Somehow, a cookie must have followed me home, because now almost every time I open e-mail, I've got three offerings for Viagra.Other than deleting, I don't know what to do, but it is mildly irritating. Before the Viagra showed up, it was offers for mail order drug programs. At least there was some logical chance I could use those.
When I read a magazine, there are always several pages advertising drugs ranging from antihistimines to heartburn remedies,and antidepressants,to hormone therapy to rather mysterious ads that advertise drugs whose use I can't figure out.
The radio also abounds with drug ads.
I understand there is a plethora of drug advertising on television as well. When I moved into my current home six years ago, there was no aerial and I refuse to get cable,so I seldom watch television. But plenty of ads are out there. People with tivo tell me they escape the deluge by simply deleting the advertising on the shows they watch.
Is the advertising effective?
At the same time all this advertising is hitting the public, drug company reps are hitting the doctors, leaving boxes of samples for the doctors to try on their patients. Or refill orders when the doctors have started using them.
Patients show up with a wish list of drugs they want to try and discuss it with their doctors. Sometimes they have conditions that contraindicate what they want to try, sometimes not. Sometimes the doctors have a good supply of what the patient wants to try and there seems no harm, so off they go with a handful of samples to try before coming back for a prescription. So yes, use of those drugs is up. ca-ching!
Then let us not forget the surgical ads. Knee replacements with specific brands is a frequent one I hear. Now a partial knee replacement. Lap-band surgery to control weight. I read in a national news magazine recently (don't remember which one) that an increasing number of parents are getting the surgery for their teenagers, even when they are not morbidly obese. And (shudder) that creepy facelift surgery where they don't really cut but thread string through the muscle and suture it at the sides of the face to lift the desired area. (I did see some video on this and it gave me the creeps). And, of course, laysic(sic) surgery for better vision.
The surgical ads are effective, too.
Apparently, we consumers who are howling about the high price of our meds, mean only those meds that basically keep us alive, like blood pressure, heart and vascular meds, diabetes, etc. No ads for those. Maybe it's the fact we don't get to choose. I just know the American public is asking for more medical drugs and procedures than ever before. And I marvel at the effects of the advertising, because that has to be a factor.
Now consider the kid watching cartoons who asks for the toys advertised during the commercials. And we chuckle indulgently at the susceptibility of our children to tv advertising.
Well, folks, you are all grown up. And you see an ad for this medication or that medical procedure, and you say, ooooh, gotta have it. You don't even listen to the possible side effects.
To me, the kids make more sense.
Showing posts with label medicine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label medicine. Show all posts
Monday, November 12, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Oldtime Medicine From the View of an Amateur
The nice thing about having lived a half dozen decades is that one has a wealth of stories to call upon. And some I have actually learned from.
Back in the middle sixties, green as grass and fresh out of college, I decided I wanted to volunteer at the county teaching hospital. At that time, the only air-conditioned parts were the ER, delivery and surgical suites. I chose ER. After all, the writer in me suspected some life stories would come in each week, as they did. No, I didn't write about them, but I experienced. From 3-11 p.m. every Monday for nine months, I volunteered in the emergency room.
That time in history was a little different. Even 10 years later I really enjoyed making the chief hospital administrator blanch as I related some of the things the ER staff had me doing. Ha!
They ran me through my paces, saw what I could do and then started adding on. Consider me like a corpsman in a field hospital who turns out to be steady, reliable and trainable. Such persons are given a lot to do they wouldn't otherwise. And this was a teaching hospital. The nurses were mostly old war horses. The doctors were brand, spanking new. Teaching staff didn't often come through on my shift. I was taught during that period just like everyone else. They started me with patient forms, only I didn't just fill out paper forms. I was doing temps and blood pressures from the first day. For the first two weeks, a nurse would slip in pehind me periodically to double-check my reads. When they turned out to be okay, they nodded in satisfaction and quit checking. After all, it's not exactly rocket science.
They oversaw my learning how to prepare a patient for examination. They taught me how to set up sterile trays for the doctors. I shlepped bedpans, of course. Twice that I remember, we had burn patients and the LVN had me assist her in scrubbing off the burned skin. One woman had fallen asleep holding a cigarette, I remember, and all the nails came off when we scrubbed.Made the bottom of my stomach prickle, but I didn't let on and I didn't slow down. Remember, I had basically just walked in off the street. Medicine had always fascinated me, however. I was learning every week. And mostly, I loved it.
The whole staff just accepted me. Another pair of hands, ignorant but teachable. Can follow directions. Good. Now go do this. And I did. Those of you working in medicine today are probably shuddering. But hey, this was 40 years ago.
One thing--in that nine months I volunteered, Monday nights did not have a single serious car crash, shooting or stabbing between the hours of 3 and 11. Staff took to rubbing my head for luck. When I became a medical writer a few years later and came back to the ER to do a story on the newfangled triage system, the same calm hit the ER. Staff begged me to come back for a few more days.
