Being Blunt With
Patient
I heard the key in the
lock and moments later the tread of Lapius, as he trundled into the house and
dropped his bags in the foyer. “Harry,” his voice like a trumpet.
“I’m home.”
I decided to ignore
him. It was unfair, but I was not in a jovial mood, and couldn’t rise to
the level of elation that Lapius exuded whenever he returned from a meeting.
Moments later he entered
the room. “Oh,” he said with surprise, “I didn’t think you were home.”
“Hi,” I said, flatly.
“I’m flattered by your
boundless enthusiasm. Would you like to hear about the meeting?”
“No.”
Lapius walked to where I
was sitting and placed his hand on my shoulder, “You spoke to Virginia?” he
said somberly.
I nodded.
“Bad news, I take it?”
“Well yes, at least not
good news, but that’s not exactly the point.”
“Metastases?”
“Yes. It spread to
the bone.”
Lapius looked at his
watch. “I’ll call her first thing in the morning,” Now we were both
somber. Virginia had helped Lapius over the years with his manuscripts.
She had been invaluable. But more important, she was his friend, our
friend.
Lapius sat in his large upholstered chair and peered
for a moment at his clasped hands. “I see no reason to brood, Harry. It is
bad news to be sure, but she is in the best of hands. The condition is
treatable. Surely you know that. Your gloom seems somehow
inappropriate. Is there something more?”
“Yes. Her surgeon
told her the condition was hopeless, and that she had between 60 and 360 days
to live.”
Lapius exploded.
“Incredible! What fool would say that. Surely that’s exaggerated.”
“Sorry, Simon. She
told me that herself. It’s true.”
“It’s those articles,”
Lapius murmured.
“What articles?”
“And the lawyers.”
“What lawyers?
What are you muttering about, Simon?”
“And the psychiatrists,
and the institutionalization of everything that’s printed. You know,
Harry, during the past several years there have been discussions in the
literature about how to prepare a patient for death. The new school is
that every patient should be told bluntly what their condition is so they can
prepare themselves. And the lawyers, insisting that patients be told the
category of catastrophes that can befall them during surgery. The net
result is that we have become blabbermouths. We have been pushed into a
position where we can’t be discreet about subjects.”
“Generalities about what
to tell someone with a serious disease are far from universal truths.
They are not to be bandied carelessly with every patient. The physician-patient
relationship may be the last bastion of man’s humanity to man. Are we to
permit ourselves to be brutalized by outside influences? Are we sheep, to
blindly follow as dictated some ruminations that any so-called expert expresses
in a medical article? How very evil these outside forces that intrude
into the relationship between a patient and his doctor. What psychiatrist
from a distance or lawyer in a courtroom can reconstruct the emotional bond
between a physician and his stricken patient? What gall.”
“I guess we have become
sensitized to the threat of malpractice suits.”
“True. To some
extent they serve a regulatory purpose, but we can’t panic and keep peering
over our shoulder for the omnipresent lawyer every time we treat a
patient. We can’t be disconcerted from the task at hand. We can’t
protect ourselves at the risk of the patient. Doctors have never shirked
plague. They must regard the law as simply another typed of infection to
contend with if they are to pursue their duties.”
“But Virginia’s doctor
wasn’t pursued by lawyers. He has no right to walk around like a Pariah
casting spells of doom. He was not compelled to express his judgment with
such brutal finality. Particularly since his judgment might be in error.
There is still x-ray, chemotherapy, hormone therapy, immune therapy. The
statistics daily are changing in favor of the patient.”
“I guess he felt that by
saying what he did he could divest himself of responsibility – walk away from
the case. Some doctor’s feel frustrated and angry when they have been
outflanked by a disease, others, perhaps feel guilty.”
“You know what Virginia
told me,” I said, “She said that after he got done with her she felt as if she
had let him down, as if it were all her fault.”
“Was she shattered,
Harry?”
“Virginia doesn’t
shatter, Simon. But she was distressed. After all, we are all going
to die. If we went around dwelling on that fact all day, every day, we
would soon find no purpose at all to life.”
“You supported her?”
“Of course. Breast
tumors may be controlled. Those that are hormone dependent will regress.”
“She was encouraged?”
“Yes. And you will
speak to her tomorrow. That will make her feel better.”
“I’m sorry for -.”
“Don’t be sorry for
Virginia, Simon. Don’t call her if that’s the way you feel.”
“For Virginia? Not
at all, Harry. She is too vibrant to elicit sorrow. She reaches
out. She embellishes her world with love and affection, and her work with
stringent sensitivity. We have all been enriched, those of us lucky enough
to have worked with her. Certainly she has added dimension to my
life. A woman of quality and stature. A rare, precious
person. But her doctor never took the trouble to know her, to be touched
by her extraordinary gifts. It is for him that I feel sorry.”