Unique, Just Like Everyone Else

A few years back, a video of a lecture by Carnegie Mellon professor Randy Pausch made the YouTube rounds, becoming enormously popular; you’ve probably seen it. He later wrote a book discussing and unpacking many of the points he brought up in the lecture. If you haven’t watched or read them, I highly recommend both.

In any case, in the book Pausch describes the birth of his first child, how a complicated birth (a placental abruption) forced him to rush his wife to the Magee-Womens Hospital at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, and how his newborn child was brought into their neonatal ICU. He writes,

At Magee, they did a wonderful job of simultaneously communicating two dissonant things. In so many words, they told parents that 1) Your child is special and we understand that his medical needs are unique, and 2) Don’t worry, we’ve had a million babies like yours come through here. (91–92)

This is an elegant account of the demeanor we should all be trying to strike with the families of patients, and indeed with our patients themselves.

Many beginning providers, understandably unsure, will approach each patient like an antique porcelain vase: precious, delicate, and prone to breakage. This is the right attitude as far as priorities — we should take our care seriously — but that doubt is communicated in our body language and tone, and it’s not what sick and scared people want to hear. Imagine being the patient whose doctor says, “Man, look at that! I’ve never seen anything like that! Can we publish you?” or “Okay, I’m not going to lie, I’ve never done this in my life. But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night…”

On the other hand, it can be very few moons indeed until you’re a “veteran” in the worst sense of the word, dragging your technically skilled but burned-out husk from patient to patient, seeing nothing but a stack of paperwork and a routine litany of tests and treatments. Her? Oh, just another abominal pain. Yawn. Her name? Search me. Is it lunchtime yet?

See, people want to be treated like people, and people are unique, precious (at least in their own eyes), scared, and need to be engaged with on the same human level as when you say “thank you” to your barista or read a bedtime story to your son. But people are also machines, and the trick to fixing broken machines is to fix a lot of them, and treat them all the same. We need to be able to reconcile these paired, antagonistic traits, because otherwise we can’t do what they called us to do. It’s not a matter of nailing one goal but missing the other: you miss both. You can’t reassure anyone if you don’t competently address their actual problem, and you can’t practice sound medicine if you don’t engage with patients as people.

That’s the trick that the obstetrics and neonatal teams at Magee pulled off, and it’s all the more important for us, who have to approach patients without the comforting backdrop (that is, comforting to them and to us) of a bright beeping hospital. It’s the trick of quiet confidence, of demonstrating without words that you know exactly what you’re doing, that you bring tremendous skill and experience to the table — but that those tools are being brought to bear for your patient, for the scared individual you’re kneeling beside. The “all the kings horses” response by fire and EMS, the loud and alarming transport to the hospital, the wires and tubes and countless gloved hands — it’s overwhelming and frightening if you’re thrown into it as an unknown environment, but if you understand that it’s all being done for you, then it’s comforting. It’s like calling for help and getting the Wolf. That’s exactly what you wanted in your time of need.

You may not want to date a cocky lawyer. But he’s the one you’d want at trial.

Oldest Trick in the Book

I’ve never been to nursing school. But I like to imagine it goes something like this:

On the first day, you walk into class, surrounded by other bright-eyed, eager young students ready to learn the art and science of nursing. Textbooks weigh down your bag, and your pencils are sharp and ready.

Before you stands your instructor, an impressive-looking MSN whose carriage suggests many, many nights spent awake amidst the cool blue lights and quiet beeps of a MICU. As you watch, she strides to the whiteboard and writes in block letters:

Lesson One: The ID Flip

Lesson two is eye-rolling.

Most hospitals, just like most ambulance services, require that clinical staff wear an ID badge at all time. This identifies them by name and role (nurse, doctor, PA, etc.), and often gives them access to secure areas as well.

Long ago, some canny soul discovered that when patients know your name, they can complain about you. If they decide that they don’t like you, whether justified or not, they can call people — like your boss — and unleash angry, entitled, and very personalized tirades about “Sarah Roberts, that mean witch who told me to shut up and stop smoking heroin.”

“Well,” we figure; “if they don’t know our name, they can’t complain.” So although the powers-that-be did insist that badges be worn, we started hanging them in odd places, like from our belt, or inside a pocket. Or covering them with stickers and other things. But the best of all answer of all was elegantly geometric, made especially easy by free-spinning retractable ID clips: simply twist the card so it faces your chest, and the only thing visible is whatever text happens to be printed on the back. Technically, you’re still wearing the thing, and if the boss notices you can just say “whoops, it got twisted,” but nobody can actually read your name, and, ninja-like, you can move through the ward unseen, a bescrubbed ghost.

The nurses have turned this into an art-form, and in some places it’s like finding a four-leafed clover to see an RN with a visible ID (usually I figure they’re new there). But we’ve become awfully fond of this in EMS as well.

People, I realize that the world’s a rough place, that patients can be impossible to please, and that even the best of us need to take steps to ensure we still have a job tomorrow. I do understand this. But there’s a certain point where you have to stop digging trenches, and realize that if you’re giving great care, following procedure, behaving professionally, and generally toeing the line, then you should be willing to stand behind your work. If you’re employed at the kind of place that’s willing to take any complaint as reason to show you the door, I assure you that no amount of ID-flipping will save you. Your days are numbered. Of course, even a good service will eventually start clearing their throat and looking at you pointedly if your personnel file begins to grow particularly fat, but at that point, maybe you really should consider managing your douche coefficient.

Besides, this should all be moot, because when you meet your patient you’re introducing yourself by name anyway. Because that’s just common courtesy when you greet people. And patients are people. Right?

Strive to do the kind of work that allows you the confidence to stand behind it. When someone points at you with forehead veins a-pulsing and demands to know your name so your supervisor can “hear about it,” tell them and tell them proudly. Sometimes, doing the right thing won’t be a defense against trouble — but you can be sure that playing “who, me?” will run out of rope even sooner than that.

Clip your ID somewhere obvious — mine goes on my shoulder — where patients and staff alike can easily see it, and know what to call you and what role you’ll be playing in this show. When I see somebody with a visible ID, I take this as a good sign about their responsibility and willingness to own their work. And those are qualities we need in EMS.

The “Big Picture” Diagnosis

Our topic for today: diagnosis using a broad constellation of indicators, not a single red flag.

To mix things up, rather than read about it, let’s talk about it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pHAulBvZ48

Here’s the quote I mentioned, from TOTWTYTR at the CCC blog.

CPR for Dummies: How to Save a Life

One of the peculiarities of EMS education — and as a byproduct, of EMS practice and culture — is that we spend the majority of our time focusing on the minority of our calls. Think about it: your textbook has pages and pages devoted to ruptured aortic aneurysms, placentas previa, and mid-femur fractures — and when’s the last time you saw one of those? But scarcely a paragraph is given to the routine transfer, the drunk asleep on the sidewalk, or the MVC with minimal injuries. Call it an inverted pyramid: the most important stuff is low-volume, the most common stuff is pretty easy.

