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As physicians, accountability is part of our innate identity
Recently, Nicolas Badre, MD, challenged psychiatrists who care for patients involved in the legal system. He encouraged “a resurgence of personal accountability and responsibility.”
Using the chronically disenfranchised patients who are repetitiously shuttled between jails and mental hospitals as examples, he pointed out that we psychiatrists must “step up to the plate” and approach clinical problems with the attitude that “the buck stops with me.” As Dr. Badre pointed out, this is especially true when dealing with large, complex systems in which fragmented care exists without clear leadership. This, in turn, allows for a dissolution of accountability.
Accountability is a natural continuation of our training as physicians. We all remember the transition from medical student to intern, the steep learning curve as well as growth and maturation during this changeover. A dramatic transformation occurs over the course of 1 year, from medical students who tag along learning from patients to interns expected to be on their own for endless hours.
Over the course of those hours, we came to the understanding that people’s lives were in our hands. This causes a shift in our identity. This process continues throughout residency and onward in our careers. At some point, it becomes part of our innate identity as physicians or our professional sense of self – which is hard to describe to nonphysicians.
A profound example of a sense of accountability within the medical profession can be found in “How We Live,” a book by National Book Award winner Sherwin B. Nuland, MD. In the book, the late Dr. Nuland recounted how, as a 49-year-old seasoned surgeon working at Yale University, New Haven, Conn., and casually rounding on patients, he heard a frantic message: “Any general surgeon! Any general surgeon! Go immediately to the operating room – immediately – any general surgeon!”
The case involved a 42-year-old wife and mother who had been rushed to the ED after having been found in the community in a profound state of shock. In the ED, it was suspected that the patient was bleeding heavily from a ruptured tubal pregnancy. She was sped rapidly to the operating room with an undetectable blood pressure and a barely palpable pulse. The on-call ob.gyn. had been summoned from home, and he rushed to the operating room along with his department chairman.
Because the woman had lost much of her blood supply, there was no time for crossmatching. The anesthesiologist had placed large-bore intravenous lines and transfused her with O-negative blood (the universal donor blood type) to try maintain some level of blood pressure. Before she could be even fully anesthetized, the ob.gyn had made an incision in her lower abdomen. The bleeding he encountered was profound.
After a quick evaluation, the ob.gyn. realized that the blood was coming from above, not below, leading to the emergency page that Dr. Nuland heard. Dr. Nuland described bounding up the stairs three at a time. He recalled: “[A] very real apprehension had entered my mind. I might encounter a situation that was beyond me, something that I might make even worse, something that would cause me to regret for the rest of my life that I had answered the page’s insistent call instead of simply turning my back on its urgency and slinking off to my car before anyone noticed I was there.”
However, he could not see himself doing such a thing and he rushed up to the operating room because, “walking away from that kind of cry for help would have violated every precept taught me by my life and my training, and every bit of moral sense I had. … . I bear an obsessive preoccupation with accepting responsibility, amounting really to a compulsively neurotic sense of duty.”
And yet in the next few seconds, as he was running to the operating room, he wondered: “Am I about to botch something up? Will I, in one quick stroke of ineptness and fate, bring my career crashing down around my feet and with it my sense of what I am? Am I on my way to destroy an unknown patient and myself at the same time?”
In Dr. Nuland’s thoughts lie the conundrum of responsibility for physicians. Thankfully for Dr. Nuland, he was able to save the day and diagnose a rare case of rupture of an aneurysm of the splenic artery and keep the patient alive. This dramatic story involved a surgical colleague who had to make split-second decisions while a patient’s life hanged in the balance, but the same principles apply to us as psychiatrists.
I would note that, in the above example of the surgical patient, the “system” for saving the woman’s life was well organized and resourced to allow for a comprehensive and time-limited intervention into a life-threatening situation. There was an operating room staffed by various professionals who all had a defined role. It required the leader, Dr. Nuland, to step in, make the right diagnosis, and then issue commands to the identified professionals who all recognized his leadership and were skilled in carrying out their assigned duties. Dr. Nuland clearly was the leader once he took charge.
An outpatient psychiatrist facing a suicidal patient must deal with a different set of challenges, often involving various complex systems as well as multiple barriers. Clinical barriers include available interdisciplinary resources/personnel to assist not only with the critical encounter, but also with extended evaluation and treatment in a secure, well-resourced environment. Administrative barriers can include justifying the optimal treatment plan to payors. Our lethal patients often require both outpatient and inpatient services with sometimes-conflicting agendas. In a recent article, I pointed out some of the vexing problems that arise when communication and collaboration are poor between inpatient and outpatient psychiatrists. In such complex environments, it is less clear what is involved in the outpatient psychiatrist stepping up to the plate and asserting leadership.
An emotionally wrenching article about an emergency physician, Matthew E. Seaman, MD, who died by suicide, reminds us of the potential for suicide in a complicated patient (in this case, a medical colleague) involving complex systems. Plagued by a review of his care by the medical board (they had forced him to surrender his medical license and allowed the allegations to go public in lieu of further disciplinary proceedings), a subsequent lawsuit and an ultimate attempt by the plaintiff to obtain Dr. Seaman’s personal assets led to his worsening mental health. According to his wife, also a physician, he was getting “more depressed by the insults and assaults on his integrity and professionalism.”
Just before the investigation, he had received a 30-year pin from the American Board of Emergency Medicine for his “dedication to the specialty.” He fell into a deep depression from which he could not recover despite several psychiatric admissions and several medication trials. Along with his depression, he suffered from severe anxiety, a known risk factor for suicide. Dr. Seaman was feeling overwhelmed by the lengthy legal process targeting him as being negligent. He begged his attorney to settle the case, but his insurance carrier would not allow it. According to his wife: “All sense of human worth had been beaten out of him.”
Dr. Seaman had been known as resilient. He could handle complex ED situations, including simultaneously dealing with multiple traumas. He previously had been named in three malpractice lawsuits and had prevailed in each one. But his resilience had greatly diminished, and he became overwhelmed. He previously had, as a physician, been able to step up to the plate of accountability. But now, because of a confluence of depression and anxiety as well as the “insults and assaults on his integrity and professionalism,” he found life to be unbearable with the resulting tragic end.
So how would we as psychiatrists step up to the plate and be accountable when faced with a struggling fellow physician at risk for suicide such as Dr. Seaman?
Be aware of relevant risk factors
In addition to being aware of the usual risk factors for suicide, it would behoove us to also understand how physician suicides differ from suicides among nonphysicians.1 For example, physicians who have died by suicide were far more likely to have experienced job-related problems than nonphysicians, but less likely to have experienced the recent death of a loved one. Also noteworthy is that physicians who end their lives were more often married. In addition, Michael F. Myers, MD, a psychiatrist who has studied physician suicides, noted in the article about Dr. Seaman that struggling physicians are likely to suffer from shame and embarrassment.
Consider shame, burdensomeness, and secrecy
When suicide risk factors are taught to students and professionals, rarely is shame mentioned. Perhaps it is not a common risk factor in the general population, but shame and its cousin, disgrace, are known risk factors that likely apply more to people – such as physicians – who have built a reputation over their careers. One whole chapter is given to disgrace suicides in a book about suicide notes.2 A reputation often is one of the most important factors for professionals, which creates their sense of identity and, by extension, a sense of purpose in life.
When a doctor perceives that his or her reputation is being destroyed, it can produce a profound sense of shame, one of the most powerful of negative emotions.3 Another feature among completed suicides that applies more generally is perceived burdensomeness, according to Thomas E. Joiner Jr., PhD, one of the deep and innovative researchers in the field of suicidology.4 Once a doctor starts feeling that he has been a failure in his professional life and starts ruminating about it, the feelings of failure may generalize to other areas of his life, so that he starts feeling that he is a burden to his spouse. This, then, only increases his shame.
