October 9th, 2011 by Shadowfax in Opinion, True Stories
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My father in law, now deceased, was a nephrologist. I met him while I was in medical school. He was a reserved guy, not prone to butt into what he saw as others’ business. So I still remember that while I was considering what sort of residency to pursue, he took a surprisingly strong stance that I should go into interventional radiology. His reasoning was simple: they have a great lifestyle, they make bags and bags and bags of money, and they get to play with all the coolest gadgets.
It was tempting, I admit. As anyone who knows me can attest, I am ALL about the gadgets. I’m not averse to bags of money either. But I never gave it much consideration, mostly because I am just not real good at radiology, though for an ER doc I do OK. (A low bar, it is true.)
I sometimes regret that decision. For example, I wrote the other day about a gentleman who presented with a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. We had some heroic fun in the ER resuscitating him and getting him to the OR. After the fact, I had to wonder whether it was all in vain — Read more »
*This blog post was originally published at Movin' Meat*
April 20th, 2011 by Dr. Val Jones in Humor, True Stories
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Every once in a while we physicians make an astute (or perhaps lucky) observation that becomes a turning point in a patient’s life.
I’ll never forget the time that I placed a hand on an elderly woman’s belly after she said that she felt a little bit dizzy – the pulsatile abdominal mass that I discovered set in motion a cascade of events that resulted in life-saving surgery for an disecting abdominal aortic aneurysm (AAA). It was incredibly gratifying to be involved in saving her life – and now anyone who so much as swoons in my vicinity gets a tummy rub! (Yes, Dr. Groopman I know that’s not necessarily a rational response to one lucky “exam finding.”)
Last week I made a fortunate “catch” on the order of the AAA discovery from years ago. I was giving a close friend of mine a hug (he’s significantly taller than I am) when I noticed that his heart was beating rather quickly through his shirt. I instinctively grabbed his wrist to check his pulse, and voilà – it was irregularly irregular. My friend had new onset atrial fibrillation – and although he was initially resistant to my idea of going straight to the ER, I eventually convinced him to come with me. An EKG confirmed my clinical diagnosis, and blood thinners (with Pradaxa) and a rate control agent were administered. He will undergo cardioversion in a couple of weeks. We were both relieved that our intervention may well have averted a stroke, heart failure, or worse.
My peers at the hospital have been poking fun at me for my hug diagnosis, and my reputation as the “hug doctor” now preceeds me. I continue to protest that I do know how to use a stethoscope – but alas, there have been more requests for stat hugs from me than cardiopulmonary exams.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to top this clinical diagnosis, but a life of trying to find my next case of atrial fibrillation through hugging will likely make a few people smile.
April 2nd, 2011 by Bongi in True Stories
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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 known to kill most of its victims thirty years younger than him. The chances of him surviving the operation were dismal. I called my senior. Read more »
*This blog post was originally published at other things amanzi*
July 12th, 2009 by Bongi in Better Health Network, True Stories
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Sometimes before you are even called the sh!t has already hit the fan. The mopping up is not fun.
I was on call. As usual I was hanging around in the radiology suite (I spend a lot of my free time there sharpening up my CT scan reading skills. The radiologists even think I’m a frustrated radiologist, poor fools). The urologist phoned me. He had a nervous laugh. Most types of laughs of urologists I quite enjoy. But the nervous laugh I do not. He then went on to tell me about a patient he had been referred with possible kidney stone and severe pain, but on the scan they found a large abdominal aorta aneurysm. I quickly called the scan up on the monitor and sure enough there it was. The patient was mine.
There was an 8cm aneurysm. But just anterior to this there were signs of recent retroperitoneal bleeding. This was not good. The guy was just one step away from a fatal rupture. I phoned my vascular colleague in Pretoria who was unfortunately in theater but they assured me he would get back to me in about 20 minutes. Then another call came through.
“Doctor, the urologist says I must call you about his patient. He says it is now your patient. Something has happened.”
I knew I needed to run.
“I’m on my way!”
As I rushed through the ward I saw what must have been the family. They were all looking anxious and some had tears in their eyes. I rushed on. I needed to focus.
In the patient’s room it looked like well orchestrated chaos. Lying on the floor was a massive man who was as pale as a sheet. The casualty officer was intubating. A sister was doing CPR. The urologist looked up.
“Glad to see you! well then I am no longer needed. See you around.” And with that he walked out. Someone was trying to place a drip with little to no success. A large group of young student nurses were looking on with expressions ranging from shock to morbid fascination to excitement. I needed to take control. Only thing is I had seen the scan and I knew what had happened (when an 8cm aortic aneurysm ruptures into the abdomen it causes almost guaranteed instant death).
I told the nurse to stop CPR long enough for me to check for signs of life. There were none. She continued. I then did some basic tests to gauge brain stem function. There was no detectable brain stem function. I called it right there.
After a dramatic unsuccessful resus there is usually an eery silence in the room. Maybe it is a sort of respect for the departed or maybe it has to do with confronting one’s own mortality. I think it has a lot to do with thinking who is going to say what to the family.
“Are you going to speak to the family?” I asked the casualty doctor. I had to try.
“No! you are!”
“Great!” I thought. “I walk in on the closing act and I’m left with the hot potato.”
I took time to speak to the nursing staff, telling all those directly involved that they did well and just trying to somehow let the students know that it is ok to not be ok with death up close. Then I went quiet. I needed to focus.
The family had been taken into the sisters’ tea room. They then sent me in. The mopping up had begun.
I have spoken before about breaking bad news. Fact is, it is never easy and I’m not sure there is any easy way to do it. I try not to leave the family in the dark too long. Once they know I try to be as supportive as possible and to answer their questions as best as can. Usually I am struck by the human tragedy and I allow it to affect me as it should. Sometimes when I have been overcome by the relentless nature of my work I must stand back and observe. This was one of those times.
*This blog post was originally published at other things amanzi*
