I kick into self-defense when I walk into a hospital. It starts with homework done long before my head is gridlocked by worry, basic research everyone should do.
The pandemic is a pointed reminder that we invest more thought in buying hair color than knowing where’s the nearest trauma center. Or why that should even matter.
We lump hospitals together with cemeteries and prisons. We shoot them a glance, a glare or a glad I’m not there.
I’ve been an insider, working for a hospital system, trying to translate its idiosyncrasies to community leaders and electeds and to modify some of its idiocies.
I’ve been a patient, flatlined and been revived. I’ve welcomed kids, cringed over grandkids’ broken bones. I’ve bid prayerful farewells. Hospital staffers are a praiseworthy tribe.
Still, try as some do, hospitals rarely engage the public in holistic ways. Thus, our first encounter may be stepping through a million-dollar weapons detector, followed by the castor oil of “insurance card and ID, please,” and questions that beg Methuselah-like memory.
No surprise then that hospitals haven’t persuaded us that emergency departments are not the Yellow Brick Road for all needs, dental through mental.
One hospital size – the one nearest you -- may accommodate but not fit all needs. If you’re knocked catawampus in the mountains, the hospital that first greets your bones may be the one that keeps you alive until you’re shipped to a more complex medical center that saves your life.
If hospitals listed ingredients like Frosted Flakes, choices might come clear: a rehab center for hip fractures (protein) vs. a cosmetic lip enhancement specialist (additional sugar).
Self-empowerment improves the likelihood of your getting appropriate and successful treatment.
You can start by compiling a personal health history, a bullet list of surgeries, injuries treated, allergies and current medications and homeopathic products. Include dates, dosages and providers names.
Providers are required to create (and share, within legal limits) your electronic medical records, so this is your starter kit.
Mine is two typewritten pages.
Because I can review its contents, I can engage my stressed caregiver who’s likely skimming the document and may overlook a crucial sensitivity (allergy to mint, perhaps, which is infused in most toothpaste and floss).
Our family lists are kept in a red emergency folder, along with a durable power of attorney and key family phone numbers.
When my wife recently broke her collarbone, my usually reliable brain panicked as the emergency medical team arrived. I grabbed the folder and regained focus as questions surfaced at the hospital.
Such a health resume is your personal protective equipment. If a relative were quarantined behind a nursing home window, I’d want that tip sheet in my hands.
It needs a critical companion – a grasp of what services your local hospital offers and what it does especially well.
“The Golden Hour” refers to the narrow time window to preserve life, brain and body following accident, heart attack or stroke.
For heart attack symptoms, beeline to the nearest hospital. For stroke and serious trauma, the keys are access to clot-busting medications and microsurgery specialties. There’re typically in major urban medical centers.
You can browse hospital services online, like buying sheets from Target. Better options include chatting with the nurse or volunteer next door and, when the pandemic is history, testing your hospital’s vibe by lunching in its cafeteria.
The pandemic reminds how thin our government and medical resources can become. The budget-cutting ahead may worsen that.
I can’t fathom a healthier step now than becoming an effective self-advocate.
John G. Taylor, a former journalist and retired California hospital system executive, lives in St. George, Utah.
(This first appeared as an op-ed in the May 4, 2020 edition of the Salt Lake Tribune.)