The issue of secrecy also is noteworthy. I was struck reading a book by Dr. Myers on physician suicide by the many spouses and family members who were caught completely unaware of problems when their spouse, a doctor, ended their lives by suicide.5 The doctors hid their problems well, perhaps not wanting to burden their family members. Also, if feelings of shame are an issue, then concealment tends to occur. This concealment of suicidality runs counter to the current narrative among some in the professional community that suicides are preventable (this despite the continuing increase in rates of suicide at the same time that there are increases in mental health services and suicide prevention programs).6
As pointed out in some of the letters quoted in Dr. Myers’s book, those who completed suicide are smart and know how to hide their symptoms well. Although Dr. Seaman’s wife, Linda Seaman, MD, was aware of her husband’s suicidality, when he eventually determined that he was going to end his life, he apparently did not reveal his more serious intention to her. Aside from spouses and family, determined suicide completers often hide their intentions from their clinicians.7
Attempt to obtain collateral information
By being aware of the usual and less-usual risk factors for suicide that our physician colleagues may present with as explained above, we can use strategies for mitigating risk. If secrecy because of shame and embarrassment prevents our physician patient from being fully candid, include the spouse or another significant family member in sessions. While the physician might hide his suicidal intent from both the clinician and spouse, it remains prudent to include the spouse in the treatment plan. Give the spouse a telephone number with which they can contact you if they notice any worrisome change in functioning or behavior. Collateral information often is helpful. (Example: Is the patient not eating, not sleeping, or giving away valued possessions?)
Assess for competency
In Dr. Seaman’s case, it was noted that, with a trial approaching, Dr. Seaman had written in a journal entry that he could not mentally endure a trial. “For me, the stress is overwhelming.” Such a patient, suffering from severe depression, often is unable to properly assist his attorney in his defense. The outpatient psychiatrist can notify the court or one of the attorneys that the competency of the physician patient is questionable (or express a definite opinion of incompetency), and offer the opinion that it would be best to postpone further legal action until the patient is in a more healthy state of mind.
Know when hospitalization is needed
Obviously, the process will go smoother if the admission is voluntary. If the patient physician resists and the psychiatrist believes that the risk for self-harm is too high for the physician patient to remain as an outpatient, try to get a spouse or family member to persuade him to be admitted. An involuntary admission opens up a whole new can of worms and may fracture the therapeutic alliance.
In the end, it might be better to take that risk rather than having a dead patient on your hands. If a hospitalization is necessary, contact the admitting psychiatrist and verbally express your concerns and the reasons why a hospitalization is needed. Ask the inpatient psychiatrist to contact you when a discharge is approaching so that you have an opportunity to ask relevant questions.
For example, during his second psychiatric admission, as the time for discharge was approaching, Dr. Seaman wrote: “I am not well enough for discharge. I am still mentally ill.” Ask the inpatient doctor whether the patient has gotten sufficiently better and he feels confident he can function as an outpatient. If there is a conflicting opinion about the readiness of the patient for discharge, notify the medical director of the service or an administrator about your concerns.
Ask for consultation
At any stage of the process consider getting consultation for a trusted colleague or senior clinician if you are failing to make progress. Sometimes it helps to get the perspective from a fresh pair of eyes or ears.
Get a reality check
Having recounted the inspiring story of Dr. Nuland’s magnificent efforts and joyous success in preserving a life that was on the verge of being lost in the battle against death at the last possible second, I would note the following: Surgeons will tell you that, despite their most heroic efforts and teamwork, there are times when luck runs out and the patient dies on the operating table. Also, small lapses, which all mortals are prone to despite their best efforts at conscientiousness, sometimes can lead to a bad outcome.
Similarly, in psychiatry, no matter how much effort we put into saving a life, sometimes it is all to no avail. Despite all we have learned about suicide and its risk factors, and no matter how much care we take to contain risk, our patients who are determined will find a way of ending their own lives. The vexing problem of suicide seems intractable. A suicide among our patients humbles us, but also hopefully inspires us to keep trying harder to step up to the plate of accountability.
In conclusion, for us physicians, accountability is not a facet, a trait, or even a pursuit, accountability is at the core of who are and how we define ourselves. Accountability is the reason we leap stairs three at time when we are urgently paged. Accountability is the reason malpractice lawsuits cut at the core of our self-image. Accountability allows us to always have hope for a positive outcome, despite overwhelming barriers, and gives our lives a sense of purpose.
For me, in preparing this article, accountability was reviewing and studying physician suicide and then applying best practices in risk assessment after reading the tragic story of Dr. Seaman. I hope I inspire you to do the same in the pursuit of helping our vulnerable patients.
Learning how to care for our complex patients is a never-ending journey.
References
1. Gold KJ. Gen Hosp Psychiatry. 2013 Jan;35(1):45-9.
2. Etkind M. ...Or Not to Be: A Collection of Suicide Notes. New York: Riverhead Books, 1997.
3. Lamia LC. Shame: A concealed, contagious, and dangerous emotion. Psychology Today. 2011 Apr 4.
4. Joiner TE. Why People Die by Suicide. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005.
5. Myers MF. Why Physicians Die by Suicide. 2017.
6. National Institutes of Health. Suicide Prevention. https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/suicide-prevention/index.shtml.
7. Levy AG et al. JAMA Netw Open. 2019 Aug 14. doi: 10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2019.9277.
Dr. Kausch is a clinical and forensic psychiatrist who is on the faculty at Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, as an assistant clinical professor. He spends most of his time seeing patients through the Akron General/Cleveland Clinic health system. He has published in the area of forensic psychiatry, addictions, pathological gambling, and suicide. He has recently taken an interest in conducting marital therapy and is now publishing in that area as well.
Recently, Nicolas Badre, MD, challenged psychiatrists who care for patients involved in the legal system. He encouraged “a resurgence of personal accountability and responsibility.”
Using the chronically disenfranchised patients who are repetitiously shuttled between jails and mental hospitals as examples, he pointed out that we psychiatrists must “step up to the plate” and approach clinical problems with the attitude that “the buck stops with me.” As Dr. Badre pointed out, this is especially true when dealing with large, complex systems in which fragmented care exists without clear leadership. This, in turn, allows for a dissolution of accountability.
Accountability is a natural continuation of our training as physicians. We all remember the transition from medical student to intern, the steep learning curve as well as growth and maturation during this changeover. A dramatic transformation occurs over the course of 1 year, from medical students who tag along learning from patients to interns expected to be on their own for endless hours.
Over the course of those hours, we came to the understanding that people’s lives were in our hands. This causes a shift in our identity. This process continues throughout residency and onward in our careers. At some point, it becomes part of our innate identity as physicians or our professional sense of self – which is hard to describe to nonphysicians.
A profound example of a sense of accountability within the medical profession can be found in “How We Live,” a book by National Book Award winner Sherwin B. Nuland, MD. In the book, the late Dr. Nuland recounted how, as a 49-year-old seasoned surgeon working at Yale University, New Haven, Conn., and casually rounding on patients, he heard a frantic message: “Any general surgeon! Any general surgeon! Go immediately to the operating room – immediately – any general surgeon!”
The case involved a 42-year-old wife and mother who had been rushed to the ED after having been found in the community in a profound state of shock. In the ED, it was suspected that the patient was bleeding heavily from a ruptured tubal pregnancy. She was sped rapidly to the operating room with an undetectable blood pressure and a barely palpable pulse. The on-call ob.gyn. had been summoned from home, and he rushed to the operating room along with his department chairman.
Because the woman had lost much of her blood supply, there was no time for crossmatching. The anesthesiologist had placed large-bore intravenous lines and transfused her with O-negative blood (the universal donor blood type) to try maintain some level of blood pressure. Before she could be even fully anesthetized, the ob.gyn had made an incision in her lower abdomen. The bleeding he encountered was profound.
