Neurology rotation. Three days at the VA and then three days at our home institution.
Groundhog Day: I meet the VA coordinator at 9:00 am to get my badge and a campus tour (it happened last month, but I have to do it again). I am joined by four trainees from other institutions: a third-year medical student starting her one-month psychiatry rotation and three podiatry residents doing three months of training on the “indigent” VA population. “There is an endless supply of feet to amputate. We meet our case log requirements from this month.” A new-hire struggles with the badge machine, but two hours later we all have badges and start our tour of the VA campus. I am dropped off at the neurology clinic at 12:00 pm. My physician turns out to be a rotund neuro-ophthalmologist. In the Department of Physician Heal-Thyself, he’s recently returned to work after a quadruple bypass. The mid-day patients are no-shows so he sends me to lunch. We meet again at 2:00 pm to see four scheduled patients, two of whom show up (see Year 3, Week 33) and clock out at 3:30 pm.
A typical day starts at 9:00 am after a 45-minute commute. The attending prints out his most recent office note for each follow-up patient because students do not have access to the VA’s electronic medical record (EMR). Each new patient starts with me in a vacant office, then goes back to the waiting room, and eventually we go together to the attending’s office. Despite the 50-percent no-show rate, he’s usually running behind due to his struggles with the EMR. Each 30-minute or 45-minute visit with a patient is followed by 30 minutes of single-finger typing. Has he tried to dictate? “It’s just as bad. I spend more time correcting the damn machine than it takes me to type.” He has near-perfect recall of previous visits with patients, surprises patients by remembering details they offered months earlier, and would have thrived in a pre-EMR era.
[Editor: The good news for this guy is that he will be able to learn a whole new interface for the 2020s once the VA finishes with its $10 billion transition to commercial software.]
We see patients with multiple sclerosis (MS), Parkinson’s disease, pseudotumor cerebri (condition mostly occuring in obese females resulting in vision loss), and rare vision disorders, e.g., Charles Bonnet syndrome, which results in progressive blindness combined with intense visual hallucinations. If he thinks it will help a patient with a terminal neurological disorder, the attending will spend over an hour counseling on the prognosis and what everyday life will look like. The nurses grumble that he “destroys the schedule without warning”. He lets them go as soon as the last patient has checked in and will see his final patients without any support.
My attending misses the 1980s: “We don’t talk to each other anymore. We search blindly in the endless expanse of notes. The primary doctor orders a consult and wipes his or her hand. Then the specialist wipes his or her hand when the note is filed. No one calls.” He spends 10 minutes finding an example of a recent patient for me: a 68-year-old male had a stroke during a five-day hospitalization for pneumonia. After the stroke, he developed Parkinson-like tremors. “There are 240 pages of notes. Look at this! They have to put in where the meds were manufactured! Is that necessary?”
In the afternoon we walk 10 minutes to the inpatient wing to see consults. “All these damn hospitalists are useless,” my attending grumbles. “They consult for anything. A patient feels weak because they’ve been in the hospital for a week for heart failure. No shit they are weak. This is not a stroke. Did they go to medical school?”
Thursday starts at 8:30 am. Each week the three medical students on neurology clerkship meet in the office of our clerkship director, a quirky tall gentleman in his early sixties. We get a group text each night with cases to review and present and offer diagnoses in the morning. Today’s case is on Guillain-Barré syndrome, an ascending paralysis from an auto-immune response, typically after a viral illness. “The main concern is respiratory failure. That’s what they die of. If you can get them through it, they will typically have a complete recovery. When I was a medical student, we were in charge of getting daily PFTs [pulmonary function tests], but we no longer require this because the RT [respiratory therapist] can bill for the test each day.”
(A student in another class at our school developed Guillain-Barré syndrome during a medical charity trip to Central America, tipped off by a GI bug. She had to be transferred from the ventilator in the overseas hospital to spend three weeks in our own ICU. She graduated, but suffers from a permanent loss of dexterity.)
Around 9:00 am, the neurology resident texts me the three patients to follow today. I chart review the patients, then go see them in person before meeting the attending in the administrative section of the hospital to run the list. The physicians lounge is typically off-limits to students and residents, but no one is going to question Queen Maleficent, a 75-year-old attending infamous for rolling around a loud purple suitcase stuffed with diagnostic gadgets and, unlike my VA attending, has adapted to the computer era. “I’ve taken out a lot of the tools because of this new neuro App,” Queen M points to her iPhone. “It has all the color vision tests that I used to carry.”
Our primary role this week, which seems to be typical, is to relieve the hospitalists of liability for not checking every possible box. Out of 10 consults per day, an average of 2 will have neurological symptoms or deficits. We also coordinate with the psychiatry service for odd neuropsychiatric symptoms. One interesting case was a 55-year-old smoker presenting for worsening shortness of breath. A PFT done by his primary care clinic showed an unusual inspiratory effort, but nothing critical. A few weeks later, his wife called 911 saying that he couldn’t breathe. He demonstrated normal inspiratory effort in the hospital, so pulmonology has booted him to the neurology service. We cannot identify any neurological disorder so we consult psychiatry. Queen M: “Psychiatry might enjoy talking with the wife. My hypothesis: he is trying to compete with her fibromyalgia and chronic opioid use.”