Oh we were busy enough. The usual broken arms and legs and insect bites and sickness, not to mention the one or two botched abortions that came through each evening, the young women in various stages of risk from sepsis setting in after a back alley butchery or perforated uterus from a badly wielded coat hanger. All of them, always, calling for their mommas. Who usually weren't there. Those, of course, usually went straight through to Ob-gyn.
The worst, the absolute worst thing I ever did in the ER was about halfway through. We had a patient that needed some sort of procedure they seldom did. I was instructed to get the tray, covered in a sterile sheet under an exam table, and set it up. I didn't miss a lick. Set it up perfectly. Whatever it was, I remember it involved a large mixing-bowl size stainless steel bowl. I was overseen as I set it up, but I did it right. And then--- At that time, sterile gloves came in sizes, each pair enclosed in papery-plastic sleeves. Not sterile. I glanced at the waiting resident and grabbed the right size gloves. And I dropped the non-sterile package right on the tray. I still remember the resident's visceral "NOOOOOO" as the gloves fluttered down. And decontaminated the whole setup. He didn't yell at me. Why, I still don't know. Turns out, there was a second setup in the ER. And he had me set that up, too. And I never ever made an error about sterile procedures again. I still wince when I think of it.
I learned most moms with a sick or injured kid had to be given the instructions at least four times, because fear or their pain over their kid's pain made them a little deaf. This was before the easy, designer drugs of today. Didn't get much drug addiction crap. Isn't that WONDERFUL?
Two memorable experiences--the night the big, dirty fat lady came in with a wound on her leg. She apparently had a small bladder. I know I carried a number of bed pans for her. I couldn't help but notice how the dirt marked the creases in her neck like little mud lines. I had to shift her on and off the pan. In other words, I had to handle her quite a bit. Meanwhile, she had this deep, round wound in her leg bigger than a silver dollar. It was red around the edges, but the reason she probably didn't have blood poisoning (no streaks) was that the wound was filled full to the brim with whitish maggots. Fly larva, eating the proud flesh and keeping her healthier than she would have been otherwise. They still hadn't dealt with her and her menagerie by the time I left that night. I drove home, opened my apartment, took one step inside and closed the door. I stripped to the skin right there and went straight to the shower.
I kept wanting to see a delivery, and finally, after nine months, a resident who had been in the ER and just shifted to Ob-Gyn, came down and told me to come upstairs. He had a delivery for me to watch. I went upstairs, "suited out", put on sterile gloves and a mask. The woman was near the end of delivery and very tired. The doctor actually had me pour the disinfectant over the vaginal area--hair, no time for shaving. She didn't want to push. Staff encouraged her, and finally she did.
The baby was born. Bluish white, like a carving. The doctor picked her up and flicked one of her feet. She drew in a breath to cry in outrage, and I watched life bloom over her, rosy red from the head to the feet. No longer a statue. A living, breathing, life-filled baby girl. Miraculous. Beautiful. Awesome. I learned later this woman had had five previous stillborns.
About two weeks later, my boyfriend shattered his legbone and had a 10-inch plate installed. He was in the hospital a week, and somehow, I never did get back to the ER.
I had told them I wanted to see a live birth before I left, and I guess I really, truly meant it.
As I say, about five years later, I became a medical writer for nine years. I was invited in on many procedures and some operations, and worked with doctors both in my county and Southwestern Medical School. I loved it, and I always checked back with my docs to make sure I was accurate. Bonus for that was that when my second son was born by C-section, the anesthesiologist was the current county president of the medical society, and he left my arm free so I could scratch my nose during the surgery. A very big plus, I thought.
Back in the middle sixties, green as grass and fresh out of college, I decided I wanted to volunteer at the county teaching hospital. At that time, the only air-conditioned parts were the ER, delivery and surgical suites. I chose ER. After all, the writer in me suspected some life stories would come in each week, as they did. No, I didn't write about them, but I experienced. From 3-11 p.m. every Monday for nine months, I volunteered in the emergency room.
That time in history was a little different. Even 10 years later I really enjoyed making the chief hospital administrator blanch as I related some of the things the ER staff had me doing. Ha!
They ran me through my paces, saw what I could do and then started adding on. Consider me like a corpsman in a field hospital who turns out to be steady, reliable and trainable. Such persons are given a lot to do they wouldn't otherwise. And this was a teaching hospital. The nurses were mostly old war horses. The doctors were brand, spanking new. Teaching staff didn't often come through on my shift. I was taught during that period just like everyone else. They started me with patient forms, only I didn't just fill out paper forms. I was doing temps and blood pressures from the first day. For the first two weeks, a nurse would slip in pehind me periodically to double-check my reads. When they turned out to be okay, they nodded in satisfaction and quit checking. After all, it's not exactly rocket science.
