In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Transformation:Power in Persistence and PerspectiveTyler BendrickWe've got another meth napper," my resident stated. With an introduction like that, it is hard not to be immediately labeled as a "difficult patient." Being the only Spanish-speaking person on the team, I, a third-year medical student, became the primary point of contact for this severely injured patient. He was an only-Spanish-speaking, 36-year-old male admitted [End Page 7] to our trauma service (...) after he was hit by a truck while riding his bicycle. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the 14 days I spent caring for this man would become one of the most pivotal learning experiences of my medical school career. It changed not only how I understand and approach "difficult patients" but expanded my knowledge of the complexities and challenges of the current healthcare system and how we, as physicians and healthcare providers, can deliver the best care to patients with low health literacy and limited resources.So, what is a "meth napper?" I questioned. "Well, meth is a super stimulant," my resident explained. "When people are frequent meth users, they get used to functioning normally with high levels of stimulants in their body, reducing the normal regulation of wakefulness. When the amphetamine is removed (such as upon admission to the hospital), the body is left to fend for itself, and thus patients oftentimes sleep for 23 hours a day for about 3 to 5 days while their body works to detox and normalize hormones."As predicted, my new friend, "Joe," was napping when I first went to see him. Thinking back, the word "napping" does not accurately describe his level of somnolence. He was virtually unarousable, and I took to a sternal rub to wake him up at 5 a.m. after his traumatic exploratory laparotomy the night before. Once aroused, he was furious. "Estoy bien. Tengo dolor y tengo hambre," he grunted at me. (I am fine, and I am in pain and hungry!). "Ok, Joe," I replied in Spanish, "I am just going to do a quick exam and you can go back to sleep. We will give you medications for your pain. You had a big surgery on your intestines, so you cannot eat or drink right now. If everything goes well in the next couple of days and you start walking around, we can advance your diet." He begrudgingly let me examine him, never opening his eyes, and I left and went about my day.We continued this routine for five days. I would periodically check on him and usually found him sleeping. When awake, he refused to work with physical therapists, get up and walk or go to the bathroom, shower, use his spirometer, or converse with the nursing staff. He seemed completely disinterested in recovery. About day three, we slowly advanced his diet to clear liquids so he could quench his thirst. Sometimes his wife was there, and she would ask for updates, to which I could only reply, "We have to wait until he is more awake or willing to work with us." I was getting frustrated, as it seemed that his noncompliance was becoming his barrier to discharge.But on day six, everything changed. I went to check on Joe, and he was wide awake, vomiting, and irate. He shouted that he was in incredible pain, and his incision was wet. He was also complaining that he had not eaten in five days, and was insisting that we were starving him. Again, I calmly explained (as I had multiple times a day for the past five days) that his major abdominal surgery prevented us from feeding him until his intestines healed. We were giving him fluids and nutrition through his IV lines, so he was not starving to death. I rushed to get my resident to examine his oozing wound, and after a CT scan and an x-ray, we discovered what we feared: His wound had opened down to the fascia, "dehiscence," as it is called. On top of this, he now had a bowel obstruction, causing his vomiting. His lack of mobility for the past five days had slowed his... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:You Can't Say "No" to That!(A "Difficult Patient" Story)Ingrid BergAs a sequela of COVID-19, my rural Wisconsin hospital has been jam-packed for months with patients for whom we routinely provide care and many for whom we do not. An exodus of health care workers and other constraints have made the transfer of critically ill patients very difficult. In this disquieting "new-normal" of our work life, we routinely must call (...) bigger cities throughout our state to find beds for complex patients.So, it was not surprising when a young patient, an IV drug user in sepsis from a heart infection, was admitted to me in the middle of the night. In less disheartening times, before the pandemic, this patient would have been transferred promptly to the big-city hospital. Now, though, the possibility of finding an open bed is next to impossible. Resigned, I placed admission orders, continued antibiotics and fluids, and crossed my fingers. Then the unexpected happened: a bed opened up, and we could send her at once!The patient had a harsh heart murmur. It was likely that a "vegetation" was clinging to the valve, between the right upper and lower chambers of her heart. A vegetation is a clump of debris, such as platelets, clotting proteins, and bacteria that is a menace to the body. Her chest imaging looked like her infection had already spread to her lungs.A definitive diagnosis for endocarditis requires a special ultrasound with a probe that goes down through the esophagus, a procedure performed by cardiologists. It's a serious infection, one that requires weeks of IV antibiotics and is best monitored by infectious disease specialists. Sometimes, cardiothoracic surgeons are called upon to strip away the infection at the site, depending on how badly the valve has been slayed or the size of the vegetation. My only recommendation for a young, otherwise healthy patient in this scenario, is transfer.All of these reasons for transfer were lolling around in my tired head when the night-time [End Page 14] nursing supervisor approached me and said, "We have a problem." When the patient was updated about the transfer, she balked: "She says she is tired and refusing to go," the supervisor began. "She doesn't feel like getting into an ambulance in the middle of the night and she doesn't care if her condition is life-threatening. She knows we can't force her to go and she will only talk about it again in the morning."The cartoon version of myself at that moment had bugged-out eyes, a dropped jaw, fists tight and clenched at my sides, and steam coming out of my head. I can look past a patient's self-neglect, poor medication adherence, abysmal communication, alcohol and drug addiction, and other crimes. But saying no to a bed at a tertiary care facility? Unacceptable!I marched down the quiet hallway and into her room. She was lying on her side, facing the door, one IV in a thin arm. I was confident I could reason with her once I explained the scarcity of beds and the medical necessity of transfer. But she was having none of it. I was calm until I could no longer maintain my cool: "You can't give up this bed!""Maybe in the morning," she insisted, yawning. "But not now. I am tired and want to rest!""But there might not be a bed in the morning," I countered. "And your infection can be life-threatening." (This is true, but we both knew she wasn't dying at this very moment.)"I am not going anywhere!" She raised her voice and then closed her eyes.And she was right. I had no choice but to keep her. I could not kick her out of the hospital because she was making a poor choice, and I was frustrated for having to manage the fallout of that decision. Giving her antibiotics and fluid boluses to bolster her blood pressure was certainly within my scope of practice. And fretting. Fretting is always within my scope of practice; not that my scope of practice matters when all the big... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:My Patient, TeacherMarissa BlumI remember meeting Beatriz about 12 years ago when security was called to her office visit room by the fellow doctor-in-training who was seeing her. She was yelling loudly about her pain medications, causing a terrific commotion. I stepped in to relieve the fellow and tried to calm her down and move the visit along without anyone getting hurt or further upset. And from then on, (...) Beatriz was moved to my schedule from the fellow's for her monthly visits for her knee pain and refills of fentanyl and oxycodone. She had terrible knees and walked with a cane, almost always accompanied by her son. At one point, she came to our clinic asking to be seen but couldn't, and then fell onto her knees and rolled onto her back in the wait-room, clutching and waiving her cane, expelling expletives and railing at anyone who wanted to help but denying them that privilege. It was as though she relished exposing her pain and a lifetime of hardship for all to confront. I came down from my office to talk with her and when I couldn't convince her to get up on her own, we called EMS to assist and they took her away in an ambulance.For the first few years, I recoiled seeing her name on my schedule each month. I knew I would have to endure a barrage of labile emotions and complaints not just about her constant pain and feelings of inadequacy of her pain medications, but also about her other doctors and how they don't respond to her, or about how the rest of her family shows no care for her. Initially, these visits were hard because they were unpredictable and Beatriz also had bipolar disorder and maybe borderline personality too. I never knew which type of Beatriz I would walk in to see: Angry, tearful, lamentful, and all of those faces were difficult for me. But we met every month for years. During those visits, which almost always were attended by her son, who quietly sat by to either gently rebuff or passively agree with her, I learned so much about her and her very hard life. She was left to raise two children alone, unskilled and ill with hepatitis C, which led to liver cancer, followed later by breast cancer. She chose not to pursue additional therapy for breast cancer, expressing a fatalistic view of her life and intimating she in some way deserved the ailments that she developed. She saw me for disabling knee and hip arthritis that took away her independence and ability to scale the outdoor steps to her second-floor apartment and required the assistance of her son to dress, bathe and care for her. Beatriz never knew this, and I didn't share [End Page 18] it with her, but on one of my early morning drives into North Philadelphia, I saw her on a sun-baked unfriendly street, struggling to move around with her walker. She had many reasons to be angry, and the 30 minutes I spent with her every month became a catharsis for her to unload all that she felt.During my medical training, I encountered hundreds of patients—mostly all in the hospital setting—who might be characterized as difficult and understandably; no one who is relegated to the hospital setting, acutely or chronically ill and requiring inpatient care, could possibly be in the best mood of their lives. Somehow, it was easier for me to care for patients in these snapshot encounters that I controlled. I dictated my time in the room and didn't necessarily have to encounter the same challenging patient longitudinally, which made certain encounters much easier to bear. I realize now I wasn't fully processing the burdens carried by these patients in a way that enabled me to be a compassionate and fully present physician to them. It was an adaptation to the fast-paced life of residency, where one just has to get the job done and move on to the next task without time to process or reflect on difficult patient interactions. This is a... