Do you ever awaken wishing you were all you used to think you were before you figured out you weren’t? Me either. I’m someone who has these kind of days when it’s best to keep me away from shiny objects.
During college, I spent several summers volunteering for a group called Young Life at their camps throughout the US. Silver Cliff was one of their camps in the mountains of Colorado. Each week we’d take in a few hundred high school kids from throughout the US, and give them the opportunity to do things and challenge themselves in new ways; everything from riding horses to rappelling.
The prior summer I was the head wrangler at one of their camps—I had never ridden a horse prior to being placed in charge of the riding program. This summer is was the person running the rappelling program. Needless to say, I had never done that before either.
We received a day’s worth of instruction before we were turned loose on the kids. One of the first things we had to learn was that the ropes and harness, if properly secured to the carabineers and figure eight, would actually keep you from falling to your death. The first test was jumping from a platform way up in a tree while on belay. After a few moments of white-knuckle panic, I stepped over the edge and was belayed safely to the ground.
From there, we scouted a place for the rappel, and found two suitable cliffs, each with about a hundred foot vertical drop. Watching my first rappel must have reminded others of what it would have been like watching a chimp learn how to use tools for the first time. After several tentative descents, I was able to make it safely to the bottom in a single jump.
Each day we’d run a few dozen kids through the course, ninety-nine percent of whom had never rappelled, or ever wanted to rappel. To convince them that it was safe and that they could complete it, I would instruct them in the technique as I hung backwards over the chalk face of the limestone cliff.
Each day we’d have one or two kids who wanted nothing to do with my little course. Occasionally, while on belay, one of them would freeze half way down the cliff, and I’d have to belay down and rescue them.
Once or twice I’d have an attractive female counselor on belay, her knowing that I was the only thing keeping her from being a Rorschach stain on the rocks below. Scared, and looking for a boost of confidence, “She’d ask, how long have you been doing this?” I’d look at my watch and ask her how many days ago was Sunday. I viewed it as an opportunity to have a little fun with her—sort of like turning to your friend in the checkout line in 7-eleven and saying loud enough for others to hear, “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to use our guns.” I also hoped maybe even having to go on a heroic rescue.
How long have you been doing this? That’s seems like a fair question to ask of anyone in a clinical situation. It’s more easily answered when you are in someone’s office and are facing multiple framed and matted attestations of their skills. Seen any good EHR or HIT certificates on the walls of the people entrusted with the execution of the EHR endowment? Me either. I have a cardiologist and he has all sorts of paper hanging from his wall. Helps to convince me he knows his stuff. Now, if I were to pretend to be a cardiologist—I’ve been thinking of going to night school—I’d expect people would expect to see my bona fides.
Shouldn’t the same logic apply to spending millions of EHR dollars? Imagine this discussion.
“What do you do?”
“I’m buying something for the hospital I’ve never bought.”
“The feds say we’ve got to have it.”
“Oh. What’s it do?”
“Nobody really knows.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“How many days ago was Sunday?”
“What’s it cost?”
“Somewhere between this much,” he stretches out his arms, “And this much,” stretching them further.
“Do the doctors want this?”
“Some do. A lot don’t.”
“How will you know when you’re done if you got it right?”
“Sounds like fun,” she said, trying to fetter a laugh.
Sounds like fun to me too.
Paul M. Roemer
Chief Imaginist, Healthcare IT Strategy
1475 Luna Drive, Downingtown, PA 19335
+1 (484) 885-6942