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Archive for the ‘from the consulting room’ Category

Did you catch this news story about community nursing in the Netherlands recently? Click through to the BBC site to read the details.

There’s been a revolution in community nursing in the Netherlands in recent years. The company, Buurtzorg, set up six years ago, began with 100 nurses, and now has 6500 of them working in teams of 10, each team covering a neighbourhood of 10,000 people. That means that 60% of the community nurses in the Netherlands are now working for this company.

What’s so radical about what they do?

The completely human-centred, humane practice of nursing delivered with a high degree of personal autonomy by the nurses (there are no managers managing their case loads), emphasising continuity of care (reducing both the number of home visits required AND the number of different people visiting individual patients), and the focus on enabling both personal and community empowerment (they involve relatives, volunteers and friends in supporting the vulnerable elderly at home).

The company also runs a local radio show in Amsterdam (Radio Steunkous – which translates as radio “support-stocking”) which  “offers health advice, provides information on local services, and puts people in touch with each other.”

Instead of breaking down a patient’s life into “needs” which are then addressed by separate “tasks” delivered by a large number of different people, the nurse-patient relationship becomes the holistic centre of the care.

I love that this delivers quality care, more continuous care, and fosters independence and community, but I was also really taken by the comments of the nurses themselves –

“What we want to show is that if you have the autonomy, if you develop your skills and craftsmanship, then it’s the most beautiful job you can find.”

 

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Our blood vessels are a hugely important part of our bodies. I suspect most of us think of our blood vessels (arteries, veins, capillaries) as a kind of complex tubing. To the naked eye, blood vessels certainly look like tubes, or pipes, and their key function seems to be to provide channels to move the blood around our bodies.
But let’s look a little closer. Lining these vessels, on the inside, is a very, very thin layer called the endothelium. It is only a few nanometers thick (I know. It’s not actually easy to visualise something that thin). This is a fascinating, living, constantly changing tissue.
To fight infections, the body has to get specialised cells, leukocytes, to the right place. The endothelium co-operates with these cells by allowing them to pierce holes in it so they can pass through to the target area. However, a lining with holes in it would be a disaster for health, so the endothelium has to repair itself immediately. Researchers continue to learn just how it does this.
It’s now been discovered that the healing response involves an interplay of quite astounding behaviours and abilities. The whole process can be observed using electron microscopes which show how a leukocyte can pierce the endothelium, and over a ten minute period up to seven leukocytes can pass through the opening before it is completely sealed up.
The healing of the holes involves a change in the cells which make up the endothelium. In response to a loss of tension in the wall, the cells grow tiny little foot-like structures, lamellipodia, and actually move towards the hole to seal it up. The whole process requires the production of proteins which produce “reactive oxygen species” (ROS), such as hydrogen peroxide.
ROS chemicals have a bad name. High levels of ROS seriously damage cells, and are implicated in a wide range of problems, from heart disease to cancer and even aging. However, in much smaller amounts, they are the key to body defences and healing. This phenomenon is an example of hormesis where a small amount of something has an opposite effect to a large amount of the same thing. The large amount is damaging, whilst the small amount is healing.
I don’t know about you, but I find it exciting and astonishing to think of all this activity going on inside me body! All these incredible, responsive, detailed healing systems involving tissues which are made of individual cells which can grow feet and move, to amazingly complex feedback systems controlling the production and removal of an enormous range of chemicals, getting just what’s needed to the right place at the right time.
I don’t really understand why the model of a human body as a machine is so popular – it’s so wrong! We are a complex living community of cells who are in constant communication with each other to mutually support and enhance their existence.
This is what integration looks like.
This is what a complex adaptive system looks like.
A living community.

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water carving

 

I took this photo a few weeks back and the image keeps popping back into my head.

It’s amazing for a number of reasons. First of all it looks as if the rock has been virtually split in two by a single blow. But not in the more usual way. If a rock is split in two the cut is usually narrow, as if done by a knife, but look how wide this cut is! It’s almost as if its been done by some giant axe. Secondly, I’m pretty sure this wound in the rock has been inflicted by water, and isn’t that in itself, incredible?