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:It's Not Always Just a RashAdam BossertI looked at the emergency department track board and saw a patient waiting for a provider who was "roomed" in a hallway stretcher with a chief complaint of a rash. I briefly considered his ultimate disposition, "He's probably fine. He can't be that sick if he was triaged as safe for the hallway." I was tired and close to the end of an (...) overnight shift and thought he would be a quick turnaround, likely discharged, since rashes are typically benign. I walked over to his stretcher after a quick chart biopsy that highlighted his mildly increased heart [End Page 24] rate on arrival as well as his history of polysubstance use and homelessness."Hey doc, I don't feel so good.""I'm sorry to hear that. What's specifically bothering you?""I am itching all over with these bumps. My skin is red, and I also think I'm withdrawing since I have body aches and chills."The interview continued.I discovered his last heroin use was approximately eight hours prior to arrival. I thought he was an ideal candidate for buprenorphine since he was actively withdrawing. I was recently licensed to prescribe this medication and excited to use my license for the first time. He declined the suggestion, however, preferring methadone instead. Buprenorphine can precipitate withdrawal if not given long enough after opioid use or if an incorrect dose is given; thus, many patients are hesitant to take it. He also stated he was predominantly here for his rash and did not want rehabilitation placement. I ordered our initiation methadone dose as well as a screening COVID-19 test and a urine drug screen test, which are both needed for rehabilitation placement in case he changed his mind.His rash was highly suspicious for scabies. He was covered with red bumps that spared only his face, some in linear distributions, and was actively scratching his arms and legs during the interview. I prefer oral ivermectin over topical permethrin for the homeless population simply for ease of administration, lower cost, and increased compliance. He received ivermectin for his scabies and knew he could return to the emergency department for a repeat dose if he was unable to fill a prescription.What happened next is, in my experience, an all-too-common scenario.The patient told me that the methadone is "doing nothing." I explained he could no longer take buprenorphine since he already received methadone, which only made him more frustrated. Unfortunately, I am restricted with the amount of methadone I can give in the emergency department, largely due to the drug's long half-life, and thus I was unable to give him more, let alone attempt titrating to his tolerance.Opioid withdrawal is not a life-threatening diagnosis; these patients are not typically admitted to the hospital. The management consists of initiating either methadone or buprenorphine, symptomatic treatment and then outpatient referral or rehabilitation placement. I explained the options to him, and he requested to be discharged since he was deferring rehabilitation. He was discharged. I was able to treat his rash but his chronic illness, opioid use disorder, was not controlled.I discharge a patient in opioid withdrawal or who has opioid use disorder almost every day, and I think most emergency medicine physicians would echo that statement. The disposition is not wrong from the perspective of the individual physician, but it feels like the system has failed these patients when I think of the frequency that they return and their baffling risk of overdose. The latter can be reduced by giving patients Narcan, the drug to reverse opioid overdose, upon discharge but this is just placing a bandage over the problem and not all emergency departments can fund this risk-reduction tool.I saw my patient's COVID-19 result return as I wrapped up my shift. It was positive. And, of course, he was in our department's hallway the whole time, only intermittently using his mask. I suddenly realized that while yes, he was withdrawing, he also may have had a symptomatic COVID-19 infection! I quickly reopened his chart, only to... (shrink)

Abstract:A placebo is an intervention that is believed to lack specific pharmacological or physiological efficacy for a patient's condition. While placebo-controlled trials are considered the gold standard when it comes to researching and testing new pharmacological treatments, the use of placebos in clinical practice is more controversial. The focus of this case study is an undisclosed placebo trial used as an attempt to diagnose a patient's complex and unusual symptomology. In this case, the placebo was used not just as a (...) treatment, but as a diagnostic intervention in order to determine the best course of treatment for a patient. Could the deceptive use of a placebo be justified in clinical practice on the grounds of beneficence? (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Positive Change in Perception and Care for a Difficult PatientMelissa CavanaughIf you asked any healthcare professional if they had ever cared for a difficult patient, I am certain the answer would be a resounding "Yes!" I have encountered many over my forty-two years as an RN. The story of Ms. E. is one of exceptional challenge and, I hope, success.I met Ms. E. in 2012 when I took a (...) nursing position in an outpatient primary care Geriatric Clinic. The clinic was located within an inner city, Level 1 Trauma health system whose mission is to care for the underserved. This organization had cared for the most vulnerable in the area for decades. The clinic model is unique in that it provides a "one-stop shop" for the common medical needs of the older adult. Other specialties, including podiatry, rheumatology, dementia care, and stroke, held appointments in this clinic area. The supporting staff team members assisted in each of these clinics, leading them to interact with the same patients frequently.Most of my previous experiences had been in inpatient units with a quick turnover of patients. There was no time or need to develop a long-term relationship with the patients in these settings. However, the comprehensive services found in this clinic coupled with the low staff turnover, led to a stable group of seniors receiving care in this office. Many of these individuals had been attending this clinic for over twenty years.I heard about Ms. E. before I ever met her. She was well known to the clinic team as a "problem" patient. The general response when she was on the schedule was eye rolling and audible moans. I soon learned that in addition to her scheduled visits, she would randomly appear outside the full glass interior doors. She would hover in the area, tapping on the glass to get the attention of a staff member. She did not hesitate to interrupt staff and other patients to make her needs known when she was in the exam room hallway. Often team members would scatter and hide to avoid dealing with her. If she was not in the building, she was on the triage line with a question or physical complaint. To complicate matters even further, her husband was our patient as well, and they always attended appointments together.Ms. E. suffered from common geriatric chronic diseases such as hypertension, diabetes, and osteoarthritis. Her morbid obesity complicated her diagnoses. Though she was able to safely ambulate with an assistive device such as a cane or walker, she routinely used a motorized chair. She and her husband admitted visiting fast food restaurants often even though they had met with a dietician for counseling on several occasions. They often requested help obtaining medications, yet related stories about visiting the local casino. Ms. E. spoke with a small, weak voice that added to the countenance of helplessness and pity. Unfortunately, these behaviors of noncompliance, attention seeking, and dependency on others extended to her immediate community, and she is estranged from family and friends who may have been a source of support to her. [End Page E1]Ms. E.'s appointments were scheduled at the end of the day due to the expectation and pattern of the extended time they would take. No matter her expressed concerns or needs, our recommendations and interventions were never enough. She continually questioned the assessment information and did not want to accept the education and orders given as the correct response to her problems. As one can see, her appointments could be exhausting!Ms. E. certainly deserved the best and most comprehensive care available from our team. Developing a more therapeutic relationship for her within the clinic became a priority for me. However, it was a daunting task to provide this level of care and to convince her that she deserved and was receiving such care. She presented a laundry list of characteristics that could lead to biases from the staff. Overcoming such individual biases toward her may be a barrier as well. These included her obesity, her lack of initiative, her self-centered behaviors, and her constant need for attention.As healthcare professionals... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Am I the Bad Guy?Tavishi ChopraWhat do you do when the 6-year-old patient you have vowed to protect suddenly deems you the bad guy?The afternoon started out like any typical afternoon during my inpatient pediatric rotation. We had finished rounding, grabbed lunch, and began to see our new admits. My residents told me to go see a 6-year-old, Ela, in the ED. All I knew was that she had (...) a burn injury. As I walked to her ED room, my heart sank.Burns from cigarette stumps covered her torso and back. She was holding her shirt off her chest to prevent the excruciating pain caused by her t-shirt rubbing against her skin. As soon as Ela made eye contact with me, she immediately started crying and exclaiming, "Mommy didn't mean to!" confirming exactly what I thought. These burns were inflicted from someone she loved.Ela was eventually admitted into the hospital, and the Department of Child Services was contacted. Little did I know that I would be so conflicted by this decision.DCS launched an investigation on Ela's mom, but during the investigation, Ela's mom was permitted at her bedside. It was very clear that Ela felt protected and loved by her mom. Often it was only her mom who could get her to stop crying during the painful dressing changes. I felt torn allowing Ela's mom to have such a strong presence in Ela's hospital stay. To me, nothing in the world can justify hurting a child so cruelly, and inflicting that pain so many times. However, my job was to help Ela heal. That meant that because Ela turned to her mom for support, I also needed to include Ela's mom in our medical decisions. I buried away any negative feelings I had, and I proceeded to interact with Ela's mom in a professional manner.It was this that allowed me to get to understand Ela's mom a little bit more. She was a single mom [End Page E8] working multiple jobs to help keep her family afloat. She often lived her day on three to four hours of sleep, so she was very tired. The sleep deprivation made her frustrated more easily, and she didn't have a healthy outlet to release her emotions. Unfortunately, Ela was on the receiving end of that frustration.Hearing her story made me even more angry, confused, and upset that a child suffered. I strongly believed that as adults, we should have better control of our emotions, and sleep deprivation and frustration weren't an excuse. I couldn't find it in me to respect Ela's mom, who I shamefully began to avoid.I still wanted to bond with Ela and show her unconditional love. When Ela's mom was at work, I would use that opportunity to go and spend time with her. We would play "princesses," blow bubbles together, and turn dressing changes into a game. We formed a special bond, and I always made it a goal to go and spend some time with her every day.DCS, meanwhile, was actively conducting an investigation. They interviewed Ela's mom, Ela's siblings, and Ela. The findings of their investigation revealed that Ela's mom often would lose her temper, and the kids feared their mom. Hearing this further proved to me that I did not need to interact with Ela's mom. Embarrassingly, it was just as much a priority for me to avoid Ela's mom as it was to spend time with Ela.DCS eventually concluded that Ela's mom would lose custody of Ela for the time being. Because of the connection that Ela and I had, I took it upon myself to deliver the news to her. Our bond was shattered right then and there. She immediately began to cry, told me she hated me, and asked me to leave the room. Anytime I would go into her room after that, she would start screaming and refused to talk to me. In a span of five minutes, Ela's mom made a decision that destroyed their family... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Every Patient is a Teacher—Especially the "Difficult" Ones:Caring for Patients with Borderline Personality DisorderCara ConnaughtonNo one can teach you how to work with a patient living with borderline personality disorder quite like a patient living with borderline personality disorder (BPD). The lesson [End Page E9] isn't on how to be the perfect caregiver or how to meet all the patient's needs. The lesson is to notice that the quality (...) of care and the patient's response are not always mutually dependent and that holding ourselves to impossible standards will only lead to resentment, job dissatisfaction, and potentially burnout.I had a very good teacher on this subject and her name was Sandra.1 Sandra was admitted to our hospital unit with end stage cervical cancer. She had attempted to treat her illness by using only homeopathic remedies, which hadn't abated the disease. While at the hospital, Sandra was intensely controlling over her medications as well as when and how she took them. Sandra had also been diagnosed with BPD. One symptom of her disorder manifested in staff splitting: she saw staff members as either good or bad and treated them as such—her thinking was very black and white. She would talk very badly about other nurses to the current nurse working or talk very well about her favorite nurse in a way that made me and other nurses feel that we weren't measuring up. Sandra also exhibited intense anger toward most staff and had unexpected mood swings—I didn't know what I was going to get when I walked into her room but was fairly certain it would include berating and belittling comments. This same treatment was given to most staff nurses except for one. Sandra's favorite nurse was Bonnie; Bonnie couldn't understand why the rest of the nursing staff found Sandra difficult since she was always treated very well by this patient.I dreaded coming to work to find Sandra as part of my patient assignment for the day. I knew that day would be full of cutting remarks and disappointment from Sandra, no matter how hard I tried to provide compassionate and quality care. Further, trying to meet her seemingly endless needs took away from the care that I could provide for the other patients on my assignment. I could easily spend an hour in Sandra's room doing various tasks while she expressed frustration and anger toward me—I couldn't seem to do anything right.I have cared for many "difficult" patients throughout my years as a bedside nurse—including those who were physically and verbally aggressive—but Sandra always stands out as the most "difficult" because her words and behavior cut right through me. Even the briefest interactions with Sandra left me questioning my competence as a nurse, something I hadn't experienced when caring for other "difficult" patients.A turning point in how I related to Sandra's behavior occurred one day shift when she was part of my patient assignment. Sandra had been off the unit for a treatment from before I'd even started my shift at 7 am. At 11 am, Sandra arrived back on the unit. A few minutes later, I brought her 9 am medications to her room. The medications were technically late, but of course, it would have been impossible for me to bring them to her on time as she wasn't even present on the unit. She said angrily, "These are late! Bonnie never brings my medications late!" At that moment, something switched in my mind—it wasn't me! What a relief. I had to let go of the idea that I needed to make this patient happy in order to be a good nurse. Prior to this incident, I determined how good of a job I was doing based on how happy my patient appeared with their care. I realized that a patient's satisfaction wasn't always dependent on the quality of the care I provided.All of us provided the best care that we could for Sandra. To help us do this while maintaining our own mental wellness, we rotated... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:It Is Going to Be a Long Clinic DaySalvador Cruz-FloresIt was a routine neurology clinic day. I entered the room where one of the residents was seeing a patient that we will call Patty, a 32-year-old long-standing epilepsy patient. Patty was sitting in the chair with her husband by her side. She started screaming at me, complaining that she was tired of feeling sick and unable to do anything. (...) She had been in and out of emergency rooms with a variety of complaints, from passing out to dizziness with nausea and vomiting. She was visibly angry and started cursing me with direct expletives and blaming me for all her ailments.Her husband was quiet and, at times, would cover his face as if he was embarrassed. I felt an initial burst of anger. I felt my face getting red. I made a great effort to stay quiet, leaned on the exam table facing them, lowered my voice, and braced to take the barrage of insults that were coming my way. I had to make a strong conscious effort to control my emotions and let her vent. I felt that if I responded in kind, I would inflame the situation. Moreover, a resident and a student working with me that day were also present in the room, and I felt it was my duty to behave professionally, so I sat and tried to do active listening with the idea of offering solutions to her complaints. I am not sure how long the event lasted, but it seemed like an eternity. As she slowed down, I apologized for making her feel not cared for, repeated some of her complaints, and tried to offer solutions to them, but she would not have it and did not accept anything I said. She wanted to get her prescriptions and leave the clinic. I offered to have one of my colleagues do the follow-up as she really did not want to see me anymore.Patty is one of those patients that when you see the name in the schedule, you cringe and tell yourself, it is going to be a long clinic day. She could be in the group of patients who are considered very difficult. Before me, she had been seen by several other neurologists. They likely also preferred not to see her on the schedule because she is one of the 20–30% of patients that have a type of functional psychogenic disorder that becomes more complicated because of the coexistence of epileptic seizures along with non-epileptic psychogenic events. The latter is a more problematic event because it does not respond to pharmacological treatment and causes a lot of disability. The best way to establish whether an event is a true epileptic event or a non-epileptic psychogenic event is to do continuous electroencephalographic monitoring to capture as many events as possible on video. I tried different combinations of medications to no avail and with significant side effects. I tried to set her up for electroencephalogram home monitoring to tease the epileptic and psychogenic events apart. In truth, her social circumstances, insurance coverage, and economic situation made it impossible to do so. Every time she came to the clinic, she had a multitude of complaints, and she would ask for a medication to treat the problem. Any mention of the potential psychogenic nature of her problems would result in a defensive attitude "so you are saying I am crazy." We discussed multiple times the need to be careful with the medications and the potential bad side effects. I wanted to help her, but with every visit, there seemed to be a barrier, and the visit would end on bad terms. At least, that is how I felt. I was left every time, with a feeling of frustration. I believe that she left the clinic feeling the same. That day, I left the clinic upset and depressed. I tried to convince myself I had done all I could to help her. I just could not understand why this was the result.Several years have passed since I have seen Patty in the clinic. She certainly has not... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Dying is DifficultClarice DouilleHayden had been a constant in my life since I was eight, as our families were close. He was a single dad who loved to talk and always had a smile on his face. He was obsessed with anything related to his kids and attended every school activity or sporting event.In 2015, Hayden was diagnosed with stage III colon cancer. He was adamant that he didn't (...) want to share any information about his condition with his kids, waiting several months until the eve of his first surgery before breaking the news to them. Hayden made the operation seem trivial and underplayed the severity of the chemotherapy treatments that would follow. Despite whatever he was feeling, he seemed committed to maintaining his happy demeanor, which was probably an effort to convince himself and others to feel better about the situation.Hayden survived his first operation and rounds of chemotherapy. And, over the next several years, he chose to undergo a regimen of additional aggressive treatments, submitting to surgery after surgery, as well as several more rounds of chemotherapy, followed by radiation treatments. I was already working as a home care aide, and because of the close relationship between our families, Hayden asked me to help as his caregiver, including running errands and babysitting for his younger kids. Hayden made it clear that he wanted his kids to remain ignorant of the progression of his condition so that they wouldn't worry and become anxious. It seemed he was motivated by his desire to preserve his young kids' happiness and innocence. In hindsight, I think this prevented his kids from being able to fully savor moments with their dad or prepare for the possibility of his death. I also think Hayden was trying to shelter himself from his own fear of mortality. And it was this fear that made Hayden a "difficult patient."Hayden suffered both physically and mentally, not only from his disease and treatment but also from his fear of mortality. I noticed how he tried to hide his suffering by shutting himself in his bedroom and making excuses when he wasn't eating. He often forgot to take his medications; he refused to use pill boxes and objected to reminders from others. The consequences often meant additional hospitalizations. I wish more palliative options had been introduced to him earlier in his disease course. I believe a palliative care team would have encouraged Hayden to think about and discuss death, helped him change his outlook for treatment and living with cancer, and most importantly, enabled him to better enjoy the remainder of his life with his kids.Nevertheless, I understood why Hayden was worried about his kids, and I could see how his recent personal experiences since his initial diagnosis might have contributed to his choice for the most aggressive treatments: his sister and both his parents had died, leaving no other relatives to care for his kids. He wanted to be there for his kids, yet the side effects of treatment made him so sick that he couldn't leave his bed. He couldn't even do the very activities that made him want to live.Hayden was an extremely social person, but when he found out his cancer was terminal, he [End Page E6] isolated himself from his loved ones for nearly six weeks. Even though I was likely the only person he was communicating with, as the person who helped him and his family, I often didn't see him for weeks at a time. He would text me requests, leave money on the front table, and ask me to drop off the items I purchased and then leave. Hayden's kids continued their daily routines, despite comments from them about his absence.In early August 2020, Hayden was admitted to the hospital. His doctor called the kids at home and told them that their dad would immediately be enrolled in hospice care. They were, as one might expect, shocked at this news. They knew their dad was sick and had been dealing with his cancer for years. But Hayden's health deteriorated slowly, and the kids hadn't known... (shrink)

Abstract:In this manuscript, we start with a real life account of an Ob/Gyn experience with a young patient from the childfree movement requesting permanent sterilization. A narrative ethics approach invites the reader to experience the encounter in an immersive way for this growing issue. This approach allows readers to reflect on their reaction to the patient and consider how that can affect other patient encounters. Additionally, it explores the stigma these young patients encounter making a permanent decision to never have (...) children. In the commentary, we explore the ethical issues in this case including why we question the permanent decision to refrain from having children. We also discuss informed consent and patient education along with the various approaches to physician-patient relationships with an emphasis on shared decision making, which allows space for both patient and physician to question and reason through their health decisions. (shrink)

Abstract:This symposium includes twelve personal narratives from healthcare professionals who have worked with patients whose behavior, attitudes, or life situations make providing care challenging. At the lower end of the estimates, at least 15% of adult patient encounters are with patients described as "difficult" by the treating team, and these encounters often evoke feelings of dread, frustration, and anger in healthcare professionals. Verbal abuse of staff, repeat hospital admissions due to self-injurious behaviors, and negative beliefs about health may make providing (...) care to this group of patients a daily struggle. Despite these challenges, healthcare providers—especially those who work in an in-patient setting—are obligated to treat all comers, sometimes at the expense of their own mental health. This symposium aims to learn from health professionals' stories the kinds of struggles they face, the lessons they draw from those struggles, and the constructive responses they employ to work successfully with challenging patients. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Breaking the Readmission CycleBrian HattenI want to share the story of my difficult patient Ms. L. She has twenty-seven current medical issues. Thirty-five active prescriptions. Limited mobility requiring the use of a motorized scooter. Non-medical care gaps. And over twenty hospital admissions since 2020. I met Ms. L approximately five years ago as her hospital attending and have continued to care for her during her frequent hospitalizations. I could (...) recite this 77-year-old female's litany of medical problems. But sufficed to say, her history is complex, with her admitting diagnoses running the gambit from cellulitis to gastrointestinal bleeding to altered mental status. But, her diagnosis and frequent exacerbations of congestive heart failure (CHF) are particularly frustrating for us both and will be my focus today.CHF makes her susceptible to fluid overload leading to feelings of shortness of breath, which progresses to respiratory distress. Like other individuals with CHF, she uses diuretics to prevent herself from becoming fluid overloaded. And, like many individuals who take diuretics, she hates them. She (un)affectionately calls her water pills "the bomb" because the effect is sudden, profound, and explosive when they begin working. The combination of the diuretic effect and her limited mobility causes significant emotional stress for Ms. L, a woman who values presenting herself outwardly as in control, well-dressed, and put together. Her dislike of the medical effect of her diuretics has led to her either taking them less often or outright discontinuing them. So, while discontinuation avoids those frustrating effects, it leads to fluid accumulation, subsequent respiratory distress, and readmission to the hospital.Her medical records mention she has memory issues. It is unclear how much her mild cognitive impairment affects her frequent readmissions. We have had many conversations where I would never suspect something was amiss. But sometimes, she can be forgetful and does not recall our recent discussions. That being said, she knows the names and uses of her medications. She can report to me her home weights when she checks them and knows what her "dry" weight should be. Yet, she does not act when her scales begin reading heavier or when she develops leg swelling. Instead, she presents to the emergency department in extremis. When directly questioned about why she lets her situation deteriorate to such a state that she requires hospitalization, she demurs. She comments that she can often be stubborn, that the diuretic effect of "the bomb" is burdensome, but always reminds me she is honest in admitting she wasn't taking her water pills.During several admissions, I worried for her survival after she had self-discontinued her medications and showed up at the emergency department in respiratory failure. For any patient with recurrent admissions, I discuss their overall goals of care to ensure we are working together toward achievable medical ends. But this conversation was essential to have with Ms. L. The possibility existed that she would present to the hospital too late in her disease process, and we would not be able to correct her respiratory failure. I wanted to ensure that the hospital staff and I respected her wishes regarding her care. Despite raising my concerns, she would [End Page 22] decline to discuss her wishes. Even worse, attempting to have her complete advance care planning documents like advance directives or a Physician Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment (POLST) form was a futile endeavor. Ms. L was always vague and non-committal. She simply did not want to engage in those types of conversations. When asked why she declined to discuss these issues, Ms. L would reply that she was doing okay, the discussion was unnecessary, and she had family members to make those decisions for her.Caring for her during her hospital stays was a source of professional frustration for me. Her recurrent admissions made me feel like I was failing her. During each hospital stay, we would go over her medications. We repeatedly discussed how she should check her weights daily and monitor for lower extremity edema. We created multiple action plans for when to call her physicians so we could head off another hospital visit. We completed all the... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:When Is Enough, Enough?Megan HomsyThis was a case that stuck with many members of our transplant team for a long time. The patient was a 44-year-old Caucasian male evaluated for a liver transplant with a diagnosis of hepatitis C virus (HCV), originally diagnosed 11 years before the transplant evaluation. The patient met the criteria for the following substance use diagnoses: alcohol use disorder moderate in sustained remission, in a (...) controlled environment, opioid use disorder, severe, in sustained remission, on maintenance therapy, in a controlled environment, stimulant use disorder, amphetamine-type, severe, in early remission, in a controlled environment and stimulant use disorder, cocaine-type, severe in early remission, in a controlled environment.The patient had been living in a sober living housing program for approximately ten months prior to his transplant evaluation with me, his social worker. He had also been diagnosed with depression and bipolar disorder. He had been intermittently linked with mental health services and had participated in numerous detox and substance abuse programs over the last ten years, with varying degrees of success. He was in dual diagnosis treatment (i.e., treatment for co-occurring substance use and mental health disorders) through his Suboxone clinic and was completing toxicology screenings on a biweekly basis.After concluding the minimum three months of drug and alcohol treatment set forth by the state's Organ Transplantation Consortium, the patient graduated from his sober living program, moved in with his sister, and was listed for a liver transplant.The patient was transplanted five months after his clinic evaluation. At the time of the surgery, the patient's Suboxone was abruptly discontinued and replaced with IV Dilaudid. Within days of his transplant, the patient frequently expressed concerns about his pain. Several medical services attempted to manage the pain medications, resulting in his pain management plan being changed repeatedly and much confusion over his current medication regimen. During his liver transplant hospitalization, the RN found the patient with a needle in his arm, and after a search of the patient's hospital room, the hospital police found drug paraphernalia and illicit substances. The patient was eventually discharged to an inpatient substance abuse program, which he left before completing the program and against medical advice.During his first year post-transplant, I attempted to arrange other various treatment programs for him (most of which he did not follow through with) and to find housing for him (as he had been forced to leave his sister's home after his relapse). Eventually, the patient was incarcerated on drug-related charges. Numerous times, the patient missed completing his labs and his post-transplant appointments. He did not refill his immunosuppressant medications, and for lengthy periods of time, he was unreachable by the transplant care team, which resulted in my team members and I calling the patient's family, other providers, and the police for safety checks.In the aftermath of these issues, my colleagues and I had to reckon with the realization that we had failed the patient. As a team, our transplant center created a task force to review this case and what to do in the future to prevent such breakdowns in patient care. We created protocols for managing patients who, at the time of their transplant, are on Medication Assisted Treatment (MAT) such as Suboxone and methadone. Staff across the multidisciplinary team attended trainings regarding addiction, pain management, and best practices for MAT services. Additionally, our transplant center collaborated with our hospital's addiction treatment program for a streamlined referral process for transplant patients to addiction services.This patient's case and its sensational nature resulted in many conversations, both professional and unprofessional. Members of the social worker department became aware that personnel within transplant, though not involved in patient care, were inappropriately discussing this patient's case and engaging in unprofessional behavior. Said actions led to the termination of a member of the transplant team. I was placed in the unenviable [End Page E3] position of having to report this behavior to hospital management and legal teams to protect a vulnerable patient.The ethical challenge behind this case really stems from the transplant team attempting to balance two... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Tincture of the Doctor's TimeHolland KaplanI first thought of Mr. H as a "difficult patient" while reading the written hand-off I received on him as I was preparing to take over an inpatient general medicine service—"He leaves all the time to smoke." I don't think the statement was meant to imply anything about the patient; if anything, it may have been included for context to prepare me for (...) the patient's intermittent absence. But, reading this, I felt a familiar sense of annoyance rising in my chest. Every few months, I take care of a patient who seems to never be in his room. The patient is consistently out smoking, in the cafeteria, or in another unknown location, seemingly doing an undisclosed activity. This is frustrating because it means I have to work around the patient's schedule of smoke breaks and jaunts to the cafeteria to evaluate the patient on a daily basis. The thoughts inevitably cross my mind: Does this patient even want care in the hospital if he's never in his room? Is he actually sick enough to need to be in the hospital if he's able to spend so much time outside of the hospital? Why is he leaving so frequently—is he doing drugs?This particular patient had been in perfect health until two months before I met him when he was shot multiple times during an encounter at a gas station. One of the bullets had lodged in his back, shattering a vertebra. Another had decimated the bones in his right upper arm, which were now held in place by screws and plates. Several had landed in his abdomen, necessitating the removal of part of his bowel. Finally, a bullet had sliced through the lower part of his right kidney, shredding his ureter and mandating surgical reconstruction of his urinary system. After over a month in the intensive care unit with multiple reparative surgeries, he was discharged to a rehabilitation facility. But he started having fevers and fast heart rates; ultimately, he was admitted to the hospital again for multiple infected fluid collections that had formed at the sites of his surgeries. He left the hospital prior to getting treated for these infections, purportedly "against medical [End Page 12] advice." And now, several weeks later, he was here in the hospital for the same reason.The first time I went to see Mr. H, he was, of course, not in his room. I went to the nursing station to ask if the clerk knew where he was. She knowingly said, "Oh yeah, he goes out a lot. I can give him a call to let him know the doctor is here to see him if you'd like." I assented, thanked the clerk for calling him, and proceeded, annoyed, in seeing the rest of my patients. I considered how I would address Mr. H's behavior when I was finally able to talk to him. I had seen others take many different approaches—negotiation about the timing and frequency of these extramural expeditions, ultimatums about getting discharged, mandating urine drug screens upon return, and silent, frustrated tolerance. I resolved to wait to speak to him to determine which approach might be most suitable. An hour later, I received a call from the clerk that Mr. H had returned to his room to see me.The first time I met Mr. H, he informed me he had taken the bus to midtown to make a run to the grocery store. I was internally incredulous. He felt well enough to go to the grocery store? Why was he in the hospital then? At that moment, I opted not to discuss his frequent departures yet, as I was frustrated and realized I wouldn't be able to identify the best way to address them. I reviewed his medical issues with him, asked specific questions about how he was feeling, performed a physical exam, and reiterated his current plan of care. Mr. H made it very clear that he would like to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. I tried to set the expectation that he... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:'Difficult Patient':A Reflective EssayDaniel McFarlandThe patient who sat across from me knew too much about all brain tumors. According to her, she would never know enough about the one sitting uncomfortably close to her brain's temporal lobe. In her quest for the 'right' answer to her meningioma problem, she became certain that its surgical removal would upend her life, leaving her in neurological taters.She was a small business owner (...) of a practice dedicated to medical massage. Indubitably, she had helped countless clients heal themselves of medical mishaps and avoid or recover from the tyranny of [End Page E13] a medical community that did not always provide respectable, hospitable care. She was certain a craniotomy would end her business, nullifying everything she had spent her life building. She became fluent in the legalese needed to transfer or sell her business in anticipation of surgery. To stave off losing her life's work from a surgical mishap, she sought opinions from a dozen neurosurgeons. They reassured her that a routine surgery like this would be effective with little chance of neurological collateral damage. She did not believe them. In her business she had treated numerous exhausted professionals. Many surgeons with whom she worked professionally frequently referred patients to her. She had seen the poor self-care that many surgeons and doctors brought on themselves in the form of unrelenting stress, drinking, bad eating habits, and even drugs. This made her nervous and untrusting about the care she could receive at the hands of an overworked or impaired surgeon. She scheduled appointments with every neurosurgeon she could find and interviewed them relentlessly, looking for the slightest sign of incompetence, unprofessionalism, antipathy, or lapse in compassion. Given her insistence and dogged nature, she usually found what she was looking for. She would bring her research to the appointments and interview the neurosurgeons on what other doctors had opined. If they were incredulous of research she brought or a technique on which she inquired, they were summarily dismissed.At first glance, which is likely all that she got from many of her