HOOTER TALK: WITH JAIMERS AND ANDRICK

The EKG, female patients, and a male MA

Hey everybody,

In healthcare, there are, of course, procedures that are gender specific. That is, a woman will get a breast exam, while a male will get a prostate exam. For the most part, as patient comfort is paramount, a practitioner of the same gender as the patient will be assigned to the procedure. This is not always the case, and, in my experience, I have found that most patients, of either gender, as long as the procedure is not terribly invasive regarding sensitive areas, are perfectly okay with a practitioner of either gender carrying out the procedure or examination.

No one particularity likes going to the doctor, anyway, so many patients have ‘do what you have to do and get it over with’ kind of attitude. Fair enough. If practitioners are performing professionally, there is an air of confidence about them, of speed, that conveys to the patient that they have done this process countless times, and this is just another day at work to them.

Indeed, we’ve seen it all. Nothing shocks us. Nothing embarrasses us. It is extremely difficult to gross-out or disgust a healthcare practitioner. I helped an MD remove a cyst slightly larger than a golf ball from a patient’s leg once. She had the cyst out of the patient’s leg, grasping it tightly but delicately in a large pair of surgical grips, so that it would not burst. It was still connected to the patient by a thin strand of tissue, and she asked me to cut the connection just inside the abscess pocket in the patient’s leg. No problem. Kinda cool. Please don’t burst that cyst, doctor. These are new scrubs.

However, all of us in the industry are well aware (or damn well should be) that this is not just another day at the office for the patient. From day one, in whatever training you take, the abstract and highly important skills of empathy and compassion are drilled into your head. We may move confidently and business-like, but patient comfort, to the best the procedure allows, is always on our mind. We cannot sympathize, but we do, often heavily, empathize. There is a difference. We hate pain and suffering. We don’t show it, but it kills us when we see it in a child. That’s why I and thousands of others joined this industry. You may not be able to nauseate or embarrass a practitioner, but even the most seasoned MD can be emotionally moved by the site of suffering. But we carry on. The tears are for later, often alone.

But, back to the matter at hand. As I said, whatever procedure a patient is going through, it is often new to them, or, at best, they are somewhat familiar with it. However, an invasive, gender specific procedure can put a patient on edge if the person performing it is of the opposite gender. We are always aware of that potential.

Take, for instance, the common work a Medical Assistant will do. Give injections. Perform a lavage. Dress a wound. Take vitals. Draw blood. And: the EKG.

Allow to me to switch tracks for a moment. The human body is an amazing machine. Simply put, your body has two command systems that boss your other organs around: the endocrine system, which uses hormones to carry out instructions; and the central nervous system, which uses electricity. Both of these systems, frequently in concert with each other, tell the rest of your organs what to go do with themselves.

The tireless, all-important, paramount, primary organ known as the human heart receives it’s commands via electricity, from the CNS. This tireless, muscular organ is the centerpiece of human existence. It’s role is simple; it keeps your blood flowing through your vascular system. Sounds like an easy workload, but the movement of your blood, which, among many other things, carries needed oxygen throughout the body and removes things it does not need, gives us substance that we cannot do without. Your all-important brain can suffer severe trauma, one can become nearly brain-dead, really, and you might still live, most likely with the aid of machines. If your heart takes enough damage, and it is not tended to in time… well, head for the big light. We’ll see you in the whatever comes next.

As an embryo, the heart is the first functional organ to develop , and starts to pump blood in the developing human in about 3 weeks. However, the brain begins to slowly develop afterwards, around 7 weeks of pregnancy, so pain is not an issue, before anyone turns this fact into an abortion diatribe. That’s between a woman and her doctor.

As a human being, the heart is well protected, encased in the mediastinum, a chamber inside the thoracic cavity (upper torso), protected by the rib cage. Makes sense; it’s important, put it someplace well protected. Which is the opposite of the human brain, which is protected by a thin skull and sits, like an easy target, in the head, which sticks out prominently from the top of your body. Not the best spot for it. Just my opinion; I didn’t design the mess called the human body.

Anyhoo, the heart itself, receiving its constant instructions to contract and relax from the CNS, is about the size of an adult fist. It consists of 4 chambers, the upper atria and the lower ventricles. It will beat about 115,000 times a day, pumping roughly 2,000 gallons of blood everyday. This tireless, dedicated organ is truly the running back of the human body.

As I mentioned, the heart is controlled by electricity, from the CNS. It’s a fascinating combination: a grouping of muscular tissues, a collection of cells, really, that responds to a jolt of internal juice. Neato.

Let me run through this quickly: the vagus nerve, from the brain, carries electricity to the top of the right atrium, to a ‘node’ called the sinoatrial node (good Jeopardy fact, there), which then carries the spark through the rest of the heart, stopping briefly at other nodes to ensure that the chambers contract and relax. Contraction is known as systole. Relaxation is called diastole. So, when you get your blood pressure measured, the top number is the systolic, how hard the heart is contracting, and the bottom number is the diastolic, how well the chambers are relaxing. Now you know that.

Okie-dokie, let’s come back around to the EKG, one of the many procedures a Medical Assistant will perform. The electrocardiogram is a fascinating machine. It’s concept is simple; as the heart runs on electricity, the EKG measures this electrical process, allowing practitioners to ‘see’ how the old ticker is doing. Many of us have undergone this procedure.

That the body is manipulated by electricity was first proven in 1790 by Luigi Galvani, who made a dead frog’s legs dance by electrical stimulation. Physicians at the time were… shocked. It was an interesting trick, but Galvani was also obviously kind of warped, to conduct this experiment. Why is the poor frog always taking the brunt of medical research? Frogs are cool. Anyway.

In the mid 1880’s, two researchers named Ludwig and Waller developed their ‘capillary electrometer’ that showed the heart’s rhythmic electrical stimuli could be monitored from a patient’s skin. They were on to something, and they didn’t even have to slaughter a poor frog.

In 1901, Dr. Willem Einthoven, using magnetic poles and silver wire, and a whole lot of ‘let’s try this,’ finally invented what became known as the EKG. The device continued to develop, into the EKG that you will see in a clinic or hospital today.

Healthcare is very pompous and traditional. The device is called the electrocardiogram. However, as healthcare honors tradition more than major league baseball, Einthoven used the Greek ‘kardio’ as his invention was very, very important, and maybe now Dad might like him. Thus, the acronym ‘EKG’ is used.

Here’s a mind-bender for another time, that took me a while to figure out: the EKG uses 10 electrodes, placed across a patient’s upper body. These are the little sticky pads, connected to wires. The electricity is only measured; no current is carried to the patient. Many of us who have had the procedure often find electrodes later on in the shower that the practitioner forgot to remove. Be that as it may, these 10 little sticky electrodes give 12 ‘leads,’ or views, of the heart’s electrical activity. That’s 12 views from 10 electrodes. That explanation is for another time, but as a student, it took me a bit of time to wrap to my head around that one.

