I said to the front office clerk
I hope I’m not being a jerk
Someone who works in hive
Wrote seven, not five.
Now will you please just send me more work?
Synopsis: I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, and honoring a 1 year non-compete clause, travelled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. After three years working with a Community Health Center, I went back to adventures in temporary positions until they have an Electronic Medical Record (EMR) system I can get along with. A winter in Nome, Alaska, assignments in rural Iowa, a summer with a bike tour in Michigan, and Urgent Care in suburban Pennsylvania stretched into the fall. Last winter I worked western Nebraska and coastal Alaska. After the birth of our first grandchild, I returned to Nebraska. My wife’s brain tumor put all other plans on hold. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.
After two months of no patient care I returned to work three days ago. Patient flow crept in the single digits daily.
Still I had bloggable moments.
We dealt with a cardiac arrest the first day. Doing CPR constitutes a valid workout, and people fatigue so quickly that the guidelines call for a change of personnel every 2 minutes. My turn came, and the hospital CEO followed me.
For different people with different problems that day I advised drastic alcohol reduction, complete tobacco elimination, good hydration, sleep prioritization, regular exercise, and a return to counseling. I pointed out that marijuana aggravates anxiety, deepens depression, brings on paranoia, and sabotages life goals.
Yesterday we watched through my office window as the crane lowered a new installation, really a prefabricated building with very expensive equipment, into place. The machine, worth dozens of millions of dollars, came down slowly, guided by men in hard hats with ropes. I recalled my days in construction, when I swept the concrete footing furiously just before the crane lowered the form. I looked at the odd clods of dirt on the footing and shook my head. The stucco wall now sits three feet outside my office window, completely obstructing the view, and reflecting the heat from the sun. I’ve quipped it’s a monochrome mural by a noted abstract artist titled Beige Wall, and offered to forge a Salvador Dali signature on it.
I performed my version of a complete neurologic exam on 4 different patients yesterday; all completely normal. I deal with a lot of patients with headaches, migraines and others.
But I also took care of a very sick patient. At the end of the day, I ordered a lot of lab work, all of which got sent to a reference lab an hour away. I left my phone number with the techs, telling them that they could text me results without violating HIPAA as long as they didn’t attach a patient name. And I could do so safely because I only had one patient hospitalized.
Today the low patient flow continued. The new installation required lots of drilling through my office wall. I fled the intolerable noise to chat with a colleague. But I also passed a front office staffer at a critical time. She asked me my UPIN.
Various entities have assigned me various unique identifying numbers, starting with my 9 digit Social Security number. The longest one, with 14 digits, comes from Canada. I gave her the 10 digit number, flippantly, ending with 365. She frowned. The one she had on file ended with 367.
That one digit error resulted in no insurance credentialing for 5 companies. The clinic administration worked hard much of the afternoon to try to set things right.
While the drilling in the wall continued.
I thought about the Bob Dylan song, Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts.