Categories
Education Medicine Observations Policy Seattle Systems

A Primer on Psychiatric Boarding.

The Washington State Supreme Court recently stated that “psychiatric boarding” is unconstitutional.[1. You can read the court’s opinion here. It’s a fairly easy read.] I agree with and support the court’s decision. “Boarding” is a terrible practice.

To be clear, though, the consequences of this decision may be undesirable.

Some background: In the state of Washington, the only people who can hospitalize individuals against their will for psychiatric reasons are “designated mental health professionals” (DMHPs). Police officers can bring people to emergency rooms against their wills and physicians and other professionals can evaluate people who show distress. A DMHP, as an agent of the state, makes the ultimate decision whether to detain someone against his will.

Let’s be clear about this: Being hospitalized against your will is stressful, upsetting, and frightening. The state is taking away the rights and freedoms from an individual. Civil liberties? Gone. It is a big deal. No one enjoys the process.

In order for a DMHP to hospitalize someone against his will, a person first must show evidence of a “mental disorder”.[2. A finer point about “showing evidence of a mental disorder” is that there should be some proof that hospitalization is an effective treatment for the mental disorder in question. This is why some people go to jail and not to the hospital. This path can lead us into the weeds.] Having a mental disorder alone, however, is not reason enough to hospitalize someone against his will. At least one of the following three criteria must also apply:

  • He is a danger to himself. (Consider a man with major depression who was found nearly unconscious; a noose made of bedsheets was around his neck.)
  • He is a danger to others. (Consider the woman who is walking across the highway multiple times because she believes that God wants her to proselytize to the drivers.)
  • He shows “grave disability”, or is unable to meet his basic needs. (Consider the man who has not eaten any food in nearly two weeks because he believes that all food is actually composed of his internal organs.)[3. If you think that none of these scenarios ever really happen, I encourage you to go volunteer at your local emergency room.]

Thus, at least two people–the person who wanted the individual to go to the hospital and the DMHP–were concerned enough about the individual to believe that he needed to be in the hospital to get care.[4. For now, let us put aside arguments that psychiatric hospitalization is never helpful or indicated. Some people believe that psychiatric hospitalization is a veiled form of incarceration.]

That “to get care” part is the crucial point when we talk about “boarding”.

People who are involuntarily detained in Washington are only allowed to be hospitalized in certain facilities (or certain beds). Facilities submit an application to the state to become a “certified” place where they can treat people who are hospitalized against their wills.[5. Indeed, there are psychiatric hospitals in Washington State that are not certified to treat people who are hospitalized against their wills.] These places can be entire buildings (called “evaluation and treatment facilities”, or “E&Ts”, here). They can also be specific beds within a hospital, usually on psychiatric wards.

There has been concern if “inpatient psychiatric capacity is sufficient to meet [a] potential increased demand” for involuntary hospitalizations. All certified beds are frequently occupied. Most people who are referred for involuntary hospitalization are not in psychiatric hospitals; they are in hospital emergency rooms.

There are medical centers (and, by extension, hospital emergency rooms) in Washington State that do not have any psychiatric providers on staff.

Thus, DMHPs have been hospitalizing people against their wills, but no certified treatment beds are available. These detained individuals therefore are admitted to hospital emergency rooms or random hospital wards while they wait for certified beds to open up.

If the hospital does not have psychiatric providers on staff, that means these detained individuals don’t receive any psychiatric care. People could wait hours, days, or even weeks before they are transferred to a certified facility to receive formal psychiatric services.

In the meantime, these individuals are often physically restrained to their beds. There might not be enough hospital staff to fulfill the state’s mandate that they remain in the hospital against their wills.

Sometimes these individuals receive doses of sedating medication for multiple days in a row. (Imagine you work in an emergency department. Someone who is detained in your emergency department will not stop screaming obscenities at other patients. He also tries to spit at everyone. He has also tries to punch the nurses whenever they walk by.)

