My friend Lilly

Lilly* has schizophrenia. As if that isn’t enough, she was also born early, to a cocaine-addicted mother, with hydrocephalus. She also has bi-polar disorder, diabetes, and is legally blind. Her growth was severely stunted by all of her problems, and even though she is in her mid thirties, she is barely 4 feet tall. Lilly’s mother and her crack-dealing boyfriends abused her as a child.

Lilly’s aunt “takes care” of her. What she actually does is provide a place for Lilly to live. Auntie tries, and she tries hard. But she can’t do it. Auntie says Lilly is family, and family takes care of family. Auntie makes sure Lilly gets all of her medications every day, and makes sure she is well-fed and clothed.

Auntie doesn’t have much. She lives on a paltry disability check she gets, and her son contributes some of his earnings he makes selling drugs in the neighborhood. I can’t imagine how they manage to eat, much less afford their home. Auntie inherited the home from her mother when she died a few years ago, and somehow makes the mortgage payment.

Lilly doesn’t want for love. Her cousin, her Auntie, their extended family, and even the neighbors all care about Lilly. But Lilly is sick.

Lilly has psychotic breaks about three times a week, and has been for several years. She throws things in the house, punches walls, scratches cars with keys, screams, swings at people, and does all the things to be expected.

She can’t help it.

So the police go to the scene to make sure she doesn’t physically hurt anyone, and to try to stop Lilly from causing more property damage. They don’t arrest her, because she doesn’t need to be arrested. They call for an ambulance, because she needs mental help, and there is no such thing as a mental health house call where Lilly is. The call for the ambulance invariably triggers a call for a fire crew in their engine.

But the loud noise from the engine makes Lilly agitated, and the crew doesn’t really know what to do. They just know they aren’t needed there, but they have to be there until we can get there.

So we show up, and we spend the next thirty minutes doing everything we can to talk Lilly down.

I like Lilly, and I would like to think she feels the same way about me. We have a routine: I kneel down and remove my sunglasses so we can make eye contact, I touch her shoulder and introduce myself, and she screams at me. I tell her that I am here to take her away from what is making her upset, so she can go talk to someone if she wants to, or so she can be alone for a little while.

Lilly always agrees. Sometimes it takes longer to talk with her, but she always agrees.

Then we take her to the hospital her Auntie chooses, since Auntie has power of attorney.

The hospital staff is incredibly nice to her. They all say hello, and they smile. They allow her to keep her clothes on, and they give her a soda and saltine crackers.

Sometimes, a physician will sign an involuntary hold order, and Lilly has to go to an inpatient center for several days. But that doesn’t fix the problem.

I really don’t know what Lilly needs. I think she needs a nursing home of some sort, or at least an assisted-living facility. But I don’t know how that would help.

I just know the current situation isn’t working.

Poor Lilly is a horrible victim of a horrible situation, and she can’t help it.

 

*Not her real name, of course.

That duck can pull a truck

The call is for a middle-aged man with “altered mental status not breathing normally.” I’m responding with the ambulance crew and a fire crew to the apartment complex address listed on the MDT.

I arrive on scene as the ambulance crew is making their way inside. I know the medic fairly well. He did all of his intern rides with Slimm and I, and he is good at his job. I know he won’t need me, but I would like to see him working on his own. The fire crew has been there several minutes.

I walk in to see the fire crew taping down an IV in the patient’s arm. “It’s a white-out, C” says Ashley the medic, with his thick drawl. “Suggah is thutty.”

(Think Kevin Bacon in JFK. Not Costner, because his attempt at a southern accent was piss-poor.)

I see Ashley and his partner spiking a bag of saline while a fire crew member is reaching into his bag for the D50.

“Hey, b’fore y’all go ‘head and push that dee-fifty, let’s mix it up in this bag right here.”

“But he needs the sugar. His glucose is really-”

“I know, I know, but we should mix it up in this right here bag instead’a givin’ it straight in the vein.”

“That doesn’t make any sense-”

“Look, now. If I tell you that duck can pull a truck, then hook that duck up! Lemme show ya’ ” Ashley replies, grabbing the syringe, attaching a needle, and mixing it into the bag of saline.

“Now, what we got here is dee-ten. It’ll wake’em up just tha same, but it’s just less shockin’ to tha system” he explains.

I know exactly what he is doing, because that is my preferred method of dextrose administration.

The patient wakes up quickly, and I glance at the bag. About 100ml are in so far. Somebody repeats the glucose stick. “Eighty-nine.”

