Read Knocking on Heaven's Door: The Path to a Better Way of Death Online
Authors: Katy Butler
Tags: #Non-Fiction
ment, resisting Fast Medicine’s default never-quit pathway, and
honoring death.
The decision was Slow Medicine at its best—a shared deci-
sion that took into account the suffering of the whole family
and did not focus reflexively on fixing an organ or extending a
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life. It empowered the people who carried the burden over doc-
tors who would perform a heroic intervention and then leave
the family to pick up the pieces. It accepted the reality of her
father’s twin terminal illnesses—dementia and heart trouble. It
was not made in isolation by an exhausted daughter but with
the support and validation of a larger moral community. It was
the fruit of unusually harmonious cooperation between a family
and a medical institution. It was, in its own way, loving, beauti-
ful, and holy.
This is one possible path to death.
Not long afterward, Brian and I watched another death, one
that underscored that the problem of American dying has causes
far deeper than the perverse economic incentives within medi-
cine that I’d investigated or the deference to medical author-
ity sometimes shown by members of the Greatest Generation.
The problem lies with our culture, which is unwilling to engage
with death until it is in our face. One of Brian’s closest friends,
a hardy, healthy, fifty-nine-year-old Colorado river guide and a
specialist in the alternative medicine approach called home-
opathy, was suddenly overcome by seizures and vomiting. At
the hospital, he was diagnosed with a fatal melanoma that had
metastasized to many internal organs, including his liver, bow-
els, and spleen. There were signs of eleven tumors in his brain
alone. We watched in horror as David turned down any sugges-
tion of hospice and insisted instead that everything be done, no
matter how bad the odds. He had weeks of whole-brain radia-
tion and, when that made him worse, a last-ditch “Hail Mary”
neurosurgery. The neurosurgeon, who met David face-to-face
for the first time after he was already prepped for surgery, could
not guarantee that the operation had even a fifty-fifty chance
of helping him and acknowledged there were risks it would
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make him worse. David insisted. He entered surgery able to
talk, walk, and make his own decisions. He woke up unable
to formulate a sentence, in diapers, and unable to walk or to
complete the emotional work necessary for the Good Death our
ancestors prized. In that condition he died, nine weeks after his
cancer diagnosis.
Consider, too, another common pathway to modern death, this
one traversed by eighty-four-year-old Marguerite Wolff, the
mother of journalist Michael Wolff. She’d been having fainting
spells, and by the time she was taken from her assisted living
complex to the hospital for heart-valve surgery, she was already
too forgetful to live on her own, count, organize a Thanksgiving
dinner, or tell time. She came out of her surgery with a perfectly
fixed-up heart, almost psychotic levels of agitation, a tendency
to roam and to hit, and cascading losses of memory and lan-
guage. She was soon evicted from assisted living for needing
too much assistance and placed under twenty-four-hour care,
paid for by her children, in a rented Manhattan apartment. She
had seizures and became mute, unable to walk, and relentlessly
angry, with one ancient path to a merciful death—a slowly fail-
ing heart—thoroughly blocked. “My siblings and I must take
the blame here,” Wolff wrote in 2012 in
New York
magazine,
belatedly reflecting on their barely pondered decision to approve
surgery rather than face the prospect of their mother’s mortality
.
“It did not once occur to us to say: “You want to do major heart
surgery on an 84-year-old woman showing progressive signs of
dementia? What are you, nuts?”
Consider, finally, the death of Kenneth Harris Krieger, a
retired engineer, who died the way many of us die now. In the
summer of 2011, when he was eighty-eight and too demented
to remember how to rake leaves, he came down with a blood-
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stream infection of mysterious origin. His daughter Lisa, a sci-
ence reporter for the
San Jose Mercury News,
rushed him from
his assisted living residence to the emergency room. He had
signed a do-not-resuscitate order and said he wanted to die a
natural death, but nobody had prepared his daughter for the
practical implications of carrying out those wishes. She had
never considered palliative care or hospice, and she was alone.
Nobody viewed her as a patient in addition to her father. She
hadn’t accepted the coming of death.
Her father was treated at Stanford Hospital, nationally
famous for its pioneering work in heart transplantation. In con-
sultation with Lisa, doctors there decided that his do-not-resus-
citate order did not prohibit them from sending her father to the
intensive care unit and attaching him to a respirator to buy him
enough time for antibiotics to work. He was sedated, and Lisa
never again saw her father conscious.
The drugs didn’t work. Each decision after that, as his daugh-
ter wrote for her newspaper in February 2012, was “incremen-
tal”: another drug, another problem, another treatment, another
test, another organ system in failure, another stratospherically
expensive drug. By the time her father died ten days later, after
Lisa refused to permit a last-ditch surgery to remove gangrenous
tissue destroyed by a rampant infection of strep bacteria called
necrotizing fasciitis, her father had been subjected to $323,000
worth of painful medical treatment, including $25,000 a day for
his ICU bed and $48,000 for a single day’s dosing with immu-
noglobulin. (Most of the expense was absorbed or cost-shifted
by Stanford.) He was moved to a hospice bed and died without
regaining consciousness.
