Takeaway
Approach each patient encounter with humility and curiosity. If you misstep, apologize and invite a reset to restore trust.
Connecting with Patients | October 31, 2025 | 2 min read
By Rana Awdish, MD, MS, Henry Ford Hospital
The patient was in her mid-40s with metastatic ovarian cancer. I entered her ICU room to find her sitting in darkness, covered in a quilt brought from home with a port in her chest that was connected to TPN. I remember judging her for needing to bring a blanket in as if she was admitting her physical comfort mattered more than medical treatment.
Her bowel was obstructed by large, caking omental tumors. She was skeletally thin except for her distended abdomen.
“You’ve been through so much,” I said. “I was reviewing your chart, and I’m sorry that the treatments haven’t worked. That must be so difficult. And now, my goodness, not to be able to eat on top of all that . . .”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, I have a very good life,” she said through a clenched jaw, turning away to face the window. A quick scarlet blaze spread from her chest to her gaunt cheeks.
I started to say, “Of course you do,” but had just enough insight to recognize how false and pitying it sounded.
She turned back to face me, with a stinging glare. “I know none of you doctors can see it, but I have a supportive partner. Now that I’m fed through an IV, I don’t have pain, and those so-called failed treatments bought me six years,” she spit the words.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. After a long pause I added, “I know this might sound strange, but would it be possible for us to start over?”
She sat silently for an almost unbearable amount of time. I felt nervous, waiting for her answer. I had ceded power to her. Then she nodded, just once.
“I was reviewing your chart, and though I have a sense of your diagnosis, the timeline of the treatments, as well as some of the complications, I know that’s only one part of the story. I wonder what more you feel might be important for me to know about you?” I asked. I was measuring each word, being deliberately cautious, worried I might sound stilted or artificial. My concern lessened as she began to speak.
She took a breath and described the 10 years prior to her diagnosis, which passed in a blur of work, living overseas, and blinding self-sufficiency. That is, until the diagnosis of cancer, which coincided with a brand-new relationship.
“Maybe you know people like this, I think a lot of them end up being professionally successful. I always thought not needing anyone was my superpower, but cancer showed me that people WILL show up for me. I’ve never felt more loved than I do now. It still sucks, but it’s also weirdly ok.”
“That makes a lot of sense. Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said.
I entered her room thinking I knew her, but I only knew her chart. Being vulnerable enough to apologize, and to ask to start over, changed what was possible for both of us.
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This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.