doing nothing

surgeons are not so good at standing back, yet sometimes doing nothing is exactly what needs to be done. i remember one time that this turned out to be slightly humorous in a morbid sort of way.

i was in my vascular rotation which was not too much fun (except for a short moment). generally if a patient came in in the late afternoon requiring an operation, your entire night would be destroyed. and there was pretty much nothing worse than an abdominal aorta aneurysm (aaa). scratch that. a bleeding aaa was a lot worse than an aaa. so when casualties called and said they had a bleeding aaa my heart sank.

the patient was pale and clammy and his heart was racing. but the thing that struck me the most was his age. the man was 89 years old. the casualty officer also mentioned that he had previously been diagnosed with ischaemic heart disease. so, in summary we had a man just this side of ninety with comorbidities and a condition that was know to kill most of its victims thirty years younger than him. the chances of him surviving the operation were dismal. i called my senior.

my senior (the vascular fellow) examined the patient and went through his file. like me he concluded that an operation would push him over the cliff whose edge he was standing next to. in consultation with the patient's son, the decision was made to make the patient comfortable and leave him to the inevitable. i confess i had the thought that at least i'd get to sleep, but i also knew the sort of sleep one gets while waiting for death to take one of your patients is a broken and rocky sleep.

the next morning i arrived for my rounds. i hoped the patient was dead but when i walked past his son just outside the ward i knew i would find him alive in the ward. after a patient dies the family always seem to flee the hospital. the stress of the night was etched into the face of the son. i could tell his night had been worse than mine.

sure enough when i entered the ward, there was the old man lying in bed just where i had left him the night before. it seemed the pain medication was working though. he wasn't quite as restless as the day before. i walked into his room. i didn't bother checking his vitals. what would be the point? he looked up at me. i was surprised to see he was doing so well. i remember hoping the fellow hadn't told the family it would be all over by the morning because the old man seemed to be set on proving him wrong. the one problem with him still being alive was that i'd have to take over the role as the intermediate with the family. the fellow would make himself scarce now that the initial footwork had been done.

i greeted the old man.

"môre oom." i said. he looked at me.

"môre neef" he replied, using a greeting that had gone out of circulation many years before i was even born. i smiled. he seemed quite spritely for someone in his position. but his next statement really gave me a chuckle.

"neef, is it true that you are not going to operate?"

"yes it is true, oom." i replied.

"well then if you are not going to operate why don't you send me home? there are things i need to do on the farm you know." how could one not admire that sort of attitude? i smiled broadly.

he took another day and a half to die. it was tough on his son, but i suspect he sucked the marrow out of every one of his last moments of life.

you can't win them all

the myth of the glory of war is perpetuated in part due to the fact that the stories are only told by survivors. if the guy that took one through the neck in no man's land in world war one and then slowly faded away in a mess of saliva mixed with blood, lying in his own stools, crying for his mother were to tell his story from beyond the grave it wouldn't look so glorious at all. it would maybe be a better reflection, though, of the reality of it. in a certain sense we run the risk of glossing over medicine too. i would hope this blog does not.

i am extremely affected by the patient calling out to me to save him in strained monosyllabic speech at the last moment of his life. it is almost too much to bear. and yet i am the survivor. i walk away to live another day or to tell the story or to enjoy a sunrise in the african bush.

i remember him well. he was a kidney failure patient who was leading a fairly normal life thanks to the wonder of peritoneal dialysis. he was the breadwinner for an extended family even. and then he got the call.

there was a kidney available. i was even involved in procuring the kidney (this is always a sad and poignant story in itself. it is the coming together of life and death, of hope and despair) . the relevant tests were done and this specific patient was found to be the best match. quite soon he was in the hospital going through the needed preoperative preparations. after the usual administrative delays that are so particular to south african state medicine we even actually got him to theater and without too much fanfare soon had the new kidney in and peeing like there was no tomorrow. everything was going so well i almost thought it was too good to be true.

after theater he did well for about three days before things turned. initially it was just a decrease in the amount of urine the kidney was producing but soon it was so much more than that. without going into too much detail, the patient developed systemic inflammatory response syndrome (sirs). this put pressure on his new kidney which started faltering. he developed water retention which put strain on the lungs which were already under pressure from the sirs that he had. after that things started spiralling downwards.

