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Being human Medicine Reflections on Life, Being Human, and Medicine

Mysteries – In Medicine and In Life – And How to Navigate Them

He died. We could see his heart on the echocardiogram. It looked normal. And yet he still died of heart failure. There wasn’t anything I or anyone could do to have stopped that.  It was a tragedy. It was also a mystery. What was wrong with him? Why was he going into such bad heart failure?

Let’s roll the timeline back to a couple of other stories.

Story number 1: Headaches. 

Disabling awful headaches in a woman who had never had problems with headaches. She was a highly functional working wife and mother. Her life was busy. And then her life ground to a halt. The usual migraine preventive treatments and therapies didn’t work. Local experts didn’t help. The major university center didn’t help. The highly specialized headache institute didn’t help. In desperation she went to the Mayo Clinic. There I found some wisdom. The doctor at the Mayo Clinic called me. 

“Mike, I don’t know what she has. Clearly something has happened to her. There is something wrong. We do not know what it is or what to do to help her. In my experience, we usually figure this out eventually. Sometimes it is a new or unusual presentation of something we know about. Sometimes it is a new disease. It might not help you much, but we need to just support her and continue to wait and keep looking.”

I left primary care for cardiology. A few years later I ran into her. 

Me: “How are you? How are your headaches?”

Her: “I am better now. It took a lot of time but eventually I got better.”

Me: “Did anyone ever figure out what was wrong with you?”

Her: “I was the first case in West Michigan of the West Nile Virus!”

Mystery. Solved.

Story Number 2: Shortness of breath

She was short of breath. It was a sudden change. Her life was being trimmed back by the new and progressive thing that was pulling her back. It was like a belt restraining her from the busy life that she had always enjoyed. Her brain was busy, active and young. Something in her body kept her from living what she had taken for granted in the past. 

EKG: normal. Chest x-ray: normal. Echo: normal. PFTs: normal. Stress nuclear study: normal. Cardiopulmonary exercise test: Reduced exercise tolerance but no clear cause.

I couldn’t find anything to help her. Eventually we talked about doing the best she could to learn to live with it. We talked about gradually progressive exercise and rehab. 

This patient I also left to my colleagues when I left primary care for cardiology fellowship.

Fast forward again about 5 years. I was rounding in the hospital. I walked into a patient room and there she was sitting in the chair in my patient’s room. She jumped up and came over and hugged me. I was there to see her husband but for a moment we talked about her.

Her: “Thank you so much for pushing for answers! I am cured!”

Me: “That is wonderful. What was wrong? What did they figure out?”

Her: “I got even worse. When I did they saw my heart rate going really low. They put in a pacemaker and it brought me back to my old self. I can do everything again now.”

Mystery. Solved.

Maybe the doctor from Mayo was right. 

Maybe there are times in life when no matter how hard you try you can’t solve the mystery. 

  • It doesn’t mean that there isn’t something wrong.
  • It doesn’t mean that there is no mystery.
  • It just means that you may not be able to solve it in the moment.
  • Sometimes, you have to just keep asking the questions and looking for answers.
  • Sometimes you will get the answers later.

Soon after I finished fellowship I saw a patient with severe shortness of breath. The echocardiogram showed normal ejection fraction (squeeze of the heart). The heart walls were a little thick. I did a right heart catheterization and an endomyocardial biopsy. When we do an endomyocardial biopsy, we take a few tiny pieces of the heart muscle and send them to the pathologist to look at under the microscope. The biopsy showed green birefringence with congo red staining. It was cardiac amyloid. Further testing confirmed that it was ATTR (transthyretin) amyloid. This is a progressive condition where the body makes an abnormal form of a common protein. This protein then essentially gets “stuck” in the tissues. In this case the protein was getting stuck and filling up his heart muscle slowly over time. As it did so it made the heart thick and stiff. In order to pump, the heart has to be able to relax and fill with blood. If the heart cannot fill with the usual amount of blood, it cannot pump enough blood. The heart’s squeeze can look completely normal on an echocardiogram. The walls might look a little bit thickened but overall the appearance on echo can often be of a normally functioning heart.

Eventually I diagnosed more and more patients with ATTR amyloid. I called a friend from fellowship. He was seeing the same thing. He had started a “cardiac amyloid” center. Eventually we decided that ATTR amyloid was likely much more common than anyone thought. We in medicine had just not been recognizing it.

