{Editor's note: Bev is a member of the Silicon Valley chapter, and, during our October program, we had a story hour called WAU, or the World According to Us, and Bev told this story. This event demonstrates that visually impaired people can live rich, adventurous lives, an I think WAU should be part of your chapter activity.}

As a member of Kaiser San Jose's Member Patient Advisory Council (MPAC), I recently had the opportunity to participate in one of Kaiser's quarterly disaster drills, to prepare hospital staff for the sudden and unexpected intake of patients in an emergency. This is the story of my experience.

At 5 PM on a warm Thursday afternoon (September 26, 2019), I arrived at the Ambulance Bay just outside the Emergency Room entrance at Kaiser San Jose, and was greeted enthusiastically by the coordinator of the drill. She explained that a call had gone out for doctors of every stripe (along with nurses, pharmacists, and any other available staff members) to take time away from their busy schedules and volunteer for the evening's proceedings which, believe me, isn't always easy for them to do, as nursing care, operations, and emergencies are still going on in the hospital in real time. Some of the staff were asked to gather outside in the Ambulance Bay to do triage as patients arrived, and they would be in constant radio contact with others who would remain inside the hospital to give vital information and consultation as needed.

There were plastic chairs arranged all around the Ambulance Bay, each section of chairs having a different designation: triage, X-ray, Operating Room, and so on. There weren't as many volunteer patients as Kaiser would have liked, so several chairs were occupied by teddy bears and other stuffed animals as stand-ins. Some patients were the children of participating hospital staff members, which added a bit of lightness and humor to the otherwise serious nature of the drill.

All I knew when I arrived was that my job was to be one of several volunteer patients, so I was interested to learn just what that would mean. A friendly gentleman ushered me to one of the plastic chairs, where the evening's scenario was explained. We patients had been at a football game at a San Jose high school when suddenly some crazed person with a gun showed up and started shooting at us. In order for the doctors to know exactly where I had been shot, another gentleman created a wound site by wrapping several thick layers of gauze around my waist, and painting them with something like Red Dye #2: the wound looked quite authentic! The kids got a big kick out of this part of the drill, as some of them got their faces painted, and others had fake bloody bandages wrapped around their arms or legs.

Once I had a bona fide wound, I needed identification, so someone put a lanyard around my neck to which was attached a huge, cardboard placard with all my stats, so that the doctors could immediately see who I was and how I had been wounded. According to my placard, I was now Natalie Zhang, a 29-year-old woman who was 32 weeks pregnant, and I had been shot in the abdomen!

Now the really interesting part of the drill commenced. I wasn't sure how much the doctors knew about my condition, as no one had thought to read aloud what was on my placard. But from what I did know, I figured I could act the part and improvise as I chose. So when hospital staff came over to check me out, I started yelling, "It hurts! It REALLY hurts!" Okay: this patient obviously needs drugs! But which ones? This called for the doctors to consult with a pharmacist, who recommended that I be given Dilaudid—and I know that stuff's really good, because several years ago in real life I dislocated my shoulder, and Dilaudid put me straight into Lala land, and I went from pain to fun! Before they injected me, however, I kept moaning, "My baby! Save my baby! Don't give me anything that will hurt my baby!" And they promised me that they wouldn't. Then I thought to myself, "Hmmm ... In my real life past, when I lose blood in one accident or another, I get light-headed and start feeling a little weak. Wouldn't Natalie have that reaction, too?" So I told my doctors that I was feeling light-headed. They immediately started asking me questions: Was I dizzy? Did I feel nauseated? "Dizzy!" I croaked.

And then things got exciting! My vital signs were suddenly worse, and since the doctors attending me could see that there was an entrance wound but no visible exit wound, this fact was worrisome. It meant that I was probably bleeding internally. Now what to do? Another urgent consultation... I needed to go to the Operating Room ASAP! Not only that, but they'd have to take the baby! "Oh no, I'm only 32 weeks along!" I shrieked in despair. But wait! Was there even an Operating Room available—a legitimate question, since operations were still being performed in the hospital in real time.

