Archive for the ‘Medical Care’ Category

Harrowing transfers

January 14, 2018

It’s the time of year for the flu

If it’s that, we know what to do

But in transferring out

We have without doubt

The stressors come out of the blue.

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, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I followed 3 years Community Health Center work with a return to traveling and adventures in temporary positions in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska. 2017 brought me adventures in Iowa, Alaska, and northern British Columbia, and now I’m living at home and working 48 hours/week in rural Iowa. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

With bad weather promised in the forecast, I decided to drive to work the evening before rather than the morning of. Fog shut down visibility and I crept the last few miles into town and hotel to await the impending major winter storm.

Overnight the temps plummeted to double negative digits, and the wind rattled the windows. I awoke to a scene of a blowing snow, but the worst of the wind had passed and the gusts stayed under 40 miles per hour.

Not surprisingly, clinic load dropped with the mercury. Through the day I cared for people with the problems of abdominal pain, a cold, a rash, another cold, the flu, a cough, another cold, ankle pain, yet another cold, and an irritated eye.  Two of the patients spoke Spanish; one of them first spoke an indigenous dialect before he started to learn Spanish at 15, thus making us equally Hispanic.

At the end of the day one of the permanent docs and I went to the Mexican restaurant. We talked a lot  about hunting and Alaska and the pragmatic parts of medical practice.

I had almost 45 seconds at the hotel before the call summoned me back to the ER to care for another person with a respiratory infection.

I took care of 3 more patients before midnight, one psychiatric and two respiratory. I did not ask for permission to write about any of them.

But I can write about the problems inherent in rural practice. Small hospitals lack the resources to deal with life-threatening problems.  Whether in Iowa, Canada, or Alaska, patient transfers can be the most harrowing part of the job: you don’t have to send well patients to referral centers.

Here I have to do a complete history and physical, just as if I intended hospitalization. I get the basic labs, and, if necessary, x-rays.  I ask the nurses where to best send the patient.

Sometimes neither nearest nor best-equipped means the same as best.

Then I make the first call. Sometimes a secure video link, much like Skype, opens up.  I generally have to go through a nurse to get to the doctor, who has final authority to say, Yes or No to the transfer.

Depending on the context, ambulance and/or law enforcement personnel need to be enlisted.

Then the harrowing wait begins. The helicopter, airplane or ambulance never shows until I have hit the outskirts of emotional exhaustion.

When the patient leaves, I start keyboarding my history and physical into the computer as fast as I can. I hand the printed copy to the nurse with the request to fax it to the accepting physician.

Then I dictate the same information into the dictation system.

I got back to the hotel shortly after midnight, too wound up to sleep. I studied for an hour and a half.  I slept surprisingly well before going back to the clinic to discuss legal threats with the manager.

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A Tale of Two ER Patients

December 27, 2017

The blood came gush from the nose

Staining the floor and the clothes

But a Merocel pack

Slid from front to the back

Brought a stop to the flood, I suppose.

 

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, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I followed 3 years Community Health Center work with a return to traveling and adventures in temporary positions in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska. A month in the Arctic followed a month in Iowa followed 3 months in British Columbia, to which we have returned. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

A tale of 2 ER patients.

I find the process of transferring patients out daunting and frustrating. The remoteness of the community demands stewardship of the two ambulances with their crews.  Thus, when possible, I send  patients to Prince George via POV (privately owned vehicle).

Even then, the process of stabilize-and-transfer can involve an hour or two of ER time when I get to chat with a patient.

I got to talk with a chef, who gave me permission to write a good deal more than I have. His camp, with 120 workers, employs three cooks, each responsible for one meal a day.  We had a great time talking about gravy; we agreed that corn starch beats flour for thickener, and that a good broth or stock means more to the sauce than the drippings.

*-*-*-

 

I gave a different ER patient the reverse of my usual dietary advice. Eat three scoops of premium ice cream at bed time, I told her.  Don’t drink water, always make sure your beverage has calories, especially high fructose corn sweetener.  I described how the Iowa beef industry uses it to accelerate fat gain in cattle.   I told her not to eat anything without gravy, mayo, or a sauce.