After a quick evaluation, the ob.gyn. realized that the blood was coming from above, not below, leading to the emergency page that Dr. Nuland heard. Dr. Nuland described bounding up the stairs three at a time. He recalled: “[A] very real apprehension had entered my mind. I might encounter a situation that was beyond me, something that I might make even worse, something that would cause me to regret for the rest of my life that I had answered the page’s insistent call instead of simply turning my back on its urgency and slinking off to my car before anyone noticed I was there.”
However, he could not see himself doing such a thing and he rushed up to the operating room because, “walking away from that kind of cry for help would have violated every precept taught me by my life and my training, and every bit of moral sense I had. … . I bear an obsessive preoccupation with accepting responsibility, amounting really to a compulsively neurotic sense of duty.”
And yet in the next few seconds, as he was running to the operating room, he wondered: “Am I about to botch something up? Will I, in one quick stroke of ineptness and fate, bring my career crashing down around my feet and with it my sense of what I am? Am I on my way to destroy an unknown patient and myself at the same time?”
In Dr. Nuland’s thoughts lie the conundrum of responsibility for physicians. Thankfully for Dr. Nuland, he was able to save the day and diagnose a rare case of rupture of an aneurysm of the splenic artery and keep the patient alive. This dramatic story involved a surgical colleague who had to make split-second decisions while a patient’s life hanged in the balance, but the same principles apply to us as psychiatrists.
I would note that, in the above example of the surgical patient, the “system” for saving the woman’s life was well organized and resourced to allow for a comprehensive and time-limited intervention into a life-threatening situation. There was an operating room staffed by various professionals who all had a defined role. It required the leader, Dr. Nuland, to step in, make the right diagnosis, and then issue commands to the identified professionals who all recognized his leadership and were skilled in carrying out their assigned duties. Dr. Nuland clearly was the leader once he took charge.
An outpatient psychiatrist facing a suicidal patient must deal with a different set of challenges, often involving various complex systems as well as multiple barriers. Clinical barriers include available interdisciplinary resources/personnel to assist not only with the critical encounter, but also with extended evaluation and treatment in a secure, well-resourced environment. Administrative barriers can include justifying the optimal treatment plan to payors. Our lethal patients often require both outpatient and inpatient services with sometimes-conflicting agendas. In a recent article, I pointed out some of the vexing problems that arise when communication and collaboration are poor between inpatient and outpatient psychiatrists. In such complex environments, it is less clear what is involved in the outpatient psychiatrist stepping up to the plate and asserting leadership.
An emotionally wrenching article about an emergency physician, Matthew E. Seaman, MD, who died by suicide, reminds us of the potential for suicide in a complicated patient (in this case, a medical colleague) involving complex systems. Plagued by a review of his care by the medical board (they had forced him to surrender his medical license and allowed the allegations to go public in lieu of further disciplinary proceedings), a subsequent lawsuit and an ultimate attempt by the plaintiff to obtain Dr. Seaman’s personal assets led to his worsening mental health. According to his wife, also a physician, he was getting “more depressed by the insults and assaults on his integrity and professionalism.”
Just before the investigation, he had received a 30-year pin from the American Board of Emergency Medicine for his “dedication to the specialty.” He fell into a deep depression from which he could not recover despite several psychiatric admissions and several medication trials. Along with his depression, he suffered from severe anxiety, a known risk factor for suicide. Dr. Seaman was feeling overwhelmed by the lengthy legal process targeting him as being negligent. He begged his attorney to settle the case, but his insurance carrier would not allow it. According to his wife: “All sense of human worth had been beaten out of him.”
Dr. Seaman had been known as resilient. He could handle complex ED situations, including simultaneously dealing with multiple traumas. He previously had been named in three malpractice lawsuits and had prevailed in each one. But his resilience had greatly diminished, and he became overwhelmed. He previously had, as a physician, been able to step up to the plate of accountability. But now, because of a confluence of depression and anxiety as well as the “insults and assaults on his integrity and professionalism,” he found life to be unbearable with the resulting tragic end.
So how would we as psychiatrists step up to the plate and be accountable when faced with a struggling fellow physician at risk for suicide such as Dr. Seaman?
Be aware of relevant risk factors
In addition to being aware of the usual risk factors for suicide, it would behoove us to also understand how physician suicides differ from suicides among nonphysicians.1 For example, physicians who have died by suicide were far more likely to have experienced job-related problems than nonphysicians, but less likely to have experienced the recent death of a loved one. Also noteworthy is that physicians who end their lives were more often married. In addition, Michael F. Myers, MD, a psychiatrist who has studied physician suicides, noted in the article about Dr. Seaman that struggling physicians are likely to suffer from shame and embarrassment.
Consider shame, burdensomeness, and secrecy
When suicide risk factors are taught to students and professionals, rarely is shame mentioned. Perhaps it is not a common risk factor in the general population, but shame and its cousin, disgrace, are known risk factors that likely apply more to people – such as physicians – who have built a reputation over their careers. One whole chapter is given to disgrace suicides in a book about suicide notes.2 A reputation often is one of the most important factors for professionals, which creates their sense of identity and, by extension, a sense of purpose in life.
When a doctor perceives that his or her reputation is being destroyed, it can produce a profound sense of shame, one of the most powerful of negative emotions.3 Another feature among completed suicides that applies more generally is perceived burdensomeness, according to Thomas E. Joiner Jr., PhD, one of the deep and innovative researchers in the field of suicidology.4 Once a doctor starts feeling that he has been a failure in his professional life and starts ruminating about it, the feelings of failure may generalize to other areas of his life, so that he starts feeling that he is a burden to his spouse. This, then, only increases his shame.
The issue of secrecy also is noteworthy. I was struck reading a book by Dr. Myers on physician suicide by the many spouses and family members who were caught completely unaware of problems when their spouse, a doctor, ended their lives by suicide.5 The doctors hid their problems well, perhaps not wanting to burden their family members. Also, if feelings of shame are an issue, then concealment tends to occur. This concealment of suicidality runs counter to the current narrative among some in the professional community that suicides are preventable (this despite the continuing increase in rates of suicide at the same time that there are increases in mental health services and suicide prevention programs).6
As pointed out in some of the letters quoted in Dr. Myers’s book, those who completed suicide are smart and know how to hide their symptoms well. Although Dr. Seaman’s wife, Linda Seaman, MD, was aware of her husband’s suicidality, when he eventually determined that he was going to end his life, he apparently did not reveal his more serious intention to her. Aside from spouses and family, determined suicide completers often hide their intentions from their clinicians.7
Attempt to obtain collateral information
By being aware of the usual and less-usual risk factors for suicide that our physician colleagues may present with as explained above, we can use strategies for mitigating risk. If secrecy because of shame and embarrassment prevents our physician patient from being fully candid, include the spouse or another significant family member in sessions. While the physician might hide his suicidal intent from both the clinician and spouse, it remains prudent to include the spouse in the treatment plan. Give the spouse a telephone number with which they can contact you if they notice any worrisome change in functioning or behavior. Collateral information often is helpful. (Example: Is the patient not eating, not sleeping, or giving away valued possessions?)
Assess for competency
In Dr. Seaman’s case, it was noted that, with a trial approaching, Dr. Seaman had written in a journal entry that he could not mentally endure a trial. “For me, the stress is overwhelming.” Such a patient, suffering from severe depression, often is unable to properly assist his attorney in his defense. The outpatient psychiatrist can notify the court or one of the attorneys that the competency of the physician patient is questionable (or express a definite opinion of incompetency), and offer the opinion that it would be best to postpone further legal action until the patient is in a more healthy state of mind.
Know when hospitalization is needed
Obviously, the process will go smoother if the admission is voluntary. If the patient physician resists and the psychiatrist believes that the risk for self-harm is too high for the physician patient to remain as an outpatient, try to get a spouse or family member to persuade him to be admitted. An involuntary admission opens up a whole new can of worms and may fracture the therapeutic alliance.
