Category: Systems

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Education Medicine Nonfiction Observations Systems

A Day in Jail.

Three of us are waiting for the elevator. A few moments earlier I had walked into the jail for the day, so I have not yet donned a white coat. The other two are wearing their standard uniforms: The inmate is in red and the officer is in black.

“I have to take my seizure medicine while I’m here, you remember, right?” the inmate says, clutching a clear bag holding several pill bottles, a pair of jeans, and a dark jacket.

“Yes,” the officer says, her voice warm and firm at the same time. “You told the nurse, right?”

“I always do, ma’am.” A shy smile crosses his face. She smiles back at him as the elevator doors open. She motions for him to enter first.

The hem of the white coat hits the back of my calves as I climb the stairs. My habits from my intern year remain: I still fold papers in half lengthwise and the first stack will go into the left pocket. I never button my coat.

When I reach the top of the staircase, one of the standing inmates glances at me, then returns his gaze to the inmate seated in front of him. The standing inmate looks like he’s in his 20s. The seated inmate might be in his late 30s. Twenty-something guides the electric razor along the contour of Thirty-something’s head; clumps of light brown hair tumble onto the black cape and the concrete floor.

There are two barbers on duty. They volunteered their services; they will probably get extra food as compensation. The men in the chairs bow their heads, their eyes open, their bodies still. No one says anything.

Everyone gets the same haircut.

The floor officer is worried about an inmate: “He didn’t eat breakfast this morning and wouldn’t come out to take a shower.” While I scribble this information down on my paper folded lengthwise, I hear the deck officer raise his voice.

“What are you looking at?” the deck officer barks at two inmates. They are trustees, which means that they have demonstrated good behavior while in jail and are allowed to participate in chores. In exchange for doing tasks such as preparing meals and cleaning floors (which also gets them out of their units), they can receive more food .

A trustee mumbles something in response.

“I asked you, what are you looking at?” the deck officer barks again.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Okay. If I see you looking at ‘nothing’ again, I’m sending you back. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get back to work.”

The floor officer and I ask the deck officer what happened.

“They saw you,” he says, pointing at me, “and started grinning, elbowing each other, all that stuff.”

While wrapping my coat tighter around me, I glance at the two trustees. One of them happens to look at me at the same time; he turns away and takes a sudden interest in the mop in his hands.

“Thank you, Officer.”

“Just looking out for the doctor.”

It’s been a few years since I’ve talked to God.

Perhaps I meet God more frequently, but s/he chooses not to reveal that to me. More often I talk to angels or the Anti-Christ.

“Psychiatry is sorcery,” God tells me. “If you only had more faith, you would see the error in your ways. Turn towards faith and away from your analytical ways of thinking.”

God is charged with criminal trespass. God is a young man. His bail amount isn’t that high. Is there no one in God’s life who could post his bail so he could get out?

“One of the best things about being God,” he tells me, “is that I can see the true intentions of people. I know their thoughts.”

He pauses and looks at me.

“Although you practice witchcraft, I can tell that you’ve got a good heart. I will pray for you that you will have more faith, that you will believe in me.”

I will pray for you, too.

When I’m finished talking with God, the floor officer comes by and gives God a second lunch.

“Thank you! I bless you!” he calls out.

The brown paper sack contains one sandwich (two slices of wheat bread, one slice of bologna), one mayonnaise packet, one slice of American cheese wrapped in plastic, a small baggie of baby carrot sticks, and one apple the size of a tennis ball.

“He’s still growing,” the floor officer murmurs.

The day has ended. I’ve already stuffed my white coat into a laundry bag, but I’m still making my way through all the doors to physically get out of jail. When I exit the elevators near where inmates are booked into jail, I see an officer wincing and grasping his leg. One medic is kneeling by him; the other is on the phone.

I pass by a bank of holding cells. Two women knock on the wall and beckon me towards them. The one with tattoos all over her young face and anxiety in her eyes asks, “Can you tell them to let us out? We’ve been waiting a long time.”

“An officer looks hurt,” I say, raising my voice. We’re talking through a thick pane of plexiglass. “The medics are here. It might be a while before they will get to you.”

“Oh,” she says. They take a step back and their shoulders slump. “I hope they’re okay. Thanks.”

Most people look either relieved or thrilled when they leave jail. They throw their shoulders back as they cross the threshold from the jail lobby into the fresh air. How much more comfortable they appear in their own clothes! The red uniforms incarcerated them just as much as the concrete block. Sometimes they give each other high fives; their voices are light and bright as they tell each other to take it easy.

A few will look up and around, confused and forlorn. They squint at the numbers at the bus stop. After taking a few steps heading south, they pause, turn around, and head north. They finally decide to cross the street to get away from the jail. It seems like the best idea.

