Читать книгу: «The Knife’s Edge», страница 2

The government’s policy of releasing named-surgeon death rates to the press was another factor that edged me towards writing a tome for consumption by the general public. What is life really like on the other side of the fence? Is it different from being a statistician, politician or a journalist? The barrister and medical ethicist Daniel Sokol wrote in the British Medical Journal, ‘The public has an appetite for glimpses of the private lives and thoughts of doctors. They demystify a profession that was once deemed blessed with magical powers.’ Perhaps some of us still do have mystical powers. There are few things more intriguing than delivering electricity into a patient’s head through a metal plug screwed into their skull like Dr Frankenstein’s monster or reinventing human circulation with continuous blood flow without a pulse. These innovations may be construed as witchcraft, but they were my own practical solutions to the terrible illness that is heart failure. Sokol went on to say that doctors are in the habit of revealing ‘not the chiselled frame of Apollo … but the wart covered body of Mr Burns, the Simpsons character’. But Burns was the rich factory owner. I’m more of a sensitive intellectual, like Bart Simpson’s father Homer.

As is often the case, the French have a phrase for it: ‘se mettre à nu’, to get naked. So that is what I decided to do, although this was a much more interesting spectacle in my younger years than now. My own insight tells me that the public are happier to learn that their surgeon, even a heart or brain surgeon, is human and subject to the same core emotions as anyone else. But because of a freak sporting accident, some qualities possessed by the vast majority of people were lost to me for a while, which proved an unexpected but substantial boost to a career at the sharp end – life perpetually on the ‘knife’s edge’.

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family

When I searched the internet for a contemporary description of the surgical personality, I found this:

Testosterone-infused swagger, confident, brash, charismatic, commanding. Arrogant, volatile, even bullying and abusive. Aggressive. Cuts first, asks questions later, because to cut is to cure and the best cure is cold steel. Sometimes wrong but never in doubt. Good with his hands but no time to explain. Compassion and communication are for sissies.

The psychologist author argued that the highly stressful, adrenaline-fuelled environment in which surgeons work attracts a certain personality type. And so it does. Cutting into people, then wallowing in blood, bile, shit, pus or bone dust is such an alien pastime for normal folk that the mere process of operating immediately sets us apart. Those with introspection and self-doubt select themselves out from my specialty.

It is hard to describe how agonisingly difficult it was to gain access to a cardiac surgery training programme in the 1970s, when open heart surgery with the heart–lung machine was only in its second decade. The surgeons of that era were an unashamedly elitist group with the guts, skill and sheer daring to expose a sick heart and attempt to repair it. Methods to protect the muscle when it was starved of blood were frequently inadequate, and prolonged interaction between blood and the foreign surfaces of the bypass machine triggered a damaging inflammatory reaction known as the ‘post-perfusion syndrome’. Heart surgeons therefore needed above all to work against the clock – deaths were a daily occurrence, yet most patients were so sick that this wasn’t considered a catastrophe. While survival and symptomatic relief were gratifying, death put an end to suffering. Consequently, most families were grateful that their loved ones had at least a chance of their condition improving through surgical intervention.

We all had to go through general surgery training first to show that we had what it takes. First, good hands – and you have to be born that way. Most organs just sit there while you cut and sew them, but the heart is a moving target, a bag of blood under pressure that bleeds torrentially if you bugger it up. Just touching it clumsily can provoke disorganised rhythm and sudden cardiac arrest. Second, the right temperament – the ability to explain death to grieving relatives and to bounce back from a bollocking in the operating theatre. Then courage – the bravery to take over from the boss when he’s had enough, the guts to take responsibility for the post-operative care of tiny babies or to address a catastrophe in the trauma room when the nearest consultant is an hour away. Then patience and resilience – being able to stand there as first assistant for six hours without losing concentration, sometimes with a hangover, or to face five days continuously on call in the hospital, day and night without respite. That was surgical training in those days.

