On the off chance something should go wrong, the ship is outfitted with the recently developed Marconi wireless telegraph capable of communicating with any ship or shore within 500 miles.
5 p.m., Sept. 17, 2007
As I write this column I consider that something could go wrong during our hospital stay. The Institute of Medicine reports that medications harm 1.5 million people annually (400,000 incidents occur in the hospital) and that nearly 100,000 die annually in adverse hospital events.
I assure myself there is nothing to worry about. The hospital of today is unsinkable, built with every feasible safety measure. Today’s hospitals require two patient identifiers, time-outs before procedures, read-backs, standardized abbreviations, rules for reporting of critical results, standardized approaches to hand-offs, awareness of look-alike/sound-alike medications, hand-hygiene guidelines, medication reconciliation, core measures, quality and patient safety committees—and, on the off chance that something should go wrong, requirements for communicating sentinel event reviews with regulatory agencies.
1:30 a.m., April 14, 1912
The scuttlebutt is that the Titanic has hit an iceberg, tearing open the hull, flooding the bulkheads, and overcoming the ship’s pumps. Apparently the crow’s nest spotted the iceberg only 30 seconds before the impact. The crew tried to change course immediately. But the unprecedented size and speed of the ship (there is a rumor that the captain may have been trying to set a new trans-Atlantic crossing record) made it impossible to avoid our destiny.
We are clearly sinking. As I anxiously pace the deck waiting for a spot on a lifeboat, I chat with a crew member who assures me help is coming. The ship’s band plays on deck, the music soothing in the night air.
1 p.m., Aug. 26, 2007
I’m about halfway through the Titanic exhibit at the local museum of nature and science. The display is designed to give you the experience of being a passenger aboard the RMS Titanic.
Prior to entering, visitors receive a boarding pass with information about one of the actual passengers. I am the Rev. John Harper, traveling to America with my young daughter to begin a series of revival meetings in Chicago. At the end of the tour I’ll view the passenger manifest to discover my outcome.
Reluctantly, I board the ship, anxiously awaiting my fate. I gaze upon thousands of trinkets and treasures rescued from the Titanic since its remains were discovered 2.5 miles below the ocean’s surface 900 miles off the coast of New York in 1985.
I marvel at dioramas of first- and third-class cabins with recovered china settings, uncorked and still-full bottles of champagne, toiletries, jewelry, and clothing.
One of the most fascinating pieces is a chunk of ice the size and shape of a small whale. The display represents the iceberg that doomed the Titanic and simulates the temperature of the water that fateful night. At approximately 28 degrees Fahrenheit, the average person would survive less than 15 minutes in the water. I was able to hold my hand on the ice only a few moments, quickly understanding the horrific way most passengers would die.
As I complete the tour and nervously approach the passenger manifest I am struck by how many lessons from the Titanic can be applied to modern medicine.
We operate in a system surrounded by perilous obstacles in a huge vessel that is slow to change course even in the face of extreme danger and poor outcomes.
We steam along at unparalleled speed embracing new, relatively untested technologies, procedures, and medications. Modern healthcare, like the Titanic, values building technologically advanced, well-adorned vessels rather than investing in the basic infrastructure to make it safer. We eschew quality for appearance.