Categories
Lessons Medicine Seattle

Happy Thanksgiving.

Originally written in 2004. Remember all those things and people you are grateful for.


Happy Thanksgiving. You’re holding the slender and sweaty hand of your beautiful girlfriend. Her eyes are halfway closed and her entire body stiffens. Her head slowly turns towards the left. Her pupils are large, oh so large, making her green eyes that much more beautiful.

She’s seizing again.

The heart monitor shows her heart ticking away at 160 beats per minute—no, make that 170. Now 180.

The nurse, the mother, and the physician look at the heart monitor, as if it is some sort of oracle that will exorcise the spirits that have overtaken the body of this beautiful young woman.

Drugs are pushed. Her eyelids flicker, her body slackens a bit. She begins to mumble again. She picks at her sheets. Those green eyes show themselves again and she takes your hand, addressing you as her mother.

You take her hand, feeling that lovely warmth between your fingers. You stroke her hand gently as she continues to babble nonsense through the fog of her encephalitis. She begins to laugh—at what, you’re not sure—and you can’t help but laugh with her.

She’s right there before you, but she doesn’t know who you are. So all you can do is squeeze her hand again.

Happy Thanksgiving. Your sister has a brain tumor that has pushed most of her brain towards the left side of her head. She’s sleepy. She won’t wake up. She can’t move the right side of her body. She, of course, is not aware of this. You are.

Along with your mother, your church, her friends, and other relatives. You have somehow packed fifteen people into the room. There are ten more people outside, peering into the room. You’re crying. You’re trying not to. You’re worried that she’s suffering, that she’s in pain.

You ask questions about morphine—is she in pain? is she choking on her saliva? why is she making that sound? why is she breathing funny? What you really want to ask is When is she going to die? but you can’t because it just isn’t fair. She’s so young. Why does she have to have a brain tumor? Why does this have to happen today?

You ask for morphine—and the doctor knows that it’s not for your sister; it’s for you. You’re suffering for her. You’re suffering because of her. And you want to make it stop.

She’s too young to die.

“Nobody can predict when she is going to die,” the young doctor says with greater confidence than she actually feels. In fact, she is horribly terrified that she is going to say the wrong thing, that she is going to break fifteen hearts simultaneously. But she continues softly: “Just as every individual leads a unique life, each person dies a unique death. And no one knows when or how it will happen. But we will do everything to make her comfortable. And please let us know what we can do to help you.”

You burst into tears. It is that “D” word. That horrible “D” word that is going to steal your sister from you.

You don’t see the young doctor after she leaves the room—she travels through the stairwells, thinking about many of the things that are going through your mind. And you don’t know that this young doctor has never declared a death before[1. The patient in question did die on Thanksgiving. I declared her death. Every Thanksgiving, I think of her.] and may have to do just that, tonight, on Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving. There is a smorgasbord of Thanksgiving goodies in the hallway, in the nurses stations, in the Tupperware boxes that relatives and friends are bringing to the hospital. Little children are drawing pictures of scraggly turkeys with worn-down crayons. Elderly mothers are cutting turkey breasts into chunks to feed to their sons. Young daughters and sons are laughing with their fathers who are sitting in the ICU, wires and tubes encircling their bodies. Couples stare out the windows, talking softly, watching the light rain drizzle upon the dying trees towering over Seattle.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said into the phone. “I just wanted to call and say ‘I love you’, Dad, because, you know, you could be in the hospital today. And you’re not.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Maria,” he replied. “I love you, too.”


Categories
Lessons

Encouragement.

Everyone suffers.

What we all forget is that suffering will pass. It may not go away as quickly as we would like, but it will pass.

Others have suffered in ways that you cannot imagine. They persisted. Their suffering passed. And then they helped and inspired you, sometimes because of their suffering.

We need you. You have already done or said something that has helped someone in ways that you don’t realize.

And you will again.

Please persist. This too shall pass.

Categories
Lessons Observations

Backpack.

We could not resist looking through the window, even though we knew that nothing had changed.

“I wonder why he chose that time of day. What was going through his mind?”

Traffic was moving again. The line of police cars had dispersed.

“Thank goodness no patients were here when it happened.”

The highway patrol had not yet removed the orange traffic cones.

“It’s amazing that none of us saw him do it. We were all here. If I saw it, I would have called it a day and gone home.”

The van marked “CORONER” slowed down and parked in the shoulder.

“He must have hit a car. You know how bad morning traffic is. Can you imagine what that must have been like for the driver?”

Pedestrians on the overpass kept walking. None of them looked down over the railing.

“This is awful.”

Covering the mass on the freeway was a yellow tarp. It flapped as cars drove past.

“I wonder what happened that made him want to do that. How hopeless he must have felt.”

Two men picked up the body wrapped in the yellow tarp. They loaded it onto the stretcher.

“We don’t know. He might have been hearing voices telling him to jump. He might have been drunk. We will never know.”

The lights of the van glowed red before it merged into traffic. If there were stains on the road, they were too small to see.

“I’m glad that we still feel something when someone commits suicide.”

We stood in silence, still gazing out the window.

Inside the area bounded by the orange cones was a crumpled backpack. That was all that remained.

Categories
Education Lessons NYC Policy PPOH

Assertive Community Treatment.

While at PPOH, I spent two days a week working with an Assertive Community Treatment (ACT) team.

