Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End (21 page)

Sitting in my clinic, Sara did not seem discouraged by the discovery of this second cancer. She seemed determined. She’d read about the good outcomes from thyroid cancer treatment. So she was geared up, eager to discuss when to operate. And I found myself swept along by her optimism. Suppose I was wrong, I wondered, and she proved to be that miracle patient who survived metastatic lung cancer? How could I let her thyroid cancer go untreated?

My solution was to avoid the subject altogether. I told Sara that there was relatively good news about her thyroid cancer—it was slow growing and treatable. But the priority was her lung cancer, I said. Let’s not hold up the treatment for that. We could monitor the thyroid cancer for now and plan surgery in a few months.

I saw her every six weeks and noted her physical decline from one visit to the next. Yet, even in a wheelchair, Sara would always arrive smiling, makeup on and bangs bobby-pinned out of her eyes. She’d find small things to laugh about, like the strange protuberances the tubes made under her dress. She was ready to try anything, and I found myself focusing on the news about experimental therapies for her lung cancer. After one of her chemotherapies seemed to shrink the thyroid cancer slightly, I even raised with her the possibility that an experimental therapy could work against both her cancers, which was sheer fantasy. Discussing a fantasy was easier—less emotional, less explosive, less prone to misunderstanding—than discussing what was happening before my eyes.

Between the lung cancer and the chemo, Sara became steadily sicker. She slept most of the time and could do little out of the house. Clinic notes from December describe shortness of breath, dry heaves, coughing up blood, severe fatigue. In addition to the drainage tubes in her chest, she required needle-drainage procedures in her abdomen every week or two to relieve the severe pressure from the liters of fluid that the cancer was producing there.

A CT scan in December showed that the lung cancer was spreading through her spine, liver, and lungs. When we met in January, she could move only slowly and uncomfortably. Her lower body had become so swollen that her skin was taut. She couldn’t speak more than a sentence without pausing for breath. By the first week of February, she needed oxygen at home to breathe. Enough time had elapsed since her pulmonary embolism, however, that she could start on Pfizer’s experimental drug. She just needed one more set of scans for clearance. These revealed that the cancer had spread to her brain, with at least nine metastatic growths up to half an inch in size scattered across both hemispheres. The experimental drug was not designed to cross the blood-brain barrier. PF0231006 was not going to work.

And still Sara, her family, and her medical team remained in battle mode. Within twenty-four hours, Sara was brought in to see a radiation oncologist for whole-brain radiation to try to reduce the metastases. On February 12, she completed five days of radiation treatment, which left her immeasurably fatigued, barely able to get out of bed. She ate almost nothing. She weighed twenty-five pounds less than she had in the fall. She confessed to Rich that, for the past two months, she had experienced double vision and was unable to feel her hands.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asked her.

“I just didn’t want to stop treatment,” she said. “They would make me stop.”

She was given two weeks to recover her strength after the radiation. Then we had a different experimental drug she could try, one from a small biotech company. She was scheduled to start on February 25. Her chances were rapidly dwindling. But who was to say they were zero?

In 1985, the paleontologist and writer Stephen Jay Gould published an extraordinary essay entitled “The Median Isn’t the Message” after he had been given a diagnosis, three years earlier, of abdominal mesothelioma, a rare and lethal cancer usually associated with asbestos exposure. He went to a medical library when he got the diagnosis and pulled out the latest scientific articles on the disease. “The literature couldn’t have been more brutally clear: mesothelioma is incurable, with a median survival of only eight months after discovery,” he wrote. The news was devastating. But then he began looking at the graphs of the patient-survival curves.

Gould was a naturalist and more inclined to notice the variation around the curve’s middle point than the middle point itself. What the naturalist saw was remarkable variation. The patients were not clustered around the median survival but, instead, fanned out in both directions. Moreover, the curve was skewed to the right, with a long tail, however slender, of patients who lived many years longer than the eight-month median. This is where he found solace. He could imagine himself surviving far out along that long tail. And survive he did. Following surgery and experimental chemotherapy, he lived twenty more years before dying, in 2002, at the age of sixty, from a lung cancer unrelated to his original disease.