Whatever. The point is, at the very apex of this pyramid is the cardiac arrest. In its purest form, cardiac arrest is exactly why EMS exists. It couldn’t be higher stakes — as a disease, it’s absolutely certain to be life-threatening — and it’s terribly time sensitive, but the potential exists for a total cure if everything goes well.

Unfortunately, like many low-probability calls, we don’t get a great deal of experience with these — even less if your shift isn’t dedicated to emergencies. And when we don’t get much experience with something, that’s when training needs to fill in the gaps.

CPR and BLS resuscitation can seem like a confusing topic, especially given the frequent and seemingly arbitrary changes to the guidelines. The truth is, though, that it’s only gotten simpler and simpler — and you don’t need to follow the research (read: be a giant nerd like me) in order to know exactly what to do. Here’s the short, stripped-down, painless rules for how to save a life.

Push and Zap

Basically, after around sixty years of research on resuscitation, there are only two things that we know for sure help people survive cardiac arrest: chest compressions and defibrillation.

Literally, just those two things. Oh, there’s other stuff — ventilation, drugs, devices — that seem to help briefly, but so far nothing else has been proven to get someone’s heart beating again and let them walk out of the hospital with a working brain. Now, some of those other things do seem like pretty good ideas, and in many cases we started doing them before we knew if they’d really help or not, so we’re still doing them because people are used to it; it’s part of our training, and it’ll take some extra-compelling evidence to make us actually stop doing that stuff. But still, the story so far: chest compressions and defibrillation definitely help people survive, and that’s it.

What this means is that they should be your number one priority. If your patient is in cardiac arrest, that’s what they need. Other stuff? It may or may not be helpful; if you have the chance, or the personnel, and it doesn’t interfere with chest compressions and defibrillation, then you could go ahead and do it. It might help. But delaying or stopping the big two for that other stuff is like making a thirsty man wait for a drink of water while you comb his hair.

Early, Hard, Fast, Uninterrupted, and Full Recoil

Okay, so, chest compressions. Easy enough. Anyone can do ’em, all you need is your hands, just jump in there and push.

However, that’s not quite the whole story: the quality of compressions matters a great deal. We are literally pumping blood here; we are creating mechanical pressure to replace the squeezing of the heart. Just like you can wriggle a bicycle pump ineffectually without making much progress on inflating your tires, so too can you make goofy movements on someone’s chest without providing much perfusion. Even at its best, CPR only provides weak circulation compared to a real heartbeat; if you give poor CPR that’s even worse.

So here are the key components:

Early: Compressions should be initiated as soon as possible after arrest. That means, if I go down now, ideally you’ll start pushing on my chest as soon as I hit the ground. Typically that’s not possible, but mere seconds really do matter here; the longer there’s no circulation, the more tissue is endangered (all tissue, but particularly the vulnerable heart and brain), and the less likely that defibrillation will be successful — or if it is, the more likely there will be permanent complications.
Hard: Good chest compressions are a violent, aggressive act. We now recommend a depth of at least 2 inches in adults, which if you examine a mannequin (or fellow human) is remarkably deep. (Yes, “at least” means that going deeper is fine; compressions that are “too deep” are rarely seen in real life.) This isn’t a gentle cardiac massage, it’s not the mellow bouncing you usually see in movies, it’s a deep, powerful, oscillating thrust. It should tire you out, which is why we recommend changing personnel frequently; even when you think you’re still doing well after a few minutes, you’re probably not.
Fast: The recommended rate is now “at least” 100 compressions per minute. Since nobody knows what this means without a metronome, I highly recommend “musical pacing,” or using the beat of a well-known song to learn the rate. Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees is the classic; I like Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust myself. Again, 100 is an “at least” rate, so faster is better than slower. Admittedly, if you go extremely fast the heart won’t have time to fill between squeezes, but most “ludicrous speed!” CPR tends to have poor depth, and self-regulates anyway once you get tired.
Uninterrupted: Just like it’s essential to begin compressions as soon as possible, it’s equally essential to stop them for nothing. It’s not just that every moment you spend off the chest is “dead time” in which no blood is circulating; it’s worse than that. Chest compressions need to generate some “momentum” in order to create enough pressure to perfuse the heart; several consecutive compressions are needed before you’re really moving much blood at all. If you keep stopping — and studies show that everyone stops far more than they realize, to fiddle with one thing or another — you’re wasting those gains as soon as you’ve achieved them. Maximizing this “compression fraction” should be a primary goal; once you get on that chest, don’t stop for anything else unless it’s literally more important than circulating blood.
Full recoil: Among otherwise skilled rescuers, one of the most common errors is failing to allow for full recoil of the chest. In other words, you press down deeply, but rather than releasing fully, you start the next compression before you’ve come all the way up. This shortens the stroke of the pump just as much as if you were giving shallow compressions, and for several complex reasons (in particular the loss of preload) can reduce circulation in other ways too. We do this one particularly when we start to get tired, and begin to leaaaan forward to rest on the chest.

Defibrillation

It’s really as simple as this: once the heart’s entered fibrillation (or to a lesser extent a pulseless V-tach), the only plausible way to fix it is with electricity. These people are not going to “come to”; they are not going to have a Baywatch moment where they cough out water and wake up, even if you give them great CPR. They have an intractable problem, and the cure for it is an electric shock. Defibrillation is life-saving.

For most of us, this means using an AED, the automated devices you see everywhere from airports to ambulances. The reason they’re everywhere is because their use is time-sensitive, and if you drop dead ten miles from the nearest one, it might as well be ten light-years. No matter where you are, compressions must be performed to buy you time, and a defibrillator must be found to shock you back. If both don’t happen quickly, you will probably stay dead forever.

There are argument about some of the technical aspects of defibrillation, such as pad placement and waveform, but so far none of these details have proven to be very important. What is important is that you shock early, and get ready to shock without interfering with those compressions. Whenever possible, while one person gives compressions, someone else should clear off the chest by cutting or pulling the shirt from under the compressor’s hands, place the pads around them, and start the AED’s cycle. For many models of AED, there will be a period of several seconds while it walks you through voice prompts (telling you to stay calm, call for help, etc; these devices are designed to be usable by laypersons with no training), which should be ignored while you continue your CPR.

Once the AED tells that it’s analyzing the rhythm, you will need to stop compressions; this is the computer’s opportunity to decide whether the patient can be shocked or not, and interfering with this will just delay the process. If it doesn’t advise a shock, get back on the chest; you may have better luck later. If it does advise a shock, get back on the chest anyway! It’ll need to charge first, which may take quite a few seconds, and remember — every second matters. (Just make sure the whole team’s on the same page here, so that nobody pushes “Shock” until you’re clear.)

