Tuesday, April 12, 2011

What To Do

Briefly, I want to thank Dr. Billy Goldberg and Dr. Christopher McStay, emergency medicine physicians from NYU, for being gracious and entertaining hosts during my Sirius XM interview with them on Doctor Radio the Thursday morning of April 7th.  To their producer, Melanie, a huge kudos for your cool kindness and for seeking me out for this interview.  I am honored by this flattering experience.  You have played a part in making this small town boy's dreams approach his reality...    

It was my birthday.  Because I wasn't home with my wife and kids, eating cake and being silly and opening presents, reminding them over and over again that it was my special day, I was just a little bit sulky while ho-humming it, struggling to make it through my odd 5 pm to 3 am shift in the ER.  This, despite a birthday cake, balloons, several cards, chocolate, and many hugs and birthday wishes from my fellow coworkers, my friends.

I needed an encounter to remind me of my blessings.

As I sat at my computer in the physician station thinking this thought, I felt a sudden light tap on my shoulder.  "Excuse me, Dr. Jim," a nervous voice spoke, slightly quivered and breathy, "would you be able to see one of my patients?"  I turned to find one of our newer hires, a young energetic nurse who had just graduated from nursing school the previous year and was fresh off of her ER orientation, speaking.  I liked her.  I liked her eagerness, her good attitude and her priorities of providing excellent, all-around patient care.  I hadn't been, though, in a serious patient situation to really see her abilities and knowledge tested.

"Hi Chris," I said, "what can I do to help you?"

She spoke quickly as I stood from my chair and we began walking.  It was a woman in her late fifties, Room 22, one of Chris's patient rooms.  She had come in by ambulance and her clinical picture was making Chris nervous.  "Her blood pressure is really low and I can't seem to maintain her oxygen levels.  She looks bad."  She had been sent from her group home to an outpatient clinic appointment because "she didn't look good for a few days."  From the outpatient clinic's alarming find of this patient's condition, she had been sent to us.

"Oh," Chris added, right before we entered the room, "I have to tell you--she has severe MR (mental retardation) and she can't tell you anything.  All of her extremities are contorted, too."

As with most patients in this situation, I expected to find a three-inch information binder, usually maroon, sitting on the counter.  There was no binder.   I also expected an aide, familiar with the patient and her history, to be sitting in the corner chair or, better yet, standing at the patient's bedside.  Again, no aide.

The only people in Room 25, besides the patient, were a tech and another nurse helping Chris settle this patient.  Where was the binder?  Where was the aide?

Uh oh.  "A young woman came with her from the office, but said she had to go move her car and would be right back," Chris said, shaking her head.  "That was ten minutes ago.  She didn't leave us a binder or tell us anything."  Sadly, it would be over an hour before this aide came "right back," and our team was now in a struggle to get any information that we could on this patient.  What was her baseline condition?  We didn't know.  Had she been ill recently?  What was her past medical and surgical history?  Sorry, no information there.  Was her resuscitation status DNR (do not resuscitate) or was she a full code?  Did she have a living will?  Who was her power of attorney?

Don't know.  Don't know.  And don't know.  We were at a loss for any viable information.  At least we had a name, though.  That was a start.

I walked up to this patient's head, slightly forward-flexed at her neck off the pillow.  Her eyes were open, brown and dilated, a little reddened at the sclera, and she appeared to be trying to focus on something.  Anything.  Her skin was pale, ghostly white, dry and wrinkled.  Her hair was wispy gray, brushed straight back over her crown, a little greasy.  She was in a gown, but her pants still needed to be removed.   As Chris had warned, her upper extremities were rigidly flexed at both her  elbow and wrist joints.  Her legs were a little more pliable, resting in a flexed position but easily straightened at the knee.

I brushed some stray hairs from her forehead to her crown, resting my hand on her head. "Maam," I said, bent over and talking into her ear, "my name is Dr. Jim.  We are going to take real good care of you, okay?"  Her eyes found mine but, other than a brief blink, didn't give me any indication of her awareness.

I looked at her concerning blood pressure, 74 systolic over 40 diastolic.  Her heart rate was adequate, 88.  Her respiratory rate was quickened, 24, and her oxygen level was low at 89% on two liters of oxygen via a nasal cannula.  She appeared to be struggling for a deep breath.

"Chris," I said, "open up the fluids and give her two liters of normal saline.  Switch her cannula to a non-rebreather mask at 15 liters of oxygen."  As Chris did this, I did a brief primary exam, followed by a more intensive secondary exam, all the while paying attention to this patient's fragile vitals.

This poor soul, this patient without a history, was dry.  Very.  Her tongue was cracked and fissured.  Her skin was tenting, lacking hydrated elasticity.  Her urine from a foley insertion was scant, darkly-colored, and strongly odiferous.  Her heart was regular, thankfully.  Her lungs, though, had diminished air movement through them, with accompanying sounds of rhonchi and wheezing, suspicious for pneumonia.  Her abdomen was soft.  She didn't appear to grimace with my deep palpations.  Her rectal exam was positive for blood.  A rectal temperature recorded hypothermia at 95 degrees fahrenheit.  Her extremities had faint pulses but their skin coloring was as pale as her core.  Her body was frail and struggling.

