Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End by Atul Gawande Page A
Authors: Atul Gawande
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didn’t have to stop working, even after he suffered a heart attack in his sixties that cost him half his heart function; nor was he stopped by a near cardiac arrest at the age of seventy-nine.
“One evening, sitting at home, I suddenly became aware of palpitations,” he told me. “I was just reading, and a few minutes later I became short of breath. A little bit after that, I began to feel heavy in the chest. I took my pulse, and it was over two hundred.”
He is the sort of person who, in the midst of chest pain, would take the opportunity to examine his own pulse.
“My wife and I had a little discussion about whether or not to call an ambulance. We decided to call.”
When Felix got to the hospital, the doctors had to shock him to bring his heart back. He’d had ventricular tachycardia, and an automatic defibrillator was implanted in his chest. Within a few weeks, he felt well again, and his doctor cleared him to return to work full time. He stayed in medical practice after the attack, multiple hernia repairs, gallbladder surgery, arthritis that all but ended his avid piano playing, compression fractures of his aging spine that stole three full inches of his five-foot-seven-inch height, and hearing loss.
“I switched to an electronic stethoscope,” he said. “They’re a nuisance, but they’re very good.”
Finally, at eighty-two, he had to retire. The problem wasn’t his health; it was that of his wife, Bella. They’d been married for more than sixty years. Felix had met Bella when he was an intern and she was a dietitian at Kings County Hospital, in Brooklyn. They brought up two sons in Flatbush. When the boys left home, Bella got her teaching certificate and began working with children who had learning disabilities. In her seventies, however, retinal disease diminished her vision, and she had to stop working. A decade later, she’d become almost completely blind. Felix no longer felt safe leaving her at home alone, and in 2001 he gave up his practice. They moved to Orchard Cove, a retirement community in Canton, Massachusetts, outside Boston, where they could be closer to their sons.
“I didn’t think I would survive the change,” Felix said. He’d observed in his patients how difficult the transitions of age were. Examining his last patient, packing up his home, he felt that he was about to die. “I was taking apart my life as well as the house,” he recalled. “It was terrible.”
We were sitting in a library off Orchard Cove’s main lobby. There was light streaming through a picture window, tasteful art on the walls, white upholstered Federal-style armchairs. It was like a nice hotel, only with no one under seventy-five walking around. Felix and Bella had a two-bedroom apartment with forest views and plenty of space. In the living room, Felix had a grand piano and, at his desk, piles of medical journals that he still subscribed to—“for my soul,” he said. Theirs was an independent-living unit. It came with housekeeping, linen changes, and dinner each evening. When they needed to, they could upgrade to assisted living, which provides three prepared meals and up to an hour with a personal-care assistant each day.
This was not the average retirement community, but even in an average one rent runs $32,000 a year. Entry fees are typically $60,000 to $120,000 on top of that. Meanwhile, the median income of people eighty and older is only about $15,000. More than half of the elderly living in long-term-care facilities run through their entire savings and have to go on government assistance—welfare—in order to afford it. Ultimately, the average American spends a year or more of old age disabled and living in a nursing home (at more than five times the yearly cost of independent living), which is a destination Felix was desperately hoping to avoid.
He was trying to note the changes he experienced objectively, like the geriatrician he is. He noticed that his skin had dried out. His sense
“One evening, sitting at home, I suddenly became aware of palpitations,” he told me. “I was just reading, and a few minutes later I became short of breath. A little bit after that, I began to feel heavy in the chest. I took my pulse, and it was over two hundred.”
He is the sort of person who, in the midst of chest pain, would take the opportunity to examine his own pulse.
“My wife and I had a little discussion about whether or not to call an ambulance. We decided to call.”
When Felix got to the hospital, the doctors had to shock him to bring his heart back. He’d had ventricular tachycardia, and an automatic defibrillator was implanted in his chest. Within a few weeks, he felt well again, and his doctor cleared him to return to work full time. He stayed in medical practice after the attack, multiple hernia repairs, gallbladder surgery, arthritis that all but ended his avid piano playing, compression fractures of his aging spine that stole three full inches of his five-foot-seven-inch height, and hearing loss.
“I switched to an electronic stethoscope,” he said. “They’re a nuisance, but they’re very good.”
Finally, at eighty-two, he had to retire. The problem wasn’t his health; it was that of his wife, Bella. They’d been married for more than sixty years. Felix had met Bella when he was an intern and she was a dietitian at Kings County Hospital, in Brooklyn. They brought up two sons in Flatbush. When the boys left home, Bella got her teaching certificate and began working with children who had learning disabilities. In her seventies, however, retinal disease diminished her vision, and she had to stop working. A decade later, she’d become almost completely blind. Felix no longer felt safe leaving her at home alone, and in 2001 he gave up his practice. They moved to Orchard Cove, a retirement community in Canton, Massachusetts, outside Boston, where they could be closer to their sons.
“I didn’t think I would survive the change,” Felix said. He’d observed in his patients how difficult the transitions of age were. Examining his last patient, packing up his home, he felt that he was about to die. “I was taking apart my life as well as the house,” he recalled. “It was terrible.”
We were sitting in a library off Orchard Cove’s main lobby. There was light streaming through a picture window, tasteful art on the walls, white upholstered Federal-style armchairs. It was like a nice hotel, only with no one under seventy-five walking around. Felix and Bella had a two-bedroom apartment with forest views and plenty of space. In the living room, Felix had a grand piano and, at his desk, piles of medical journals that he still subscribed to—“for my soul,” he said. Theirs was an independent-living unit. It came with housekeeping, linen changes, and dinner each evening. When they needed to, they could upgrade to assisted living, which provides three prepared meals and up to an hour with a personal-care assistant each day.
This was not the average retirement community, but even in an average one rent runs $32,000 a year. Entry fees are typically $60,000 to $120,000 on top of that. Meanwhile, the median income of people eighty and older is only about $15,000. More than half of the elderly living in long-term-care facilities run through their entire savings and have to go on government assistance—welfare—in order to afford it. Ultimately, the average American spends a year or more of old age disabled and living in a nursing home (at more than five times the yearly cost of independent living), which is a destination Felix was desperately hoping to avoid.
He was trying to note the changes he experienced objectively, like the geriatrician he is. He noticed that his skin had dried out. His sense
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