Free Write Friday: Santiago


I have had a week where much as been out of my control, where the bigger questions of life are asked and the daily answer is in the mundane tasks of doing the laundry, reading stories at bedtime and making sure there’s enough milk in the fridge for breakfast.

Perhaps because of this, I started cleaning out my desk at work with vigor, a task I could complete with a level of control and subsequent satisfaction, sorting through papers sitting dormant for months, maybe years. I came across a clipping of a poem, David Whyte’s “Santiago”. I don’t remember where it came from, if it was given to me by a patient or by a now-retired colleague who used to share poetry with me on Fridays when we both needed it most or if I clipped it myself at some point. Whatever the origin, it spoke to me this week, thinking about the road seen and not seen, the way forward and finding a way, and my own reflection, wondering at the “clear revelation beneath the face looking back”. Let it speak to you this week and may you always be more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way.

 

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Narrative Medicine Monday: Going Solo

Nurse and writer Amanda Anderson describes the final moments of caring for a patient in the ICU in “Going Solo“.

Anderson opens the piece noting that she decides to scrub the patient’s teeth clean. Why do you think she’s determined to complete this simple act?

The author comments that this passing feels different than others because she doesn’t also have the patient’s family to nurse through the process. Her actions are per protocol, “governed only by a set of instructions:
1.  Administer pain dose once, prior to extubation.
2.  Extubate patient.
3.  Administer pain dose every three minutes for respiratory rate greater than twenty,
or obvious signs of pain, as needed.
4.  Notify house staff at time of asystole.”

How do you feel when you read through the protocol that Anderson follows? How do you think she feels and how does she convey that through her writing?

I appreciate Anderson’s candidness in immersing us in her thought process. She plays jazz for him, then realizes, what if he hates jazz? As medical providers, we only get a snippet of a patient’s life. If you’re a medical provider, have you ever wondered about a specific patient’s life outside of the hospital? How could that information inform their care? As a patient, what do you wish your medical providers knew about who you are?

Writing prompt: As a medical provider, think about a protocol you follow, a procedure or list of instructions you adhere to in a certain situation to provide care. List the steps. Now consider an unwritten protocol, such as a nurse in caring for family members throughout their loved one’s death in an ICU. List the steps. How do they compare? Alternatively, think about an encounter you’ve had in the medical world: a ten minute doctor’s office visit, visiting a friend who is hospitalized, getting or giving an immunization. Imagine the broader life of the person who was giving or getting that medical care. Consider their life narrative. Write for 10 minutes.

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KevinMD

Excited to share my post on the importance of narrative was published on KevinMD.com this week. KevinMD is a widely read blog that shares “the stories and insight of the many who intersect with our health care system, but are rarely heard from.” Grateful for the work done by KevinMD to give voice to those who work within and are cared for by the health care system, as well as serve as a platform for discussing important current issues. 

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Free Write Friday: Snow Day

The kids gather their sleds, dusty in attics or basement corners, and head for the hill. An inch, maybe two, come each year, mid fall or late winter. Mismatched snow gear, the pants too small, the jacket gaping, the hat a hand-me-down from big sister, older cousin. 

Usually there’s a predawn session, heading out after a truncated breakfast, too excited to eat much, empty tummies rumbling in anticipation of the snowy day. Pink noses, rouged cheeks, they tread carefully in awkward snow boots. The silence is deafening after a bustling rainy day in the city. Neighbors smile at one another; everyone is off and out. 

The hill is just a slope, barely an incline. Even-earlier risers have already gotten some runs in, adults pulling their toddlers on plastic discs. The green betrays the locale, grass peeking through, causing a bumpy ride. Still, their faces alight with the novel sleekness, skidding down the street, slipping on familiar ground, sliding at the park. 

And after, hot chocolate warms tiny chapped hands, miniature marshmallows bobbing between the wisps of rising steam. It’s a little bit of true winter in the evergreen land. Northwesterners, unabashedly afraid of sleek ice, happily trade in their routine despite being ridiculed for closures. The freeze brings a warmth and the forced slowing in snowfall a welcome calm.

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Narrative Medicine Monday: The Heroism of Incremental Care

As a primary care physician myself, I found Atul Gawande’s new article “The Heroism of Incremental Care” encouraging and empowering. The New Yorker piece highlights the importance of longitudinal care between a patient and their primary care provider.

When Gawande visits a headache clinic in Massachusetts, the physician there tells him she starts by listening to the patient: “You ask them to tell the story of their headache and then you stay very quiet for a long time.” What have you found is the most important component of a physician-patient encounter? If you are a provider, do you feel you’re always able to listen to the patient’s full story? If you’re a patient, do you feel listened to when you see your doctor?

When Gawande visits the primary care clinic in Boston, he’s told the reason primary care is important to bettering patient health is due to the “relationship”. Do you agree? Have you had a relationship with a primary care provider that has invariably improved your health over the years? If you are a primary care provider, has this been your experience with patients?

Writing Prompt: Gawande writes of the clinic he visits: “At any given moment, someone there might be suturing a laceration, lancing an abscess, aspirating a gouty joint, biopsying a suspicious skin lesion, managing a bipolar-disorder crisis, assessing a geriatric patient who had taken a fall, placing an intrauterine contraceptive device, or stabilizing a patient who’d had an asthma attack.” Think about the last time you saw your primary care provider. Write about that visit in the present tense, then project a decade or two into the future. Imagine how that visit, and many others like it, might have made a difference to your health decades from now. Write for 10 minutes.

 

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