“Now see, he’s had a hunnid of dee-ten, and he’s already awake. Ain’t that suggah better’n givin’ tha whole amp and jackin’ it up to tha three hunnids?”

Apparently, when a Southerner tells you that a duck can pull a truck, you are supposed to shut up and hook that duck up.

Learn something every day.

Sunday again

We quickly realized it was Sunday, however, when we got the call for the “person who fainted” at a church.

Bystanders said the “victim” was “struck by the holy spirit during worship.”

Can you describe the assailant? Should we get PD out here?

This lady is laying on the floor, not speaking. She follows commands, though. Stroke assessment is normal. Blood glucose is normal. Vital signs are better than mine. She’s hyperventilating, of course. She’s just not talking. Maybe something is wrong with her.

And maybe Kim Jong Un is serious.

She gets snapped out of her pseudocatatonic state when some random woman starts yelling at her, snapping her fingers in her face.

“BY THE BLOOD OF JESUS I COMMAND YOU TO SPEAK!”

So the entire ride to the hospital she continues to say “Blood of Jesus, blood of Jesus.”

For twenty minutes.

An hour later, after the attention she was seeking had subsided, she walked out of the hospital.

 

“Floyd, dude”

I’m transporting a nice guy in his thirties for a broken ankle. He’s a stoner, and currently high as a kite, which has nothing to do with the unfortunate injury he sustained. Regardless, it doesn’t stop the other first responders from judging him from his marijuana use.

I just wish he would share, and I didn’t have to occasionally pee in a cup.

He’s loaded in the ambulance, and we are on the way to a fancy building where they have the capabilities to repair his protruding tibia. He’s gotten a little bit of morphine, which seems to help his pain. He now describes his injury as “gnarly.”

Sounds of music waft into the patient compartment as Slimm turns up the radio a bit.

“Dude, is that Floyd?!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it Dark Side? What’s your partner’s name?”

“Yeah, we were listening to it earlier. His name is Slimm.”

“Hey, Slimm!” he yells. “Turn it up!”

My intrepid partner obliges, and we all jam out to Pink Floyd for the next several minutes. The delightful gentleman even gave an excellent air drum rendition during Money.

Grumpy Geriatric German

It was obvious the family didn’t want this old lady in the house. She’s had a stroke, and now she is basically trapped in her power wheelchair. They take good care of her, but it seems like they don’t want to. She apparently was “dazed” for a few minutes so they want us to run her across town in rush hour traffic to “get checked out.”

Whatever.

She strikes me as grumpy. Not to us, but to her family members who seem to be completely ignoring her.

We’ve got a long way to go, and I’m curious about where she is from, with her thick German accent.

“What part of Germany are you from?”

“Nuremberg”

“Neat. My family came from Schwabach.*” She is not impressed. “When did you move to the States?”

“1947”

Holy shit.

It dawns on me. She’s 84, and lived in Nuremberg in the 1940s. She was 19 when she moved from Germany.

We spent the next hour talking about what it was like growing up as a teenager in Nazi Germany.

She had incredible, heart-wrenching stories.

She smiled at me when I left and I said “auf weidersehen.” I wonder when the last time she smiled was. I wonder when the last time someone talked to her. I wonder when the last time someone listened to her.

 

*Essentially a suburb of Nuremberg.**

**I can do geography, too.

 

Disaster averted

Admittedly, the portion of paramedic school that covered the care of the newborn was short. We didn’t learn much aside from managing either a perfectly normal baby, or a baby that was terribly abnormal.

A friend of mine was relating a story recently. He was telling me about a call he ran that morning in which a mother delivered a baby at home. Apparently the mother wanted a home birth, but the HMO’s obstetrician insisted the baby be transported to the hospital after delivery, going so far as calling 911 for the new parents.

My friend Jeff* was explaining that he arrived a few minutes after the local first responders, and walked into the house about 5 minutes after they did. The first responders apparently cheated by having a station less than half a block away from the house, and also cheated by having their vehicle parked outside, doing their morning truck check-off when the call came in.

Jeff was saying he walked into the house to find a first responder putting the finishing touches on an IV that they had established on the baby. The IV that was established before any vitals were obtained. With the exception of a heelstick glucose.

He mentioned that the baby appeared “completely normal and content.” The parents had already given the baby a cursory bath, and clamped and cut the umbilical cord. The baby was born about 15 minutes before Jeff walked in. The baby was full-term, but had not begun feeding yet.

He didn’t say what the cord was clamped with, and I should have asked.

Another first responder on scene was holding an ampule of dextrose. Not D5 or D10. Not even D25.

D50.

The baby’s heelstick glucose was 49.

