When I spoke with Dr. Butman this afternoon, I told him I was going to have a good cry. But I didn't. I had already received the message about the review board's rejection a full day before. Yesterday afternoon, the message had come through so strong, and it's then that I had cried. No, wept, sobbed. Crying again tonight would have been excessive, anticlimactic, and redundant.
Instead, Aaron gave me a hug, we got a coffee, and I walked with him to his night shift at the Paradise. I sat at his station, and he served me tortilla soup--yummy--and mac and cheese balls--decadent. Then I took a leisurely walk home, delighting in the evening sunlight and shadows, smiling at the flowering vines that hung playfully over fences, gazing at beauty large and small. I stopped at Portfolio Coffeehouse and looked at the photographs on the wall, as I had read that Sarah Vinci, a photographer I profiled for Long Beach Magazine, was featured. There I happened upon Victor, my next-door neighbor, and his friend Amy. A pleasant exchange.
A walk in the loveliness of early evening was so much better for my mood and my heart than tears. I've got to keep the endorphins zinging so that I'll be glowing for the UCLA transplant review board!
Monday, March 09, 2009
Would You Tell a Lie to Save a Life?
Would you tell a lie to save a life?
Anyone who has taken a philosophy course has run up against this question. Someone will give a hokey scenario such as a known murderer is looking for someone who is hiding in the next room, he asks you if you know where he can find his victim, and you lie to him, saying you have not seen the person he's looking for, thereby saving a life. This is often brushed off with: "Well, c'mon, how many times does that ever happen?"
Well, it's happening to me now. I am the person who is hiding in the next room, and my nephrologist is the person who knows where I am. He knows, and so do I, that patients who are on the transplant list live longer than those who are not because they're happier, they have hope, they have something to live for. Dr. Butman had told me this before, and he mentioned this again this afternoon.
I quipped, "Then why not lie to patients and tell them they're on the list even when they're not?" Of course, this would not be "ethical." But it could save lives. A classic case of the old philosophical quandry. Immaneul Kant may not have agreed, but I feel today as if I'd rather think I was on the list than know I'm not.
But I must remember that my case is on appeal. Though my voice broke slightly when I was speaking with Dr. Butman and though I told him I was going to have a good cry, I didn't. Instead I took a long walk, delighting in the play of evening sunlight and shadows. Besides, I had a good cry last night. I don't want to overdo it.
Anyone who has taken a philosophy course has run up against this question. Someone will give a hokey scenario such as a known murderer is looking for someone who is hiding in the next room, he asks you if you know where he can find his victim, and you lie to him, saying you have not seen the person he's looking for, thereby saving a life. This is often brushed off with: "Well, c'mon, how many times does that ever happen?"
Well, it's happening to me now. I am the person who is hiding in the next room, and my nephrologist is the person who knows where I am. He knows, and so do I, that patients who are on the transplant list live longer than those who are not because they're happier, they have hope, they have something to live for. Dr. Butman had told me this before, and he mentioned this again this afternoon.
I quipped, "Then why not lie to patients and tell them they're on the list even when they're not?" Of course, this would not be "ethical." But it could save lives. A classic case of the old philosophical quandry. Immaneul Kant may not have agreed, but I feel today as if I'd rather think I was on the list than know I'm not.
But I must remember that my case is on appeal. Though my voice broke slightly when I was speaking with Dr. Butman and though I told him I was going to have a good cry, I didn't. Instead I took a long walk, delighting in the play of evening sunlight and shadows. Besides, I had a good cry last night. I don't want to overdo it.
My Case is on Appeal
Upon arriving home from work tonight, I noticed that there was one message on my cell phone. Dr. Butman, my nephrologist, had called to say he wanted to talk to me about my transplant. Just late this morning I had spoken with Fe, the transplant coordinator, who had told me that she would be receiving a letter sometime this week with the Kaiser transplant review board's decision and at that time she would call me. Somehow Dr. Butman knew more than she did.
I called the PD clinic and was transferred three times before I could leave a message for the doctor. The last person I spoke with was Fe, who, voice pregnant with pauses, said that if Dr. Butman had called me, he should be the one to speak with me. Translation: I'd rather that he be the bearer of bad news.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Butman returned my call. After some small talk about adjusting my blood pressure meds and an article he had copied for me from a nephrology journal, he told me the review board had rejected my application on the basis of the angiogram that was taken in 2006. He had known about the decision Friday evening, but perhaps hadn't wanted to break the news over the weekend.
The angiogram was taken, of course, before dialysis and the miraculous change in my energy level since then. As I wrote in a previous blog, I feel as if I have a new heart.
Dr. Butman said he hasn't given up hope, that he has already put in an appeal. Within a month, UCLA should call me about an appointment with the cardiologist on its kidney-transplant team. Dr. Butman feels that once the team sees how vibrant and spunky and full of life I am, I'll be given a second chance. Probably UCLA will want to get new data on my heart, which will mean a cardiac workup at UCLA.
I know that Dr. Butman is pulling for me, and I appreciate that. Aaron had been standing by while I was on the phone with him and commented that he spent a lot of time with me. Truly there have been several times when he's spent a half hour, even an hour with me. I sure appreciate that.
Some encouraging words: Dr. Butman said that he would not string me along, that he has not allowed patients to go forward with the process because he felt they were not viable candidates, but he doesn't feel that way about me. He also said that he had had a frail, 80-year-old patient who had been approved by UCLA and that I sure looked a lot healthier than he did.
So my case is on appeal. It's as if Dr. Butman is my attorney, and I have just lost the jury trial in the lower court. Now I have to wait for the higher court to review my case and see if it will grant me a hearing. Like a Death Row inmate, all I can do is wait, as my fate is in the hands of unseen others.
I called the PD clinic and was transferred three times before I could leave a message for the doctor. The last person I spoke with was Fe, who, voice pregnant with pauses, said that if Dr. Butman had called me, he should be the one to speak with me. Translation: I'd rather that he be the bearer of bad news.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Butman returned my call. After some small talk about adjusting my blood pressure meds and an article he had copied for me from a nephrology journal, he told me the review board had rejected my application on the basis of the angiogram that was taken in 2006. He had known about the decision Friday evening, but perhaps hadn't wanted to break the news over the weekend.
The angiogram was taken, of course, before dialysis and the miraculous change in my energy level since then. As I wrote in a previous blog, I feel as if I have a new heart.
Dr. Butman said he hasn't given up hope, that he has already put in an appeal. Within a month, UCLA should call me about an appointment with the cardiologist on its kidney-transplant team. Dr. Butman feels that once the team sees how vibrant and spunky and full of life I am, I'll be given a second chance. Probably UCLA will want to get new data on my heart, which will mean a cardiac workup at UCLA.
I know that Dr. Butman is pulling for me, and I appreciate that. Aaron had been standing by while I was on the phone with him and commented that he spent a lot of time with me. Truly there have been several times when he's spent a half hour, even an hour with me. I sure appreciate that.
Some encouraging words: Dr. Butman said that he would not string me along, that he has not allowed patients to go forward with the process because he felt they were not viable candidates, but he doesn't feel that way about me. He also said that he had had a frail, 80-year-old patient who had been approved by UCLA and that I sure looked a lot healthier than he did.
So my case is on appeal. It's as if Dr. Butman is my attorney, and I have just lost the jury trial in the lower court. Now I have to wait for the higher court to review my case and see if it will grant me a hearing. Like a Death Row inmate, all I can do is wait, as my fate is in the hands of unseen others.
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