November 27th, 2013 §
Next week I am meeting with a group of oncology Fellows at Sloan-Kettering to talk about care of the metastatic breast cancer patient. I have many ideas of how I think patients and doctors can better be “partners in care.” I have thoughts about how patients can be better in their interactions but this particular session focuses on the physician side of it.
I will spend my time there emphasizing the things doctors can do in their future careers that will be most appreciated by their metastatic breast cancer patients. Having a supportive, educational partnership is essential.
I have pages and pages written on what I think makes a good oncologist but am not writing about them here yet. I really want to use today’s post as a forum to let you have input. Patients vary in what they want from their doctors. There isn’t necessarily a formula that will work every time. This is part of the message. It is important to find the right chemistry between a doctor and patient especially when you know this relationship will probably be taking you until the end of your life. Some oncologists start to distance themselves from their patients when they know they can no longer “fix” them. I am fortunate that mine are supportive. The balance between quality of life and quantity of it instantly becomes the metric after a diagnosis of incurable cancer. Everything is filtered through this lens.
I encourage you to comment on the post rather than email me. Even if you comment as Anonymous or with initials or even using your diagnosis as your name… I think reading what others think is important for this one. If you feel comfortable doing so, please indicate whether you have metastatic cancer.
So, without sharing my suggestions I’m asking for your input. Feel free to use these questions as jumping off points. Answer one, answer more that one, suggest something I haven’t even brought up.
I am interested in hearing from you what you think about some of the following topics and please be as specific as possible:
What is your preferred method of delivery of test results (ranging from the initial diagnosis to routine followup bloodwork and scans and biopsies)? Some results are given when only the patient is present. How do you feel about that? If you are called and told to “bring someone with you” you would that make you even more upset? In regards to bloodwork, scans, biopsies: do you always want those results in person even if it means waiting longer for those results? Do you mind if the results are by phone if that gets you answers quicker? Do you want the doctor to “cut to the chase” or do you feel more comfortable with small talk first?
How do you want a doctor to respond if you get emotional when you hear bad news?
Do you mind if your doctor gets emotional when delivering bad news or discussing your treatment? Does that make you more upset/scared or do you think that shows compassion?
A new report showed that patients don’t like when doctors talk about their own situations to try to show compassion (“self-disclosure to show empathy”). How do you feel about doctors sharing their personal stories of their own cancer or medical conditions, that of their family members?
Do you like when a doctor admits that he/she isn’t sure which treatment option is best for you or does that bother you?
Do you like when your oncologist presents the one treatment option he/she thinks is best or do you like your oncologist to present a few choices and then you decide together?
Do you like when your doctor asks you questions about your personal life/family/interests? Does your doctor do this regularly?
Does your oncologist talk about your prognosis and if so, what are ways you prefer those discussions to happen?
Do you want a doctor to give you a life expectancy prognosis even though we know those estimates are right only about 20% of the time? Do you want them to discuss it only if you bring it up? Do you like to hear statistics about treatment success and odds of survival?
How much monitoring do you like? Does your doctor give you a choice in how often to conduct tests? Do you feel that tests get in the way of living the life you have left or do you need the results to know where you stand in your treatment?
What is the best way a doctor has communicated bad news to you? The worst? (having a few examples of what not to do can be instructive here)
In the metastatic community in particular there seems to be so much of a focus on treatment and the nitty gritty of all that’s demanded to just treat the disease week to week, month to month. That is only one part of managing it. Have you been offered counseling for services like mental health? Palliative care? Family services? Physical therapy? End of life counseling? Would you like those to be offered to you?
How important are things like scheduling, having phone calls returned, having ways to contact your physician/office that are reliable, even after-hours?
If your doctor asked you to fill out a questionnaire with some of these questions on it would you find that impersonal or an attempt to learn more about you and how to best help you?
Would you like your doctor to have printed material with general definitions of terms and words important to your care (drugs, procedures, tests)?
Would you like them to discuss support groups? Have you asked? Have you been told there isn’t one for your kind/stage of cancer?
And finally: If you could give young oncologists one piece of advice, what would it be?
…………………………….
Thank you for your input. My advice on these topics could probably fill a book. I have a feeling yours could, too. I will try to address some of these topics in future posts.
By the way, I may not be posting over the next few days because of the Thanksgiving holiday.
As always, thank you for your daily support here, on Facebook and on Twitter.
March 7th, 2013 §
Everything changes with a diagnosis of Stage 4 cancer. I don’t really think that’s an overstatement. My relationship with my oncologists has, by nature, changed as well. With stage 4 one of the things that’s especially important is good communication between physician and patient. It always is, but now two of the topics that are imperative to review at each meeting are side effects of medications/chemo and symptoms I’m having (especially pain).
I have always had two oncologists’ input on my treatment since my original diagnosis of stage II breast cancer in December of 2006. Even through the more than five years of remission, I continued meeting with them about my adjuvant therapy.
Immediately after I was diagnosed in October with stage IV my oncologists began talking about finding a balance between length of life and quality of life. These two aspects of my life would have to be constantly juggled. The art of medicine and its role in treating cancer suddenly has become crystal clear while the science of decision-making often remains blurred.
For many people it is often reassuring to hear there is a plan, a prescribed protocol. There is a type of comfort in being diagnosed with a disease and being told there are defined steps you need to take. With metastatic cancer it’s not crystal clear. Patients must often help decide what is right for them.
I was offered options about which treatment to try first: a traditional chemo or an anti-hormonal combination. One would attack cancer cells, but also attack the healthy cells in my body. The other would aim to “starve” the cancer of some of its fuel (hormones). One important positive feature about my cancer is that there are choices about how to try to keep it in check. This hopefully will equate to having stable disease for a while so I can live longer. Some types of cancer do not respond to certain therapies and therefore there are fewer options in treating them.
When I went to see my medical oncologist at Sloan Kettering, this week she pulled the chair over and sat only inches from me. I was on the exam table, in the modest red and peach Seersucker bathrobe Sloan uses for their exam gowns. We sat and talked about research and trials and side effects and my blog and my family. She gets emotional sometimes when we talk about the current situation. So do I.
Then Dr. Chau Dang said something that I will always remember. She said that many doctors start to distance themselves from their patients as the patients get sicker and closer to death. She said this is their coping mechanism. Of course I couldn’t help but wonder if the same process is what is behind some of my friends disappearing and rarely contacting me anymore. Some physicians, she said, seem to back away, needing emotional distance not to be weakened each and every time a patient dies.
In contrast, my doctor feels this is precisely the time in her relationship with her patients to embrace them, bring them close, provide them care and comfort as much as possible. It’s important to remember, she always says, that this isn’t a case, this is a life. A person with friends and families who love them. Death happens for all of us. It’s her role to do what she can to prolong life, and when that can’t be done anymore, it’s important to still care for the person, not just treat the disease.
The nature of the doctor-patient relationship changes over the course of illness. Perhaps nowhere is that truer than in oncology. I’ve always been a partner in my care, it’s the only way I know how to be. It’s my life, after all, and the decisions we make as a team are ones I do not want to regret because I gave up control or didn’t have adequate information. However, I also accept that treating cancer is not an exact science.
Some patients do not want to have options. They want their physician to pick the course of treatment that seems best matched for the patient and proceed. A patient sometimes doesn’t want choices; he or she wants the doctor to do the sifting and prescribing. This works for many people, and takes the responsibility off the patient. There is mental comfort in that approach, too. I can understand why some people make that choice.
One of the things that is difficult in being a true participant in your own care is that while you get the satisfaction of partial control, you also must accept responsibility if/when things go wrong. This is part of the deal.
Some things just are.
Some things just happen, even when you do all you can.
I have accepted this jagged truth all along.
But I think some people never do.
July 14th, 2011 §
Sunday will be the four year anniversary of the day I had breast recontruction surgery after cancer. My tissue expanders were removed once chemotherapy was over and my silicone implants were put in. Last week I had my annual visit to my plastic/reconstructive surgeon and received the all-clear to now have a visit every two years. It’s always gratifying when the time in between visits gets longer; I remember when I was there at least once a week during the reconstruction process.
“Did you know it’s been four years since your surgery?” my surgeon asked. Immediately he chuckled, “Of course you know that,” he said, realizing my mental calendar was certainly more precise than his– of course I marked the days off in my head.