At the end, I said, “I write a blog. I won’t mention name, diagnosis, or age, but I’d like to write about the eating plan I gave you, the opposite of what I usually give out, how poison for one person is life-saving for another.”

She waved her hand and said, “You can use my name if you like.”

 

*-*-*-

During my IHS time in New Mexico, I saw 2 or 3 major nose bleeds a week for 18 months.  In that time, I became skilled at packing the front part of the nose to stop the bleeding.  Most times I could get the stanch the flow, and when I couldn’t, I knew what to do to get the patient to specialist care.

But since then the nose bleeds I’ve seen were simple, easy to stop temporarily followed immediately by a touch with a silver nitrate stick for permanent resolution. .

But the problem of serious epistaxis (bleeding from the nose) relies heavily on equipment, and the equipment has changed in the last 30 years. Our hospital has specialized catheters with inflatable balloons (the Rapid Rhino), and sponges made of material that promotes clotting (Merocel).  We also have tranexemic acid, unknown in the 20th century

For the time frame involved, I’ve seen more than my share of complicated nosebleeds this trip. I discovered that the closest Ears, Nose, Throat specialist doesn’t take call, and that most of the ER docs cheerfully confer by phone.

Croup treatment has and hasn’t changed

December 21, 2017

With a cough like the bark of a seal
And the kiddy so good doesn’t feel
There’s no way to avoid
A dose of steroid
Croup must be treated with zeal.


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, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I followed 3 years Community Health Center work with a return to traveling and adventures in temporary positions in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska. A month in the Arctic followed a month in Iowa followed 3 months in British Columbia, to which we have returned. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.
I had cause to contemplate how things do and don’t change in medicine. Consider, for example, croup. If a virus swells a child’s narrow airway, a barking cough, much like a seal asking for a fish, follows. Death can ensue if the airway narrows to the point of closing, or if the child stops breathing out of exhaustion.
The pediatric ward in the hospital where I did my residency had two outdated features for treating croup when I arrived.
One consisted of a tiled room that could be filled with water vapor; a large cloud chamber that could sleep 8. During my tenure its only use was storage.
But the spacious balcony on the other side of the nurses’ station told a different story. It had sliding glass doors and space for 6 cribs. In a bad croup year, the nurses bundled the children up, to sleep with their faces uncovered in the cold, dry Wyoming air.
It worked for most of the kids, and I still recommend that strategy, saying, “Now if the spasm of croup doesn’t clear in 3 breaths you’re already headed to the ER.”
Treatments have come and gone and come back. Antibiotics, we found, did no good. Theophylline (a close cousin of caffeine, and found in pharmacologic amounts in chocolate) helped, but not much, and had a lot of side effects so has since been completely displaced by the albuterol (in Canada, salbutamol) updraft.
Every winter, during the peak croup season, I’d ask my pediatrician friends if we’d gotten anything new for croup, and every winter they’d shake their heads.
We used to use inhaled adrenaline (also called epinephrine). It has come and gone in five year cycles. A year and a half ago I thought for sure that I’d never use it again when I heard a study showed it did no better than inhaling saline (salt water).
We used steroids a lot and stopped for a while in the 90s, started again just before the millennium, and continue to this day. Controversy remains regarding dose, and method of administration.
But croup has changed. The really, really bad version, where the epiglottis (the flap valve between the airway and the swallow tube) swells has disappeared with modern immunizations for diphtheria and Hemophilus influenza. And with the decreasing smoking rates we don’t see nearly as much as we used to.
I had cause to research croup treatment recently, finding, to my surprise, that all my internet sources recommend inhaled epinephrine and steroids. Just like 1982.

Why the nicotine patch fails, and what to do about it.

December 17, 2017

The smoker should take part of a straw

Through which, when breathing, should draw

For the smoking cessation

It bring relaxation

And that, with the patch, is the flaw.

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, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I followed 3 years Community Health Center work with a return to traveling and adventures in temporary positions in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska. A month in the Arctic followed a month in Iowa followed 3 months in British Columbia, to which we have returned. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

 

I hate tobacco with a passion which I restrain to as to not alienate patients. I ask people, on a scale of 1 to 10, how ready they are to quit.  If they say 1 or 10 I move to another topic.  If they say anything else, I ask them to tell me why they aren’t LESS ready to quit, and to name the best three things about smoking.

