Anything to HelpHarmony Farner, MA, CCRP11Research Division of Quality of Life and Palliative Care, Department of Oncology, St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, USACorrespondence to:Harmony Farner, MA, CCRP /St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital / 262 Danny Thomas Pl, MS 1121, Memphis, TN 38105 / 901-595-7457 / Email: harmony.farner@stjude.orgText word count: 1236Brief running title: Anything to HelpKey words: pediatric oncology, quality of life, palliative careTables: 0Figures: 0I typed the patient’s phone number into my phone multiple times and immediately deleted it, too nervous to make the recruitment call. After several aborted attempts, suddenly the phone was ringing. I remember thinking to myself, “don’t pick up, don’t pick up - please go to voicemail.” And then, a young man answered. Immediately a knot formed in my throat.I had spent the better part of a day leaving voicemails for adolescent and young adult patients and parents eligible for a research study about prognostic communication preferences in the setting of advanced pediatric cancer. When C answered the phone, I stumbled over my words, shocked that someone had answered. Faltering, I explained that I was calling to ask if he might be interested in participating in a research study that sought to understand how patients with cancer want to hear information about prognosis. I felt like my body was collapsing in on itself, trying to make myself as small as possible in an attempt to avoid the tongue lashing that was surely coming for bothering a cancer patient. But to my surprise, C immediately replied yes, even before I had a chance to fully describe what the study entailed. He told me, “Anything to help.”When I started my job as a researcher within the palliative care division, I felt squarely outside of my comfort zone. Who was I to ask childhood cancer patients for their time, especially when they may have little time left in this world? Even worse, how could I ask them to talk about their poor prognosis? As an anthropologist, I’ve approached and interviewed participants living in abject poverty in Baltimore, women serving time in a correctional facility in Memphis, and members of the Makah Tribe in Washington state, just to name a few. Walking into a pod of inmates at a correctional facility didn’t scare me, but this sure did. My training taught me to be respectful of participants’ time, their words, their feelings, and their story. We were to cause them no harm. I worried that asking patients to talk about their illness could cause distress, and I couldn’t bear the thought of adding another stressor in their lives.I remember waiting for C at the clinic, nervously watching the clock and reviewing the interview guide for the umpteenth time. He had suggested that we meet at 7am, before his full day of appointments. He bounded in, leading the nurse to the room instead of the other way around. He was dressed in comfortable jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. His sparkling eyes, broad smile, and positive energy filled the room – it was the kind of energy that was infectious, lifting your mood just by being in his presence. This was a young man who was living and eager to enjoy every moment of it.I remember asking C to take me back to the beginning, and he started by recounting, “Well, the first time they cracked my skull open…” knocking twice on his head with his fist and a mischievous smile on his face. I must have looked shocked, because he reassured me, explaining, “I was really excited about [the craniotomy] because they were going to keep me awake, and I was like, ‘Cool, I want to be awake while people are cracking open my head!’ ” As we laughed together, any nervousness I had quickly dissipated.At the end of the interview, I thanked C profusely for his time and his candor. I was taken aback when C thanked me in return for asking his questions that he had never been asked before and for encouraging him to speak about his cancer journey unfiltered. He noted that, despite the excellent medical care that he had received, no one had ever asked him to reflect on his cancer journey, his poor prognosis, and his preferences for talking about how cancer would affect his future life. He was genuinely grateful to have been given this opportunity to speak his mind, and he apologized for talking too much. I assured him that there was no such thing.I left the interview both relieved and elated to know that the experience had been so beneficial for C. I found myself wondering if he was a rare example, or was there a chance that other patients might feel similarly? I would later discover that while C was an exceptional human being, he wasn’t the only one excited to tell their story.Many months later, I had the chance to reach back out to study participants to ask if they might be interested in joining a focus group to review the study findings and collaborate to create an intervention to improve prognostic communication. This time, I was excited to call C, and once again he agreed to participate with enthusiasm and no hesitation. He shared with me that he was working full-time, had enrolled in college courses, and had recently married the love of his life – and yet he still wanted to prioritize being a part of this research study despite his busy schedule. Over the next few months, C participated in all four focus groups, offering valuable insights into his cancer journey. He was never shy about speaking his mind, and he frequently helped encourage other more timid patients to share their perspectives. At times, he appeared tired, but he was always actively present and committed to the research process. After each focus group, part of my job entailed emailing participants to thank them for attending the session. Each time, I was deeply moved when C emailed me, expressing his sincere thanks to our research team for including him in this important work.Since meeting C, my perspective as a researcher has profoundly evolved. I no longer view recruitment and data collection as a burden imposed on cancer patients, but rather as a potential opportunity to enable those who are interested to tell their story, in their own words. I no longer fret over the process of describing our research study, as C taught me that just because a topic is emotionally charged does not mean that it’s disrespectful to invite people to share their thoughts about it. Rather, I’ve learned that I can show the utmost respect by creating space for patients to speak their mind. Not asking the hard questions doesn’t mean that people aren’t thinking about them – conversely, asking these questions can be a gift, empowering them to reflect aloud on this very real, very hard experience that otherwise is rarely addressed.Even as C approached the end of his life, he continued to express enthusiasm and gratitude for the opportunity to participate in research. He was thrilled to receive a copy of a recently published manuscript that reported on findings from the study, and as they encircled his bedside, his family reflected together with him on the powerful legacy that his research contributions would make on the world.I now know that, by speaking with patients about difficult topics related to their cancer, we can learn how to better treat the whole individual. Perhaps even more importantly, we can honor their personhood by centering their voices and elevating their stories. Our research participants, like all of us, contain multitudes – and we will never see the whole story unless we ask.Acknowledgement: I would like to thank Dr. Trisha Paul for her guidance and support in drafting and revising this essay.