A few seasons ago, and probably for only one season, there was a hospital centered medical show that depicted actual real-time medical events and procedures. Not that pathetic and corny TV show that stages re-enactments of outlandish situations, but a show with real -life doctors dealing with actual traumas. Patients underwent emergency surgeries due to illness or accidents, and the cameras ran throughout. Sometimes the patients did not survive. I assume the patients or their families must have authorized the filming and telecasting. I remember watching incredibly graphic scenes of complex and brutally realistic medical interventions and procedures that would put Kevin Ware's merely broken leg to shame. The point is I was able to reach a point of detachment that made it possible for me to view the gore and the tragedy. Except for one time, when a woman had reached into the glove compartment of her car where she had stashed a loaded pistol, and the gun discharged, maiming several of her fingers. I had to quickly change the channel before I could see how the surgeons tried to put her hand and fingers back together. Reconstructing aortas, intestines, even brains were all viewable, but not the fingers. I get shivers just thinking about it.
In similar fashion, as each subject is brought to mind or is potentially applicable in my personal or family life, I view internet videos of medical procedures and conditions. For example, I have viewed videos, many in real time, of complete cataract surgeries (the taco fold is way cool), corneal transplants (in Fuchs' Dystrophy patients), colonosopies (both virtual and the real thing), ureteroscopy and lithotripsy (for kidney stones), and total knee replacement (most gruesome). This week my dentist referred me to a periodontist, where he said I would be presented with several tooth salvaging options, one of which would involve "crown lengthening." The term was new to me, so when I got home I hied myself to the computer to learn all about it. Reading about it was bad enough, but when I got to the video where "the flap" was lifted, I couldn't press escape fast enough. I still have those shivers running up and down my legs. Save me from my teeth.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Saturday, April 6, 2013
"I just work here..."
We were waiting the other day, about 3 or 4 of us, for routine bloodwork and lab tests. A woman walked in, rather briskly, and approached the desk. She had blonde hair and was wearing a white ski jacket. "Sign in, " said the nurse on duty, "on this board." The woman declined the offered sign-in board. "No," she said, "I'm here to file a complaint." "This is just a lab; you'll need to complain to the hospital office," said the nurse. Very well, was the reply and the white coated woman left. But in a few minutes she returned, wanting to retrieve the telephone number, which she was given and she left once more. Now I'm all in favor of keeping services up to par, but it was an awkward moment for all of us who were waiting. After all, we who were waiting were trusting that we were going to get what we came for; who wants to be reminded of errors or bad service. The woman was composed and polite. Who knows what her complaint was: lost test results, incorrect information, a prolonged wait, a snippy person answering the phone, could be anything. maybe justified, maybe frivolous. But I for one resented her behavior. This lab is conveniently located in a modern office building, meaning I don't need to enter a dreaded hospital building, and there's plenty of parking. This lab is staffed, as far as my experience has been, by nurses who are skilled in drawing blood, unlike the distracted yahoos who you find in the hospital labs. I felt like telling that woman to go complain about something else, and leave this lab alone. Besides, who walks into a place to file a complaint: isn't that what email is for?
Shades of Gray
I'm in the process of cleaning out my closet. I first disposed of all my pants, Whale Gray in color. Geez, I should have sued.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
A World Divided
TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT--PART 1
Some years ago, I lost my pocketbook while I was shopping at Colonie Center. I'd bought several large items, like pillows and shoes which were in shopping bags, and I inadvertently failed to pick up my purse when I'd put all the bags down to look at another item. I retraced my steps to the last place I knew I'd had my purse with me, but it was gone. Unlike men, who typically stash their valuables throughout several pockets, women place all their belongings in a single container, and when separated from that, the world ends as far as communication is concerned----wallet, change for payphone, then a main resource, car keys----all are gone. I felt so cut off from the world. I found my way to the Mall Security Office to see if my bag had been turned in, and to use the phone to call my husband who was at work several miles away. The security officer was on his way to a dentist's appointment, so he told me, and was of limited help, but I did manage to use the courtesy phone to call Dave to come rescue me. I sat on a bench in the mall waiting for him to come, feeling exposed and bereft. I envied every woman walking by, each carrying a handbag. The world was divided in two: those who were successfully connected to their lives and those who were cut off from any meaningful existence, in this case me, a minority of one. (The wait was much longer than I had expected, so I was afraid I'd given Dave the wrong contact information; what if he thought I was at another mall, or if he expected me to be waiting outside. I had no way to let him know: even the security office was now closed. Eventually he showed up; as it turned out, while I was waiting in misery, he, in the comfort of his office, had taken the time to cancel my credit cards. If I hadn't needed a ride home, I would have killed him. Moreover, as we were leaving the mall, I was paged over the loudspeaker. Someone had turned in my pocketbook, with all contents completely intact. Good news, though I did have to re-activate all my credit cards.