Since that time physicians in the heart failure world have become well aware of ATTR amyloid. We diagnose a lot of patients with it. We now have treatments for it. We also see that what we diagnose is likely the “tip of the iceberg”. There are likely a lot more patients with mysterious heart failure that might have amyloid. We don’t really yet know how many of these patients there are. One survey of patients over 60 with heart failure and a normal appearing echo suggested that amyloid was the cause 13% of the time. Another study found that of patients presenting for transcatheter aortic valve replacement (TAVR), one out of every 7 patients had amyloid.

Mystery. Solved (partly.)

My patient at the start of this blog died with bad heart failure but he had a normal ejection fraction. In retrospect I suspect that his poor heart performance was likely ATTR amyloid. 

What does this mean beyond the bounds of the practice of medicine?

There are times when the world does not make sense. You know that something is wrong. You do not know what is wrong. As hard as you try to understand, in the moment you are unable to figure it out. You do not know what to do about it. 

What do you do?

It is important to know that just because you can’t explain what is wrong, it doesn’t mean that nothing is wrong.  Sometimes it means that you are just not able to figure it out in the moment. It could be a variation on some theme that you know well. It could be a new problem that you have not faced before. Time can be your friend. Sometimes in the future you will come up with answers. Sometimes time will bring healing on its own. Sometimes time will bring you an effective solution to the problem. 

  • Step 1: Admit that there is something wrong.
  • Step 2: Do your best to try to figure it out. Seek expert advice and input. 
  • Step 3: Supportive care. Do the best you can to try to figure out how to live within the limitations of the problem.
  • Step 4: Acknowledge that just because you don’t get an answer, it doesn’t mean that nothing is wrong. Retain hope that time will bring answers and resolution.

This clearly applies in medical practice. 

It often applies in life too. 

It amazes me how things that used to puzzle me, now, with age, make sense. 

Sarah (my wife) has noted how with age certain passages of Scripture that used to be confusing, now make perfect sense. I agree. No one could have explained them to us at the time. We needed to live it. Time brought wisdom and understanding. Many times the answers didn’t come in an abrupt or blinding way. Often the answers came slowly and then in retrospect, made perfect sense. 

Why couldn’t Glenda have just had Dorothy tap her heels at the start of the journey? 

Mysteries. 

Sometimes – with time – Solved.

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Being human Reflections on Life, Being Human, and Medicine Reflections on the Christian Life Updates on my health

What Do You Do When You Cannot See See Out of the Windshield?

I had my repeat CT scans this week. I tried to remain calm. I went to work after my scans were done and tried to act normal. I felt better doing things. Busy was good. 

I got the results early the next morning. 

Better.

The lymph nodes that were there before measured a bit smaller. The conclusion: “No contrast-enhanced CT evidence of locoregional or distant metastatic disease. A prominent subcarinal lymph node and right hilar lymph nodes are largely stable in comparison to 5/14/2020.”

To put it plainly: Still not sure why these lymph nodes are enlarged. Maybe I had a bronchitis or allergies or something? They are not behaving like spread of my cancer. 

That puts me back where I was before: The cancer could be completely gone. Or maybe not. I will continue with CT scans every 3 months and we will see.

Below is a blog that I wrote the week before I got my repeat CT scans. As usual, I wrote this as an honest expression of thought. I share it in the hope that others might identify and somehow it might be helpful. 


The Dream

I couldn’t see.

I had that dream again last night.

It is a dream I have had many times in the past.  

I am driving down the road and then suddenly I cannot see the road or anything in front of me. The dream I remember the most is driving at night in the rain. Suddenly everything is dark, and I cannot see the road. Last night the dream was driving in a snowstorm. I was following another car. I could see the car’s taillights. Suddenly the car slowed down. I assumed they were frustrated with me following them and wanted me to pass them. When I passed them however I was suddenly in a blinding snowstorm. I couldn’t see anything at all. I had just accelerated to pass them and was going at full speed and I couldn’t see.

It feels like I have closed my eyes. No matter how hard I try I can’t force my eyes open, or get them to clear enough so that I can see again. I know it is really bad. I am rushing down the road and I cannot see.

What do you do when you can’t see the road in front of you?

In the dream world, the answers may be a bit strange. I worried about slowing down too quickly because I had just passed the other car. I didn’t want to have him hit me. I felt like I had to keep driving. But yet, I couldn’t see anything. Certainly, I couldn’t continue to just drive forward without being able to see anything. I had to slow down. I had to do something. 

