Lessons on Life from a Dying Doctor

⏱️ 21 min read             

What would you do if you were given a terminal diagnosis? Most people would step away from work, focus on family, or check off a bucket list. However, Dr. Bryant Lin, a professor of medicine at Stanford, did something extraordinary—he turned his own cancer diagnosis into a lesson for his students.

We explore how one doctor, facing the end of his life, chose to teach the most important subject of all: That the heart of medicine is about people, connection, seeing and honoring every patient's humanity.

Welcome to That's Life, I Swear. This podcast is about life's happenings in this world that conjure up such words as intriguing, frightening, life-changing, inspiring, and more. I'm Rick Barron your host. 

That said, here's the rest of this story 

Dr. Bryant Lin stood before his class at Stanford in September, embracing a moment he knew was precious—one of the last he would likely teach.

At just 50 years old and a nonsmoker, he had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer four months earlier. The prognosis was terminal, and he estimated that he had about two years before his medication would lose its effectiveness. But rather than stepping away from his life's work, he chose to lean in—to teach a course about the very illness he was facing.

Students responded with overwhelming enthusiasm. The class filled up instantly, and the room was packed beyond capacity on the first day. Some sat on the floor; others had to be turned away.

"It's quite an honor for me, honestly," Dr. Lin said, his voice thick with emotion. "The fact that you would want to sign up for my class."

After the class had settled in, Dr. Lin jumped right in for the purpose of the class. He began by sharing a story that had shaped his journey in medicine. He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket: a letter from a former patient. Dr. Lin adjusted his glasses and took a steadying breath. Every student in the room was silent. He called out that the patient, a man with chronic kidney disease, had made the difficult decision to withdraw from dialysis, knowing it would soon bring an end.

Dr. Lin read aloud, his voice catching, he continued reading the letter.

"'I wanted to thank you so much for taking such good care of me in my old age. You treated me as you would treat your own father." As Dr. Lin finished, he folded the paper and placed it back into his shirt pocket. He looked across the classroom, all of the students were silent, some had tears in their eyes.

Dr. Lin teaching his course at Stanford University. Courtesy of New York Times

Though his time was finite, Dr. Lin chose to fill each day with purpose, just as he had throughout his career. He was not teaching from a place of depression but of gratitude. He gives gratitude for the opportunity to share, inspire, and remind his students that in medicine and in life, every moment of kindness leaves a lasting impact.

Dr. Lin said this final act of gratitude had stayed with him, a reminder of the deep connections formed through care and compassion. With that same spirit, he created his 10-week medical school course titled: From Diagnosis to Dialogue: A Doctor's Real-Time Battle with Cancer.

"This class is part of my letter," he said. "Part of what I'm doing to give back to my community as I go through this."

Dr. Lin’s lessons extended beyond the lecture hall. Across the Stanford campus, an 18-year-old freshman, just beginning his journey at Stanford, discovered a class recording of Dr. Lin. The course had filled before he could enroll, but he was determined to learn. After contacting Dr. Lin, he was permitted to follow along online.

This young freshman had questions. He was searching for answers. In Dr. Lin's story, he found something more—a lesson not just about medicine but resilience, giving, and living each day with intention.

Keep this person in mind as I continue this story, as they will come again towards the end.

From Doctor to Patient: A Journey of Purpose

Last spring of 2024, Dr. Lin's life took an unexpected turn. A persistent cough grew worse, leading to a CT scan that revealed a large mass in his lungs. Further tests confirmed the diagnosis—cancer. It had already spread to his liver, his bones, and his brain, where doctors found 50 cancerous tumors.

Dr. Lin is a husband—a father to two teenage sons. A healer now facing an illness he had spent his career fighting.

The diagnosis carried a cruel irony. As a clinical professor and primary care physician, Dr. Lin had dedicated much of his work to researching nonsmoker lung cancer—a disease that disproportionately affects Asian populations. He co-founded the Stanford Center for Asian Health Research and Education, leading efforts to better understand and treat the illness that now confronted him.

Dr. Lin isn't the kind of person to dwell in despair. A self-proclaimed "jolly" person, his booming laughter and deep, radio-worthy voice have made him a beloved presence among students and colleagues. A longtime mentor once described him as a "pied piper" for ideas—someone who could inspire and unite people around a vision. Whether directing Stanford's medical humanities program or patenting medical devices, his work has always been driven by one fundamental belief: medicine is about people.

That philosophy shaped everything he did, from pioneering research to how he cared for his patients. He once threw a 100th birthday party for one of them—a small but powerful gesture that spoke to his belief in treating every patient with humanity and warmth.

As he faces his illness, Dr. Lin continues living by that principle. He teaches, shares, and gives back. His journey is not just about battling cancer—it's about finding meaning every day, continuing to inspire, and showing others that the purpose remains despite adversity.

Dr. Lin's cancer was advancing quickly. The pain settled into his spine and ribs, and his weight dropped. His doctor prescribed a targeted therapy designed to fight the mutation fueling his disease alongside chemotherapy, which brought nausea and painful sores.

