The conversation we keep putting off

It’s almost always quiet when the conversation finally comes up. No alarms. No rushing. Just a patient staring at the ceiling, a family waiting for you to speak, and the shared sense that everyone already knows what needs to be talked about -- even if no one has said it out loud yet.

We are trained for moments of action: abnormal labs, worsening scans, sudden drops in blood pressure. We know what to do when numbers move in the wrong direction. We are comfortable discussing procedures, medications and next steps.

But there is one conversation many doctors still struggle with — the one that does not end with a prescription, a referral, or a plan to “do more.”

The end-of-life conversation.

It is not because doctors do not care. Most of the time, it is because we care deeply. We worry about taking away hope, about saying the wrong thing, about opening a door we are not sure how to close. And so we delay. We wait for the intensive care unit (ICU). We wait for the crisis. We wait until the choices are fewer and the emotions heavier.

By then, the conversation feels rushed. Unfair. Almost cruel.

I have lost count of how many families have said, “Doc, kung alam lang namin…”

If only we had known.

If only someone had explained earlier.

If only we had talked about this sooner.

What often surprises people is that most patients actually want these conversations. They want honesty, even when it is uncomfortable. They want to understand what the road ahead might look like — not just in terms of days or weeks, but in comfort, dignity and meaning.

What they do not want is to be blindsided.

Too often, end-of-life discussions are reduced to technical questions: Resuscitate or not. CPR or no CPR. Intubate or don’t intubate. These decisions matter, but when asked without context, they miss the point.

Because patients are not really asking about machines.

They are asking if they will suffer.

If they will be alone.

If they will become a burden.

If someone will still care for them when cure is no longer possible.

In our setting, these conversations are rarely just between doctor and patient. There is almost always a family council in the room — each voice carrying love, fear, guilt and the unspoken belief that stopping means abandoning. Sometimes the loudest voice is not the patient’s. Sometimes the patient never truly gets asked.

Sometimes, the hardest truth — for families and doctors alike — is accepting that love does not always look like rescue.

There is also the quiet presence of money in the room. Not always spoken, but always felt. The cost of another procedure. Another day in the ICU. Another round of treatment with uncertain benefit. These realities shape decisions, whether we acknowledge them or not.

When end-of-life conversations happen earlier — before the crisis — something shifts. Patients do not necessarily give up. Many feel steadier, more grounded. They ask better questions. They choose care that aligns more closely with what matters to them. Comfort takes precedence. Time with family begins to outweigh another intervention with slim odds.

Families cope better too. Grief changes when people know the care given reflected what their loved one wanted. There is less guilt, less second-guessing, fewer lingering “what ifs” that follow them long after the hospital room has been cleared.

Many of us were taught, directly or indirectly, that death represents failure. That if a patient dies, we must have fallen short. But that way of thinking does a disservice to patients — and to ourselves.

There is still much medicine can offer, even when cure is no longer on the table.

Relief from pain.

Freedom from unnecessary suffering.

Clarity instead of confusion.

Presence instead of fear.

I have seen patients visibly relax once the conversation finally happens. Shoulders drop. Breathing slows. Not because they are ready to die, but because someone finally acknowledged what they had been carrying quietly for weeks — sometimes months.

“I was just waiting for you to say it, Doc,” one patient told me softly. “Ayoko na magkunwari (I don’t want to pretend anymore).”

These moments do not make us less of a doctor. They remind us why we became one.

The goal of end-of-life conversations is not to predict the exact moment life ends. It is to help patients live whatever time remains on their own terms. To ensure treatment plans reflect values, not just protocols. To replace fear with understanding.

Yes, these conversations are uncomfortable. They take time. They require us to sit with uncertainty — something medicine does not always teach us well. But avoiding them does not protect patients. It leaves them unprepared.

Perhaps the better question is not, “When should I have this conversation?” but, “Why haven’t I already?”

Because when the moment finally comes — and it always does — it is far kinder to say, “We’ve talked about this before, and I know what matters to you,” than to ask a family to decide everything in the middle of chaos.

In the end, medicine is not only about prolonging life. It is about honoring it.

And sometimes, the most important thing we can offer is not another intervention, but the courage to sit down early enough to talk - before the room grows quiet for all the wrong reasons.