“It has become, in my view, a bit too trendy to regard the acceptance of death as something tantamount to intrinsic dignity,” he wrote in his 1985 essay. “Of course I agree with the preacher of Ecclesiastes that there is a time to love and a time to die—and when my skein runs out I hope to face the end calmly and in my own way. For most situations, however, I prefer the more martial view that death is the ultimate enemy—and I find nothing reproachable in those who rage mightily against the dying of the light.”

I think of Gould and his essay every time I have a patient with a terminal illness. There is almost always a long tail of possibility, however thin. What’s wrong with looking for it? Nothing, it seems to me, unless it means we have failed to prepare for the outcome that’s vastly more probable. The trouble is that we’ve built our medical system and culture around the long tail. We’ve created a multitrillion-dollar edifice for dispensing the medical equivalent of lottery tickets—and have only the rudiments of a system to prepare patients for the near certainty that those tickets will not win. Hope is not a plan, but hope is our plan.

*   *   *

FOR SARA, THERE
would be no miraculous recovery, and when the end approached, neither she nor her family was prepared. “I always wanted to respect her request to die peacefully at home,” Rich later told me. “But I didn’t believe we could make it happen. I didn’t know how.”

On the morning of Friday, February 22, three days before she was to start her new round of chemo, Rich awoke to find his wife sitting upright beside him, pitched forward on her arms, eyes wide, struggling for air. She was gray, breathing fast, her body heaving with each open-mouthed gasp. She looked as if she were drowning. He tried turning up the oxygen in her nasal tubing, but she got no better.

“I can’t do this,” she said, pausing between each word. “I’m scared.”

He had no emergency kit in the refrigerator. No hospice nurse to call. And how was he to know whether this new development was fixable?

We’ll go to the hospital, he told her. When he asked if they should drive, she shook her head, so he called 911 and told her mother, Dawn, who was in the next room, what was going on. A few minutes later, firemen swarmed up the stairs to her bedroom, sirens wailing outside. As they lifted Sara into the ambulance on a stretcher, Dawn came out in tears.

“We’re going to get ahold of this,” Rich told her. This was just another trip to the hospital, he said to himself. The doctors would figure out how to fix her.

At the hospital, Sara was diagnosed with pneumonia. That troubled the family because they thought they’d done everything to keep infection at bay. They’d washed hands scrupulously, limited visits by people with young children, even limited Sara’s time with baby Vivian if she showed the slightest sign of a runny nose. But Sara’s immune system and her ability to clear her lung secretions had been steadily weakened by the rounds of radiation and chemotherapy as well as by the cancer.

In another way, the diagnosis of pneumonia was reassuring, because it was just an infection. It could be treated. The medical team started Sara on intravenous antibiotics and high-flow oxygen through a mask. The family gathered at her bedside, hoping for the antibiotics to work. The problem could be reversible, they told one another. But that night and the next morning her breathing only grew more labored.

“I can’t think of a single funny thing to say,” Emily told Sara as their parents looked on.

“Neither can I,” Sara murmured. Only later did the family realize that those were the last words they would ever hear from her. After that, she began to drift in and out of consciousness. The medical team had only one option left: to put her on a ventilator. Sara was a fighter, right? And the next step for fighters is to escalate to intensive care.

*   *   *

THIS IS A
modern tragedy, replayed millions of times over. When there is no way of knowing exactly how long our skeins will run—and when we imagine ourselves to have much more time than we do—our every impulse is to fight, to die with chemo in our veins or a tube in our throats or fresh sutures in our flesh. The fact that we may be shortening or worsening the time we have left hardly seems to register. We imagine that we can wait until the doctors tell us that there is nothing more they can do. But rarely is there nothing more that doctors can do. They can give toxic drugs of unknown efficacy, operate to try to remove part of the tumor, put in a feeding tube if a person can’t eat: there’s always something. We want these choices. But that doesn’t mean we are eager to make the choices ourselves. Instead, most often, we make no choice at all. We fall back on the default, and the default is: Do Something. Fix Something. Is there any way out of this?