A series of infernal exams to become a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons was an additional burden over and above the clinical work. These covered every aspect of surgery and only a third of the candidates passed each time. It didn’t matter that I wanted to operate in the chest. For the ‘primary’ fellowship we were required to know the anatomy of a human being in minute detail, brain to asshole, teeth to tits – every nerve, artery and vein in the whole body, where they went, what they did, what happened if we damaged them. We had to learn the physiological processes of every organ and the biochemistry of every cell. After some basic operative experience, the ‘final’ fellowship examined us on the pathology of every surgical condition in the book, then the diagnostic and surgical techniques for each specialty. Only after conclusively demonstrating comprehensive knowledge and skills were we allowed to move on and specialise. I failed both the primary and final fellowship on first sitting, an expensive exercise. Most of my associates did too. The whole miserable process was there to sort the wheat from the chaff, and I wasn’t fazed by failure. It was just like rugby, the sport I loved above all others. Some games you won, others you lost.

The surgical world resembles the army. The consultants are the officers and the gentlemen, the trainees line up in tiers through the ranks: senior house officer is equivalent to corporal, registrar acting as sergeant, senior registrar akin to a non-commissioned officer doing all the work and eventually being promoted to the officer’s mess. That final step was the most competitive of all. For the ruthlessly ambitious it had to be a top teaching hospital. Heart surgeons strove for London hospitals like the Royal Brompton, the Hammersmith, Guy’s or St Thomas’. Appointment to one of these, and you had made it big time. In those days Cambridge had a vibrant cardiothoracic centre in Papworth village out of town. Oxford was doing very little.

All this took place during our formative years, our late twenties and early thirties, when normal people cement relationships, settle down in one location and start a family. Trainee surgeons lived like gypsies, moving from city to city – wherever the best posts were advertised. Something about being a surgeon elevated us to a different plane. We were the fighting cocks of the doctors’ mess, the flash Harrys who constantly strove to outdo each other and ruthlessly coveted the top jobs; the guys – and at that time, as now, it was almost exclusively guys – who stayed in the hospital night after night seeking every chance to operate, or, if it was quiet, drifting across to the nurses’ quarters, where other exciting action was easy to find.

I was a backstreet kid from Scunthorpe who had married his childhood sweetheart from the local grammar school. Caught up in this whirlwind of ruthless ambition, things changed and marriage became an unintended casualty. I was ashamed of this, but I knew some surgical teams where every member, from junior houseman to consultant, was having an affair in the hospital. Grim in reality, but the stuff of television soaps that glamorise adultery. So widespread was the problem that the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore carried out a formal study of divorce as an occupational hazard in medicine. The younger their residents were when they married, the higher their divorce rate. Understandably, divorce was commonplace when the spouse did not work in the medical field. Blame it on the communication gap. They had little to talk about because doctors – and especially surgeons – are engrossed in their hospital life.

The Johns Hopkins study showed that more than half of psychiatrists and one in three surgeons divorced. Cardiac surgery had an impressive divorce rate, which I already knew from my colleagues’ experience. Reasons cited were high testosterone levels, long hours and nights in the hospital, and close working relationships with numerous attractive young women, often in stressful and emotional circumstances. Professional bonds are formed, and these evolve into romance. At one stage the Dean of Duke University Medical School saw fit to warn applicants that the institution was experiencing a greater than 100 per cent divorce rate. Why exceeding the maximum? Because students showed up already married, got divorced, then remarried and divorced a second time. They all lived a life in which work was seen to come first, with everything else a distant second.

Once at a conference in California I picked up a copy of Pacific Standard magazine that contained an article entitled ‘Why are so many surgeons assholes?’. Obviously it was about prevailing personality types. A scrub nurse friend of the journalist described an incident in the operating theatre where she had passed the sharp scalpel to the surgeon and he lacerated his thumb on the blade. Now furious, he shouted at her, ‘What kind of pass was that. What are we, two kids in the playground with Play-Doh? Ridiculous.’ Then to emphasise his point he threw the scalpel back at her. The nurse was horrified, but as she didn’t know how to react she just kept quiet. No one stood up for her, and no one ever reprimanded the surgeon for being aggressive or throwing the sharp instrument. The inference was that this is how a lot of surgeons behaved and they get away with it all the time.