They oversaw my learning how to prepare a patient for examination. They taught me how to set up sterile trays for the doctors. I shlepped bedpans, of course. Twice that I remember, we had burn patients and the LVN had me assist her in scrubbing off the burned skin. One woman had fallen asleep holding a cigarette, I remember, and all the nails came off when we scrubbed.Made the bottom of my stomach prickle, but I didn't let on and I didn't slow down. Remember, I had basically just walked in off the street. Medicine had always fascinated me, however. I was learning every week. And mostly, I loved it.
The whole staff just accepted me. Another pair of hands, ignorant but teachable. Can follow directions. Good. Now go do this. And I did. Those of you working in medicine today are probably shuddering. But hey, this was 40 years ago.
One thing--in that nine months I volunteered, Monday nights did not have a single serious car crash, shooting or stabbing between the hours of 3 and 11. Staff took to rubbing my head for luck. When I became a medical writer a few years later and came back to the ER to do a story on the newfangled triage system, the same calm hit the ER. Staff begged me to come back for a few more days.
Oh we were busy enough. The usual broken arms and legs and insect bites and sickness, not to mention the one or two botched abortions that came through each evening, the young women in various stages of risk from sepsis setting in after a back alley butchery or perforated uterus from a badly wielded coat hanger. All of them, always, calling for their mommas. Who usually weren't there. Those, of course, usually went straight through to Ob-gyn.
The worst, the absolute worst thing I ever did in the ER was about halfway through. We had a patient that needed some sort of procedure they seldom did. I was instructed to get the tray, covered in a sterile sheet under an exam table, and set it up. I didn't miss a lick. Set it up perfectly. Whatever it was, I remember it involved a large mixing-bowl size stainless steel bowl. I was overseen as I set it up, but I did it right. And then--- At that time, sterile gloves came in sizes, each pair enclosed in papery-plastic sleeves. Not sterile. I glanced at the waiting resident and grabbed the right size gloves. And I dropped the non-sterile package right on the tray. I still remember the resident's visceral "NOOOOOO" as the gloves fluttered down. And decontaminated the whole setup. He didn't yell at me. Why, I still don't know. Turns out, there was a second setup in the ER. And he had me set that up, too. And I never ever made an error about sterile procedures again. I still wince when I think of it.
I learned most moms with a sick or injured kid had to be given the instructions at least four times, because fear or their pain over their kid's pain made them a little deaf. This was before the easy, designer drugs of today. Didn't get much drug addiction crap. Isn't that WONDERFUL?
Two memorable experiences--the night the big, dirty fat lady came in with a wound on her leg. She apparently had a small bladder. I know I carried a number of bed pans for her. I couldn't help but notice how the dirt marked the creases in her neck like little mud lines. I had to shift her on and off the pan. In other words, I had to handle her quite a bit. Meanwhile, she had this deep, round wound in her leg bigger than a silver dollar. It was red around the edges, but the reason she probably didn't have blood poisoning (no streaks) was that the wound was filled full to the brim with whitish maggots. Fly larva, eating the proud flesh and keeping her healthier than she would have been otherwise. They still hadn't dealt with her and her menagerie by the time I left that night. I drove home, opened my apartment, took one step inside and closed the door. I stripped to the skin right there and went straight to the shower.
I kept wanting to see a delivery, and finally, after nine months, a resident who had been in the ER and just shifted to Ob-Gyn, came down and told me to come upstairs. He had a delivery for me to watch. I went upstairs, "suited out", put on sterile gloves and a mask. The woman was near the end of delivery and very tired. The doctor actually had me pour the disinfectant over the vaginal area--hair, no time for shaving. She didn't want to push. Staff encouraged her, and finally she did.
The baby was born. Bluish white, like a carving. The doctor picked her up and flicked one of her feet. She drew in a breath to cry in outrage, and I watched life bloom over her, rosy red from the head to the feet. No longer a statue. A living, breathing, life-filled baby girl. Miraculous. Beautiful. Awesome. I learned later this woman had had five previous stillborns.
About two weeks later, my boyfriend shattered his legbone and had a 10-inch plate installed. He was in the hospital a week, and somehow, I never did get back to the ER.
I had told them I wanted to see a live birth before I left, and I guess I really, truly meant it.
As I say, about five years later, I became a medical writer for nine years. I was invited in on many procedures and some operations, and worked with doctors both in my county and Southwestern Medical School. I loved it, and I always checked back with my docs to make sure I was accurate. Bonus for that was that when my second son was born by C-section, the anesthesiologist was the current county president of the medical society, and he left my arm free so I could scratch my nose during the surgery. A very big plus, I thought.
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