This patient was septic, plain and simple, infection threatening to overtake her entire body.  Hypothermia.  Low blood pressure.  Low oxygenation levels.  Suspicion for dehydration.  Suspicion for pneumonia.  Suspicion for a urine infection possibly spread to the blood stream.  An unclear mental status change from an unknown baseline.  And, add to that, a suspicion for a GI bleed.

We ordered our workup.  Blood cultures and blood work.  EKG.  Chest x-ray.  Urine work and cultures.  We continued aggressive IV fluids while covering the patient with a warming "bear-hugger." We started immediate IV antibiotics, gave her breathing treatments, and put her on additional respiratory supportive measures.  With rhythmic purpose, I observed Chris and our ancillary services kick up the care.

Still, we had no information.  No binder.  No aide.  We searched for her group home's number and address.  We had called the outpatient clinic but, since she was a new patient and was so critical, they had not wasted much time delving into this patient's past before sending her to us.

We proceeded as if this patient was a full code.  We had to--it's what you do in these circumstances.  Initially, the patient did okay, responding to our fluids and respiratory interventions.  Her oxygenation picked up to 95%, and her blood pressure increased, 98/62.  But still, she looked fragile.  Pathetic, even, in her misery.  My gut instincts, usually spot-on, told me to be ready for this patient to crump at any moment.

And she did.  Her condition took a turn for the worse at the very moment we succeeded in contacting her power-of-attorney, her concerned brother.  After talking to him, we followed his wishes of doing everything in our power to improve his sister's critical state.  She was a full code.  He sounded quite reasonable and was hurrying to our hospital to be with his sister at her bedside.  Quickly, to stabilize the patient's breathing concerns, we emergently intubated her and connected her to a vent.  Despite sedating and paralyzing her, however, her arms remained quite contracted while her legs and neck relaxed.  We started medicines to elevate her dangerously low blood pressure.  We started central lines and arterial lines to continue giving IV fluids and monitoring vitals.

Then, concerning results began to roll in.  Acute kidney failure.  Severe dehydration.  Significant pneumonia on x-ray.  Low red blood cell counts, probably from a GI bleed, requiring transfusions.  Skewed electrolytes, including a high postassium.  Infected urine.  

She would need an ICU admission, which we pursued and obtained.  She would need emergent dialysis.  She would need critical care from a variety of sub-specialties in attempts to improve her condition.  She would need continued life-saving medications and interventions.  She would need a lot of good energy and a little luck to come back from being so ill.  Hopefully, we started her on the right path.

I sat back in my chair after all the action, exhaling a deep sigh while mentally reviewing this patient's ER course.  Our team had done well and I was proud of them.  I was worried, though, for this patient.  Chris came in and spoke.  "Just so you know, the aide returned."  Chris paused and took a deep breath before continuing.  "I let her know we have called the agency and they will be looking into where she had been for the past hour or so.  Now she is teary-eyed and, frankly, she should be.  Oh, and she has the binder if you need to look at it."  Again Chris paused, before finishing.  "Is that okay," she asked with sincerity, "that I called the agency?"

I looked at Chris, smiling at her.  "Chris," I said, "you did good.  It was the right thing to do."  Simple and direct.  Yeah, I thought, we got ourselves a keeper with this nurse.

I didn't meet the brother, although I heard he was a pleasure to deal with.  Loved his sister.  Had her best interests at heart. Disheartened by her turn of health.  He had been escorted to the medical ICU after his arrival, where they were waiting for him.  I couldn't help but wonder, though, what his life had been like to grow up with a severely-handicapped sister.

After things quieted down, when I was alone again at my station, I looked at the computer screen's lower right-hand corner. Yep, the date said it was still my birthday.  Just a few more hours remained.  Suddenly, though, I didn't feel so old.  Or so ho-hum.  Or so out-of-sorts from not being home celebrating with my family.

Instead, I felt appreciation.  For being healthy in my mid-forties.  For being surrounded by cool people in my life.  For knowing I had family at home waiting for me, ready to enjoy my upcoming time-off with me.  For having a sound mind.  For having flexible joints and limbs.  It wasn't lost on me that, by the luck of the draw, this patient's life could have been any one of ours.

Happy Birthday to me.

As always, big thanks for reading.  A big thanks for the numerous birthday wishes, too.  Several key facts have been changed to maintain patient confidentiality within this story, but the essence of the encounter remains true and thought-provoking.  See you in a few days...

15 comments:

jimbo26 said...

Thank you Jim .

Heather said...

Now, you know, I'm sitting here bawling.

I often catch myself watching J talk to Jack...and I hope, and pray, that she will take such special care of him when he is older. I can't imagine what it is for her to watch him go through so much...