I have known many surgeons who threw instruments around the room, and although I never aimed one at an assistant I did use to toss faulty instruments onto the floor. It meant that I couldn’t be given them a second time. Having said that, most successful surgeons have certain malign traits in common. These have been summarised in the medical literature as the ‘dark triad’ of psychopathy, Machiavellianism – the callous attitude in which the ends are held to justify the means – and narcissism, which manifests as the excessive self-absorption and sense of superiority that goes with egoism and an extreme need for attention from others. This dark triad emanates from placing personal goals and self-interest above the needs of other people.

Just in the last few months psychologists at the University of Copenhagen have shown that if a person manifests just one of these dark personality traits, they probably have them all simmering below the surface, including so-called moral disengagement and entitlement, which enables someone to throw surgical instruments with absolutely no conscience at all. This detailed mapping of the dark triad is comparable to Charles Spearman’s demonstration a hundred years ago that people who score highly in one type of intelligence test are likely to perform equally well in other kinds. Perhaps the daunting road to a surgical career inadvertently selects characters with these negative traits. It certainly appears that way, yet I had a very different side to my personality when it came to my own family. Maritally I fell into the same old traps, but I would go to any lengths to make my children happy or my parents proud.

I was not rostered to be in surgery as it was my daughter Gemma’s birthday and I hoped to be free. The phantom father who had let her down so many times in the past, I planned to drive to Cambridge in the afternoon to surprise her. Then I discovered that three of our five surgeons were out of town. Two were committed to outreach clinics at district hospitals trying to bring in ‘customers’, as the NHS now called them, or better still the odd private patient. The third was away at a conference, one of those academically destitute commercial meetings at a glamorous resort paid for by the sponsor, with business-class flights and all the rest. As a gullible young consultant I had enjoyed these trips, but it eventually wears thin – tedious airports, buckets of alcohol and forced comradery with competitive colleagues who would cheerfully drive their scalpel into your back the minute it was all over.

It was this surgeon’s operating list that lay vacant, and the unit manager had twisted my arm to stand in for him. To let an operating theatre with a full complement of staff lie idle for the day was a criminal waste of resources, so I reluctantly agreed to the request. I had built this unit from nothing to being virtually the largest in the country, not that anyone could give a shit. The management changed so frequently that history was soon forgotten, dispatched to oblivion by the quagmire of financial expediency. So my daughter would have to wait. Again.

When I asked Sue, my secretary, to find two urgent waiting-list patients at short notice, I didn’t mention the birthday. Just two cases should see me on the road by mid-afternoon. I suggested that one should be the infant girl with Down’s syndrome who had been cancelled twice before. She was in danger of becoming inoperable because of excessive blood flow and rising pressure in the artery to the lungs. I bore special affection for these children. When I started out in cardiac surgery, many considered it inappropriate to repair their heart defects. I couldn’t get my head around a policy that discriminated against kids with a particular condition, so ultimately I overcompensated by taking them on as desperately debilitated young adults – trying to turn the clock back, sometimes without success.

The second case needed to be more straightforward. Sue had repeatedly been pestered by a self-styled VIP who held some snooty position in a neighbouring health authority. When I reviewed this lady in the outpatient clinic, she took exception to my suggesting that weight loss would not only improve her breathlessness but reduce the risks during her mitral valve surgery. I was sternly reminded that she had featured in a recent honours list, presumably for services dedicated to getting her onto an honours list, as is frequently the case in healthcare. I wasn’t in the slightest bit impressed – and she could see that. But she kept insisting on an early date and I couldn’t blame Sue for wanting her out of the way. The titled lady wouldn’t make first slot on the list, however. That was for the baby. A third cancellation was not an option.

