The reality was he just didn’t know how to grieve.
Dr. Lewis was well acquainted with cancer grief long before he became an oncologist. Dr. Lewis’ father died of a rare, hereditary cancer syndrome when he was only 14. The condition, which causes tumors to grow in the endocrine glands, can be hard to identify and, if found late, deadly.
In some ways, Dr. Lewis’ career caring for patients with advanced cancers was born out of that first loss. He centered his practice around helping patients diagnosed at late stages, like his father.
But that comes at a cost. Many patients will die.
Dr. Lewis’ encounter with his colleague led him to inventory his practice. He found that well over half of his patients died within 2 years following their advanced cancer diagnosis.
To stave off the grief of so many losses, Dr. Lewis became an eternal optimist in the clinic, in search of the Hail Mary chemotherapy, any way to eke out a few more months only to be ambushed by grief when a patient did finally pass.
At funerals — which he made every effort to attend — Dr. Lewis couldn’t help but think, “If I had done my job better, none of us with be here.” His grief started to mingle with this sense of guilt.
It became a cycle: Denial shrouded in optimism, grief, then a toxic guilt. The pattern became untenable for his colleagues. And his partner finally called him out.
Few medical specialties draw physicians as close to their patients as oncology. The long courses of treatment-spanning years can foster an intimacy that is comforting for patients and fulfilling for physicians. But that closeness can also set doctors up for an acute grief when the end of life comes.
Experts agree that no amount of training in medical school prepares an oncologist to navigate the grief that comes with losing patients. Five oncologists spoke with this news organization about the boundaries they rely on to sustain their careers.
Don’t Go to Funerals
Don Dizon, MD, who specializes in women’s cancers, established an essential boundary 20 years ago: Never go to funerals. In his early days at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, the death of each patient dealt him a crushing blow. He’d go to the funerals in search of closure, but that only added to the weight of his grief.
“When I started in oncology, I just remember the most tragic cases were the ones I was taking care of,” recalled Dr. Dizon, now director of the Pelvic Malignancies Program at Lifespan Cancer Institute in Lincoln, Rhode Island.
Dr. Dizon recalled one young mother who was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She responded to treatment, but it was short-lived, and her cancer progressed, he said. Multiple treatments followed, but none were effective. Eventually, Dr. Dizon had to tell her that “there’s nothing left to try.”
At her funeral, watching her grieving husband with their daughter who had just started to walk, Dr. Dizon was overwhelmed with despair.
“When you have to do this multiple times a year,” the grief becomes untenable, he said. Sensing the difficulty I was having as a new attending, “my boss stopped sending me patients because he knew I was in trouble emotionally.”
That’s when Dr. Dizon started looking for other ways to get closure.
Today, he tries to say his goodbyes before a patient dies. After the final treatment or before hospice, Dr. Dizon has a parting conversation with his patients to express the privilege of caring for them and all he learned from them. These talks help him and his patient connect in their last moments together.