I kept driving straight. I figured this was my best hope. Just keep going in the direction that I had been going in before I was no longer able to see. I hoped that I could somehow keep the car going straight down the road. I hoped the road would continue to be straight in front of me.

Slow down. I know it was foolish to keep moving. I needed to slow down in a controlled manner. If I was going to be running into disaster maybe it would be better if I wasn’t barreling toward it out of control. 

Try to stop? This was what I thought I needed to do. Unless I were to regain some sight soon I should try to stop. This also seemed risky, however. I knew the other car was behind me and also likely to not be able to see me. It didn’t seem like it was an option. I had to just keep moving along.

Eventually in my dream, I came to a town. As I entered the town, things started to become visible. I saw houses and trees and then I could see the road again. I saw enough that I was able to pull over to the curb and stop and rest.  When I did so, I began to think about all of the horrible things that could have happened to me in the storm. But they didn’t.

It is morning now. I am sitting alone in our sunroom and looking out the window. I can see. The early morning sun is soothing. The trees look beautiful. I breathed in deeply trying to take in the calm before I get ready for work. In that moment the dream came rushing back to me. I remember it suddenly in great detail.

Why do I have that dream?

Is it that I am currently driving forward and not sure where the road is going to go in front of me? Does it feel like my eyes are forced closed or frustratingly blinded? 

I don’t feel stressed. I am not obsessing with worry. From a psychological standpoint I think I am fine. This dream comes as an unwanted intrusion on my understanding of myself.

But there is my upcoming CT scan to reassess some enlarged lymph nodes in my chest. I also have an ongoing issue with fatigue and lack of stamina. Where am I going? What is the future? I keep trying to see the road ahead. I blink and try clear my eyes and strain to see. No matter what I do, my vision is obscured. 

That is not good. I am rushing down the road and I cannot see.

What do you do when you can’t see the road in front of you?

I keep driving straight. That seems the most logical thing to do. I will take whatever direction I was going in before the snow blocked my vision. I will just keep trying to point in that direction. I will just keep going on the same path. That is not a great answer, but it is the best that I have. 

I think I should try to slow down. It doesn’t seem wise to be barreling ahead at full speed. The road might just suddenly turn in front of me. 

But how do I slow down? What does that practically mean in how I live my life? 

In my dream I cannot compel myself to push on the gas when I have lost my ability to see. So also, in my life I feel a loss of drive. I now see it is the exact same sensation. I cannot compel myself to push forward when I have lost my ability to see. I find myself pulling my foot off of the accelerator. It is not that I am stopping. But I just can’t make myself keep powering forward with the same intensity.

Earlier this week I was clearly getting frustrated with myself. In the past I have been driven by my calling and passion. I could push and push and push. But now, where is my drive? Where is my passion? Where is my energy? I find my foot is unable to push on the accelerator. My brain will not let me do it.

Can I stop? But just like in the dream, I don’t know where or how to safely stop. As odd as it is in the dream, I feel safer coasting along then I would if I slammed on the brakes.

In my dream the road didn’t turn. I miraculously didn’t drive off of the edge of a cliff or into a tree. Once I was able to see and then stop, I sighed a deep breath of relief. In that moment, I thanked God for guiding my car when I had no idea where the road was.

So also, now, in this moment I do the same thing. It is a helpless dependency. It is like driving at full speed and suddenly being unable to see. Maybe that is ok. Maybe that is what I am supposed to have in this moment. “Dear Lord, I cannot see. Please help me to not drive over the edge of a cliff.”

In my dream the town was a nice town. It wasn’t anything dramatic. But it was wonderful and soothing to have a place with people, and safety and the ability to pull over and stop and think. It was nice to be able to see again.

What is next? I wonder what the next town I am coming to is going to look like? I hope it is charming. I hope it has a curb with plenty of easy parking where I can stop for just a few minutes. I hope it has a lot of little shops and a real main street. Maybe we can get out and walk around and take a break for a little while. Then I will feel ready to climb back in the car and step on the accelerator again.


But for now, I drive on and try my best to control my car, even though I cannot see anything.


My CT scan showed no evident spread of my cancer.  I am on summer vacation now. 

For a moment my vision has cleared. I can see out of the windshield.

There is a nice little town. It has a parking space for us to stop. We are going to get out of the car and walk the street and look at the little shops. A little while later we will get back in our car and we will start driving again.