They were about to administer, according to Jeff, “half an amp of D50 through a 24 gauge IV of saline.” Until they were stopped by my friend.

The first responder who was about to administer the dextrose had recently finished paramedic school. One would think he would know better, but he wasn’t taught.

Who is responsible for errors when the paramedics that we put on the street ‘don’t know what they don’t know?’

 

*Not his real name, of course.

I don’t like to take riders

I don’t like to take passengers in the ambulance with us to the hospital. They are a distraction to me in the back, the patient, and to my partner, who theoretically could be referred to as an “ambulance driver.”

Gasp. I said it.

But yeah, I prefer not to take riders. I don’t really mind if a husband or wife wants to ride along, or a parent of a young child wants to ride along, but that’s pretty much where I draw the line.

So we get called to an office tower for a “female in her 20s with difficulty breathing.” I know what you are thinking, and no, it was not a panic attack. Turns out the office was painted or something, and the fumes triggered her asthma.

Poor girl. (She is better now.)

Her boss approaches, wearing an ill-fitting pantsuit with an air of attitude about her.

“I’m going to ride to the hospital with her in the ambulance.”

“Actually, we only take riders if they are family. You are welcome to follow in your car if you would like. Maybe you could give her a ride back to her car when she gets discharged?”

“No. I’m going to ride in the ambulance with her.”

Now, in general, I don’t appreciate when people tell me what they are going to do, I prefer that they ask me. Unless it’s vomit related. Then a person is free to tell me they are going to vomit.

“Well, actually, we have a policy that says only family members can ride to the hospital in the ambulance, I’m really sorry.” I catch the eyes of the patient during this conversation and I can see her trepidation. Something is on her mind, and I have the feeling that I am doing the right thing for the patient.

“I want your supervisor’s phone number!” she yells at me.

“No problem” I say, handing over a business card with the requested phone numbers.

After loading the patient in the ambulance and giving her some medications to start fixing her situation, I ask the patient about her the medications she takes aside from the asthma. She is a healthy appearing woman, so I don’t expect too much.

She starts rattling off medications that sound familiar, but that I don’t hear often. I stop writing, and look at her as her office building begins disappearing from the rear windows.

“So what kind of medical problems do you have?” I ask her.

“I have asthma.”

“What else?”

She hangs her head a bit and her voice cracks. “HIV.”

“How long have you known?”

“Only a few months” she replies, and her eyes begin to water.

We spend the next twenty minutes checking vital signs, talking about what she does at work, and (seriously) the sequestration crisis.

As we pull onto the hospital ramp, she looks at me, her eyes asking the question.

“You aren’t going to tell my boss, are you?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t tell your boss, even if I was allowed to. Nobody here will tell her anything, and they will keep her out of your room if you want.”

She seems relieved, and I am glad that I could comfort her in some way.

Somebody tell me that she would have felt comfortable telling me such private information with her overbearing boss ten feet away.

It wouldn’t have happened.

So only family rides.

 

House vs. Car

Dispatch tells us the call is for a “car into a house.” In a neighborhood. How this happens, I don’t know, but will eventually find out.

I mean, houses are like, so…big, and kinda easy to miss. But the ability of the general public to do strange things never ceases to amaze me.

Uppity neighborhood. Half-million dollar homes. Three car garages. Manicured lawns. Sidewalks and junk.

We find the home. One of the garage doors is destroyed. With a Hummer H3 amidst the rubble.

Except…the Hummer doesn’t look like it ran into the house. It looks like it smashed out of the house.

Crying and walking around is a young, high-school age girl. She’s on the phone with someone. She doesn’t appear physically injured, so we let her finish the phone call.

Then we find out what happened.

Her parents are out of town for the weekend, and she was late going to meet some of her friends. The garage door wouldn’t open. Neither her remote nor the button on the wall would work.

She thought the best course of action was to drive through the door, so she wouldn’t be late.

I mean, who would have thought to manually open a garage door?

One of the firemen installs garage doors on his days off. He says this is a custom job, and an insulated door. Basically, it’s fancy.

He says some words like “custom” and “carriage house” and “wooden” and stuff.

Ten grand worth of damage to the door alone.

It would be nice to have a rich daddy.

Stop the charade

Look, I don’t want to be at work either. I come to this place at least twice a week, most frequently on Mondays, and it is always the same thing: a female feeling faint, or with chest pain, or with difficulty breathing.

I understand your boss is a really, really big meany-head, and doesn’t like it when you call out to work because you were hung over the whole weekend, I really do. I get it. I promise.

