Showing posts with label 9/11. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 9/11. Show all posts

Thursday, December 29, 2022

Diagnostic Reasoning – A Call for Faculty Engagement

From the August 12, 2022 issue of the Transformational Times newsletter




Diagnostic Reasoning – A Call for Faculty Engagement 


  


By Jayshil J. Patel, MD - Director of MCW's curriculum "Critical Thinking in Medicine" thread


  



Dr. Patel shares, in earnest, this call to interested clinical faculty to engage in the diagnostic reasoning curriculum.  In many ways, our patients and posterity depend on it ... 

 


As many of you know, threads will be woven into the new medical school curriculum.  The Critical Thinking in Medicine thread will be a synergistic marriage between diagnostic reasoning and evidence-based medicine which, I think, are the key constituents for deliberately practicing medicine in today’s clinical environments and setting learners on paths towards diagnostic expertise.  Over the past few years, components of the curriculum have been tried and tested in various venues throughout undergraduate and graduate medical education and many learners have embraced and incorporated the language of the diagnostic process into their medical lexicon. Some have left training equipped with skills to metacognate.   

I am thrilled the curriculum will become a staple of undergraduate medical education at the Medical College of Wisconsin, but the initial implementation and sustainability of any curriculum, let alone ours, relies on an acceptance and participation from learners and faculty.  Thus, faculty development will be crucial.    

If, at this point, you’re asking, “Well, how are you going to do that?” Don’t fret. I share your line of questioning.  My honest answer is that I don’t know.   Or rather, I haven’t figured it out yet.   

But before embarking on a journey to capacitate and train the trainers, I would like to share why I think clinical faculty members would benefit from engagement, including becoming fluent in the semantics, scientific underpinnings, and metacognitive strategies related to the diagnostic process.  Here, I outline the impact (and really benefit) for three key stakeholders. 


For the sake of patients: Reducing medical errors by teaching how to arrive at a correct diagnosis 

Clearly, the goal for many front-line specialties is to get an accurate and timely diagnosis.  Without it, management is ineffective, wasteful, and potentially harmful.  With an accurate diagnosis, management and prognosis are guided.   

A diagnostic error is defined as a “failure to develop an accurate explanation for a patient’s health problem and/or failure to communicate that explanation,” and studies of autopsies, secondary reviews, and voluntary reports suggest diagnostic errors occur in up to 15% of cases, culminating in adverse events in up to 90% of cases.  It turns out cognitive errors are by far the most common cause of diagnostic error. An analysis of 583 physician-reported diagnostic errors suggested a failure/delay in considering diagnosis, suboptimal weighing of information, or too much emphasis placed on competing diagnoses were the most common reasons for “what went wrong.”  

As a result, patients may be subject to unnecessary testing and incorrect therapies, which may subsequently lead to psychologic/physical harm, toxicity, prolonged hospitalization, financial distress, and even death. Therefore, if the primary goal during an initial undifferentiated patient encounter is to arrive at a diagnosis, shouldn’t medical education, for the sake of patient care, strive to teach learners how to arrive at a diagnosis by explicating the diagnostic process into discrete teachable components to be deliberately practiced? And in doing so, is it possible to reduce diagnostic errors?   

While I can’t cite literature, and even if the answer is “no,” I opine, from a philosophical standpoint, that there’s intrinsic value, for doctoring and the doctor-patient relationship, in better understanding the diagnostic process.  


For the sake of learners: Giving them tools to build their diagnostic expertise 

It is not uncommon for novice learners to be “full of facts.”  However, they may have a difficult time “putting it all together.”  In fact, the diagnostic process is often considered a “black box” where learners can see what goes in (the data) and what comes out (the eventual diagnosis) but may not be able to articulate (in written or verbal communication) the intermediate steps.  And in some cases, the diagnoses are often drawn from a grab bag of differential diagnoses, which are verbalized using reflexive and biologically unlinked thinking.   

