Sometimes it is worth pointing out the obvious; or not. An analyst on CNN, talking about the missing Malaysian plane was explaining why it was so difficult to locate the plane. “Light objects float, and heavy objects sink, and a plane is heavy.” The evolution of the lizard brain.
Years ago, because of the lizard brain, the government decided that for important decisions, decisions like launching nuclear weapons, the responsibility had to be shared between two people. That is why two thumbs are required on two launch buttons. I do not know how things are in your home, but in ours, for important decisions about things like deck furniture, there is only one launch button, and I do not have a user-ID.
Twice a year, in early spring and late fall, my wife and I do the lizard brain dance, and we do it about patio furniture. The spring patio furniture dance is more difficult than the fall dance because the metal patio furniture has been hibernating downstairs in the basement all winter; metal brown bears do the same thing.
Then, when the metal furniture awakens it has to be carried by hand, by the husband from the basement, up enough stairs to make me wish I had installed an elevator, to the deck—the deck that was just power washed by the same husband. By now I am missing the snow. I plodded along slowly like a trained pachyderm, a variety of furniture types raised overhead.
I was waiting for my neighborhood friends, guys like me, to set up lawn chairs and watch the parade, but then it occurred to me that they were either hiding from their spouses, or were having their own parades.
Our metal, outdoor patio furniture is unlike any other patio furniture. Unlike others in that, according to my wife, our outdoor furniture was not built to live outdoors. Not in the winter, and not in the rain. The seats and cushions were extruded from some unidentified made-material whose half-life was probably exceeds that of the fruitcake my grandmother made when I was twelve, but if it gets wet it may do a Wicked Witch of the West and melt.
Even so, with April being the month of showers, I know I will be hauling the cushions, the same cushions that I just hauled outside, back inside the first time we see a cloud drift overhead.
“They don’t melt,” I tell her.
“Are we missing a cushion?” She asks.
“No, I’ve been soaking one in the guest bathtub all winter. It looks good as new,” I tell her.
“That is not the same as leaving it out in the rain.” So much for trying to make a point.
So, how do we tie this into something that hopefully makes this few minutes worthwhile for you? I think that when it comes to assessing patient experience many hospitals think that when their patients are not in the hospital that the patients are hibernating safely and soundly and without a care in the world.
That makes it worthy to ask the questions, what do hibernating patients do? Often they call the hospital. They want access. And how is access defined? A patient tries to schedule an appointment or a lab. A patient needs a refill. Or has a complication from a medication or a procedure.
Here is why something as simple as being able to answer successfully a call is the first experience for many of people. And guess what? If we cannot answer a call it does not matter how noisy the hospital is, or how communicative the staff is because that person will not hear the noise. They will do one of two things, neither of which are good. They will choose a hospital who can answer the phones, or they will go to ED. Oh, and they will tell others.
A colleague was receiving chemotherapy at a top US cancer hospital. She spent three hours on the phone trying to schedule an appointment. Now she spends her hibernation telling others not to go to that hospital. Hospitals cannot put that toothpaste back into the tube.
If this fall they find any debris from the missing Malaysian airliner, my guess is that they will find a seat cushion. That cushion will have survived a fiery explosion at thirty-thousand feet, and will have spent six months floating in seawater. I will point that out to my wife just as soon as I finish carrying my deck furniture back to the basement to begin its hibernation.