Opinion | The Cancer of Optimism

BOSTON

I MET her in 2011, during my first few weeks as an intern in internal medicine. She was not the kind of patient who had appeared in my textbooks. She had been admitted from rehab after expressing an intent to take her own life, and I soon learned that her body was as troubled as her mind.

She had heart failure from a condition called hypertrophic obstructive cardiomyopathy, in which an overgrown muscular wall keeps blood from properly flowing out of the heart. She might have been born with it, or acquired it from years of neglected high blood pressure. Her blood pooled in her swelling legs and seeped into her lungs, causing her to wheeze constantly. She was in her late 50s, but seemed much older.

While learning her medical history, I also got to know her. A former artist, derailed by addiction, she had become alienated from her career and her family. She had let the problems in her heart fester and had never received consistent treatment.

At this point, she wasn’t a suitable candidate for heart surgery. But I felt there was still hope. A procedure called alcohol septal ablation could potentially reduce her symptoms. It involved injecting alcohol into a blood vessel to strangle the blood supply to the muscular part of the heart obstructing blood flow. The patient was desperate to have the procedure performed; she hoped to experience a life outside of hospitals, to reconnect with her family, to start painting again. With my sense of righteous optimism intact from my medical school days, I convinced the other doctors that, in spite of the risks, we should try it.

The procedure was uneventful, but when I was updated on the patient’s condition the next morning, I was stunned. Overnight, she had gone into complete heart block: a failure of the electrical transmissions that cause the heart to beat, a rare but known complication of the procedure. She temporarily lost her pulse, underwent CPR and electrical defibrillation. A pacemaker had to be inserted. She was transferred to the intensive care unit.

Later in the day, the complications cascaded, and she found herself buried again under the flexed wrists of medical residents and nurses, pushing her sternum into a doughy pulp. After half an hour of frenzied CPR, infusions, electrical shocks and other assorted hail marys, resuscitation was called off. As the silhouettes in scrubs withdrew from her bed, she lay there limp, frothing from the mouth, dead.