Am I going to die?

Every cancer diagnosis starts out as anything but. That’s what I was thinking when I met Sue Marcus (not her real name) in the emergency department one Friday afternoon.

“You know,” she said in a matter of fact manner. “I think I might have the flu.”

“Yes,” I said. “You might.”

“I was in Vegas a week ago, and the person next to me was sick.”

“It’s definitely possible. That’s one of the things we’ll test for.”

“I mean ... what else can it be?”

I had information Sue didn’t yet. All her blood counts were disturbingly low. On top of that, the lab had picked up several atypical appearing cells. They could be reactive, in the setting of infection, or they could be blasts – a new diagnosis of leukemia.

I paused.

“I’m going to say this now, so you know what we are looking for. There’s a lot more information we still need.”

“But?”

“But, another possibility is that it is cancer.”

“Cancer?”

“Leukemia, maybe.”

I explained the next steps. We would have flow cytometry by that night, but it’s not a perfect test. We were limited, actually, by logistics. It was a Friday night. We would do a bone marrow biopsy on Monday. It would be several days before we’d know with certainty.

That evening, the hematology fellow and I looked at the slide under the microscope. We agreed with the lab.

“That’s a blast, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

But they were not completely classic, and they were sporadic. It wasn’t enough to say for sure. Meanwhile, Sue, understandably, wanted answers.

“What did you see? Is it cancer, or not?”

There was flow cytometry that night, showing an abnormal population of cells. And then, finally, there was a bone marrow biopsy clinching the diagnosis.

We explained what the path ahead looked like: Hospitalization for a month. Chemotherapy, then a repeat bone marrow biopsy to look for response. Then more chemotherapy. Chances of remission. Long-term implications.

As we gathered more information, Sue’s questions evolved.

“Is it curable?”

“Can I go back to work?”

And one day, a week into treatment, she asked, “Am I going to die?”

Over my last 3 years as an internal medicine resident, I’ve been humbled by how often patients turned to me for answers to some of the most difficult questions I could imagine. Sometimes, the questions seemed purely factual, but often, they took a more existential bent: How should I spend my last months? What should I do now? Patients have asked me if they are going to die, along with when, how, and even why.

I’ve wrestled with how to communicate candidly, treading a delicate balance between being as up-front as possible while also recognizing the uncertainty inherent in predicting. I’ve struggled with walking the tightrope of delivering bad news while also emphasizing compassion and support.

I chose hematology and oncology in part because of the gravity of these interactions. I enjoy being a primary doctor for a complex, sick, patient population who are grappling with physically and emotionally challenging illness. I value longitudinal relationships with patients I know well. I found the medicine of hematology and oncology interdisciplinary, the details high stakes, and the big questions always at play. If it was meaningful work I sought, cancer became the ultimate question that mattered.

The changing landscape of cancer care is making these conversations substantially more difficult. A central tenet of medicine is truthfulness: setting the stage for what is going on and what to anticipate. It’s explaining the nuances of the upcoming treatment options, while also addressing what a person’s life may look like down the road. It’s understanding what matters most to a patient, understanding what therapeutic choices we can offer – and then trying to reconcile them, as best as we can.

This has always been hard. But it’s getting harder. The options we have to treat cancer are expanding rapidly as immunotherapy competes with the basics of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery. We work alongside researchers looking to change the paradigm, collecting information on outcomes and side effects as we go along. We are learning and we are applying what we learn – in real time – on real people willing to try.

How can we speak honestly about a prognosis when our data are limited and our tools are in continuous flux? How can we prepare someone for what lies ahead when we are still trying to grasp what today looks like?

All the while, medical uncertainties are amplified by a complex system with many moving parts. It’s a system in which some patients cannot afford care, in which insurance companies may deny necessary treatment, and where families may come together or fall apart in the face of incredible adversity. There are factors outside the scope of pure medicine that make the path ahead all the hazier and navigating it all the more challenging.

In July, I began my hematology and oncology fellowship. I am caring for patients with a range of cancers, and all of that goes along with the weight of those diagnoses. Learning the most up-to-date management in a constantly evolving landscape will be an ongoing skill. That my patients allow me into their most vulnerable moments – and trust me with them – is a gift.

For patients like Sue, there sometimes remain more questions than answers. She recently underwent her third round of chemotherapy and endured multiple blood clots. With her insurance covering only limited interventions, she is deciding what to focus on and where to receive her care. Her story, like many others, continues to be written.

I am deeply aware of the difficulties that are a part of the world of cancer – and the heartbreak. How can we hold up scans triumphantly showing no recurrence in some patients while others suffer one failed treatment after another? When should we push for more therapy and when should we shift our efforts toward comfort? What should we prioritize – medically and personally – if time is limited?

These questions are hard, but I cannot think of any that are more meaningful.

This is a column about patients and uncertainty as I pursue my hematology and oncology fellowship and grapple with these questions. I look forward to sharing them with you each month.

Dr. Yurkiewicz is a fellow in hematology and oncology at Stanford (Calif.) University. Follow her on Twitter @ilanayurkiewicz.