Whew! there WAS a room! At this point, I was shepherded to a second chair in the Operating Room section of the Ambulance Bay, where more consultation ensued. Once the operation began and they could see what was going on inside, they found out where the internal bleeding was: my spleen had been severely damaged and they couldn't repair it, so it had to be removed, which stopped the bleeding. Well, that was okay, because a person can live without a spleen, apparently. When they were through with me in the Operating Room, I was told that I had survived and, miracle of miracles, so had my baby and it was a boy!

In the meantime, other doctors were doing triage on other patients, and I had to go to another chair far from the action because they were through dealing with Natalie. So I, Bev, sat for a quiet time waiting for the next thing to happen, and gratefully eating a bit of a snack, as I hadn't had supper yet. While I waited, there was a short debriefing, a discussion among the doctors of what had occurred with all the other patients, which I was too far away to hear. I thought perhaps my job was done.

But I was wrong. After a bit, I was directed to a second triage chair, my Natalie placard was removed, and I was issued a second placard and became Nicole Taylor, a 41-year-old woman who had been shot in the ankle. I was definitely in pain, and had no compunction about letting everybody know this so again, Dilaudid was prescribed.

It was obvious to the doctors that my ankle was not only bleeding, but was also dangerously deformed; and the skin of my foot was very pale, an indication of decreased circulation. Through my protestations of pain, I could hear them discussing whether or not they needed to "reduce" my foot, or if I might need something called a CT Angio. Reduce my foot? What in blazes did that mean? Were they planning to make it smaller somehow, maybe cut something off? Having no idea what they were talking about, and figuring that Natalie would certainly want to know, I hysterically demanded to be told what a foot reduction meant, and then what in the world was a CT Angio? Patiently the doctors answered my questions: Reducing my foot meant putting my ankle back into its proper position, to see if I would get circulation back in my foot. If the skin remained pale, they would know that one or both of the two arteries that serve the ankle were damaged or perhaps destroyed, in which case they would need to do a CT Angio to assess the damage. But if they reduced my foot and the skin returned to its usual hue, they would know that the circulation hadn't been affected by the gunshot. They were hoping that at least one of the arteries was still functional, because you need one artery to be working for normal circulation to occur. If there was only one artery left and it was damaged, they'd have to figure out a way to fix it.

When it was finally decided to reduce my foot, they injected me with a second drug, from which I deduced that the pain of foot reduction must be excruciating! This time they didn't need to move me to a different chair because they could do the work right where we were situated. When they were through, I learned that I was again a very fortunate patient: My circulation had returned to normal, and no arteries seemed to have been impaired. Therefore, no other treatment would be needed at that time except for pain management, and they could proceed to a new patient who might be far worse off than I was.

Since the doctors were again finished with me, I thought I might be free to leave, but instead I sat relaxing for a while as other patients were dealt with. Little by little, they began leaving the Ambulance Bay for home, and soon I was the only one left. I was then informed that there would be a final debriefing, and I was welcome to listen in and give a patient's perspective on the experience. Thus, I was privileged to hear feedback from the entire medical staff about what had worked well in the drill, what hadn't worked quite so well, and what improvements needed to be made in future. I found this fascinating! And when I was asked for input, I was happy to report that the medical professionals involved in my care had been kind, patient, willing to answer my anxious questions, and concerned about how I was feeling and what I was experiencing. I was able to listen in while they consulted with one another and with the inside hospital personnel, and from my vantage point it seemed that they had been thorough, and were working as conscientiously as possible to ascertain the best and most effective treatments.

You may wonder why I didn't make a point of the fact that I was a blind patient. I did consider doing this, but realized at the outset that these people were concentrating with all their might to do the best job they could in the face of this disaster, and throwing a disability at them right then wouldn't be the best option. If I participate in future drills, I can then ask the coordinators if it would be helpful for the staff to know in advance that a patient has a disability, and that information could appear on the person's placard along with all the other necessary stats.

All in all, the drill was a great learning experience for me, and I know that Kaiser appreciated my participation and input.