I go up to the surgical assessment unit (SAU) in search of Bill. I’ve not yet met Bill and I know very little about him. I know his name, his age and that in order to survive, he’s going to need an operation and, as the anaesthetist on call, it’s my job to try and guide him through it. Despite the fact that Bill and I have never met, as I walk up the stairs, I have grave concerns for his welfare. You see, Bill is 94 years old and the surgeon has told me that he has kidney, heart and respiratory problems. This means that Bill’s future lies precariously in the balance.
I arrive on SAU and it’s packed. I can’t see Bill’s name on the whiteboard so I ask one of the nurses about his whereabouts. The young staff nurse flashes me a smile and shows me where Bill medical records are then points me in his direction, her name badge reads “Emma.” I make a mental note of it, thank her and go and introduce myself to Bill.
The elderly gentleman is lying in his bed with a lady, who introduces herself as his daughter, by his side. I say hello and Bill tells me he’s glad to meet me whilst apologising for not having his false teeth in. I tell him not to concern himself about it and ask him about himself.
I’m learning that part of the art of anaesthesia is trying to build a picture in my own mind about what is likely to happen to my patients both during and after their operation. From speaking to them, examining and looking at the results of a few simple tests, I can get a picture of what the person in front of me is likely to look like one, two, three, seven, ten days after their operation. It’s almost like trying to gaze into a crystal ball and if what I see is not good, I have to do the best I can to change things now, so my patients have the best possible chance.
As I spoke to Bill, I was slightly heartened. Despite his problems, he wasn’t in as bad a shape as I’d first envisaged, and I predicted that with a careful, good-working, regional anaesthetic technique, I may well be able to guide him through his operation.
I set about explaining to Bill and his daughter what I was planning to do and what he should expect. It took a while. It generally does. I was well aware that Bill was coming towards the end of his days and it only seemed fair to me to try and spend a little more time with him and his family. Interspersed in our chat about regional anaesthesia, we also chatted about how Bill would dearly love to go to see the local football team again (he’s still a season ticket holder) and how he couldn’t understand people who put the NHS down because his treatment had been fantastic.
Then Bill said something that gave me cause to pause. He said, “You know doctor, I’m an old man now, and I know you’re going to do your best for me, but what I want to say to is – don’t try too hard.”
At first I don’t understand what he’s driving at, I try and laugh it off and reassure him that, I was going to try very hard indeed – he deserved it after all, but Bill persisted. “I know that things can go wrong and what I mean is that if things do go wrong, you shouldn’t try too hard to put me right again.”
At this point his daughter interjected with, “What my father is trying to say is that he doesn’t want to be resuscitated.”
“Oh” is all I can say. “I’ll respect that.”
I suppose that I was caught a bit off guard because the thought of resuscitating Bill hadn’t really crossed my mind because I was determined that he would not get to a point where resuscitation needed to happen.
Bill interrupts my reflection. “Thank you doctor,” he says. “Please… just let what will be, be.”
As I left Bill and his daughter to prepare theatres, I pondered on Bill’s words. ‘Don’t try too hard,’ ‘don’t put me right,’ ‘let what will be, be.’ As these words rolled around my head, they sounded discordant. They sounded out of place, I got the feeling that they weren’t right, that they shouldn’t even be in my mind. This made me uncomfortable and I found myself initially subconsciously and then actively rejecting what Bill had said. I found the easiest thing for me to do what to ignore those words, put them out of my head and concentrate on finding the sterile vials of bupivicaine.
The trouble was, what Bill was asking goes against just about everything I’d learned. Not only that, it went against everything I was trying to achieve with this with this particular man’s anaesthetic. You see, with the elderly, unwell patients, I have to concentrate much MORE than I do with young, healthy patients. I have to try HARDER, be MORE precise because there’s so much less room for manoeuvre. I can’t “get away with it” if my technique is sloppy or if my regional blockade in not quite adequate.
I’ve realised that with young, healthy patients, you can “get away” with giving a pretty shoddy anaesthetic because they’ll compensate. Anaesthetising 30-year-olds is “easy.” You could train just about anyone to do it in a few months, indeed
non-doctors are currently being trained to do just this. Giving a 94-yearold with multiple, serious medical problems an anaesthetic is a different prospect altogether. It’s not “easy” at all. It’s bloody difficult and if you get it wrong, they die.
So I’m sorry Bill, there’s no chance of me “not trying too hard,” I’m going to try as hard as I can because, as I said to you, you deserve it.
A lot has been written about us doctors trying to understand and empathise with our patients but it should be remembered that the “doctor-patient relationship” is exactly that. It’s a relationship, it’s a two-way process and I sometimes think that the other aspect of the relationship, that is the patient trying to understand their doctor, gets completely ignored.
At the end of the day, if I don’t give a good anaesthetic and Bill ends up dead, then I’ll feel responsible. I’ll feel guilty. I’ll go home and think to myself “that lovely man who made me laugh will never ever get to go the football again. His daughter will have to arrange his funeral and bury her father and it’s all my fault. Why the fuck didn’t I try harder? There was something I could have done, but I was too slack to do it, and now he’s dead it’s all my fault. He should be having rehab now and looking forward to catching the end of the season, instead, he’s lying cold and lifeless in the mortuary fridge and I could have done something to prevent this and I didn’t.”
I know that this is how I feel because I know myself. I’m only in my twenties and if I didn’t try hard enough and Bill died, then his memory will haunt me for years. I don’t want this so, Bill, this is partly the reason why I’m going to ignore what you said and I’m going to try as hard as I can.
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