we had long given up on the kidney and put the patient back on dialysis, but nothing seemed to make the situation better. then two days before my rotation in the transplant firm ended the patient collapsed in the ward. i happened to be there and commenced a full resus.

i remember clearly the terror i felt at the prospect of the patient dying. his heart wasn't supposed to have stopped! he was supposed to do well. i felt terrible! but with a bit of good luck i brought him back from the brink of death and delivered him to icu with a tube down his gullet and highly dependant on inotropic support (his heart was dependant on drugs to maintain a barely survivable blood pressure). his kidney had long since ceased to function and we dialysed him constantly at a low rate to try to not put more strain on his borderline heart. then i was rotated to the icu unit, so in essence i followed my patient there.

his sirs just got worse and soon he developed a coagulopathy (the normal clotting mechanisms in the blood stopped working) and was soon bleeding from every orifice. we gave him what we could for that but the fine balance between not giving too much fluid yet giving the needed clotting factors and the balance between dialysis and the heart that was on the verge of giving up altogether was very difficult to manage.

the last night i remember too well. i often wish i could forget. i was on call that night in icu, so it was up to me to get him through to the morning. he had been bleeding from the mouth and nose a bit all day. his blood pressure hovered just above the unacceptable level. his lungs were full of fluid and the ventilation was tricky to say the least. but as the night progressed things got worse. the first thing was the bleeding. quite soon blood was oozing from everywhere. he even had a trickle of blood running down his cheeks like bloody tears from both his eyes. and as he bled his blood pressure started falling. he became too unstable to dialyse so that was stopped. the inotropes were increased to industrial doses but that did little. i became desperate. i phoned the transplant consultant.

after i had verbalised all the parameters to the consultant over the phone it was like i had told them to myself. i knew what the consultant was going to say. if i were him i would say the same thing. the situation was beyond repair. the patient was going to die and nothing we could do would change this fact.

"he is going to die, bongi. you can't win them all."

i knew he was right. i hung the phone up and just sat for a while. i thought of the fact that this man, the sole breadwinner of his family, had walked into the hospital with hopes of a better life without dialysis and would be leaving on a cold morgue slate. it just seemed so unfair, so wrong. had we killed him? i didn't know but at the time i felt we had. my consultant had advised me to stop active treatment and see if i could get some sleep. i stopped active treatment but i refused to sleep. it just seemed to me that i was supposed to at least be with him to the end even if that was all that i was going to do.

i sat in the patient's cubicle and waited, like him, for the end. when it came it was horrible. blood was now streaming out everywhere. his breathing tube was bubbling with the pink frothy liquid seen in pulmonary edema and the ventilator strained against the pressures needed. the colour slowly seeped out of his face giving him the countenance of death before the fact. and then slowly his life force left him.

i turned off the ventilator and all the infusions and left. but even then sleep and the peace that could possibly come from it eluded me. to be honest i did not have that peace for some time thereafter.

stand back, i'm a doctor!!

surgeons are not stand back kind of people. they fall more comfortably into the category of charge in where angels fear to tread. i think the work tends to preferentially attract those type of people. but sometimes standing back can be the lesser of two very evil evils.

the call was a standard weekend consultation. the patient had hematemesis and his doctor was worried. nothing i hadn't seen many times before. but when he came in the patient's wife had a few more details to spice the story up a bit.

just about a year ago he had had a resection of his stomach for cancer. the surgeon had told his wife they couldn't get all the cancer out because it was growing into some big blood vessels behind the stomach. for some reason they both decided not to tell him this. so when he was referred for his chemotherapy (something that could not be described as awe-inspiringly effective in stomach cancer) he truly thought he was well on his way to full recovery. and now he lay before me, pale and restless.

he was a shadow of what he once must have been. his skin hung loosely as if in remembrance of the large man it once covered. i was not happy with the mass i clearly felt just under his left rib margin. the cancer was back and it seemed angry. i got the necessary drips running and ordered blood. i considered dropping to my knees but due to a back injury when i was still a student i wasn't sure i'd be able to get up onto my feet again.

the wife called me aside and told me the patient was not aware of the fact that the operation was not a roaring success and therefore that he was essentially living on borrowed time (which i grimly thought he is about to pay back with interest).
"you need to tell him." i said.
"no!! doctor!! i can't do that." she needed the truth.
"this man, your husband may die here in this hospital within a day or two. you need to speak to him." but she would hear none of it. she also didn't want me to tell him things were not so rose coloured (i suppose depending on what colour roses you're talking about of course).