As soon as the AED announces that it’s ready to shock, everyone should be ready: cleared from the patient and prepared to shock. In a coordinated fashion, the compressor should clear the chest, the shock should be delivered, and he should immediately resume compressions with a pause of only a second or two. Rinse, lather, repeat.

When do you stop this process? When someone much smarter than you says to stop; or when the patient demonstrates clear signs of life (such as movement, breathing, or improved skin signs — or for the medics, a spike in end-tidal CO2). Don’t keep stopping to palpate pulses and otherwise fiddle with the patient. Like a soufflé or a Schroedinger’s cat, you must have faith in the process here, because checking on the process will assuredly cause it to fail.

It Ain’t Rocket Science

People, there are other details to this process, which is why they make us take CPR classes and carry the little cards around. And in 2015, there might be some new ideas on how we can do it best. Research continues apace in the countless EMS systems around the world that are experimenting with different technologies, techniques, and methods to improve survival. That’s how we’ve come from 1–2% survival rates to the 50%+ that a few cities now enjoy. It’s slow going, but it’s going.

But the best methods won’t matter if you don’t use them, and a lot of effort has been given to make our current methods truly simple. You literally can’t go wrong if you give great compressions and defibrillate as soon as possible. You can certainly go wrong if you forget that those are the two most important, life-saving measures — but you’d never forget that, would you?

Push and zap, folks. It’s so easy, an EMT can do it.

Russ Reina: Moments in the Death of a Flesh Mechanic

Russ Reina runs one of my “sister blogs” on the EMS Blogs network, EMS Outside Agitator. Although no longer working in EMS, he spent over a decade as a medic, way back in ’70s when the paramedic concept was first being introduced in the US; he later became involved with various other things including writing a film, working with Native American healing arts, and a book — Moments in the Death of a Flesh Mechanic: a Healer’s Rebirth. More recently he’s become active in the online EMS community via his blog, forums (he’s a moderator over at EMTLife.com), and similar venues.

Some time ago, Russ sent me a free copy of his book in exchange for my honest review. I read it, and enjoyed it, but it’s been sitting on my shelf since, because I haven’t been sure what to say about it.

To start with, let’s mention the elephant in the room. The stuff Russ talks about makes people uncomfortable. To be sure, he’s walked the walk, spending more hours on the road than many of us, and doing it in a time and place where that meant wielding tremendous responsibility in patient care. It’s hard to argue that he was a skilled and competent medic in his day, the kind of guy you’d be glad to have on scene or sitting beside you in the cab. But since then, he’s gone down a different road, and done a lot of… other stuff.

Tending fires in sweatlodges. Reiki. Personal growth and healing. If you click through his personal website, your first reaction is probably “… huh.” For the typical EMSer this is not really our wheelhouse, and at best, it places Russ firmly in the realm of alternative viewpoints. At worst it puts him in the same cart as the other EMS goofballs who do their job but are universally considered space cadets. (Admittedly this is a large cart, but still, it’s not great company.)

I confess that I share some of this attitude. I’m a simple, concrete guy at heart. But I also think that the things Russ talks about, and forces us to think about, are important — and that the reason we’re uncomfortable with them is the reason that we need to have that conversation.

The basic aim of his book is to weave together the calls he ran, the patients he sat beside, the lives and the deaths he saw, and look for the common threads. Not in the patients, but in him. As a paramedic, what was his role? When you take a step back from this job, when you stop for a moment and consider what it’s all about, what’s really going on?

If we’re diligent, and competent providers, we spend a great deal of time trying to improve the quality of our work: our knowledge base, our hands-on skills, our understanding of medicine and the human body — the how. But very little attention is ever given to the why. Why do we do this? It’s easy to be cynical — “well, the schedules are good, you get to cut people’s clothes off, and I was too dumb for anything else.” We’re professional cynics, and the job tends to beat the mushy stuff out of us. But although we rarely admit it, most of us did choose this job for real, human reasons. Something about helping people.

So we show up at the door wanting to help people. Then, usually a couple years later, most of us leave EMS to become nurses or electricians or vacuum cleaner repairmen. What happened between point A and point B?

You can call it burn-out, you can call it low morale. You can blame low pay and a “revolving door” culture and a million other things, most of which are valid and true. But the fact remains that even though people are coming to EMS with the right intentions, most of them aren’t surviving here for long, and of the ones who do stick around, many are empty shells, long since stripped of any human connection they once sought. This is an ill system. It’s not dying, we’re not end-stage, but we are not healthy or happy: the methods, mindsets, attitudes, and overall “immune system” necessary to keep us all going, to maintain our ideal homeostasis, is missing. Individually and collectively, as time passes we move down rather than up. Some rare individuals do find solid grounding and manage to put in 20 years as fully-functional people as well as caregivers, but they are the exception, and they do it by developing these tools on their own.

It’s not about competence. Many of our “walking wounded” are competent clinicians, adequate or even excellent technicians. Russ calls them flesh mechanics. We master the skills of of patching holes, adjusting rhythms, replacing fluids, and generally repairing the broken parts of the human body, all without ever acknowledging the people inside those bodies. To some extent, of course, this is an essential part of the job — it’s the M in EMS, it’s why we’re called to the scene. We ought to try and be excellent mechanics so we can save the most lives and mend the most harm. But this whole process is entirely separate and distinct from the motivations that brought us to the job to begin with. There’s a fundamental difference between tending to a car and tending to a person, and when we successfully manage to eradicate the human element, we quickly find ourselves unsatisfied and burned-out with our work. (It’s not like we’re getting rich doing it, or otherwise being externally rewarded.) Russ’s own journey of transitioning from a pure flesh mechanic back into someone who worked with people is the focus of his book.

Why do we do it? There are dozens of reasons you might pick. Some folks like to work and play at the boundaries, the liminal spaces between life and death. Some just really like meeting the people. Some, like Russ, have a more spiritual approach. Some find meaning from the teachings of traditional religion.

As for myself, I hate death, and suffering, and I want to guard people from it. And I think that I probably get an ego boost from fighting for the weak, and certainly from uncovering an interesting diagnosis. But most of all — and it’s the mindset I advocate for on this site — I simply adopt a deontological outlook: I believe that when we take a patient into our care, we assume a duty to do everything possible on their behalf. Not the duty to weigh the pros and cons, not to judge their need or worthiness, but simply to do it. Everyone deserves at least that.