That water has the power to cleave a rock.

Well, we know it does. But look again. Where is the water? It is rushing, powerfully, past, right NEXT TO the rock!

So, what happened here? Did the water split this rock apart then veer aside to thunder down to the side of it? And how long did this take to happen? A moment? A year? An aeon?

Before I go, one more thing keeps me coming back to this image. It’s a kind of symmetry. There’s an echo, a shadow, a fractal, or something here. The flowing water and the wounded rock……

Life’s like this. In so many ways.

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How can a doctor practice holistically? Intention and attention are certainly fundamentals but there are concepts and mental frameworks which set up holistic care. Here are three key ways to make holistic care happen.

1. Looking for connections

If a human being is considered as a complex adaptive system, then symptoms and physical changes in individual are understood to be connected. Every part of a complex adaptive system can act on, and, in turn, be acted upon, by other parts. So what’s the connection between this symptom and another one? How are all the symptoms connected up? Looking to see what connections there are develops the focus from parts towards the whole.

Within a human being we can become aware of whole systems of interconnection. The fields of psychoneuroimmunology (the interaction between the mind, the nervous system and the immune system), psychoneuroendocrinology (the mind, the nervous system and the endocrine system), and in more recent times, interpersonal neurobiology (the links between the mind, the brain, and others), have all advanced our understanding of the interconnectedness within a human being, and between an individual and their environment.

2. Looking for context

Every living being is in constant active relationship with multiple environments, physical, social, cultural, temporal. A holistic approach entails seeing the individual within their particular environments and understanding how they are related. In other words, exploring the contexts of the person, their health and their illness.

A reductionist approach de-contextualises phenomena. Randomised, controlled trials, for example, claim to “control for” contextual factors and study individual phenomena without those influences and relationships. I have serious doubts if such approaches are ever really achievable, but even if they were, the findings would need to be re-contextualised to make sense of an individual life.

In a holistic approach, context is always important.

3. Stories and metaphors.

I’m particularly fascinated by individual stories. Every person I see tells me a new story, and its always a fascinating one. We make sense of our lives through story. We understand the present in the light of both the past, and of future hopes and fears. We gain a sense of Self through story. We understand each other through the shaking of our stories.

For me, narrative is the core of a holistic approach.

There is also one very intriguing element of an individual story which, when it manifests itself is like a nugget of gold, the embodied metaphor. For example, the person who presents with an eye problem whose core issue is that “my family don’t see things the way I see them”. The whole area of embodied metaphors is a fascinating one and if it appears in someone’s story, it can be the key to resolving the problem.

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I think of myself as a holistic doctor. But what does that mean, and how can I practice holistically?

One way to understand the holistic approach is to consider what we attend to, and what we intend.

By attend to, I mean what do we pay attention to, or focus on. In training I was taught to focus on parts and pathologies and that’s the core focus for most medical care. We create our health care systems around parts and pathologies. That’s why hospitals have a Dermatology Department, a Chest Clinic, a Gynaecology Department, a Gastrointestinal Clinic etc. All of these services focus on body parts (which are members of certain body systems or regions) and on trying to treat the pathologies discovered in those parts. General Practice, in the time of Balint and the creation of GP Training Schemes in the UK, was built around a focus on the person and the relationship between the doctor and the patient. The core of good General Practice was seeing this patient not as another case of disease x, but as John Smith, the 52 year old farmer, whose wife died last year in a car accident, and whose dairy farm is barely paying its way, whose father died of a heart attack aged 52, and who has phoned you to say he has been getting pains in his chest for the last three days. However General Practice has been reconstructed in recent years around pathologies and diseases. Now the average GP Practice has an Asthma Nurse, a Diabetic Clinic, a target to check blood pressure readings and smoking activities and an appointment system created to facilitate fast, problem-orientated consultations.

Holistic care involves a focus on the person, not the part. Any problems or pathologies are considered within the context of the person, not the other way around. Who is this person who I am speaking to? How do they live? And what are experiencing that is disturbing or distressing them? How is this disease experienced by them, and when and how did it appear in their life?