In the end, it might be better to take that risk rather than having a dead patient on your hands. If a hospitalization is necessary, contact the admitting psychiatrist and verbally express your concerns and the reasons why a hospitalization is needed. Ask the inpatient psychiatrist to contact you when a discharge is approaching so that you have an opportunity to ask relevant questions.
For example, during his second psychiatric admission, as the time for discharge was approaching, Dr. Seaman wrote: “I am not well enough for discharge. I am still mentally ill.” Ask the inpatient doctor whether the patient has gotten sufficiently better and he feels confident he can function as an outpatient. If there is a conflicting opinion about the readiness of the patient for discharge, notify the medical director of the service or an administrator about your concerns.
Ask for consultation
At any stage of the process consider getting consultation for a trusted colleague or senior clinician if you are failing to make progress. Sometimes it helps to get the perspective from a fresh pair of eyes or ears.
Get a reality check
Having recounted the inspiring story of Dr. Nuland’s magnificent efforts and joyous success in preserving a life that was on the verge of being lost in the battle against death at the last possible second, I would note the following: Surgeons will tell you that, despite their most heroic efforts and teamwork, there are times when luck runs out and the patient dies on the operating table. Also, small lapses, which all mortals are prone to despite their best efforts at conscientiousness, sometimes can lead to a bad outcome.
Similarly, in psychiatry, no matter how much effort we put into saving a life, sometimes it is all to no avail. Despite all we have learned about suicide and its risk factors, and no matter how much care we take to contain risk, our patients who are determined will find a way of ending their own lives. The vexing problem of suicide seems intractable. A suicide among our patients humbles us, but also hopefully inspires us to keep trying harder to step up to the plate of accountability.
In conclusion, for us physicians, accountability is not a facet, a trait, or even a pursuit, accountability is at the core of who are and how we define ourselves. Accountability is the reason we leap stairs three at time when we are urgently paged. Accountability is the reason malpractice lawsuits cut at the core of our self-image. Accountability allows us to always have hope for a positive outcome, despite overwhelming barriers, and gives our lives a sense of purpose.
For me, in preparing this article, accountability was reviewing and studying physician suicide and then applying best practices in risk assessment after reading the tragic story of Dr. Seaman. I hope I inspire you to do the same in the pursuit of helping our vulnerable patients.
Learning how to care for our complex patients is a never-ending journey.
References
1. Gold KJ. Gen Hosp Psychiatry. 2013 Jan;35(1):45-9.
2. Etkind M. ...Or Not to Be: A Collection of Suicide Notes. New York: Riverhead Books, 1997.
3. Lamia LC. Shame: A concealed, contagious, and dangerous emotion. Psychology Today. 2011 Apr 4.
4. Joiner TE. Why People Die by Suicide. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005.
5. Myers MF. Why Physicians Die by Suicide. 2017.
6. National Institutes of Health. Suicide Prevention. https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/suicide-prevention/index.shtml.
7. Levy AG et al. JAMA Netw Open. 2019 Aug 14. doi: 10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2019.9277.
Dr. Kausch is a clinical and forensic psychiatrist who is on the faculty at Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, as an assistant clinical professor. He spends most of his time seeing patients through the Akron General/Cleveland Clinic health system. He has published in the area of forensic psychiatry, addictions, pathological gambling, and suicide. He has recently taken an interest in conducting marital therapy and is now publishing in that area as well.
Recently, Nicolas Badre, MD, challenged psychiatrists who care for patients involved in the legal system. He encouraged “a resurgence of personal accountability and responsibility.”
Using the chronically disenfranchised patients who are repetitiously shuttled between jails and mental hospitals as examples, he pointed out that we psychiatrists must “step up to the plate” and approach clinical problems with the attitude that “the buck stops with me.” As Dr. Badre pointed out, this is especially true when dealing with large, complex systems in which fragmented care exists without clear leadership. This, in turn, allows for a dissolution of accountability.
Accountability is a natural continuation of our training as physicians. We all remember the transition from medical student to intern, the steep learning curve as well as growth and maturation during this changeover. A dramatic transformation occurs over the course of 1 year, from medical students who tag along learning from patients to interns expected to be on their own for endless hours.
Over the course of those hours, we came to the understanding that people’s lives were in our hands. This causes a shift in our identity. This process continues throughout residency and onward in our careers. At some point, it becomes part of our innate identity as physicians or our professional sense of self – which is hard to describe to nonphysicians.
A profound example of a sense of accountability within the medical profession can be found in “How We Live,” a book by National Book Award winner Sherwin B. Nuland, MD. In the book, the late Dr. Nuland recounted how, as a 49-year-old seasoned surgeon working at Yale University, New Haven, Conn., and casually rounding on patients, he heard a frantic message: “Any general surgeon! Any general surgeon! Go immediately to the operating room – immediately – any general surgeon!”
The case involved a 42-year-old wife and mother who had been rushed to the ED after having been found in the community in a profound state of shock. In the ED, it was suspected that the patient was bleeding heavily from a ruptured tubal pregnancy. She was sped rapidly to the operating room with an undetectable blood pressure and a barely palpable pulse. The on-call ob.gyn. had been summoned from home, and he rushed to the operating room along with his department chairman.
Because the woman had lost much of her blood supply, there was no time for crossmatching. The anesthesiologist had placed large-bore intravenous lines and transfused her with O-negative blood (the universal donor blood type) to try maintain some level of blood pressure. Before she could be even fully anesthetized, the ob.gyn had made an incision in her lower abdomen. The bleeding he encountered was profound.
After a quick evaluation, the ob.gyn. realized that the blood was coming from above, not below, leading to the emergency page that Dr. Nuland heard. Dr. Nuland described bounding up the stairs three at a time. He recalled: “[A] very real apprehension had entered my mind. I might encounter a situation that was beyond me, something that I might make even worse, something that would cause me to regret for the rest of my life that I had answered the page’s insistent call instead of simply turning my back on its urgency and slinking off to my car before anyone noticed I was there.”
However, he could not see himself doing such a thing and he rushed up to the operating room because, “walking away from that kind of cry for help would have violated every precept taught me by my life and my training, and every bit of moral sense I had. … . I bear an obsessive preoccupation with accepting responsibility, amounting really to a compulsively neurotic sense of duty.”
And yet in the next few seconds, as he was running to the operating room, he wondered: “Am I about to botch something up? Will I, in one quick stroke of ineptness and fate, bring my career crashing down around my feet and with it my sense of what I am? Am I on my way to destroy an unknown patient and myself at the same time?”
In Dr. Nuland’s thoughts lie the conundrum of responsibility for physicians. Thankfully for Dr. Nuland, he was able to save the day and diagnose a rare case of rupture of an aneurysm of the splenic artery and keep the patient alive. This dramatic story involved a surgical colleague who had to make split-second decisions while a patient’s life hanged in the balance, but the same principles apply to us as psychiatrists.
I would note that, in the above example of the surgical patient, the “system” for saving the woman’s life was well organized and resourced to allow for a comprehensive and time-limited intervention into a life-threatening situation. There was an operating room staffed by various professionals who all had a defined role. It required the leader, Dr. Nuland, to step in, make the right diagnosis, and then issue commands to the identified professionals who all recognized his leadership and were skilled in carrying out their assigned duties. Dr. Nuland clearly was the leader once he took charge.
An outpatient psychiatrist facing a suicidal patient must deal with a different set of challenges, often involving various complex systems as well as multiple barriers. Clinical barriers include available interdisciplinary resources/personnel to assist not only with the critical encounter, but also with extended evaluation and treatment in a secure, well-resourced environment. Administrative barriers can include justifying the optimal treatment plan to payors. Our lethal patients often require both outpatient and inpatient services with sometimes-conflicting agendas. In a recent article, I pointed out some of the vexing problems that arise when communication and collaboration are poor between inpatient and outpatient psychiatrists. In such complex environments, it is less clear what is involved in the outpatient psychiatrist stepping up to the plate and asserting leadership.
