My dad died from "complications associated" with Stage IV lung cancer, which, to me, means that the crap treatment he got from the local county hospital made him sicker than he already was.  I flirted with the notion of filing a lawsuit, but concluded it would not be worth the effort -- especially since the impetus for our claims would be that the attending pulmonologist lacked manners and tuned out second opinions. 

Also, given my dad’s obsessive-compulsive nature and propensity to worry, I have persuaded myself into thinking that the hospital did him a favor by knocking him out cold with sepsis -- a serious infection which causes the immune system to attack the body's own organs and tissues.   I got to the hospital right before he lapsed into darkness; I never got to speak with him again.  It was quite shocking to see how the fluid inflated and invaded his entire body. It was also shocking to see him struggle so violently against the infection and knock away the tubes and the other gadgets that were keeping him alive, even though he was unconscious. What was most shocking, however, was the arrogant and defensive medicine practiced by the attending pulmonologist who rejected the suggestion of my dad’s oncologist from the hospital in The City to administer a particular antibiotic, which, by the way, ultimately arrested the infection after we "rescued" my dad from that hospital and got him to the real one. The pulmonologist declined to order the antibiotic because "this was not a teaching hospital" and "they did not get that type of bug here."

He also tried to persuade us that we should let go – and referred us to my dad’s living will.   My mom trumped him with my dad's health care power of attorney.  (As it turns out, neither of those documents, which were executed in Pennsylvania, are enforceable in Florida).

My dad’s oncologist worked the phones to get my dad transferred to his treatment center in the city, but no bed was free until the end of the week. Meanwhile, the pulmonologist was dismissive of our efforts and commented on their futility given the advanced stage of his cancer. The pulmonologist discouraged us from proceeding with the transfer and did nothing to help us expedite it and, on the last day, completely ignored us when we paged him. The pulmonologist tuned us out after we refused to follow the usual script for people who live and die in retirement communities.  He might have felt he was being a good guy by giving us straight talk.  The problem was that his cognitive dissonance made it impossible for him to absorb or process the reality that at some point in time during the entire episode it might have not been too late for my dad -- that there were drugs and treatments beyond his imagination that might have done something to prolong my dad's life.  

By the time my dad got to the treatment center and recovered from the sepsis, it was too late. His body won the battle against the infection, but it became apparent that he would not regain consciousness.  So, we let him go.  At least he died peacefully. 

In the battles over health care reform, I pray we will keep open minds and try not to act like the pulmonologist who shut down his brain.    Health care is a real mess -- a recent Harvard study says that sixty-two percent of individual bankruptcy debtors can trace at least part of their financial hardship to medical debt.    Every rational proposal should be on the table -- from the public option to state-regulated health insurance co-ops to payments based on something other than fee-for-service.    We cannot succumb to temptations of inertia and turf or brand protection.   Even Harry and Louise think it's time to do something.   If we don't open our minds and hearts and listen to each other, we will be stuck with the same script, but with a really bad ending.