Listen to ASCO’s Journal of Clinical Oncology essay, “How Are You, Choi-Seonsaeng?” by Dr. April Choi, a Hematology and Oncology fellow at Tufts Medical Center. The essay is followed by an interview with Choi and host Dr. Lidia Schapira. Choi discusses how navigating US healthcare is similar to acclimating to a foreign country.

TRANSCRIPT

Narrator: How Are You, Choi-Seonsaeng?, by April Choi, MD (10.1200/JCO.22.02103)

It was not until Mr. Yoon’s nurse contacted me (an intern eager to flex her Korean skills) for an “agitated patient who is trying to leave the hospital” that his limited knowledge of English became apparent to everyone.

Mr. Yoon was sent down to the radiology department for an additional computed tomography scan earlier that day. He had been admitted for partial bowel obstruction secondary to a colonic mass. After his scan was completed, a technician reportedly told him that he was “good to go.” As soon as he arrived back in his hospital room, Mr. Yoon, happily thinking that he was being discharged, began to pack his belongings and changed out of his hospital gown. The nurse, aware of the team’s plan for his upcoming hemicolectomy but ignorant of what had transpired downstairs in radiology, interpreted this as the patient trying to leave against medical advice.

I ran into his room, ready to de-escalate the situation, only for him to turn happily around and ask in Korean, “how are you, Choi-seonsaeng?” (seonsaeng means a teacher, but here it is used as an honorific for respecting the person to whom it is addressed).

His hospitalization was already difficult because of a lack of family support; his surrogate decision maker was a fellow church member of whom he had “asked for a favor.” To add to this, his English was just good enough to cause more harm than good. Had he not spoken any English, more people would have defaulted to using an interpreter. Instead, he knew just enough English to convince his doctors and nurses that he understood his treatment plans, and they would leave his room each morning satisfied when he would smile, nod, and say “no questions.”

I could empathize with the struggle that he had in this hospital. As a 1.5-generation (those who immigrated before or during their early teens) Korean immigrant growing up in California, I quickly became an expert in appearing unfazed by something, even if that thing seemed very odd to me at first. Things like adults asking me to call them by their first names. Following my friend into their living room without taking off my shoes.

Someone telling me, “I see where you’re coming from,” when I had been sitting down and talking to them for the past 15 minutes—I was not coming from anywhere! In most of these situations, my strategy has always been to smile, nod, and try not to say anything that might sound incredibly stupid. I am fairly certain others implement similar strategies when navigating different cultures as they travel in foreign countries. After all, most of us do not harbor the communicative finesse that Anthony Bourdain had while interacting with the locals in Parts Unknown. For many of us immigrants, “smile-and-nod” ends up being the default response in unfamiliar or uncomfortable situations, such as in hospitals.

I can attest that this sense of “foreignness,” or “Asianness,” never quite goes away. Although my parents would increasingly comment that I “act like an American,” and even after I had been living in the United States longer than I had in Korea, my Korean-ness stuck around.

Sometimes more, sometimes less, very much like the awkward lilt in my English that made people ask, “so where are you really from?” I would prick my own thumb with a needle if I had indigestion because I was told it would get out the bad blood. When I got nauseous, I would make myself jook, or rice porridge, because it was the only thing my stomach could tolerate. I continue to identify as a Korean—maybe Korean American on some days, but never fully just American.

On my last day of service, Mr. Yoon was still waiting to get his hemicolectomy. As I explained the general plans involving surgery followed by chemotherapy, he asked if there was any way he could have some jook before his upcoming hemicolectomy. He had been ordering oatmeal, but it “wasn’t right.”

I could only eke out, “I’ll look into it,” before I ran out of his room and straight into the unit’s physician’s workroom. There I started crying and babbling incoherently to my non-Asian co-intern about jook and how I simply must get some for Mr Yoon. Although crying in a workroom for sleep-deprived and overworked interns might have been a rite of passage in my residency, I cried because it had finally dawned on me that Mr. Yoon was terrified of his diagnosis.

This gentleman, who was more than twice my age but still made my day by referring to me as a seonsaeng, had been smiling and nodding his way through the uncertainty of his cancer diagnosis and what was to come. He wanted something he was accustomed to, something he could bank on to make him feel better.

