It's Complicated: part two

Speaking only for myself (but guessing I'm not alone), I can say when a patient develops post-op problems, there's a strong tendency to deny it: not to deny there's something wrong; not to dismiss the patient's concerns or symptoms. Just to grasp first at the less dire set of possible explanations. Maybe it's just the flu, constipation, drug reaction. That sort of thing. It's not about blowing it off -- because I never did. It's about hoping against hope, both for the patient's sake, and mine. Rationalization is a powerful instinct. In reading various forums and blogs and seeing innumerable patient complaints that their doctors took a long time to take them seriously, I'd guess that in many instances the desire to believe you didn't screw up is at work. That doesn't excuse it: maybe it explains it to a degree. For better or worse, doctors are human. I know I am.

When I saw my patient in the Emergency Room, her abdomen was distended, she had a low-grade fever and a bit of a red incision, and her Xray was the usual hard-to-be-sure early post-op belly film: possible obstruction, possible ileus (a condition of bowel laziness often seen for a while after abdominal surgery.) I admitted her, of course. Intestinal leakage -- from where the bowel has been sewn together, or from an unrecognized surgical injury -- is always on the list of possibilities in such a situation, but I didn't think so here. How tender is tender? How red is too red for an early incision? She didn't, I told myself, look all that sick. Time and a stomach tube, antibiotics for a possible sub-clinical (meaning not obvious) leak or abscess at her anastomosis ought to do the trick. Indeed, she looked better the next day. Not that "looked better" is an objective criterion.

When intestinal content began to drain from her wound after a couple more days, it all became clear. Since the point of the post is not to discuss treatment of intestinal fistula (leakage of intestinal contents to somewhere -- in this case, to the skin), let me simply say I opted for the safest and most frustrating approach: high-calorie intravenous feeding, local wound care, and waiting. And waiting. With drainage, she stabilized and we both hunkered down for a long haul. At some point, while inspecting the wound daily, I noted the suture with which I'd hooked the bowel while closing up. And I told her about it straight away. I explained why, in my opinion, going back in at this stage could cause more harm than good, and that there was a reasonable chance it could heal with no need for surgery; and that if not, it would be much easier and safer to go in after time for the reactions to settle down.

So there she was: a living, breathing testament to my failure, for all to see, for a couple of months. Each time I approached her room on rounds, I felt a tug in my gut. I imagined that everyone was talking about it, probably questioning my competence. (Years later, I sort of doubt it. But it's how I felt, with every complication, big or small.) The lady was remarkably hardy and good-hearted. That made it a heck of a lot easier. With each visit, we talked about it, about how it was going, about our comfort levels with the current plan. Frustrated at times, stir crazy on occasion, she never evinced anger toward me. I was deeply grateful for that. She healed. I fixed her incisional hernia a couple of years later.

It's a terrible triangle: the patient, the injury, and me. The patient first and foremost is in need. Whatever the effect on me, their situation is way worse. Yet facing him or her can be tough: it may be unspoken, but there's the sense of permanent accusation. My shame, my guilt, my sadness all interfere with my connection. Magical thinking can keep me from facing the reality of whatever is wrong. At some level, I want the patient and his complication just to go away, because of what they say -- or seem to say -- about me. So, as I titled this series, it's complicated. I was lucky, I guess: in those rare cases where bad things happened due to what I felt was an actual error, my patients stuck with me, and we got the problems resolved. It's a key point, however complicated in its own right: impossibly difficult as these situations can be, hostility from the patient only makes it worse. If my reaction is "complicated," the patient's is -- understandably and necessarily -- complex to the power of ten.

It is, of course, unreasonable and probably impossible to expect patients to hang in there no matter what. It's like, oh, saying questioning a war emboldens an enemy. If there comes a point when you think your surgeon is simply a screw-up, it's time to pack up and go. Yet, I'm trying to say, early on it's at least a theoretically good idea to give him/her a little breathing room. Sometimes figuring things out takes time; sometimes problems can't be resolved as fast as the injured party would like. Hell, they never can. I think it's a truism that the attitude of both the doctor and the patient is crucial to how things end up when facing complications. If it's true that the patient's attitude is heavily influenced by their doctor's, so is the opposite. But, given that it's the patient who's the injured party no matter how upsetting (violins, here) it is to the doctor, the patient has first right of refusal to take the advice. Still: in the ideal world (remind me where that is again?), it's immeasurably better when each side keeps his powder dry for a while.

A commenter on the first post in this series raised an important point (and had he not veered into vile vituperation and personal pejorative, I'd have kept it in.) Why, he asked (in a manner of speaking) had I not canceled my bill or offered to pay her expenses? (In fact, he has no idea what I actually did, but it's a good question.) It is something about which I've ruminated a great deal -- maybe it should be another post sometime. I have generally, for example, (and despite suggestions from insurance companies to the contrary) not charged for a re-operation for bleeding -- a rare occurrence. That's a small thing. The larger question, I think, ought to be addressed in a larger way: something like flight insurance, as a top-of-the-head analogy. Patients deserve compensation when things go wrong, and it ought to be available outside of the adversarial court system. But if every surgeon -- every doctor -- were expected to pay out of his/her pocket for every adverse outcome, I daresay even fewer good people would choose the profession than are now doing so. I don't have an answer. I've wished I did...

In my view, there are three categories of bad outcomes: the ones I've already mentioned are those that clearly result from an error -- the most horrible to face because there's nowhere to hide. The second is imperfect results from proper and well-managed care; and the third is.... having to clean up another doctor's mess. That middle one can be the most frustrating of all, posing the greatest challenge on many levels. I'll see if I can explain it -- and figure it out myself -- in the final post(s?) in this series....