This isn’t treatment. (Remember, the state ordered that this person be hospitalized against his will to get care.)

Thus, you can now see why the state supreme court decreed that it is not okay to “board” psychiatric patients. People who are detained against their will, by the state’s definition, need treatment. “Boarding” isn’t treatment.

This is why I agree with and support the court’s decision.

However, now that you know that there aren’t enough certified psychiatric beds in the state, you can guess what undesirable consequences might come from this decision.

The detained individual in the emergency room who yells and tries to punch all the nurses? Now he might end up in jail on charges of assault. Jail is not a therapeutic environment. Some jails do not offer any psychiatric services. Incarceration, like boarding, is not treatment.

Detained individuals might instead be released into the community if no certified beds are available at that time. Someone else–another police officer, another family member–might try to re-refer them back to the hospital a few hours after they were released. This results in a cycle in and out of hospitals and other institutions. That isn’t treatment, either.

Hospitals that have certified beds may feel pressure to discharge people more quickly due to the heightened demand. These individuals may not have recovered “enough” and may return to the hospital much sooner than anyone would like.

Another potential consequence is that those individuals who seek hospital services on their own–perhaps in an effort to avoid involuntary hospitalization–may not be able to get into a hospital at all. Those detained against their wills may occupy all of the certified hospital beds.

My understanding is that the state is considering various ways to work with the new law: This includes increasing the number of certified beds, creating different options to divert people from hospitals, and reducing the amount of referrals for involuntary hospitalization.

I don’t understand why some hospitals don’t employ psychiatrists.[6. Psychiatric services are not “revenue generators”, so I suspect this is the reason why some hospitals don’t hire psychiatrists.] If a pregnant woman about to have a baby shows up at an emergency room, hospitals have staff available with the expertise to manage her care.

Why isn’t this the case with psychiatry?


Categories
Homelessness Seattle Systems

Did You Nominate Me for Seattle Mag’s Community Service Award?

Hey, there’s a short blurb in Seattle Magazine about my work during the past two years:

Top Docs ’14: Community Service Award Winners

Scroll down to “The Bridge”. (If you want the source that “more than 60 percent of chronically homeless people in cities nationwide face lifelong mental health problems”, it’s here.)

Thank you to whoever nominated me! (Please tell me who you are.) It was an delightful surprise.

(In the meantime, I’m asking readers for help for post ideas on Facebook and Twitter. I welcome your suggestions.)

Categories
Lessons Medicine Nonfiction NYC Observations Seattle

Doctor as Patient.

It had been about two years since I last saw a primary care doctor. I was still living in New York City. My initial—and only—appointment with that physician lasted nearly an hour.

The front desk clerk had a round, pale face. Behind her was a textured wall over which ran a thin sheet of quiet water. Lush leaves spilled over the brim of the planter onto the marbled countertop.

“I’ll let the doctor know you’re here,” she nearly whispered.

He was a family practice physician. He was friendly. He smiled at me. He asked me if I lived in the city. When he learned that I worked as a psychiatrist, he commented, “Wow. That’s hard work, Dr. Yang.”

It was professional courtesy to address me by that title, though it didn’t feel right to me. I looked down to mask my discomfort. My feet dangled off of the examination table.

“Do you have a private practice?”

No, I said. I worked primarily with people who were homeless.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s even harder work.”

He asked me about my medical history, then my family history. He went through the major components of a physical exam.

He told me about his work as a primary care doctor. As a physician in primary care, it was getting more difficult to stay in business. He previously worked in New Jersey, but had been practicing in New York for a few years. He didn’t think he would leave the city. He was established now.

His technician then put square stickers on my chest and the EKG machine printed out my heart rhythms. Next, I took a deep breath in and held it as another technician took a chest X-ray. And then, another technician, who apparently worked as an anesthesiologist when he was living in his native country, told me not to worry too much when he drew my blood.

“It won’t hurt at all,” he snickered.

