Editor’s Corner
Microphone Moment
E
The content of the Editor’s Corner is
the opinion of the author and does
not represent the official position of
the American Society of Hematology
unless so stated.
NTERING MONDAY’S ORAL ABSTRACT SESSION at the 2016
ASH Annual Meeting, my goals were twofold: to see some great
science that may influence how I care for my patients and to
support my colleague – a faculty member a couple of years out
of fellowship. It wasn’t that long ago (or so I keep telling myself,
though in truth more than a decade has passed) when I was in his
shoes, and I remember how much it meant to me to see my senior
colleagues – my mentors – in the audience when I gave my first
oral presentation.
By that point in the meeting, I had already logged about
60,000 steps, and I was only averaging about five hours of sleep
each night, so my drive to be there for him had to overcome some
basic physiologic deficits. Nevertheless, I walked past the bouncers
at the room’s entrance (who eyed my badge suspiciously before
letting me enter), frantically scanned the seated attendees for my
colleague, and made a beeline for the open chair near him just
before the session began. When his name was announced, those
of us around him gave him reassuring smiles and the “thumbs-up”
sign as he made the long walk to the stage to get started.
My stomach churned. At this point in my career, I die a
thousand-fold more deaths when my junior colleagues give
presentations than I do for myself – mostly because I want them to
love research as much as I do and would hate for a flubbed talk to
corrupt that joy. Plus, I am probably reliving some of my own fears
when I had to make that same long walk.
I needn’t have worried, though; his homily was masterful,
his slides clean, and his interpretation of results measured. The
audience applauded and was invited to come to a microphone to
ask questions.
These five minutes reserved at the end of a talk, during which
any attendee can probe the ins and outs of the research being
described, are critical to the checks and balances of science. We
are collectively obligated to police ourselves, to correct erroneous
conclusions or reign in inflated ones, to uncover methodologic
flaws or illuminate hazy results, and occasionally to ask for
clarity regarding how the research fits in the greater context
of the disease being studied. Many forces come into play in
scientific presentations, not the least of which are related to career
advancement, advocacy, economic drivers, and politics; it is our
duty to ensure the science is pure.
The first question came from one of the moderators, and it was
spot-on, asking whether my colleague’s results were any better than
what had been seen historically. His response was a good one, and
the moderator seemed satisfied.
The next inquiry came from an audience member, a well-
recognized leader in our field. He started by quoting a pithy phrase
about learning from our mistakes, then launched into a minutes-
long, withering oration that started with a review of the research
he himself had conducted decades ago (with the implication that
my colleague was naïve for embarking on such a project without
recognizing this previous work) and ended with the conclusion
that my colleague’s work fell short.
My heart raced, and I felt
my face flush. My first reaction
was to castigate myself. Had I
misled my junior colleague about
this research? Had we missed
something in our review of what
had been studied previously? I
thought we had incorporated
conclusions from the other
studies when we designed his
Mikkael A. Sekeres, MD, MS,
project. Were we in any way
is director of the Leukemia
harming our patients by asking
Program at the Cleveland Clinic
them to participate? We were so
in Cleveland, OH.
cautious with how we monitored
this research, incorporating
plenty of early-stopping rules, and patients appeared to do well …
I