But even in the face of illness, there were glimmers of hope. After several rounds of treatment, his breathing eased, his coughing lessened, and scans revealed a dramatic reduction in the cancer's spread. He continued teaching. He kept seeing patients. And he began to consider how best to use the time he had left.

Dr. Lin thought of the letter, from the dying patient had written him a letter—a simple but profound gesture of gratitude. Now, Dr. Lin had his message to share. He hoped that some of his students, inspired by his course, might devote themselves to cancer research or care. But more than anything, he wanted them to understand what he had always believed: that medicine is not just about treating disease. It is about people, connection, and seeing and honoring every patient's humanity.

His illness had changed his path but not his purpose. And as long as he had time, he would continue to teach, inspire, and live with intention.

A Lesson in Care and Courage

Dr. Lin's class gathered for an hour every Wednesday—an intimate space where medicine met humanity. One week, he led a session on navigating difficult conversations, emphasizing that doctors must have the humility to say, "I don't know." It was a lesson he had learned firsthand as a patient facing the uncertainties of his diagnosis.

In another class, he explored the role of spirituality and religion in coping with illness. Though he wasn't religious, he shared how deeply moved he was by the kindness of those who prayed, chanted, or lit candles for him. It was a reminder that comfort can come in many forms.

He approached teaching the way he had always practiced medicine—with a "primary care" model. He served as the first point of contact, sharing his personal experience with cancer, but when the conversation needed more depth, he brought in specialists. One of his first guest speakers was Dr. Natalie Lui, a thoracic surgeon and lung cancer expert, who framed Dr. Lin’s diagnosis within the broader landscape of nonsmoker lung cancer, particularly among Asian populations.

Through each session, Dr. Lin's mission was clear: to prepare his students for medicine and life. To teach them that knowledge and expertise matter, but so do honesty, empathy, and the courage to sit with uncertainty. Above all, it is to show them that purpose endures even in the face of illness.

"In the U.S., about 20 percent of lung cancer diagnoses occur in people who never smoked," Dr. Natalie Lui explained to the class. "But in Asian and Asian American populations, that number can be as high as 80 percent in some groups." She highlighted how Chinese women, in particular, are disproportionately affected—an unsettling reality that placed Dr. Lin's diagnosis into a larger, sobering context.

For a session on caregiving, Dr. Lin welcomed a special guest: "My wonderful wife," he said with a warm smile, introducing Christine Chan. The classroom, once buzzing with quiet chatter and laughter, grew still. Chairs inched forward. 

Like her husband, Ms. Chan faced difficult truths with grace. She spoke directly to the students, understanding that many would one day find themselves in the role of caregivers. She shared how overwhelming it had been at first—drowning in complex medical terminology, searching for ways to make life easier for her husband. 

She encouraged caregivers to lean on their support networks but admitted that even well-intended offers of help could feel like another responsibility to manage. As an M.I.T. graduate and program manager at Google DeepMind, Ms. Chan was used to planning, analyzing, and optimizing. But facing her husband's illness, she had to learn to take it one day at a time.

A Life Still in Motion

I wondered what was going through the minds of students enrolled in Dr. Lin's class. Many were beginning their journeys in medicine, still in their late teens and early 20s. What was it like to learn from a professor whose time was running out?

A few described the experience as a "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." Some saw him as incredibly brave, admitting they weren't sure they would have the strength to teach under the same circumstances. But others were surprised. They had expected something heavier, more existential—a deeply emotional journey through illness.

Dr. Lin remained unwavering. Apart from a single moment of emotion in the first lecture, he approached each class with the same humor and energy that had always defined him. He even cracked jokes.

His students had expected to witness the weight of mortality. Instead, they saw something even more powerful: a man who, despite everything, was still fully living.

Finding Meaning in the Time We Have

For some students, Dr. Lin's unwavering optimism was difficult to reconcile with the harsh reality of his illness. Gideon Witchel, an 18-year-old freshman from Austin, Texas, was one of them. You may remember that earlier in this podcast, I called out about a Stanford freshman who was determined to learn from Dr. Lin. He had initially watched the first class from his dorm room. He had questions. He was searching for answers.

Gideon had a complicated relationship with illness. When he was five, his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. His younger sister was only three. He had vivid memories of playing with his mother's colorful scarves while she rested on the couch, her head bare. But beyond those childhood snapshots, he had never spoken to her about what she had endured. He had never asked, "Tell me the story of your cancer." He hoped that Dr. Lin's class might give him the courage to start that conversation.

During a session on spirituality, the idea of control came up. It was the opening Gideon needed. After class, he lingered and asked Dr. Lin whether teaching this course was his way of reclaiming control over his diagnosis.

Dr. Lin didn't hesitate. No, he said. He didn't dwell on what was beyond his control. Instead, he focused on a different question: How am I going to live my life today?

"I’m very conscious that I have limited time left,” he admitted. “So, I think about that. Is this a worthwhile way to spend my time?”

His answer was clear: Yes. This class is worthwhile.

Gideon, absorbed the weight of those words. “It’s powerful,” he said. “It’s impressive that you’re doing this.”