visits, these encounters put a spotlight on a 'difficult' patient refusing care. The deeper look that my patient deserved revealed a personal narrative of the oldest child who survived a broken home riddled with drug use and prostitution. She learned to rely on only herself for protection. She took unapologetic control of her fate. Her own mother had at one time offered my patient work as a prostitute. Her father was no better in providing protection and a decent upbringing. He had left her as an eight-year-old with the neglectful mother and four younger siblings to fend for herself, which she did against the odds. She suffered physical, emotional, and spiritual abuse.As an adult, her strong sense of selfhood and boundaries allowed her to have a guarded relationship with both of her parents at a comfortable emotional distance. Her mission and passionate drive to help others heal saved her life. In healing others, she was healing herself. Importantly, her experience marked for her indelibly that while she could do this for herself, others were not reliable and could not heal her. She had only ever trusted and relied upon herself. She was the only one who had never let her down. She was terrified that this might be the first time. The potential surgery risked her cognition, physical capacities, and ability to care for herself. The risk was too great.We met numerous times, uncovering her past, reliving the stories of her tumultuous background, and examining how she established her place in the world away from the horrors of her insecure childhood. She took in my reaction to her stories and saw the horror on my face when I tried to imagine a world where one's parents were not only neglectful but the source of danger. Through my reaction, she may have begun to have some compassion for her own story and put the pieces together. One several occasions, she became enraged when I didn't meet her expectations, or I didn't entertain the diatribe of neurosurgical scholarly work.On one of those... (shrink)

Abstract:Multidisciplinary healthcare workers describe interactions with "difficult" patients that have shaped their lives and their clinical practice. The narrators recall navigating the push-pull of empathy and frustration to forge therapeutic patient relationships in inhospitable, under-resourced environments. Their stories offer glimpses into the traumatized people hiding behind "difficult" patient facades. This commentary explores how the narrators engaged in empathy and obligation to build trusting relationships with patients. To protect themselves and their patients, healthcare workers must engage beyond individual clinical duties to (...) help remodel American healthcare. They should be encouraged to advocate for implementation of trauma informed care and to engage in public discourse about transforming healthcare for the good of healthcare workers, patients, and families. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:I Had Never Heard Someone Use That Word BeforeAdrienne Feller NovickThe patient was dying. As the social worker, I had arranged the meeting and sat shoulder to shoulder with the family and the attending physician in the small nondescript room. The family was grief-stricken and asked intelligent questions as they made difficult decisions about end-of-life care for their loved one. The doctor spoke with gentle kindness, acknowledging their difficult (...) decision as he completed the neon pink Medical Orders for Life Sustaining Treatment (MOLST) form and left the room. I was tangled up with emotions; I felt relieved that the meeting had gone smoothly, sad for the patient and family, and in awe of the doctor for his ability to lead the difficult conversation. I stayed behind to ask the family if there was anything I could do to help them. [End Page E4]Before I could speak, the patient's wife turned to me and said, "I am so glad that k--- left the room." (Using a derogatory word for a person of the Jewish faith). My brain began processing the statement. I am a Jewish woman. Did I hear that right? Did she say what I think she said? Should I say something? I froze, and time seemed to stop. She was looking at me expectantly, waiting for a response. Her face reminded me of someone waiting for the other person to return a "high five." I was flooded with emotion. A succession of thoughts ran through my head, everything from being rude in response or getting physical. I did neither. I said nothing. I smiled and left the room feeling like I had been gut-punched.I was in denial. I made excuses for the wife; she was stressed. I kept thinking I must not have heard her correctly and that I was overreacting. I continued to work with the family as though nothing had happened until the patient died five days later. I felt ashamed and never told anyone about what happened. I regretted not saying anything. I replayed the conversation in my mind and felt depressed and angry. Inside I felt complicit for not speaking up, but I had no words. I assumed bias in healthcare was rare. I did nothing.Years later, after I completed a patient visit in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), I observed a group of surgical residents doing rounds. The attending welcomed me to join this valuable clinical learning experience. As the group approached the next bed, the patient pointed to one resident and loudly said, "I don't want a doctor who looks like that to come near me." I gasped aloud and froze, waiting to see what would happen next. The attending looked directly at the patient and said calmly, "We are all here to help you. That is not an appropriate thing for you to say." Then, he turned to the resident and nodded, directing them to resume their bedside assessment. The patient mumbled something inaudibly and said nothing.To my astonishment, the doctor acknowledged the microaggression (a microaggression is a statement, action, or incident regarded as discrimination), addressed the issue, respectfully supported the resident, created a safe space for everyone on the healthcare team and resumed quality patient care without missing a beat. He modeled a strategy to address patient bias and taught a valuable skill. This was a learning moment for me. It helped me refocus my past experience and provided me with a useful strategy to address bias in the future.As a member of the medical ethics consultation service, I listen, provide support, and aid in challenging communications. I had the opportunity to model the communication strategy I acquired in the ICU. The medical ethics team was consulted for a patient refusing treatment. The patient was disrespectful to healthcare team members, cursing at nurses and residents, using ethnic slurs, and saying he "would rather die than let one of them touch him. I entered the patient's room with the healthcare team, introduced myself, and explained the reason for my visit. The patient defiantly agreed he had used slurs, saying he wanted to go home. I continued, everyone here... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Vertical Transmission:The Patient, the Student, the TeacherMiguel PaniaguaHe did not ask for this fate, nor did he deserve it, particularly considering the tragic circumstances. Lì presented to the campus health provider one month prior with fatigue, abdominal pain, and jaundice. He and his parents immigrated to the United States from China when he was a child. He was well aware that he had hepatitis B from what is termed (...) "vertical transmission." His mom unknowingly passed on this virus to him during her pregnancy. In most countries with a high prevalence of the virus, prenatal screening is routinely undertaken, and prophylaxis administered. I am not certain this occurred in Lì's case and at this point it did not matter. Lì knew he would live with this for the duration of his life. In fact, he told me he had gone his whole life to this point without any symptoms whatsoever. What is known about chronic hepatitis B infection is that in most people affected, it can be considered a chronic disease where most live a long full life. The risk of advancing to liver cirrhosis or cancer in general is low. This unfortunately was not the case with Lì.What transpired was what they most feared. As he was studying for his final exams, Lì endured days of worsening fatigue, malaise, and nausea. He noticed his skin was a tinge of yellow and he was having some itching that was unusual. He noticed his clothes fitting more loosely and found he had unintentionally lost twenty pounds. He visited the campus health center and after a series of tests and imaging studies, Lì was diagnosed with advanced hepatocellular carcinoma, an unfortunate sequela of this chronic infection. It was then that he put school on hold and returned home to get further care.I first met Lì in the hospital as a consultant for the palliative medicine service. "He won't listen." "He is so difficult." "He is in denial." These were examples of some of the care team's exasperated assessments of his demeanor as a patient. What I did not realize prior to visiting him the first time was that Lì was a pre-clinical medical student. When I first met him, he did not want to talk very much; he was preoccupied and distant. In retrospect, I can see that he was suffering on so many levels. His appearance was gaunt and cachectic. The lights in the room cast shadows in the concave areas of his temples and his collarbones were the most prominent feature of his torso through his hospital gown. He glowed yellow from jaundice. When I examined him on this first visit, I noticed that his liver, a now grossly enlarged hard and nodular structure, occupied most of his abdomen. I found that speaking to him as a colleague, even calling him "doctor," helped him feel respected and enabled me to build rapport with him. At one point, I described to him the findings I felt in his abdomen. "I can palpate the edge of your liver here, what seems to be eight centimeters below your costal margin. There are many palpable nodularities on the ventral surface." It was at this point I invited him to palpate what I was feeling. I gently guided his own hand over his abdomen and noticed him studying the features as if they were not his own, like a skilled diagnostician.Over the course of three weeks, I visited with Lì when I was on service. The last time I saw him, he had declined rapidly, his disease progressing [End Page 17] cruelly, and he was very short of breath and becoming more somnolent. I noticed his mother in the room, standing by his bed, and crying inconsolably as he lay suffering. I felt deep anguish and remorse, wondering if she said these words to herself "It is all my fault," considering the source of his initial illness. I cannot even imagine.As I assisted the team in titrating his comfort medications, I sat with him. He shook my hand with all the strength left that he could muster and said, "you are a good doctor." I... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Silent Screams; Lily's StoryEva V. Regel"Trauma is personal. It does not disappear if it is not validated. When it is ignored or invalidated, the silent screams continue internally heard only by the one held captive. When someone enters the pain and hears the scream, healing can begin."—Danielle Bernock, "Emerging Wings; A true story of Lies, Pain and the Love that Heals."Some patients stay with you long after they leave. (...) They appear in your mind when you walk by the hospital room they occupied or when someone mentions their name. There is [End Page 19] something about the narrative of their life and illness that makes you hold on to them. Lily is one such patient for me.Lily was a 45-year-old paraplegic woman who was well known to many providers in the hospital. She had a complex trauma history (childhood physical and sexual abuse, intimate partner violence, domestic violence), homelessness, and multiple psychiatric admissions. In addition, she had a complex medical history, including chronic pain issues and substance use disorder. Many providers considered her to be a "very difficult" or "challenging" patient because she would "dictate" her care, had low distress tolerance and would have explosive angry outbursts requiring frequent visits from Police and Security. To top it off, after months of a challenging stay on a unit, she would eventually leave against medical advice. Everyone involved in her care felt that discharge to a safe setting such as a skilled nursing facility would be her best option. Yet, she was a very "hard" sell to any facility because of her behavioral issues, relatively young age, extensive history of drug use, and medication non-compliance. Even though the unit I worked in was familiar with "difficult" patients like Lily, the floor staff was anxious and concerned about the effect Lily would have on patients, staff, and providers. The combined anticipatory anxiety worsened after we were told that Lily left against medical advice three days before her admission to our unit as a reaction to the staff's attempt to develop a behavioral plan.I remember the day I met Lily. I was working as the clinical social worker on the floor, helping patients with adjustment to coping with hospitalization, addressing mental health issues that usually exacerbate in the acute care setting, and providing support to the staff caring for a psychosocially complex patient population. It was the second day after Lily arrived on the floor, and Police and Security had already come up three times. As I walked out of another patient's room, a bedside nurse stopped me in the hallway. "Can you please talk to her? … Please, just talk to her, or sit with her. I just need a break. I have been in that room since I started my shift. I am exhausted." The nurse had an exasperated and pleading look, and even though I was rushing to a meeting, I decided to meet with Lily instead. When I walked into her room, I saw a thin, small-framed woman with brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. She had freckles peppered all over her round face, neck, and chest. Her features were delicate and small, and her almond-shaped green eyes were her most prominent feature. She was wearing a white tee and jeans. She was sitting in her wheelchair; her makeup bag was lying on the table next to her. I introduced myself and my role on the team, trying not to stumble under a very heavy glare. "Tell them to leave me alone. That nurse is always in my room. Spying. I might not be able to walk, but I can still use my hands. I can call if I need help."And so I did. And when I came back, Lily and I talked a little about her life. And the next day, we talked a little more. And then again. Lily was giving me small glimpses of who she was and the events in her life. Then, one day, in the middle of the conversation about her day and telling me how much she hated to be confined to her hospital room, she looked... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:I Know You Have to Stay … I Wish I Could, I Wish I CouldMegan K. SkaffIn the world of healthcare, I advocate for the scores of youth who have had Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs). I work to understand where the child has been so we can learn the extent of the trauma that the child has been through. While working for a facility as the Street Outreach Case (...) Manager, my priority was based mainly on one girl, let us call her Tawny. I knew Tawny was going to be a very difficult client to work with the moment I realized she did not trust anyone in her own life, let alone the facility I worked in. She would not talk to a single staff member. However, being her case manager, it was my job to get her to trust me so I could crack her case and really get down to the problems she was facing. I promised myself the day I met Tawny that I would never cast one judgment upon this girl, and I made good on that promise until this very day.I find it true that we are all raised in different situations. Tawny endured such horrific childhood experiences that she voluntarily entered herself into our organization. My specialty was the homeless and runaway case manager. Hence, the reason she ended up on my caseload. After running many different tests, I learned that her ACEs score was a ten out of ten. To her, everything she had endured that warranted this score was baseline normal; she did not see her experiences as traumatic, she just saw them as a piece of her life. For me as her case manager, looking at this ten was devastating. I wanted to know everything I could that went into this high score. I needed Tawny to learn to trust me so I could understand what was going on in her home life and better understand her and her trust issues.Just a side note, the staff around me strongly hated Tawny. The worst part about this was that she knew it because they vocalized it. The staff [End Page 5] was so horrible that they would not even pretend to her face that they liked her. The one job they had as staff—to make her feel welcomed and loved in an environment full of broken kids—they could not do. There was no question as to why I struggled to build a relationship with my most vulnerable yet strongest client. Tawny would not let anyone see her as vulnerable. She did not want to be vulnerable because to her vulnerability meant weakness.I was determined to build a solid foundation of trust with Tawny. It was difficult, but I did it. At best, this process took weeks, maybe close to over a month. After many days of her asking other staff, "why is this b**** still in here," and her finally, slowly inching closer to me to say, "Sup," and me answering, "Just waiting for you to talk to me." This answer would make her smile, even though she tried hard not to. As much as she did not want it to be true, I was the only person she wanted to hang out with on the floor. She did not want anything to do with the kids or the staff. She knew the kids on the floor were toxic for her, and she wanted a better life for herself. She knew the staff were toxic for her as well.She started to ask daily where I was, so I started making sure I was on the floor every day. I gave her my work cell and wrote it in the call book along with a message that she had permission to call at any time, no matter day or night. Staff hated that. I did not care. Let me tell you, she tested it to its limits. If she called me at 3:00 AM, I would answer. She would say she was calling to say goodnight; when really, she just needed to know someone would be there. She needed to know she could trust me... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:An Epidemic of Difficult PatientsKeva SouthwellAs the opioid epidemic marches on, we have all become familiar with a particular breed of "difficult patient," the intravenous drug user. Most teams try to get through these admissions with as few interactions as possible. Nurses will tell you how much they hate caring for these patients, often citing "they did this to themselves" as they experience prolonged admissions due to infections resulting (...) from Intravenous Drug Use (IVDU). Most services try to get out of admitting these patients, saying they are more appropriate with infectious disease, cardiology, or "anywhere but with me." These patients often use drugs in the hospital, threaten to leave AMA, and are dangerous, liable to assault or abuse the very staff trying to help them. The general consensus is that taking care of these patients is a dirty job … why do I have to do it?That's where I come in. It's a dirty job … and that's exactly why I do it. I run a unique service, where my preferred patients are those admitted for 6–8 weeks of IV antibiotics to treat their endocarditis. Some of these patients survive after discharge, but most don't. I know this. But it's my job to help them anyway. It just turns out that in these cases, help doesn't always look the way you think it will.In a perfect world, having a life-threatening infection would be the rock bottom these young people need to embrace a new way of life. Unfortunately, this world is far from perfect. Just as having diabetes doesn't make you stop wanting junk food, having endocarditis does not make you stop wanting drugs. In fact, it can be the opposite. [End Page 26] Drugs are often the coping tool these patients turn to. Happy? Use drugs. Sad? Use drugs. Scared? Use drugs. That's why it's hard. Addiction defies logic; it can be cunning, baffling, and powerful. Until you understand addiction, you'll never really find a way to treat these patients, let alone a way to enjoy treating them.We all have patients who change things for us. They shift our perspective, make us view our practice, our patients, and ourselves differently; patients who teach us the lessons not learned in school. I will never forget Jack, one of those "difficult patients." He taught me how to care for people who really can't be medically helped. It's a lesson that can take years to learn: You've got to let go of the outcome, and some solutions don't look the way you think they should. In this way, he helped me continue in this difficult work.I was a nearly new hospitalist, having just moved into this work from outpatient addiction care. Jack was a young man, 32 years old. He had presented to our hospital with endocarditis of the aortic and tricuspid valves secondary to IVDU. He was referred to my service when he was ineligible for valve replacement due to septic emboli in his brain and subsequent micro hemorrhage. The surgery team wanted him to recover from these events before considering surgical treatment.Jack was a big guy, over 6'2", with a weight to match. He was covered in tattoos—his back, arms, chest, and neck—not an inch was bare. His physical presence might be considered intimidating. Jack was a man of few words: he complained of very little, was often asleep during medical visits, never really left his room, and had no visitors. About four days after his arrival, nursing became concerned about illicit drug use. Despite the fact he had no orders for narcotics or other sedating meds, he was sleeping all the time. His drug screens were negative. Despite the lack of specific evidence, I was asked to take measures to ensure he was not using illicit drugs, which included placing him on a contract and ordering 1:1 observation.His fatigue was concerning, though not for drug use. A repeat ECHO showed that his aortic insufficiency was worsening. His tricuspid insufficiency was very bad from the start. His belly began to swell, followed by his... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Healthcare is Demanding:Patience is a Virtue!Andrea TorrenceNursing is a rewarding career, but it can also be extremely challenging, depending on the type of patient you are assigned to. In my career, I have had a number of "difficult" patients, and every situation required a specific type of approach. Understanding how to interact with a difficult patient is a talent and requires a level of patience that exceeds the normal (...) amount one may have. As a nurse, if you want to be successful, you must have patience. Along with many natural characteristics required to be successful in nursing, patience, in my opinion, is the most required quality required for nursing. The difficult patient can be an emotional burden to the care provider. These burdens are not always related to the tasks associated with care. The patient that is emotionally exhausting is far more complex than a patient who requires physical work. Nursing is a trying and risky career, but the nurse is obligated to provide the best care possible to all patients regardless of how difficult that person may be.Our cardiac surgical telemetry unit received a patient from the emergency room diagnosed with a minor psychiatric problem and tachycardia (a fast heart rate). This patient required medical clearance before going to the psychiatric unit for further evaluation. At our facility, this frequently happens, depending on how many psychiatric beds are available and on the patient's medical status. There were no clinical indications for this patient to require a bedside caregiver—a bedside caregiver is assigned to a patient that may somehow be classified as a danger to themselves or others—and the patient was not "pink-slipped." Patients who may not be safe to leave the hospital once they've been evaluated in the emergency room will be pink-slipped for an inpatient evaluation. Also, suicidal or homicidal patients are pink-slipped until they undergo an extensive evaluation and are deemed safe to leave on their own. A pink slip is a legal hold document. The patient that we received at the time of her admission required neither. The initial description of the patient revealed that she was a young, pleasant, ambulatory (able to walk with no problems) woman and completely oriented (understands and can comprehend). This patient did not have any pain or complaints documented on her emergency room assessment. She was corporative and followed instructions.As soon as we received the patient to the unit, she began to protest the need for pain medication. There were no orders for pain medication because there was no notation of pain in the emergency room. The nurse addressed the patient's pain with the admitting physician and Tylenol was ordered. When the patient heard that the physician ordered Tylenol, she became very angry. The patient wanted a stronger medication. I have a reputation for connecting with patients who become angry, and those who are classified as difficult, so the primary nurse asked me to speak to this patient. After a brief conversation, I was able to calm the patient, and she returned to her room quietly. The patient was apologetic and sincere. I used a calm approach, reassuring words of affirmation, and the perfect body language to de-escalate this patient. I was pleased with myself because only a simple combination of techniques was used to resolve the patient's anger, and at that time, a therapeutic connection was made.The nurse entered the patient's room and noticed that the roommate looked somewhat bewildered, [End Page E11] but she did not address the roommate. The nurse was focused on completing her patient's admission assessment. After the nurse completed the assessment, the order for the patient to wear telemetry was discussed. Telemetry is a physician's order to continuously monitor the heart's function while hospitalized. Because the patient was mildly tachycardic, telemetry was ordered. The patient immediately refused the order and told the nurse that she was not going to wear the monitor. The nurse explained the need and informed the patient that she would not be confined to the bed while wearing it. The nurse left the room to find me to discuss the... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Working with Patience:An Insight into Dealing with Difficult EmotionsDavid VilanovaAs the most trusted professionals in the nation, nurses are expected to care for their patients with empathy and freedom from bias. The reality is that nurses are human, and some form of implicit bias is inevitable. In my own experience, this issue has reared its head on several occasions. My nursing background is prominently in cardiac and intensive care. (...) Seeing patients at their most vulnerable has become a regular part of my practice. Among some of the most challenging cases for me have been when I assume care of a patient withdrawing from alcohol. As an adult child with close alcoholic family members, many instances of abuse and pain stick with me today and these are brought to the surface when I care for patients with alcohol use disorder. In most cases, I easily find a healthy balance between remaining an understanding-and-empathetic provider and protecting my emotional and mental health as I navigate ethical and moral issues. However, with this patient population, walking that fine line is especially challenging. How do I navigate and manage intensely personal emotions and biases while providing the high-quality care I vowed to deliver regardless of my patient's life choices, addictions, and illnesses? How do I maintain an appropriate level of neutrality and clarity as this patient's behavior and attitude spark emotional triggers? In other words, how do I take care of someone I don't like?Mrs. H was a middle-aged Hispanic woman, barely coherent, but speaking clearly enough that I could understand her slurred speech. Immediate dread washed over me as I realized my assignment included a patient withdrawing from alcohol. The patient's affect, incoherence, and aggression were all too reminiscent of a traumatic past I still work to heal from. My coworkers couldn't understand her insults and obscenities and were therefore unphased except for noting her unruly and erratic behavior. On the other hand, I could understand much of what she was yelling at me and any other staff who bravely walked into her room. My immediate thoughts were that this woman clearly did not want our help. My every attempt to enter her room, speak with her, and provide care were met with an all too familiar rejection and denial that she even had a problem. Yet here she was in a hospital room, and I was her nurse. She verbalized denial of drinking too much when told that she was being treated for alcohol withdrawal. She stated this denial more to herself than to the health care providers in the room, and it was reminiscent of the denial I have seen in my loved ones. This was ironic, I always thought, as the need for such self-deception in and of itself points to the fact that something may be wrong and worth addressing.But denial or not, today, this patient—Mrs. H, was entrusted into my care. She refused treatments and medications, and this put me in a complex ethical predicament—treating a patient that I do not like for the personal issues she reminds me of, and the treatment of a patient against their refusal, as she was deemed incapable of making her own decisions. The latter of these two issues was easiest to put aside. Legally, this patient needed to be treated through her alcohol withdrawal. Once her mental status cleared up, she could sign out against medical advice or choose to remain until a safe discharge plan was in place. There was a protocol and legal guidelines for this situation. However, no guidelines [End Page 10] truly exist when it comes to the management of a patient that you simply do not like. The result can be a near-instantaneous dread each time you must answer that patient's bed alarm, call light, or most basic needs. A negative bias takes over, and it would be an understatement to say that this affects the quality of care. Patients in situations like this—with providers who judge them as I have been guilty of—can easily become subject to derogatory remarks, health inequities, and biased labeling... (shrink)

Abstract:James Groves opens his 1978 foundational article, "Taking Care of the Hateful Patient," thusly, "Admitted or not, the fact remains that a few patients kindle aversion, fear, despair, or even downright malice in their doctors." Groves understood his article as pulling back the curtain on an experience that physicians had but that few dared discuss without shame. His taxonomy of four types of "hateful" patients: clingers, entitled demanders, manipulative help rejectors, and self-destructive deniers may still be instructive. However, the intervening (...) years have revealed that this taxonomy does not adequately capture the nuances present when patients are described as "difficult." This issue of Narrative Inquiry in Bioethics situates this complexity. Different kinds of providers in a variety of healthcare delivering institutions have offered accounts of their own interactions with so-called difficult patients. In each of these stories, the providers tell the reader how the providers were transformed through these interactions: what they learned about their patients, what they learned about patient care, what they could have done differently or better, and what lessons they have taken with them into subsequent encounters. (shrink)