Part 1 can be found by clicking here.

*****

It was a few weeks after I had said goodbye to Helen. I remembered her. I can’t say I stayed up at night thinking about her or what became of her. No one does that — at least no one does that for long. It’s too difficult. It’s too much of an emotional toll. Besides, we see too many patients.

I remember coming back from a day off. When I returned and logged onto the computer in the morning I was surprised to see Helen’s name on my list of patients to see. I looked around the resident workroom, found the senior resident on my team, and asked, “What happened? She’s back?”

Helen, I had learned, had returned to the hospital. Her sister had brought her in because she didn’t feel like she could take care of her. I was puzzled. Wasn’t this the same reason she came in before? Hadn’t we discharged her to a skilled nursing facility? The answer to both of these questions was a yes. Apparently after some time at the nursing facility Helen had decided that she wasn’t happy there. So she left. And went back to live with her sister. Déjà vu.

When I finally went to see Helen I was surprised at how she looked. She appeared as if she’d lost significant weight since the last time I saw her. She was also using oxygen. She looked physically and emotionally tired.

“Hi,” I said to her as I walked in. She looked up at me and managed a smile. She remembered me. I asked her what had happened. I learned that she had never made it back to the Oncologist. Something came up. I didn’t hear what exactly came up, but she dismissed it — she wasn’t interested in chemotherapy anyways. She had talked to her family and they had decided that palliative care would be the best option. She had also chosen to be DNAR — which meant that in the even that her heart stopped or developed an arrythmia or if she was unable to breathe on her own, there would be no “code blue” called, no chest compressions, no mechanical ventilation. I told her that I understood, and that we would respect her wishes. As she had expressed interest in palliative care, I told her I would get in touch with our palliative care team and ask them to come and speak with her.

Because of her condition, I was fairly certain that the palliative team would take her onto their service for in-hospital hospice care. But I wasn’t sure when she would be accepted as this usually depends on bed availability. I made the call to the palliative care team and was able to speak directly to the attending who said that Helen would be seen as soon as possible that day. I thanked him and continued seeing the rest of my patients. Within a couple hours, I had received a page from the palliative care attending. Helen was accepted. She could be trasnferred to their unit before noon.

I was excited. She wouldn’t have to wait days for a bed to open up. I thanked the attending and assured him that I would get the necessary paperwork, or computerwork, done as soon as I could. I also went down to see Helen. I wanted to share the good news myself — that she would be taken care of on the palliative unit where the staff was very good at comfort care. Again, she smiled. I explained that as she was transferring to another team, I would no longer see her. There would be a new team of doctors taking care of her. But she asked if I would still come and visit her. To be honest, I was a bit surprised about her request, but I told Helen that after her transfer, I would come by when I had a few minutes.

At the end of the day, I opened up her chart on the computer. I was making sure that all of my documentation was correct. I also noticed that the Palliative Care Attending had also left a note. He wrote that he had spoken to Helen and her family and felt that she was deteriorating and had hours to days left. I was happy for Helen. At least she was now where she would be best taken care of, where the goal of care would be comfort. I realized, though, that if she really only had hours to days that I would have to go and visit her soon if I were to honor my word.

The next few days were a blur. We were busy. We were slammed with admissions on call days. On non-call days I had to leave by noon to another hospital where I had my clinics in the afternoon. But every once in a while I made sure to find out that Helen was still on the Palliative Care unit. When things finally settled down and I found myself with a few moments of downtime, I walked over to the palliative care unit. It had been days since I last saw Helen. This time I would visit her, not as her doctor, but as — well, I didn’t know what exactly I was visiting as. I wasn’t her doctor anymore. And I don’t think I could say I was visiting as a friend. But she had asked me to visit her and I had agreed. So there I was.

Walking the unit, I kept looking out for her name.

Nothing.

I made another round on the unit to make sure. Her name was nowhere to be found.

I learned that she had passed away just hours earlier.

I was just too busy. There were too many things to do. I was too late.

And that’s the story of a women named Helen¹.