Smokers most commonly say “stress relief” as the best thing about smoking. I used to argue, pointing out that smokers smoking have the same level of stress as non-smokers at baseline; the stress the patient felt, I would say, comes down to nicotine withdrawal.

That approach didn’t help anyone quit; if anything it hardened the person’s commitment to death by tobacco.

Recently, I have started to point out that if a person wants stress relief, the deep breathing exercise that every smoker has mastered brings half the stress relief of smoking. Inhale like you’re getting the best drag of the day, I say, and your stress level will go down.

(Recently the FDA approved a device to treat high blood pressure.   Really an app, it gets people to slow their breathing.)

I think the nicotine patch fails so often because the people don’t get the stress relief of deep breathing.

Today, a patient who had already figured out that strategy announced he planned to get some straws and to breathe through, to give him something to do with his hands.

And, just like that, within an hour I had two more patients intending to quit smoking.

I advised both to get a soda straw, cut it in half and carry the half where they carry their cigarettes. And to breathe through the straw as if smoking a cigarette.

This simple, brilliant technique will answer the habit strength question, help with stress management, give the person something to do with their hands which also includes the mouth, and give the person much the same velocity of air as breathing in through a lighted cigarette.

 

The First week back in Canada

December 10, 2017

Oh, the joys of that 12th vitamin B

A low makes me dance round in glee

For without scalpel or knife

I can save someone’s life

And the med costs a very small fee.

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, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I followed 3 years Community Health Center work with a return to traveling and adventures in temporary positions in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska. A month in the Arctic followed a month in Iowa followed 3 months in British Columbia, to which we have returned. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

Though scheduled for orientation on Friday, I remembered a good deal of the electronic medical record (EMR), and started in with walk-in patients at 10:00AM. By the end of the day, I’d attended 11 people, as good as my best 8 hour clinic day during my most recent month in Alaska.  Patient flow goes very well here, documentation comes easily.

I carry the title locum tenens, which means that I’m a substitute or a temp, and only the night before did my name fall onto the schedule. Yet I knew 4 of the patients I took care of.

Monday started a very good week. I enjoy patient care, but I know that seeing too many patients in too short a time brings too much stress.  I saw a decent number of patients, rarely ran more than 10 minutes late, got lunch every day, and finished my documentation before 5:30 PM.

Filling in for two docs, at one point I had more than a thousand lab results to sign off.

An unusual percentage of the alcoholics I saw recognized the problem, and an unusual number of smokers had already decided to quit. Although, in fairness, an almost identical number of smokers had no interest in stopping.

I took call on Thursday to Friday morning. I slept poorly as much from the emergency at 3:00AM as from zigzagging time zones.

Friday more than half my patients represented repeat business. The clerical staff informed me that when people learned of my impending return, they waited to schedule with me.

Three of those patients had vitamin B12 deficiency. One of them gave me permission to write about the thrill I get from running the right test at the right time and finding that diagnosis.  I don’t often get to save a patient’s life, and, with B12 deficiency, I get to do it for pennies a day.

B12 deficiency most commonly presents as fatigue. In the past I started the investigation on the basis of depression, anemia, numbness, gait disturbance, erectile dysfunction, ADHD, and dementia.

In other clinics, management has discouraged me from ordering B12 assays in the Emergency Room or Urgent Care contexts. Yet, finding a result in my lab queue with that critical L beside the number brings me disproportionate joy and gives me a goofy grin for the rest of the day.

Which is why I prefer positions where vitamin B12 measurements are appropriate.

A procedure I couldn’t talk the patient out of

October 29, 2017

I looked down at the big toe

To see how the nail did grow

It sure wasn’t right

And it hurt day and night

So I fixed it, but not for the dough.

 

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, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I followed 3 years Community Health Center work with a return to traveling and adventures in temporary positions in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska. After 3 months in northern British Columbia, and a month of occasional shifts in northwest Iowa, I have returned to the Arctic.  Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

Medical school and residency merely start the process of lifelong learning required of my profession.

