After Being Diagnosed with Cancer, This Stanford Professor Chose to Offer a Course on the Experience

Dr. Bryant Lin addressed his class at Stanford this September, likely one of the final classes he would ever conduct.

At just 50 years old and a nonsmoker, he had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer four months before. With a terminal prognosis, Dr. Lin estimated he had about two years until the medication he was on ceased to be effective. Rather than reduce his work commitments, he opted to spend the fall quarter teaching a course centered on his own experience with the illness.

Enrollment for the class filled up rapidly. The classroom was packed, with some students sitting on the floor and others turned away.

“It’s truly an honor for me, honestly,” Dr. Lin expressed, his voice faltering. “The fact that you chose to enroll in my class.”

He shared with his students a narrative illustrating why he pursued a career in medicine. Picking up an old letter from a terminal patient with chronic kidney disease, he recounted how the patient and his family decided to discontinue dialysis, fully aware of the approaching end.

Adjusting his glasses, Dr. Lin began to read, once again becoming emotional.

“‘I want to thank you for the incredible care you provided during my later years,’” he read, quoting. “‘You treated me as if I were your father.’”

Dr. Lin stated that this final act of appreciation had left a profound impression on him. He explained that he had developed this 10-week medical school course — “From Diagnosis to Dialogue: A Doctor’s Real-Time Battle With Cancer” — with similar motivations.

“This course serves as part of my letter, a way to give back to my community as I navigate this journey,” he remarked.

Later, an 18-year-old freshman in his first week at Stanford caught up with a recording of the class, which was accessible to students beyond the medical school. The class had reached capacity before he could register, but upon emailing Dr. Lin, he was granted permission to participate online. He had pressing questions he needed answered.

From Doctor to Patient

Last spring, Dr. Lin experienced a relentless, worsening cough. A CT scan revealed a substantial mass in his lungs, and subsequent bronchoscopy confirmed the diagnosis: cancer. It had spread to his liver, bones, and brain, with 50 cancerous lesions in his brain alone. He is married and the father of two teenage boys.

The diagnosis felt particularly cruel considering his professional background. Dr. Lin is a clinical professor and primary care physician who co-founded the Stanford Center for Asian Health Research and Education, which prioritizes addressing lung cancer in nonsmokers, a disease disproportionately affecting Asian communities.

Describing himself as “jolly,” Dr. Lin is known for his resonant laugh and voice suited for radio. A long-time mentor referred to him as a “pied piper” for ideas — someone who can rally support around a vision. Besides his other roles, he oversees the medical humanities program at Stanford and has developed patented medical devices.

In all his roles, he emphasizes that people are central to medical practice. He strives to emulate the essence of an “old-fashioned country doctor” and even organized a hundredth birthday party for one of his patients.

Dr. Lin learned that his cancer was progressing rapidly, causing pain in his spine and ribs, and leading to weight loss. His physician initiated targeted therapy aimed at the specific mutation fueling his cancer. He also underwent chemotherapy, resulting in nausea and mouth sores.

“A day in the life of a cancer patient,” he noted in a video diary he started post-diagnosis. “So, I guess that’s what I’ve become. Rather than just a dad or husband.”

After undergoing a few rounds of chemotherapy, his breathing and coughing began to improve, and scans revealed significant reductions in the cancer’s spread. He continued seeing patients and teaching while contemplating how to best utilize the remaining time he had.

The dialysis patient had written a letter to ensure Dr. Lin knew of his appreciation. Dr. Lin had aspirations for his own message to his students. He hoped that some might, after taking his course, dedicate themselves to cancer care and that all would grasp the fundamental humanity inherent in medicine.

The ‘Primary Care’ Model

Dr. Lin’s class convened for about an hour each Wednesday. One week, he facilitated a session focused on having tough conversations, emphasizing that doctors must be honest enough to say “I don’t know” when it’s appropriate — a response he had to accept as a patient amid the uncertainties of his own diagnosis.

In another lecture, he explored the role of spirituality and religion in helping some patients cope with cancer. Although he does not practice a religion, he shared that he found solace in others offering prayers, chants, or lighting candles for him.

During a session on cancer’s psychological impact, Dr. Lin recounted his disappointment upon learning that while some tumors had shrunk, they hadn’t vanished — because, deep down, he still hoped for a miracle.