I attend to the person, and the person’s individual experience (revealed through the telling of their story, through their non-verbal communications and through the changes in their bodies)

What do I intend? The therapeutics taught in medical training is intended to manage disease. Doctors might talk of cures (rarely, in my experience) but particularly in the area of non-communicable chronic illness the intention is to control symptoms or limit further progress of pathology. There are no cures for asthma, diabetes, high blood pressure….. or any chronic disease. Diseases are managed by the prescription of drugs, and those drugs are for life, because they are not intended to produce healing.

Healing – there’s another word you don’t hear doctors use much. But surely all health care should be about healing (if healing means moving in the direction of greater health). Health, if it improves in patients receiving these treatments, is a kind of side effect. It appears, hopefully, as the disease or pathology reduces.

In my daily work, I, and my colleagues, intend to heal. Does that mean we try to cure? Well, to answer that would open a debate about what is cure, and I’ll leave that for another day. Let’s say we intend to maximise health. I don’t know any cures for MS, or asthma, or diabetes, but I do know that patients with those illnesses can experience different degrees, or levels of health.

My intention is to maximise health through stimulation and support of self-regulation and self-repair, and in so doing the patient will experience the care as healing. The way we try to mobilise self-healing is through care which is integrative. Integrative care is any intervention or therapy which increases the amount of integration, or coherence, in the person.

I do not believe that holistic = good, and disease management = bad. We need good disease management. Good disease management in acute care will save a life today. Good disease management will improve the quality of someone’s life by controlling symptoms and inhibiting the progress of pathology. But it takes holism to maximise healing and bring the best possible health experience to a person.

If we are providing health care, surely somewhere in the system, there needs to be the intention to heal, and is there ever a case for not attending to the person, but only attending to the pathology?

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One of the characteristics of health is resilience. But what is resilience?

One definition is –

Resilience is the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and reorganise while undergoing change so as to still retain essentially the same function, structure, identity, and feedbacks.

I like this definition. It captures the essential elements of reorganisation and change whilst retaining integrity and coherence. In other words, when something disturbing happens (and in health terms that can be anything which is a biological stressor – infectious organisms, chemicals, drugs, injuries or operations, or psycho-social stresses ie significant life events) then the system, or the organism, makes an adaptive response. The response has two aspects – defence, which tries to maintain the internal status quo, and reorganisation, which produces change within. Both are necessary, and whilst they can seem like opposites, both functions are required.

When someone is resilient they are less likely to be infected when a bug is doing the rounds, less likely to be overwhelmed or blown off track by major life events, AND they are more likely to recover and repair when damaged, but, more than that, are more likely to change, develop and grow.

As Prigogine demonstrated with his concept of “dissipative structures”, living forms develop and grow by falling apart. Reorganisation involves elements of breaking down, or dis-organising what is already there, and of putting things back together but in a new way.

How do we maximise resilience?

I read a paper recently which considered the phenomenon of resilience in relation to “fragile states” and the author highlighted two ways to maximise resilience.

Firstly, to develop “resilience-sensitive” policies (or actions), and, secondly, to create the conditions which support resilience. I think both of these ideas are useful in thinking about resilience in health care.

Our treatments should be “resilience-sensitive” ie if a drug, or an operation, or whatever other treatment is used impairs resilience it is less likely to be effective than one which at worst is neutral, but at best, is stimulative or supportive of resilience. How often do we think of this aspect in health care?

Secondly, how do we create the conditions to foster resilience? That’s a question that crosses the boundaries from the personal to the social and political. There are environmental, societal and economic aspects to that question. Is a polluted environment going to be conducive of resilience? What about an unsafe community? And what about the increasing inequality in income distribution? At a personal level, what about emotional intelligence? What about food? What about exercise? What about Nature?

What do you think?

What could you do to foster and maximise your resilience?