In residency, I saw one ingrown toenail removal before I did three under supervision. In the Indian Health Service, a podiatrist said, “This is the procedure that’s going to put your kids through college!” and gave me some tips on speed.  In the 90’s I did quite a few, but by the time the century turned, despite a large financial motivation to the contrary, I figured out how to get the patient taken care of without shedding blood.  A bit of cotton, an orange stick (a wood implement widely used to rearrange cuticles) and a bit of povidone dione (marketed most commonly as Betadine), with patience and about a week, can usually move the flesh away from the nail a millimeter a day.

Over the summer, researching the problem while in Canada, I came across the concept of a nail spreader, which can flatten out a curved nail over the course of several months.

But the patient yesterday (who gave permission to write more than I have) had already tried everything I had to offer, yet the problem persisted.  And I couldn’t talk  the patient out of the procedure.

Finding the right equipment takes up more than half the time of an office surgery when neither the physician nor the nurse knows where anything is.

I got trained to not only take out the nail plate, but scrape away germinal matrix (the tissue that makes the nail) down to the bone with an instrument called a curette, then apply a chemical, phenol, so destructive to human tissue that the nail would, hopefully, never grow back.

We had no curette, and no phenol, and I didn’t mind: less work for me and a good deal less blood loss.  At the end, I used a stick coated with silver nitrate to burn the heaped-up inflammatory tissue growing over the nail.

During the procedure we talked about high school sports (very important in small-town America) and music while outside, the gentle snow fell.

Shipping a patient: difficult, not impossible

September 22, 2017

There’s a thing or two that I’ve found

By plane, by chopper, or ground,

To move a patient who’s sick

I prefer it be quick

So as to arrive safe and sound.

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, traveled 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 traveling and adventures in temporary positions. Assignments in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska have followed. I just finished 3 months in northern British Columbia, getting a first-hand look at the Canadian system. I’m now back picking up an occasional shift in northwest Iowa.  Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

3:00PM: within 30 seconds of meeting the patient I know he’s sicker than he thought, and within a minute and a half I know he belongs not in the clinic, but in the ER. (He gave me permission to write the information in this blog.)

Then I think to ask the nurse, “Wait. I’m on call.  Which means that I’m covering ER, right?”  She nods.

In the current jargon of real-world medicine, the word “dump” means transferring a patient to another service without proper work-up. In this case, though,  I can’t call it a dump if I hand off to myself.

While I wait for the ER gurney I finish my exam, and get as much history as I can.

Two nurses, pulled from the inpatient service to ER, arrive to transport the patient. I hand them a list of lab and x-ray requests and IV orders, and return to the other walk-in patients on my schedule.

3:40 PM: I quick step to radiology to look at images.  In the ER the nurses hand me copies of the lab results, giving me the start of a diagnosis and confirming that the patient needs an ICU.  I discuss findings with the patient and family.  I strongly recommend transfer.  They request a hospital 3 ½ hours distant.

4:00 PM: I weave through the hospital switchboard and phone tree to the consultant’s phone crew, who use a handset that renders speech almost unintelligible.  The consultant is not available.  Would I prefer to wait for the nurse, to leave a voice mail, or to provide a call back number?  I ask for the nurse.

4:10 PM: I run through the case with the nurse, who puts me on hold.

4:20PM PM: I present the patient to the consultant.  I run through the presentation, context, past medical history, lab, x-ray, and my working diagnosis.  I finish with a request to transfer the patient, and the consultant agrees.

In 21st century USA, a doctor cannot legally transfer a patient without a physician accepting the transfer.

4:30 PM: back in the ER to get consent-to-transfer signed.

4:50 PM: the accepting hospital calls to tell us they won’t have a bed available till tomorrow.

The nurses tell me if the patient needs fluids during transfer, we’ll need a Paramedic crew out of Sioux City, because no nurse can’t be found to accompany the patient.

I think that they want me to back off on the IV fluids, but I can’t.

Return to ER: I advise a transfer a hospital two hours closer. The patient and family agree.

5:00 PM: I have the hospital operator put my call-back number into the consultant’s pager, asking how long I should wait before calling back.  The hospital operator assures me she rechecks every 15 minutes.