Dr. Lin gave a small smile and a shrug. “You know, I think if I were 20, it would be different.” He explained that his years as a doctor had given him a perspective that allowed him to accept his reality faster than most might. Then, as if to ensure his student understood, he asked again, “Does that make sense?”

This time, Gideon didn’t just nod—he understood. And Dr. Lin, with another quiet smile, carried on.

Sometimes, in private, Dr. Lin was less optimistic than he appeared in class. He often looked back on time passing and thought how fast the week went by. When he saw an older person, he was reminded that he probably wouldn’t live to be that age. What hurt was missing not the opportunity to grow old, but what growing older represented — the chance to attend his children’s graduations, to watch them grow up and start their own families. The expectation to spend his later years with his wife. 

Dr. Lin at home with his family getting ready for dinner. Courtesy of New York Times

Dr. Lin and Ms. Chan finally approached their two sons to tell them about their father’s diagnosis. They weren’t sure the boys fully understood what it meant. It was hard to think of a man as dying when he looked as healthy as Dr. Lin did. “They think Daddy can take care of everything, fix everything, solve everything,” Dr. Lin said. 

Dr. Lin crafted an actual letter for his sons to read after he was gone. “Whether I’m here or not, I want you to know that I love you,” he wrote. “Of the many things I’ve done that have given my life meaning, being your daddy is the greatest of all.”

He’s expressed he was lucky to have two sons, who brought joy and laughter into his house. His teaching assistants made the course possible. The Stanford community, his colleagues, and the people at the Asian Health Center. His students and residents. His patients. His friends. His parents. His wife. 

In December of 2024, Dr. Lin held the last class in a library at the Stanford hospital. Students filled the room while the librarian leaned against a wall to listen.

As the class was nearing its end, Dr. Lin stood at the front of the room, folding and unfolding a piece of paper where he had printed his closing remarks. He took a deep breath. It was time to finish ‘his’ letter.

“For the past quarter, you’ve been hearing about the bad break I got,” he said, echoing parts of Lew Gehrig’s address at Yankee Stadium. “Yet today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.”

With that, he choked up. “Sure, I’m lucky,” he said. He said he was lucky to have his two sons, who brought joy and laughter into his house. 

“So, I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for,” he said. “Thank you. And it’s been an honor.”

It seemed clear that Dr. Lin had achieved at least some of his goals. When he asked whether students were thinking of careers in cancer care, about a third raised their hands, the ones planning to be doctors told me they would remember Dr. Lin’s story when seeking to understand their patients’ experience of illness. 

But the class moved students in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Several students advised their parents to get screened for lung cancer. A master’s student was integrating vocabulary about lung cancer into the Mandarin class for medical trainees that they planned to help teach in the winter.

A Letter of Hope

For Gideon, he thought how Dr. Lin's class had given him the courage to speak with his mother about her cancer—a conversation he'd been avoiding, fearing the dark shadows it might cast.

What he discovered instead was beautiful in its poignancy. His mother, like Dr. Lin, had found comfort in letters. Throughout her illness, Ms. Witchel had been crafting messages to those she loved—delicate paper bridges spanning the gulf between her private suffering and their shared lives. Some letters trembled with uncertainty about her future, about what her diagnosis might mean for her children. 

"There has been a shuttling back and forth between a very private experience and a very public experience," she had written, "and both have given me strength."

In these written words, mother and son found each other again—not despite the pain, but through it. Their story tells us all that connection waits like a patient friend even in our darkest hours. Sometimes, when we finally speak the words we fear most, we don't find the expected abyss. Instead, we discover unexpected pathways back to one another, fragile, as they may be, but enduring threads of hope guiding us.

Piecing Together Hope

When Gideon returned home that Thanksgiving, he found more than familiar rooms and holiday traditions. At the kitchen table—that sacred space of family gatherings—his mother presented a treasure: her journey bound in ribbon. Medical records, photographs, and handwritten letters were carefully preserved, not as a memorial to suffering but as a testament to perseverance.

There they sat, his mother nestled between him and his father, turning pages that held her heart's darkest and brightest moments. They read aloud, voices sometimes breaking, lifting in unexpected laughter. In this shared vulnerability, Gideon experienced something profound—he saw his mother not just as a parent but a fellow traveler on life's uncertain path.

Among her words, one passage resonated deeply with Dr. Lin's teachings. She wrote of puzzles scattered throughout the hospital waiting areas—intimidating creations with hundreds of pieces that "no one person could finish no matter how long the wait."

But perhaps, she reflected with gentle wisdom that completion was never the purpose. Maybe the beauty lay simply in the trying.

What can we learn from this story? What's the takeaway?

Both Dr. Lin and Gideon’s mother offer us all a tender reminder. We may never complete life's most complex puzzles, but in our daily attempts—piece by imperfect piece—we find our most meaningful connections and our most genuine reasons to continue forward, living each day with deliberate intent, even when the picture remains unfinished.

Well, there you go, my friends; that's life, I swear

For further information regarding the material covered in this episode, I invite you to visit my website, which you can find on Apple Podcasts for show notes and the episode transcript.

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