An emotionally wrenching article about an emergency physician, Matthew E. Seaman, MD, who died by suicide, reminds us of the potential for suicide in a complicated patient (in this case, a medical colleague) involving complex systems. Plagued by a review of his care by the medical board (they had forced him to surrender his medical license and allowed the allegations to go public in lieu of further disciplinary proceedings), a subsequent lawsuit and an ultimate attempt by the plaintiff to obtain Dr. Seaman’s personal assets led to his worsening mental health. According to his wife, also a physician, he was getting “more depressed by the insults and assaults on his integrity and professionalism.”
Just before the investigation, he had received a 30-year pin from the American Board of Emergency Medicine for his “dedication to the specialty.” He fell into a deep depression from which he could not recover despite several psychiatric admissions and several medication trials. Along with his depression, he suffered from severe anxiety, a known risk factor for suicide. Dr. Seaman was feeling overwhelmed by the lengthy legal process targeting him as being negligent. He begged his attorney to settle the case, but his insurance carrier would not allow it. According to his wife: “All sense of human worth had been beaten out of him.”
Dr. Seaman had been known as resilient. He could handle complex ED situations, including simultaneously dealing with multiple traumas. He previously had been named in three malpractice lawsuits and had prevailed in each one. But his resilience had greatly diminished, and he became overwhelmed. He previously had, as a physician, been able to step up to the plate of accountability. But now, because of a confluence of depression and anxiety as well as the “insults and assaults on his integrity and professionalism,” he found life to be unbearable with the resulting tragic end.
So how would we as psychiatrists step up to the plate and be accountable when faced with a struggling fellow physician at risk for suicide such as Dr. Seaman?
Be aware of relevant risk factors
In addition to being aware of the usual risk factors for suicide, it would behoove us to also understand how physician suicides differ from suicides among nonphysicians.1 For example, physicians who have died by suicide were far more likely to have experienced job-related problems than nonphysicians, but less likely to have experienced the recent death of a loved one. Also noteworthy is that physicians who end their lives were more often married. In addition, Michael F. Myers, MD, a psychiatrist who has studied physician suicides, noted in the article about Dr. Seaman that struggling physicians are likely to suffer from shame and embarrassment.
Consider shame, burdensomeness, and secrecy
When suicide risk factors are taught to students and professionals, rarely is shame mentioned. Perhaps it is not a common risk factor in the general population, but shame and its cousin, disgrace, are known risk factors that likely apply more to people – such as physicians – who have built a reputation over their careers. One whole chapter is given to disgrace suicides in a book about suicide notes.2 A reputation often is one of the most important factors for professionals, which creates their sense of identity and, by extension, a sense of purpose in life.
When a doctor perceives that his or her reputation is being destroyed, it can produce a profound sense of shame, one of the most powerful of negative emotions.3 Another feature among completed suicides that applies more generally is perceived burdensomeness, according to Thomas E. Joiner Jr., PhD, one of the deep and innovative researchers in the field of suicidology.4 Once a doctor starts feeling that he has been a failure in his professional life and starts ruminating about it, the feelings of failure may generalize to other areas of his life, so that he starts feeling that he is a burden to his spouse. This, then, only increases his shame.
The issue of secrecy also is noteworthy. I was struck reading a book by Dr. Myers on physician suicide by the many spouses and family members who were caught completely unaware of problems when their spouse, a doctor, ended their lives by suicide.5 The doctors hid their problems well, perhaps not wanting to burden their family members. Also, if feelings of shame are an issue, then concealment tends to occur. This concealment of suicidality runs counter to the current narrative among some in the professional community that suicides are preventable (this despite the continuing increase in rates of suicide at the same time that there are increases in mental health services and suicide prevention programs).6
As pointed out in some of the letters quoted in Dr. Myers’s book, those who completed suicide are smart and know how to hide their symptoms well. Although Dr. Seaman’s wife, Linda Seaman, MD, was aware of her husband’s suicidality, when he eventually determined that he was going to end his life, he apparently did not reveal his more serious intention to her. Aside from spouses and family, determined suicide completers often hide their intentions from their clinicians.7
Attempt to obtain collateral information
By being aware of the usual and less-usual risk factors for suicide that our physician colleagues may present with as explained above, we can use strategies for mitigating risk. If secrecy because of shame and embarrassment prevents our physician patient from being fully candid, include the spouse or another significant family member in sessions. While the physician might hide his suicidal intent from both the clinician and spouse, it remains prudent to include the spouse in the treatment plan. Give the spouse a telephone number with which they can contact you if they notice any worrisome change in functioning or behavior. Collateral information often is helpful. (Example: Is the patient not eating, not sleeping, or giving away valued possessions?)
Assess for competency
In Dr. Seaman’s case, it was noted that, with a trial approaching, Dr. Seaman had written in a journal entry that he could not mentally endure a trial. “For me, the stress is overwhelming.” Such a patient, suffering from severe depression, often is unable to properly assist his attorney in his defense. The outpatient psychiatrist can notify the court or one of the attorneys that the competency of the physician patient is questionable (or express a definite opinion of incompetency), and offer the opinion that it would be best to postpone further legal action until the patient is in a more healthy state of mind.
Know when hospitalization is needed
Obviously, the process will go smoother if the admission is voluntary. If the patient physician resists and the psychiatrist believes that the risk for self-harm is too high for the physician patient to remain as an outpatient, try to get a spouse or family member to persuade him to be admitted. An involuntary admission opens up a whole new can of worms and may fracture the therapeutic alliance.
In the end, it might be better to take that risk rather than having a dead patient on your hands. If a hospitalization is necessary, contact the admitting psychiatrist and verbally express your concerns and the reasons why a hospitalization is needed. Ask the inpatient psychiatrist to contact you when a discharge is approaching so that you have an opportunity to ask relevant questions.
For example, during his second psychiatric admission, as the time for discharge was approaching, Dr. Seaman wrote: “I am not well enough for discharge. I am still mentally ill.” Ask the inpatient doctor whether the patient has gotten sufficiently better and he feels confident he can function as an outpatient. If there is a conflicting opinion about the readiness of the patient for discharge, notify the medical director of the service or an administrator about your concerns.
Ask for consultation
At any stage of the process consider getting consultation for a trusted colleague or senior clinician if you are failing to make progress. Sometimes it helps to get the perspective from a fresh pair of eyes or ears.
Get a reality check
Having recounted the inspiring story of Dr. Nuland’s magnificent efforts and joyous success in preserving a life that was on the verge of being lost in the battle against death at the last possible second, I would note the following: Surgeons will tell you that, despite their most heroic efforts and teamwork, there are times when luck runs out and the patient dies on the operating table. Also, small lapses, which all mortals are prone to despite their best efforts at conscientiousness, sometimes can lead to a bad outcome.
Similarly, in psychiatry, no matter how much effort we put into saving a life, sometimes it is all to no avail. Despite all we have learned about suicide and its risk factors, and no matter how much care we take to contain risk, our patients who are determined will find a way of ending their own lives. The vexing problem of suicide seems intractable. A suicide among our patients humbles us, but also hopefully inspires us to keep trying harder to step up to the plate of accountability.
In conclusion, for us physicians, accountability is not a facet, a trait, or even a pursuit, accountability is at the core of who are and how we define ourselves. Accountability is the reason we leap stairs three at time when we are urgently paged. Accountability is the reason malpractice lawsuits cut at the core of our self-image. Accountability allows us to always have hope for a positive outcome, despite overwhelming barriers, and gives our lives a sense of purpose.
For me, in preparing this article, accountability was reviewing and studying physician suicide and then applying best practices in risk assessment after reading the tragic story of Dr. Seaman. I hope I inspire you to do the same in the pursuit of helping our vulnerable patients.
Learning how to care for our complex patients is a never-ending journey.