But you might disagree. And that’s the key: many of us will disagree on how to handle the “why.” Unquestionably, I disagree with many of Russ’s views, or simply find them alien. However, I still think that it’s absolutely essential that we each find some meaning. There must be some human purpose to our work or we will not be happy, and eventually, we will not do it anymore. That’s the secret that Russ was able to uncover after enough years on the job and enough years away from it. Dozens of answers to the question are acceptable, but we at least have to ask the question; we do have to think about these things and not brush them aside. We have to operate on this level or we will not survive in the long run. Spirituality may or may not underly EMS as you understand it. But people — not just patients, not just broken machines — are unavoidably central to practicing medicine. You can do the job without that human connection, without the “why,” but it’s like showering with your raincoat on. You can’t feel it, and you won’t do a good job, and eventually you’ll give up and stop trying.

So to make a long story short, I think the task Russ has undertaken as an “agitator” is a tough one, and he won’t win many fans. Although he often clashes with the Rogue Medic, their jobs are not dissimilar; one is an continual gadfly working to force us toward better evidence-based medicine, and the other is a continual gadfly working to force us toward a healthier understanding of our job. I wouldn’t want to be either one. But I’m glad they’re here, because I also don’t want to watch good people being wasted in the cauldron of cynicism and pointlessness that is much of EMS today.

In any case, I do recommend his book. It’s an enjoyable read, well-written, with plenty of the entertaining stories that all veteran medics collect and that make the best EMS blogs and literature such good reads. It’s also a rare view of the early, Johnny-and-Roy days of paramedicine, and it’s fascinating to see what’s changed over the years and what hasn’t.

But mostly, I think it’s worth reading because Russ’s crusade really does have a vital purpose. If I have a quibble, other than the fact that his unorthodox background may turn many readers away from his message (although fairly little of that is present in the book), it’s that despite raising awareness to the problem, Russ is relatively silent as its to solutions. Of course, this may be the nature of the beast, where each of us needs to find his own answers. But on the large scale, I doubt the endemic disease of EMS will be cured in this way.

We can try, though. Let’s try.

Thoughts from WMEMS

This past weekend, I was able to attend the Western Massachusetts EMS Conference alongside such luminaries as Scott Kier and Kyle David Bates (of the extraordinary Pedi-U podcast). We sat through two days of outstanding lectures on various EMS-related topics, and walked away with some ideas and information I haven’t found anywhere else. Here are just a few of the unique pearls from the conference. Thanks to everyone for the great time!

Kyle David Bates on Mechanism of Injury

In an MVC, ejected (that is, fully ejected) victims have a 1/3 chance of a cervical spine fracture.
They also have around 25 times higher chance of mortality than an equivalent non-ejected patient.
Is “another death in the same vehicle” a legitimate concern when considering mechanism? Yes, but make sure that death wasn’t from an localized cause—for instance, a girder in the face, or they had a heart attack before they crashed.
How about “intrusion”? Over twelve inches into the patient compartment where your patient is found (meaning, visible from inside—not from the outside, which includes the buffer space of the walls), not including areas like the hood, trunk, etc. Alternately, over 18 inches into the patient compartment in areas where your patient is not found—for instance, the rear seating area, when you’re treating the solo driver.
“Distracting injuries” can mean painful injuries that distract the patient, but also gross stuff that distracts the provider. Consider a head-to-toe on virtually everyone, even when the funky arm fracture is drawing your attention.
Many “trauma” patients are no longer being treated with surgery anyway, so sending everything to the trauma centers overloads them for no reason.
One more reason why the sternal rub is not a great diagnostic: if they do clutch at their chest in response, is that localizing—or an abnormal, decorticate flexion response? Different GCS scores, but you can’t tell.
Are extremity injuries significant mechanisms? Penetrating injury proximal to the elbows or knees should be considered threatening to the torso, so yes. Pelvic fractures? For sure. (“How much blood can you lose into your pelvis? All of it!”)
With the automobile safety technology available today, you can crash fast, turn your car into a paperweight, but walk away unharmed. We no longer care about “high-speed,” only “high-risk,” which has many factors (see the Rogue Medic’s recent post on this).
Auto vs. pedestrians: kids get upper body injuries; adults get lateral trauma as we turn and try to get out of the way. Both can get run over.
Motorcycles. Harley-type riders seem to have more head injuries: they get hit by cars, due to low profile and dark clothing, and they wear partial helmets. Sports bikes get more extremity injuries: they wear good protection, are higher visibility, but they ride fast and run into things, breaking any and every bone they have.
Rollovers: no longer trauma criteria. You can roll and do great if you’re restrained. Number of rolls, final position, even roof intrusion have no correlation to injury severity.
Extrication time >20 minutes: no longer trauma criteria. Sometimes it just takes a while due to weather, access, etc, and newer vehicles are supposed to crumple more anyway.
Are burns trauma criteria? No. If they need specialized care, it’s a burn center, but this is not that time-sensitive—more a long-term management thing—so someone with burns and trauma should go to the trauma center instead, can be transferred later for burn care.
Helicopter transport: costs can range from $2,000 to $20,000 depending on distance, and insurers are refusing to pay many of these bills due to lack of necessity. Also consider the possibility of everyone dying in a fiery crash. Weigh cost vs. benefit.

Kyle David Bates on Shortness of Breath

Anxiety is caused by hypoxia; the cure for this is supplemental oxygen.
Sleepiness is caused by hypercapnia; the cure for this is bagging.
OPA or NPA? Testing the gag reflex may create a bigger airway problem (vomit). Better yet, check the mouth for pooled saliva; if present, there is no gag, use an OPA. If absent, they have a gag and are managing their own secretions, use an NPA.
Respiratory distress means there’s a problem, but they’re compensating (compensatory signs like tachypnea).
Respiratory failure means they’re decompensating (hypoxic/hypercarbic signs like altered mental status, cyanosis, falling sats)
Respiratory arrest means they’re not breathing.
Normal inspiration:expiration cycle about 1:2. Obstructive pulmonary problems impede expiration first, because that’s the passive process—it’s easier to inhale past obstructions because it’s an active process. So asthmatics have ratios like 1:4 or 1:5, they’re using active exhalation, and using auto-PEEP maneuvers. (Pursed lips in adults, grunting in kids.)
In adults, look for retractions intercostal (between the ribs) and sternal notch (between the clavicles); in kids, look substernal (below the ribs).
40% of patients hospitalized with asthma have a pneumothorax! (Not necessarily clinically significant, though.)
Pulsus paradoxus/paradoxical pulses are a useful early sign of significant pulmonary dysfunction.
90% of asthma attacks linked with an allergic reaction; however, rhinovirus (the common cold) may now be a contender. Others include: exercise (not sure why; maybe the temperature differential), active menstruation (asthma very common in young post-pubescent women—maybe the hormones), psychological (stress, panic), aspirin use.
Kids compensate great, so cyanosis (a decompensation sign) in kids is very late and very bad.
Risk-stratify these patients, because high risk patients can decompensate fast even if they look okay now. Previous hospitalizations? ICU admits? Intubations?
Cough asthma: no dyspnea, just dry coughing. It happens.
Smokers: measured in pack-years. 1 pack a day for 20 years is 20 pack-years, 2 packs a day for 5 years is 10 pack-years; 30–35 pack-years is where we start to see bad dysfunction.
Best place to check skin? Under the lower eyelid—lift it and check the mucus membranes. Dry for dehydration, pale for shock, blue for cyanosis, the whole gamut.
Ascites is a sign of fluid overload; try the fluid wave test. (Scroll down to “Examining for a fluid wave” here.)
Nebulized ipratropium/Atrovent: its role is mainly to reduce mucus and secretions (cf. atropine). Tachycardia etc. is not a contraindication, because it’s not absorbed systemically; it remains in the lungs.
Give nebs by hand-held mask or T-piece instead of strapping it to their face; that way you have a warning of deterioration when they can no longer hold it to their face.
Bronchodilators may not work great in beta-blocked patients.
Steroids take hours to have an effect, but the earlier they’re given the better the outcomes; give ’em if you have ’em.
If they need RSI, ketamine is nice because it also bronchodilates.
“Facilitated intubation” (i.e. snow ’em with a ton of benzos/narcs)? Be careful, because if you don’t get that tube, it’ll take forever to wear off; these aren’t short-duration drugs.

