I was taking care of a 66 year old female. She had survived cancer of the urethra (the tube through which urine exits the body). The radiation took its toll on her. It scarred her vagina, clitoris and urethral opening. She developed inflammation of a portion of her colon and had to have that portion removed. With all this, the lady that lay in the bed the morning I saw her was bright, cheerful and smiled almost apologetically for the embarrassment of her condition. What brought her to the hospital was not any of the above conditions I described-- she had weathered those and survived. Now she was leaking stool from her vulva. It was an incontinent leak she could not control. It was getting worse. The final in a succession of specialists to see her was a gynecological oncologist. On the phone later he told he had seen a lot of such cases before, having trained at one of the country's leading cancer centers.
His word in the patient's chart were direct and poignant: "This is a terminal condition. In my experience, life expectancy is usually 3 to 9 months." When I walked into the patient's room, she had already her the pronouncement from him. He had been her gynecologist for 15 years and cared enough to tell her the truth without the hemming and hawing less experienced or less caring physicians will indulge in out of their discomfort with the news.
There she lay. She looked at me with eyes reflecting fear, confusion, sadness and searching. Should she seek a second opinion? Did I agree with the assessment? As I gave her my opinion, she told me what an excellent doctor I was. She wasn't being facetious. She meant it. I didn't feel like patting myself on the back or accepting a compliment.
I left the room with respect and admiration for this wonderful woman who could accept news of an imminent death with such grace and fortitude -- much better, I will confess, than the 'excellent doctor'
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Sunday, April 06, 2008
"Give me some coffee!"
69 year old Mr Jones (I'll call him) is in the medical ICU. He has lung injuries and breathing problems. He is NPO (nil per os -- which means 'nothing by mouth'). His son walked in this morning to see him, holding a cup of coffee in his hands, the aroma filling the room.
"Give me some coffee!" exclaims my patient slurring his speech and breathing hard. Mr. Jones alternates between being lucid and agitated and restless.
"Pa, the doctor said you can't have it." the daughter explains as she signals with her eyes for the son to leave the room with the coffee cup.
I overheard. I am 'the doctor'.
There is something that flinches inside whenever I am reminded that I have denied another human being the basic right to eat and drink by my 'orders' written in the patient's chart. I only have to write 'NPO' and sign my name. It is enough. The power.
Mr. Jones is NPO because he 'failed' the swallow test. When he was offered a little something by mouth in a controlled situation, he aspirated and choked on it. Perhaps he is still too weak, perhaps he suffered injury from the breathing tube that was in his windpipe for several days when he could no longer breath on his own. The NPO is medically justified and re-evaluated at regular intervals.
Still, I flinch.
"Give me some coffee!" exclaims my patient slurring his speech and breathing hard. Mr. Jones alternates between being lucid and agitated and restless.
"Pa, the doctor said you can't have it." the daughter explains as she signals with her eyes for the son to leave the room with the coffee cup.
I overheard. I am 'the doctor'.
There is something that flinches inside whenever I am reminded that I have denied another human being the basic right to eat and drink by my 'orders' written in the patient's chart. I only have to write 'NPO' and sign my name. It is enough. The power.
Mr. Jones is NPO because he 'failed' the swallow test. When he was offered a little something by mouth in a controlled situation, he aspirated and choked on it. Perhaps he is still too weak, perhaps he suffered injury from the breathing tube that was in his windpipe for several days when he could no longer breath on his own. The NPO is medically justified and re-evaluated at regular intervals.
Still, I flinch.
When have you lived enough?
During that same night, I admitted another nursing home patient for bruising and a history of repeated falls because of syncope -- losing consciousness. Further investigation revealed that he has a bad heart valve. He knew this and had declined repair or replacement of the valve. The poor heart function was causing kidney failure and now disturbing the electric conduction system of his heart. His heart was in danger of going into a fatal rhythm. He could die in his sleep or just walking down the hall, eating or using the bathroom. He was 79 years old and DNR/DNI. While he did not want to have the valve repaired or replaced (the cause of most of his life-threatening troubles), he was not averse to having a defebrillator put it -- a device that would 'shock' his heart back into a rhythm compatible with life if it went into a fatal rhythm.
I tried to explain to him that while this might 'solve' the problem of fainting spells and prevent him from dropping dead suddenly or dying in his sleep, it would do nothing for his failing valve, poor heart function and the resulting kidney damage. In fact, he would worsen and go into heart failure, resulting in fluid building up in his lungs over time and become progressively more short of breath and uncomfortable.