PART 11
Our dog had died, our third collie, and the most appealing of the three great dogs we had owned. We'd replaced our first, Chance, with Lex, after a year had passed, and then Cosmo replaced Lex, also a year after we'd lost him. When Cosmo died, we knew he would be our last dog, primarily because he was so much a part of the family he would be irreplaceable, and also because we lived on the main highway so finding a location to exercise a dog was time and energy consuming. Time does move us on. Once more, the world was divided into two parts---dog owners, and those who did not have a dog. Whereas before, I envied every woman who was one with her purse, the pang of not having a dog went much deeper and lasted for a longer period of time, actually right up to the present.
PART NEXT
I wonder about other losses that occur over time, losses more critical to one's essential being than a lost purse or a lost pet. As we age, we inevitably lose what we once had; vim, vigor, resiliency, physical strength. We mourn the passings, but if we're lucky, such deteriorations are gradual and universal, and don't separate us from our peers. Major mishaps and serious diseases leave us vulnerable, but mostly without much choice as to what path to take to get the best results. But what about voluntary separations from the self we once were. I'm trying to determine if opting for an artificial body part, such as knee replacement, would make me feel as if the world were divided into two parts--those with and without artificial joints. I've sat in a mall and observed the handbag carriers stride confidently by; I've checked out in a supermarket behind smug dog owners pushing carts laden with giant bags of dogfood. It's hard to predict how I'll feel about yet another degree of separation.
Some years ago, I lost my pocketbook while I was shopping at Colonie Center. I'd bought several large items, like pillows and shoes which were in shopping bags, and I inadvertently failed to pick up my purse when I'd put all the bags down to look at another item. I retraced my steps to the last place I knew I'd had my purse with me, but it was gone. Unlike men, who typically stash their valuables throughout several pockets, women place all their belongings in a single container, and when separated from that, the world ends as far as communication is concerned----wallet, change for payphone, then a main resource, car keys----all are gone. I felt so cut off from the world. I found my way to the Mall Security Office to see if my bag had been turned in, and to use the phone to call my husband who was at work several miles away. The security officer was on his way to a dentist's appointment, so he told me, and was of limited help, but I did manage to use the courtesy phone to call Dave to come rescue me. I sat on a bench in the mall waiting for him to come, feeling exposed and bereft. I envied every woman walking by, each carrying a handbag. The world was divided in two: those who were successfully connected to their lives and those who were cut off from any meaningful existence, in this case me, a minority of one. (The wait was much longer than I had expected, so I was afraid I'd given Dave the wrong contact information; what if he thought I was at another mall, or if he expected me to be waiting outside. I had no way to let him know: even the security office was now closed. Eventually he showed up; as it turned out, while I was waiting in misery, he, in the comfort of his office, had taken the time to cancel my credit cards. If I hadn't needed a ride home, I would have killed him. Moreover, as we were leaving the mall, I was paged over the loudspeaker. Someone had turned in my pocketbook, with all contents completely intact. Good news, though I did have to re-activate all my credit cards.
