I feel guilty. Like I'm betraying my patient, even. Giving such a nice, cheerful, engineer the diagnosis of schizophrenia. Maybe schizoaffective. Am I right? Does he have it? Yes, probably. Likely. But it feels like the kind of thing that shouldn’t happen to “people like that.” (I asked. He told me about the voices. I asked what they said. He told me). My bias. Societal bias. My judgy-ness. Societal judgy-ness. Whatever it is, it’s somewhat ingrained. It’s not that I think badly of someone who has it. I might feel sorry. I might pity. It’s a terrible label to give or to get. It’s one that doesn’t go away and one you certainly don’t want on your records, anywhere, if you’re going to be highly functional.
(but this is true of mental health diagnoses in general. Now, we’re not supposed to be denied for pre-existing conditions. We’ll see how that plays out. If it’s true – that would help eliminate/decrease one of the most unfair/unethical/immoral part-and-parcels of the health care “system” in America. (I said I wasn’t going to get political. I can’t help it. I’m incensed, everyday, over the injustices I see, everyday). There are some drugs you can hide behind. “Oh, it wasn’t for depression, it was for chronic pain. Smoking cessation. Epilepsy (harder to hide that one – epilepsy would inevitably show up, somewhere, if you had it, rather than bipolar disorder). Neuropathic pain – diabetes. What else do we prescribe them for. What else don’t we prescribe them for. Short course is easy. Maybe. Maybe).
So, the patient with schizophrenia. I’m trying to keep it that way. “With schizophrenia.” Psychiatric diagnoses – no, every diagnosis, ever pathology – is a noun. Yet we turn them into adjectives. The patient the team called “cancer girl” was the patient with cancer. “The schizophrenic patient, the bipolar patient, the dementia patient, the psychotic patient…”
The ones with, the ones with. (I’m starting to sound like the titles of a Friends episode).
It’s not just linguistics, not just semantics, to me. Giving people diagnoses as adjectives means they cannot be separated from their disease process – schizophrenic person like French person or blonde person. Yes, it’s a chronic disease – it can also be relapsing/remitting, it can be in remission – but that’s not the point. Unless a person embraces the diagnosis as part of their identity – there is a blind community, there is a deaf community, diabetes? (juvenile onset, maybe), there are groups of cancer survivors – but that still doesn’t mean people want to be identified or to identify in that way.
So it’s a shortcut. “The patient with schizophrenia” is one whole word longer than “the schizophrenic patient.” The latter, of course, becomes “the schizophrenic.” And in health care, we do “tag” people by diagnoses – it’s like a mnemonic.( I try to add to that names of loved ones, little anecdotes, home towns – small things. It’s a way in, back to the patient, in any return visit, next day, next month, next year. And it’s not just being PC or having good ‘bedside manner’ or whatever – it’s important to maintain that doctor-patient relationship in order to have a good therapeutic relationship, to work together in the treatment and prevention and management of illness and whole person).
But even at this early, early point, patients are starting to blend together in my mind. (The little tags help). People start to look alike, they have similar-ish stories, at least on the level I know, similar demographics, I’ve seen them in the same context, they’re taking the same medications, their lab values are approximately equal, we’re working on the same things…etc, etc, etc.
There will be something. The one who came in with her 23-year-old daughter with Down’s after I’d seen her for something-I-don’t-remember. The Latina woman, 40 something, with hypertension, hypercholesterolemia, diabetes… on metformin, lisinopril, hydrochlorothiazide, and simvastatin… except this one is estranged from her daughter. This one came in with her grandchildren once. This one had surgery and has a dividing scar on her abdomen.
Psychopathology is hard. It’s hard to see the ones that can’t be reversed. And that can be treated, maybe. Maybe.
I saw a patient regain a language the other day. The story is one of the ones in medicine that makes me furious, which means it involves – always – some sort of human injustice and discrimination (these are the things I argue with attending about). And I argue about with anyone in this country who does not believe that health care is a human right and that the discrepancies in health AND health care are a violation of basic precepts of fundamental humanity. I could go as far as to cite the Geneva Convention. If you get me on the topic.
Well, watch this: http://www.pbs.org/unnaturalcauses/ . That’s one thing. Food for thought. And fodder.
Not going to talk about excessive spending. About full-body CT scans. About Parkland hospital and 7 counties punting responsibilities for a county hospital onto one. About how long my patients have to wait, about people in the ER 3 days, and about the little, little I can refer people for (dental? ophtho? mental health? substance use, versus acute detox in the hospital? The patient who came in with DTs and was in the ICU for weeks? I get angry. I get incensed. And I want to write about it).
Back to my patient. Because we learn through individual stories, I think, by putting a name or a face or a particularity to a narrative and not to statistics. My patient had Hep C and subsequent fulminating cirrhosis. He was doing pretty well with medications. He’d stopped drinking, hadn’t used IV drugs in about 20 years. He came into the hospital vomiting blood*. From the liver disease, he’d developed a deficiency of clotting factors. During the hospital stay, he developed a worsening, severe headache. After a few days, they did a CT head – and it turned out that he had been bleeding, slowly, into his brain. At this point, he was obtunded, didn’t know where he was, could barely speak, and didn’t make any sense. Neurosurgery refused to take his case – to shunt, to operate, to do a spinal tap. Nothing. “He’s terminal,” they said.
After a consult from infectious disease and hepatology to say the patient was not terminal, that his bleeding diathesis could be treated, and – besides which – this immediate problem was reversible – they decided to do the procedure.
*Ok the medical facts might not make much sense because I am making them up. Altering, rather. To change the actual story, enough. The gestalt is true, though.
This is when I saw him.
That day, he only spoke Vietnamese, and I was able to communicate with him – a little – through the translator phone. He knew his name and birthday, he didn’t know he was in a hospital. (Are you in a store? a hotel? a hospital? your house?) (and…yes, this is the patient exam described at the end of the last post). Alert and oriented to…person, basically, not time or place or situation.
I returned the next day. He looked at me, smiled, and spoke in English. He started asking about when he could go home, joking about how much better the food would be there… he knew exactly where he was, why, and what would happen next. Few transfusions of clotting factors and he was okay. Otherwise healthy.
As I've heard about with stroke or with dementia, people can revert to only earlier memories, the more deeply ingrained ones. Language - there's not much more primal, urgent that is learned. He had it, sort of. And then when the pressure on his brain was relieved, he got the other one back.
I haven't seen many miracles like that.