For him, like many Koreans I know, it was the jook. Unfortunately, he had no friends or family checking in on him, let alone bringing him food that he enjoyed. For him, finding a way to get some comfort through jook was more important than hearing strangers give reassurances of “everything will be fine” and “we have a plan.”

On that day, I was reminded of when I moved to a strange new city for medical school, forlornly eating dinner by myself when instead I could be surrounded by my family and talking about how our day went. I understood the sadness you feel when you are sick and too tired to do anything, but you are cooking your own jook because your mother is not there for you.

I empathized with wanting to eat food that you are accustomed to and the distress you feel when you are unable to find it because of where you are or the situation

you are going through. In my family, food is both comfort and love; sharing food is how I know I am cared for.

For Mr. Yoon, it was not just about food but rather the lack of support he felt during his upcoming cancer treatment. I ended up getting some jook delivered to our hospital that day. I recall muttering something about wishing him an uneventful surgery as I tearfully handed him the plastic tub of jook. Several months later, I was paged to the hospital unit and found Mr. Yoon waiting for me, skin duskier than I recalled but overall appearing well. He told me that on being discharged after surgery, he connected with a Korean-speaking oncologist and completed his chemotherapy.

His oncologist told him his recent scan did not show any evidence of cancer. He said he had been meaning to visit me because he wanted to thank me for the jook I had given him before his surgery. We talked for a bit before I had to leave for my afternoon clinic—that was the last time I saw Mr. Yoon.

Several years and a worldwide pandemic later, I find myself fortunate to be training in oncology in a strange new city again. I am once again reminded of how difficult adjusting to a new area is and then think about how more difficult it is for our immigrant patients to navigate their cancer treatment. Undergoing cancer treatment is very much like immigrating to a different country. You cannot be 100% sure of what may happen in this new country, and no amount of second-hand information from other people can adequately prepare you for what lies ahead. You do not quite grasp the language, so you smile and nod your way through each doctor’s visit and hope things will turn out alright. When you couple this with an actual language barrier, it may feel like being lost in a foreign country without being able to ask for directions.

It is important for us oncologists to dig deeper and understand the cultures from which our patients come. Instead of asking if they are eating well, ask what they enjoy eating. Are they able to eat the food they were eating before? Or are they navigating a new diet planned by a nutritionist who does not know the difference between oatmeal and jook? Have we considered what a patient’s family does to provide support, on the days when chemotherapy is too rough and the nausea is too bad? We may be surprised to find what is hidden behind the polite nods and small smiles.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Hello, and welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, brought to you by ASCO Podcasts, which covers a range of educational and scientific content and offers enriching insight into the world of cancer care. You can find all ASCO shows, including this one, at: podcasts.asco.org.

I'm your host, Lidia Schapira, Associate Editor for Art of Oncology, and a Professor of Medicine at Stanford University.

Today, we're joined by Dr. April Choi, a Hematology and Oncology fellow at Tufts Medical Center. In this episode, we will be discussing her Art of Oncology article, ‘How Are You, Choi-seonsaeng?’

At the time of this recording, our guest has no disclosures.

April, welcome to our podcast and thank you for joining us.

Dr. April Choi: Good morning. I'm glad to be here.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Well, it's afternoon in California, so, it's wonderful that you are someplace where it's morning. Where exactly are you today?

Dr. April Choi: I'm currently in South Korea visiting my relatives.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: That's wonderful, and brings us to the heart of your essay, which is a moving narrative that describes your interaction when you were a medical resident, with a patient who is a Korean immigrant. Tell us a little bit about the motivation that led you to write this article and then share it with others.

Dr. April Choi: First of all, I'm very happy that you enjoyed this article. It comes from my heart, and I've been meaning to write this article for many years now, actually. And I wrote this piece initially a year after I saw Mr. Yoon again. I think one of the things that I wanted to share with everyone is how difficult it could be as an immigrant to navigate the complexities of the hospital, even if you do speak a little bit of English. And I think the cancer part really complicated his care, and I really wanted to make sure that people who might not have this interaction, because they grew up in the United States, or have never encountered someone who is from a different culture, to be able to experience, second-hand, what it feels like to treat someone who is of the same culture, but might not have the linguistic sophistication or experience working in healthcare system.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: You start off the article with a little dose of humor that I found very refreshing - turns out that your patient, Mr. Yoon, is told by an X-ray tech or a CT tech that, "He's good to go." And he interprets that as, "He's good to leave the hospital", only to find that the nurse misinterprets his preparation to leave as, "He's leaving against medical advice." And that's when you enter the story. Bring us to the bedside; tell us a little bit about your interactions with Yoon.

