2017 was tough. Even setting aside the obvious travesty of Trump’s presidency, the past twelve months have battered me. My closest friend was killed in a freak sledding accident. My family’s cat of nearly twenty years died of renal failure. My parents, married for 30+ years, separated. My health suffered after months of working 100 hours a week; I developed a crippling viral pneumonia that left me wan and exhausted. The sable talons of depression have sunk into my flesh once again. And yet, I’m here. Bruised, thin, quieter. Wiser, kinder, more empathetic, more spontaneous, more appreciative of life’s precious tenuousness. On net, a more complete person, but the transaction has been hell. 2017, I won’t miss you.
Lying in fetal position, turned to right side, on furthest edge of mattress.
Past midnight, room dark, neighborhood quiet.
Staring through frost-rimmed window at stark moon.
Anti-abortion activists on undergrad campus earlier today,
Decrying murder of potential lives.
If potentiality is the criterion,
Then every adolescent boy in history has committed genocide.
Into wads of Kleenex, old socks, and toilet bowls.
Future entrepreneurs, researchers, concert pianists, presidents,
Pulitzer winners–millions at a time–mercilessly flushed to the sewer
Among the banana peel
And Pop-Tart crust
From this morning’s breakfast.
I have not written much lately. I have not done much of anything except work.
As part of my emergency medicine residency, I am required to complete two months of training at the University of Maryland Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore. I enjoy being back in the city of my graduate school days, but the schedule at Shock is absurd: 80+ hours per week and call shifts in which I remain awake at the hospital–making critical life or death decisions about patient care–for 30 hours straight. It is brutal. It is unhealthy for residents. It is unsafe for patients. Yet, the culture is one of “It has always been this way.” That doesn’t mean it should stay this way.
I tell every patient, and am now telling you, that I have often been awake for more than 24 hours when I am trying to figure out how to save a person’s life. My brain is so tired, I frequently have trouble speaking clearly. Patients are universally, and justifiably, appalled by this information. I hope the reader need not require hospitalization, but if you do, ask your doctor for how long she or he has been working on shift. The answer may not be a comforting one.
Upwards of 250,000 Americans die every year from medical errors. The medieval, ridiculous, dangerous culture surrounding physician work hours surely is a part of the problem. Physicians apparently refuse to heal themselves, so it’s up to readers and patients to demand change, to demand well-rested doctors, and to demand oversight and penalties for renegade providers and institutions that push physicians beyond all reason and margins of safety.
Our family cat Russell died this week. He was eighteen years old.
My brother and I adopted Rus from a city animal shelter in the aftermath of the May 3rd 1999 tornado in Oklahoma City. At the time, we were 9 and 12 years old, respectively. Russ was three weeks old. Over the ensuing two decades, we three boys grew up together.
When we adopted him, Rus weighed less than a pound and didn’t know how to drink water from a bowl. My brother and I took turns dipping our fingers in water and letting Rus lick the drops. For the remainder of his life, he “drank” by putting his paws in the water bowl and then licking them dry. We build giant Lego houses for him in our bedroom. We dressed him up as the Pope for one Halloween. He was the reliable constant during our turbulent adolescent years. He was fearless, intelligent, and fiercely loyal to his two boys. He once chased a neighborhood kid into a bathroom because the kid had pantomimed punching my brother. He slept in our beds at night, keeping some sort of internal schedule by which he rotated between my brother and me. His favorite toys were rabbit foot tchotchkes. We trained him to walk on a leash, and he loved going for long explorations outside. He was the third son of our family. We nicknamed him “Tubbs.”
By the time I was in medical school, Rus had developed diabetes. Because he was otherwise healthy, we chose to treat him with insulin, and he thrived for another four wonderful years. This week, the inexorable hand of age caught up with him, and he passed peacefully of kidney failure. He fell asleep for the last time on his favorite blanket: a red Christmas tree skirt with white fringe.
It is hard to believe that you’re not here anymore, Russell; you were a constant for so many years. I know you loved us as much as we loved you. Thank you for everything.
I’ll miss you, Tubbs.
I lost a kid in the ER today. Only the second one in my career. Nothing in medicine or in life is more devastating.
I wept as I drove home. I wept for the girl. I wept for her parents. I wept for a fucked up universe in which children die.
Whoever you are, wherever you live or work, whatever your family situation, hold a child today. Your son or daughter, sullen teen or ebullient toddler, little brother or sister, baby niece or nephew: it doesn’t matter. If there exists a child in your life who means something to you, tell them so. Wrap them in your arms, hug them tightly, sit in the sunlight with them. Say you love them.
Please. Hold them.
Patients go the ICU to die. And the deaths they die are truly horrific. We as doctors and we as society must rethink goals of medicine and goals of life in the modern era. When we can keep patients “alive” indefinitely on machines, should we?