Instead of just creating competent graduates, what if we aim to set learners on a path towards diagnostic expertise?  After all, and as stated earlier, nothing good happens without an accurate diagnosis.  And so, what if the learner could: 

(a) Recognize how to appropriately utilize and toggle between different systems of thinking 

(b) Recognize when their cognitive load is high 

(c) Utilize different approaches to problems (e.g., hypothetical-deductive versus inductive approach) 

(d) Acquire a template for knowledge storage, expansion, and retrieval 

(e) Learn to conduct a cognitive autopsy and scan their environment for cognitive pitfalls 

(f) Learn to calibrate their thinking for future similar but not identical cases 


It is not a stretch of the imagination, and in fact, when we launched this curriculum in the internal medicine residency program, these components were exactly what learners desired out of their training.  For learners to grasp and deliberately practice these components, they’ll need their faculty counterparts to share their understanding of the diagnostic process (or at minimum, speak the same language). 


For the sake of faculty: Creating a culture where they can share their skills 

A few years ago, before delineating the components of a diagnostic reasoning curriculum, I began with the end in mind.  Assuming resources abound, I envisioned a Center for Diagnostic Reasoning (and Evidence-Based Medicine). It would be a place where educators would encourage learners to think aloud, deliberately dissect clinical cases into aliquots, and expound systematic approaches. They would approach problems embedded in a patient context and within a consciousness of the scientific underpinnings of decision-making and evidence-based medicine, all the while reflecting and calibrating their thinking.  The Center would be magnetic, attracting educators into the logos of diagnostic reasoning, creating sustainability.   

To me, that is aspirational and exciting.  Here’s why.  Sure, for young learners, the acquired skillsets are meant to promote lifelong learning and equip them to stay on the path towards diagnostic expertise.  But for clinical faculty, the acquired skillsets provide an opportunity to illuminate their thinking and provide a window (for learners) into their mind, within a culture of democratized rounds where both learners and faculty are encouraged to say, “I don’t know,” without the worry of perceived failure.   

Faculty might be overwhelmed and say, “I just don’t have time to do this.”  I will submit to you that you (faculty) are already, some in an extemporaneous manner, reasoning; however, the addition of semantic and scientific structure may provide greater clarity for learners (and yourself).   

Importantly, such a culture would enable the expression of virtues such as courage, prudence, empathy, grace, and humility.  For example, it takes courage and humility to say, “I don’t know.”  The manifestation of these virtues is central for the success of the hidden curriculum, which has far-reaching implications, perhaps more than the exposed curriculum.  And an explicated awareness of an individual’s thinking may be the key in accruing tacit knowledge.   

After all, it was Aristotle who said, Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom. 


Jayshil J. Patel, MD, is an Associate Professor of Medicine in the Department of Medicine at MCW.  He is on the Learning Environment Pillar of the Robert D. and Patricia E. Kern Institute for the Transformation of Medical Education and the Critical Thinking in Medicine Thread Director at MCW. 

Thursday, September 10, 2020

Trying to Remember 9/11

 From the 9/11/2020 newsletter
 
 
Trying to Remember 9/11
 
 
Bruce H Campbell, MD FACS – Editor, The Kern Transformational Times
 
 
 Dr. Campbell shares his experience of being in the operating room the morning of 9/11 and what has happened in the years that followed …
 


My colleague burst through the door of my operating room.


“A plane! A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”
 
I looked up from where I was standing next to the operating table. My resident and I were removing a malignant mass from my patient’s neck. The surgery had just started but the scars from another surgeon’s biopsy made the initial steps of the dissection tricky.
 
“What?”
 
“A plane. I was in the OR lounge and the news switched to New York. A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”
 
I stared at him. I re-checked the surgical field and put pressure on the wound.
 
“So, what are they saying? What’s going on?”
 
“They don’t know. My God. It’s awful.”
 
He left and we went back to work. The resident and I teased out the anatomy, peeling the skin from the underlying muscles, finding the jugular vein and preserving the nerves to the tongue and the shoulder. We dissected the lymph nodes away from the surrounding tissues deep in the wound.
 
The door opened. “Another plane. This one crashed into the other tower.”
 
“What?”
 
“They’re replaying the videos over-and-over. The first tower is on fire. Then there’s the other plane.”
 
He ran out again.
 
We lifted out some of the nodes, clearing them from the carotid artery. By placing my fingers lightly on the carotid, I could feel the patient’s blood flowing from his heart to his brain.
 
The door opened. “Bush was just on TV. He says it’s terrorists.”
 
I closed my eyes. “Please stop. Please don’t come in with any more news reports.”
 
He paused. “Okay, sure.” Then he left.
 