The nurses point out that if I ask for a helicopter I can get the patient to the destination a lot faster. I look at the ground-transport time from Sioux City (90 minutes) and then the time to hospital, 1 1/2 to 3 1/2 hours.  I agree to the helicopter.

5:10 PM: The closer consultant calls.  My cell phone has enough signal strength to ring but not enough to keep from terminating the conversation.  The nurses usher me to a spot by a window, and I call the consultant back.

5:15 PM: I reach the consultant, who agrees transfer is appropriate, but tells me I have to call the hospitalist.

I call the hospital back to try for the hospitalist.

I didn’t ask for the helicopter lightly.  In this case the geography and gravity of the situation changes the risk/benefit ratio.

5:20 PM: the hospitalist picks up. I make my presentation, with updated vital signs and report on response to treatment.  He accepts the transfer.

5:30 PM: in the ER with the patient (who looks better but not well) and family again, I outline the progress and have them sign an updated consent-for-transfer specifying a new accepting physician and hospital.

I make small talk in the ER, then wander back to the nurses’ station.

5:45 PM: I ask, “When is the chopper due?”

The nurse shrugs. “They said 20 minutes 25 minutes ago.”

5:50 PM: the helicopter crew arrives, with a small bag of Dove chocolates.

I make sure they take the necessary papers with them.

At five minutes to six, the sweet thump-thump of the rotors reaches my ears. In less than twenty minutes, I know, the patient will have access to the personnel and services he needs.

The nurses note that I don’t look upset.  I tell them it might have taken 3 hours, but I’ve seen worse.

Learning about a new toxic inhalation

August 22, 2017

It’s been quite a while since Yale

Some of my knowledge went stale

For I’ve never been tried

On chlorine dioxide

When it comes to the stuff you inhale.

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, traveled 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 traveling and adventures in temporary positions. Assignments in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska have followed.  I finished my most recent assignment in Clarinda on May 18.  Right now I’m in northern British Columbia, getting a first-hand look at the Canadian system. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

This town depends on forest products and, to a lesser extent, mining.   Felled trees get trucked or floated to the industrial area just outside of town, to get sawn at the lumber mill or chopped and bleached at the pulp mill.  The wood useful for neither process gets burned as biofuel at an electric plant.

The pulp mill operates 50 weeks per year, with a two-week shut down at the end of each summer for preventive maintenance and cleaning. The usual work force gets supplemented by short-term workers and contractors with their crews.

The cadre of workers may have experience, but all change involves chaos, and from chaos comes hurt.

Today, I saw a patient who had inhaled chlorine dioxide, ClO2, referred to by its local name, clowtwo (rhymes with crow brew) the day before, and gave me permission to write a good deal more than I have.

Decades ago, I worked in a town that relied on the meat-packing business. That industry requires a lot of refrigeration, which in turn depends on ammonia.  We did a lot of workman’s compensation medicine at the time, and one day I had four workers brought in simultaneously for ammonia inhalation, from a refrigerant leak.

Had I been asked, I would have diverted all 4 patients to the Emergency Room, but I hadn’t had the chance. I immediately had one nurse start oxygen, another nurse call for 2 ambulances, and a third nurse inject steroids.

When I called the ER to request a transfer, I could say, honestly, that they were breathing just fine and wondering why I was so worried. By the time they arrived at the emergency room, all 4 were starting to drown in their own fluids.  They all survived, after close to a week in the ICU.

I dealt effectively with a tough situation because I had read up on the effects of ammonia on the lungs beforehand, and I knew how dangerous it could be.

In this case, I knew a good deal more about chlorine inhalation, because of its use in WWI, but I didn’t know about chlorine dioxide and I hadn’t read up on it. The patient helped me along as I clicked my way through the Net, giving me the benefit of his experience.

 

Surviving grizzly bear attacks, controlling drug prices, and training a Dragon.

July 13, 2017

The thought that gives me a scare

Has do to with a grizzly bear

For he’s big and he’s massive

And pretty aggressive

And, out here, not terribly rare.

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, traveled 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 travel and adventures in temporary positions. Assignments in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska have followed.  I finished my most recent US assignment in Clarinda on May 18.  Right now I’m in northern British Columbia, getting a first-hand look at the Canadian system. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

Some people survive events far beyond the usual human experience.