Lisa never got to say good-bye to her father the way I’d been
blessed to say good-bye to mine. She went on to write powerful
articles about the botched end of his life and about advanced
medical directives and palliative care. Her father’s was not an
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unusual path to death—the panicked trip to the emergency
room, the family members unprepared, hundreds of thousands
in public and private dollars wasted, the implications of his DNR
and his dementia ignored, and doctors who’d never previously
met the family busily deploying painful forms of futility rather
than facing the reality of an old man’s dying and speaking the
truth. It was a death by Fast Medicine—protracted, expensive,
and traumatic. And it is almost nobody’s idea of a Good Death.
Reclaiming death from medicine, the way the natural childbirth
movement recaptured birth in the 1970s, is already underway
in the form of open rebellion by families like mine, the growth
of hospice and palliative care programs, and the widening num-
bers of doctors who practice Slow Medicine—though they may
not call it that—especially in geriatrics and primary care and in
critical care, pulmonology, cardiology, and oncology.
But the economic forces arrayed against reclaiming the
deathbed in the United States are immense. Reimbursements
for advanced medical technologies, which become forms of
medical torture when inappropriately deployed, help cover the
cost of a sales representative’s mortgage payment, a hospital’s
money-losing emergency room, a surgeon’s second or third
home, or a dividend to stockholders of Siemens or St. Jude
Medical. Nothing much will change until we pay doctors and
hospitals as well when they appropriately do less as we do when
they do too much.
One physician told me that if he relied only on Medicare
reimbursements for his rotations on the palliative care service—
which were essentially subsidized by his salary from a university
hospital research post—he would earn about $40,000 a year
working full time. An oncologist who spends an hour or more
having a truthful conversation with a distraught family about
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the dim prospects of yet another round of chemotherapy for a
metastasized cancer will be barely compensated. One who goes
ahead with an untested, harrowing, and dubious drug, some-
times against his best judgment, will have to spend less time
per patient and will be better financially rewarded, even getting
a markup on the cost of the drug itself. If a cardiac surgeon
ventures a “Hail Mary” surgery on a very sick patient with mul-
tiple fatal illnesses, perhaps in her last month of life, he and the
hospital will be paid more by Medicare than if he performs the
same operation on a healthier patient with a more reasonable
chance for long-term survival.
Doctors are often insulted by the suggestion that such finan-
cial strictures help shape their medical treatment, but just as
surely as the home mortgage deduction promotes home owner-
ship, economic incentives and disincentives—along with dis-
comfort with dying, fear of being sued or accused of conducting
a “death panel,” and feelings of professional failure—encour-
age specialists to refer patients to hospice care only days before
death, essentially dumping them on the program for a morphine
drip after wringing out every last expensive procedure from the
suffering body of the patient. This helps explain why half of
people who die under hospice care spend eighteen days or less
there, when they could have benefited from up to six months of
its physical, spiritual, emotional, and practical help.
Changes in Medicare’s reimbursement structure could help.
Perhaps someday Medicare will offer us the choice of a “Plan Q”
covering up to two years of home and palliative care in exchange
for the willingness not to expect Medicare to pay for a last-
ditch $35,000 defibrillator, a futile and debilitating surgery for
an incurable brain tumor, a $50,000 chemotherapy buying only
a couple of pain-wracked months, a $300,000 ICU death, or a
$500,000 external heart pump. Perhaps we will look with more
humility on the British National Health Service, which gives
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better home support to its chronically ill elderly, but doesn’t
cover drugs and procedures that string out dying if they cost
more than $50,000 per year of life gained. Perhaps someday
we will have the spine to admit that people routinely die in
hospitals and will push for protocols for humane care there, like
Britain’s Liverpool Care Pathway for the Dying Patient. Perhaps
some day we will have an “811” number to bring a flying squad
of palliative care and hospice doctors and nurses to the home
to provide reassurance to the panicked family and pain manage-
ment to the dying, as an alternative to a brutal final tour through
911, the ER, and the ICU.
Changes like these are unlikely to come without a grassroots
movement of doctors and family caregivers advocating Slow
Medicine—humane, realistic, appropriate, not always cheaper,
and sometimes time-consuming (but not technology-consum-
ing) medical care for the last phase of life. The antidote for
overtreatment is not undertreatment: it’s appropriate care.
When the body can no longer be healed, there can still be heal-
ing for the family—and for the soul.
As the caregiving crisis deepens, perhaps a grassroots family
caregivers’ movement will fight for better funding for such care.
Perhaps it will counterbalance the powerful health care indus-
try lobby, made up of hospitals, doctors, pharmaceutical compa-
nies, and device and product manufacturers. Between 1998 and
2011, pharmaceutical companies and makers of health products
spent $2.3 billion on lobbying, making them the single biggest
influencer of members of Congress, who in turn pressure Medi-
care and federal agencies to create regulations that conform to
lobbyists’ interests, sometimes to the detriment of patients.
The unrecognized power of this lobby has insured that things
stay pretty much as they are in Medicare, with a reimbursement
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structure that rewards the most powerful players in medicine
and starves hands-on therapies and primary care. That is the
major unspoken reason that the 2012 health care reform bill
provided for the establishment of an expert commission insu-
lated from Congress to make many Medicare decisions, a plan