Harvard: When primary care physician Suzanne Koven sees a patient with a sore throat, she begins by saying, “So tell me the whole story.” Her colleagues might wince when she brings this up, feeling the
pressure of cramming more responsibilities into overstuffed 15-minute
appointments. But Koven believes that it actually saves time when
patients tell their own stories in their own way. “The storytelling is really where the medicine is,” she said. “There
is nothing that I can think of, there is no kind of testing, there is no
sort of physiology or pharmacology that is more essential to clinical
skill than the ability to elicit, interpret and communicate someone
else’s story.”
If stories are central to medicine, then Koven couldn’t be in a
better place to bear witness. She is the first writer-in-residence for
the Division of General Internal Medicine at Massachusetts General
Hospital. The division is the largest of a dozen in the Department of
Medicine at the hospital; its 350 members include primary care
physicians, researchers, hospital-based physicians and geriatricians.
HMS assistant professor of medicine at Mass General, Koven is a
widely published author of essays, articles, blog posts and book
reviews. Her work has appeared in The Boston Globe, the New England Journal of Medicine, New Yorker.com, Psychology Today, and The Los Angeles Review of Books, among other publications.
Since February, Koven has been a coach and mentor, available to
strengthen writing skills among her colleagues as they craft narratives.
She also convenes small groups of physicians who read and discuss
literature.
That’s where the magic happens.
“You really had to be there to feel how rich it was,” said Joshua Metlay,
chief of the division and an advocate of Koven’s work. He attended a
session with her that focused on George Orwell’s story “Shooting an
Elephant” and explored themes of responsibility and authority.
“It was really eye-opening to watch where the conversation went,
facilitated by this initially seemingly unrelated short story,” Metlay
said. “It just opened up all kinds of ideas people wanted to talk about
that were occurring in their everyday work lives.”
Building on a monthly discussion of literature in medicine that was
supported in the past by Mass Humanities and by Mass General, Koven
continues to visit primary care practices. Instead of lunchtime meetings
about, say, what’s new in hepatitis C, clinicians gather to talk about
an essay or poem that she brings.
Two powerful forces converge: the need to talk and a provocative
vehicle for it, she said. What’s more, the participants can speak freely
in a safe place.
One time they read Eugene O’Neill’s play "Long Day’s Journey into
Night." People talked about the effects of addiction on a family and the
inadvertent role doctors might play in fueling addiction—as Mary
Tyrone’s doctor did when he gave her morphine for her nerves.
After reading Leslie Jamison’s essay “The Empathy Exams,” Koven posed
this question: If you’re telling somebody terrible news about a
diagnosis but you’re also watching the clock and thinking about lunch,
does that make you a bad doctor or nurse? Does that mean you’re not
empathic? Is it enough to act empathic or do you have to feel what the
patient feels?
“These are difficult questions and I find that people who do this
kind of work are very eager to talk about them and feel very grateful to
have an opportunity to talk about them,” Koven said. “But here’s the
thing: This is not like fluffy, after-school-special kind of stuff. This
isn’t an adjunct to medicine. This is medicine, because we’re hearing
from patients that they want to feel that their stories are being heard.
They want to be listened to. And literature, I think, is a very fine
kind of listening and very good training for listening.”
Koven has a theory about why people in primary care are so receptive
to talking about the human side of their work. Medicine in general and
primary care in particular seem to attract nurses, doctors, social
workers and administrators who are very social in nature but whose work
tends to isolate them.
Primary care practices place a socially adept, intuitive person with
one other person behind a closed door in emotionally intense situations,
she said. Then the professional has to write notes in cold, clinical
terms. And they can’t discuss what happens freely, out of respect for
privacy. Their training teaches them to bottle up these thoughts and
emotions.
“When you uncork that bottle and invite people to talk about what it
is like to deal with a really difficult patient over years and years, or
what is really going on in the way doctors’ and nurses’ roles are
changing, or what it is like to be a clinician in the early stages of
Ebola, there is just this incredible opening up if you’re having that
conversation through the lens of literature,” she said.