He taught his sessions using what he referred to as the “primary care” model. He served as the initial contact, sharing how his cancer diagnosis had influenced his life, yet directed his students to specialists — guest speakers — when more depth was needed.

One of his initial guest speakers was Dr. Natalie Lui, a thoracic surgeon and lung cancer specialist. Standing before a set of slides, she placed Dr. Lin’s diagnosis within the broader scope of lung cancer in nonsmokers, particularly among Asian communities.

“In the U.S., around 20 percent of individuals diagnosed with lung cancer have never smoked,” she stated. “Yet within Asian populations and Asian American communities, this figure can rise to around 80 percent in various racial and ethnic groups,” she noted, highlighting that Chinese women, in particular, are more likely to receive this diagnosis.

For a session on caregiving, Dr. Lin invited Christine Chan, whom he introduced as “my wonderful wife.” As the session commenced, students in their scrubs, who had been chatting and laughing, fell silent. Chairs were pulled in closer, and one student stood to gain a better view.

Much like Dr. Lin, Mrs. Chan managed difficult truths with a smile, making eye contact with students across the room. She addressed them as if they were or were set to become caregivers themselves.

Mrs. Chan mentioned feeling overwhelmed initially, immersed in medical jargon that was foreign to her. Wanting to ensure her husband had the best chance for sustained health, she attempted to eliminate sausages and red meat from his meals — only to feel disheartened when he declined some of her culinary innovations. As she encouraged caregivers to rely on friends and family, she cautioned that managing well-meaning offers of help could quickly become a task of its own.

An M.I.T. graduate and program manager at Google DeepMind, she admitted that it had been challenging to relinquish her impulse to plan for the future.

“We just need to take it one day at a time,” she concluded. Dr. Lin nodded in agreement.

A Job Not Quite Finished

Observing Dr. Lin teach, I often found myself pondering what his students, predominantly in their late teens and early 20s, were thinking. How did they feel about forming a bond with him as a professor, fully aware of his grave prognosis?

When I inquired, a few described the experience as a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Others viewed Dr. Lin as courageous, stating that if they were in his situation, they likely wouldn’t still be teaching.

Nonetheless, many students expressed confusion. They enrolled expecting a more “existential” experience, as one put it. They anticipated a deeply emotional rollercoaster. Yet, aside from a moment of emotional vulnerability during the first lecture, Dr. Lin remained remarkably positive, frequently sharing jokes.

When his wife discussed modifying his diet, he jokingly feigned shock, saying, “I’m like, ‘I don’t eat this food!’” And when he interrogated his oncologist, another guest speaker, about potential next steps for individuals developing resistance to his medication, he quipped, “Asking for a friend!”

For some students, reconciling this upbeat demeanor with the severity of his condition proved challenging. Gideon Witchel from Austin, Texas, was one of them. He was the 18-year-old freshman who had initially seen a recording of the first class from his dorm room and later secured a spot when one opened up.

When Mr. Witchel was just 5 years old and his sister was only 3, their mother, Danielle, was diagnosed with breast cancer, but he had never delved deeply into that experience with her. He sought to take Dr. Lin’s class as a means to finally facilitate that conversation.

One of his most vivid memories of his mother during her illness involved playing with her colorful scarves as she sat bald on the couch. Yet now, he looked back with a sense of unease. The thought of her potentially not surviving was terrifying.

During the discussion on spirituality, the topic of control arose, providing Mr. Witchel with the opportunity he needed to approach Dr. Lin. He lingered after class to ask whether Dr. Lin chose to teach the course as a means to regain a sense of control over his diagnosis.

Dr. Lin replied instantaneously: no. He clarified that he focused on not fixating on what was beyond his control. “I’m acutely aware of my limited time,” he admitted. “So I contemplate that. How will I choose to spend my life today? Is this a valuable use of my time?”

He affirmed that the class was indeed worthwhile. “Does that resonate with you?”

“It’s powerful,” Mr. Witchel responded. “It’s remarkable that you’re doing this.”

“You know, I think if I were 20, it would feel different,” Dr. Lin confessed. He believed his medical background might have allowed him to cope quicker than most. “Does that resonate with you?” he asked again.

Mr. Witchel nodded, and Dr. Lin smiled, shrugging slightly.

At times, privately, Dr. Lin expressed more concern than he displayed in class. He mentioned that he often reflected on how swiftly time was passing and thought, “Wow, another week has zoomed by.”