There’s a school of thought that says the problem is the absence of market forces. If terminal patients—rather than insurance companies or the government—had to pay the added costs for the treatments they chose instead of hospice, they would take the trade-offs into account more. Terminal cancer patients wouldn’t pay $80,000 for drugs, and end-stage heart failure patients wouldn’t pay $50,000 dollars for defibrillators offering at best a few months extra survival. But this argument ignores an important factor: the people who opt for these treatments aren’t thinking a few added months. They’re thinking years. They’re thinking they’re getting at least that lottery ticket’s chance that their disease might not even be a problem anymore. Moreover, if there’s anything we want to buy in the free market or obtain from our government taxes, it is assurance that, when we find ourselves in need of these options, we won’t have to worry about the costs.

This is why the R word—“rationing”—remains such a potent charge. There is broad unease with the circumstances we’ve found ourselves in but fear of discussing the specifics. For the only seeming alternative to a market solution is outright rationing—death panels, as some have charged. In the 1990s, insurance companies attempted to challenge the treatment decisions of doctors and patients in cases of terminal illness, but the attempts backfired and one case in particular pretty much put an end to strategy—the case of Nelene Fox.

Fox was from Temecula, California, and was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in 1991, when she was thirty-eight years old. Surgery and conventional chemotherapy failed, and the cancer spread to her bone marrow. The disease was terminal. Doctors at the University of Southern California offered her a radical but seemingly promising new treatment—high-dose chemotherapy with bone marrow transplantation. To Fox, it was her one chance of cure.

Her insurer, Health Net, denied her request for coverage of the costs, arguing that it was an experimental treatment whose benefits were unproven and that it was therefore excluded under the terms of her policy. The insurer pressed her to get a second opinion from an independent medical center. Fox refused—who were they to tell her to get another opinion? Her life was at stake. Raising $212,000 through charitable donations, she paid the costs of therapy herself, but it was delayed. She died eight months after the treatment. Her husband sued Health Net for bad faith, breach of contract, intentional infliction of emotional damage, and punitive damages and won. The jury awarded her estate $89 million. The HMO executives were branded killers. Ten states enacted laws requiring insurers to pay for bone marrow transplantation for breast cancer.

Never mind that Health Net was right. Research ultimately showed the treatment to have no benefit for breast cancer patients and to actually worsen their lives. But the jury verdict shook the American insurance industry. Raising questions about doctors’ and patients’ treatment decisions in terminal illness was judged political suicide.

In 2004, executives at another insurance company, Aetna, decided to try a different approach. Instead of reducing aggressive treatment options for their terminally ill policyholders, they decided to try increasing hospice options. Aetna had noted that only a minority of patients ever halted efforts at curative treatment and enrolled in hospice. Even when they did, it was usually not until the very end. So the company decided to experiment: policyholders with a life expectancy of less than a year were allowed to receive hospice services without having to forgo other treatments. A patient like Sara Monopoli could continue to try chemotherapy and radiation and go to the hospital when she wished, but she could also have a hospice team at home focusing on what she needed for the best possible life now and for that morning when she might wake up unable to breathe.

A two-year study of this “concurrent care” program found that enrolled patients were much more likely to use hospice: the figure leaped from 26 percent to 70 percent. That was no surprise, since they weren’t forced to give up anything. The surprising result was that they did give up things. They visited the emergency room half as often as the control patients did. Their use of hospitals and ICUs dropped by more than two-thirds. Overall costs fell by almost a quarter.

The result was stunning, and puzzling: it wasn’t obvious what made the approach work. Aetna ran a more modest concurrent care program for a broader group of terminally ill patients. For these patients, the traditional hospice rules applied—in order to qualify for home hospice, they had to give up attempts at curative treatment. But either way, they received phone calls from palliative care nurses who offered to check in regularly and help them find services for anything from pain control to making out a living will. For these patients too, hospice enrollment jumped to 70 percent, and their use of hospital services dropped sharply. Among elderly patients, use of intensive care units fell by more than 85 percent. Satisfaction scores went way up. What was going on here? The program’s leaders had the impression that they had simply given seriously ill patients someone experienced and knowledgeable to talk to about their daily concerns. Somehow that was enough—just talking.