These 12 leads, interpreted by a computer, which render a wave-like display, can tell a great deal about how a patient’s heart is performing. Many, many problems with the heart can first be detected with the EKG. It is an invaluable diagnostic tool in healthcare.

There’s a little more to it, and some instruction in its use is needed. I was trained how to use the EKG when I spent a year in Medical Assistant school.

So, let’s bring it back around, to finish, with my opening: gender specific procedures. The EKG itself is not gender specific, but the procedure of using one can be.

The role of Medical Assistant is heavily female dominated. Only about 15% of Medical Assistants are male. Of our class of 9, I was the only male, other than our wise instructor, a patient, erudite veteran. To protect his anonymity, let’s use the name ‘Jaimers.’

We were trained in the EKG early on in our program. We were not quite yet a team, and the group-trust, while growing, was not there yet. As I mentioned, the EKG is not gender-specific. However, with a female patient, it does involve her removing much of her upper clothing, while lying on her back, putting her in a vulnerable and perhaps uncomfortable feeling state. Not every women getting an EKG feels this way, but I can see how one might.

Jaimers asked my fellow 8 female students if any of them would have an issue if I, the only male, practiced the EKG on them. Several of my classmates said they would. I took no offense. However, one particular classmate had absolutely no problem with this.

This classmate and I clicked early on in the program. She was intelligent, driven, and, like myself, determined to bury the program into the ground and come away with a cumulative 4.0 gpa. She has had quite an accomplished life, and I could see her determination. In school, always get a smart friend. Anyway, to protect her anonymity and dignity, let’s call her ‘Heidie.’ As an anecdote, had I been born a female, my name would have been the same, only my parents would have spelled it correctly. And even weirder, had I been born a male, my name would have been Tom. Inside joke!!!

Anyway, Heidie did not give a rat’s ass who worked on her; like me, she just wanted a 4.0. So, I had the honor. Even though she is older than I am, Heidie is quite beautiful, but that did not enter my mind at all when she was lying down on the exam table, her scrubs up, just exposing the bottom of her bra. Like I’ve mentioned, it’s just another day at the office for a practitioner.

But, I ran into trouble. The first two electrodes of the EKG go to just the right and left of the patient’s upper sternum. Heidie had decided to be Pamela Anderson that day. I hope you can see the logistical problem I was having. I needed my 4.0, but Heidie’s damn hooters were in my way. Heidie and I have gone on to be great friends, to this day, but at that moment, Dolly Parton there was annoying me. I needed to place the first two electrodes, but I did not want to molest my classmate. I was frustrated, trying to delicately place the first two electrodes at the sides of Heidie’s sternum, without touching her silicone work. Impossible.

Jaimers, our seasoned, knowledgeable instructor, noticed I was having trouble. He came over to assist me, and briefly instructed me on how to delicately and professionally, explaining what you are doing to the female patient, move her bazingas out of the way so that you can place the electrodes. His advice was spot-on, of course, but at that point, I was ready to just heave the annoying hooters out of the my way and use duct tape to hold them until I was finished. Jaimers and I got the electrodes hooked up, but, of course, Her Majesty happened to be wearing a bra with an underwire that day. This can cause AC interference in the EKG’s reading. I eventually had to move on to another willing female patient. This was the only time in our friendship that Heidie has annoyed me. Of course, she got the last laugh, when she performed an EKG on me. My family is mostly Swiss, with a fair amount of Sasquatch thrown in. That is to say, I am a hirsute man. I shed. It sucks. Whenever I have a girlfriend, the lights have to be off. So the process then, the humility reversed, is that the Medical Assistant has to shave, with a razor, the locations where the electrodes go. Actually, I probably disgusted Heidie. I hate being part Bigfoot.

After class, when everyone was leaving, Jaimers said his daily: “Andrick, may I talk to you for a moment?” I really got tired of hearing that. But that day we spent a good 20 minutes talking, staring out the window down onto Seattle’s downtown, a typical misty day. All we needed was some armchairs, soft jazz, and lower lights. He was quite informative that day. He imparted the (extremely useful) wisdom on how a male patient performs an EKG on a female. You explain what you are doing, politely and professionally, asking for permission, and use the back of your hand to briefly raise the female patient’s breast to place the electrode. It was an informative, bonding chat. So, please don’t miss the next episode of Hooter Talk, with Jaimers and Andrick, Sunday nights at 9:00 PM on your local PBS station. Won’t you donate now, to keep this quality program going? Hooter Talk with Jaimers and Andrick is brought to you by viewers like you, the Corporation for Public Silliness, and the National Endowment of Andrick Smarting Off Again.

All kidding aside, let me finish up this essay with my original opening: gender-specific procedures. I have indicated that the EKG is not gender-specific, but it can be to the patient. On my externship, my mentor tasked me with performing and EKG on a female patient. I asked her if we had checked with the patient to make sure that a male performing this procedure was comfortable with her. My mentor blew it off, saying that it shouldn’t matter. Oh well, I thought. She’s the boss. I grabbed the EKG kit, and entered the exam room.

I could tell there was a problem as soon as I entered the room. The woman looked scared and nervous. I used a soft voice, and politely introduced myself, telling her I was there to perform her EKG. She began to cry. I told her that it’s okay; what’s troubling you? She tearfully asked if a female could perform the procedure. I have no idea if I caused her concern, or something prior. Perhaps abuse, anxiety, or a troubling potential diagnosis. It did not matter. Empathy and compassion. I told her that that would be just fine, no trouble at all, and that I would find a female Medical Assistant. I excused myself.

I went back to my mentor and told her what happened. She seemed surprised. Whatever…

It can also work the opposite way. People are all unique individuals. I was working at a community clinic, and was asked to perform an EKG on a female patient. I entered the exam room and introduced myself. Bam! Off went her gown, off went her bra, she laid down flat, and said: “Okay!” Well! My kind of patient! Who gives a crap? Just do your thing, MA!

None of that EKG encounter with that patient bothered me. Her unabashed style made things quite easier. There is a little dead space in the EKG process, when the MA connects the electrodes, straightens the lines, and ensures that the computer is correctly connected. So she and I talked about Star Trek. It was quite the memorable EKG experience.

So, my final points. You never stop learning, even after school is over. When you practice on real patients, it’s a brand new world. The procedures we do in healthcare may all be similar, but each patient is unique. You never know the full story of what brought them to this place. Empathy and compassion. Most people are fighting a battle you know nothing about. The other thing I learned was: if you are a female patient, and going to the clinic or hospital, please don’t wear a bra with an underwire. We’d appreciate it.

Thanks for reading, everybody! Happy Thanksgiving!

BROKEN DING-DONGS, HEARING AIDS, AND ONE MORE REASON TO HATE OUR GOVERNMENT

Hey everybody! It’s been a while. I thought it would be good to post again.

I’ve got a little time; I’m on a medical leave right now to take care of a sudden and troublesome condition. I’m hoping to return to work in January. So, I’m using the time for research and writing. Good time for a new post.