Every cancer diagnosis starts out as anything but. That’s what I was thinking when I met Sue Marcus (not her real name) in the emergency department one Friday afternoon.

“You know,” she said in a matter of fact manner. “I think I might have the flu.”

“Yes,” I said. “You might.”

“I was in Vegas a week ago, and the person next to me was sick.”

“It’s definitely possible. That’s one of the things we’ll test for.”

“I mean ... what else can it be?”

I had information Sue didn’t yet. All her blood counts were disturbingly low. On top of that, the lab had picked up several atypical appearing cells. They could be reactive, in the setting of infection, or they could be blasts – a new diagnosis of leukemia.

I paused.

“I’m going to say this now, so you know what we are looking for. There’s a lot more information we still need.”

“But?”

“But, another possibility is that it is cancer.”

“Cancer?”

“Leukemia, maybe.”

I explained the next steps. We would have flow cytometry by that night, but it’s not a perfect test. We were limited, actually, by logistics. It was a Friday night. We would do a bone marrow biopsy on Monday. It would be several days before we’d know with certainty.

That evening, the hematology fellow and I looked at the slide under the microscope. We agreed with the lab.

“That’s a blast, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

But they were not completely classic, and they were sporadic. It wasn’t enough to say for sure. Meanwhile, Sue, understandably, wanted answers.

“What did you see? Is it cancer, or not?”

There was flow cytometry that night, showing an abnormal population of cells. And then, finally, there was a bone marrow biopsy clinching the diagnosis.

We explained what the path ahead looked like: Hospitalization for a month. Chemotherapy, then a repeat bone marrow biopsy to look for response. Then more chemotherapy. Chances of remission. Long-term implications.

As we gathered more information, Sue’s questions evolved.

“Is it curable?”

“Can I go back to work?”

And one day, a week into treatment, she asked, “Am I going to die?”

Over my last 3 years as an internal medicine resident, I’ve been humbled by how often patients turned to me for answers to some of the most difficult questions I could imagine. Sometimes, the questions seemed purely factual, but often, they took a more existential bent: How should I spend my last months? What should I do now? Patients have asked me if they are going to die, along with when, how, and even why.

I’ve wrestled with how to communicate candidly, treading a delicate balance between being as up-front as possible while also recognizing the uncertainty inherent in predicting. I’ve struggled with walking the tightrope of delivering bad news while also emphasizing compassion and support.

I chose hematology and oncology in part because of the gravity of these interactions. I enjoy being a primary doctor for a complex, sick, patient population who are grappling with physically and emotionally challenging illness. I value longitudinal relationships with patients I know well. I found the medicine of hematology and oncology interdisciplinary, the details high stakes, and the big questions always at play. If it was meaningful work I sought, cancer became the ultimate question that mattered.

The changing landscape of cancer care is making these conversations substantially more difficult. A central tenet of medicine is truthfulness: setting the stage for what is going on and what to anticipate. It’s explaining the nuances of the upcoming treatment options, while also addressing what a person’s life may look like down the road. It’s understanding what matters most to a patient, understanding what therapeutic choices we can offer – and then trying to reconcile them, as best as we can.

This has always been hard. But it’s getting harder. The options we have to treat cancer are expanding rapidly as immunotherapy competes with the basics of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery. We work alongside researchers looking to change the paradigm, collecting information on outcomes and side effects as we go along. We are learning and we are applying what we learn – in real time – on real people willing to try.

How can we speak honestly about a prognosis when our data are limited and our tools are in continuous flux? How can we prepare someone for what lies ahead when we are still trying to grasp what today looks like?

All the while, medical uncertainties are amplified by a complex system with many moving parts. It’s a system in which some patients cannot afford care, in which insurance companies may deny necessary treatment, and where families may come together or fall apart in the face of incredible adversity. There are factors outside the scope of pure medicine that make the path ahead all the hazier and navigating it all the more challenging.

In July, I began my hematology and oncology fellowship. I am caring for patients with a range of cancers, and all of that goes along with the weight of those diagnoses. Learning the most up-to-date management in a constantly evolving landscape will be an ongoing skill. That my patients allow me into their most vulnerable moments – and trust me with them – is a gift.

For patients like Sue, there sometimes remain more questions than answers. She recently underwent her third round of chemotherapy and endured multiple blood clots. With her insurance covering only limited interventions, she is deciding what to focus on and where to receive her care. Her story, like many others, continues to be written.

I am deeply aware of the difficulties that are a part of the world of cancer – and the heartbreak. How can we hold up scans triumphantly showing no recurrence in some patients while others suffer one failed treatment after another? When should we push for more therapy and when should we shift our efforts toward comfort? What should we prioritize – medically and personally – if time is limited?

These questions are hard, but I cannot think of any that are more meaningful.

This is a column about patients and uncertainty as I pursue my hematology and oncology fellowship and grapple with these questions. I look forward to sharing them with you each month.

Dr. Yurkiewicz is a fellow in hematology and oncology at Stanford (Calif.) University. Follow her on Twitter @ilanayurkiewicz.

Every cancer diagnosis starts out as anything but. That’s what I was thinking when I met Sue Marcus (not her real name) in the emergency department one Friday afternoon.

“You know,” she said in a matter of fact manner. “I think I might have the flu.”

“Yes,” I said. “You might.”

“I was in Vegas a week ago, and the person next to me was sick.”

“It’s definitely possible. That’s one of the things we’ll test for.”

“I mean ... what else can it be?”

I had information Sue didn’t yet. All her blood counts were disturbingly low. On top of that, the lab had picked up several atypical appearing cells. They could be reactive, in the setting of infection, or they could be blasts – a new diagnosis of leukemia.

I paused.

“I’m going to say this now, so you know what we are looking for. There’s a lot more information we still need.”

“But?”

“But, another possibility is that it is cancer.”

“Cancer?”

“Leukemia, maybe.”

I explained the next steps. We would have flow cytometry by that night, but it’s not a perfect test. We were limited, actually, by logistics. It was a Friday night. We would do a bone marrow biopsy on Monday. It would be several days before we’d know with certainty.

That evening, the hematology fellow and I looked at the slide under the microscope. We agreed with the lab.

“That’s a blast, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

But they were not completely classic, and they were sporadic. It wasn’t enough to say for sure. Meanwhile, Sue, understandably, wanted answers.

“What did you see? Is it cancer, or not?”

There was flow cytometry that night, showing an abnormal population of cells. And then, finally, there was a bone marrow biopsy clinching the diagnosis.

We explained what the path ahead looked like: Hospitalization for a month. Chemotherapy, then a repeat bone marrow biopsy to look for response. Then more chemotherapy. Chances of remission. Long-term implications.

As we gathered more information, Sue’s questions evolved.

“Is it curable?”

“Can I go back to work?”

And one day, a week into treatment, she asked, “Am I going to die?”

Over my last 3 years as an internal medicine resident, I’ve been humbled by how often patients turned to me for answers to some of the most difficult questions I could imagine. Sometimes, the questions seemed purely factual, but often, they took a more existential bent: How should I spend my last months? What should I do now? Patients have asked me if they are going to die, along with when, how, and even why.

I’ve wrestled with how to communicate candidly, treading a delicate balance between being as up-front as possible while also recognizing the uncertainty inherent in predicting. I’ve struggled with walking the tightrope of delivering bad news while also emphasizing compassion and support.

I chose hematology and oncology in part because of the gravity of these interactions. I enjoy being a primary doctor for a complex, sick, patient population who are grappling with physically and emotionally challenging illness. I value longitudinal relationships with patients I know well. I found the medicine of hematology and oncology interdisciplinary, the details high stakes, and the big questions always at play. If it was meaningful work I sought, cancer became the ultimate question that mattered.

The changing landscape of cancer care is making these conversations substantially more difficult. A central tenet of medicine is truthfulness: setting the stage for what is going on and what to anticipate. It’s explaining the nuances of the upcoming treatment options, while also addressing what a person’s life may look like down the road. It’s understanding what matters most to a patient, understanding what therapeutic choices we can offer – and then trying to reconcile them, as best as we can.

This has always been hard. But it’s getting harder. The options we have to treat cancer are expanding rapidly as immunotherapy competes with the basics of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery. We work alongside researchers looking to change the paradigm, collecting information on outcomes and side effects as we go along. We are learning and we are applying what we learn – in real time – on real people willing to try.

How can we speak honestly about a prognosis when our data are limited and our tools are in continuous flux? How can we prepare someone for what lies ahead when we are still trying to grasp what today looks like?

All the while, medical uncertainties are amplified by a complex system with many moving parts. It’s a system in which some patients cannot afford care, in which insurance companies may deny necessary treatment, and where families may come together or fall apart in the face of incredible adversity. There are factors outside the scope of pure medicine that make the path ahead all the hazier and navigating it all the more challenging.

In July, I began my hematology and oncology fellowship. I am caring for patients with a range of cancers, and all of that goes along with the weight of those diagnoses. Learning the most up-to-date management in a constantly evolving landscape will be an ongoing skill. That my patients allow me into their most vulnerable moments – and trust me with them – is a gift.

For patients like Sue, there sometimes remain more questions than answers. She recently underwent her third round of chemotherapy and endured multiple blood clots. With her insurance covering only limited interventions, she is deciding what to focus on and where to receive her care. Her story, like many others, continues to be written.

I am deeply aware of the difficulties that are a part of the world of cancer – and the heartbreak. How can we hold up scans triumphantly showing no recurrence in some patients while others suffer one failed treatment after another? When should we push for more therapy and when should we shift our efforts toward comfort? What should we prioritize – medically and personally – if time is limited?

These questions are hard, but I cannot think of any that are more meaningful.

This is a column about patients and uncertainty as I pursue my hematology and oncology fellowship and grapple with these questions. I look forward to sharing them with you each month.

Dr. Yurkiewicz is a fellow in hematology and oncology at Stanford (Calif.) University. Follow her on Twitter @ilanayurkiewicz.