Essays and poetry celebrating the lives of healthcare students, educators, and practitioners.
Wednesday, August 5, 2020
Learning Communities at the Medical College of Wisconsin: Past, Present & Future
Sunday, August 2, 2020
Preview of presentation by Adam Hill, MD - Author of Long Walk Out of the Woods: A Physician’s Story of Addiction, Depression, Hope, and Recovery
Three Questions for Adam Hill, MD
Dr. Hill is Chief of Pediatric Palliative Care at Indiana University’s Riley Hospital for Children and author of Long Walk Out of the Woods ~ A Physician’s Story of Addiction, Depression, Hope, and Recovery
He will deliver Kern Institute's Grand Rounds on 8/6/2020 - 9:00 - 10:00 a.m. CDT
REGISTER HERE
TRANSFORMATIONAL TIMES: Dr. Hill, you developed and direct a program at Riley Hospital for Children called an "Compassion Rounds." What led you to develop the program and what impact do you see it having?
ADAM HILL, MD: We wanted to create a safe space for human storytelling, where individuals from all walks of life could come, share their experiences in a brave yet vulnerable way and know that they are being loved and supported for their authentic truth. We wanted to cultivate compassion, empathy, understanding and in doing so, breed a culture of human connection within our hospital walls. We intentionally open this space to all people, from EVS workers, cafeteria colleagues, to teachers, therapists, nurses and docs. We don’t focus at all onclinical medical decisions or even clinical encounters but instead about our own human experiences and how those experiences make us who we are today. In doing so, we create connections, friendships, perspectives and pathways for support. So that if an individual is struggling in their own story, they know that they are not alone and have cultivated their own silos and spaces now to reach out for help.
Over and over again we see these connections flourish outside of the meeting spaces. Sparks that turn into brushfires and true connections that develop when we take off our own blindfolds and realize that we are all in the same room together. Walking around with our own insecurities, fears, and anxieties in the same way. And we don’t shy away from the harder conversations like ourmental health, personal trauma, abuse, race, addiction, work trauma, grief/loss, etc.
TT: How do you use empathy to explore the emotions and needs of your patients?
DR. HILL: Having my own story of health conditions allows me to challenge myself to constantly stay open-minded and open-hearted. That we all have our own stories that are deeper than any stereotype or superficial assumptions assigned. That I hope people will get to know me as Adam, a man/husband/father/dog-lover/physician and not merely as someone with a history of addiction or depression. I hope to give my patients and their families the same dignity, a respect of listening to their story with a willingness to be changed.
From my own experience, I know that personal truth is layered under levels of denial, self-preservation, anger, projection, shame, guilt and the external pressures of having to portray some semblance of perfection or a stereotyped ideal of how to live your own life. Getting to the truth of someone’s experience requires patience, presence, trust, respect and a safe enough space where this truth can be explored. I hope to show up in this way for my patients, to build this trust and know that I can’t ever know what their story, life or lived experiences is like – but that I am willing to listen to find out.
TT: As a palliative care specialist, how do you manage your own mental well-being while caring for patients, especially during the pandemic or any other crisis?
DR. HILL: Without pretense. Without any expectation of perfection or that I have everything figured out. I am a work in progress and I strive not for perfection but for progress every single day. That I can show up, do my best and provide space for grace that I am a human being in the midst of difficult times and I can only control what I can control. Over almost a decade of recovery, I have learned my own triggers, my own needs, my own limits and where I need to set boundaries in my own life. I’ve developed skills and techniques, and I rely on ongoing counseling to continue to move forward in my own processing of the complexity of the daily work. I’ve learned how to communicate those needs to my family and my colleagues in a way that allows me to continue to do the intimate work every single day.
I also find deep meaning and purpose in the work that I do. Although difficult work, I see this as an incredible opportunity to make a difference in someone’s life during the hardest days of their lives. That I didn’t cause the pain, suffering, sadness or grief. I am not in control of what happens in the world all around, but I do have a role to play in showing up, doing my best and bringing intention into the work. And then, on the back-end, finding healthy ways to integrate that work into the story of my life in a way that allows me to be a father/husband/son as the top priority of my life.
