Category: Systems

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction Policy Systems

How to Prevent All of This?

Some of the people under my care in the jail right now are quite ill. (This statement is always true, but it seems that the intensity of illness is greater now than usual.) As a result, the perennial question seems more urgent now: Is there any way to prevent All of This?

For some of them, it seems that the answer is No. Some of them sought out psychiatric services, attended appointments regularly, and had good working relationships with their physicians and therapists. They shared their concerns with friends and family members; they sought out help when they started feeling overwhelmed. Despite these relationships and support, they allegedly did things that resulted in significant criminal charges. And now they’re in jail.

For some of them, the answer might be Yes. Maybe if they had more people they trusted in their lives; maybe if they had a better connection with the counselor or doctor they saw that one time; maybe if their friends and family had more time and resources to seek help with and for them.

Then again, for some of them, the answer might be No, but for frustrating and sad reasons. Maybe their friends and family did everything they could to help them, but they didn’t want their aid. Maybe they became so fearful for their safety that they withdrew from everyone and, in isolation, their symptoms became worse. Maybe they believe that they are fine; it is the rest of the world that is confused and ill. Maybe their only experience with psychiatrists was involuntary hospitalization: Who wants anything to do with a system that takes away your rights and forces you to accept medication?

Some of these people are so young. To be clear, it’s troubling whenever someone of any age ends up in jail solely because of psychiatric symptoms. But can you imagine being 18, 19, or 20 years of age and landing in jail in the midst of hearing incessant, taunting voices, believing disturbing things that simply aren’t real, and having no visitors because the few people who are in your life are scared of you?

It’s heartbreaking.

At least these individuals come to clinical attention. And many get better: They form relationships; they talk with my colleagues and me; they learn how to get along with others; they reflect on what has happened and how to avoid similar consequences in the future; some take medication to help reduce their symptoms.

But then I think about all the people who never encounter law enforcement and never enter the criminal justice system, but they also experience significant symptoms. How do we prevent All of This for:

  • the man who doesn’t tell anyone any personal information and stuffs his tattered clothes with plastic bags to stay warm
  • the woman who won’t move indoors because she believes that the aliens will execute her if she does so
  • the woman who won’t leave her house because she believes her neighbors are cannibals
  • the man who sits all day on the sidewalk across the street from his old employer because he believes that he will get his job back

What about them? How do we help those individuals when the system ignores those who cannot or will not play by the rules?

Many mornings I see the same woman standing near a bus stop. The bus stop is covered, but she never stands underneath the awning. She stands behind the bus stop, even when it’s raining.

You can smell her—a mixture of sweat, dirty socks, and yeast—from several feet away. Pedestrians move around her the way water swirls away from large rocks on the riverbed.

Two black garbage bags sit at her feet. They are full. Plastic zip-lock bags poke out of one of them.

She is a young woman of color. She wears a dark hoodie that is too large for her slender frame, but it’s not zipped up all the way. She’s not wearing anything underneath the hoodie, not even a bra. An unwashed skirt smeared with dirt covers her legs. Her mangled sandals reveal that she has not clipped her toenails in many months.

She talks to an unseen audience and everyone can hear what she says. Her voice is rich and though her sentences do not make sense, she speaks with dignity.

The other morning the rain wasn’t the usual mist that falls from Seattle skies. The droplets were full and heavy, a shower of dark water as the sky was filling with grey light.

No one was standing in the bus shelter. Her clothes were already damp.

“Excuse me?” I asked. She had raised an arm to make a point in her discussion.

She fell silent and blinked a few times.

“Do you want to move so you’re under the bus shelter? So you won’t get wet?”

She turned her head and looked away.

“I can help you move your stuff. It’s raining pretty hard right now.”

She dropped her arm and turned her head further.

“What’s your name? My name is Maria.”

She glanced at me, raised her arm back up, and resumed speaking: “All in all, we must to the left….”

I stood there for a moment, waiting for a sign. None came. I walked away.

Categories
Consult-Liaison Education Medicine Systems

The Social History.

From the notes I read, it seems that other medical specialties limit “social history” to whether or not someone uses tobacco, drinks alcohol, or uses drugs.

“Social history” is meant to get a sense of the context in which people live. Where do they live? Who do they live with? How did they come to live there? Where did they grow up? What sort of work do they do? How much school have they finished? What do they do for fun? What are the important relationships in their lives? etc.