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Education Medicine Policy Systems

Inspiration from the Surgeon General.

Somehow people knew he was about to enter the room. The thirty or so people in the room were seated, though people began to stand up.

“Are we supposed to stand up for the Surgeon General?” I asked the person sitting next to me.

She shrugged. If we remained seated, everyone would have noticed. So we stood up.

“I’ve been in this position for a year and a half,” Dr. Murthy said, “and I’m still not used to people standing up for me. Please sit down.”[1. I learned later that the Surgeon General has the rank of a Vice Admiral, as the role oversees uniformed health officers. That’s why people stand up for the Surgeon General.]

We were all in that room for about an hour, but Dr. Murthy said little. After some opening remarks about the Turn the Tide initiative related to the opioid epidemic, he asked the audience to tell him what was going well and what could use improvement.

I had never met him before, but I was immediately struck with his listening skills. It was as if he was taking a history from a multi-person patient. He made and held eye contact. He didn’t fidget. He spoke in a quiet yet firm voice. Though he didn’t come across as warm, it was clear that he was interested in and paying attention to whoever was talking to him. His thoughtful follow-up questions indicated that he was listening to what people were saying to him.

He seemed like a good doctor.

As I had never met a federal official before, I later learned that Dr. Murthy was also unusual in that he took notes. (Fun fact: He’s left handed.)

“These are usually publicity events without a lot of substance,” a more seasoned co-worker commented.

By the time the meeting was over, he had covered a sheet from a yellow notepad with copious notes. He expressed what seemed like genuine thanks to us for our time and perspectives.

It was through luck only that I was there. A colleague told me a few days prior that the Surgeon General was scheduled to speak to a local task force related to the opioid epidemic.

“The Surgeon General?” I blurted. “I’d love to hear what he has to say.”

“Then you should come.”

“What?”

Afterwards, as the Surgeon General’s staff were trying to hustle him out the door, the same colleague who invited me to this event gave me A Look. Only I could see the thought bubble above his head: “Go ask him for a photo!”

Though I appreciated Dr. Murthy’s humility, thoughtfulness, and professionalism, I was also grateful and amused with his willingness to stop for a photo.

Earlier that day I was seeing patients.

“Do you know how much longer you’re going to be jail?” I asked.

“Ten or eleven days.” He looked at my left hand. “You’re married?”

“Yes.”

“I should start going to NA meetings again. I’m never gonna meet a woman in here and I get so depressed about not having a family. I want a wife and kids, like my brother. I don’t know why he got so lucky and I got screwed. The TV doesn’t talk to him, he’s got a wife and three kids, God blesses him, but I will wait because the meek shall inherit the earth—”

“What do you think will help you not pick up when you get out?”

He shrugged. “I still don’t have a place to live. Dope helps me feel better.”

We looked at each other and said nothing.

The reality is that the Surgeon General (or any other public official) is just one person. Though he has a grand title, he alone cannot make improve health care. He is part of a system. We can only hope that he and his office will be able to shift the system—even if only just a bit—so that it works better to serve the US population.

What the Surgeon General can do and, at least for me, has done, is inspire physicians to get involved and do better. He could have swept into the meeting and spoke at length about his accomplishments and his status within the federal government. He instead presented himself as a humble ambassador and servant. He demonstrated interest in what our locality has witnessed and experienced. He recognized that, even though he was an academic physician, he is now too far removed from clinical care to speak first as an expert. He solicited and accepted feedback, some of which was discouraging. He was professional. He wasn’t defensive. He acknowledged that it may seem like our feedback would disappear into a void in Washington, DC, though everything else he was actually doing during the meeting gave us hope otherwise. It’s quiet leadership.

There are a lot of problems with health care. Physicians and patients both know this. Physicians are trained to take care of people, not to create and manage financial systems that should only support the relationships between physicians and people. However, if physicians are not involved in the conversations about these systems, then we are not advocating for the patients we serve and the profession that gives us the privilege of doing so. Yes, I know we’re too busy taking care of patients to participate in these conversations that can seem bloated and irrelevant. However, if we don’t get involved to define the problems and solutions, how could we ever expect these systems to improve?

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Observations Reflection Systems

Black Lives are Also Lives.

For the past few weeks I have felt discouraged about ongoing local, national, and global violence. I felt powerless to do anything—including write—to help make things better. I could not find the words to express my sorrow.

So I turned to Buzzfeed.

I came across an article describing the efforts of Asian-Americans who were writing letters in their respective Asian languages to their parents about Black Lives Matter. My father and I hadn’t discussed the deaths of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling. However, the topic of race in America comes up in our conversations every few months.

