Plastic babies and their (somewhat) real parents--handle both with care

We entered the room as the simulation coordinator briefed us on the patient’s story, and huddled around our putty-hued child, intubating him and infusing him with fluids. We suspended our disbelief for the most part (this is the first rule of simulation), but the occasional chuckle escaped when one of us placed the wrong mask on the patient’s face or when IV fluid squirted onto the gurney.

The next time we did the exercise, parents were thrown into the mix. Here, we learned, lay the real challenge.

Now we were treating Lenny, a 12-year-old boy suffering from an asthma attack. His father was already in the room as we started Lenny’s IV drip and began to administer aerosolized medicine to prop open his lungs. His mother, purse clenched against her hip, rushed in soon after.

These actors were well-practiced at the tremulous lower lip, the frequent, shrill vocalizations of their parental instincts -- all of the visceral emotion that must come from seeing one’s child in distress. We, in turn, practiced the art of handling the parents.

The tone was far more serious this time, and we worked to be more deliberate in our actions and in our dialogue, to inspire confidence in these invested observers. We asked questions, making use of their intimate knowledge of their child’s condition, and carefully informed them of what we were doing.

After some trial and error, we came to realize the importance of assigning a single team member to communicate with the parents, to ask the important questions and translate rapid-fire med-speak into language that was both realistic and reassuring.

And, of course, we were sure to steer clear of the face (thanks, Dwight).