I was thinking about the time I was teaching rappelling in the Rockies during the summer between my two years of graduate school.  The camp was for high school students of varying backgrounds and their counselors.  On more than one occasion, the person on the other end of my rope would freeze and I would have to talk them down safely.

Late in the day, a thunderstorm broke quickly over the mountain, causing the counselor on my rope to panic.  No amount of talking was going to get her to move either up or down, so it was up to me to rescue her.  I may have mentioned in a prior post that my total amount of rappelling experience was probably no more than a few more hours than hers.  Nonetheless, I went off belay, and within seconds, I was shoulder to shoulder with her.

The sky blackened, and the wind howled, raining bits of rock on us.  I remember that only after I locked her harness to mine did she begin to relax.  She needed to know that she didn’t have to go this alone, and she took comfort knowing someone was willing to help her.

That episode reminds me of a story I heard about a man who fell in a hole—if you know how this turns out, don’t tell the others.  He continues to struggle but can’t find a way out.  A CFO walks by.  When the man pleads for help the CFO writes a check and drops it in the hole.  A while later the vendor walks by—I know this isn’t the real story, but it’s my blog and I’ll tell it any way I want.  Where were we?  The vendor.  The man pleads for help and the vendor pulls out the contract, reads it, circles some obscure item in the fine print, tosses it in the hole, and walks on.

I walk by and see the man in the hole.  “What are you doing there?”  I asked.

“I fell in the hole and don’t know how to get out.”

I felt sorry for the man—I’m naturally empathetic—so I hopped into the hole.  “Why did you do that?  Now we’re both stuck.”

“I’ve been down here before” I said, “And I know the way out.”

I know that’s a little sappy and self-serving.  However, before you decide it’s more comfortable to stay in the hole and hope nobody notices, why not see if there’s someone who knows the way out?

Merely appointing someone to run your EHR effort doesn’t do anything other than add a name to an org chart.

The photo comes from my Robert Redford look alike period.

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.”

“Why?”

“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?”

“Beats me.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said, trying to fetter a laugh.

Sounds like fun to me too.

A perfect problem, in its existing state, is unsolvable.  The way most of us handle it is to click our heels together three times and hope it goes away.  We tend to work on imperfect problems, those that can be solved.

One of my college professors—way back when we still had inkwells on our desks—told me that if you cannot solve the problem the way it is stated, it is to your advantage to restate the problem.  I tried this on a final exam; the problem as it was stated was to contrast two philosophers, one of whom, having not read the book, I had no idea who he was. I restated the problem to contrast two philosophers I knew.  He wrote back on my exam saying I had made a nice effort at using the technique but that the philosopher I chose was the wrong one.

What is the difference between the two problem types?  The first step is the ability to understand what makes the perfect problem uniquely unfixable.  Perhaps a few examples would help.

• The CEO imposed a deadline for the implementation of EHR.
• CMS Meaningful Use rules do not fit with our operational strategy.
• If we do not implement EHR by this date, we do not get the money.
• We must meet Meaningful Use
• We do not have enough resources from the EHR users to understand their processes.
• We cannot continue to support these low-margin services
• We do not have enough time to define our requirements
• We cannot afford to spend the time required to assess our processes before we bring in the EHR vendor.

What can be done?  The easy answer is to plan for failure and do your best to minimize it.

What is another way to describe the above examples?  They are constraints.  They can all be rewritten using the word “can’t”.  Rewritten, we might say, “We had a chance to succeed, but because of X, Y, and Z we can’t.”  If that assessment is correct, you will fail, or at least under-deliver at a level that will be remembered for years to come.  That’s a legacy none of us wants.

There are a few solutions to this scenario.  You can eliminate the seemingly intractable constraints; the organization can determine to re-implement EHR and hope for different results; or they can simply find someone else to solve the perfect problem.

Experience teaches good leaders really want reasoned advice.  They want the members of the C-suite to tell them what must be done to be successful.  Good leaders do not accept “can’t”—not on the receiving end, not on the delivering end.

Some will argue, “This is the way our organization works.”  Even if that is true one must consider what is needed to make an exception to the constraint.  Would you accept this logic from a subordinate?  Of course not.  You’d demand a viable solution.  If you are being constrained in your efforts to solve a perfect problem, perhaps it is time to restate the constraints.

Maybe the solution to the perfect problem is to restate it in a manner that makes it imperfect—solvable.