ACT is somewhat like a psychiatric hospital outside of a hospital. It is an evidence-based practice[1. From the New York State Office of Mental Health: “When comparing recipients before and after receiving ACT services, studies have shown ACT recipients experience greater reductions in psychiatric hospitalization rates, emergency room visits and higher levels of housing stability after receiving ACT services. Research has also shown that ACT is more satisfactory to recipients and their families and is no more expensive than other types of community-based care.”] that features a multidisciplinary team (social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists, nurses, case workers) that works with a small group of patients who often experience impairing psychiatric symptoms. It provides comprehensive and flexible psychiatric services. All of the care occurs in the community.

The ACT team I worked on was staffed with:

  • one program director (social worker)
  • one team leader (social worker)
  • one MICA (“mental illness and chemical addiction”) specialist (social worker)
  • one vocational specialist (social worker)
  • one entitlements specialist (almost-graduate from social work school)
  • two case workers (one who had recently earned a social work degree)
  • one registered nurse
  • one secretary (who did much more than clerical work)
  • two psychiatrists (our combined hours did not fill a full-time position)

During my time there, I provided care for about 35 patients. (The other psychiatrist provided care for the other 35 patients.) The staff to patient ratio is purposely kept low, as ACT is considered an intensive intervention.

Patients who are referred for ACT services must have been psychiatrically hospitalized (often involuntarily) at least four times in the past year. They often have multiple emergency room or mobile crisis visits. Other outpatient services have often failed or have been insufficient to prevent crises and hospitalizations.

Thus, a chief goal of ACT is to keep people out of the hospital.

The ACT model dictates that the team (as a whole) must make a total of at least six contacts with each client[2. There is a movement in mental health—and in other parts of medicine—to move away from the term “patient”. In this particular ACT setting, patients were called “clients”. Sometimes they are called “consumers”.] every month, preferably in the community. One of these visits should be a meeting with the psychiatrist. Some patients regularly came to the office for their visits. Others, however, could not or would not come in. We thus went out to them. (Hence the adjective “assertive”, which, in some cases, could be construed as “coercive”. More about coercion later.)

If I did not see patients in the office, I often saw them in their apartments. (Limits and boundaries do not blur, but they certainly shift. My experiences in these residential settings inspired this post. To be clear, there were a few individuals who I never met alone. I insisted they meet me outside or in the clinic. Some of this was due to their past behaviors; some of this was my gut instinct.) For those who did not feel comfortable meeting in their apartments, we met in lobbies, parks, or chatted during walks. (During my time on ACT, I came to value talking and walking as a therapeutic intervention.)

ACT was formerly deemed “long term care”; some patients have been on ACT teams for over a decade. (This is often due to repeated psychiatric hospitalizations despite ACT services.) Most of the patients had psychotic disorders (such as schizophrenia) and, surprisingly, many of them had actively involved family members. I suspect that this impacted who was referred to ACT; family members were often the ones bringing people to the hospital for care (versus calling the police, etc.) Most patients “graduate” from ACT within a few years: They stay out of the hospital, become more involved in the community, and no longer need that level of care.

I learned in this position that people with chronic psychotic disorders can get better. Their symptoms decrease. They learn how to temper their behavior so that they do not attract undue attention while out in the community. They set and reach personal goals, like earning high school and college degrees, securing employment, getting sober from alcohol and drugs, and taking care of their physical health. They stop smoking! Sometimes they need a lot of support and a number of years need to pass before things settle down, but people with diagnoses of schizophrenia are not doomed to a life of poverty and “low function”.[3. The public rarely hears about positive outcomes for people with schizophrenia. There is research that suggests that a significant number of people with diagnoses of schizophrenia either experience improvement or recovery of their condition. Anecdotally, I agree.]

I also learned the importance of seeing patients in their environments. So much of contemporary medicine now occurs outside of a person’s living situation. That is often appropriate and fair (e.g. patients shouldn’t undergo surgery in their own homes). Because of the intimate nature of medicine, meeting in a “third” location can help preserve privacy and security. However, we can learn so much about how people function (or do not function) when we see their living spaces. We also realize strengths that we would otherwise overlook. A neat home, a sack full of old prescription pills, vinyl records of classical music, papers all over the floor, photographs of friends and family, roaches climbing over dozens of empty cans of soda: All of that is information that doctors often never have.

It is amazing how people live their lives. It is remarkable how much people will tolerate. And it is humbling that people are willing to share their lives with you.


Categories
Education Informal-curriculum Lessons

The Value of Interruptions.

That interview didn’t go well at all. The patient wouldn’t let me get a word in! That little old lady just kept talking and talking and talking. It’s like she thought we had all the time in the world to talk about her children.”

“It was hard to interrupt, huh.”

“Yeah! It seemed like she really wanted to tell me about her kids. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Of course it feels rude to interrupt people. We’re taught to wait our turn and listen when other people talk.”

“Yeah.”

“When you’re interviewing patients, though, it’s not a usual social conversation. Social skills are still important, but the context is different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you routinely ask your friends if they’re in pain? Have you asked your medical school classmates if they’re passing gas? How about your parents? Do you know if they’re taking their medications as directed?

“Oh….”

“Even though we might use our usual words and gestures in conversations with patients, we’re not having routine social interactions with them. You need to get as much accurate history from patients as possible. Accurate histories[1. “Listen to your patient, he is telling you the diagnosis.”] lead to accurate diagnoses, which lead to proper treatment.”

“Right.”

“To be clear, you don’t want to be a jerk when interrupting patients. Practicing and learning the skill of interrupting, while you’re still a student, will serve you well in the future.”