I almost always start my clinical interviews with the social history. There are several reasons why I do this:

One, it’s a more neutral place to start. My hope is that it will help the person feel more comfortable talking to me. Most of these questions are easy to answer, since many of them overlap with social conversation: Where do you live? How long have you lived there? This is also an opportunity to communicate through non-verbal communication: The nodding, the eye contact, and all the other behaviors that show that I’m paying attention and worthy of trust. (“See, it’s not so bad to talk with a psychiatrist.”)

Two, it puts the information the person shares with me into context. If people don’t have a stable place to live, then they have good reason to feel anxious about their safety and exhausted from poor sleep. If someone lives with other people who are struggling with substance use or are often fighting, then this person may not be able to recruit them to help with the tasks of daily life. They may not even feel safe staying with them, but don’t have other choices. One can’t expect someone to take medication on a regular basis when they don’t have enough money to buy food.

Three, if people don’t want to talk to me for whatever reason, the way they stop the conversation is useful information. Sometimes people are paranoid for a variety of reasons—some based in reality, some not—and they shut down the interview. Sometimes people want to talk to me, but they’re exhausted and ask me to come back later. Sometimes people don’t like something about me: my hair (it’s noteworthy how some people respond to my hair), my ethnicity, my clothes, my sex, the way I talk. I can’t change most of those things, and how people respond to all that tells me (1) how I can better interact with them in the future and (2) what might be going on that is causing them to respond this way. And sometimes people don’t want to talk to me because I’m not conducting the interview in a skillful way: Maybe I’m coming across as cranky, uncaring, or judgy.

Four, and most importantly, I want the person to know that I view them as a human being. I wince whenever someone immediately launches into their mental health history: “Okay, I have a diagnosis of schizophrenia and I take Zyprexa and Cogentin….” This tells me that this person got the message over time that no one is interested in him as a person; people only want to know his diagnosis and medications. But people aren’t their diagnoses or their medication regimens. All people have hopes and dreams; they have things they want to do and people they want to be. While a summary statement might make the interview more efficient, it matters whether this person volunteers at the animal shelter every week because he loves dogs or whether he stays at home and watches TV all day. This information is valuable, regardless of his diagnosis.

It takes time to get a social history. Short appointments, though, are short-sighted. It’s much faster to generate diagnoses from labs and studies; it’s much faster to write prescriptions than to listen to patients. If physicians don’t get an accurate history, then physicians are more likely to generate wrong diagnoses. Wrong diagnoses, along with no information about the contexts in which people live, lead to wrong interventions. Did anyone then actually save any time?

Categories
Education Homelessness Medicine Nonfiction Policy Systems

People Get Better.

“What?!” he exclaimed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” I replied, puzzled.

“That’s… amazing.”

“Yeah, it is.” I paused, finally realizing that he had never heard me talk about this before. “It actually happens a lot. People get better. People get better all the time.”

When I first met him, he screamed at me, his face red, spittle flying from his lips. He refused to believe I was a physician.

“Women can’t be doctors! They can’t!”

He did believe, though, that televisions could control his thoughts.

“They know what I think! When they start talking, they control what I think and what I say and what I do!”

He drew a swastika that covered the entire wall of his jail cell.

“Yes, I believe in white supremacy! But I’m not part of a group!”

He accepted medications on his own. First, the yelling stopped. Then, the swastika disappeared. Drawings of cute farm animals took its place. Within a few weeks, he greeted me with a smile.

“Hi, Dr. Yang. How are you doing today? I hope you’re well.”

He invited me to sit at the small table next to the kitchenette in his apartment.

“You want anything to drink?”

“No, thank you. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. What do you know about the Mediterranean diet? I want to try that. I want to lose some of this weight.”

After discussing the merits of vegetables and lean proteins as they related to heart health, he leaned back in his chair. He then blurted, “It’s been six months since I smoked a cigarette.”

He never smiled when he shared his accomplishments. His condition prevented him from doing so. I smiled for him.

He resumed musing about dietary changes. I mused about how far he had come: Just 18 months ago he was living on the streets, often snarling at strangers and the voices that only he heard. He came to the attention of the police when he chased a young mother pushing her baby in a stroller. He threatened to beat them with the metal pipe in his hand. The police thankfully sent him to the hospital for care.

“Thanks for seeing me,” he said as he walked me to the door. The voices hadn’t completed disappeared, but he could ignore them now. “I like steak and potatoes, but I’ll try the leafy vegetables.”

He used both hands to smear his own feces on his arms, chest, and belly. He applied toothpaste to his elbows and his knees. I asked him why.