Kyle David Bates on Pediatrics

Use the Pediatric Assessment Triangle! Appearance, Work of Breathing, Circulation.
Appearance: General activity level and impression. Muscle tone, interactivity and engagement, look/gaze, crying. Appropriate appearance depends on age. Indicates a CNS/metabolic problem. (Make sure to check their sugar.)
Work of Breathing: Flaring, retractions, audible sounds, positioning. Remember they’re belly breathers.
Circulation: mostly skin. Cyanosis (bad), pallor, mottling (pallor + patchy cyanosis), marbling (in newborns—bright red skin with visible blood vessels, maybe some white areas—this is normal). Check cap refill on bottom of foot in little kids.
Shock in kids is most often from dehydration.
Airway: crying is a great sign. Remember to pad under the shoulders when lying flat, their huge heads can tip them forward and block the airway. Avoid NPAs in infants. In very small kids, breath sounds can transmit, so you may hear upper sounds in the chest or chest sounds in the trachea.
Under 2 months: peripheral cyanosis is normal, central cyanosis is bad. Limited behavior, often won’t visually track. Ask parents if their behavior is normal. Ask about obstetric history, it’s still relevant. They have no immune system really, so any infection (temp over 100.4) is a serious emergency.
2–6 months: social smile, will track visually, recognize mom, strong cry and can roll/sit with support. May still be okay with strangers, but try to keep them with parents; if parents like you, they’ll like you
6–12 months: stranger anxiety (unless they’re raised very communally). Very mobile and explore with their mouth, so always think about foreign body airway obstructions, especially up the nose, especially for dyspnea with sudden onset. Separation anxiety, so keep with parent. Offer distractions (toys, etc.). Do exam from toe to head so they get used to you before you reach their face.
1–3 yrs (toddlers, “terrible 2s”): mobile, curious, opinionated, ego-centric, can’t abstractly connect cause-and-effect but learn from experience. Keep with the parents, distract them, assess painful part last (or everything you touch afterwards will hurt). May talk a lot or not much, it’s all normal, but they always understand more than they let on, so be careful what you say.
3–5 yrs (preschool): magical thinkers, misconceptions (“silly” ideas like if they leak too much they’ll run out of blood), many fears (death/darkness/mutilation/aloneness), short attention span. Explain things in simple terms, relate to them (any cartoons or toys in the house you recognize?), use toys, involve them (here hold this, which arm should I use, etc). Don’t ever negotiate, just tell them what to do; praise them often; never ridicule.
6–12 yrs (school aged): talkative, mobile, may not get cause and effect, want reassurance, involvement, praise. Live in present, may not think about danger or risk. Peer involvement. Speak directly to them, anticipate questions (will this hurt? am I going to die?), give simple explanations, don’t ever lie, respect privacy. If you need to do something painful (IVs, etc.) don’t tell them until just before, or they’ll dwell on it. Head-to-toe okay.
13–18 (adolescents): regress when hurt or sick—act like big toddlers. Can understand and theoretically have common sense, but still take risks. Peer support. Speak directly, give concrete explanations, respect privacy, have patience.
Under 21 usually considered “pediatric.”
Degree of fever temp not associated with severity. No actual danger to brain until 106–107 degrees F or so.

Dr. Lisa Patterson on Trauma and Field Triage

RR <20 in infants is trauma center criteria since this is the one easily-measurable vital sign for them.
Crushed/degloved/mangled extremities: although not life-threatening, still worth the divert, because usually needs multi-specialty care (plastic surgery, orthopedics, hand specialists, etc.) to maximize function.
Calling in “altered mental status” or “unresponsive” is not super helpful—give a GCS or otherwise specify what you mean, there’s a big range here.
Trauma activations here are typically three tiers: category 1 (life threat), category 2 (no immediate emergency, but some concern or suspicion due to mechanism or presentation), consult (no concern on initial presentation, but later decision to admit, trauma paged down to consult).
Activation may alert/standby numerous parties including radiology, OR, pharm, blood bank, lab, ICU, respiratory, anesthesiology, social workers, etc. Not a small thing.

Sean Dorr on OEMS investigations

[This is Massachusetts-specific information; local providers can contact me directly if they want to hear about some of this material.— ed.]

Ginnie Teed on Organ and Tissue Donation

Donation is hugely hugely valuable and lifesaving, but there’s not nearly enough. About 60-70% of Americans are registered donors, around 100 million people, but only 1% end up as usable donors and we need far more. Low rates aren’t from consent, they’re from the logistics of getting viable candidates.
Uniform Anatomical Gift Act (UAGA) is federal regulation providing basic requirements for process; states use this standard to form their own systems. Registered donors must be recognized and organ procurement agencies are required to advocate for them even against wishes of family, etc. Driver’s license “opt-in” now considered legal consent in some but not all states.
National Organ Transplant Act establishes the rules of the registry, blinds the entire process, prevents manipulation or line-jumping; the database is centralized and controlled; you can’t legally buy or otherwise get around the system. Manipulation is taken very very seriously and massively investigated, because it’s not only unethical, the pall it casts over the process makes others decide not to donate—the result is many lives lost.
Referrals (i.e. calling procurement organization to say, “we have a potential donor”) come from hospitals, nursing homes, clinics, whomever. This process is exempt from HIPAA.
Tissues tested more heavily than organs, because if an infection is carried through transplanted (i.e. nonliving) tissue, it’s almost impossible to eradicate.
Organs used: vital organs. Heart, lungs, kidneys and livers (most common), pancreas, sometimes small bowel. Max 9 organs per donor.
Tissues used: not living, usually good for about 24 hours after death. Bones (not marrow, which is living), although we try to not obviously mutilate people (for their family’s sake), skin (hugely beneficial), corneas, vessels, heart valves, pericardium, connective tissue (for orthopedic repairs).
Three ways to declare death: neurological (no brain activity; body only alive due to our mechanical support; recovery team responds to site and performs planned recovery); cardiac death (heart stops; not planned); planned extubation/cardiac death (patient is mechanically supported, determination made that there is no possibility to survive on their own; vent is pulled, if heart stops within 59 minutes they can take some organs; usually just the durable liver and kidneys unless bypass is available).
Live organs can only be taken from perfused patients. Someone “dead” (i.e. no pulses) can be a tissue donor but not an organ donor unless you get ROSC. No point in continuing CPR to “maintain the organs” if there’s no possibility of getting return of circulation.
EMS documentation absolutely critical for determining donor eligibility. Need to know downtime in arrests, how much CPR, any ROSC no matter how brief, events/mechanism leading to arrest. There are hard limits on fluid/blood/colloids received, so they must know how much fluid you gave (reasonable estimate is fine). Must document all needlesticks, number and location; if they find any holes that aren’t accounted for they’ll have to assume they’re a drug user or that additional lines were started and extra liters given. If you don’t want to document something at least tell the receiving staff.
If blood is drawn, label must be placed so that expiration date of tube is still readable (FDA requirement).
Every donor can save up to 200 people; failure to document can kill just as many.