On some level, I feel like I let her down. I couldn’t keep a simple promise to come and make a visit. It’s easy to say that I was “too busy” and that there were “too many” things to do. But one could always argue that if it were a priority, then I would have visited her. But maybe there was a part of me that didn’t want to see her. Maybe I wanted to avoid coming into a room as the doctor and realizing I had nothing to offer — nothing that would make a difference. Perhaps, though, all she wanted was some company. Perhaps she had come to terms with her imminent death and she wasn’t looking for a cure — instead, she was just looking for a fellow human being.

1. see Privacy Policy [↩]

She was an elderly woman; I’ll call her Helen¹. Her hair was silver. She smiled pleasantly as I walked up to her bed in the emergency department. But her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes were dark and solemn. When I asked Helen how she was doing, she told me she was “alright.”

I picked up her chart and noted that it was her first time here. Fortunately, though, she had brought her records from her previous hospitalizations. We discussed why she had come, what had previously been done for her at the other hospital, and what her goals were now.

She had been recently diagnosed with advanced, metastatic cancer. I learned that her oncologist had wanted her to get a PET scan — a scan that would allow them to see the extent of her metastasis. I also found out that the reason she had come to my hospital (or maybe I should say the hospital I work at) is that she had lost her home in a city over an hour away. With no other options, she had moved in with her younger, widowed sister who lived just down the street. And now, she presented to this emergency department. Because this was the closest, large hospital. I also learned that a big reason for coming into the hospital is that her sister just couldn’t take care of her. The patient needed help. Her sister needed help.

We admitted Helen and over the next few days ordered a few tests and reviewed outside records. We knew she had a fluid collection in her lungs (pleural effusion), but we didn’t feel it necessary to put her through the risk of a procedure as she was breathing well without any oxygen. We got our Oncology service involved and they actually scrapped the idea of doing a PET scan. They said it wasn’t necessary. Reviewing outside records they already knew this was metastatic cancer — a PET scan would no longer change management of therapy at this point.

I remember walking in to see Helen shortly after I was notified by the Oncology resident that they had already spoken to her with her options. The Oncology resident told me that their note was in the chart. Of course, I reviewed it before I went in.

As Helen lay in her bed, I asked her if she had been seen by oncology already and if they had talked to her about what could be done. I knew the answer already, but I often let my patients tell me. Sometimes it’s a good thing as this allows me to get an idea if they actually understand the situation.

In Helen’s case, she understood — for the most part. She told me that there were two options: chemotherapy or no chemotherapy. If she received chemotherapy she would probably live about 1 year and have to go through side effects. If she chose not to have any chemotherapy, she wouuld have about 6 months. What the oncologist had said was that for patients with her scenario, the mean survival was 6 or 12 months depending on therapy vs non-therapy.

I suppose it’s common for patients to hear phrases like “mean survival” and forget that we are talking about averages. They apply it specifically to their own case. It makes sense. I’d probably do the same thing. But there’s a reason most doctors never give out solid predictions. We give ranges on purpose. We understand that patients never read textbooks — and so they present in strange ways or with little variations and surprises.

I stood at her bedside. Silence filled the air. Helen offered up another smile and said, “It’s ok. I’m 88. I’ve had a good life.” All I could do was offer up a smile. She told me she was leaning towards no chemotherapy. She didn’t like the idea of all the side effects. But she would have to talk to her family first. She would call them and give her answer to the oncologist in a week’s time.

I nodded. We had found a nursing facility for her to go to. There was nothing we could offer her at this point other than some pain medication for the pain she had in her chest. I couldn’t help but think that she should have come in sooner. But would it have made a difference? What if she had come in before the cancer had spread anywhere? Would she have chosen chemotherapy then? Would her old, frail body have taken those medications? Would she have been able to afford the treatment?

Too many “what if’s.” Too many “too’s.” Too late. Too old. Too much.

I said goodbye to Helen. She would be discharged the next day and I was going to be off. I wished her the best. I reminded her to follow up with Oncology in a week. Little did I know, I would be seeing her again too soon.

To be continued…

1. see Privacy Policy [↩]