6 am. As I set out for work from Woodstock, my home in Oxfordshire, shafts of sunlight burst through the turrets of Blenheim Palace like rays of optimism. I would be seeing Gemma on her birthday. When she was born I was nowhere to be found, and I’d spent twenty years trying to make up for that. Sue, who also suffers from traffic phobia, joined me in the office before 7 am, and we soon dispensed with the paperwork that I had to do before the adult intensive care ward round at 7.30. The day’s operating lists were already displayed on a white board at the main nurse’s station. The male charge nurse knew that my only adult patient was unlikely to reach the unit until mid-afternoon, but still felt obliged to warn me that beds were tight. Glancing towards the row of empty beds surrounded by unplugged ventilators and cardiac monitors, I didn’t need to ask. It was more of the same. ‘Tight on beds’ means not enough nurses. In the NHS, every intensive care bed must have a dedicated nurse. In other countries they double up quite safely to get the work done, but here we just cancel operations as if they were appointments with the hairdresser.

On this particular morning I didn’t know many of the nurses’ faces – and they didn’t recognise me. This told me that the night shift had relied heavily on agency staff. Two of my three cases from the previous day could leave the unit, but only when ward beds became available. Until then, they would continue to languish in this intimidating environment that never slept, at a cost exceeding £1,000 per day. Sometimes we’d even discharge patients directly home from intensive care when the ward was chronically blocked with the elderly and the destitute.

This was not how it used to be. >When we fought to build the department, just three heart surgeons would perform 1,500 heart operations each year and we’d cover the chest surgery between us. Now in the same modest facilities we had five heart surgeons performing half that number of cases, alongside another three chest surgeons operating on the lungs. This was the price of progress – twice as many highly trained professionals doing much less work amid a disintegrating infrastructure. But hey. A hospital delegation was trying to recruit nurses in the Philippines that very week, so all would be well one day.

8 am – and my early-morning optimism was already punctured. I left the cacophony of life support, pulsating balloon pumps, hissing ventilators and screeching alarms. I heard weeping relatives, suggesting that a bed might soon be vacated. Knife to skin should be at 8.30, and I expected the baby to be anaesthetised by now. I assiduously avoided watching parents part from their children at the operating theatre doors. It was traumatic enough for me when my son had his tonsils out. Heart operations were a cut above. When I told parents that their child had a 95 per cent chance of survival, all that registered was the 5 per cent possibility of death. Statistics don’t help when it’s your child that doesn’t make it. So I told them what they wanted to hear, then hoped it would be true.

But the anaesthetic room was empty. The anaesthetist was sitting in the coffee room eating breakfast.

‘Have we sent yet?’ I asked with an air of resignation.

She shook her head. We had to wait for the paediatric intensive care ward round to decide whether they could give us a bed. No bed, third cancellation. It couldn’t be allowed to happen, yet the round hadn’t even started. It was an 8.30 start at the other end of the corridor, so I went there directly. With rising blood pressure, I still tried to remain polite. The staff had desperately sick children to care for and my little patient was just another anonymous name in the diary, followed by the words ‘atrioventricular canal’. The whole centre of her heart was missing and her lungs were flooded. With every day that passed, her chances of survival decreased.

The trouble was that I loved the children’s intensive care unit. That little enclave of rooms was my escape from the rest of the hospital, a place that always put life – and my own troubles – in perspective. Only special people could survive the heartache in that place. The nurses liked to work with my heart surgery cases because the vast majority got better, a welcome relief from the ravages of children’s cancer, septicaemia or road-traffic accidents that they also had to deal with. The worst things in the world happened there, but everyone came back the next day to start all over again.

Every one of the cots had a little body in it, with fretful family groups gathered around. My eyes fixed on a pair of gangrenous arms – the meningococcal meningitis child I’d watched for weeks, hanging on to life. The mother knew me well enough by now, seeing my babies come and go with happy parents. I always asked her how things were going, she always smiled. Today they were going to amputate those black, mummified limbs. No more little hands or tiny fingers. They would just drop off, with a little help to tidy things up.