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From my consulting room window yesterday

Here comes the magnolia

Spring clematis

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OK, so I’m getting older and I guess I’ve reached that age where I think some things aren’t as good as they were. In particular I’m concerned that the practice of Medicine has become more technical and less human. So, it wasn’t really a surprise to read the details of a study which measured how much time doctors were spending on different activities through their day. The details however are, frankly, shocking.

The study of first year internists at two of Baltimore’s largest academic medical centers, showed that the doctors spent 12% of their time examining and talking to patients, and 40% at a computer.

Now, I reckon only just a tenth of your working time as a doctor spent in direct face-to-face work with patients is surprisingly low, but to be spending almost four times as much time at the computer as you spend with patients?!

Here’s what the researchers thought about their study –

“One of the most important learning opportunities in residency is direct interaction with patients,” says Lauren Block, M.D., M.P.H., a clinical fellow in the Division of General Internal Medicine at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine and leader of the study published online in the Journal of General Internal Medicine. “Spending an average of eight minutes a day with each patient just doesn’t seem like enough time to me.” “Most of us went into medicine because we love spending time with the patients. Our systems have squeezed this out of medical training,” says Leonard Feldman, M.D., the study’s senior author and a hospitalist at The Johns Hopkins Hospital (JHH).

The researchers are concerned that the trainee doctors aren’t getting enough time in direct patient care to learn their trade. But worse than that, what are they learning about the way to work as doctors?

Although this isn’t a perspective expressed by the authors, I do wonder if the whole drive towards a mechanistic, reductionist approach to health, coupled with a shift in emphasis from patient experience to group-based statistics, isn’t partly to blame for this finding.

Isn’t it time to organise the practice of Medicine in way which would allow doctors to spend most of their time talking to, examining or directly caring for, or treating, their patients?

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I was really struck by an article in The Observer the other day. Dr Sam Parnia, a doctor specialising in resuscitation techniques, has studied the experiences of patients who die and are later brought back to life.

Pardon? Yes, people whose heart stops (a cardiac arrest) and whose brains stop working due to oxygen lack, but who are successfully resuscitated and fully recover. Not only does the person return but he has found that about half of them report very similar death experiences (people refer to these experiences as NDEs – “near death experiences” – but he says they are, in fact, ADEs – “actual death experiences”). These two phenomena raise interesting questions – where does the “person” go while they are dead? And how does this “person” observe and remember observations which they make while they are dead?

This particular paragraph really gripped me –

All I can say is what I have observed from my work. It seems that when consciousness shuts down in death, psyche, or soul – by which I don’t mean ghosts, I mean your individual self – persists for a least those hours before you are resuscitated. From which we might justifiably begin to conclude that the brain is acting as an intermediary to manifest your idea of soul or self but it may not be the source or originator of it… I think that the evidence is beginning to suggest that we should keep open our minds to the possibility that memory, while obviously a scientific entity of some kind – I’m not saying it is magic or anything like that – is not neuronal

Now, I’m very familiar with the idea that whilst there are neuronal correlates of mental activity, we cannot say that its the neurones which produce the thoughts, feelings, and indeed consciousness which we all experience. But what a way to put it!

That the mind uses the brain to express itself.

I had to get the book. (The Lazarus Effect. Dr Sam Parnia. ISBN 978-1-84604-307-9)

I raced through it. In the book, Dr Parnia describes his work in resuscitation and reports on his AWARE study into the reported experiences of those who return. The heart of the book, for me, is Chapter 6, “What it’s like to die”, which describes many of these reports in detail. I’ve read this kind of thing before but I had never, ever read reports from children as young as 3 years old. Those stories stunned and moved me. They are amazing. And the story told by the Consultant of his first experience of a patient’s cardiac arrest where he tells how once recovered the patient told him in detail not only what the doctor had done in the room whilst the patient was unconscious, but even what the doctor had thought, but hadn’t verbalised…….

Dr Parnia goes through the possible scientific explanations for these reports and shows how none of them actually credibly explain them. He believes we will uncover a scientific explanation one day, but not until we start to accept these phenomena as real.

