When You Find Yourself in the One to Two Percent of Medical Statistics
Humble and honest, the surgeon lowers himself into a chair eye to eye with us and gets personal. I have never heard a doctor openly reflect on how he wishes things were different. I have never heard a doctor open his heart to me like he did that night.
I never expect to find myself in the one to two percent of medical statistics. On my first visit to the plastic and oncological surgeons, I automatically dismiss the low percentage of failure. It’s a habit I have, rather had. After all, my birthday is 7/11, a lucky number, right? I calculate that top surgeons, supported by sterling educations, a teaching position at UCLA medical school, cutting-edge experience, strong reputations, and good bedside manners thrown in as an extra suffice to beat the odds.
Digression, why they are called “bedside manners” because you only discover them after surgery? So, I’ll call it patient rapport to be distinguished from the pedantry and intimidation of the old days where the patient obediently submits and doesn’t ask too many questions. The plastic surgeon may belong to the older generation, but he is approachable, dedicated, and funny. He makes time to meet us right away for over an hour extending into the evening. The oncological surgeon is educated at Harvard with a quiet, reassuring kindness. A woman of few words, she uses touch to show she cares. Fast forward to the day after my initiation into the 1-2% category. She enters my hospital room, holds my hand, expresses heartfelt sympathy and then leaves quickly, saying she doesn’t want to cry in front of us. I love her compassion. My oncologist’s forty-something bedside manners make me chuckle when he introduces himself: “Hi, I’m Shay” (instead of a long Persian name), listens to my story without taking notes—his NP does that—and offers a high five at the end of the appointment. Between appointments I can email him, and he gets right back to me. I like his style.
On the day of surgery, I expect to be under anesthesia between 6 and 8 hours, but it turns out to be a celebrated 5 ½ hours followed by an upbeat report of how being in shape helps the surgeons finish the double mastectomy and DIEP flap procedure—a specialized microsurgical transplant of tissue from the abdomen to the previously radiated breast for reconstruction— in a short amount of time. Whose pride doesn’t swell at hearing the efficacy of working out and being in shape? We rest confidently on the positive report from two medical experts.
Fast forward from May 17 to May 22, my husband’s overlooked birthday. I am released from the hospital after four surgeries, four times under anesthesia. Three sizable tumors, seven mammary lymph nodes, and some bone in the chest wall are removed. Four of the seven nodes are large and diseased. After the fourth surgery, I awaken to the news that the transplant tissue is dead, my battered breast has an open wound from insufficient skin to close it, and I’m attached to an efficient, portable “wound VAC” which uberheals the skin in preparation for a skin graft to close the wound in a few days.
The surgeons ultimately conclude that the inflamed and diseased mammary nodes obstructing blood flow—in the center of the chest--are the cause of the transplant failure. My abdomen with its now useless, taut, and taunting incision tempts me to a pity party as I count a total of 11 holes ranging from small drains to long incisions. Within ten days of the first surgery, I go under once again—the fifth time— for a skin graft to close the open wound, and I am sent home to begin healing with the wound VAC still putting its negative pressure on my breast day and night for a week.
The evening of the transplant failure the plastic surgeon enters the hospital room with a sympathetic, doleful look on his face, explaining what happened and why a surgery with a 98% success rate failed. He says he will leave no stone unturned to be sure of the cause. Humble and honest, the surgeon lowers himself into a chair eye to eye with us and gets personal. I have never heard a doctor openly reflect on how he wishes things were different, how he questions what happened. I have never heard a doctor open his heart to me like he did that night.
He tells us about his daughter. She was 18, wanted to be a medical missionary in Thailand as his parents had been, and suddenly one night, she died of the flu. They never found out why, never got answers. He struggled for a long time with profound grief, drifting into ennui, seeking support of different kinds. I don’t know when the shift inside him occurred, maybe months or a year or two later, but one day something clicked. He looked at his life and who was in it--his wife, another daughter, his patients—and decided that the only way forward was to be there for these people, to serve them, to heal them. And that’s what he did; and, surprisingly, that’s how he healed, by embracing his family and work with renewed dedication, compassion, and humor. He tells us the story because he thinks it might help us understand that sometimes there are no answers, no reasons, that life isn’t fair or easily placed in categories and boxes. Sometimes we discover the answer in giving and immersing ourselves in the life we now have.
Every nurse I encounter speaks of his compassion, patience, and love. His personal office nurse, a young, petite woman, who, I am surprised to learn, works at the County USC ER when not in the suburban doctor’s office, says he is the kindest man she knows. One time the doctor tells me that as he nears sixty, he wants to travel with a purpose. He’s gone on fancy trips and cruises, but they leave him with no more than the enjoyment of another trip. Just this week his nurse gives me a procedure because her boss is in Ethiopia on a medical mission trip for two weeks, his vacation time. A month later I learn he’s in Thailand training medical staff.
This man shows me the hollowness of pity parties. He sets me up to accept the seriousness of my condition as it is revealed to me over the next few months. This “wounded healer” helps me say, “Why not be a 2 percenter?” to stop asking why, and fight with perseverance. He shows me how to move from fairness to fortitude.
Thank you for reading this blog post! I’d love to hear how this story impacted you or someone you know and/or any stories you’d like to share. Click here to contact me. - Sheri