Dr. April Choi: I think, in retrospect, it might have been very funny. I do have to say, when it happened, it was a very stressful time for me. I was not in that hospital unit at all until I got this call, when the nurse was very distraught and said, "You need to come to bedside. He is trying to leave, he's agitated, he won't listen." And as I had written in my article, I ran. I ran towards his room because by then, we had developed some sort of a relationship where he would actually ask me, "Oh, what was that other doctor talking about?" So, we had a really close relationship, and when I heard that he was agitated, I couldn't believe it because he was one of the nicest patients that I had seen before.

And for me to find out that he was under the impression he was being discharged after all this, I was immediately reminded of my parents, and how they speak enough English, where they can get by, but at the same time, I don't think they would be okay in a hospital setting. And I think that goes for a lot of 1.5 generation, as I talked about in my article, as well as the second-generation immigrants, where they understand everything, but for their parents, it's not the case.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: So, let's talk about your parents and our patient here, and then those who perhaps just speak a little to get by. And it's easy to think that in a hospital setting where there's so many time pressures and everybody wants to be efficient, sometimes, things just slip by, and we don't take the time, perhaps, to ask as many questions, because we don't have an interpreter at bedside, or because it takes a little bit more effort. You give these examples so beautifully in your essay. What are you doing now that you're an Oncology fellow, or future Oncologist, to communicate with patients?

Dr. April Choi: I actually do a lot of drawings. I think drawing is one of the strongest ways someone can communicate. So, a lot of the times I have my multicolored pen, and I will draw whichever they need to - if it's esophageal cancer, I will draw them where their cancer is located-- right before my vacation, I talked to someone about radiation fields - I will draw little rectangles, and talk about how, no, reradiation is not possible, for example. I do try to use very simple language, and when I say simple, I don't mean to say that they are any less intelligent than we are because a lot of our patients, in their own language, they're amazingly intelligent and they understand everything. But trying to refrain from using things like, "You're good to go", or some examples that people who never grew up in the U.S. might not know about, such as, one of the examples I had done was, "I see where you're coming from", and everyone seems to know that, except for the immigrants.

Because, “What are you saying? I was sitting next to you; I was talking to you. What do you mean by you see where I'm coming from?” And those things, I think, people don't stop and think about, but once you say, what is the literal translation for this? And say, “Is this something, if I had heard it for the first time, something you understand?” And just taking that time to say, “Maybe this is not the most commonly used phrase.” And then, using a more direct language can really help the patients who are of limited English proficiency.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: You used the expression 1.5 generation, and I know that when we reviewed the article, some of us had never heard that expression. And then, you explained to us that this refers to those who came as teens, or young enough so that they were quick to learn and assimilate into the new culture, but sufficiently grown to really also be firmly rooted in the mother culture.

Tell us a little bit about where you are with this, and how this has shaped the way you've approached your life as a medical student, as a resident, and now, as an Oncologist.

Dr. April Choi: I think it's impossible to talk about my medical education without talking about how I was brought up. I was actually born in the United States but moved to Korea when I was less than a year old. And I stayed there until third grade when I moved to California for the first time, stayed until fifth grade, and I moved back to Korea until middle school, then I moved back to California to start high school, and I've been here since then. So, this moving back and forth, I think, did create a lot of confusion when I was growing up because the two cultures are very different, and the medical system is also inherently very different compared to Korea. And I come from a place where in Korea you could go see a doctor if you're sick, and when I was living in the U.S., our family didn't have health insurance.

