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Reflections in a Head Mirror

Reflections - Archive

6/15/2009

Transience

Hospitals are a little like the beach. The next wave comes in, and the footprints of your pain and suffering, your delivery and recovery, are obliterated; the sheets are changed.
-Anna Quindlan, “One True Thing”  


When a patient spends more than a few days in the hospital, the room often takes on his or her personality. For a while, the patient and family have a space — four walls, a bathroom, a window — that becomes their own. Frequently, I feel like a visitor as I enter such a room. When I walk the halls, my memory stirs as I link specific rooms with particular patients and their stories.     

When I was first in practice, I was asked to see a woman who had been hospitalized for several weeks. She was holding her own but, in those days before hospice, she had nowhere else to go. As I opened the door, my nose filled with the aroma of flowers. There was soft music playing, The bedraggled bulletin board was covered with family photos and get well cards. A “We Miss You!” banner hung from the ceiling. Board games were stacked on the ledge.  

The place felt like someone’s home or maybe their summer cottage. Family and friends had taken a few square feet of hospital and planted their own personal healing garden.  

“The flowers are beautiful!” I commented, approaching the bed rail.  

“It’s like a funeral parlor, don’t you think?” she responded. I looked to see if she was serious. Her eyes gave her away.  

“A very classy funeral parlor,” I agreed.  

Over the next few weeks, she deteriorated. Her family kept vigil, personalizing and rearranging the photos, cards and mementos. Every few days, I looked to see what was new.  

One day, I knocked on the door and peeked in. The flower fragrance had dissipated and the room was empty. The bed was raised to its highest setting and the sheets were crisply made. I blinked. The personality had been swept away. 

The cocoon had opened. She was gone.  

___
Thanks to Courtney S. for the quote from Anna Quindlan.



   The following is feedback received for this blog:

Thanks for painting a beautiful picture of a person not only a patient.

- Kerry
http://clubsammichcafe.spaces.live.com/  


Dr Campbell...what a moving post!

I can relate to your patient.

My dear friend Pat... brought some of her personal items from her apartment when she entered into a hospice -palliative care facility.

Her room reminded me of her various homes and apartments. One of her beautiful oil paintings was hanging on the wall, her dried flower arrangements, books, and other things. She had a picture window with a gorgeous view. The room reflected her. There was always a peace that surrounded her and that was felt in any of her homes... and I felt it there as well.

She outlived the hospice time frame but fortunately was able to retain her room until she died.

There was a fold out sofa in the room and I stayed over a couple of times. Her room was like grand central station in that *staff* seemed to like to come in for a respite. She had been a counselor and also in ministry as well as teaching regarding death and dying.

Needless to say... she ministered to anyone in need around her. I did worry it may have been a bit much toward the end as she tired easily... but she had a gift for helping others... and enjoyed it. They seemed to love to hang out in her room.

No doubt...had she been your patient... you would've felt it too. I am sure she was missed by the staff.

I miss her too.

It's nice to know that physicians feel/care about their patients as you do.

I am moved... by the depth of feeling you have for your patients and the connected experiences. Not only do they live on in the hearts of others... but in the heart of their doctor as well... and it would warm my heart to know my docs cared as you do.

- SeaSpray

seaspray-itsawonderfullife.blogspot.com
Posted 10:40 PM
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6/8/2009

Health Care, House Building and Ethics

Better is possible. It does not take genius. It takes diligence. It takes moral clarity. It takes ingenuity. And above all, it takes a willingness to try.
-Atul Gawande, MD
  


In response to my last blog entry, a colleague who returned recently from six months working in hospitals and clinics in Rwanda and Cameroon asked for resources on “different perspectives on the current politics and changes in health-care.” I am a novice in policy; every time I read a new editorial or column that proposes how to best pay for health care yet keep the costs under control, I am swayed. It seems that many commentators say something that seems to make sense to me.  

But, what is the heart of the matter? What fundamentally needs to change in order to reform health care?

In a recent article in the The New Yorker, surgeon-writer Atul Gawande, MD helped me understand the issues in a fresh way. Here is an analogy that he uses to describe the current healthcare situation in much of the country:    


"Providing health care is like building a house. The task requires experts, expensive equipment and materials, and a huge amount of coordination. Imagine that, instead of paying a contractor to pull a team together and keep them on track, you paid an electrician for every outlet he recommends, a plumber for every faucet, and a carpenter for every cabinet. Would you be surprised if you got a house with a thousand outlets, faucets, and cabinets, at three times the cost you expected, and the whole thing fell apart a couple of years later? Getting the country's best electrician on the job (he trained at Harvard, somebody tells you) isn't going to solve this problem."  