My time as a Medical Assistant has not been terribly long, but I have learned a few things. The world of healthcare is full of drama, intrigue, gossip, strong emotions, and downright assault. They didn’t exactly prepare me for that in school. But, many veterans of the industry are a bit burned out these days, so I joined the ranks just in time for the rampant profanity and frayed nerves. Good times!

But, all that’s for another time. Today, I’d like to write about broken male genitalia, hearing aids, and a federal government that just continues to annoy the crap out of me.

Okay, bear with me, because this is sort of round-about.

Older males can develop a condition called Peyronie’s Disease. Simply put, this a pronounced curvature of the ding-dong when it becomes ready for the old hoo-hoo cha cha with a nice lady. Many illnesses and conditions in medicine are eponymous; that is, they are named after the scientist or physician that first identified them. I have done no research, nor do I wish to, of who Peyronie was, and why he chose this area of study. Well, I suppose someone had to do it?

Anyway, this curvature of the little fella can be quite debilitating, preventing regular sexual intercourse. Please, please, please do not follow this link:

https://www.google.com/search?q=real+pictures+of+peyronie%27s+disease&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwj6w5GU2v_zAhWLATQIHWN1AbAQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=peyronie%27s+disease+pictures&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQARgCMgcIIxDvAxAnMgQIABAeMgYIABAIEB4yBggAEAgQHjIGCAAQCBAeMgYIABAIEB4yBAgAEBhQAFgAYLQiaABwAHgAgAF0iAF0kgEDMC4xmAEAqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWfAAQE&sclient=img&ei=p1eEYbrUMYuD0PEP4-qFgAs&bih=757&biw=1600&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS897US897

I warned you. Anyhoo, Peyronie’s Disease is generally caused by a buildup of scar tissue and plaque in Mr. Johnson. This is typically due to a number of various medical conditions, but most often due to penile trauma. What happens is, the old timer really, really wants to do the bang-bang dance with the pretty lady friend. However, along with age can often come another unfortunate condition, erectile dysfunction. ED, as it’s known, can be varied in its severity. If it is not too bad, the gentleman will do his darnedest to guide the not-so-stiffy into the nice lady’s fun zone. This invariably does not work, and is probably not all that fun for the female partner. I’m guessing. But, this continued practice will cause physical trauma, damage, to Mr. Johnson. This often results in Peyronie’s Disease. Oh, the tragedies of man…

But wait! Hope abounds! Modern modern medicine triumphs! There is a medication known as Xiaflex (triumphant music sounds) that can cure this condition!

Xiaflex is a medication that breaks down the plaque buildup in a shlong with Peyronie’s Disease.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collagenase_clostridium_histolyticum

It is injected directly into the affected area of the penis. You are reading that correctly. A needle, made of metal, is inserted right into a crooked penis. In my practice as a Medical Assistant, I have seen Peyronie’s Disease, and I have seen it corrected by an injection of Xiaflex into the affected area of the male member. It cannot be unseen. I am different now.

Xiafles is not inexpensive. Depending on the severity of the Peyronie’s Disease, it can take up to 12 injections of the medication. Each administration of Xiaflex costs roughly $3000.

Okay, so my 87 year old mother, who I love dearly, is nearly deaf. I know that there was no segue there, but bear with me. This all comes around. Nevertheless, I hope my Mom is not reading this.

Charlsia Schall is still very sharp mentally, and I inherited her wicked sense of humor. Physically, she’s doing okay for someone who is 87, but she needs to use a walker and she desperately needs hearing aids.

You can still speak with her, but it is usually best to speak directly in front of her, in a louder, clearer voice. Being that her cognitive acumen is still strong, it is easy to carry on a conversation with her. At her age of 87, I am truly lucky. Not many people have such a luxury. Again, I hope you’re not reading this, but I love you, Mom.

My mother and late father, through living frugally and saving as much as they could, did okay for themselves. You know, living within your means and saving as much money as you can. Like you’re supposed to do. Sheesh. Old people, wise with their money… I tell you… Anyway, though she could definitely afford it, Mom is not keen on making large purches. On some level, I don’t blame her at all. Hearing aids are profoundly expensive, with decent ones starting at at least 4-5 thousand dollars. As my Mother is not entirely deaf, this is an economic button she is just not comfortable pushing.

Social Security was signed into law by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1935. Again, I got no segue here, but trust me, this is all going to come together. Hopefully. If this is a good day. Anyway, Social Security was part of the rescue package intended to mitigate the Great Depression. Apparently, economies occasionally need medication and therapy as well. The Great Depression had ravaged the United States. A recap of history is not needed here.

The government, at all levels, has always taken a strong interest in the American healthcare system. This can be a good thing, as government oversight can ensure the safety of patients and the efficacy of treatments, strengthening out healthcare system. (How we go about paying for this masterpiece is another story entirely). Federal agencies exist to oversee healthcare at all levels, ostensibly to protect the American patient: the FDA, the CDC, the DEA, the Joint Commission, etc. Occasionally, these departments can become weaponized for political reasons, as we are human, all of us flawed, and humans run the government.

My education and professional experience is in medicine. I dislike talking politics, as people can easily get all yelly-shouty-pissy. I know only the basics of our political system, and I hold opinions based on what I see. There is a branch of philosophy (I have dabbled, but am not educated) known as epistemology. This school of thought seeks to differentiate between what is fact and what is opinion. In today’s era of social media, it is quite easy for anyone, from any ideological camp, to loudly shout an opinion, with scarce facts backing it up, until, in this era of blatantly partisan media, their opinions are reinforced enough to become, in their world, facts. A nice twist of logic. It is difficult to speak of politics these days, as we live in a largely binary political belief system, with inflexible, unyielding opinions (not facts), and people quickly get emotional and confrontational. You cannot have a rational discussion with someone in that state. Hence, I avoid politics.

Anyway: back to politics nonetheless, the federal government, and Social Security. Over the years, the government has changed, tweaked, and adjusted Social Security, but the basics of the original intention still stand. All taxpaying Americans pay into it, and our senior citizens can enjoy an easier way of life, as medical bills mount with age. Be that as it may, there are certain things Social Security still will not pay for.

My beloved mother could really use those hearing aids. Hearing aids are not covered by Social Security.

Xiaflex, the medication that treats Peyronie’s disease, is covered by Social Security.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Hearing aids? Up to $7,000 or $8,000 dollars.

Xiaflex? Up to $36,000 dollars.

Yup. No hearing aids, no new glasses, no covered dental work for my Mom.

Bent weener? No problem. Got you covered.

I was a little stunned when I heard about this. Surely, I thought, the powers that be in Congress would have rectified this by now. An RN I was working with at the time gave me his opinion:

RN: Andrick, who do you think makes the laws in the Senate?

Me: Uhh… Well, for the most part, mostly older white males.

RN: And who do you think they have staffing their offices?

Me: Usually insanely hot 35 year-old women.

RN: Okay then, do the math.

Me: Aw, crap!

Joe Biden and the slim majority of Democrats in Congress have recently tried to stabilize the country and give long-needed help to the working class. Again, I hate speaking politics, but two of his Republican predecessors did the same thing. But, because half the country believes Joe Biden lost (dude… people… really?), the opposition is suddenly concerned about all this money we’ve been throwing around.

Initially, Biden’s rather largish spending plan included adding hearing aids, vision, and dental to Social Security recipients. Sounds like the right thing to do. But people balked at it. Biden has scaled his ambitions back. Recently, Congress at least passed an infrastructure spending bill. There is more work to be done. Biden and the Democrats are still trying to pass legislation that would help the needy. After much yelling, the plan was scaled back, as far as Social Security benefits go. Vision and dental are out, but hearing aids would be included. At least my Mom could finally hear again.

However, the opposition is again balking at this one. Along with them are two Democratic obstructionist Senators. One is a cranky old man, with an 85 year old body and 500 year old face,a Republican dressed as a Democrat, who doesn’t like spending money at all. He wears sensible shoes. He represents the state of Virginia. I had to Google Virginia; evidently it’s a suburb of West Virginia or something. East Virginia was infamously destroyed by the Cloverfield monster. The other Democratic obstructionist Senator is a woman from Arizona, who’s really pulling off the naughty-behind-closed-doors school librarian look. I’ve been to Arizona. Head south to the deserts of SoCal, go east, and stop where all the retired people are. Anyway, this Senator is rather hard to read. She doesn’t seem to stand for anything, and dislikes speaking to reporters, her constituents, or the clerk who asks paper or plastic. Maybe she’s just there collecting a paycheck. She certainly does not need the Viaflex. So, there is a good chance that the aid package that includes hearing aids in Social Security will not pass.

So, there you have it. Penny-pinching senior citizens can’t rely on Social Security for hearing aids, but senior citizen males, no matter what their station, can afford Xiaflex to fix their bent ding-dongs. Makes perfect sense to me!

Well, until next time! Thank you for reading!

The Death of My Father and the Five Stages of Grief

 

February 12th, 1PM, 2021

I finally get to see my dying father. He and my mother have been living in an assisted living facility for several years, and when the Covid-19 lock-downs began, all visitations were suspended in March of 2020. They persist today. I haven’t been able to give either of them a hug for a very long time. As my father has had several recent strokes, and his health and cognition have declined, it has been very difficult, emotionally painful, not being able to see him. He went from the hospital back to the assisted living facility. I could not visit him. But today, as he is now officially in palliative care, the facility has made special arrangements and provisions for me and my family to see him. It was hard to knock on their apartment’s door, as I knew what was coming. But, as she greeted me, I hugged my mother today for the first time in almost a year. And then I saw my father.

In 1969, Swiss-American psychologist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross published a book called: On Death and Dying. Kübler-Ross had made created a devoted career to caring for and treating the helpless. She began her career as a psychiatric resident at the Manhattan State Hospital, working with patients that modern healthcare of the time had all but cast aside; the schizophrenic and what were called ‘hopeless patients,’ a delightful little reference for those with a terminal illness. Kübler-Ross was shocked by the treatment of mentally ill patients and those that were given no hope of recovery. The compassion this instilled in her would define her professional career.

There was my father. The palliative care division of the hospital had set up a hospital bed, with the oxygen tanks and the monitors stashed in the corner. Neither were hooked up. I looked at the man lying on the bed. This powerful man, this strong yet caring, sensitive, and compassionate man, lay dying before me, withering away, one foot already in the world to come. His skin was blotchy and pale. His breathing was shallow and irregular; I knew this to be Cheyne-Stokes respiration. His hair was unkempt, his beard was a tangled mess of whiskers. At death’s door, here was my disheveled father, his body rapidly giving out.

In 1965, Kübler-Ross became an instructor at the University of Chicago’s Pritzker School of Medicine.

She continued her work with terminally ill patients. Motivated by the lack of instruction in medical schools on the subject of death and dying, her research progressed into a series of seminars with her research and interviews with terminally ill patients. In 1969, she published her famous work, On Death and Dying.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and gently grasp my father’s hand. His glassy eyes come to life for a moment, and focus on me. I ask him how he is feeling. There are words, mumbles that take great effort to come from him, but they do not make sense. I tell him that he has been a wonderful father. I tell him that all he has taught me about life; compassion, reverence for all living creatures, a calm sense of humor, and a passion to learn more. I tell him that this is the best inheritance I could have, and that I am very lucky to have been his son. His face remains expressionless, and yet a I see tear forming in his right eye. His recent strokes had caused him to have problems with his vision. Or maybe this shedding of a single tear was a goodbye.

Sadly, the history of healthcare is replete with horrific, barbarous treatment of the mentally ill. Every so often, someone like Kübler-Ross will shift the paradigm, and the mindset of not only the medical community, but society at large, will begin to change. Kübler-Ross’s work with not only the deeply mentally ill, but those who faced a terminal illness, was rather groundbreaking for the time. She was greatly motivated by the lack of instruction in medical schools on death and dying. Feelings, emotions. You can’t measure them. You can’t see them. Yet they are there, and how a person faces death is one of the most powerful challenges a person can experience.

I lean down and give my father a hug, though his arms cannot embrace me. I tell him that he has been a fantastic father. Though he already had one foot in the world to come, he strained to speak something he has always said whenever I express my love or gratitude for him. Though he labors to speak, I hear him, barely: “Oh, I’ll do in a pinch.” Perhaps part of his brain was still working and that response was purely reflex. Or perhaps some part of his soul understood me, appreciated what I had said, and was doing its best to say goodbye.

In her book, Kübler-Ross describes five terms, or steps, that a terminally ill patient may go through when faced with a deadly diagnosis. Over time, her process has grown to include not only those that are dying, but anyone who is facing loss or grief of any kind. The acronym is commonly know as ‘DABDA,’ and were originally outlined as follows:

1) Denial

2) Anger

3) Bargaining

4) Depression

5) Acceptance

Of course, no model of human behavior is perfect and scientifically predictable. The human brain remains a great mystery, and human psychology even more so. Some may experience part of these phases, some may go back and forth, and some may experience only one or two. Examples of such, perhaps imagining that a patient has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, may go something like this:

1) Denial: “That’s impossible. That diagnosis must be wrong. There’s no way in hell I could get cancer.”

2) Anger: “Why me? How could this happen? Who do I blame?!?”

3)Bargaining: “I know if I just change this part of my lifestyle, I could actually beat this thing!”

4) Depression: “I’m going to die soon, What’s the point?” The individual has recognized their mortality.

5) Acceptance: “I can’t fight it. I will accept it. I will prepare for it as best as I can.” A calm, stable emotional acceptance may come over the afflicted.

As I mentioned, this model can apply to anyone facing a grief or a tragic situation; the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, the loss of a relationship, the loss of a pet; any situation that involves loss that one has no power or control over. A fantastic example is from a book by writer David Kessler, who worked extensively with Kübler-Ross leading up to her death. Regarding this damned virus that has ravaged our world and has kept me some seeing my father wither away, Kessler writes:

“There’s denial, which we saw a lot of early on: This virus won’t affect us. There’s anger: You’re making me stay home and taking away my activities. There’s bargaining: Okay, if I social distance for two weeks everything will be better, right? There’s sadness: I don’t know when this will end. And finally there’s acceptance. This is happening; I have to figure out how to proceed. Acceptance, as you might imagine, is where the power lies. We find control in acceptance. I can wash my hands. I can keep a safe distance. I can learn how to work virtually.”

My eyes meet my father’s for one last time. Though he may not be able to see it through my surgical mask, I am smiling a goodbye. His eyes, though glassy and crusted with rheum, blink at me. Perhaps the best goodbye he say. I turn and leave his bedroom, looking back at my father one more time, and enter the living room. I embrace my mother and cry.

Everyone grieves differently; as I indicated earlier. One might feel one or all of Kübler-Ross’s stages. Or perhaps none at all. Kübler-Ross’s work was important and seminal. Since her work, psychologists, the healthcare industry, and society at large (to a degree) have been more open to talking about, researching, and sharing their experiences on death; for it is not the end of life, but a part of it.

I sit in a chair in the living room, exhausted. My mother brings me a cup of coffee, and takes a seat herself. I have compiled what I call a ‘Dad-List,’ a listing of tasks that need to be taken care of when someone dies. There’s a long list of people, friends and distant relatives, that need to know. Social Security needs to know. Dad’s teacher’s union pension needs to know. The credit union needs to know. And through it all, you have to find some way to grieve.

Not to pile on the psychology 101, but there are many defense mechanisms a person will use when confronted with difficult circumstances or behaviors. My ‘Dad-List,’ though an important part of this process, is an example of intellectualization. With this mechanism, a person uses reasoning to avoid confronting emotional conflicts and stressful situations. A person might focus on details and logistics, important though they may be, instead of allowing themselves to feel the grief and despair.

I set my Dad-List off to the side. My mother and I share a long conversation. Both of us take turns bringing up the many wonderful memories we’ve had with my father. Though he still alive in the adjacent room, both of us speak as if he is gone. We know the time is short. But there are so many wonderful memories. It’s almost like we’re trying to keep him alive, by pushing the positive, and not talking of the decaying husk lying in the next room, struggling to breath its last.

I have a great phone conversation with my psychiatrist, Dr. Dispensapill, when I get home. We talk about grieving, and what I might expect when my father finally goes. He has been a great help to me; he has helped me overcome both a crippling anxiety and depression disorder, and, unlike too many psychiatrists who just hand you some pills and tell you to keep a journal or something, Dr. Dispensapill is also a skilled psychotherapist. And yet he tells me there is one thing he cannot fix: a broken heart. But we talk at great length about grieving.

For those of you who have lost a parent due to old age and infirmity, it can be a powerful event to witness. You grow up thinking your parents are immortal, and yet one day, there they lay in front of you, knocking on the door of the world to come. I had always seen my father as a physically, intellectually, and emotionally powerful man. And to see him as I did that day… There is a lesson to be learned there, but to be honest, the wounds are still fresh, and I have not yet had time to truly understand them.

February 13th, 2021 – 6:00 AM

My phone rings. The caller ID says that it’s my mother. My heart freezes. There is only one reason she would be calling me this early. I answer. She says; “It’s over for us. He’s gone.”

It’s been a tough few days, but I’m managing. The outpouring of support from friends and family has been a huge help. But I feel numb. Dr. Dispensapill said that this is normal, to feel numb for a while. Then, as my mind begins to process the loss, emotions will come out here and there, in many forms. If I feel anything these days, it’s a little bit of stunned, a little bit of sadness, and a whole lot of fatigue. It’s been an exhausting experience.

But, in a way, I also feel a sense of relief. I am relieved that my father is finally at peace, and I am relieved that my family no longer has to watch him decay further into such a poor physical state.

Please allow me to return to Kübler-Ross’s stage’s of grieving. Like I said, I am still numb, and emotions are slowly coming out, but much of what I feel applies to her five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

1) Denial: I really don’t feel this. I know that he is gone. What helps me in this regard is knowing that his health had been deteriorating, his body withering away, for some time. There was no sense in denying it.

2) Anger: I feel none. I am very fortunate in this regard. Many times, when someone loses a parent, there be anger or bouts of acting out, particularly if the child feels that there were unresolved issues, or if the child harbored resentment over the deceased parent’s actions of some sort. My father and I had a fantastic relationship.

3) Bargaining: I must admit, I feel a bit of this. What if they had given him a little longer before they began the morphine death process? What if he had come out this decayed state? What if some physician had tried something new or novel? But I cannot hold these thoughts as rational. It was quite clear that my father was ready to go.

4) Depression: Yup. You bet. It’s not a clinical depression, like I’ve struggled with in the past, however. It is more of an emptiness. I still feel numb, yet the depression will manifest in different ways. I’ve been extremely exhausted ever since he died. It takes great effort to get things done, even trivial things like washing the dishes. I wanted to get this post written the day he died. It’s obviously taken longer.

5) Acceptance: Definitely. My father has been ready to go for quite some time. I could see it coming. I have expected it for a while now. It’s not acceptance in an “I’m okay, things will be alright, let’s move on and have fun” kind of acceptance. It is reality, and it’s what I got.

So I mainly go back and forth between depression and acceptance. But the truth is, everyone grieves differently. There is no perfect handbook that deals with the feelings of dying and death in an arithmetic style. Many things are never quite that simple.

I have a long process of grieving ahead of me. But I know that my father would want me to continue on, to keep learning, to keep trying to help others.

I must finish with one final, interesting thought. My background is in healthcare. I believe in science. I am an empiricist. I can’t quite pull the trigger on atheism, so I consider myself an agnostic. However, that does not mean I don’t have an open mind. There are many things about the world we live in that we don’t quite understand. Call it the supernatural, call it the paranormal, whatever you like. Maybe science will someday be able to measure these things, these phenomena. Or maybe they will forever remain our of our feeble human understanding of the universe. The morning my father died, I texted my oldest brother with the news. As he was replying, the power in his house went out. Later that day, my other older brother and I, who I share an apartment with, were discussing the logistics of who we needed to contact. As I moved through our living room, I knocked an old cane of the its mounting on the wall, close to our kitchen. This wooden can was hand-crafted by my great-grandfather in 1898. I watched in horror as it clashed to the ground. Yet it did not break. My brother and I agreed we should find a better place to display it. And of course, the day my father died, Seattle was covered in a beautiful blanket of pure white snow. There were no cars, and the neighborhood dogs were frolicking in the snowbound street. My father loved dogs. It seems then, that day, he was having fun discovering his newfound gifts, granted to him in the world to come.