“because it’s protection it’s protection against all of you I shouldn’t be here I’m fine I’m not sick you don’t understand who I am they all know who I am you would be scared too if you knew who I am people know me from way back—”

He began howling at the door.

Within days of him receiving medications, all of that stopped. His jail cell was clean. He took showers. He never spoke of what happened. Neither did I.

I was taking a walk a few months later when I heard someone call, “Hey, Dr. Yang!”

I turned around and saw a group of men in uniform working. This man, suited up like his colleagues, waved at me and smiled.

I couldn’t help but smile—this is fanstastic!—but felt a twinge of embarrassment. Did he know that he had called me “doctor”? What would his coworkers think?

First do no harm. I waved back.

“Nice to see you, Doc,” he continued. “I’m doing good.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Take care of yourself.”

“I will, Doc. Thanks.”

People get better. The science hasn’t yet generated interventions that guarantee that everyone will get better. Furthermore, some people who could get better can’t access care due to barriers related to finances, policy, and other systemic factors.

Until then, we must share both stories and data (try this, this, and this) that people get better. It is amazing, but it shouldn’t be surprising.

Categories
Funding Homelessness Nonfiction NYC Policy Reflection Seattle Systems

God’s Work versus Meaningful Work versus Value.

Every now and then, when some people learn what kind of work I do, they say, “You’re doing God’s work. Thank you.”

They mean well, so I accept the compliment, though I also tack on, “I also like what I do. It’s meaningful work for me.”

So many of the people I see, whether in my current job or in my past jobs working in other underserved communities, have a lot going on that psychiatry and medicine cannot formally address. One example is housing. It is often an effective intervention for the distress of people who don’t have a place to live, though housing is not something physicians can prescribe. However, there are individuals who are eligible for housing, but do not want to move into housing for reasons that do not make sense to most people. For example, in New York I worked with a man who would spend his days sitting in front of the building where he once worked before he became ill. He talked to himself and burned through multiple packs of cigarettes. He did not recognize how soiled his clothes and skin became with time. At night he disappeared into the subway tunnels and rode the trains. He did not want to move into an apartment until he was able to get his job back, even though he hadn’t worked there in over ten years. With time (nearly two years!) and unrelenting attention, our team was able to persuade him to try living indoors. He eventually accepted the key and moved in.

There are other active conditions that I do not have the skills to treat: Sometimes it’s institutional racism; sometimes it’s multiple generations of poverty. Both prevent people from accessing education, housing, and other resources. Do some of these individuals end up taking psychotropic medications due to the consequences of these systemic conditions? Yes. Do I think they’re always indicated? No.

Most of my jobs have been unconventional: I worked on an Assertive Community Treatment team that often provided intensive psychiatric services in people’s homes. I worked with a homeless outreach team and did most of my clinical work in alleys, under bridges, and in public parks. I worked in a geriatric adult home and saw people either in my office, which was literally the storage room for the recreational therapist’s stuff, or in their apartments if they were uncomfortable seeing me in the storage room. I was recruited to create and lead the programming for a new crisis center whose goal was to divert people from jails and emergency departments.

And now I work in a jail.

As time progresses, it has become clear to me that I have not had the typical career for a psychiatrist. I like that. However, I often also feel out of touch with my colleagues. I believe that they are all trying their best, but they don’t have the time to see how systems end up failing the most vulnerable and ill in our communities. They work in the ivory towers of academia and don’t seem to realize the dearth of resources—financial, administrative, academic—in the community. They work in private practice and don’t seem to realize how ill some people are and how we need their expertise. They work in psychiatric hospitals and seem to believe that some of these individuals will never get better when, in fact, they do.

Because much of my work has been outside of the traditional system, I consider myself fortunate that I have been able to escape the box of simply prescribing medications. Many of the individuals under my care do not want to take medications. Their desire to not take medications, though, doesn’t stop us from working with them. We meet them where they are at and remember that they are, first, people. As we are in the profession of helping people shift their thoughts, emotions, and behaviors, we believe that there will come a time—maybe soon, but maybe not for weeks, months, or years—that something will change. Just getting someone to talk to us becomes the essential task. This is true whether someone is in a jail cell, living in a cardboard box under a bridge, or residing in a studio apartment.

Should systems pay psychiatrists to do this work? Maybe it’s not “cost effective” because of its “low return on investment”. After all, this task of “building rapport” means psychiatrists aren’t working “at the top of their licenses”. If a psychiatrist is able to get people to talk to her and help them shift their behaviors, whether or not that involves medications, does that have value?