UMass Memorial LifeFlight on Air Ambulance Transport

Consider: how do you want the helicopter used? Need their higher level of care? Rapid transport to trauma center? Transport multiple patients in an MCI to more distant hospitals to reduce burden on closest facilities? Can even split the crew to provide higher level of care for multiple ground ambulances.
Many services simply will not fly into a hazmat situation.
Best makeshift landing zones are schools—big open areas, everyone knows where it is.
Wires are a major hazard, make sure to warn pilot—you can see them but he can’t.
Need about 100 x 100 ft for an LZ, or 35–40 big-ish strides per side. Secure the area against bystanders.
Hazards to clear, alert the pilot to, or just pick another spot: poles, antennas, trees, bushes, livestock, stumps, holes, rocks, logs, mile markers, debris. Tall grass can hide hazards. Close all vehicle doors, put your chinstraps on, secure loose items. Don’t stare at the bird landing, turn your back and watch for hazards.
Bad surfaces are dust, dirt, snow, ice, hay. Snow should ideally be very fluffy or very packed. If they land and get iced they may not be able to take off again. Don’t wash down a dusty LZ unless pilot requests it. Paved areas are simplest and best. Large clear roadways can land multiple choppers in a row.
Lighting options: orange traffic cone at each corner, with a handlight placed in each at nighttime. Or, flashing ministrobe at each corner. Or, vehicle headlights crossing the LZ. Don’t shine anything up at the helo, don’t mark with loose material, don’t use flares.
Designate one person as LZ Command (not the IC). Nobody else communicates with the helicopter. Your portable radio probably won’t reach them; use the mobile in the truck. If there’s any hazard on final approach, say one word—”STOP”—and pilot will abort.
Most crashes are pilot error, and most pilot error is due to fatigue. There should be hour limits for a pilot, and this is a valid reason to refuse to fly.

Detective John LeClair, EMT-P, on Opiates and Prescription Pills

Heroin is still big, but pills are a huge player now too. You get an easy prescription from a walk-in clinic or ED, pay maybe a couple bucks with Medicare/Medicaid, and can not only sell them for easy cash but can crush and snort/shoot it for the same effect as heroin. Then if money or access runs low, you end up on heroin anyway to chase that high.
Oxycontin/oxycodone best selling narcotic in the nation ten years ago, but now on the wane. You scrape off the time-release coating, crush it and snort or chew it. “Hillybilly heroin,” “blue,” “oxycotton,” “kicker,” etc. Street price about $1/mg (40mg, 80mg, 160mg common), so many turned to crime. In Aug 2010, manufacturer (Purdue) added a “geling” agent which turns it to gel when it contacts water, making it difficult to snort. Try to snort this Oxycontin OP and it turns into a ball in your nose. Some people are sticking straws/tubes up in there to try and get it deeper and deeper, so airway obstructions are happening.
Percocet: oxy plus acetaminophen. For years the most common analgesic for sports injuries, so common among youth. Kids shared ’em, put out bowls of them at parties, girls prostituted themselves for pills. Taken with alcohol the APAP/Tylenol kills your liver. “Littles,” “little babies,” “little dogs.”
Opana/oxymorphone: getting popular after Oxy OP started ruining everyone’s fun. Same idea but you can still snort it. Twice as strong, and costs twice as much ($2/mg)
How to grind? Take a hose clamp, cut it, straighten it, tape it down, run the pill across the holes to grind it. Or use a Pedi-Egg, which collects the powder for you. The finer, the better high.
Heroin: snort, “skin pop” (subcutaneous), mainline. Must be pretty pure to snort, which it now tends to be, so popularity grew (people were afraid of needles due to HIV). However now some HIV/Hep is spreading through bloody noses and sharing straws anyway.
Smack, horse, china white, chiva, junk, H, tar, black, fix, dope, brown, dog, food, negra, nod, white horse, stuff. Dealers have their own “brand names.”
Heroin addicts are creatures of habit; get high same place, same way. Any change in their routine (e.g. different location) can get them amped up, changing their sensitivity and leading to OD even with their usual dose. Consider this if you find an OD somewhere like a car or alley.
“Cotton fever”: they pluck out wads of cotton from cigarette filters and drop it in the heroin to help filter it. Sometimes when they draw out the liquid they get a bit of cotton, and when they shoot it they get a sort of phlebitis/infection/sepsis.

Differentiating Syncope: A Few Pearls

Syncope. To a fresh-faced student, it’s a snappy word for fainting. To someone with experience, it’s a heavy sigh, because we take a lot of calls for “syncope” and most of them are no big deal. But to a veteran provider, syncope is a deep, dark diagnostic hole—because syncope can be caused by countless different disorders, and although some are benign, a few of them are deadly.

Comprehensive diagnosis and treatment of syncope deserves its own dedicated series, and one of these days we’ll try and work through it from A to Z. Every etiology is unique and has its own distinct pathophysiology, presentation, and treatment considerations. Syncope sucks.

But for now, we’ll just talk about a few take-home pearls that can pay dividends in the everyday management of your next syncope call. We don’t support simplistic rules of thumb ’round these parts, but sometimes 95% of the work can be done by 5% of the know-how, and that’s just fine.

Here are a few dead-simple roadsigns to help guide you through the most common and most important causes of syncope.

Did they pass out and fall, or did they fall and then pass out?

Syncope means that somebody passed out and fell down. It doesn’t mean that they fell down and then lost consciousness. If they tripped on an oil can, fell over and smacked their head on a rock, they may have blacked out, but there’s no mystery there—it’s a simple trauma call.