I asked whether there was any chance of a bed by lunchtime, so that we could at least send for the baby. Sister really didn’t want to let me down. One of her day-shift nurses was already in the radiology department with a head-trauma victim who’d been hit by a speeding car on the way to school. Should the injuries prove as severe as feared, ventilatory support would be withdrawn. Then my case could go to theatre. I enquired whether the organ donor phrase had been mentioned.

‘Do you want the bed or don’t you?’ she replied. ‘That route could take us well into tomorrow.’

For comfort I picked up a bacon sandwich, then wandered off in my theatre gear through the hordes who arrived for work at nine o’clock. These were normal people who didn’t have to split breast-bones, stop hearts or give desolate parents bad news, such as ‘Your child’s operation is cancelled again.’ Now the dilemma. Should I give up on the little girl, then send for the VIP and her mitral repair? The lady wouldn’t have been starved long enough or had a pre-med, but at least I could take off to Cambridge to see my daughter afterwards without the worry of leaving a newly operated infant when I wasn’t on call. Or should I hold out for the possibility of a bed for her parents’ sake?

Turning away from blank faces and the tacit acceptance of dysfunctionality, I diverted to radiology. They knew me well enough at the CT scanner and seemed relieved to discover that I was not attempting to take over their next slot. The images of the child’s battered brain emerged slice by slice. The skull had been cracked open like the top of a boiled egg. Where there should have been clear lakes of cerebrospinal fluid, there was nothing. The brain surgeon and intensive care doctors shook their heads in dismay. Nothing would be gained by operating. The cerebral cortex was pulp and the brain stem had herniated through the base of the skull. I was relieved that I couldn’t see that poor broken body concealed within the scanner. She had toddled off happily to the village school; now she hovered between earth and heaven, her brain already gone. So I had my intensive care bed. Relief for one set of parents, complete and utter desolation for another.

Striding purposefully back to the operating theatres, I requested that they send directly for my first case. The agency anaesthetic nurse hadn’t the faintest idea who I was and confronted me with the usual crap, saying that they hadn’t heard if there was a bed yet.

Uncharacteristically, and because I didn’t know the woman, I lost the plot and shouted, ‘I’m telling you there’s a fucking bed. Now send for the child.’

The anaesthetist stood in the doorway and gave me a long, hard stare. The nurse picked up the phone and called the paediatric intensive care unit sister. At that moment, I worried that others had not been informed that the trauma case was not for ventilation. But I got lucky. The response confirmed my outburst. Yes, we could send for the cardiac case.

To put the baby asleep and insert cannulas into her tiny blood vessels would take an hour, so to avoid the transmitted anxiety from the parents’ tearful separation from their baby girl, I slipped into the anaesthetic room of the thoracic theatre, carrying a plastic cup of ghastly grey coffee. This time I was warmly greeted by an old friend, whom I asked to measure my blood pressure. It was 180/100 – far too high, despite the daily blood pressure medication I had been taking for ten years.

As the fearful parents shuffled past the door I heard one of them say, ‘Please tell Professor Westaby we are grateful for this chance.’ I suspected they still didn’t believe that their baby would make it. Perhaps they were worried that we wouldn’t try as hard as we could because of the Down’s syndrome.

Would a concert pianist prepare for an important recital by first enduring three hours of intense frustration? Would a watchmaker have to face a blazing row before assembling a complicated Rolex movement? My job was to reconfigure a deformed heart the size of a walnut, yet I enjoyed zero consideration for my state of mind from those around me. I wouldn’t so much as get on a bus if the driver was subject to that much irritation. The first time I stood as the operating surgeon looking into the void at the centre of an atrioventricular canal defect, I thought, ‘Shit, what the hell do I do with this?’ Yet I always succeeded in separating the left and right sides of the heart with patches, then creating new mitral and tricuspid valves from the rudimentary valve tissue. It’s complex work, but I never lost one on the operating table.