So what does Dr. Gawande seem to suggest?

First, we need to develop a team approach to medical care. He details the differences between market-driven, free-wheeling healthcare communities like McAllen, Texas, integrated systems like the Mayo Clinic and smaller, partially integrated communities like Grand Junction, Colo. Team care is less expensive and built around evidence.  

Second, we need to understand culturally that more health care does not translate to better health care. Some communities seem to value quality medical care and some seem to reward "quantity" care — more tests, more bills, more frequent exams, more procedures. The people who control the number and types of tests (the doctors) don't usually see the impact of their prescribing patterns on the bigger picture. For example, McAllen, Texas, has no better and, in many ways, even worse outcomes than much-lower cost towns. Interestingly, the McAllen physicians with whom Dr. Gawande spoke had no idea that that their community’s health care was extraordinarily expensive nor did the physicians know why that was the case.    

Third, in many places, no one, neither the government, the insurers, the physicians, nor the patients has any role in overseeing the entire system of care for the community of patients. As he says, "Someone has to be accountable for the totality of care. Otherwise, you get a system that has no brakes."    

Finally, and potentially most important, Dr. Gawande shows us that HOW we pay for medical care will ultimately be less important than having a "culture of medicine" that is, above all, consistently ethical. If every test or procedure directly benefits the person who orders it, there is too much temptation.  


I still don’t know much about policy, but Dr. Gawande’s house-building analogy makes sense to me. I have seen medical care that concentrates on the fancy decorative embellishments and ignores the foundation. We have a lot of work ahead of us.

Posted 9:34 PM
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Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?
-Henry David Thoreau    

It is almost 7:00 a.m. and I carry my briefcase and lunch bag from the car to my office. I nod to some of the night shift employees heading home. Another day has begun.  

I type my password and check the computer, reminding myself of the twenty patients I am scheduled to see today in the cancer clinic. A few new consults with untreated or recurrent cancers occupy the longer appointment slots. Follow-up and post-operative patients will be seen more quickly. It will be a full day but, hopefully, I will grab a few minutes around noon to eat my sandwich.  

I print out some office notes and carry them with me to our weekly 7:15 a.m. Tumor Conference. Several physicians present cases for discussion. We review the scans and the pathology, making recommendations for treatment. We determine who is eligible for a clinical trial. We look at recent research results. Usually, a brief discussion will mean better news for the patient; we have something to offer. A longer discussion can reflect the lack of good options.  

Clinic gets going. First is a 64-year-old man with a tongue cancer. Symptoms have been present for about six months. The scans are helpful. The cancer has not caused much damage. Only one lymph node is involved. Everything else looks fine. I run through the surgical risks, benefits, and alternatives. I prepare the consent form and look at the schedule. Any questions?  

He drops his head, hands gripping his knees. “My wife would have known what to ask,” he tells me. “She died six weeks ago. That’s why I waited to come in. I was caring for her.”  

I pause. There is a story pressing in on us from all sides. It floods the room.  

“I am so sorry,” I reply. “I am glad you are here. Your cancer is still very curable. Tell me about her.”  

We spend some time. I am soon behind on my schedule. There will be more stories that need to be shared before the day is through.  

A recent You-Tube video from the Cleveland Clinic is a spot-on rendering of what happens every day in a hospital. See what you think. No matter where we are, stories surround us, but they are closest to the surface when we are most vulnerable. Recognizing this reality should be part of the repertoire of every physician. We teach this to our students and residents. Even still, how easily we all forget.  

The day in clinic draws to an end and everyone has gone home. At 6:00 p.m., my charts are half-complete. I pick up my briefcase and lunch bag. I find my car and head home.

Tomorrow will be here soon enough.

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The following is feedback received for this blog:


   Dr Campbell, Your Reflections are always so moving including this one. The You-Tube Video from the Cleveland Clinic was excellent.

- Mary Ann, an RN
 
 
 
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Bruce Campbell, MD, grew up in the Chicago area, graduating from Purdue University and Rush Medical College. He completed an otolaryngology residency at the Medical College of Wisconsin and a head and neck surgery fellowship at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. He has been on the faculty at Froedtert & the Medical College of Wisconsin since 1987.

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