So, our first step should be to take the raw he passed out and sift it into a more precise description. One problem is that people who lose consciousness often have a poor or unreliable memory of those events, so they may not always be helpful; this is why it’s nice to have witnesses who can tell the story. Of course, witnesses aren’t always reliable either.

Okay, so what do they remember?

To the extent that the patient remembers it, how do they describe the event?

A prodrome is an early, sometimes subtle set of symptoms that warn of a problem developing. Prodromes are our friend, because although they can be very brief or non-obvious, when present they can help indicate what happened. So, ask! It’s the O in OPQRST, and it’s the E in SAMPLE, so it’s the beginning and end of our patient history—no excuses!

Vasovagal syncope is one of the most common causes of syncope, involving a transient drop in blood pressure, and vasovagal syncope is usually preceded by a prodrome. If you’ve never had the experience of standing up too fast and getting briefly faint, here’s the gist: you become light-headed, your vision blurs or darkens, you feel weak, you may stumble, and finally you go down. There may also be broad neurological symptoms, such as visual disturbances (“seeing spots”), strange sensations, shaking, and more. (Basically, your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen, so odd stuff happens.)

How about seizures? Many seizures are preceded by a prodrome known as an “aura,” which can manifest as various unusual neurological abnormalities; read more in our piece on seizures. Did the patient truly lose consciousness, or do they claim that they remained somewhat aware? In a simple partial seizure, the patient will remain aware of their surroundings (although these often don’t cause a “syncopal” collapse); in most others they will experience a gap in consciousness.

Syncope caused by cardiac arrhythmias, such as a run of V-tach or a Stokes-Adams attack, will sometimes be preceded by a palpable sensation of weakness, or palpitations (“fluttering”) in the chest. However, in many cases there will be no warning whatsoever.

What did the witnesses see?

It’s one thing to hear about a prodrome from the patient, but you may get a different story from the bystanders.

What did they see before he went down? Did he become absent, demonstrate tics or tonic immobility, perhaps complain of an aura? Did he demonstrate obvious clonic jerking of the muscles or urinary incontinence? If he’s acting normally now, was there a period after the event where he demonstrated sluggish activity or unusual behavior, consistent with a post-ictal period? These are all suggestive of a seizure.

Were his eyes open or closed for the duration? Closed is typical of classic syncope, such as a vagal event; open is more appropriate for a seizure. If open, were they rolled back? This also suggests seizure.

Did the patient say, do, or complain of anything before or after the event, which he may no longer recall? Dizziness, headache, chest pain?

Did he stumble, lean against something, or seem to become dizzy? After he went down, did he regain consciousness almost immediately? These are suggestive of vasovagal; once a horizontal position is reached, perfusion to the brain is restored and the problem resolves. If he remained unconscious for a prolonged period while prone—or his initial episode occurred while already seated or reclined—this is highly unusual for vasovagal.

Was he walking and moving normally, in no distress, when he suddenly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, hitting the ground with no attempt to protect himself? This is strongly suggestive of a cardiac event and these patients should be considered high-risk for sudden death.

Is there a suggestive history or surrounding circumstances?

Sometimes, the chain of events or the patient’s medical history may suggest an etiology.

Is there a known history of a seizure disorder like epilepsy? How about diabetes? (Take a blood sugar if you’re capable of it; in my book, everybody with an altered mental status is diabetic.) Do they have often pass out or become light-headed?

Have they been eating and drinking as normal? Have they had the flu, and been unable to keep down fluids for the past two days? Were they partying all night? Vomiting? Are they a marathon runner who collapsed in 110 degree weather? Dehydration is a common cause of syncope, particularly in the young, healthy population.

Is there a known condition which may have neurological or metabolic involvement? Cancer with metastases to the brain? A recent infection? A congenital heart condition, such as Long QT, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, or Brugada? For that matter, are they currently drunk or using drugs? If they take psychotropic or other medications, are they compliant with these, or could there have been an under- or over-dose?

Has there been any recent trauma, such as a fall, motor vehicle collision, or assault with injury?

Have there been repeated lapses in and out of consciousness, rather than a single event? This is an ominous sign suggesting a significant problem.

Are there frank clinical signs that suggest a diagnosis?

This is less likely to be useful than the history, but it can help rule in or rule out major, acute emergencies.

Cardiac abnormalities may manifest with irregular pulses, and active decompensation may be revealed in the blood pressure. Whenever possible these patients should receive ECG monitoring, including a 12-lead. Orthostatic vital signs can be considered if vagal, orthostatic, or hypovolemic etiologies are suggested.

All syncope patients, including suspected seizures, should get a neurological workup, particularly a Cincinatti Stroke Scale.

Respiratory adequacy, including pulse oximetry where available, should be assessed.

Evaluate the abdomen for signs of hemorrhage, and inquire about blood in the stool or emesis as well.

All Nestled in Bed: Blanket Warmers

I sometimes wonder if men have a disadvantage. The tender and comforting thing doesn’t come as naturally to many of us. Genes, I suppose; we were busy hunting the wooly mammoth while the babies were being nursed.

But as I’m wont to harp upon, in my opinion, one of the most important treatments EMS can offer is simply comforting its patients in their worst times. Most of our patients aren’t dying. A few are. The one trait shared by both categories is that they’re all having a hard time. And with a deft human touch, we can usually help. Just being alive is the indication for that intervention.

A gentle word, a listening ear, going the extra mile — it’s all worth something. But there’s one trick that every seasoned EMT knows, and it’s this: a warm blanket can cure all ills.

Somewhere within every emergency department, tucked somewhere in a corner, there stands a shiny metal refrigerator-like device called a blanket warmer. It’s essentially an electric oven. Busy nurses and techs toss in blankets, shut the door, and before long they’re warmed through to a preset temperature. Which is: Toasty.

This may sound banal. But warm blankets are amazing.

I can’t count how many patients I’ve assessed, treated, and transported, where in the end I was confident that the best thing I did for them was cover their body with a warm blanket. It’s balm for the soul. Never mind that most of our patients are old, diabetic, anticoagulated, and have the blood pressure of a wet towel. Never mind that the rest are acutely sick or injured, distressed, hurt and often alone. Never mind that they may have come in from the street, on a night when the weather’s had you bundled up in your winter coat. And never mind that hypothermia promotes tissue hypoxia and coagulopathy.

The simple fact is that the ER is an uncomfortable, unpleasant, physically and emotionally cold place, and it’s worse when you’re sick enough to get there by ambulance. We have to deliver our patients into this nasty place, but at least we can try and make it a gentle experience. Sadly, we usually can’t bring them hot chocolate, give them a footrub or play smooth jazz. But warm blankets we can do.