Several months earlier, while discussing experiences of racism in his life, my father commented, “The Chinese should not be surprised to experience racism. We made the choice to come to America. It was voluntary. Black people didn’t have a choice. They were forced to come here.”

It was a perspective that I hadn’t considered before. And while I understood his point, I wondered what degree of racism any person should experience without feeling “surprise”.

It was only recently that I understood that some people who hear “Black Lives Matter” interpret that to mean “Only Black Lives Matter”. Thus, the rebuttal “All Lives Matter” came into being.

Of course All Lives Matter, I thought. That’s the whole point. Perhaps it would be more precise to say Black Lives Matter, Too.

I asked my dad if Black Lives Matter was receiving as much media attention in Taiwan and China as it was here in the US. I also expressed my surprise about the rebuttal of “All Lives Matter”.

“The Chinese media talk about it in a different way,” he said. “It’s not ‘Black Lives Matter’. It’s ‘Black Lives are Also Lives.’ It’s more clear.”

Indeed! There is no pithy retort to that. The clear implication is that we, as a society, value lives. The death of a Black life should disturb us as much as the death of any other life.

For all of us who are ever considered The Other—and everyone, at some point, is considered The Other—we must support the other Others.[1. We support other Others if their causes are noble and just. Make no mistake: I am not saying that we should support The Others who advocate for genocide, torture, etc.] There was a time in the US when The Majority were fearful of the Chinese, which resulted in the Chinese Exclusion Act. This was the first law that explicitly stated that a specific ethnic group could not immigrate to the United States. Though this law was ultimately overturned in 1943 (not even 100 years ago!), the Chinese are still the only ethic group specifically named for exclusion in the United States Code.

People who were not of Chinese descent disagreed with this law before, during, and after its implementation. They also supported its repeal.[2. I understand that some people opposed the Chinese Exclusion Act solely for commercial reasons. They did not care about equality. I’m not talking about those people.] I am grateful that they spoke up. Had they not, my parents would not have been able to immigrate to the US, contribute to this society, enjoy what America has to offer, and raise a daughter who now writes this blog.

We all speak up in our own ways: Some people participate in protests; others write words for others to read; still others have quiet conversations about it. Advocacy takes many forms. Choose what works best for you.

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Observations Reflection Systems

Us and Them and Homicide.

If an event doesn’t happen often, it’s difficult to predict when it will happen next. We can only talk about “risk factors”.

For example, no one can predict when an earthquake will occur. We can, however, talk about the risk of an earthquake. We know that the risk of an earthquake is much higher in Seattle than in Houston: Seattle is on a fault line while Houston is not. Because earthquakes are rare, though, we don’t know when Seattle will have an earthquake. We just know that it’s more likely to happen there than in Houston.

Homicide is also a rare event. In 2013, about five out of 100,000 people died from homicide. That means 99,995 out of 100,000 people did not die from homicide that year.[1. A reader told me that these numbers are confusing. More than 100,000 people died in the US in 2013. My point is that the vast majority of people don’t die from homicide. Communication is hard.] Compare that with suicide: In the same year about 13 out of 100,000 people died from suicide. That’s right: In the US, people are over twice as likely to kill themselves than other people.

Because homicide is such a rare event, it is difficult to predict when, where, and how it will occur. We can discuss risk factors (e.g., alcohol and other substance use; access to firearms; gang involvement; exposure to domestic violence and child abuse; previous history of fighting of violence), but none of those risk factors will help us predict when it will happen. There are adults who were beaten as children, drink alcohol now, and own a firearm… but they will never kill anyone.

The data is mixed about the association between mental illness and homicide.[2. Here are three papers that discuss mental illness and suicide:

] Based on numbers alone, though, it is both inaccurate and unfair to state that homicide is due to psychiatric conditions alone:

Compare that to the rate of homicide: 5 out of 100,000 people.

With increasing news reports of people killing others, my colleagues and I have wondered how we can intervene. Many people who have committed homicide have never encountered the mental health system. Even if they did, they may not have endorsed or demonstrated symptoms that would warrant any intervention, including a follow-up visit. We agree that individuals who kill others are disturbed, but they may not have a “mental illness” that is described in our field. (We then wonder: So what is going on with them?)

The book The Spirit Level describes the correlation between greater interpersonal violence in societies with greater inequality. The authors also show evidence of higher prevalences of psychiatric disorders, obesity, and teen pregnancies in societies that are more unequal.

While it is easier to attribute these acts of heartbreaking violence to individuals—They are the problem; this happens because They are “mentally ill”; Their religion dictates that They should kill people; We would never do that—perhaps we should attribute this violence to our society and our communities (or lack thereof).