The physician called me two weeks later. He said that everything looked fine.


My primary care appointment in Seattle was one of the first visits of the physician’s day. I walked into the medical center and looked at the directory. I must have looked perplexed. A portly man with glasses asked, “Can I help you find something?”

“I’m looking for Dr. X’s office.”

“Fifth floor.”

Dr. X wasn’t a physician in private practice. Are there even family practice doctors in private practice in Seattle? I wasn’t sure how long the appointment would be. Not long ago, I was working with primary care physicians who had appointment lengths of 20 minutes. I envied them. I only had 15 minutes with each patient. A lot could happen in those extra five minutes.

The medical assistant was wearing a plaid shirt and black high-top sneakers. I couldn’t help but think that no medical assistant would dare wear anything like that in New York.

He left me alone in the exam room and I waited. It was a cold room and the gown was thin. I hoped that my doctor wouldn’t be harried and rushed.

After the physician knocked on the door, she quickly entered and gently shut the door behind her. She was about my age. She wore a long white coat and her stethoscope was around her neck. I immediately thought of the snarky comment one of the surgery residents had made about internists when I was a medical student:

“They wear their stethoscopes like they’re dog collars.”

“Hello, Ms. Yang—Dr. Yang? Dr. Yang, right?”

“Yes,” I said. There was that professional courtesy again.

She didn’t ask me many questions. I had filled out the general health questionnaire prior to the visit; she reviewed my responses. She typed some notes on the computer while we talked.

With what seemed like some sheepishness, she provided counsel on vitamin D. Maybe she thought that I was already aware of this. Maybe she thought that she shouldn’t go on about it because I had resources to look it up myself. Maybe she didn’t want to seem condescending. I couldn’t help but think, Don’t worry about me—just do your job. I don’t follow vitamin D as closely as you do, just as you don’t follow schizophrenia as closely as I do.

She went through the major components of a physical exam. We soon were talking about her job.

“Yeah, I went to a Prestigious Residency, but it really was malignant,” she said, pushing on my abdomen. “I’m so glad that I have this job here.”

“Do you mind if I ask about any productivity requirements you might have?”

“You may not believe this, but my schedule is built so that I only have seven patients scheduled in the morning and seven in the afternoon. I can add more on, but that’s the general schedule. That gives me time to call patients, return e-mails, and spend more time with geriatric patients, since, you know, they often have a lot of health problems and need more time.”

I was silently doing the math in my head. Seven patients for an entire morning! There were days when I had seven patients scheduled in two hours!

“Yeah, I can’t imagine working like that,” she said.

She spoke quickly after she completed the exam. “If you have any questions, you can call me or send a message through the website. It was nice to meet you.”

As I was getting dressed, I found myself wondering about all the tests she could have done, but did not. Wouldn’t it have been nice if she had baseline studies for me? What if I developed an arrhythmia in the future? Wouldn’t a previous EKG be useful for that? And what about basic labs? What if my kidneys start to peter out? Wouldn’t it be nice to know that they were fine in 2012?

And then I caught myself. Most women my age are healthy and without medical problems. I hadn’t endorsed any symptoms that would warrant further intervention. Tests had their risks, too.

Doctor as patient. I considered myself lucky that I was able to leave without new diagnoses or the need to return within a few weeks.

And I remembered again what it was like to be a patient.

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
NYC Observations Seattle

The Sound of Rain.

The rainy season had started and we were out for a run.

“I like the sound of rain in Seattle.”

The droplets falling from the pewter sky collected on the red, orange, and yellow leaves that still clung to the trees. Thin streams of water slid down the street. The falling water whispered through the air, a serene accompaniment to our footfalls on the wet sidewalk.

“The rain sounds gentle and quiet here. Remember what it sounded like in New York?”

“UMBRELLA! UMBRELLA! FIVE DOLLARS! FIVE DOLLARS! UMBRELLA! UMBRELLA!”