References
1. Gold KJ. Gen Hosp Psychiatry. 2013 Jan;35(1):45-9.
2. Etkind M. ...Or Not to Be: A Collection of Suicide Notes. New York: Riverhead Books, 1997.
3. Lamia LC. Shame: A concealed, contagious, and dangerous emotion. Psychology Today. 2011 Apr 4.
4. Joiner TE. Why People Die by Suicide. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005.
5. Myers MF. Why Physicians Die by Suicide. 2017.
6. National Institutes of Health. Suicide Prevention. https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/suicide-prevention/index.shtml.
7. Levy AG et al. JAMA Netw Open. 2019 Aug 14. doi: 10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2019.9277.
Dr. Kausch is a clinical and forensic psychiatrist who is on the faculty at Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, as an assistant clinical professor. He spends most of his time seeing patients through the Akron General/Cleveland Clinic health system. He has published in the area of forensic psychiatry, addictions, pathological gambling, and suicide. He has recently taken an interest in conducting marital therapy and is now publishing in that area as well.
Is our mental health system broken? If so, can it be fixed?
Numerous articles, books, and newspaper editorials have been written about the “crisis” in mental health care in our country from various perspectives, and the phrase is often used that the mental health system is “broken.” It seems that lately, this topic is often brought up after the most recent mass shooting.1
Philip T. Yanos, PhD, correctly asked recently whether we should be talking about a “broken” system, because implicit in the phrase is the assumption that the mental health system was once “whole,” and he has pointed out2 chronic deficiencies, such as the absence of affordable housing, and the availability of services to those with chronic mental illness.
In addition, many authors have asserted that, with deinstitutionalization – which occurred starting with the Community Mental Health Act of 1963 – homelessness also became a big problem for people in our prisons and jails, which became the default treatment providers for many of those with serious mental illness.Once authors make this point, they often offer up ways to start addressing various parts of the system, and it usually comes down to asking for more funding for more outpatient treatment and services as well as more inpatient beds. Some authors make the point3 that people with mental illness often lack insight into their illness and the need for treatment. Thus, we have the quandary of people with severe mental illness not believing that they need help, and thus not even trying to access services, which can lead to homelessness and jail time.
But what of those individuals with serious mental health problems who aren’t facing those obstacles and complications? What about individuals who aren’t facing homelessness, who haven’t gotten embroiled in the legal system, who do have insurance coverage, who live in areas with sufficient numbers of outpatient mental health centers to choose from, and who have no problems finding an inpatient bed when needed? Let’s suppose that we have an individual who does have insight into his mental illness and need for treatment, and is motivated to seek treatment. How responsive is the system to such individuals? That will be the focus on my article.
In a recent report,4 the author quotes American Psychiatric Association President Bruce J. Schwartz, MD, appealing to members of the U.S. Congress to step in. According to the author, Dr. Schwartz’s position is that the crisis in American mental health begins specifically with a drastic, and growing, shortage of psychiatric beds, especially in publicly funded state and county hospital beds. From there, the crisis spreads to the nation’s city streets, and its jails and prisons, where the largest number of people with serious mental illness now reside. He also talks about a shortage of psychiatrists and child psychiatrists, and says the shortage is likely to worsen. The proposed solution to this problem, of course, is more funding from Congress to open more psychiatric beds, as well as providing more funding for mental health in general and funding to residency programs to increase the numbers of psychiatrists.
I respect the opinions of Dr. Schwartz and that of the other authors who want to talk about lack of adequate beds, outpatient clinics and services, insufficient numbers of psychiatrists, and a lack of funding by Congress. However, I would like to provide further information, from a personal perspective, which causes me to believe that the problem is even more complex than that, and that the failures of the system are compounded by a dysfunctional culture within the ranks of professional caregivers. In other words, once the pieces are in place and assembled, the mental health system still seems to be “broken” but from within. I worry about apathy and an absence of motivation to provide good or even adequate services by the very people who are or should be aware of the problems and what it takes to help our vulnerable patients lead better lives.
I have practiced psychiatry for many years in various settings. I have spent many years working as an inpatient psychiatrist in a large state hospital. I have worked in community mental health outpatient settings. I have also worked in a private practice doing both inpatient and outpatient patient care as well as significant forensic work. At the hospitals, I have witnessed and prepared internal reports about patients who are “revolving doors.” Such patients often had more than 50 psychiatric hospitalizations and no apparent solution to keep them stable enough in the community.
But mental illness is not just a career for me. In addition to being psychiatrist, I am the father of a son with severe and persistent mental illness. I have watched him struggle to find stability. He, too, has been in and out of hospitals. My wife is also in the mental health field. She and I have endlessly tried to work with our son’s local community mental health center to provide them with feedback and to get them to respond to his needs – often with great frustration. It has been our impression that clinicians have difficulty listening to us and understanding the difficulties our son is having, from my son’s case manager to the treating psychiatrist, to the director of the agency. We have tried shifting him to other programs in a neighboring county, including one known to be a “model” program, but had the same issues.
Psychiatry is more of an art than science. Our other medical colleagues can try to resolve a clinical problem, no matter their rank, by ordering the right blood test or getting certain imaging. Psychiatry has no such biomarkers, or validated tests, to rely on to resolve disputes. We have only our training and experience and, unfortunately, our biases. If we don’t agree with a colleague, we often resort to rank and argument.
Psychiatrists (just as can colleagues in other specialties) can be insufferably arrogant.
My personal experience has been that the hospital and the community often don’t communicate well. This seems to be a systems problem, as is the case for many complex unsolvable problems. I have been to discharge meetings involving hospital staff and the receiving community system. The attitude of the inpatient psychiatrist is often: “If you guys only did your job better, this patient wouldn’t keep having to be admitted. It’s your job to keep him out of the hospital.”
Alternatively, the community rejects this attitude and points to the absence of resources that prevents them from seeing patients in a timely manner and from adequately monitoring them. They say they are shackled by their resource constraints and that the endless admissions are inevitable. Further, the outpatient psychiatrists complain bitterly that all the inpatient doctors do is make a bunch of useless medication changes and then don’t keep patients in long enough to make sure the patient stays well. And on and on the arguments go with no resolution.
Sadly, and confirmed by my personal experience, when well-meaning and knowledgeable family members try to communicate with the community mental health system about their son’s mental disintegration, the community agency often doesn’t welcome the feedback. They resort to “confidentiality” concerns, often ill advised. Their opinion seems to be that the patient, (i.e. the patient who is falling apart and is becoming psychotic), should be the one calling the agency, waiting on hold forever, and not getting a call back. When my son has been in this situation, he has hung up his telephone out of frustration, then headed off to the emergency room, where he knew he would be seen.
The other area of frustration is that of the ideal of recovery. Mental health programs love to tout that their mission is “recovery,” and they list it as one of their primary areas of vision and goals. Yet, when we tried to communicate with community clinicians, they usually ignored our request to assist our son with supported employment and to help him achieve independence and a social life. When we tried to convey our recovery concerns to the psychiatrist, the usual response was also to ignore it and focus on “meds, meds, meds,” which most psychiatrists seem to view as their mission and area of expertise. Many psychiatrists have embraced the “bio-bio-bio” model of evaluation and treatment5 with only lip service paid to the “biopsychosocial” theory they like to say they advocate. When we reached out to our son’s psychiatrists and could get through, we found that they mostly failed to display much interest in paying attention to broader areas of functioning, instead focusing on symptoms, which they could observe in person.
So, I add to the chorus complaining that our mental health system is broken. Broken not only in terms of adequate funding, but also broken from within. It would require much wisdom and self-examination to even begin to address the problem. Without a better plan, throwing money at this broken system won’t improve the lives of our seriously ill and vulnerable psychiatric patients.
Dr. Kausch is a clinical and forensic psychiatrist who is on the faculty at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland as an assistant clinical professor. He spends most of his time seeing patients through the Akron General/Cleveland Clinic health system. He has published in the area of forensic psychiatry, addictions, pathological gambling, and suicide. He has recently taken an interest in conducting marital therapy and is now publishing in that area as well.