It's Complicated: part one

One of the hardest things about being a surgeon is the inevitability of complications. It's true for any doctor; but with surgery, it's as if they are lit in neon and given a soundtrack. At least to me. Aiming for perfection (as do we all) and beating myself up (more than healthier people) when I miss the mark, I found bad outcomes of nearly any magnitude deeply disturbing. The big ones are there for lots of people to see: nurses on the surgical floor or ICU, operating room personnel when you have to re-operate. And of course, the patient. The family. My family, for that matter. Smaller problems might just be between me and the patient; but they still are painful. Carrying the responsibility for having done harm to people who gave me their trust can be nearly too much to bear. Thankfully rare, it's never been easy. Nor should it be.

I don't know the extent that I speak for other surgeons in this matter. I actually believe I took it too hard, and too personally; so what I say (which I'm sort of anxious to find out myself) may be fairly singular. But I got a specific request to tackle the subject, and I think it's an excellent one. So here goes.

There are two cardinal sins, in my estimation, for the general surgeon. The first, the sine qua non of a surgical screw-up, is injuring the common bile duct. Nailing the bowel with a suture while closing an abdominal incision is the other. Each tends to bespeak carelessness, and I'm sorry to say I've done both. Only once each, thank God, in what I'd conservatively estimate to have been around ten thousand operations (not all, of course, subject to those particular errors.) Actually the cardinal error -- more like the pope error -- of bile duct injury is to do it and not recognize it at the time. THAT, I've never done. Unrecognized bile duct injury can lead to a tragedy for the patient. If you're gonna ding it, at least see it at the time and fix it. That usually works out ok.

In the community of my first job as a surgeon, each newbie was subjected to a monitoring process in which every other surgeon in town was to scrub with him/her at least once at to render some sort of judgment. So the first time I was able to do a case unmonitored, I had the referring doc assisting me on a very routine gallbladder removal. It was the classic situation for injury: the easy case -- when the going is tough, you tend to have all the feelers out for problems. (I'd add, apropos a comment I received on my mini-gallbladder post implying it was the worst of all possible worlds, this was in the days of the big incision, and well before laparoscopic surgery.) My patient was a tiny woman, with tiny ducts. Her gallbladder had practically no length of duct connecting it to the main bile duct, so I thought I was dissecting the cystic duct (normally much longer, it's the tube that connects the gallbladder to the common duct), when in fact I was working my way down the common duct. Somewhere along the line, I discovered I'd cut it clean in half. As my heart sank and my hands got clammy with the realization, my forehead and armpits drenched themselves with sweat and I told the referring doc I'd be wanting to get my partner in to help at that point. He was only too happy to vacate. I repaired the duct -- among the smallest I've ever seen -- over a baby-sized T-tube, drained it, and closed up. And for the first time as a real doctor, I had to face my patient and tell her what happened.

It's excruciating. I hate everything about it. There is a very real temptation -- to which, even in this age of attorneys under every rock, some people still succumb-- to fudge it, not to tell it like it was, to protect oneself. In my case, I think, the urge is motivated less by fear of lawsuit than of confronting my own inadequacy. And the acute awareness that I'm telling a person things will not be as she expected; that her life could be very unpleasant for awhile. It's not what she signed up for, and it's my fault. Face to face. You're screwed. My fault.

I doubt I could successfully bullshit a person if I tried. My car got stolen when I was in med school. In the glove box was a small amount of what might be called an herbiferous stimulant (that it was small and had been in my glove box for months bespeaks the extremely limited use to which it was put.) For what may be the only time in the history of the local police, they found my car, and called me to pick it up at the station. Finding the glovebox contents strewn about the car, I noted it was all there; except for the one item. To the query if anything was missing, I said no. Couple of days later, there were two cops at my door, holding badges at eye level (narcotics boys) and asking for me. Had they just graduated from cop school, had they never seen a guilty person in their lives, they'd have known I was as guilt-ridden as if I were holding a bloody dagger. They displayed (holding it by a string: no fingerprints) the Alka-Seltzer bottle which held the offending material, and asked if I knew what it was. "Well," I said. "You guys being here and all, I suppose it's some sort of drug...." Fortunately, they also knew that the car had been stolen and there was no way to pin the contents on me. A stern warning was what I got, as my future career and my father's wrath passed before my forebrain: the one waning, the other waxing. I'm a lousy liar. (And since then [well, not too long after] a confirmed non-user.)

I told my patient truthfully what had happened, but I was not above trying to put it in the best light. Her anatomy was unusual, I explained, with her gallbladder so close to the bile duct that removing it left the duct damaged. True. But passively stated. To my retrospective regret (because it was less than entirely forthcoming), I glossed over the fact that I hadn't recognized the anatomy until I'd done the damage. I didn't lie. Yet I didn't resist the urge to sugar coat it. She was disturbed, but not beside herself: ultimately she had to put up with a capped-off tube with no drainage for three of months, after which it was gone and she had no further problems. (Being just out of training, I wrote to my professor to ask his advice about how long to leave the tube. In doing so, I said "I was recently called upon to repair a bile duct...." It was not untrue. I hoped he'd assume it was someone else's injury. He never said otherwise, but he was a very wise man.) It could have been much worse. As to the conversation I'd had with my patient, it's weighed on me ever since, and it was a long time ago. So many issues are at play in such a situation, it's hard to enumerate them, let alone fully understand them. I'll try.

The suture thing was quite different: the whole spectrum of terribleness, way worse for everyone. It had been a routine colon operation, and she'd gone home quickly, doing fine, only to come to the emergency a few days later, sick. My clamminess didn't take over right away, because my first instinct was to try to fool myself, to convince myself it wasn't what it was....