Why I will never badmouth AIDET again.
(At least, not very often)
(I don’t own AIDET. Studer Group does, I think? There’s a Registered Trademark on it, in any case. All credit, etc., etc.)
We’ve all had to do it. Onboarding, yearly compliance training, education modules. And, depending on your region and company, you have done something like AIDET. It’s an acronym (because we don’t have enough of those in healthcare) for how to introduce yourself to patients. It establishes roles and trust, as well as outlines expectations.
I can feel your eyerolls through the internet.
I, too, barely restrained my teenage-esque groan of exasperation when I was first taught this technique. And the second time. And the third.
Then, I was visited by the angel of death.
I woke up and my face was paralyzed. I don’t know why I smiled in the bathroom mirror, but the lower right side of my face didn’t move. Being in nursing school, I knew very well what that meant. And, like so many of my patients since then, I tried to rationalize.
Maybe my smile had always looked like that?
Maybe I slept on my face funny, and my facial nerve was asleep?
I even went out into the living room and asked the house at large. “Is there something weird about my face?”
“Oh my gosh, what’s wrong with your face?!?” was the general response.
So, no. Not a lifelong asymmetry I was just now noticing after 30 years.
Cue a lot of bustle and noise and I ended up in an ER room with a Code Neuro called overhead. There were a dozen people in the room, all talking and moving and jabbing me with needles. People shined lights in my eyes and had me say “tiptop, fifty-fifty, thanks, huckleberry, baseball player,” on repeat.
They were gearing me up for a CT scan when a man walked into the room. He was a very tall, very thin Black man, dressed all in black. He moved through the crowd effortlessly. They flowed around him, as if he were no more than a waft of air.
He came and stood next to where I sat on the gurney. He smiled, a kind, gentle smile that raised all the hairs on my neck.
I clearly remember thinking: oh, crap. I’m dead. I can’t be dead. I have a two-year-old. I’m in school. I have things I want to do with my life.
In the chaos of the room, he was calm and silent. No one spoke to him, and he did nothing but cast his benevolence on me. I looked over at my mother. She was looking up at him too, eyes wide and alarmed. Then she turned to me and whispered, “Can you see him, too?”
Finally, he spoke, in a deep, soothing voice. “I’m the Chaplain.”
My relief was so intense I started laughing. This alarmed the nurses and techs who were running about trying to figure out if I was dying. Maybe they attributed it to stress. Soon after, I was whisked away for various scans and by the time I came back, the eerily calm Chaplain was gone.
Long story short, I had a traumatic vertebral artery dissection related to a car accident I had been in the week before. Treatment? Um… take an aspirin and don’t get in anymore car accidents? (Which I failed to accomplish, as the next summer I was yet again strapped onto a stretcher. It was a rough year.)
I think about that moment of sheer panic whenever I have to sit through yet another obnoxiously cheerful video presentation about AIDET. I even knew something about the hospital apparatus and I was frightened that day. As annoying as it is to admit, introducing yourself and your role to a patient is important.
My preferred method is sort of what were ‘supposed’ to do. “Hi, my name is Anna. I am your nurse. How are you feeling?”
It feels scripted, because it is. So is the following:
“Are you hurting anywhere? Are you feeling nauseous/chest pain/headache/short of breath? Do you need to go to the bathroom? Are you too hot or cold?”
Next comes vital signs, if needed, and “Let me listen/take a look at (insert body part here).”
They will always want to know if they can eat. When is breakfast, can I eat yet, the doctor said I could eat. (There will also never be diet orders; just mentally prepare yourself.)
Now comes the ‘Expectation/Time’ part. “I am going to get you some pain medication, read through the notes, find out if you can eat, etc.” The exact combination of tasks will change, of course, but they are generally related to comfort, both physical and emotional.
“I will be back in X minutes.” Hourly Rounding is another stupid education module that actually saves you time.
I saw a nurse tiktok post that I cannot find now, but made me realize something I’d never thought of before. I don’t know why, because it fits neatly into how my brain works:
If you have 5 patients, each patient gets 12 minutes of your time an hour. 4, 15 minutes, 3, 20 minutes, and so on.
Why had I not considered this before???
This includes all patient care and charting. No wonder we’re run ragged by the end of the day! There have been shifts when I have not left my ICU patient’s room for four hours and got no charting done. Just tasks. And then I get questioned about ‘staying late’ and ‘time management.’ (Another gripe for another post.)
Oh! another nurse hack: “If you have pain medication available, I will bring it in.” Always add the ‘if’ in there. It implies: Yes, I am looking for your pain meds. Yes, I will ask the doctor for some pain meds. Yes, I will bring you pain meds. Don’t call me 100 times in the next ten minutes asking about pain meds.
Not a guarantee but might as well hedge your bets.
Moral of the story: introduce yourself. Your poor dementia grandma might think you're an alien. Have you seen yourself in a CAPR? You look like an alien. Facts.
My face is fine now. Just a little wonky. My left pupil doesn’t move very well, but that’s just a cool party trick.
Thank you to everyone who has subscribed!! I was doing some boring life admin stuff and my email kept chiming with the notice of new subscribers. It was like a tiny dopamine treat every time.
Be adjunctive therapy to my venlafaxine and tell your friends! Subscribe! Comment! All the things!