Let me tell you, too, that no patient has ever issued a complaint or filed a lawsuit against an EMT when his last actions were to smile, cover her with a warm blanket, shake her hand, and wish her luck. True fact.

But lawsuits aside, this is just the easiest way in the book to ease someone’s suffering. And ain’t that something that comes with the patch?

Ensuring Appropriate Triage

It’s no secret that I’m a strong believer in patient advocacy, and that I feel one of the most important roles for EMS is to ensure that patients get directed to the right destination with the right priority and resources. Bob Sullivan at EMS Patient Perspective recently gave a post that hits on all of these points, discussing how to ensure that “undertriaged” patients don’t fall through the cracks at the ED. These details on how to work the system are some of the most valuable things we learn with experience, and to a large degree they’re what allow the ten-year veteran to help patients in ways the novice can’t. Give it a read!

What it Looks Like: Jugular Vein Distention

See also what Agonal Respirations, Seizures, and Cardiac Arrest and CPR look like

Jugular vein distention or JVD (alternately JVP — jugular vein pressure or jugular vein pulsation) is right up there among the most mentioned but least described clinical phenomena in EMS. If you tried to count how many times it occurs in your textbook, you’d run out of fingers, but many of us graduate without ever seeing so much as a picture of it, never mind developing the acumen to reliably recognize it in an emergency.

JVD is simply the visible “bulging” of the external jugular veins on either side of the neck. These are large veins that drain blood from the head and return it directly to the heart. Since they’re located near the surface, they provide a reasonably good measure of systemic venous pressure.

JVD is elevated any time venous return is greater than the heart’s ability to pump the blood back out. Remember that we’re not talking about the vessels that plug into the left heart; that involves the pulmonary arteries and veins, which are not visible in the neck. (Instead, the best indicator of pulmonary hypertension is audible fluid in the lungs.) Rather, we’re talking about the systemic vasculature, which drains into the right ventricle via the right atrium. When veins aren’t getting emptied, we look downstream to discover what portion of the pump is failing. JVD is therefore caused by right heart failure. (Of course, the most common cause of right heart failure is left heart failure, so that doesn’t mean it’s an isolated event.) If JVD isn’t the heart’s fault, then we look to fluid levels. Too much circulating volume will lead to bulging veins for obvious reasons; the flexible tubes are simply extra full.

Although it’s probably most often seen, and most diagnostic, in volume-overloaded CHF patients, the main reason JVD is harped upon in EMS is because it’s a useful sign of several acute emergencies. Mainly, these are obstructive cardiac conditions, where some sort of pressure is impeding the heart’s ability to expand, and immediate care to relieve the pressure is needed in order to prevent incurable deadness. Much like the bladder, the heart is just a supple bag of squishy muscle, and although muscle is very good at squeezing, it has no ability to actively expand. The heart therefore fills only with whatever blood passively flows into it, and if it’s being externally squeezed by pressure in the chest, it can’t fill very much.

Tension pneumothorax is perhaps the most common cause, where air leaks from the lungs into the chest cavity with no way to escape; as the pressure in the chest increases, it bears down on the heart. Associated symptoms are respiratory difficulty, decreased breath sounds on the affected side, and hypotension. Pneumothorax can be readily corrected by paramedics using needle decompression.

Cardiac tamponade is another cause, where fluid leaks from the heart into the pericardium, an inflexible sac that surrounds it (this leakage is called a pericardial effusion), eventually filling the available space and compressing the myocardium. Associated symptoms are hypotension and muffled heart sounds (these plus JVD are known as Beck’s triad). Tamponade cannot be treated in the field, but an emergency department can perform a pericardiocentesis, where a needle is inserted through the pericardium. (For the medics out there, electrical alternans on the monitor is also supportive of tamponade.)

A rather less common syndrome that can produce similar obstructive effects is severe constrictive pericarditis, inflammation of the pericardium usually caused by infection.

JVD is not an all-or-nothing finding — the amount of distention visible at the neck will depend on the degree of venous pressure. Gravity wants to pull blood back down, so the more venous pressure, the higher on the neck distention will climb; profound JVD reaches many inches up the neck, slight JVD will only cover a few centimeters. The pressure can actually be quantified by measuring the vertical height of the highest point of distention (measured from the heart itself, using the angle of Louis as a landmark), but this is probably more detail than is needed in the field. Suffice to say that distention reaching more than 2-4cm of vertical distance (as opposed to the distance on the neck) above the chest is usually considered pathological, and less than 1-2cm can be considered suggestive of hypovolemia.

If it changes with respiration, JVD should rise during expiration and fall with inspiration. Breathing in involves using your diaphragm to create “suction” in the chest, reducing pressure and allowing greater venous return — draining the jugulars. A paradoxical rise in JVD during inspiration (think: up when the chest goes up) is known as Kussmaul’s sign (not to be confused with Kussmaul respirations, which is a pattern of breathing), and is particularly suggestive of obstructive pathologies.

JVD can be difficult to appreciate in all but the most significant cases. It helps to turn the patient’s head away and illuminate the area with angled backlighting, which creates a “shadow” effect. Jugular pulsation should not be confused with a visibly bounding carotid pulse. To distinguish them, remember that although jugular veins may visibly pulsate, their rhythm is generally complex, with multiple pulsations for each single heartbeat (you can feel the carotid to compare the two). The jugular “pulse” will also never be palpable; the distention can be easily occluded by the fingers and will feel like nothing.

Strictly speaking, the internal jugular is usually considered more diagnostically useful than the external jugular, but it’s far harder to examine, so the latter is often used. For various reasons, many people also find the right jugular more useful than the left, although in an ambulance it’s harder to examine.

Most often, JVD is examined in an inclined or semi-Fowler’s position of 30-45 degrees. If the patient is supine, a total lack of visible JVD is actually pathological and indicative of low volume; in this position the jugular veins are usually well-filled. (Think: flat veins in a flat patient is bad.) JVD when the head is elevated is more to our interest.

Some examples of visible JVD follow, plus some examination tips. It is recommended that you start checking this on your healthy patients now, so you’ll know what it looks like before you try to make a diagnostic call using its presence. And until you do, stop documenting “no JVD” on your assessments!

A different, much larger view of the same (click to enlarge)

Click through for a good discussion of JVD assessment

A nicely thick and squiggly external jugular

Here’s a student making her external jugular “pop” by heavily bearing down, aka the Valsalva maneuver. This markedly increases thoracic pressure, increasing venous backup; it’s an exaggeration of the effect seen during normal exhalation.

Another example of someone inducing JVD by a Valsalva

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlhQGqdEfg8

Here’s a great video demonstrating the appearance of JVD, how to measure it, and testing the abdominojugular reflex (formerly known as the hepatojugular), which involves pressing down on the abdomen to raise thoracic pressure.

A brief clip of jugular venous pulsation, visible mainly toward the suprasternal notch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOpn6_r7Wo4