Abstract

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...