One of my longest standing patients came into the hospital last month. He had oesophageal cancer, and has had several courses of chemotherapy, which have given him a very good quality of life for 3 years. When I first met him, I told him that I expected his prognosis to be between 6 months and a year, so he had been lucky. Unfortunately he was now at the stage where his cancer was progressing rapidly and there was nothing more I could do to reverse that process. He was dying.
We had become friends over the last few years , and I found that I could talk to him quite easily about what was going on, and was able in a small way to make his last few days easier. Among other things we discussed a “do not resuscitate” order (he laughed). Although I was not there when he died, I was quite close at hand. His family were with him and he died peacefully and painlessly.
This is what my work should be. I have helped someone with a terminal illness to enjoy 2 years that they would not otherise have had. I had reduced his chemotherapy schedules to minimise the impact on his lifestyle, an experiment with which I was quite uncomfortable at the time , but which was undoubtably the best thing for him. Instead of a protracted deterioration over several months, he was well up until 3 days before he died. Unfortunately things do not always go so well.
His wife wrote me a very kind letter thanking me for my help. So far I have not been able to reply, and I don’t know why. I suppose it is a form of grief reaction-denial. I certainly don’t like to believe that he has died. But I think it’s more than that. I think perhaps he made me believe that I had some power to control the uncontrollable-he gave me a false sense of my own power or ability which has now, inevitably, as it was always going to, gone. Perhaps it is that for which I am truly grieving.
And yet, when I ;ook back on the last 3 year I realise that this was a story with 2 sides. From the start we had an unusually balanced doctor-patient relationship: Whenever I was struggling, he would often offer me solutions. We were both prepared to make compromises to find the best way forward. We had what is politely described as “full and frank exchanges of views” on several occasions, but always with indefatigueable good humour. When he was dying, he made my job easier by laughing. I think perhaps that he gave me more than I gave him, and maybe I’m guilty about that.
But I know that in years to come I will remember him when I am talking to patients about their prognosis, and that his story will give hope to many of them. And that I will remember him when patients are telling me about the impact of their treatments, and I hope I will listen more. And perhaps when it is my turn to die, I will remember him and find the courage to laugh in the face of death, and make life easier for whoever is with me.
And now perhaps I can write that letter