How would our society function if everyone had food, clothing, and a home? What would happen if everyone had steady employment and income? How would relationships change if everyone in school and at work learned how to recognize their emotions and practiced coping skills? What would happen if people didn’t drink, use drugs, or resort to violence when feeling distressed? What would shift if everyone had the chance to go to school and learn about different people, places, and ideas? How would things be different if people didn’t feel hopeless and helpless? What if people believed their communities could create something better? What if people didn’t believe that the only solution involves destruction?

It is easy to blame Them: They have mental illness; They believe in a religion that is false; there is something wrong with Them.

They and We, however, are part of the same community. Until we realize that we must work together to reduce risk factors and help each other, we cannot expect that these tragic events will stop.

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Education Nonfiction Policy Reflection Systems

A Review of the National Council for Behavioral Health Conference.

Those of you who follow me on Twitter already know that I spent much of last week in Las Vegas. I attended the National Council for Behavioral Health Conference, “featuring the best in leadership, organizational development, and excellence in mental health and addictions practice.” Here are my reflections about the experience:

It was large. I have never attended a conference with 5000 other people. I already find Las Vegas overstimulating. Not being able to get away from thousands of people for hours on end was draining for me.

There were many sessions I wanted to attend, but could not. This, of course, was a function of the size of the conference. Humans, thus far, can only physically be in one place and mentally elsewhere. During this conference I often wished I could physically be in two places at once.

The sessions that most inspired me often had little to do with formal behavioral health. Nora Volkow, the director for the National Institute of Drug Abuse, gave a talk about the neurobiology of addictive behaviors. Did I learn anything new? No, only because I had learned this while in medical training. Did she present the information in an engaging and compelling way? Yes.

Charles Blow, an opinion writer for the New York Times, authored a memoir about his youth and past sexual abuse. During his talk he read from his book and shared his reflections about his experience. Did I learn anything new? Nothing obvious that would affect either my clinical practice or policy considerations. He won me over with his personal perspective, grace, and vulnerability.

Susan Cain spoke about introversion and leadership. Did I learn anything new? No, because I had already read her book. Was it nonetheless worthwhile to hear her speak in person? For me, yes.

The conference featured a large session called “Uncomfortable Conversations”. The intention was for Big Names in the field to discuss controversial topics. These included involuntary commitment, confidentiality laws that are specific to substance use disorder treatment that can interfere with clinical care, and the concept of cultural competency. Each pair, however, had less than ten minutes to discuss their issue. The moderator also seemed to speak more than each member of the pair. The session could have been thoughtful, though ended up feeling underdeveloped and unfocused.

Where were my psychiatrist colleagues? I understand that this is my own issue—after all, this was not a physician conference. The National Council, however, is supposed to be the leadership conference for community behavioral health. Are psychiatrists involved in leadership in community behavioral health? If not, why not? [1. As I have noted elsewhere: “Physicians, as a population, don’t advocate for ourselves as much as we should because we’re “too busy taking care of patients”. This is true. However, our busy-ness creates a vacuum where non-physicians step in and make decisions for us. We then express resentment that we have to follow the edicts of people who have never done the work. If we did a better job of regulating and advocating for ourselves, we might not be in this position.” Advocacy in this case is leadership.]

Only two “small” sessions I attended featured physician presentations. One involved the introduction of trauma-informed care into primary care settings. The other discussed a concrete integration of mental health, substance use, and primary care services. In both cases the physicians were family practice physicians. Which, to be clear, is fantastic. We must work across systems to provide good care for individuals and populations. I nonetheless felt both puzzled and disappointed with the lack of psychiatrist representation. [2. To be fair, Nora Volkow and several of the panelists for the “Uncomfortable Conversations” are trained as psychiatrists.]

There was a “medical track” meant for medical professionals. Few of those sessions discussed systems issues or leadership. I had planned to attend one that discussed guidelines for benzodiazepine use, though there was no room by the time I arrived. (One of my colleagues, a psychiatrist, later told me that many attendees were not doctors.)

The conference will be in Seattle next year. My colleagues and I are already discussing what we can present.

A lot of people want to do good. I often comment, “Life is terrible… and life is wonderful.” That people have done good work to help others and want to share what they learned in the process is remarkable. That people continue to strive to provide useful services to people who are suffering is humbling. That people are creating new programs to help solve problems, often rooted in inequality, a variety of disparities, and the randomness of existence, is inspiring.

When we have our heads down in our own work, we often forget that we are part of a system. Though I have critical opinions about the conference, I am grateful that I could attend. May we all seek inspiration and always learn from others.