I’ll miss you, Dad. I will love you always.

To my father: Richard King Schall

3/05/1928 – 2/13/2021

SEATTLE WILL KILL YOU

This used to be peaceful town. I’m a native; there’s not many of us left. I’ve seen this small town turn into a small big town, a place where rage, anger, and death lurk around every corner. The character, the small-town charm, is long gone. Seattle is not the city I grew up in. Seattle will kill you dead.

I remember when my beloved hometown was just a blip on the map. Then, around the early 90’s, it all exploded. Microsoft. Amazon. Starbucks. The Reign Man and The Glove. And grunge. What could have been a fantastic legacy has left Seattle a smoldering wreck. And it will kill you. Kill you dead.

I’m not really talking about crime, although that’s gotten pretty bad. We have an all but useless police department that’s basically given up. People, whatever their cause, can take over entire neighborhoods. We have a serious drug problem, tent cities on every block, and the dangerously mentally ill walking the street. And a city government, a bunch of ineffective freeloaders, that’s more concerned with bike lanes that fixing our problems.

But, somehow, we’re still a bunch of smug bastards. New York City? Yeah… that rings a bell. We love our little war-zone. Don’t get me wrong; there are plenty of things about Seattle that are fantastic. But that’s not what I’m writing about today. I’m writing about the Seattle that will kill you..

Oh, there’s the obvious ways, that’s for sure. This city is a short drive from 5 active volcanoes, any one of which could wake up and commit mass murder, particularly that ticking time-bomb known as Mt. Rainier. It’s a beautiful mountain now, but someday it might pull out the big guns. And earthquakes? Yeah, we got those. Seismologists have been saying we are due for the big one any time now. And then… we are dead.

But honestly, that’s not what I’m writing about, either. My focus in life is on healthcare. And there are a disproportionate amount of diseases and conditions in Seattle that will kill you.

There are the mental health issues, that’s for sure. We just don’t get a lot of sunlight. Cold air comes in form the Pacific, barely makes it over the Olympic Mountains, and is trapped by the towering Cascade Mountains, creating a sort of settled fog of gray and mist. As a result, Seattle only gets about 152 days of sunlight per year. A lack of sunlight can exacerbate mental health issues. Seattle has the 14th highest rate of depression in the United States (https://www.cbsnews.com/pictures/depression-nation-16-saddest-states/3/) Seattle also has one of the highest rates of Seasonal Affective Disorder. But, believe it or not, Seattle does not even crack the top 15 rates of suicide (https://www.businessinsider.com/most-suicidal-us-cities-2011-7#15-tulsa-okla-1). I can attribute this to Seattle’s incredible system of healthcare, led by the University of Washington. There’s a saying out west; if you have to get sick, at least get sick in Seattle.

But, Seattle will still kill you.

There are 3 very dangerous diseases that occur in Seattle at a disproportionate rate, a much higher rate, than the rest of the United States. (https://www.seattlemag.com/article/washington-hotbed-three-dangerous-diseases) It has long been a mystery as to why these diseases strike Seattle more than any other city, but theories are emerging. Let me address all 3:

1: Skin Cancer. This one is fairly obvious. Seattleites don’t wear sunscreen, because we don’t know what that is. On a rare sunny, hot day, everyone in the city is outdoors, soaking up the rare, pure sunlight. But, even on the days when it is slightly overcast, the ultraviolet rays of the sun can still strike exposed skin. There is also the concept of genealogy. Many long term residents of Seattle are of Nordic heritage. A study was made in 1991 (https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/1985867/ that showed higher rates of skin cancer among the Nordic peoples of Europe. As a result, skin cancer is very prevalent in Seattle.

2: Tuberculosis. This is a relatively rare, but extremely dangerous disease. Left untreated, the mortality rate is as high as 50%. It is caused by a bacteria that attacks primarily the lungs, and other parts of the body as well. The rate of this disease has been dropping in the United States for the last 18 years, but it continues to climb in Seattle. This one remains a bit of a mystery. However, it is thought that because Seattle is a diverse, progressive city, welcoming immigrants from all over the world, the disease may be sneaking in that way, from parts of the world where TB is more common. But that is just a theory, and a rather provocative one. Many cities across America welcome immigrants, yet their rate of tuberculosis remains low. We’ll have to get back to you on this one.

3: Multiple Sclerosis. This can be a devastating disease. It is not well understood, but it is believed to be a type of auto-immune disorder that attacks the structures that protects nerve cells. There is no known cure, but treatment can alleviate the symptoms of those afflicted. Be that as it may, the life expectancy of those with MS is shortened by about 10 years. About 1 million Americans have this condition; 12,000 of them live in Seattle. The National Multiple Sclerosis Society has said that MS is more prevalent in Seattle than almost anywhere else on Earth. This has long puzzled epidemiologists. However, recent studies by the Mayo Clinic (https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/multiple-sclerosis/expert-answers/vitamin-d-and-ms/faq-20058258) have shown that there may be a link between MS and a lack of vitamin D. Vitamin D comes from sunlight; I have already established that Seattle does not get a lot of sun. However, this doesn’t fit when you consider cities like Anchorage, Stockholm, or a host of Russian cities. Recent studies have also tried to link MS to Nordic heritage, with limited success.

Hey, just for morbid laughs, let’s not forget that Seattle was ground zero for the Covid outbreak in the United States. And murder hornets. The fun never ends!

So there you have it. Seattle is home to the highest rates of 3 of the most deadly and debilitating diseases in the United States. But please, feel free to visit our wonderful city anytime. Just remember: Seattle will kill you.

Peacock Surgery

DISCLAIMER: I HAD NOTHING TO DO, AT ALL, WITH THE FOLLOWING STORY. I AM LICENSED TO PRACTICE ON HUMAN BEINGS. THIS STORY AND PICTURES WERE RELATED TO ME BY… A FRIEND OF MINE. AGAIN, I DID NOT DO THIS.

Peafowl are common birds of the phasianidae family, related to the pheasant. They are found in warm, tropical regions of the world. The male of the species, the peacock, is known for its resplendent display of tail feathers, the peacock train. They are some of the most beautiful birds on Earth.

My friend, who told this story to me, has a friend who owns a no-kill farm out in the country. The place is fantastic; friendly goats, peafowl, war-like geese, chickens, and even the last remnant of the dinosaur, the emu.

Though they may be vastly different than human beings, the peafowl can succumb to very similar ailments and conditions. This story, related to me and not done by me, is the story of a peacock with a very bad cyst.

My friend’s farmer friend had purchased a peacock. At first, he paid no mind to the cyst on the side of the animal’s face. But the cyst grew quite large, and was causing the poor bird problems with its vision and breathing. As you can see, its left eye was nearly useless, as the pressure of the cyst was pushing it out of its socket. It also had a rasp to its breathing, as the cyst was putting pressure on throat. This animal needed help.