Lightning strikes more citizens of New Mexico than any other state, and when I worked there I met several. The Natives hold such survivors in high esteem; some tribes elevate them, obligatorily, to Medicine Man status.

Alaska, with the highest percentage of licensed pilots in the country, seemed to have a disproportionately large number of people who lived to tell about plane crashes. I met survivors of gunshot wounds there and in Nebraska.

Today I spoke with a person who survived a grizzly bear encounter.

Most of the bears around here are black bears. Though they’ll eat anything, the majority of their diet comes from plants.  They climb trees, and do their best to avoid people.

Grizzlies are different. The largest land predator on the planet, they have an aggressive temperament.

The bear only bit my patient once, then retreated to keep track of her cubs (the person gave me permission to write a good deal more than I have). If you’re in bear country with the inexperienced, before you start out, make sure everyone knows to freeze if a grizzly approaches, and never to run.  Carry either bear spray or a rifle, and be prepared to use it.

I really wanted to talk to the patient about life and work in this area, but my primary job, fixing people, comes first.

-*-*-*

Price of medication exceeds the price for physician services. In the US, the prices have escalated beyond reason, making the drug company stocks some of the best.  Insurance leaves a lot of Americans without adequate medical coverage, and the cost of medication becomes an important consideration.  When I worked Community Health, all our prescriptions went through our pharmacy. The pharmacists determined the formulary (the choice of drugs), and did a good job of containing costs.  The facilities in Alaska have a similar system; in those places the people don’t pay for their prescriptions.

For most in this town, employers pay for health insurance to cover what the Province’s Medical Service Plan (MSP) doesn’t, like medications.  PharmaCare, a government program, buys the meds  for the low income segment.  Only a very few lack money for drugs, and most of those are self-employed.  The Indigenous and Metis (of mixed Native and other descent) have all their drugs paid for.

*_*_*_

Over the weekend the facility got new dictation software installed. The previous version had worked just well enough to let you think you wouldn’t have to proofread, but still made glaring errors.  Today I used the system for the first time, training my Dragon over the lunch hour.  It did pretty well, but, once, when I said Prince George it typed first gorge.

Locks on the Clothes, Keys on the Shoelace: the dress of a millwright.

July 9, 2017

The millwrights has many a key

For the mill cuts up many a tree

On the machine go the locks

Preventing visits to docs

And keeping the workplace accident-free

 

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, traveled 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 traveling and adventures in temporary positions. Assignments in Alaska, rural Iowa, suburban Pennsylvania and western Nebraska have followed.  I finished my most recent assignment in Clarinda on May 18.  Right now I’m in northern British Columbia, getting a first-hand look at the Canadian system. Any identifiable patient information has been included with permission.

Thursday I took care of 17 patients. One pediatric patient required all my patience, skill, and accumulated experience to get the job done without alienating the kid.  The oldest patients barely qualified as septuagenarians.

I wrote a lot of prescriptions for blood pressure drugs.

I used my deep-breathing techniques on three patients to bring blood pressures into the acceptable range.

Though only 15% of Canadians smoke, the nicotine addicted comprised more than half my patients.

I wrote several back-to-work slips, all employees in the timber industry.

I cared for even more millwrights and former millwrights. Changing logs into useable products involves a lot of dangerous machinery, and the people who fix the machinery come in loaded with padlocks on their clothing.  They lock a machine before they work on it, to make sure it won’t start accidentally.  Spare keys get carried where they can’t get lost, such as tied into shoe laces.  During the work day, a “whistle” signals a need for a millwright.

One of my patients in frustration said, “Can you give us a referral to see a specialist we can actually see?’ and we laughed after I asked for and received permission to use the quote in my blog. While I know my way around the human body, and most of the things that go wrong with it, I don’t know the local medical community.  Yet the permanent doctors trained near here, and know the consultants personally.

There’s also a province-wide network providing phone-in advice for docs . The consultants get paid on a fee-for-service basis; the patient has a unique identifying number, and the doc has a bunch of unique numbers (I have 8), one of which is the right one to use.  Computer algorithms coordinate compensation.