June 26th, 2009 by scanman in Better Health Network, True Stories
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…
I was called to do an urgent bedside ultrasound scan of the abdomen for a trauma victim.
The patient was a young man of twenty-four who had been involved in a road traffic accident (RTA = MVA in US medical terminology). He had been brought – without any kind of basic life support – after sustaining a major trauma at a village about two hours away. The intensivist in the ICU told me that he was in severe hypovolemic shock on admission with a GCS of 4. Preliminary examination and radiographs had shown a comminuted fracture of the right femur (thigh bone) with a large hematoma and some facial bone fractures. After initial assessment and resuscitation in the casualty, a CT scan was done. He had a fracture in the frontal bone and a few small contusions in the brain, that raised the possibility of Diffuse Axonal Injury, nothing that could explain a GCS of 4 though. The assumption was that it was all due to extensive blood loss and hypovolemia. He was shifted straight to the ICU after the CT scan and I was called to do an ultrasound scan to check for hemoperitoneum (ie, abdominal injury and blood loss).
The scan was normal. As I was doing the scan, the intensivist was busy trying to put in a Subclavian central line. He secured the line just as I finished my scan, which incidentally was normal. As I was stepping away from the bed, the patient had a cardiac arrest, as evidenced by sudden bradycardia on the monitor. I moved out of the way as the intensivist, orthopaedic surgeon and ICU nurses went through a full resuscitation protocol. After a while, even I realized that it seemed like a futile exercise.
I was not particularly busy, so I peeped into to the Cardiac ICU next door as there seemed to be some commotion there. My cardiologist colleague, a normally friendly soul was peering intently at a very fast heart rhythm on a monitor over the bed of a young girl of about six or seven. There were a couple of nurses injecting something slowly into an intravenous cannula in the kid’s forearm. In passing, I noted that the kid was very calm and seemed very interested in what the nurse was doing. I stepped close to my friend and asked what was up. He turned, gave me a quick nervous smile and said he was trying to revert an SVT (supraventricular tachycardia, a very nasty fast heart rhythm). Honestly, I had never seen an SVT in someone so young, so I asked him what was the history. He told me the kid was brought by her mother to his outpatient clinic a short while ago because she complained of palpitations (I forgot the exact description used by the kid, but it was quite descriptive). My friend said he was sure it was an SVT after a quick examination in the clinic, so he rushed the kid upstairs to the Cardiac ICU, connected her to a monitor, confirmed the diagnosis and had ordered Adenosine IV stat for reversal. He maintained his intent survey of the monitor as he recounted the story and the nurse continued her slow IV injection. At one particular point when the line on the monitor became particularly squiggly, he shouted, “STOP!” and the nurse stopped injecting.
…
It was almost magical.
…
The squiggles became a recognizable cardiac rhythm, albeit very fast – about 160 to 170 beats per minute. My friend called out to one of the superfluous nursing attendants and asked them to get the kid’s mother inside. A very anxious young lady who had obviously been weeping was led in. My friend showed her the monitor and explained to her that the nasty rhythm had been made to behave itself or something to that effect and told her that the kid was out of any imminent danger.
Happy with the positive outcome, I strolled out to be confronted by a wailing family, including two young girls, maybe a year or two older than the calm kid inside, who had just been told that their older brother who fell off his motorbike was dead.
It was past my work hours. I went out and had a drink and reflected.
Such is life.
…
*This blog post was originally published at scan man's notes*
June 26th, 2009 by DrWes in Better Health Network
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I filter through progress notes looking for the few sentences different from the day before, only to find them sandwiching pages and pages of electronically-produced babble dutifully and automatically mass-reproduced in every note. I wonder, has anyone ever looked retrospectively at the mess created by this process developed to assure doctors were doing what they said they were doing? Ironically, I find we’re rarely reading most of what we re-create each day.
But we’re sure good at following the rules.
Next.
I now see prescription refills for each and every bottle of prescriptions ever filled by a patient, the date a patient filled it, and how many pills they received with each prescription. I’m not sure why. I sat awestruck in clinic yesterday when the list extended 94 pages, double-spaced, since January, 2009. No one, and I mean no one, filled that many prescriptions, did they? Or did they? Am I supposed to correct that list? Oh, by the way dear referring doctor, my note’s at the bottom of that listing.
Next.
I get pre-surgical notifications, even though I was the one to notify everyone else about the need for admission, just so I can click on the patient’s name again, lest it not appear I’m not doing enough, I guess.
Next.
I get EKG results forwarded for me to sign electronically, even though I’ve already read them, and signed them, by hand, on the EKG. I get notified again that the order I entered for that EKG now has a result, and I have to click on that to tell the computer, “I know.” But that, you see, is not enough. I must also log in, review, and sign off on my EKG’s on the EKG server, too. After all, I’m responsible, and it’s all about quality.
Quality three times over.
Now, multiply that same process for each and every other test I have ordered.
Next.
I see orders for things I’m not sure I ordered, just to be sure I’m responsible, and watching, literally hundreds of times per day.
Next.
I get e-mails and electronic notifications, and electronic communications, as if I know the difference.
Next.
I bypass nursing notes that are mere QA checklists and say nothing about the patient, except that a nurse was there last night.
Next.
I feel guilty entering data as I talk to my patient while serving my electronic master. Yet I find the stakes are high to assure accuracy and timeliness in clinical electronic reporting. After all, you never hear the bullet that hits you.
Next.