Here are a couple of sentences which really struck me

Reality is not neurologically determined, then, but rather it is largely socially determined.

and

The bottom line is that no brain-based chemical change can define whether a sensation or feeling is real or not

I don’t see things exactly as he does – for example, he uses a machine model to explain how the body works – it isn’t a machine, its a complex adaptive system – and the crucial difference is that only complex adaptive systems demonstrate both emergence and self-organisation – ie the whole cannot be explained by the parts. And he says “the goal of Medicine is cure” – well, I wish! But in fact, what does Medicine these days cure? Rather, Medicine manages disease – there are no cures for asthma, multiple sclerosis, Parkinsons Disease, etc etc etc

However, these are not the key points of the book.

Let me just finish with a reference to Chapter 5, “The Orphan” where he says

Asthma has a home in pulmonary medicine. Cancer is in the domain of oncology. Parkinson’s belongs to the neurologist. But cardiac arrest is an orphan by virtue of the fact that it cuts across many specialities because it is death, and death happens in all specialities of medicine but is parented by no-one.

See, this is what I find so wrong about health care – we divide health care into specialities which focus on parts and diseases – not only does death then become an orphan, but so does health.

 

 

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diversity in the autumn garden

It’s common for us to experience loss, break down, destruction and disintegration.
In the middle of it, it can become hard to see the wood for the trees, and it can feel like this falling apart is not just inevitable but permanent.

As the leaves fall from the trees in the autumn, the bare branches of the winter woodland give the appearance of life being over for those trees.

Human beings know they don’t live forever, and although some have a belief in reincarnation, or lives of different forms from this life, nobody expects they are not going to experience loss, degeneration and death.

If the course of Life could be summarised as destruction and decline, then what kind of Life would that be? Is that really what we believe? That the direction of Life, the direction of the Universe even, is towards destruction and disintegration? Having begun with a Big Bang, are we heading for the final whimper (as T S Eliot wrote?)

But look again at the photo above. What do you see? Death and destruction? Loss and endings? Life and growth? Change and diversity?

The old mechanical, materialist view of the world teaches the idea that we try hard to resist destruction. “Entropy” is the term used to describe the inevitable run down of a system. But this view is more relevant to machines (which are “closed” systems), than it is to Nature (which is full of interconnected “open” systems).

Prigogine coined the term “dissipative structures” to better describe the reality of Nature and living organisms. He found that complex adaptive systems used dissipation to renew themselves, and in this renewal they grew, developed and adapted to changes in their environment. Indeed, Varela and others coined the term “autopoiesis” (self-making capacity) to describe the essential characteristic of a living system.

All living systems, ourselves included, are continuously breaking down existing structures and elements in order to create ourselves anew – in order to not just adapt, but to flourish. Not a single cell in our bodies lives as long as we live. In fact cells live between a few days and few months on average. It’s not the material, or the “stuff” of which we are made which makes us who we are. In that sense, we are much more like a river than we are like a machine.

I find this idea thrilling. Partly because I work every day with people who are experiencing loss and breakdown, people whose lives are falling apart. When a loved one dies, when your relationship or your job ends, when disease appears suddenly, or slowly in your life, it can all become quite overwhelming and it can be hard to see how any good can come of this experience. But here’s the key point, such continual change, such cycles of breaking down and destruction are not just inevitable but they are a necessary part of growth and renewal. These special times are times of renewal.

Spring time (not quite managing to appear yet here in the UK) is a good time to reflect on this. I’ve mentioned before how the Japanese celebrate transience through the cherry blossom festivals.

Renewal occurs through adaptation. As our lives change, if we take the time to become more aware, and we learn not to cling to current forms, we can see that in the midst of dissipation we discover the vast potential for creativity and growth. Just think of the universe story for a moment. Is it one of era after era of decline and destruction? No. It’s one of ever increasing diversity and complexity. It’s a story of cycles of joining together, breaking apart and forming new connections. It’s a story reflected in every single living being. Here’s the miraculous truth. The universe is not a closed machine heading day by day towards destruction. It’s a vast interconnected web of open systems producing the most elaborate, most complex and most amazing phenomena day after day after day.

snowdrops closeup

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