If I had this problem, I would much rather my heart go into a fatal rhythm and kill me instantly rather than my life trickle away with greater discomfort and diminishing quality. Furthermore, as my heart worsened, it would tend to flip into fatal rhythms more often, resulting in me being 'shocked' more often -- doesn't sound good. So my choices would be repair or replace the valve or nothing -- let me die whenever one of those fatal rhythms occur. After explaining this to the patient, he surprised me by saying that my logic sounded clear and that yes, he would like to have the valve replacement surgery.
I guess what surprised me is that this 79 year old gentleman living in a nursing home with no family close by, no wife and not much else wanted to live more and was willing to endure the surgery it would take to make that happen. And then I caught myself. Why was I surprised? I guess I kind of expected him to say that he was 'old' and had lived enough and that he would die someday somehow, so it this was to be way, then so be it. But no.
Of course, I respect his choices and will help him reach his goals, of medically possible. It is a subtle prejudice I need to watch for in myself: deciding when someone has lived enough and should 'throw in the towel'. Who makes that choice: the patient? the physician? the government (who will be paying for all of this in his case since he is on Medicare)? How do you make such a decision? By age? By quality of life? Who determines quality of life? Should we even offer him the surgery just because we can?
I guess we all have to think about the answers.
I tried to explain to him that while this might 'solve' the problem of fainting spells and prevent him from dropping dead suddenly or dying in his sleep, it would do nothing for his failing valve, poor heart function and the resulting kidney damage. In fact, he would worsen and go into heart failure, resulting in fluid building up in his lungs over time and become progressively more short of breath and uncomfortable.
If I had this problem, I would much rather my heart go into a fatal rhythm and kill me instantly rather than my life trickle away with greater discomfort and diminishing quality. Furthermore, as my heart worsened, it would tend to flip into fatal rhythms more often, resulting in me being 'shocked' more often -- doesn't sound good. So my choices would be repair or replace the valve or nothing -- let me die whenever one of those fatal rhythms occur. After explaining this to the patient, he surprised me by saying that my logic sounded clear and that yes, he would like to have the valve replacement surgery.
I guess what surprised me is that this 79 year old gentleman living in a nursing home with no family close by, no wife and not much else wanted to live more and was willing to endure the surgery it would take to make that happen. And then I caught myself. Why was I surprised? I guess I kind of expected him to say that he was 'old' and had lived enough and that he would die someday somehow, so it this was to be way, then so be it. But no.
Of course, I respect his choices and will help him reach his goals, of medically possible. It is a subtle prejudice I need to watch for in myself: deciding when someone has lived enough and should 'throw in the towel'. Who makes that choice: the patient? the physician? the government (who will be paying for all of this in his case since he is on Medicare)? How do you make such a decision? By age? By quality of life? Who determines quality of life? Should we even offer him the surgery just because we can?
I guess we all have to think about the answers.
Who lives and who dies?
I am back in Internal Medicine and on the Wards. The ward month is very busy with call every four days and walking up and down between the different floors of the hospital and the MICU. Still, I love it. Ward medicine gives you a 'captive' patient: he is in the bed and you 'control' his medicines, activity and diet. Compliance is hardly an issue.
My first call night of the month, I admitted -- at different times of the night -- two very similar patients. They both came from nursing homes. They were both DNR/DNI. They were both in respiratory distress and unresponsive. One seemed to have a urinary tract infection and the other dehydration and maybe a pneumonia. One was 87 years old and the other 82. With both patients, the management strategy was similar -- treat as sepsis with fluids and broad-spectrum antibiotics and that was what was done.
During the night, one of them died and the other not only lived but 'came to life' -- she woke up and began talking with us, quit lucidly I might add.
We often joke on the wards about 'let's go out there and save some lives!'. I am sure we have something to do with it, but sometimes I wonder how much...
One died and the other lived. We will still do what we do and maybe one day can stratify the risks better to predict the outcome. For now, I still believe God holds life and death in his hands.
My first call night of the month, I admitted -- at different times of the night -- two very similar patients. They both came from nursing homes. They were both DNR/DNI. They were both in respiratory distress and unresponsive. One seemed to have a urinary tract infection and the other dehydration and maybe a pneumonia. One was 87 years old and the other 82. With both patients, the management strategy was similar -- treat as sepsis with fluids and broad-spectrum antibiotics and that was what was done.
During the night, one of them died and the other not only lived but 'came to life' -- she woke up and began talking with us, quit lucidly I might add.
We often joke on the wards about 'let's go out there and save some lives!'. I am sure we have something to do with it, but sometimes I wonder how much...
One died and the other lived. We will still do what we do and maybe one day can stratify the risks better to predict the outcome. For now, I still believe God holds life and death in his hands.
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