By Suzie Q. Schwarz, DVM, PA-C
Winner of Clinician Reviews 2016 Writing Competition
The island of Adak is Alaska’s last frontier. There are no stores, doctors, streetlights, traffic lights, or even a need for license plates. Just the lonely cry of a bald eagle and the howl of the arctic wind accompany you along the dark streets of this ghost town on the edge of the earth, where the North Pacific and the Bering Sea collide. The frigid Arctic front travels down the west coast, while the warmer Japanese current comes up the Pacific side. The low tundra does little to block the winds generated by that confluence, which often whip at 90 mph or more for days on end. Otherwise, the weather is generally gray and misty, and temperatures range from about 20°F to 65°F.
The weather matches the ambience and surroundings—decaying shambles of a once grand Navy base with facilities designed to make life as pleasant as possible for service members. But the Navy left in the late 1990s. By the time I arrived to practice here in 2013, only a few hundred people inhabited the island. There was virtually no economy, and almost all the roads and buildings were deserted. Man’s creation had fallen victim to vandals and nature.
My practice claimed a converted high school principal’s office and a two-bed emergency department (ED) that had some nice equipment—but with no medical aid, x-ray technician, phlebotomist, or lab technician, there was only me to operate it.
One of the oddities of the Alaskan bush is that medical providers often perform as All Species Providers; my first patient, Sadie, was a very well-behaved black Labrador retriever. Unable to anesthetize her, I was thankful for her even-tempered, patient breed (and for my experience as a veterinarian). Sadie lay calmly on the ED bed, her head in her owner’s hands, while I sutured her forepaw. In hindsight, she was one of my easier cases.
Adak’s isolated location (450 miles from the nearest settled outpost), rugged terrain, and vast wildlife come with an elevated risk for injuries and no shortage of challenges in treating them. During my first week, an autistic child presented with a foot laceration. There was no electricity when he arrived, as was often the case due to the wind; the only available light came through the open door. It was dusk and snow was gently falling, but we huddled in the doorway, as the patient’s mother and my husband held the boy while I sutured him. I just managed to get the last stitch in before the child entered his incoherent world.
Anchorage, the nearest evacuation location, was 1,200 miles away. In the absolute best case (ie, the weather conditions were suitable for planes to take off and land), it was a 3.5-hour flight—that is, it would take 3.5 hours for a plane to arrive from Anchorage (if one happened to be ready) and then another 3.5 hours to transport the patient back. This fact was always in the back of my mind, but you can imagine how nerve-wracked I was in my first week (I had quite an initiation, as you can see) when a COPD patient presented in a cyanotic, dyspneic, and agitated state (SpO2, 80%). I immediately inserted an IV, administered oxygen, and got the nebulizer going. That was all I could do—other than pray that he would be able to breathe while we awaited transport, which was potentially days away.
Not surprisingly for an island, the surrounding seas brought many of my patients. Workers on commercial fishing vessels frequently sustained injuries that the conditions at sea would exacerbate. Hand injuries were common, as were slip-and-fall injuries such as dislocations and broken bones. It could take hours to get them into port. The most memorable was a fisherman who had lost the end of his thumb when it was crushed between the gunwale and a swinging, loaded crab pot being hoisted aboard. The electricity (surprise) was out, so I was forced to treat him by flashlight. He was a young man (early 30s) but especially nice. What I remember most is that he declined a digital block. I debrided the devitalized tissue via sharp dissection, but he never once cursed. So much for all those jokes about cussing like a sailor.
On a seemingly calm Saturday in my third week, one of the supervisors from the fish processing plant came in with two of his workers. One had bilateral ocular exposure to a cleaning solvent, while the other was stumbling and disoriented. My triage skills were put to the test as I anesthetized Worker 1’s eyes with proparacaine, then inserted Morgan lenses (which, thankfully, came with instructions in the packaging!). The supervisor, who was keeping Worker 2 calm simultaneously, held a basin below the patient’s eyes to catch runoff as I quickly attached a liter of saline to each lens and opened the valve full bore. With that situation under control for the moment, I switched gears to assess Worker 2, who was markedly incoherent and unable to give a history. What I did know was that he was ataxic and nauseous, with a temperature of 104°F. I flashed my penlight into his eyes, and he reacted like Dracula faced with a crucifix. In addition to his exquisite photophobia, he had marked neck stiffness. The diagnosis was my first case of human meningitis. I inserted an IV providing ceftriaxone, acyclovir, and ondansetron. He required 2.5 L of IV fluid, but he gradually recovered over the next two days.
Why, with all these challenges, did I go to Alaska? Because I felt that there I could be of most service; if ever there was an underserved community, Adak was it. Ironically, the other job offer I considered was on the Hawaiian island of Kauai. As idyllic as that might have been, it wasn’t quite the adventure that Adak turned out to be—and it wasn’t as desperately in need of a provider.
When I took the Adak post, I didn’t realize how much I would learn. Above all, I realized that a complete and meticulous physical exam is king. If I missed any life-threatening conditions, the ramifications would be extreme. There were no referrals or second opinions, just me with the patient, and I had to make the right decisions.
The bonds I formed with the people on this remote island, and the paths I trod through this unusual land, made for a unique experience. It was a thrill to look out toward the horizon and know that everything I could see had remained unchanged since the birth of these volcanic islands. In time, I came to recognize that I was not in charge. The planes carrying supplies in or patients out would come if the weather allowed. What was on the island was what I had to work with, and if I didn’t have what I wanted, it was only because I didn’t want what I had. The waves would come as they will. I could either surf them or be tossed by them. I chose to dive in.