Learning Humanism
In medical school I learned about physiology of the human body, about how cells and organs function and dysfunction, and the ways to test and treat these dysfunctions. I spent time with patients both real and pretend (aka actors) to practice my interviewing, to see which questions might lead me in the direction of a diagnosis. While proficiency, and pursuit of mastery, of these skills is necessary to become a doctor, is it enough? What fills the space between checking those boxes and being a truly excellent physician?
I would say that it is humanity, often referred to as the topic of humanism in medicine. My mentor in this area of medicine is Dr. Michael Tanner, who is an internal medicine physician and Co-Director of the Master Scholars Program in Humanistic Medicine at NYU Langone Medical Center. When I asked him what he thought made a humanistic physician, he sent me the following quote:
In the early nineteenth century Wilhelm von Humboldt—one of the chief architects of the modern education system—said that the aim of existence is a “distillation of the widest possible experience of life into wisdom”. He also wrote that “there is only one summit in life—to have taken the measure in feeling of everything human”. This could well be the humanist motto.
--Homo Deus by Yuval Noah Harari, page 240
I’ve never read something that answered a question so perfectly, and art, whether writing, painting, dance, music, etc, is a way to express “the feeling of everything human”. Eine Alpensinfonie, by Richard Strauss, depicts the experience of climbing an Alpine mountain, including the sunrise, “dangerous moments”, the summit, “calm before the storm”, the subsequent storm, and the sunset. The 50-minute work puts into notes the feelings I’ve experienced hiking many mountains, feelings that I have struggled to capture in words or photos to help explain to others why hiking is important to me. Many works are written with specific experiences or stories like this—Beethoven wrote his string quartet movement colloquially referred to as “Heiliger Dankgesang” after recovering from a fatal illness, using his incredible talent to imbue the notes with the ultimate thanks for being alive. These works have meaning—the listener can feel the emotion of the work and relate it to the composer’s reason for writing them, can connect the notes and phrases to the situation inspiring them. These composers felt all of life and expressed it the best way they knew how: music.
I would say I have been a musician for my entire life—I started playing violin when I was 7, added the viola when I was 14, and made the full switch around age 16. But for most of high school I was planning (as much as a 15-year-old can plan) on studying biochemistry and going to medical school. I doubled up on science classes my junior year of high school, cutting my lunch hour to 20 minutes so I could fit it all in. At the same time, I often skipped my honors physics class to practice viola, thanks to my mom who wrote me notes saying I had a “rehearsal”. I played music more seriously than many kids my age, despite my hesitant interest in being “a musician”. The conflict emerged after spending a summer at the Perlman Music Program, meeting kids my age (and younger) who were using their instruments in a way I was not yet able to—to express themselves. I was good enough at the viola, because I was dedicated and hard-working by nature, had parents who supported my interests, and had been connected to music teachers who pushed me. I was not using music to say anything, but with my parent’s encouragement and support, as well as Heidi Castleman’s insight and faith in my potential, I took a chance, or possibly a chance was taken on me, and I was able to study at Juilliard.
I don’t think there was a distinct moment when I really became a musician—when I went from what I often describe as being a robot to truly being able to feel things and express myself with music. Much of this growth came from seeing others perform, feeling tensions and resolutions as they reverberated through a concert hall. But at some point, I wasn’t just playing the notes, I was feeling it in my body; I was understanding emotions I never felt myself but had been felt by others and expressed through phrases. I wish I knew what it was like to listen to music as a non-musician—does everyone feel these moments like I do? Take Beethoven’s Quartet Op. 59 No. 1, the third movement “Adagio Molto e Mesto”. I don’t know what Beethoven was feeling or thinking when he wrote this work (especially minutes 27-29 of this incredible performance by the Danish String Quartet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BGuwkFGDHo) but the way it affects me opens up a world of moments from Beethoven’s life that I just get. No words or explanation needed, just a feeling deep in my bones. In the brilliant words of Yuval Noah Harari, music for me is a “distillation of the widest possible experience of life”.
I am now a physician, fulfilling my 15-year-old self’s dream. I studied all the physiology and anatomy, I practiced interviewing patients, I checked all the boxes. I can talk to a patient and get a sense of what is medically wrong, what tests I need to do, and what treatment they might need. I am a good doctor, and I think I would have been even if I had pursued medicine right away at age 18. But now, because I’m also a musician, there is this intangible experience that I have that I can’t quite put into words. Music taught me how to be human, to have some sliver of understanding of others’ experiences, whether it be suffering, joy, or an unnamable feeling that a composer was able to express in their music and a musician was able to portray in their performance of it. Patients are humans, which sounds obvious but is often a reminder we need after training with endless multiple-choice questions. In my question to Dr. Tanner about what he thinks makes a humanistic doctor, he said “a wide experience of life is a big part of it”, talking about how easy it is to have blinders on if you went from kindergarten straight through medical school (aka K through med schoolers). He says that “doctors who have seriously pursued an artistic field bring something to practice that K through med schoolers don’t: life experience in a non-medical field. The value of this wisdom cannot be overestimated”. When I treat patients, I need to understand their deeper experiences and feelings, beyond their presenting symptoms. I have had the privilege of experiencing a lot of life through music, through the writing of Beethoven and others, through performances that have touched me and changed me and still make my heart swell, and that allows me to be a doctor in a way I never imagined I would have the opportunity to be.
About Megan Griffin
Megan Griffin, MD is a second-year internal medicine resident at University of Washington in Seattle. She received her bachelor and master of music degrees in viola performance from The Juilliard School (’10,’11), where she studied with Heidi Castleman, Hsin-yun Huang, Misha Amory, and Samuel Rhodes. As a violist she performed at Kneisel Hall, Marlboro Music Festival, and Perlman Music Program, and was a member of the New World Symphony and Ensemble ACJW (now Ensemble Connect). She then attended NYU for both a post-baccalaureate certificate in pre-med and medical school, graduating in 2020. She was part of a group of students who graduated early from NYU School of Medicine due to the COVID pandemic, working emergently at Bellevue Hospital in New York City for 6 weeks before moving to Seattle for residency.