Queen M asks me to do a brain death exam on an 80-year-old ICU brain bleed patient who has been on the ventilator for four days. “Text me when you are done, and I’ll confirm what you find.” I look on UpToDate for a refresher. Five family members (wife, two children, one daughter-in-law, one grandchild) are in the room and their refusal to withdraw care has prompted this exam. I ask them to excuse themselves while I cover the glass wall with curtains and perform the exam. I first test for reflexes, and response to pain (none). I then perform the primitive brain reflexes e.g., gag, corneal, oculocephalic (doll test, rotate head to see if gaze does not adjust to rotation), caloric nystagmus (squirt cold water into one ear and watch for nystagmus). The nurse and her nursing student join to watch. When Queen M arrives, she repeats the exam, then orders an apnea test (must be performed by two physicians independently). We preoxygenate the patient with 100 percent oxygen, then hold the ventilator as the respiratory therapist draws blood gases every few minutes. A positive apnea test is failure to initiate a breath once the CO2 level reaches a certain threshold (typically 60 mmHg). We put in our note for the primary team: brain dead.
We are paged for a 35-year-old male whom I previously met on surgery rotation for a problem with his gastrostomy tube. He is chronically disabled and epilectic after a car accident three years ago. His wife left him, taking the two-year-old and 6-month-old children. His mother now devotes her entire life to his care. We walk in and he is less responsive than usual. The mother explains: “Something has been off every since yesterday afternoon.” Queen M orders the nurse to administer Keppra and Ativan. The nurse asks “Have you put the order in? [into Epic]” Queen M responds quietly: “If you don’t do it, I will. Open the code cart if you can’t get it from the Pyxis.” (Pyxis is an automated pharmacy cabinet that dispenses common medications with a fingerprint and badge swipe.)
The last consult is a 28-year-old postpartum female in the labor and delivery ward. Five weeks after delivery, she was leaving backing out of the driveway with her newborn in the back seat. The husband rushed out when he heard the car hit a utility pole and saw her seizing for a few seconds, then go limp. We have to decide if this is postpartum eclampsia (90 percent of postpartum eclampsia occurs within the first week of delivery), new onset epilepsy, or an isolated seizure. She has no history of seizures and no family history of seizures. Her eclampsia labs and first 4 hours of EEG are both normal. We are skeptical this is postpartum eclampsia so the discussion turns to anti-seizure medication. “Once you are on seizure medications,” says Queen M, “very few doctors have the courage to take you off.” Having learned nothing definitive, we decide to do an overnight stress EEG, and re-evaluate. Considerations include balancing anti-seizure medication safety during breastfeeding against the risk of a seizure while driving or holding the baby. “I am willing to do a monitored outpatient experience where we follow you every two weeks,” says Queen M. “You cannot drive during this period.” We tell her that the average patient has a 24 percent risk of a seizure recurring. The mother weeps.
Statistics for the week… Study: 8 hours. Sleep: 8 hours/night; Fun: 2 nights. Gigolo Giogio’s birthday celebration includes a thirty-person pregame at his house followed by fruity drinks and dancing until 2:30 am at a Drag Queen club.
The rest of the book: http://fifthchance.com/MedicalSchool2020
> Has he tried to dictate? “It’s just as bad. I spend more time correcting the damn machine than it takes me to type.” He has near-perfect recall of previous visits with patients, surprises patients by remembering details they offered months earlier, and would have thrived in a pre-EMR era.
After my (approximately) 8-month temp. gig at one big hospital in a big city ended, I took another, shorter gig as a medical transcriptionist at another big hospital in the same city where I was one of the favorites because I was fast and accurate, without having to pause and look up many terms. At the time (late 1990s) it was all done with microcassette recorders and MS Word on computers running Windows 95 and 98, IIRC. The docs. come in, they dropped off the cassette with a little attached form into my “inbox” and I zipped through them and give them back the draft transcription on a floppy, also saved to the HDD in an appropriately named subfolder. No networking! No internet to seduce me away from working with a browser!
That was actually not a bad job, and I did it for about six months. It paid relatively well (this was a big hospital) and if you were fast and accurate – particularly with the terms and being able to catch the doctors’ speech peculiarities quickly (which I’m good at) you could make some decent money not working very hard in a fairly nice hospital environment. As an “employee” I also got my parking validated, and the hospital was in a good neighborhood, so you had decent lunch options that didn’t consist entirely of “McDonalds.”
I’m also not surprised that the software still doesn’t match a competent human transcriptionist – even with the much vaster computing power available and more than 25 years later. There is still a niche for human beings doing that. It’s nontrivial.
Addendum: Guillain-Barré Syndrome is one of my “why does this HAPPEN?” Great Mystery diseases. As this chapter shows, it can begin with an autoimmune response to a viral infection, but also something like a “GI bug” (presumably) bacterial infection – and the symptoms can be very severe and permanently debilitating. Nobody really understands it in the sense of: “Oh, yeah, we can cure it like a case of gonorrhea” before they’ve done their damage. As the doctor here notes, in a lot of cases, as long as it doesn’t kill the patient with respiratory failure, they eventually make a full recovery – but sometimes not, as the second example with the permanent dexterity loss shows. Once the motor neurons die, they’re dead.
This disease and a couple of others like Adhesive Arachnoiditis, ALS and other things like various neuropathies should be the subject of much more intense study, in my opinion. They are lift-changing and sometimes life *ending* for the people who suffer from them – because they cannot live with the pain and/or debilitation.
The “GI bug” doesn’t have to be bacterial. The most common “GI bug” AFAIK are norovirii. So she seems to fulfills the viral infection criteria.