the next day the patient was feeling much better. amazing what a bit of blood will do. we chatted a bit. you know, shared a moment. he even laughed at how bad he had felt the previous day in comparison to today. then it was back to business. in this case business meant i was going to take a long, not so thin pipe and stick it down his throat to take a quick look at the source of the bleeding in his stomach. i sort of lied to myself, telling myself that maybe i'd see something that could be fixed with a knife. in truth i knew what i would see. the palpable mass and the history dispelled almost all my doubt (or hope). but i knew i needed to look. i needed to know for sure how much or how little i would be able to do for him. maybe i needed evidence for one day after it all when i am called to account.

the cancer was a large fungating mass with a deep necrotic core. it was gently oozing blood but i could see it was capable of so much more. it seemed to me it had stopped its torrent of blood long enough to give me a glimpse as if to taunt me. as if to say you know me and you know you have no power here. it was right.

after the procedure the patient once again started spewing forth blood. i sat with him for quite some time. between his retching we spoke.
"this is not good doctor."
"i know." what more was there to say?
"what are we going to do?"
"we are going to hope the bleeding stops." what more was there to do?

then i went against the wishes of his wife. i told him this cancer was going to be the end of him. he looked at me with a calmness and a gentle smile.
"i know."

he probably had known for some time but i think he felt he had to go along with the charade and maintain the lie with his wife. he seemed relieved that the truth was out. he seemed to relax.

that night the sister called me to tell me he was bleeding massively. i explained the situation and asked her to push blood iv. if that didn't help nothing that i could do would. the next morning he was dead.

somehow when we sit behind our computers and in our nice expensive offices deciding about the futility of certain treatments and who should get what based on cost or whatever, the actual point is lost. the nice old man finally vanquished by the hideous monster called cancer or the old lady with heart disease or whatever who is forced to succumb to the dark inevitable is the point. it is the person, the individual. the one like me. and maybe like you.

i was just left with a sense of how difficult it is to stand back and let someone die when you know what that means. it, i assume, is much easier for the powers that be, snug in their artificial real worlds.

dignity

he was old. not so much in years, but old. his body had born the brunt of a full life. there was not much left. so when i saw him the first time with a rock hard abdomen and free air in the peritoneum i knew it would be a long shot.

in discussion with the patient and the family, we went ahead and took him to theater. if he had any chance whatsoever, it would include surgery. he did, however state his desire not to be kept on 'life support'. we informed him that he would be on a ventilator at least for some time post operatively. he accepted that and we went ahead.

the operation rendered a few surprises, but we got through it and delivered the patient to icu, intubated and on a ventilator. amazingly enough he did well and, was extubated on day two. the family (and surgeon) were elated.

then on day four he started slowly but surely deteriorating. he told us he was tired of life and just wanted to die. he also said he didn't want the tube down his throat again. then he slipped beneath the waters of consciousness. i was called.

he clearly wasn't getting enough gas exchange and needed to be intubated and ventilated. however i was more and more convinced he was destined to die no matter what we did. we could prolong his life but he would never leave icu. i called the family.

i laid out the medical facts and told them they must decide if we should be active or leave him to die. they discussed it. it was not an easy decision for them and i could see them struggling with the concept of just letting him go while he was still alive. medical facts weren't good enough. i told them what i thought.

i firstly explained that to intubate held little guarantee of ultimate survival in this case. i then went on to say that it was probably better to die without a tube than with a tube. also to delay the inevitable would prolong his suffering. i then reminded them of something they all knew, i.e. that he had said he didn't want to be kept alive by a ventilator and maybe it was time to respect his dying wishes. they reluctantly agreed. i left the family, together maybe for the last time.

maybe i swayed them. maybe i influenced them to decide what i felt was best rather that just giving them the facts and allowing them to decide themselves. but sometimes medicine is not about facts. we are working with people and relationships and human interactions as well as just physiological systems and these things will always play a role. i was content with my actions and went home.

but what they did not see, what no one saw, was the moment just after i spoke to them when i moved off alone and thought about that day so long ago. the day i held my grandmother's hand in another icu in another city as she breathed her last breath. she too had also declined intubation. she too was given the choice of a death with dignity. i cried.