We wrapped up the surgery, tying off a few small blood vessels and closing the wound. It was deadly quiet. None of us in the room had any idea what was going on, but we sensed it was bad. I lingered as the patient woke up. We wheeled him to the recovery room. 
 
Someone stopped me in the hallway. “The first tower collapsed.”
 
I went to the lounge to watch with the others, then walked down to the family center to talk to my patient’s wife. She was watching the news along with everyone else. We stepped into a private consultation room so I could review her husband’s surgery. We returned to the waiting area where I stared at the television with her for a few minutes. The scenes of smoke billowing from the towers and the slow-motion impact of the second plane were playing over-and-over. 
 
Everyone in the hospital looked dazed. News reports flashed about a plane crashing into the Pentagon. Another plane had reportedly crashed in Pennsylvania. 

 

I wondered: Were any of my New York friends killed? Would New York and Washington, DC hospitals be overwhelmed? Many of my partners were at a meeting in Denver. Were they okay? The airports are closed. How will they get home? Were more attacks imminent? Were we all in danger?
 
I walked back to the recovery room where my patient was waking up. I told him that the surgery had gone well. He smiled and dozed off. He had gone to sleep in one world and awakened in another. 
 
 
Despite humankind’s overwhelming capacity for kindness and compassion, we also seem bent on senseless, self-inflicted tragedy. The 
numbers of people killed during wars and atrocities are incomprehensible. 450,000 died in the American Civil War. Approximately 85,000,000 died over the course of WWII, including the single-day death tolls of 1,177 at Pearl Harbor, 145,000 in Dresden, and 60,000 at Hiroshima. Millions have died in wars about which we never studied in school. The death tolls from slavery, racism, and brutality cannot be measured. 
 
Survivors beg us to remember the stories, but their voices soon fade. Nineteenth Century Americans were 
exhorted to, “Remember the Alamo!” and reminded to “Remember the Maine!” as the country waged wars with Mexico and Spain. The survivors of those cataclysmic events - and many others - are long gone. Their appeals fail to stir us. After each moment of outrage, our collective and personal sense of innocence and the illusion of normalcy returns. Our hands return to our daily tasks. We turn away and forget. 

 
Still, I was shaken hard that morning. I will never understand why 3000 people were killed that day in New York, at the Pentagon, and in a farm field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. I mourn the hundreds of first responders and clean-up workers who were sickened or died. I despair at the subsequent thousands of dead civilians and soldiers and the millions of refugees. The gnawing emptiness in my gut during the weeks that followed mirrored the emptiness of the skies devoid of planes. Yet, the aftershocks faded. Soon, even when I tried, I could no longer evoke the depths of despair that were once so real.  

 
 
For several years, the patient on whom I operated the morning the towers fell continued to come for follow-up visits. I was happy to see him. I would examine his neck and make certain his cancer had been controlled. We always spent part of the appointment reliving our shared, indelible experience. 
 
“Do you remember?” we would ask each other.  
 
“Yes, I do,” we would respond.
 
Eventually, though, there was no need for him to return. No more annual visits. “Let me know if things change,” I said. 
 
He shook my hand. “I won’t forget that day,” he said.
 
“Me, either,” I replied. Yet, I know now, I had already begun the process of forgetting. 
 
 
The fading passion, I am certain, protects us from being locked into permanent states of grief and anger. 9/11 – as well as all the shocking events that have rocked our recent national history – arouse outrage and grief. They evoke powerful emotions and calls to action. New leaders rise and inspire us to be part of the change. The events and names remain alive if we amplify the stories. We pledge to stay engaged.
 
Although nineteen years have passed, 9/11 remains one of my communal “Where were you?” moments. Most of the medical students with whom I work were in grade school the day that the attacks occurred. The act of telling this story again is my way of keeping a memory of that day – and the passions it engendered in me – alive. 

 
 
Bruce H Campbell, MD FACS is a Professor in the MCW Department of Otolaryngology and Communication Sciences and in the MCW Institute for Health and Equity (Bioethics and Medical Humanities). He is on the Faculty Pillar of The Robert D. and Patricia E. Kern Institute for the Transformation of Medical Education. He serves as the editor of the Transformational Times. A previous version of this essay appeared several years ago in Dr. Campbell’s blog, “Reflections in a Head Mirror.”