I go home on call, am paged, and reprimanded by a patient who wonders why I can’t look up their medication list on-line, even though I’m standing in the grocery store.
Next.
Worst of all, I find myself sending myself messages, just to make sure I do something tomorrow that I could not get done today.
Killing me softly …
… with information overload.
*This blog post was originally published at Dr. Wes*
June 25th, 2009 by Dr. Val Jones in Audio, Health Policy
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Have you been following these bloggers?
Well you’re in for a treat. I had the good fortune of coralling them for a healthcare reform discussion, lead by Dr. Bob Goldberg of CMPI-Advance. Bob’s recent Op-Ed at ABC can be viewed here. I was going to provide a synopsis of what they said, but then – that would spoil the show!
[Audio:https://www.getbetterhealth.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/cmpi-conference-call-62509.mp3]
June 25th, 2009 by CodeBlog in Better Health Network, Opinion
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Or the other statements, “I could never do this” and “It takes a special person to be able to do this.”
These words are usually uttered by family members who walk into an ICU room to see me calmly managing a patient on drips and vent, hooked up to monitors and other various tubes and wires. I’m sure these words are spoken many many times every day all over the world.
I appreciate hearing it, but it always makes me think of the jobs that I could never do. Sure, there are lots of jobs that I’d simply be unhappy doing, but there are a few that I’d almost rather starve than do.
I could never be a dentist or hygienist. I cannot handle dealing with teeth. If I see that my intubated patient has a loose tooth, I’m done for.
I could never be an exterminator. In fact, I was talking to an exterminator the other day (If you don’t live in California, you are probably not aware that it is, in fact, resting atop a gigantic ant hill). He was friendly and chatty and I myself mentioned that I don’t know how he was able to do what he does because I literally shiver with disgust at the mere PICTURE of a large bug. He then asked what I did and I replied that I was a nurse. He looked at me for a moment and said that the site of blood completely freaks him out. There’s no way he’d ever work in the medical field.
Within my own profession, I can imagine doing almost any type of nursing. That isn’t to say that I’d enjoy it or even be good at it. But there is one branch of nursing that I will never go into. There is one patient population that I cannot even begin to cope with taking care of, and that is burn patients. I don’t know how you can cause someone so much pain day in and day out, even if it’s in the name of healing. Any burn unit nurses out there? How on earth do you work in such a unit?
What are some jobs that you could never do?
*This blog post was originally published at code blog - tales of a nurse*
June 25th, 2009 by DrRob in Better Health Network, Opinion
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I was looking through an article in Time Magazine recently and came across an article about healthcare reform. It spoke of the daunting task ahead and went through a list of the people at the table in the process of creating change. The list included politicians, hospital corporations, pharmaceutical companies, insurance companies, and lobbyists from certain large special-interest groups. Notably absent from the list was physicians and “normal” patients. I commented about this in a conversation with Val Jones, MD, and she said: “If you aren’t at the table, then you’re on the menu.”
She’s right. Up to now, the interests of the people who matter most – the doctor and patient in the exam room – were largely unheard. Folks said they knew our needs, but they all had their own agendas and so often got it wrong (either out of ignorance or out of self-interest). Even the organizations that are supposed to represent my needs, the AMA and the specialty societies to which I belong, are not composed of folks who spend most of their time in the exam room; they are people who have either retired to spend their time in Washington, or are full-time smart people (they know lots about other people’s business). There are very few people at the table who regularly see patients. There are also very few who represent patients without a particular axe to grind (elderly, people with chronic disease or disabilities).
But healthcare is about what goes on in the exam room. The entire point of healthcare is health care; it is about the care of the patient. It isn’t about the business, the drugs, the delivery system, or the insurance industry; it’s about optimizing how the system makes sick people better and keeps better people from becoming sick. Everything else is a means, not an end.
But those of use who are in the exam room are soon to be served up on the menu for the sake of political gain and special interest clout. They may or may not have a good plan, and they may or may not have good intentions. But they definitely do not have an understanding of what really goes on and won’t be affected much by the decisions they make. They are serving up a dinner of food they don’t know about and they won’t have to eat what they cook. How can they make good decisions?
A step in the right direction would be to listen to bloggers. As opposed to the lobbyists and pundits inundating Washington, we actually do healthcare. The doctor and patient blogs on the web represent the interests of the people who are in the middle of the healthcare universe. This universe doesn’t have Washington DC at its center, it has the patient and those who care for him or her.
A good parallel is the crisis in Iran. There are reporters and politicians who say they know what it’s all about – and in some ways they do – but the voice of the people living in Iran are crucial to understanding what is going on. Why are there riots? Ask a rioter. Was there rigging of the election? Ask someone who was there to witness the process. The people who are on the ground should always be listened to. They don’t give the entire perspective, but getting a true perspective is impossible without talking to them.
Don’t just listen to me; I represent a specific point of view, and don’t represent that of patients or specialists fully. Don’t just listen to patient blogs, as they often don’t have a clear understanding of the business of medicine or the complex medical realities (although I know some of them do know an awful lot). We need to force ourselves to the table. We need to give perspective that has previously been invisible.
Blogging matters because it gives perspective that could never come from anywhere else. Blogging is the journalistic equivalent of democracy, giving the average person a chance to make their voice heard.
In July, a group of us medical bloggers will be going to Washington to do what we can to make our voice heard (thanks to Val Jones’ hard work). Maybe it won’t make a difference; but at least we won’t be invisible any more.
*This blog post was originally published at Musings of a Distractible Mind*