References
1. Doroshow D. “We need to stop focusing on the mental health of mass shooters.” Washington Post. 2019 May 20.
2. Yanos P. “Is the mental health system ‘broken’?” Psychology Today. 2018 Oct 11.
3. Orenstein N. “How to fix a broken mental health system.” The Atlantic. 2016 Jun 8.
4. Moran M. APA rings alarm in nation’s capitol about crisis in mental health care. Psychiatr News. 2020 Jan 1.
5. Paris J. “Psychotherapy in an Age of Neuroscience.” New York: Oxford University Press, 2017.
Numerous articles, books, and newspaper editorials have been written about the “crisis” in mental health care in our country from various perspectives, and the phrase is often used that the mental health system is “broken.” It seems that lately, this topic is often brought up after the most recent mass shooting.1
Philip T. Yanos, PhD, correctly asked recently whether we should be talking about a “broken” system, because implicit in the phrase is the assumption that the mental health system was once “whole,” and he has pointed out2 chronic deficiencies, such as the absence of affordable housing, and the availability of services to those with chronic mental illness.
In addition, many authors have asserted that, with deinstitutionalization – which occurred starting with the Community Mental Health Act of 1963 – homelessness also became a big problem for people in our prisons and jails, which became the default treatment providers for many of those with serious mental illness.Once authors make this point, they often offer up ways to start addressing various parts of the system, and it usually comes down to asking for more funding for more outpatient treatment and services as well as more inpatient beds. Some authors make the point3 that people with mental illness often lack insight into their illness and the need for treatment. Thus, we have the quandary of people with severe mental illness not believing that they need help, and thus not even trying to access services, which can lead to homelessness and jail time.
But what of those individuals with serious mental health problems who aren’t facing those obstacles and complications? What about individuals who aren’t facing homelessness, who haven’t gotten embroiled in the legal system, who do have insurance coverage, who live in areas with sufficient numbers of outpatient mental health centers to choose from, and who have no problems finding an inpatient bed when needed? Let’s suppose that we have an individual who does have insight into his mental illness and need for treatment, and is motivated to seek treatment. How responsive is the system to such individuals? That will be the focus on my article.
In a recent report,4 the author quotes American Psychiatric Association President Bruce J. Schwartz, MD, appealing to members of the U.S. Congress to step in. According to the author, Dr. Schwartz’s position is that the crisis in American mental health begins specifically with a drastic, and growing, shortage of psychiatric beds, especially in publicly funded state and county hospital beds. From there, the crisis spreads to the nation’s city streets, and its jails and prisons, where the largest number of people with serious mental illness now reside. He also talks about a shortage of psychiatrists and child psychiatrists, and says the shortage is likely to worsen. The proposed solution to this problem, of course, is more funding from Congress to open more psychiatric beds, as well as providing more funding for mental health in general and funding to residency programs to increase the numbers of psychiatrists.
I respect the opinions of Dr. Schwartz and that of the other authors who want to talk about lack of adequate beds, outpatient clinics and services, insufficient numbers of psychiatrists, and a lack of funding by Congress. However, I would like to provide further information, from a personal perspective, which causes me to believe that the problem is even more complex than that, and that the failures of the system are compounded by a dysfunctional culture within the ranks of professional caregivers. In other words, once the pieces are in place and assembled, the mental health system still seems to be “broken” but from within. I worry about apathy and an absence of motivation to provide good or even adequate services by the very people who are or should be aware of the problems and what it takes to help our vulnerable patients lead better lives.
I have practiced psychiatry for many years in various settings. I have spent many years working as an inpatient psychiatrist in a large state hospital. I have worked in community mental health outpatient settings. I have also worked in a private practice doing both inpatient and outpatient patient care as well as significant forensic work. At the hospitals, I have witnessed and prepared internal reports about patients who are “revolving doors.” Such patients often had more than 50 psychiatric hospitalizations and no apparent solution to keep them stable enough in the community.
But mental illness is not just a career for me. In addition to being psychiatrist, I am the father of a son with severe and persistent mental illness. I have watched him struggle to find stability. He, too, has been in and out of hospitals. My wife is also in the mental health field. She and I have endlessly tried to work with our son’s local community mental health center to provide them with feedback and to get them to respond to his needs – often with great frustration. It has been our impression that clinicians have difficulty listening to us and understanding the difficulties our son is having, from my son’s case manager to the treating psychiatrist, to the director of the agency. We have tried shifting him to other programs in a neighboring county, including one known to be a “model” program, but had the same issues.
Psychiatry is more of an art than science. Our other medical colleagues can try to resolve a clinical problem, no matter their rank, by ordering the right blood test or getting certain imaging. Psychiatry has no such biomarkers, or validated tests, to rely on to resolve disputes. We have only our training and experience and, unfortunately, our biases. If we don’t agree with a colleague, we often resort to rank and argument.
Psychiatrists (just as can colleagues in other specialties) can be insufferably arrogant.
My personal experience has been that the hospital and the community often don’t communicate well. This seems to be a systems problem, as is the case for many complex unsolvable problems. I have been to discharge meetings involving hospital staff and the receiving community system. The attitude of the inpatient psychiatrist is often: “If you guys only did your job better, this patient wouldn’t keep having to be admitted. It’s your job to keep him out of the hospital.”
Alternatively, the community rejects this attitude and points to the absence of resources that prevents them from seeing patients in a timely manner and from adequately monitoring them. They say they are shackled by their resource constraints and that the endless admissions are inevitable. Further, the outpatient psychiatrists complain bitterly that all the inpatient doctors do is make a bunch of useless medication changes and then don’t keep patients in long enough to make sure the patient stays well. And on and on the arguments go with no resolution.
Sadly, and confirmed by my personal experience, when well-meaning and knowledgeable family members try to communicate with the community mental health system about their son’s mental disintegration, the community agency often doesn’t welcome the feedback. They resort to “confidentiality” concerns, often ill advised. Their opinion seems to be that the patient, (i.e. the patient who is falling apart and is becoming psychotic), should be the one calling the agency, waiting on hold forever, and not getting a call back. When my son has been in this situation, he has hung up his telephone out of frustration, then headed off to the emergency room, where he knew he would be seen.
The other area of frustration is that of the ideal of recovery. Mental health programs love to tout that their mission is “recovery,” and they list it as one of their primary areas of vision and goals. Yet, when we tried to communicate with community clinicians, they usually ignored our request to assist our son with supported employment and to help him achieve independence and a social life. When we tried to convey our recovery concerns to the psychiatrist, the usual response was also to ignore it and focus on “meds, meds, meds,” which most psychiatrists seem to view as their mission and area of expertise. Many psychiatrists have embraced the “bio-bio-bio” model of evaluation and treatment5 with only lip service paid to the “biopsychosocial” theory they like to say they advocate. When we reached out to our son’s psychiatrists and could get through, we found that they mostly failed to display much interest in paying attention to broader areas of functioning, instead focusing on symptoms, which they could observe in person.
So, I add to the chorus complaining that our mental health system is broken. Broken not only in terms of adequate funding, but also broken from within. It would require much wisdom and self-examination to even begin to address the problem. Without a better plan, throwing money at this broken system won’t improve the lives of our seriously ill and vulnerable psychiatric patients.
Dr. Kausch is a clinical and forensic psychiatrist who is on the faculty at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland as an assistant clinical professor. He spends most of his time seeing patients through the Akron General/Cleveland Clinic health system. He has published in the area of forensic psychiatry, addictions, pathological gambling, and suicide. He has recently taken an interest in conducting marital therapy and is now publishing in that area as well.