My friend, who told this story to me, is quite familiar with cysts. However, he is not a veterinarian. Be that as it may, this appeared to be a sebaceous cyst, a very common growth. They are non-cancerous, and generally filled with semi-liquid or dead tissue. They are formed when the sebaceous gland, which produces sebum to coat skin and hair (or feathers) becomes damaged or blocked. They are typically not a problem, unless they are in a troublesome part of the body, such as this poor bird. Cysts grow slowly, and this beautiful animal would have continued to suffer.

Well, my friend, who is not me, has removed cysts before. It’s really quite simple. A shot of lidocaine, an incision, and then you scoop the gunk out. A course of antibiotics is then in order.

But, my friend had no lidocaine. This would have to be done Viet Nam style. He did, however, have two brilliant surgical assistants who were invaluable in this surgical procedure.

So, in my friend went. My friend did not know this, but a scalpel designed to cut human flesh barely works on a peacock. It took a little slicing. My friend was concerned that the animal would recoil in terror and pain, but it was quite cooperative throughout the entire procedure. More so than any human, actually, and without any lidocaine. Cysts are full of material that has no nerve endings; once you cut through the skin, you’re working with dead tissue. Also, my friend’s farmer friend told me that an animal will frequently settle down in a mixture of calmness and fear once it realizes it has no choice.

After just a few cuts, there it was: a disgusting mass of dead, crumbling, moist material. I will spare that picture. My friend scooped a lot of it out. It was… rather repulsive.

Withing minutes, the peacock’s left eye began to descend into its proper place, and the milky material in the lens all but disappeared. It’s breathing became less labored. Amazing what can happen when you release a little pressure.

Unfortunately, my friend got a little too ambitious when digging out the core of the cyst, and severed an artery. Again, my friend is no veterinarian, but he was confident that there was no major artery in that part of the animal. With some constant pressure applied with sterile gauze, the bleeding stopped.

My friend cleaned out the wound with saline, and applied some animal antibiotics. Every farmer has a bottle lying around: Tylan 200.

The bird looked much better after the surgery, but a little rough. It’s eye had returned to a normal state, and its breathing became better. My friend’s farmer friend kept up with the antibiotics, and I’m happy to say that the bird is doing just fine.

The cyst had been with the animal for quite some time, so it was unused to using its left eye. However, the little peacock brain has returned to normal use of its vision as its vision neurology has healed as well.

So, a happy ending. Again, I had nothing to do with this. It was related to me by a friend. The peacock has returned to his ostentation, and is living a happy life. This is what healthcare is all about. All life is precious.

Update: He’s looking pretty good!

The Long Journey Is Nearly Complete

Well, how about that! I have passed the National Healthcareer Association’s certification exam, my next to last step on becoming a medical assistant. It’s been an incredible ride, to have success in an academic program in a year such as this. I’m not quite out of the woods just yet; in just over a week, I will start my practicum at a clinic in Woodinville, Washington. I am required to put in 165 hours of clinical time, the last bit of my training. This last step will be a massive challenge, but also a fantastic academic opportunity. I imagine I will learn more actually working with patients, in a clinical environment, than I have in any classroom. I am extremely eager to start! If all goes well with my practicum, the state of Washington’s Department of Health will grant me a license (well, after I pay for it) to practice healthcare. One more mile to go….

At that point, then, I will have obtained the credential of CCMA, or certified clinical medical assistant. There are four different guilds that have been granted legal authority to certify low and mid level practitioners; the NHA, the AAMA, the RMA, and the NCCT. All of them may certify medical assistants, with slightly different titles, but for all intents and purposes, all four are greatly similar. My certification focuses more on the clinical aspects of healthcare, whereas the others may focus more on administrative, or both.

The NHA exam was an absolute bruiser. It was 150 questions, multiple choice, and we were given 3 hours to complete it. That may sound favorable, but those details mask a brutal, demanding trial. I needed 2 and a half hours to complete it… There were very few black and white answers on the exam; most of them were abstract, so to speak. The exam would present you with a scenario, and you would need to pick the most relevant answer pertaining to the legal scope of practice, ethics, and training of a medical assistant. Only about 65% of students pass it on their first try. Not everyone in my class made it.

That was last Tuesday, the 10th of November. To be honest, today’s the first day in a while where I’ve felt I can actually relax. I was in a daze after that exam. I had a sense of accomplishment, sure, but I was also exhausted and burned out. I have been hitting it hard since my academic training started, January 7th of this year. When I was younger, college didn’t work out so well for me. This time, as an adult, I pushed myself incredibly hard. For the first time in my life, I have succeeded academically. At age 48. An old dog, a new trick.

So today, I’m allowing myself to relax a little. For about an hour, anyway. I played my beloved video games, something I haven’t had time to do in a very long time. I was holding off the advancing alien horde, defending Earth, before my work ethic/guilt started nagging at me again. After this post, I’m going to practice some more with the sphygmomanometer and read more about the endocrine system. There is no off position on the hardcore switch!

Be that as it may, this is all still very surreal. I still have the practicum, the last, largest hurdle to jump through, but I have come farther that I thought I might. I am thrilled beyond belief to be entering this field. I have come to enjoy the subject matter greatly; healthcare is like a job and a hobby to me. In this regard, I realize I’m very fortunate to have found something, later in life, that I enjoy, and, if my grades are any indication, something I show some aptitude for.

I have a cumulative 4.0 gpa for the entire program. I am on both the Dean and President’s list. I am a member of the American Association of Medical Assistants, and I have been invited to join Phi Theta Kappa. I find it odd that I am being recognized for my intelligence and dedication in a field that, until I started this program, was completely foreign to me. Yet, here I am.

I fully realize that I will be entering a field that is already dealing with a substantial burden. I’ll hit the ground running with the flames at my feet, but I feel more than up to the challenge. If I can contribute, in my own way, to helping improve peoples’ lives, the sense of accomplishment and pride may be more of an intrinsic reward than the paycheck.

It is also surreal, and humbling, to consider how far I have come, and how much I have turned my life around. It was not easy to get here. 2019 was an incredibly difficult year for me. I had already been on a long, extended medical leave from my former employer, for a rough, intractable anxiety and panic disorder. It just would not abate. Things collapsed for me in the summer of that year. I ended a 13 year relationship, as neither of us were happy. I had become addicted to opioids. Needless to say, this phase of my life was incredibly painful and difficult. It took me a few months to recover. It was hard to leave that relationship, and it was profoundly difficult to kick the painkiller habit. I didn’t sleep for about a month. But I came through. The anxiety disorder was still debilitating, however. Eventually, my skilled psychiatrist, Dr. Dispensapill, reached deep into his back of tricks, and tried a medication that is very rarely used anymore. Damned if it didn’t work, and continues to work. Since August of 2019, I have had no panic attacks, and no anxiety (well, plenty of test anxiety, but that’s situational, not clinical), and I am the happiest I have ever been. I returned to work, I enrolled in school, and I have excelled. There is no way I could have done that had my anxiety disorder still been present. Say what you want about psychiatry, and many reactionary people do, but I can say that it has definitely helped me.