PART 11
Our dog had died, our third collie, and the most appealing of the three great dogs we had owned. We'd replaced our first, Chance, with Lex, after a year had passed, and then Cosmo replaced Lex, also a year after we'd lost him. When Cosmo died, we knew he would be our last dog, primarily because he was so much a part of the family he would be irreplaceable, and also because we lived on the main highway so finding a location to exercise a dog was time and energy consuming. Time does move us on. Once more, the world was divided into two parts---dog owners, and those who did not have a dog. Whereas before, I envied every woman who was one with her purse, the pang of not having a dog went much deeper and lasted for a longer period of time, actually right up to the present.
PART NEXT
I wonder about other losses that occur over time, losses more critical to one's essential being than a lost purse or a lost pet. As we age, we inevitably lose what we once had; vim, vigor, resiliency, physical strength. We mourn the passings, but if we're lucky, such deteriorations are gradual and universal, and don't separate us from our peers. Major mishaps and serious diseases leave us vulnerable, but mostly without much choice as to what path to take to get the best results. But what about voluntary separations from the self we once were. I'm trying to determine if opting for an artificial body part, such as knee replacement, would make me feel as if the world were divided into two parts--those with and without artificial joints. I've sat in a mall and observed the handbag carriers stride confidently by; I've checked out in a supermarket behind smug dog owners pushing carts laden with giant bags of dogfood. It's hard to predict how I'll feel about yet another degree of separation.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Break Time
"Now that you're here, do you mind if I take my break now?" These are not the words of a fast food worker, but rather words spoken by one member to another of the nursing staff involved in the care of a hospital patient who was being prepared for a medical procedure. Workplace breaks are essential and indeed mandated by law, but it would seem appropriate if the scheduling of breaks was pre-arranged, or at very least done out of earshot of the patient. No patient wants or expects a lasting relationship with a hospital care employee, but it would be much more reassuring if the person tending to your needs,especially prior to your being administered anesthesia, seemed to be paying attention to what was going on in the room, not contemplating an escape from it.
A study was conducted a number of years ago assessing the number of hours worked by medical students training to become doctors. The consensus was that the long shifts were responsible for extreme fatigue, and that exhaustion may well have been responsible for the occurrence of medical errors. As a result of the study's findings, the mandated number of hours was reduced. A new study based on the shortened shift worked by the doctors was recently released. This follow-up study showed that the number of medical errors did not decrease when the shifts were shorter, but in actuality increased. The conclusion being drawn is that shorter shifts mean more frequent handoffs of patients from doctor to doctor and that means more room for error. Less individual commitment equates with less responsibility; "I was only here for a short time."
A patient is admitted to a hospital room. A white-board on the wall in front of the patient's bed is the sign-in area for whatever personnel will be taking care of the patient that day. There may be a half dozen or more names in the course of the day, the names being erased as those staff members fulfill their duties. The idea is to help the patient keep track of who their caretakers are; in effect, the patient knows that Amy or Ann, or Ali was here, but with one swipe of an eraser has disappeared without a trace.
A study was conducted a number of years ago assessing the number of hours worked by medical students training to become doctors. The consensus was that the long shifts were responsible for extreme fatigue, and that exhaustion may well have been responsible for the occurrence of medical errors. As a result of the study's findings, the mandated number of hours was reduced. A new study based on the shortened shift worked by the doctors was recently released. This follow-up study showed that the number of medical errors did not decrease when the shifts were shorter, but in actuality increased. The conclusion being drawn is that shorter shifts mean more frequent handoffs of patients from doctor to doctor and that means more room for error. Less individual commitment equates with less responsibility; "I was only here for a short time."
A patient is admitted to a hospital room. A white-board on the wall in front of the patient's bed is the sign-in area for whatever personnel will be taking care of the patient that day. There may be a half dozen or more names in the course of the day, the names being erased as those staff members fulfill their duties. The idea is to help the patient keep track of who their caretakers are; in effect, the patient knows that Amy or Ann, or Ali was here, but with one swipe of an eraser has disappeared without a trace.
Word is....
On Entertainment Tonight, Rocsi Diaz reported that Kevin Ware's broken leg left him "withering in pain." Sounds like that would be a rather gradual process, doesn't it?
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