References
1. Doroshow D. “We need to stop focusing on the mental health of mass shooters.” Washington Post. 2019 May 20.
2. Yanos P. “Is the mental health system ‘broken’?” Psychology Today. 2018 Oct 11.
3. Orenstein N. “How to fix a broken mental health system.” The Atlantic. 2016 Jun 8.
4. Moran M. APA rings alarm in nation’s capitol about crisis in mental health care. Psychiatr News. 2020 Jan 1.
5. Paris J. “Psychotherapy in an Age of Neuroscience.” New York: Oxford University Press, 2017.
Numerous articles, books, and newspaper editorials have been written about the “crisis” in mental health care in our country from various perspectives, and the phrase is often used that the mental health system is “broken.” It seems that lately, this topic is often brought up after the most recent mass shooting.1
Philip T. Yanos, PhD, correctly asked recently whether we should be talking about a “broken” system, because implicit in the phrase is the assumption that the mental health system was once “whole,” and he has pointed out2 chronic deficiencies, such as the absence of affordable housing, and the availability of services to those with chronic mental illness.
In addition, many authors have asserted that, with deinstitutionalization – which occurred starting with the Community Mental Health Act of 1963 – homelessness also became a big problem for people in our prisons and jails, which became the default treatment providers for many of those with serious mental illness.Once authors make this point, they often offer up ways to start addressing various parts of the system, and it usually comes down to asking for more funding for more outpatient treatment and services as well as more inpatient beds. Some authors make the point3 that people with mental illness often lack insight into their illness and the need for treatment. Thus, we have the quandary of people with severe mental illness not believing that they need help, and thus not even trying to access services, which can lead to homelessness and jail time.
But what of those individuals with serious mental health problems who aren’t facing those obstacles and complications? What about individuals who aren’t facing homelessness, who haven’t gotten embroiled in the legal system, who do have insurance coverage, who live in areas with sufficient numbers of outpatient mental health centers to choose from, and who have no problems finding an inpatient bed when needed? Let’s suppose that we have an individual who does have insight into his mental illness and need for treatment, and is motivated to seek treatment. How responsive is the system to such individuals? That will be the focus on my article.
In a recent report,4 the author quotes American Psychiatric Association President Bruce J. Schwartz, MD, appealing to members of the U.S. Congress to step in. According to the author, Dr. Schwartz’s position is that the crisis in American mental health begins specifically with a drastic, and growing, shortage of psychiatric beds, especially in publicly funded state and county hospital beds. From there, the crisis spreads to the nation’s city streets, and its jails and prisons, where the largest number of people with serious mental illness now reside. He also talks about a shortage of psychiatrists and child psychiatrists, and says the shortage is likely to worsen. The proposed solution to this problem, of course, is more funding from Congress to open more psychiatric beds, as well as providing more funding for mental health in general and funding to residency programs to increase the numbers of psychiatrists.
I respect the opinions of Dr. Schwartz and that of the other authors who want to talk about lack of adequate beds, outpatient clinics and services, insufficient numbers of psychiatrists, and a lack of funding by Congress. However, I would like to provide further information, from a personal perspective, which causes me to believe that the problem is even more complex than that, and that the failures of the system are compounded by a dysfunctional culture within the ranks of professional caregivers. In other words, once the pieces are in place and assembled, the mental health system still seems to be “broken” but from within. I worry about apathy and an absence of motivation to provide good or even adequate services by the very people who are or should be aware of the problems and what it takes to help our vulnerable patients lead better lives.
I have practiced psychiatry for many years in various settings. I have spent many years working as an inpatient psychiatrist in a large state hospital. I have worked in community mental health outpatient settings. I have also worked in a private practice doing both inpatient and outpatient patient care as well as significant forensic work. At the hospitals, I have witnessed and prepared internal reports about patients who are “revolving doors.” Such patients often had more than 50 psychiatric hospitalizations and no apparent solution to keep them stable enough in the community.
But mental illness is not just a career for me. In addition to being psychiatrist, I am the father of a son with severe and persistent mental illness. I have watched him struggle to find stability. He, too, has been in and out of hospitals. My wife is also in the mental health field. She and I have endlessly tried to work with our son’s local community mental health center to provide them with feedback and to get them to respond to his needs – often with great frustration. It has been our impression that clinicians have difficulty listening to us and understanding the difficulties our son is having, from my son’s case manager to the treating psychiatrist, to the director of the agency. We have tried shifting him to other programs in a neighboring county, including one known to be a “model” program, but had the same issues.
Psychiatry is more of an art than science. Our other medical colleagues can try to resolve a clinical problem, no matter their rank, by ordering the right blood test or getting certain imaging. Psychiatry has no such biomarkers, or validated tests, to rely on to resolve disputes. We have only our training and experience and, unfortunately, our biases. If we don’t agree with a colleague, we often resort to rank and argument.
Psychiatrists (just as can colleagues in other specialties) can be insufferably arrogant.
My personal experience has been that the hospital and the community often don’t communicate well. This seems to be a systems problem, as is the case for many complex unsolvable problems. I have been to discharge meetings involving hospital staff and the receiving community system. The attitude of the inpatient psychiatrist is often: “If you guys only did your job better, this patient wouldn’t keep having to be admitted. It’s your job to keep him out of the hospital.”
Alternatively, the community rejects this attitude and points to the absence of resources that prevents them from seeing patients in a timely manner and from adequately monitoring them. They say they are shackled by their resource constraints and that the endless admissions are inevitable. Further, the outpatient psychiatrists complain bitterly that all the inpatient doctors do is make a bunch of useless medication changes and then don’t keep patients in long enough to make sure the patient stays well. And on and on the arguments go with no resolution.
Sadly, and confirmed by my personal experience, when well-meaning and knowledgeable family members try to communicate with the community mental health system about their son’s mental disintegration, the community agency often doesn’t welcome the feedback. They resort to “confidentiality” concerns, often ill advised. Their opinion seems to be that the patient, (i.e. the patient who is falling apart and is becoming psychotic), should be the one calling the agency, waiting on hold forever, and not getting a call back. When my son has been in this situation, he has hung up his telephone out of frustration, then headed off to the emergency room, where he knew he would be seen.
The other area of frustration is that of the ideal of recovery. Mental health programs love to tout that their mission is “recovery,” and they list it as one of their primary areas of vision and goals. Yet, when we tried to communicate with community clinicians, they usually ignored our request to assist our son with supported employment and to help him achieve independence and a social life. When we tried to convey our recovery concerns to the psychiatrist, the usual response was also to ignore it and focus on “meds, meds, meds,” which most psychiatrists seem to view as their mission and area of expertise. Many psychiatrists have embraced the “bio-bio-bio” model of evaluation and treatment5 with only lip service paid to the “biopsychosocial” theory they like to say they advocate. When we reached out to our son’s psychiatrists and could get through, we found that they mostly failed to display much interest in paying attention to broader areas of functioning, instead focusing on symptoms, which they could observe in person.
So, I add to the chorus complaining that our mental health system is broken. Broken not only in terms of adequate funding, but also broken from within. It would require much wisdom and self-examination to even begin to address the problem. Without a better plan, throwing money at this broken system won’t improve the lives of our seriously ill and vulnerable psychiatric patients.
Dr. Kausch is a clinical and forensic psychiatrist who is on the faculty at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland as an assistant clinical professor. He spends most of his time seeing patients through the Akron General/Cleveland Clinic health system. He has published in the area of forensic psychiatry, addictions, pathological gambling, and suicide. He has recently taken an interest in conducting marital therapy and is now publishing in that area as well.
References
1. Doroshow D. “We need to stop focusing on the mental health of mass shooters.” Washington Post. 2019 May 20.
2. Yanos P. “Is the mental health system ‘broken’?” Psychology Today. 2018 Oct 11.
3. Orenstein N. “How to fix a broken mental health system.” The Atlantic. 2016 Jun 8.
4. Moran M. APA rings alarm in nation’s capitol about crisis in mental health care. Psychiatr News. 2020 Jan 1.
5. Paris J. “Psychotherapy in an Age of Neuroscience.” New York: Oxford University Press, 2017.