So, the first time I saw an American doctor was when I was in high school. And at that time, my brother had dislocated his shoulder, and I remember my mom bringing him to the emergency department, University of California, Irvine. And at that time, she was very polite, she would say, "yes", and smile and nod to whichever the emergency doctor had told her about the dislocated shoulder. But I remember her always turning to me after he left, to say, "What about this? What about the medication?" But she didn't feel comfortable to interrupt this doctor who had come in, and ask about the things that she was worried about - this was her son. He had dislocated his shoulder for the first time. But for her to feel culturally uncomfortable to interrupt them and ask questions, and have all of her questions answered, I think really stuck with me.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: I hear a lot of emotion in your voice when you talk about this, and you bring up issues of safety for people who are vulnerable. How are you dealing with this now that you have so much power, as an oncologist whose patients are placing their life in your hands?

Dr. April Choi: Honestly, I feel blessed and grateful that I'm in a position where I can change things for the better. I'm currently invested in research looking at Asian-American disparity in cancer patients. And having that opportunity where I have the medical language and knowledge to explain things better for patients who are of Korean-American descent, I think is a very encouraging and powerful motivator for me to continue on. So, I think my career trajectory is for me to advocate for the, you know, Korean-American, as well as the other Asian-American patients who are undergoing the same situation that Yoon and my family were going through.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: It's a beautiful story that links your attachment to culture and family, and provides the inspiration that is now driving your career as a researcher, and somebody who really is going to use all their knowledge to advance this field. I imagine your family must be enormously proud, but let's just finish by talking a little bit more about this lovely gentleman, Yoon, and his need for jook, that you've told us is not porridge, is not oatmeal but is comfort food and the comfort food that you felt he needed. Tell us a little bit about that - in how food can provide solace, and all the efforts that you went to, to give that to your patient who you felt was really quite frightened.

Dr. April Choi: So, if you search jook and Google, or try to get additional information, they talk about it as if it's the same thing as congee, which is the Chinese version of rice porridge. So, jook actually isn't just made out of rice; it could be made out of combinations, or different proteins. Obviously, rice does play a main factor, but it could be made out of beans, for example, and other ingredients.

But the Korean thought is that if you're sick, you need something that's easy to digest and something that's been cooked slowly so that your body doesn't have to do the work. And one of the main things is the jook. We actually have many jook specialty shops in Korea, often close to different hospitals, for example. It's the main food that's served by the hospitals if you're in-patient, although you might have a lot of different Korean food when you're hospitalized here. I think my experience comes from the fact that if you're scared, you want something that you already know, or you're comforted by - almost like a safety blanket.

And when someone can't even get the basic food that they're used to eating-- if you're used to eating rice every single meal, and then you plop them down in a hospital that gives you toast for breakfast and eggs, and other ingredients that you're not used to, I don't understand how people can expect to feel at home. Is it just because someone says, "Make yourself comfortable"? It doesn’t mean that you have the opportunity to make yourself comfortable if the main food that you eat is not available? And that is something that I wanted to emphasize - that food we think is so easy to arrange for-- we have dieticians, we have nutritionists in the hospital, but we don't really think about patients' comfort that way. And I think it's something that I think about a lot when I'm seeing a lot of the GI patients here, it is a field that I'm interested in.

And for people to keep on losing weight, and for us to keep on asking, "Are you eating enough?" I wonder if that's enough because in Tufts Medical Center, where I'm fortunate to be training in, there's a very significant Chinese-American population. And anecdotally, or at least my experience has been that patients will say, "Oh yes, I'm eating a lot", or nod, and smile and say, "Yes". But if you ask the family members, they say, "Oh, they don't eat the things that they used to." And they don't tell us this because they don't want to burden the doctors with less important things.

But I do think this is very important, and it's something that we need to really talk about, and try to find ways that we can make them feel at ease, and comfort them while we're maintaining whichever treatment that we are giving for these patients.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: So, April, this has been a lovely conversation that reminds us of the importance of good communication, communication across cultures and barriers, and just taking the time to help our patients really feel safe and welcome.

April, we have time for one last thought.

Dr. April Choi: I do want to say that eventually, many years down the road in my career, I do hope to have a situation where instead of me having to explain Asian-American cancer disparity, that we have an opportunity to say Asian-American cancer diversity; that it's not a matter of someone getting less care, it's more important that we get different types of care - a diverse type of care that's catered towards Asian-Americans.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Well, with that lovely thought, I will leave our listeners until next time. And I want to thank you for listening to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology.

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Show Notes:

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Guest Bio:

Dr. April Choi is a Hematology and Oncology fellow at Tufts Medical Center.