Whenever I sit in a waiting room I am instantly transported to that place and time. I sit and watch patients walking in and walking out. I can tell by hearing what the time interval until their next appointment what stage of treatment they are in.
I sit in the chair, the same one I did four years ago.
It’s the same chair, but I am not the same person.
My body is not the same.
There is continuity in that chair.
There is a story it tells me.
I wrote this piece to the next person who sits in that chair.
………………………….
That chair you’re sitting in?
I’ve sat in it too.
In waiting rooms. Chemo rooms. Prep rooms. For tests. Surgeries. Procedures. Inpatient. Outpatient. Emergency visits. Routine visits. Urgent visits. To see generalists. Specialists. Surgeons. Alone. With friends. With family members. As a new patient. Established patient. Good news. Bad news. I’ve left with new scars. Prescriptions. Appointments. Words of wisdom. Theories. Guesses. Opinions. Statistics. Charts. Plans. Tests. Words of assurance. More bloodwork. Nothing new. Nothing gained. Nothing but a bill.
That feeling you’re having?
I’ve had it too.
Shock. Disbelief. Denial. Grief. Anger. Frustration. Numbness. Sadness. Resignation. Confusion. Consternation. Curiosity. Determination. Dread. Anxiety. Guilt. Regret. Loss. Pain. Emptiness. Embarrassment. Shame. Loneliness.
That day you’re dreading?
I’ve dreaded it too.
The first time you speak the words, “I have cancer.” The first time you hear “Mommy has cancer.” The day you wear a pink shirt instead of a white shirt. Anniversary day. Chemo day. Surgery day. Scan day. Decision day. Baldness day. The day the options run out.
Those reactions you’re getting?
I’ve had them too.
Stares. Questions. Pity. Blank looks. Insensitivity. Jaw-dropping comments.
Those side effects you dread?
I’ve dreaded them too.
Nausea. Vomiting. Pain. Broken bones. Weakened heart. Baldness. Hair loss. Everywhere. Unrelenting runny nose. Fatigue. Depression. Hot flashes. Insomnia. Night sweats. Migraines. Loss of appetite. Loss of libido. Loss of breasts. Phantom pain. Infection. Fluid accumulation. Bone pain. Neuropathy. Numbness. Joint pain. Taste changes. Weight gain. Weight loss. Some of them happen. Some don’t. Eventually, though? You name it. It changes. Temporarily anyway.
That embarrassment you’re feeling?
I’ve felt it too.
Buying a swimsuit. Getting a tight-fitting shirt stuck on my body in the dressing room. Having a child say “You don’t have any eyebrows, do you?” Wearing a scarf. Day after day. Wondering about wearing a wig because it’s windy outside and it might not stay on.
That fear you’re suppressing?
I’ve squelched it too.
Will this kill me? How bad is chemo going to be? How am I going to manage 3 kids and get through it? Will my cancer come back and take me away from my life? Will it make the quality of life I have left so bad I won’t want to be here anymore? Is this pain in my back a recurrence? Do I need to call a doctor? If it comes back would I do any more chemo or is this as much fight as I’ve got in me? What is worse: the disease or the treatment?
That day you’re yearning for?
I’ve celebrated it too.
“Your counts are good” day. “Your x-ray is clear” day. “Now you can go longer between appointments” day. “See you in a year”day. First-sign-of-hair day. First-day-without-covering-your-head day. First taste of food day. First Monday chemo-isn’t-in-the-calendar day. Expanders-out, implants-in day. First walk-without-being-tired day. First game-of-catch-with-the-kids day. First day out for lunch with friends day. First haircut day. “Hey, I went a whole day without thinking about cancer” day. “Someone asked me how I’m doing, I said ‘fine’ and I meant it” day.
That hope you have?
I have it too:
A cure.
Don’t you think that would be amazing?
I think so too.
Next week I am meeting with a group of oncology Fellows at Sloan-Kettering to talk about care of the metastatic breast cancer patient. I have many ideas of how I think patients and doctors can better be “partners in care.” I have thoughts about how patients can be better in their interactions but this particular session focuses on the physician side of it.
Link to Twitter