Whenever he encountered an older person, he was reminded that he would probably not reach that age. The pain didn’t stem from the missed opportunity to grow older, but from the experiences aging would have represented — witnessing his children’s graduations, watching them mature, start families, and sharing later years with his wife.

Dr. Lin and Mrs. Chan have discussed his diagnosis with their children, but they remain uncertain if their sons fully grasp its implications. It’s tough to reconcile a healthy-looking man with the notion of dying. “They think, Daddy can manage everything, fix everything, solve everything,” Dr. Lin remarked.

While he referred to the course as his letter to his students, he also penned an actual letter for his sons to read once he was gone.

“Whether I’m here or not, what I want you to carry with you is my love,” he articulated. “Of all the meaningful experiences I’ve had, being your dad is the most precious.”

The ‘Luckiest Man’

For the final class, which took place on a bright December day, Dr. Lin and his students gathered in a library at Stanford Hospital. The room, surrounded by glass walls, provided a picturesque view of the foothills and the blooming plants in the adjoining rooftop garden. Students overflowed from the designated seating into a computer cluster, while the librarian leaned against one of the shelves to observe.

As the class neared its conclusion, Dr. Lin positioned himself at the front, folding and unfolding a sheet of paper containing his closing remarks. It was time to complete his letter.

He delivered a personal adaptation of Lou Gehrig’s farewell message, referencing the legendary New York Yankees baseball player who passed away at 37 due to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (A.L.S.), a terminal neurological condition.

Dr. Lin unfolded the paper completely this time.

“Throughout this quarter, you’ve learned about the unfortunate hand I’ve been dealt,” he stated, echoing snippets of Gehrig’s speech at Yankee Stadium. “Still, today, I feel I am the luckiest man on earth.”

With those words, he became emotional. “Indeed, I am lucky,” he said, acknowledging the fortune of having his two sons who brought laughter and happiness into his home, his teaching assistants who facilitated the course, the Stanford community, his colleagues, the people at the Asian health center, his patients, friends, parents, and wife.

“So I conclude with the sentiment that although I’ve encountered a tough break, I have an abundance to live for,” he remarked. “Thank you for this honor.”

It was evident that Dr. Lin had accomplished at least a portion of his goals. When he inquired if students were considering careers in cancer care, approximately a third raised their hands. Those aspiring to become doctors expressed that they would carry Dr. Lin’s narrative with them as a means to better understand their patients’ health journeys.

However, the course impacted students in unexpected ways. Several students mentioned they had encouraged their parents to get screened for lung cancer. One master’s student revealed plans to incorporate lung cancer terminology into the Mandarin medical training course they intended to assist in teaching during the winter.

For Mr. Witchel, the quarter’s influence was deeply personal. He had finally initiated a conversation with his mother about her cancer.

He shared his story with me while we sat at a table outside Tresidder Memorial Union, a student hub on campus. His mother had visited him during the fall, and he had shared information about Dr. Lin’s class, broaching the subject with her. The course had alleviated the taboo surrounding the topic in his mind, allowing him to start the conversation without the discomfort he had once anticipated.

He discovered a shared experience with Dr. Lin: letters.

During her illness, Ms. Witchel penned notes to family and friends, some grappling with her uncertainty about survival and the possible impacts of her diagnosis on her children. These letters became a conduit for processing her experience and reconnecting with loved ones.

“There has been an interplay between a highly personal experience and one that is very public, both providing me with strength,” she expressed in one letter.

After she went into remission, she compiled her writings, medical records, photographs, and other documents into a ribbon-bound book. When Mr. Witchel returned home for Thanksgiving, he sat at the kitchen table with the book and his parents, his mother seated between him and his father.

Together, they alternated reading from the book and discussing its contents. They laughed and cried, and for the first time, Mr. Witchel felt as if he was engaging with his mother as an adult.

In her letters, he sensed echoes of Dr. Lin’s philosophy. In one passage, she reflected on the challenging puzzles scattered throughout the waiting rooms of the hospitals where she received treatment. Complex puzzles containing hundreds of pieces that “no one individual could possibly finish, regardless of how long they waited.”

Perhaps that was the essence, she concluded. Not to complete the puzzles, but to attempt.

Audio produced by Sarah Diamond.