The surgery chief resident texted me: “Patient in ED with peritonitis. Incarcerated hernia.”
I came to the ED; should be easy I thought. See the patient, have a short conversation since the chief resident would have done all the preop. Of course, things are rarely that simple.
First, she was a Jehovah’s Witness on warfarin with an INR of 4. More significantly, she had end-stage COPD. I reviewed her CT scan and labs and went to see her and could tell without any conversation she needed an operation. I needed more information, but not about her belly pain or when it started or whether she had peritonitis on exam. I needed to know how far she could walk, how much oxygen was she on at home, how much was she sleeping, how much weight had she lost, and could she leave the house.
It took 30 minutes to determine her functional status, whether she would survive the postoperative ICU care, whether she would come off the ventilator, and would she want a tracheostomy. It took another 15 minutes to discuss blood product use. Her husband was present, and I left them to decide what they wanted within the context of her goals for her life. She accepted some blood products, underwent surgery, and did well. She came off the ventilator quickly postop and returned home from the hospital. Although she did well, we had a plan for the ventilator and her goals of care defined should she have done poorly.
He was 72, had stage IV lung cancer, and was too weak for chemotherapy. Now he had free air and peritonitis. The referring institution called me and said he was too much for their surgeons. I suggested perhaps they needed to have “the talk” prior to transport. They were unwilling to do so and sent him by helicopter because he was hypotensive. He clearly needed an operation by all surgical standards. But I wanted to wait for his family and talk with them before taking him to the OR; he was in no condition for any component of informed consent.
The family arrived 30 minutes later. His wife, the daughters who had been helping to take care of him, and two more relatives that had just arrived in town. His wife was clear: The man was sleeping all the time, losing weight, barely eating a couple of bites, unsteady on his feet, and confused when he was awake. I discussed options: The surgeon part of me wanted to “fix the hole,” the ICU doc in me knew he would die in the ICU on a ventilator, and the palliative medicine part of me knew hospice was his best option. I told the family he needed surgery but would likely not leave the hospital alive. I recommended hospice.
The wife was thoughtful and looked at her daughters and said, “We need to send him to hospice.” The wife and daughters were the easiest family I have spoken with in a long time. She was clear about whet he wanted and how much he had declined in the past few months. We were able to get him to inpatient hospice from the ED.
Surgery has changed, at least in my practice. Oh, what would I give for a healthy 17-year-old with appendicitis who gets better within hours of the operating room and my conversation with the family that takes 10 seconds. Instead, I take care of the very old and the very sick and the very chronically ill. My conversations are not “you need surgery;” that is done by the chief resident. My conversations are “tell me your functional status and what do you want if/when things go poorly.” Much more complicated and much less fun. The surgeon wants to fix the hole. I can fix the hole. But have I really helped the patient and his or her family? Although it takes me longer and involves more of my emotions and skills, it really is better for the patients and their families to have “the talk.”
Next time you see a patient who is chronically ill, please have the conversation about functional status and goals of care, before you operate. Or transfer. Perhaps then we can save the patient a helicopter ride to hospice.
Dr. Toevs is a trauma critical care surgeon at Allegheny General Hospital in Pittsburgh. She has a master’s degree in bioethics and board certification in hospice and palliative medicine.