And I'm so proud of your nurse! She rocks.

Peggy Arteberry said...

Jim, I too have celebrated a mid 40's birthday this last week! Putting things in perspective as you always do... it makes us look beyond ourselves.. Thank you.

Katie said...

Jim, I must confess you are much more optimistic than I am. I would have called this woman a birthday-ruining patient... instead of focusing on what she doesn't have, you were able to be grateful for what you do. Well done. As always.

<>< Katie

saraH said...

my older sister is also MR and lives in a group home here in Ohio. if i ever found her to be mistreated even slightly i would be freaking out. if i found her to be in as much distress as your poor patient, you would soon see new patients admitted with broken knee caps.
that poor woman. i hope the state does an investigation on that group home. please don't let that situation slip through the cracks.

SilverNeurotic said...

I've been reading your blog for awhile now, but somehow never commented. However, today's post moved me enough to comment...

I worked with the developmentally challenged population for close to 7 years, (one of those years being responsible for the medical appointments). Reading this, I was heart broken by the neglect this woman was shown. Why had she been allowed to get so sick before medical treatment? How could the aide leave her side for so long without so much as leaving that information behind. I had several experiences of bringing clients in to the ER and I never left their side, not even to use the bathroom, unless I was sure they were okay and let someone know where I was going.

Anonymous said...

You left so many unanswered questions!
1. where was the aide?
2. what happened to the patient?
3. what was the cause of this situation? i suspect neglect, but do you know??

StorytellERdoc said...

Hi All

I just want to thank you for your further interest in this patient.

First, the aide--she was reported and, outside of that, I didn't really care what her excuse was. She knew she did wrong. I would have said something to her if it would have helped the current situation, but what I had to say to her would have only inflamed how we all felt about her absence.

However, I don't want her behavior to reflect the amazing aides and techs that I have experienced through the years in similar circumstances. As Silver Neurotic explained, she, as well as every other aide I've encountered before this one, take their jobs seriously, most coming to look at their client as something more akin to family. They are wonderful and caring people who deserve so much more than their pay reflects.

Secondly, the patient was doing okay through the night. Then, I started a vacation. My focus shifted from professional to personal, and rarely do I blend them within our home's four walls. I'm sorry I don't have more info about this patient for you.

Third, I don't believe this patient was abused. I do believe she had the dwindles, with several smaller medical issues being dealt with by the home through several outpatient appointments. However, as we all in medicine know, these smaller factors can join together and create, as with this patient, a serious circumstance of life-threatening illness. The progression to get to this point, though, was not clear. That, too, was going to be looked at.

Trust me when I say I had a larger appreciation for my life and health that day, birthday or not.

Jim

kristen77 said...

I wept when I read this! I am not one to go to the lawsuit route; however the nursing home needs to be sued, sanctioned etc.
Was she not worthy of proper care?
Was she considered a non person because she was MR? I cannot wrap my mind around that all of this was happening to her, with clear signs that all is not well with her at all and should have been seen sooner. I go back to the fact that the nursing home thought of her as a non person, and was to be ignored! Hey the Aide did leave for an hour to 1 1/2. She did not care enough to stay with her patient, she left! I bet that this is systemic of their priorities and not just the aide. I pray for her and her loving brother! I pray that she comes out of this. Can you keep us posted?

kristen77 said...

'She was fine through the night', was this information provided by the aide/home?

BTW: Happy Birthday! You are a wonderful human being, doctor and family man!

Nanci, RN said...

Having had to leave the "ER" for health issues, and missing it beyond what words can say, I truly appreciate your effort to give me a glimpse of what I loved most about that "mission" in my life. Thank you for another heart-felt blog post and...Happy (though belated) Birthday. May ALL your wishes come true!

Jabulani said...

Thank you for this post. It reminds me that come my birthday shortly, I want to celebrate my mid-40s with friends and cake!! I would've liked to know the end to this story, but appreciate that perhaps we can but hope it had a good ending. Hopefully. Bless you, and your staff.

Have Myelin? said...

Hope you had a good vacation after all that! Thanks for the updated post. =)

Winking Doll said...

"It wasn't lost on me that, by the luck of the draw, this patient's life could have been any one of ours."

So true! I remember one lady patient, struck by stroke at her prime (mid-30's), unable to move or speak. During one visit, her husband mentioned to the nurses how vivacious his wife was before the stroke and expressed hope that she can recover. Her tears rolled down after her husband left.

Could have been any one of us. That's why I believe that a 1st world country must provide universal health care.

JoyfulJ said...

How do people let those they are supposed to be caring for get in these kinds of situations? It sound like she had enough symptoms to alert anyone with any small amount of knowledge of the human body that something was very wrong, before she reached such a awful state!
My heart goes out to this woman and any like her. So glad it sounds like her brother is so wonderful.
Thanks for doing such a great job and caring so much for her Doc!