Dr. Adam B. Hill is the division chief of pediatric palliative care at Riley Hospital for Children at Indiana University Health. His work in palliative care is focused on allowing patients to live the best quality of life possible, in the midst of chronic, life-limiting and/or life-threatening medical conditions. Dr. Hill is passionate about physician wellness and self-care in the context of changing the culture of medicine surrounding mental health conditions and addiction. In 2017, Dr. Hill published a groundbreaking New England Journal of Medicine articled titled “Breaking the Stigma: A Physician’s Perspective on Self- Care and Recovery.” In this article Dr. Hill shares his own story of personal recovery from depression and substance use. As a result, Dr. Hill has become a nationally recognized lecturer on the topic and has also authored a book entitled “Long Walk Out of the Woods: A Physician’s Story of Addiction, Depression, Hope and Recovery” |
Excerpt from: Long Walk Out of the Woods ~ A Physician’s Story of Addiction, Depression, Hope, and Recovery
“...Worldwide, evidence continues to show that worsening mental health is an occupational work hazard in the medical field. I know firsthand how one’s mental health can deteriorate during medical training. Studies have shown that 27 percent of medical students are depressed, a rate three times higher than an aged-matched cohort of their peers. The numbers don’t get any better after graduation either as depression rates among medical residents are an estimated 29 percent. In medical schools in the United Kingdom, a multi-school study found 52 percent of medical students reported substantial levels of anxiety. While another study found the proportion of medical interns meeting criteria for depression increased from a baseline of 3.9 percent prior to medical training to a staggering 25.7 percent during medical internship. In the group of individuals reporting their mental health conditions, more than 80 percent did not feel adequately supported in their disclosure.”
Saturday, August 1, 2020
A View from Internship
A View from Internship
Kim Tyler, MD, MS
Starting my intern year during a pandemic is not what I had in mind a year ago when I was preparing residency applications. I could never have anticipated what this first month of internal medicine residency would be like. I find myself thinking multiple times each day, “I should not be allowed to do this.” “Who decided that I was qualified to do this?!” “It is wild that they let me do this.” There is a constant tension between what I feel is expected of me and what I feel is within my abilities. I wrestle with “Impostor Syndrome.”
The first time a patient called me their “doctor,” for example, I nearly fell over. The first time I was summoned to pronounce a patient’s time of death, I stared at my pager wondering if they’d contacted the wrong person. A few weeks out of medical school, “doctor” is an identity I have not yet learned to accept.
As I move through my days, I experience twinges of incompetence. I fear that a patient might call me out. Of course, this is a familiar theme for many during the pandemic. None of us has the faintest idea where this is headed, and uncertainty lingers over all of healthcare. When the ICU fellow is questioned by a family member about treatment options for a COVID patient, does she feel the same doubt that I feel? Do even the most confident attendings have moments of distress? Perhaps some who have made careers out of medicine are being reminded of how they felt when they first started—now challenged by an illness in whose face previous medical knowledge seems inadequate. Is there, in this moment, an opportunity for all of us to acknowledge our hidden feelings of inadequacy and hesitation?
Sensing what it means to be a physician
Even though I am new to this, I believe I am starting to sense what it means to be a physician. In the quiet moments after a patient has confided a fear, a hidden addiction, or a smothering depression, I realize I am accompanying them on their journey. Even as I struggle to enter home healthcare orders, sort out conflicting lab results, or work through admission orders, there are times when I allow myself to just stop and be present in the spaces I inhabit with my patients. The specter of this pandemic highlights the importance of sitting with suffering even when we cannot relieve it.
Even in this time of great uncertainty – and in the midst of my first weeks as a doctor – I can see the beauty in simply and generously being present.
Kim Tyler, MD MS is graduate of the Medical College of Wisconsin Class of 2020. She is currently a PGY1 in the MCW Internal Medicine residency program.
A Letter to our 2020 Interns
A Letter to our 2020 Interns
Wendy Peltier, MD
Froedtert & MCW Palliative Care Section
Dr. Peltier, who graduated from medical school in 1991, shares her perspectives with our newest graduates on how the uncertainty of treating COVID-19 reminds her of her days caring for patients with HIV/AIDS …
Dear friends going through your internship,
Congratulations on becoming PGY1s! Truthfully, most memories of the times around my internship at Rush Medical College in 1991 are a blur. For example, I cannot recall the popular songs, who won the Super Bowl, or even the model of car I drove. However, as clear and crisp as if it was yesterday, I remember the faces and stories of many of the patients and families for whom I cared.
