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Wilkommen to my blog - my name is Karin Purshouse, and I'm a doctor in the UK. If you're looking for ramblings on life as a cancer doctor, my attempts to dual-moonlight as a scientist and balancing all that madness with a life, you've come to the right place. I'm training to be a cancer specialist, and am currently doing a PhD in cancer stem cell biology. All original content is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Thursday 19 December 2019

Hi, I'm a 31-year-old doctor... and a PhD student

At a PhD induction I was chatting to a fellow new PhD student. She asked me about my background and I explained that I was actually a doctor and was taking time out to do a PhD.

'What, you're already a doctor? Why do a PhD? You already get to call yourself 'doctor'!'

I had a little giggle and then realised that to many people, I am an 'old' new PhD student, and the fact that I have a whole other professional identity (that, yes, technically comes with title of doctor) is a bit bonkers.  I mean, why put yourself through a PhD?!  Four months in to a PhD I only have 3 years to complete (most science types this side of the pond take at least 4) and it already feels daunting to get something finished in that time.  Clinicians often say it must be nice to have a break from clinical work - but all I'd say is that it's very much 'out of the frying pan, into the fire'!

It's surprising how controversial it is to be a doctor who is back to being a student. I already have a job and a career, and an all-encompassing one at that.  Looking after cancer patients with all the crazy shifts, difficult decisions, and emotional ups and downs is surely enough!  But to the wider world, the controversy is greater still.  Yup, I am more expensive than a straight-from-undergrad PhD student, and clinician scientists are inevitably more expensive than pure scientists.  Are we really worth it, with our divided loyalties and dual demands on our attention?

I'd counter that with some of the following arguments.  I'm one of the few people in my building who have worked at the oncological coal face and know how it feels to sit down with another human being and tell them there are no options left.  I know what it means for someone to have anti-cancer treatment and what people endure to get better, or get more time.  On a more practical level, being a doctor means being organised, comfortable with stress and at ease with long hours (and recognise when it's time to stop).  Hopefully it means being able to plan and manage your time, and function independently.  I'm used to swizzling clinical jobs every few months and starting again, again, with new skills/routines/colleagues, which is useful when you have endless new protocols with which to engage in the lab. Obviously these are skills all PhD students hope to hone during our studies but it's a good place to start.  And importantly, at the other end, we are able to be the connection between scientific innovation and those who might benefit from it: patients.  So we may seem costly, but I'd say it's potentially a pretty good package deal. 

The real reason, for me, is passion for change.  Having a difficult conversation with a patient about limited, or indeed no, treatment options, or treatment not working, is part of the role of an oncologist.  But obviously it sucks.  I think I'm quite good at breaking bad news.  However, it's a seriously weird thing to feel like you're good at, and obviously a gut-wrenching one. It feels deeply unsatisfying to accept the status quo, especially when even in my short clinical lifetime there has been such innovation and progress. I'm keen to be a driver of that change. 

So yes it's a bit weird doing a PhD as an 'older person' (ha! As if 31 is old) with a mortgage, a wedding ring and a second career on the go, but it's also lovely to have the perspective of where a PhD sits in the rest of your life.  I'm under no illusions that this will be stressful, but nothing is as stressful as clinical stress, with real human lives at stake.  I also think back to the anxious twenty-something who felt she had to be everywhere (work and social) all the time, whereas now I have let that guilt slide a little and just trust in myself - I work hard, which is just as well, because science is hard, but it's not everything.  I'm writing this now also to hold onto these important truths when all my experiments start to fail and I enter the Dark Zone of a PhD...!

One thing I will say - I envy the energy and vivacity of my fellow PhD students.  I'm sure that the seven years since I graduated from medical school and the many night shifts, long shifts and weekends of work that have happened since then have somewhat worn me down.  That's certainly something I will latch onto, if they'll let me :)


Tuesday 27 August 2019

Hello, student life!

Well blog friends, a lot has happened these last few months.  In a strange backwards approach to growing up, having bought our first home a few months ago, and getting married a number of weeks back, I'm now a student again!  Aged 31 and two months, I am a full time PhD student.  Hurrah!

Teeny tiny married people 

And it really is hurrah.  I'm really excited about being back in the lab, and two weeks in, it's like learning a new sport, only it's one involving only my brain.  My PhD is looking at stem cell-ness in brain cancer.  It's quite a different area of research to what I've done before (the common theme being 'cancer'), which was very much intentional, but I'm hoping that my various previous research experiences are going to be useful platforms for the years ahead!