I finally ran the stainless-steel blade through the baby’s skin at 11 am. As the first drops of blood skidded over the plastic drape, I remembered that I had not made contact with my daughter. That thought hit me just as the oscillating saw bisected the baby’s sternum, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I needed complete focus to reconfigure that tiny deformed heart and give the baby a lifetime without breathlessness or pain. So what did I need to consider? The new mitral valve must not leak, although it wouldn’t be too bad if there was a whiff of regurgitation through the tricuspid valve on the low-pressure side of the circulation. And we had to be careful not to damage the invisible electrical conduction system that crucially coordinates the heart’s contraction and relaxation. Otherwise she would need a permanent pacemaker. At that point I felt it would have been much easier to be a watchmaker or concert pianist …

As it turned out, that little heart would be the least of my problems that day. I separated the chambers with obsessively sewn patches of Dacron cloth, then carefully created the new valves upon which the baby’s future depended. It was much the same as operating within an egg cup. When blood was reintroduced into the tiny coronary arteries the little heart took off like an express train. Just as I prepared to separate the baby from the heart–lung machine, a pale and worried face appeared at the theatre door.

‘Sorry, Professor,’ the woman said, ‘but we need you right now in Theatre 2. Mr Maynard is in trouble.’

‘How much trouble?’ I asked, without diverting my eyes from the baby’s heart.

‘The patient is bleeding from a hole in the aorta and he can’t stop it.’ She had a note of desperation in her voice.

Although the baby seemed fine, I would not normally leave a registrar to remove the bypass cannulas and close up. But it needed a snap decision. On the balance of probabilities, I decided that I should try to help. In haste, I forgot that I was tethered by the electric cable of my powerful head lamp. Standing back from the operating table, I avulsed the bloody thing. Several hundred pounds’ worth of damage in two seconds.

Nick Maynard was a first-rate upper gastrointestinal surgeon who specialised in stomach and oesophageal cancer. He dealt with tubes normally filled with food and air, not blood at high pressure. But this unfortunate patient did not have cancer. Just days before, she had been completely well. While happily eating sea bass in a fancy restaurant she swallowed a fish bone. At first the discomfort abated and she could swallow. Then a dull ache emerged deep in the chest, next a swinging fever with night sweats. Soon just swallowing liquids became difficult and made the pain worse. The GP knew she was in trouble. Blood results sent from the surgery showed a very high white blood cell count, which suggested an abscess. Rather than passing through the gut as most bones do, this one had clearly penetrated through the wall of the oesophagus.

Nick’s team was surrounded by medical students and radiologists as the CT scans came through. There was an abscess the size of an orange wedged between oesophagus and aorta in the back of her chest. Worryingly, there were bubbles of gas in the pus. Gas-forming organisms are among the most dangerous, so it was no surprise that she felt dreadful. The pus needed to be drained away urgently before the bugs entered her blood stream and caused septicaemia. Otherwise it could be fit to fatal within days.

The oesophagus and aorta descend side by side in the chest, nestled behind the heart and in front of the spine – oesophagus on the right, aorta to the left. Tiger country. Under high-dose antibiotic cover, Nick planned to open the right side of the chest through the ribs and locate the abscess behind the lung. Then, by opening the abscess cavity, the pus could be washed out and drains left in place for a few days until the antibiotics clobbered the infection. Nick thought that the small perforation through the muscular wall of the oesophagus would seal itself. While awfully simple in theory, it was destined to be simply awful.

Through the glass door of Theatre 2, I could see Nick, sweating profusely with his face covered in blood, and both arms up to the elbows in the woman’s chest. Blood was slopping out of the chest cavity and down his blue gown, while anaesthetists were squeezing in bags of blood. It transpired that all had gone according to plan until he swept an index finger around the abscess cavity to clear the infected debris. First came the noxious odour of anaerobic bacteria and rotting flesh. Then, whoosh! Blood hit the operating lights. The abscess had eroded through the wall of the aorta. Behind the heart lay an infected swamp. All Nick could do was to stick his fist into the fountain and press hard. Big problem. They had already lost more than a litre of blood and if his fist moved she would bleed out in seconds.