But every time you call for something like “feeling faint” or “chest pain” or with “difficulty breathing,” we send a fire truck, an rescue truck, and an ambulance to this place.

Ten people, eight EMTs and two paramedics, in 3 vehicles, for one person who just doesn’t want to be at work.

And when you call with one of those complaints, we have to send all those people to this place because it might actually be an ALS call. Then we have to start lines, do 12-leads, give aspirin and nitro, and the hospital has to waste their time doing the same thing.

And I know there isn’t anything wrong with any of you. I’ve been coming here weekly for years. Literally, years. I could drive here in my sleep. It’s like a giant room full of women crying wolf.

So I propose a deal: I will continue being the jovial paramedic who is genuinely concerned for your well-being, and you stop complaining of these things. How about “back pain from a kidney stone” or “nausea” or “pregnancy problem” or something that is BLS, but sick enough for your boss to believe your story.

I will still bring the stretcher to you, because we all know you can’t walk. I’ll still take you to the hospital, and they will still give you a work excuse, and your friend can also get off of work to come pick you up from the hospital, and you can both be back at your house in time to catch Judge Judy.

Stop the charade.

A comment from Flash Larry on “Who is the customer / You make the call”

So Flash Larry blew up my blog, again, with one of his comments. Really though, I appreciate your comments, Flash. Ladies and gentlemen, I have a notion that Flash is more knowledgeable than most of us could hope to be.

My previous post questioned what the correct action would be when an EMS unit is told by a healthcare provider and a company policy to transport a patient to a certain hospital, and what the consequences of transporting that patient to a hospital that is not equipped to handle the specific problem. In this instance, interventional cardiology.

I have pieced together Flash’s reply, and added my comments as well.

He begins:

 The issue here is one of informed consent. In my state, a patient has the absolute right to be transported to the facility of his choice with one exception.

 This is always a good topic, the one of “informed consent.” What exactly is “informed consent?” Are we to inform each patient each time we establish an IV that there is the risk of catheter shear, which could cause an embolism? Are we to inform the patient, or family member, each time we administer dextrose that there is the risk of infiltration, which could cause tissue necrosis and the possibility of loss of the affected limb? I think that might be going a little too far.

I do not think informing the patient of their current medical problem and the care that is necessary is going too far. We get into that in just a little bit. Stand by.

 The exception, which bears discussion: The regulations state that if the EMS service medical director has established a “reasonable distance” for transports that the medical director can override the patient’s wishes if the patient wants to go further than the “reasonable distance.” The intent of the regulation was to prevent a patient from demanding transport to a distant city. It is my understanding that the medical directors of some services are establishing “reasonable distances” that insure that patients go to particular hospitals of their choice. The matter has not yet been litigated but at some point, it will be and then a jury will determine what constitutes a reasonable distance. That will be interesting both in the courtroom and in the newspapers.

 Flash answered my question before I had time to ask it: Just how far is a “reasonable distance?”

My company has a policy that states, in essence, we will transport a patient to any hospital in a county that is contiguous with ours. And that seems reasonable. In the previous scenario, Roundthecorner Medical Center and St. Elsewhere are in two contiguous counties.

I once worked in a city in which ambulance service was provided by two privately owned hospitals. The hospitals and EMS services got along very well, because they had the patient’s best interest in mind. While I worked for both services at the same time, it was routine to transport patients to the hospital of their choice, regardless of what was on the side of my ambulance. “Which hospital would you like to go to?” became a staple question during my assessments.

 I don’t know what the laws are in your states but here it appears that the ambulance service rule is denying the patient the right to informed consent, which is actionable at law in several ways. As all of you know, patient consent is required before you treat them. Under the law of my state, if a mentally functioning patient is informed as to what you’re doing and doesn’t express opposition, then consent is presumed (this arose out of a patient who did not expressly consent but did not object to care and then turned around and sued for failure to obtain consent. The appellate courts ruled that the plaintiff should have expressed opposition at the time of care rather than suing later).

 Frankly, I do not know the specific laws in my state, but I will be a good little blogger and go research them.

When the word “actionable” is used, I have to ask “actionable against whom?” As far as I can tell, it is my duty to provide the informed consent, and I am responsible if my actions violate the law, regardless of company policy. If my company policy requires that I physically touch each and every patient, yet I physically touch a patient who has refused my touching, then I have commited battery, and no company policy is going to provide me coverage in a court of law.

A far-fetched scenario, I know.

However, the second part of consent is that it must be informed. The patient must be informed of his condition and risks of treatment. Therefore any rule that states otherwise is contrary to law.