Does the psychiatrist’s efforts have value if it helps the “system” save money?

Is there value if it reduces the suffering of these individuals who have had to deal with police officers, jails, and living on the streets due to a psychiatric condition?

Perhaps my idealism blinds me. One of my early mentors in New York City often said, “I want the guy who lives under the Manhattan Bridge to have a psychiatrist who is as good as, if not better than, the psychiatrist who has a private practice on Fifth Avenue.” I couldn’t agree more.

Categories
Observations Policy Reflection Systems

Pondering the Purpose of Policies.

What’s your policy on wearing pants?

We all have a personal policy about pants. My policy is that I shall wear pants on all days unless (a) I am attending a special event where a dress or skirt is indicated or (b) it is a hot day and I must wear something professional, so a dress or skirt is the cooler option.

Hang in there with me. This isn’t actually about pants.

I’ve been chewing on the purpose of policies. Much of my work life is dedicated to the creation and amending of policies for a system.

It makes me feel disappointed to see that policies often cater to the lowest common denominator. They seem to solely focus on preventing undesired behaviors and outcomes. It’s almost as if policies are written for those people or organizations, whether they exist or not, with the worst intentions.

Policies aren’t inspiring. They don’t talk about what could be or what we should strive for. This might be why we find policies tedious to read.

A colleague pointed out that, yes, policies are for the lowest common denominator because people often have the worst intentions.

“Think about the Ten Commandments,” she said. “Like ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and ‘Thou shalt not steal’ and ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’. Those are really basic things, but we need them. Those are policies to help us get along.”

Indeed, those religious prohibitions are not inspiring. What if we rephrased them? What if we said “Thou shalt honor life” instead of “Thou shalt not kill”? Doesn’t the idea of honoring life inspire more creativity and joy than a fearful instruction to not kill?

I think my colleague would reply that people need explicit directions. A exhortation to honor life does not guarantee that people will stop killing.

In his book Practical Wisdom, Barry Schwartz laments how policies can affect our abilities to do the right thing the right way. If we rely on policies, we ignore the nuances of the situation and stop thinking. When we stop thinking, we lose our wisdom. We end up looking to policies to prevent the worst thing from happening. The prevention of the worst thing, however, does not equal the creation of something better.

Call me naive—you won’t be the first—but I believe that, for most people, they meet the expectations you have of them. If you have high expectations, people will often meet them. (To be clear, there is a balance: Most expectations must be realistic. If they aren’t, people become demoralized.) It’s meaningful to people when they realize that someone believes in them when they may not believe in themselves. High expectations are frequently a form of respect.

(Perhaps I am straying. A significant difference between individual expectations and policies is the relationship. Relationships between people rely on invisible things like trust, hope, and respect. Relationships between organizations rely on visible things like contracts, memoranda, and policies. We often don’t feel like we have total control over what we do as individuals. How can an organization, comprised of potentially hundreds of people, control its behaviors to meet the expectations of another organization without those invisible connections?)

Someone on Twitter recently commented that policies should reflect the morals of the organization. I like that. If policies focus on documentation requirements and payment arrangements, but say nothing about the quality of services, what does that say about the organization? Does a mission statement have any meaning if the policies and procedures do not align with the stated mission? If the policies only comment on how to prevent the worst thing from happening, why would anyone expect extraordinary quality from the organization?

Perhaps I need to reframe, for myself, the purpose of policies. Policies help prevent bad things from happening. That’s good. Prevention is underappreciated: It’s difficult to measure things that didn’t happen. The difficulty in showing that less bad things happened, however, doesn’t mean that the activity of prevention is worthless.

It’s not an “either/or” issue. Policies prevent bad things from happening, which is valuable. But, as I noted above, preventing bad things and creating better things are two different activities. We don’t want to focus our energy on just preventing bad things from occurring. We must also create new things, or we otherwise will not progress.

The primary reason for my personal pants policy is comfort, though there are professional implications, too. Much of my work in the past involved talking to people in atypical places: Sometimes I’d have to step over puddles of mud to talk to the man living in the park; sometimes I’d have to slip between towers of yellowed magazines to reach the elderly woman seated on her bed. These days, wearing pants makes it less likely that male inmates will make unwelcome comments about my legs. Pants prevent bad things from happening to me.

My other clothing policy is to wear bright colors or patterns to work. People—colleagues, patients, strangers—often comment on the shirts I wear, frequently while smiling. That helps build rapport and connections, even if they are initially based on something as superficial as polka dots on a shirt. These relationships, though, often help create better things and situations for us all.