My training started in January of this year. I had a only a vague, naive idea of what a medical assistant did. They just take vitals and answer the phone, right? Hoo-doggy! I could not have been more wrong. It turns out, they don’t let just anybody walk in off the street and start practicing medicine. You need a little training, first. I was not prepared, at all, for the amount of material they threw at me. My textbook is over 1300 pages long! It was a serious mental shock, at first, being in an academic environment for the first time in a very long time, and absorbing information that was completely new to me. I quickly settled in, though.

All of it was fascinating, all of it. I was expected to learn an enormous amount of information in a rather short time. I called it med-school light. But, as it I found it so interesting, I dedicated myself completely to this new endeavor. Every class was something new and fascinating.

So, in less than a year, I learned, and became quite proficient in, skills and knowledge that, had you told me I would have had just a year ago, I would have chuckled in disbelief.

The technical skills, though challenging, were a blast to learn. Palpating a pulse. Drawing blood. Using a sphygmomanometer. Calculating medication dosages. Giving an injection, wherever you need it. Audiometry. Assessing vision. Not only running an ECG, but knowing what the process meant. Lavage. Pediatric measurements. Microbiology. Laboratory procedures. Autoclaving. Sterile fields. Using the AED. A jolt of adrenaline (it doesn’t go in the sternum, Pulp Fiction style).

Administrative components, as well: scheduling, ICD coding, CPT coding, patient screening. And, just for fun, I can now tell you everything about health insurance you need to know. And yes, in America, it’s a bit of a mess.

Soft skills, also: the long history of medicine, the names that made a difference. I’ve now achieved a rudimentary law degree; healthcare is replete with legal and ethical obligations, and I’ve come to understand them fairly well. Basic psychology was part of the ciriculum. I’m more Jungian than Freudian. Learning terminology was brilliant, as well. Most of what you hear in healthcare has its roots in Greek and Latin (that’s another story), and I can practically speak the ancient tongues now. Terms that I’ve heard all my life; now I know what the heck that actually means.

Above all else, my most favorite subject, the one I found to be profoundly captivating, was anatomy and physiology. Brilliant, fascinating stuff. The human body is an amazing machine. We can talk about the different body systems (cardiovascular, pulmonary, endocrine, nervous, integumentary), but these are all just simply arbitrary designations of convenience. It’s all one system, working together, dependent on each other, all the time, constantly striving towards homeostasis. It’s an absolute miracle when you look under the hood. The more I learned of the internal workings of the human body, the more it both reinforced the concept of intelligent design, while at the same time rendering it completely absurd. That’s for another time, as well.

There were 3 things I learned in the program that are not only crucial to healthcare, but, I found, greatly applicable to my everyday life. The first was the concept of adaptability and flexibility. Plans, schedules… those are adorable, but when you are dealing with the sick and injured, or with life in general, things do not often go according to plan. Or ever, really. It is a skill to change and adapt to the environment around you while maintaining composure and dedication. Think of your feet, move to the next issue. The second thing I learned was the concept of empathy. Empathy was drilled into our heads since the first week of class. You never judge how a patient came to be how they are, you are there to help them get better. However, the concept took on a deeper meaning to me, the more I studied. As I mentioned, I greatly enjoyed anatomy and physiology. At the end of each chapter, of each particular body system, were several pages of what could go wrong with that particular system. Some of it was absolutely heartbreaking. Each of us in our own way is broken. My empathy developed into a deep sense of compassion. A lot of work goes into a human being. All life is precious. The third thing I learned, and kept to heart, was simply this: you never stop learning. I have found that the more I know, the more I realize I don’t know. There is no ‘done’ in healthcare, or any emerging field. There is always more to learn. I have developed an insatiable desire to learn more. Being a healthcare practitioner requires continuing education, but there is no need for the industry to mandate it to me. Though at this point my academic commitments may be complete, I intend to keep learning and studying. We have come a long way since bloodletting and leeches, but there’s still so much we just don’t know.

Near the end of my third quarter, on the last day of class, my instructor told us a story that finally hammered home the importance of what I was learning, what I had dedicated my life to. He was always a supportive and jovial man, but not at that moment. We were finishing our training in advanced life support. He told us that he wished someone who knew this material had been there for his son, who would have been 25 the following week.

Well, as you can tell, I’m quite excited to continue this journey. Thank you for reading, and thank you for letting me sound my triumphant, barbaric yawp. I’m excited, thrilled, and profoundly optimistic about where my life has now taken me.

Wash your hands! Wear the mask!

Andrick

Medical Terminology (and the ancient Romans were kind of jerks)

Well, the third quarter is underway, and so far it’s going great! I’m taking 2 courses; one is Pharmacology and Medication Administration (this is what the chemical is, this is how I will inject you with it) and Administrative/Clinical review (this class is a lot of fun –  the instructor basically sets up exam rooms, and we practice on-boarding patients; the instructor, playing the MD, then gives us a procedure to carry out with the patient), which ties together everything I’ve learned so far. We are also studying medical terminology, and where it comes from. Not sure why that wasn’t covered in the first quarter; perhaps they just wanted us to get familiar with the jargon before we closely studied the etymology.

Everything in healthcare seems to have a needlessly fancy name, but there’s a good reason for that. Just about every bit of terminology a practitioner uses is either Greek or Latin in origin. There is also the occasional eponymous term, a word named after the person who discovered/invented it (Pap test, Alzheimer’s, Tommy John surgery). I’m oversimplifying the history a bit, but a long time ago, when Hippocrates and his colleagues figured out that illnesses and diseases were actually environmental and not divine punishment (although that unfortunate concept still exists today), and began to actually study the human body, the ‘English’ of the day was either Greek or Roman. Many people in the known world (which was much smaller then, than our own) spoke one of these two languages; much like a good portion of the known world speaks English today. This way, a physician in Rome could correspond with a physician in Roman occupied England, who perhaps spoke a local dialect, and they would know what they were talking about. The practice continues today.

The word ‘doctor’ comes from the Latin ‘docere,’ which means: to teach. It also shares its roots with the word ‘docile.’ The thinking here is that one cannot properly learn and absorb information if one’s mind is not calm and focused on the matter at hand.

But, as it turns out, the ancient Romans could be a little flippant. The word ‘hyster’ comes from the Latin ‘hystera,’ the word they used for uterus (think: hysterectomy). The Romans believed that women got moody and emotional because of their menstrual cycle; therefore, the word ”hystera’ shares a root with the word ‘hysteria.’ Well, that’s charming. Sure, some women do occasionally get a bit out of sorts on their menstrual cycle, but that is not a character flaw or an indication of a psychological or psychiatric disorder. A woman’s endocrine system is simply in overdrive, if you will, forcing an ovum into the uterus. So there you have it. The etymology of medical terminology is fascinating, but glib, dismissive opinions are nothing new.

Wash your hands!

3rd qtr so far