Reflections on the Hospital Environment
Six years ago, after I had been in clinical practice for almost a decade, my career took several unusual turns that now have me sitting in the position of president of a 500-bed, full-service, very successful community hospital and referral center. While that has inevitably whittled my clinical time down to a mere fraction of what it used to be, I still spend a lot of time “on the dance floor,” although the steps are different at the bedside.
Whether you spend your day going from patient to patient or meeting to meeting, over time it’s nearly inevitable that you will lose some perspective and appreciation for the hospital settings that we have chosen to spend our careers in. From time to time, whether you are in clinical medicine or administration, take the time to step off that dance floor and get a different perspective, to reflect upon our hospital environment. It’s a critical skill for “systems-based thinkers.” Take a minute to reconnect and appreciate some extraordinary things about the places we work in.
Here are a handful of my own reflections:
Hospitals are remarkable places. Lives are transformed in hospitals—some by the miraculous skills and technology available, and some despite that technology. Last week, I saw a 23-week-old baby in our neonatal ICU, barely a pound, intubated, being tube-fed breast milk, with skin more delicate than tissue paper. When I was a medical student, such prematurity was simply incompatible with life.
We also walk patients and families through the end-of-life journey. To organize families and patients around such issues and help them find a path toward understanding and closure is a remarkable experience as well.
The difference between a good hospital and a great one is culture, not just “quality.” Over Labor Day, I went to my parents’ house outside Cincinnati. When I arrived, near midnight, my mother greeted my three children and me and then announced that she had to take my father to the hospital. Evidently, he had a skin/soft tissue infection that had gotten worse over the last couple of days, and when contacted that evening, his physician had made arrangements for him to be admitted directly to a nearby community hospital. It sure seemed to me that it would make more sense for me to take him to the hospital, so off we went.
I will say at this point that the quality of his care was fine. He was guided from registration to his room promptly. His IV antibiotics were started and were appropriately chosen. A surgeon saw him and debrided a large purulent lesion. The wound was packed, and he started feeling better. His pain was well controlled, and he went home a few days later with correct discharge instructions. There were no medication errors and no “near-misses” or harm events.
Yet, on that first night, no one was introduced by name or role. On the wheelchair ride up to the room, we passed at least six employees—four nurses or aides, a clerk, and a housekeeper. No one broke away from what they were doing (or not doing) to make eye contact, much less to smile or greet us. This hospital has EHR stations right in patient rooms, and the nurse and charge nurse stood in front of the machine, where we could hear them, complaining about the EHR. No one was able to step back from “the dance floor” of the minute-by-minute work and acknowledge the bummer reality that my father was going to spend Labor Day weekend in the hospital. And this is at a well-regarded community hospital, well-appointed with private rooms, in a relatively affluent community, with resources that most hospitals dream of. I left that night disappointed, not in the quality but in the culture.