What of saying goodbye to clinical life for the most part (and just for now)?  Hmm... I'm probably coming at it from a slightly negative angle, which is hard to avoid when your last little spell of clinical work was Extremely Stressful.  I've been a doctor for 7 years now, and training to be a specialist in cancer for the last 18 months of that.  There's a graph of confidence (y axis) versus competence (x axis) and they say that after an early peak in confidence, it's quite natural for your confidence to stack it even while your competence continues to grow.  The problem is, where patients i.e. human life is involved, it's quite hard to ride that low confidence wave and remain objective about your competence.  Inevitably, with greater seniority comes more responsibility, and a degree of taking one for the team.  Generally I feel like I manage that pressure quite well, and even start to think I'm a good doctor. 

But I worry that I've worn down my resilience.  I think I'm a good clinician and good with my patients. I care a very great deal and I learn so much from not just my clinical colleagues and seniors but everyone around me.  But the gremlins are lurking and I'm happy to step into the sunshine and away from them for a while.

The first thing I'm learning, and in some ways relearning, at the start of my PhD is how to chop out and plug in important bits of DNA into very precise areas of a cancer cell's existing DNA.  This was something I learned to do when I was in the USA, only now we're applying it to different important areas of brain cancer cells to understand what impact it will have.  It's an exciting time, and I know a PhD is a big mountain to climb.  But damn, it feels good to have my hiking shoes on again.

Monday 6 May 2019

The Big C and Crowdfunding versus Clinical Trials

Cancer crowdfunding is something that crops up in my professional world from time to time - where patients choose to raise funds to get experimental treatments generally abroad.  I've met a handful of patients who have chosen that path, like in this video article of a young woman's family who sought crowdfunded care in Germany.

To understand my uncertainties about cancer crowdfunding, it's possibly helpful to explain how any drug comes to being available to a patient in the first place.  Clinical trials are how we get drugs from concept-in-the-lab to standard of care treatment.  We generally divide it up into a number of chunks (image from Cancer Institute NSW, 2018)
See the source image

Pre-clinical - The lab bit.  So whenever I've rambled on about lab research on this blog (got to pick this entry from near the end of my MSc entitled 'This is NOT panicking' - a title which for me, at least, epitomises lab research!) - that's pre-clinical research.  One could pick this apart further, but essentially this is where you test things in a lab.

Phase 1 - The 'first in humans' bit.  Patients involved in phase 1 trials are, in my opinion, absolute heroes.  This is where studies will test new treatments in humans for the first time, gradually increasing the dose from patient to patient to understand more about the drug and its side effects.  The main purpose is to work out if it is worth proceeding to phase 2 and at what dose. Often they are given alongside established drugs - for example, chemotherapy plus new drug - so even in a trial setting they are getting previously approved anti-cancer therapy.

Phase 2 -  The 'Is it safe and does it work on a small scale' bit.  This is where the team says 'Ok - this is safe. Now let's give it to more people at the dose we sussed out in phase 1 and work out how to give it (how often, where, when), what the side effects are like and start to get a sense of whether it works or not'.

Phase 3 - The 'Does it work' bit.  These are big studies to find out if the new treatment works.  Usually patients are divided into those receiving the current gold standard treatment in a particular situation (or placebo if there is none) and the proposed new treatment regimen.  To be a good study, this division should be random, and 'blinded', which means not knowing which treatment you're on.  If the new treatment comes out on top, the researchers will argue the case for the new treatment becoming the new standard of care.

Phase 4 - The Afterparty - The drug is 'Out There' - and phase 4 is basically where toxicity and efficacy continue to be evaluated.

Phew.  So as you can see - it's difficult.  Very few drugs which start out looking promising make it out the other side.  It's really, really expensive.  At every stage, everyone involved has to remain as unbiased as possible to avoid pushing on with a treatment that ultimately doesn't work.  That's harder than it sounds when everyone wants a miracle.

My worry with cancer crowdfunding is that the above steps are bypassed.  During the tragic case of Charlie Gard, the people in my lab and I would discuss and debate, as I think many people were, the lengths that are worth going to in search of medical miracles.  I know some people round the table felt there should, and could, be no limit.  I'm less sure.  Perhaps I am inevitably biased by my job and the fact I cannot say I've ever seen a 'miracle cure'.  I've seen people promised what I know to be scientifically impossible or illogical, and hope being used to persuade them to proceed in spite of this.  Most people that have sought outside-the-box options spend inordinate amounts of money and 'feeling well' time, with no extra time gained.  Indeed, some studies demonstrate good early palliative care can actually buy patients the most time.  When people say that they think people should do anything to find a treatment, I find it hard to forget the many patients whose care I've been involved with in their final days of life.  I wonder what those patients would say.  I also wonder what patients and families who want to be allowed to let go feel under the pressure to seek treatment at all costs.

We should be encouraging clinical trials, because it's the only truly rigorous way of working out the best novel and innovative ways of treating people, and often allows patients who are out of standard treatment options access to the most experimental agents out there.

That's why I feel some anxieties about the cancer crowdfunding thing - proceed with caution.