Therefore, this patient should be informed that his EKG shows what may be an imminently serious cardiac condition that is usually effectively treated by a particular procedure, be told what the different facilities can and cannot do, what your recommendation is and what you’d do with another patient in the same condition for whom you had not received specific orders. It is not necessary to tell him that they screwed up the 12-lead but that yours shows something different than what they got when they took it and things might have changed (they do, actually).

The patient is then able to make his own informed choice as to where he should go.

It’s not necessary to suggest, then or later, that the transferring facility made any errors. The most important thing is that your documentation supports your decision.

 The hospital in question, Roundthecorner Medical Center, can perform cardiac catheterization, but cannot perform interventional cardiology. Most often what happens when they perform a catheterization in which a stent is needed, is that the hospital will place an intra-aortic balloon pump, then have the patient transferred to a hospital that is capable of PCI.

While it is not necessarily my purview, I can’t help but wonder if RMC informs those patients “Hey, we couldn’t fix this problem when you came in the door, and we knew that, but we decided to ‘take a look’ anyway. Now we have to put this complicated piece of equipment in your aorta to help your heart pump, wait on a receiving facility to actually accept you, and wait on an equipped, knowledgeable ambulance crew to come transfer you. Sorry we didn’t send you there sooner.”

Whenever I am handed paperwork from any healthcare facility, I look at it, and make not of what they found. I always perform my own tests because, as you say, things change. Things change frequently and often.

 If you do not proceed in terms of informed consent, you and your company (under the doctrine of respondeat superior) could be held liable at law for any injury to the patient caused by taking him somewhere he didn’t want to do or by not informing him of his conditions and the destination options. As well, the paramedic could be in danger of losing his license for violating state regulations. I assure you, if it comes to a court case or administrative hearing, the ambulance service will NOT send in their owners and managers to say, “It’s not his fault, we told him to do that.” They will say, “We never, ever, ever would tell one of our employees to do anything that would be detrimental to patient care or in violation of the law.”

 For those that are interested or don’t know, respondeat superior is Latin for “let the master answer.” In many cases, the employer has to answer for the actions of their employees. It is also known as the “Master-Servant Rule.” Essentially, the employee cannot be held liable for actions that he performs when those actions are required by his employer. Actions that are outside the scope of the law, however, do not make the employee immune to prosecution for those actions.

If, however, the employer says, as Flash alluded, “We never, ever, ever would tell one of our employees to do anything that would be detrimental to patient care or in violation of the law.” and the employer can prove with company documentation that the opposite is true, the employee’s actions could still be actionable.

Ignorance of the law is not a defense.

 Which brings me to a question, CCC? Is that policy that you specified actually in writing anywhere, or is it word of mouth? (see above paragraph if it’s word of mouth or less than explicit)

 This policy is explicit. While not in an employee handbook, it is in writing elsewhere.

 If, on the other hand, you transport the patient to the appropriate facility (18 miles away) WITH the patient’s informed consent, and most especially if you are proven right and the company takes an adverse personnel action against you, the company may be liable at law in a lawsuit brought by the employee for creating a policy that violates state law. I can also assure you that public opinion would not be on the side of the company either, if it became public. Nor, I think, would the patient support the company’s adverse personnel action. Nor, I think, would the transferring office (who must have some reason for wanting them transported to a particular facility) be interested in having it made public.

 Employment law in my state allows an employer to terminate an employee for virtually anything. That isn’t to say that the employer would not be liable for creating a policy that violates state law, however.

I believe the public should know what we are doing, and why we are doing it. But that’s just me.

 Always, always, always do that which is in the best interests of the patient and what complies with the law.

 I have always done what is in the best interest of the patient. While I did not take the Hippocratic oath when I began working on an ambulance, I believe whole heartedly to “do no harm” is the ultimate goal. “Doing harm” can be something as simple as transporting a STEMI patient to a hospital that does not perform PCI, at least in my eyes.

 One of my more famous moments was when I was dispatching one day (yes, I did that too) and with all my units tied up, had a walk-in to the station having a possible heart attack. After warning my units to hold their traffic, I put the patient on high-flow oxygen, went back in and called a competing private service to come get the patient out of our main station. It was the only option I had. It was in the best interest of the patient. Fortunately my boss at the time ever only asked one question when you went outside the box, and that was exactly that. Was it in the best interests of the patient? As he said, every time, “Patient care comes first.”

That’s the way it should be.

I am glad your former boss saw the patient’s well-being as the first and foremost responsibility. Even though we compete with each other, the ultimate goal is the same: take care of people.

Patient care always comes first.

Thanks for your comments, Flash.