The “Code white” alert blares through the hospital public address system. Instantly, the atmosphere grows tense as staff responds to the advisory — a patient or visitor has become aggressive or violent. The unflappable employees seem to take it all in stride; they are often obliged to employ de-escalation techniques in order to ensure the safety of patients and staff. Rapid footsteps are heard in the hallway as all available staff members converge on the scene of the disruption. A few minutes later, the PA system declares the code white alert has ended.
Code white alerts are often activated in health care institutions. The aggression may come from a frustrated family member or an angry patient. The remedies vary. Some volatile cases can be resolved with a soothing word, a warm blanket; others necessitate physical restraints or sedatives.
In addition to the code white alarms, hospital personnel must deal with every possible complaint imaginable from patients.
As some of you may be aware, I was recently injured in a car accident, resulting in me spending six weeks in hospitals in Ottawa and Hawkesbury. The road to recovery provided me with some insight into the challenges faced every day by those who are on the “front lines” of our health care system.
It seemed every resource was used; firefighters, paramedics, police and an air ambulance responded to the crash. Hospital care was provided by surgeons, residents, registered practical nurses, registered nurses, social workers, technicians, personal support workers, porters, technicians, dietitians, physical therapists and volunteers. After being discharged from the Hawkesbury General, I was helped by an occupational therapist, treated by a home care nurse, and a physical therapist. During the progression from bed to wheelchair to walker to cane, I was constantly amazed by these professionals’ dedication, compassion and positive attitude.
The only Level 1 Trauma Centre for adults in eastern Ontario, handling the most critically injured patients, the Civic campus of the Ottawa Hospital never sleeps. Amidst the steady flow of ambulances, visitors jostle for a chance to land a precious parking spot. In the middle of the night, an air ambulance lands nearby. Sirens pierce the spring air. A prisoner wearing shackles and handcuffs shuffles down the hallway, accompanied by police and security guards. He has been stabbed at a detention centre. A “code stroke” alarm goes out. Meanwhile, an elderly man who has suffered a head wound after falling down stairs, is determined to get out of there and go home. He begins removing an IV tube; a nurse quietly reassures him he is in a safe place. Somewhere in the building a patient begins shouting “Hello? Hello?” As she is being examined by a nurse, a woman screams. “Are you in pain?” the concerned RN asks. “No! Your hands are cold!” Call bells ring persistently. A man is off his meds; another demands a pain killer. Family members question the medication their mother is receiving.
While the 101-year-old Civic is showing its age, the Hawkesbury and District General Hospital is modern, shiny, and features large and bright private rooms. The food is good; on the weekends, there is live harp music. A patio enables patients and visitors to enjoy some fresh air. The hospital claims it is recognized for its “culture of compassion, its spirit of innovation and its drive for excellence in patient care.” Based on my month-long stay, it lives up to that lofty billing, particularly in the compassion department.
“This is the best,” says a cleaner who, like everyone else at the General, seems to love his job.
The wise and weary veterans and eager and enthusiastic newbies all demonstrate incredible patience and a love for their calling. A registered nurse, who is counting the days, hours and minutes until she can retire, says that people are more demanding, and much heavier, than they were when she worked her first shift 35 years ago. “But I will miss it when I leave here.”
Burnout is an occupational hazard. The COVID-19 pandemic exacted a heavy toll, but it has led to the creation of more private rooms in order to curb the spread of infection.
In any hospital, emotions run the gamut. Births are celebrated; deaths are mourned. In a quiet room, families huddle awaiting word from the operating room. A baby is born; the next day, a terminally ill man has his wish for MAID fulfilled. Hugs are exchanged as a hip replacement patient is discharged; a man is elated as he manages to reach the washroom under his own steam.
And there is always “that guy.” At 3 a.m. for some reason, a patient decides everyone should hear “Corner Gas,” the animated version, on TV. It is going to be a very long 12-hour shift.
The next morning, a bubbly volunteer high school student is making the rounds, trying to convince patients to turn out for a game of bingo or sand bag toss. If you are not an avid reader or TV viewer, boredom can set in. The future social worker is determined to provide some form of recreation, at least for one hour a day. “Good job,” she exclaims every time a sand bag comes even remotely close to its target. Games must be wrapped up before 11:30 a.m. because that is when patients begin preparing for lunch, one of the highlights of the day.
When patients talk among themselves, discussing wounds, dressings and medication, inevitably one will say, “Imagine what this would cost us if we were in the States.” (In Ontario, patients who are not covered by OHIP would expect to pay $1,270 per day for an acute care bed.)
Our health system is expensive and sophisticated. Diagnosis is aided by an array of X-rays, MRIs, CT scans, blood and doppler tests.
We are constantly told that our health care system is in a state of crisis. People spend hours waiting in emergency departments; 6.5 million Canadians don’t have a regular care provider.
Hey, nothing is perfect. But you won’t hear any complaints from this grateful former patient.
Let me know what you think at rmahoney@seawaynews.media
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