Patient 1. Her name was Charlotte. She was an award-winning landscaper and lifelong gardener from Georgia. Well into her eighties, she had a gentle southern drawl, piercing blue eyes, ramrod straight posture, and a sincere smile. She loved to read biographies. Her favorite flower was the British lady orchid. Prior to developing colon cancer, she had only ever had hypothyroidism; no other medical problems. When she had originally been diagnosed with cancer 6 months ago, she resisted any treatments, arguing that she had lived a solid life and wished to spend her remaining time outside, in the gardens, where she had lived her entire life. Her grown children, unable to cope with the prospect of losing their mother, convinced her to undergo chemo, then radiation, and finally surgery. She was in and out of the hospital environment for months, and I cared for her during her final month–which she spent exclusively in the ICU. Her surgery went poorly, and she developed respiratory failure, requiring her to be intubated. No matter what we tried, we could not wean her from the ventilator; her lungs had simply become too weak to function on their own. This woman, who had spent eight decades breathing deeply the lush fragrances of her parks and gardens, spent her last moments with sterilized oxygen being forced into her lungs by a machine. On the day before she died, she wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. It read, “I want to go outside.” I looked back into her brilliant blue eyes, and nodded. It took bribery, threats, pleas with her family, and calls to the hospital chief medical officer, but we managed to get her transferred to a chair and wheeled to a private courtyard in the back of the hospital. She still had the breathing tube in place, and her oxygen levels were continuing to drop, but she could smell the fresh rain-soaked earth and pine needles. I’ll never forget her face. Ineffable. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she squeezed my hand. She stayed outside until nightfall, until her oxygen levels had fallen so far that she was barely conscious. We brought her back to the ICU, and she died within an hour. As I watched her breaths come to an end, I felt such anger at her medical course. All she had wanted was to be in her gardens at home. Instead, she got six months of hospitals and one, final evening in a dingy hospital courtyard.
Patient 2. Her name was Margaret. A 65-year-old smoker and obese diabetic, she predictably suffered a massive heart attack, and during the attempts to repair the arteries of her heart, she sustained a stroke–her fourth in the past year. Her brain was devastated. For a week, she lay intubated and sedated in the ICU; and even after she recovered enough neural activity for the breathing tube to be removed, she remained delirious and unable to form complete sentences. She had wires going into her wrist arteries for continual blood pressure monitoring; she had lines going into the veins in her neck and under her collarbones to measure the pressures in her heart and lungs; she had urinary and fecal catheters placed; she had a feeding tube going into her nose; and she required a face mask for continual oxygen delivery. Her skin was sallow and sunken, a patchwork of bruises and breakdown from repeated needle sticks for blood labs. Her adult children watched for days as their mother tossed and turned in her bed and periodically cried out unintelligible monosyllables. Physically and emotionally exhausted, the family left one afternoon for a quick respite, and in that hour of their absence, their mother died. Alone, with tubing and IVs sticking in and out of every orifice of her body. Her last words were a garbled childish plea for “more ginger ale.” I stood at the foot of the bed and observed as her heart rate on the overhead monitor slowed from 50 to 30 to 10 to 5 to 0–a flat line. Her head fell slightly to the side, and her breathing, which for days had been labored and coarse, finally ceased. I placed my stethoscope on her chest. Silence.
These two women died within 24 hours of each other. Driving home that evening after my shift, I compared them to the woman described in a BBC article who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and who had chosen to spend the last year of her life not receiving chemotherapy but instead traveling widely throughout the US. During her travels, she fulfilled many of her personal dreams and wishes, and her final days were filled with memories and friendships and kindness, not with medications and laboratory testing and invasive procedures. She died well.
I failed my patients. The US healthcare system, with its blinkered focus on life saving rather than life enrichening, failed them. Surely they and their families would have preferred a few peaceful and meaningful days, or even hours, at home over their protracted weeks of ICU hell. Reflecting on these two cases has caused me to reconsider my own end-of-life wishes and those of my patients. Above all else, I do not want to die in a hospital. I’d rather live my death fully than die and be artificially sustained in some travesty of “life.”
Late at night, silence and snowflakes fill corners of windowpanes. Phone call.
On your sled, hit by a truck. Time and breath slow to a crawl.
Hearing but not understanding, I sit on the couch in the darkness.
Fuck god or infinite space, this is supposed to be justice?
There are no tears
for pain beyond a certain deep.
This I discover
on the day you sleep.
Brilliant, industrious, brave, and compassionate, you were my best friend.
Greater than I were you, though: seeking our world to mend.
Founder of medical clinics, staunch steward of Earth, leader. You cared,
Never gave up on your dreams, accomplishing more than most dare.
A passing light,
what did you leave
but kindness, health,
and joie de vivre?
Springtime has come, but within my heart, snow remains. How do I move on?
Formerly, I would ask you. Where do I turn with you gone?
Distance and wisdom will show me one day that the truth is plain: you stayed
Endless, immortal, and here, alive in the lives you have changed.
So, half as good as thou
I’ll try to be,
For I love you,