1991 was near the peak of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Young, talented, previously healthy homosexual men were hospitalized in droves with frightening, rare conditions including Kaposi’s sarcoma, PCP pneumonia, CNS lymphoma, and terrifying degrees of cachexia. Each diagnosis was a death sentence and most HIV/AIDS patients knew they were dying. Their families were afraid to walk into their rooms or to touch them. Many patients disclosed their sexuality to loved ones for the first time at the same time they learned they had a terminal diagnosis. I sensed everyone’s fear and anxiety. I saw first-hand the stigma and bias the patients and families endured.
As health professionals, we were considered at high risk, as well. There were no effective treatments. Needle sticks and fluid splashes might kill us, and it took weeks to get test results back after an exposure. We wore double gloves and goggles. We adopted increased vigilance when performing procedures and interacting with potentially infected patients. It was scary.
Uncertainty and fear
There was much uncertainty, fear, and misinformation about the HIV virus. At the same time, as interns, we were directly responsible for hands-on aspects of hospital care in ways that would be unthinkable now. Even after being up all night on call, we stayed until late the following evening until the work was done. We often went thirty-six hours without sleep, went home for a few hours, and then went back in for more. There was no such thing as a “weekend.” We placed IVs and central lines, drew blood, inserted catheters, and – often – transported patients for after-hours testing in Radiology. Our scut lists were long.
Years later, I can see how working with patients with HIV/AIDS and my internship experiences laid the foundation for the doctor I am today.
Internship has always been – and continues to be – a time of transition, excitement, and anxiety. Despite the stress, we considered our intern years both a “rite of passage” and an honor. We were gratified to be trusted with the care of our patients and were uplifted by their moments of grace. We were frequently exhausted but did not see it as abuse. And, besides, our chiefs and faculty constantly told us how much worse they had had it.
A steep learning curve
The intensity quickly imprints memories that will last through your career. Every intern likely remembers the first patient they admitted, the mystery case where they nailed a diagnosis, and the first central line they placed. They remember the first time one of their patients died. You will likely carry similar memories with you.
It is also a time when relationships with colleagues take on new meanings. You learn about functional and dysfunctional teams. You develop your own habits of caring for patients while you explore disciplines and seek out role models that can show you how you might want to build your career.
Some things have changed and some have not
In the years since my internship, much changed. Scientific discoveries led to transformative medical treatments for HIV/AIDS and, by the early 2000s, contracting the virus was no longer a death sentence. The LGBTQ community and its allies tirelessly fought the bias and stigma surrounding the diagnosis.
As part of my practice as a neuromuscular neurologist, I saw patients in clinic with longstanding HIV/AIDS and neuropathy. I always asked them to share their stories. This led to meaningful conversations, reaching far beyond their neurologic symptoms. After my internship where essentially, every HIV/AIDS patient died, I was amazed to meet individuals living full and active lives fifteen years after infection. I suspect you will see patients experiencing post-COVID effects many years from now, as well.
My friends, there are parallels between my internship and yours. Just as with HIV/AIDS, previously healthy people, young and old, become suddenly and critically ill. They are isolated from their families. Patients are victims of bias, guilt, and isolation. Medical professionals fear for their own health. There is uncertainty and misinformation. There are more questions than answers. Just as in 1991, politics intrudes on patient care.
Here are my wishes
As a long-ago intern, here are my wishes for you:
May you be in the moment, and stay close to the patient and family experiences amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, with keen attention to empathy and advocacy.
May you keep your faith in Medicine and vigor for Science, even when you feel tired and overwhelmed.
May you take time to regularly reach out to support and encourage your colleagues and team members with patience and kindness.
May you look back on this time with pride and wonder.
I know you feel overwhelmed by the challenges and opportunities you face. I encourage you to honor and share stories of your experiences with colleagues and friends. Reach out to faculty like me, who have been through crises for support and perspective. You are not alone. We will get through this together.
In gratitude for all you are doing,
Wendy
Wendy Peltier, MD is an Associate Professor of Medicine and Section Head of the Palliative Care Center in the Division of Hematology and Oncology at MCW. She is a member of the Faculty Pillar of the Robert D. and Patricia E. Kern Institute for the Transformation of Medical Education.