Cynthia Geppert, MD, MA, MPH, MSBE

Readers of this column may recall that since I have been the Editor-in-Chief of Federal Practitioner, my December editorial focuses on the best and worst of the year in federal medicine. In 2021, these evaluative terms fail to capture the sadness and global devastation that mark this grim epoch of the continuing pandemic, increasing climate disasters, rising political tensions, and racial violence. Thus, this year my editorial is framed in terms of the philosophical or theological categories of good and evil as the only concepts that can even begin to express the horrendous events that occurred in West Virginia.

On June 28, 2018, then US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Veterans Health Administration (VHA) Executive-in-Charge, Carolyn Clancy, MD, contacted Inspector General Michael Missal to alert him that “there may be an ‘Angel of Death’ in Clarksburg [West Virginia].”¹ Two years later Reta Mays, a 46-year-old VA nursing assistant, entered a guilty plea in federal court to the deaths of 7 vulnerable veterans. The legal charges were second-degree murder and 1 count of assault with intent to commit murder by injecting insulin. The victims were all patients on Ward 3 at the Louis A. Johnson VA, Medical Center in Clarksburg, where Mays worked the night shift from 2015 to 2018.² Mays was sentenced in May of this year to 7 consecutive life terms for each of the veterans whose lives she cruelly ended and an additional 240 months for the eighth patient who survived her murder attempt.3

The term angel of death has religious roots in Judaism, although not strictly in the Hebrew scriptures. Neither the Jewish nor Christian Bible identifies a specific figure who is the angel of death. The idea first appears in Rabbinic literature and Jewish tradition.⁴ The angel God sends as a messenger of death is known as malakh ha-mavet in Hebrew. The revered Jewish physician and philosopher Moses Maimonides taught in his Guide for the Perplexed the angel of death is synonymous with the devil, and the evil inclination that dwells in the mind of all human beings.⁵In modern times, the concept of an angel of death has come to designate a serial killer who is a health care professional (HCP). A group of forensic scientists, HCPs, and attorneys, including former VA Under Secretary for Health Dr. Kenneth Kizer, published a study of HCPs who had been prosecuted or convicted of serial murder. Nurses constituted the largest group of offenders (60%) with nursing aides like Mays responsible for 18% of murders, and physicians 12%. The review found that though health care serial killers are rare, they operate in nations across the Western world, in many different states in this country, and in almost all health care settings, including previous VA angels of death.⁶Nursing aides who are not supposed to have access to medications—a major problem in Mays’ case—nor permitted to administer them more often resort to noncontrolled substances to kill their victims.¹ Mays chose insulin as her murder weapon as did 13% of serial killers. Just as insulin may be difficult to detect in toxicology, so Mays and others like her committed their crimes on the night shift when they were less likely to be discovered.⁶

Many of us feel compelled to seek a rational motivation for why healers would mutate into killers: If we can find a reason for this heinous behavior it somehow helps us feel the world is more intelligible and controllable. Unfortunately, despite intensive forensic investigations of multiple angels of death, there is little definitive understanding of the motives of these murders.⁶ Mays disclosed more than most. As part of a plea bargain, she provided investigators with 2 rationales for her killing: She wanted to ease the patients’ suffering. Such claims of being an angel of mercy are common among HCP serial murders, which the patterns of the killings generally disprove. The patients Mays lethally injected, while mostly old and ill, were all expected to recover and leave the hospital. The Inspector General report uncovered a cautionary detail that has at least indirect bearing on the nursing assistant’s contention that she “wanted to let the patient’s die gently”: Contrary to VHA requirements, the facility had no functioning palliative care team. This finding in no way excuses or even explains Mays’ actions; it does, however, reinforce the essential value of palliative care expertise in an aging veteran population with many life-limiting conditions.⁷

Mays’ second motivation seems more plausible, based on her life narrative and the literature on HCP serial killers. Mays disclosed to investigators that she “had a lot of stress and chaos in [her] personal and professional life and these actions gave [her] a sense of control.”¹ Her prior use of excessive force when employed at a prison as well as forensic science indicating that feelings of wielding power over life and death often drive health care murders, suggest this may have been a factor in Mays’ horrific conduct.⁸

It seems blasphemous to associate the word good in the same pages with this terrible evil. Nothing can compensate or justify the betrayal of the sacred oath of an HCP and the public trust of a VHA employee. Yet that very impossibility carries with it an obligation to ask, as did the author of an article about a recent Canadian nurse serial killer, “What can we learn from the [Mays] story?”⁹

Mays could never have taken the lives of 8 patients without clinical and administrative lapses and shortcuts at all levels of the health care system. Indeed, the 100-plus page Inspector General report makes 15 recommendations for the VHA, the Veterans Integrated Service Network, and the facility, encompassing areas of personnel hiring and performance evaluation, medication management and security, reporting and responding to unexplained events, quality and safety programs oversight, leaders’ responses, corrective actions, and even computer systems data analysis.

I want to suggest 2 ethical additions to this list addressed to all of us as VHA staff and especially to those of us who are HCPs. From the perspective of virtue ethics, Reta Mays is a tragedy about complacency and compromise in everyday work that the pandemic has made even more frequent and challenging to avoid and resist. This is what the Roman Virgil means in the epigraph that the road down to hell is easy and the road back very difficult.

I propose the need for discernment in trying to listen to our moral intuitions that tell us something is amiss and diligence in adhering to best practices even when we are fearful, exhausted, demoralized, or apathetic. These 2 habits of commitment to veterans, one of compassion and the other of competence, can help us follow the good inclinations of our hearts and together with system changes can bar the doors of our hospitals to the visits of future angels of death. This dedication is the least we owe to the families of the patients at Clarksburg whose loved ones never came home and whose questions likely can never be fully answered.

Readers of this column may recall that since I have been the Editor-in-Chief of Federal Practitioner, my December editorial focuses on the best and worst of the year in federal medicine. In 2021, these evaluative terms fail to capture the sadness and global devastation that mark this grim epoch of the continuing pandemic, increasing climate disasters, rising political tensions, and racial violence. Thus, this year my editorial is framed in terms of the philosophical or theological categories of good and evil as the only concepts that can even begin to express the horrendous events that occurred in West Virginia.

On June 28, 2018, then US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Veterans Health Administration (VHA) Executive-in-Charge, Carolyn Clancy, MD, contacted Inspector General Michael Missal to alert him that “there may be an ‘Angel of Death’ in Clarksburg [West Virginia].”¹ Two years later Reta Mays, a 46-year-old VA nursing assistant, entered a guilty plea in federal court to the deaths of 7 vulnerable veterans. The legal charges were second-degree murder and 1 count of assault with intent to commit murder by injecting insulin. The victims were all patients on Ward 3 at the Louis A. Johnson VA, Medical Center in Clarksburg, where Mays worked the night shift from 2015 to 2018.² Mays was sentenced in May of this year to 7 consecutive life terms for each of the veterans whose lives she cruelly ended and an additional 240 months for the eighth patient who survived her murder attempt.3

The term angel of death has religious roots in Judaism, although not strictly in the Hebrew scriptures. Neither the Jewish nor Christian Bible identifies a specific figure who is the angel of death. The idea first appears in Rabbinic literature and Jewish tradition.⁴ The angel God sends as a messenger of death is known as malakh ha-mavet in Hebrew. The revered Jewish physician and philosopher Moses Maimonides taught in his Guide for the Perplexed the angel of death is synonymous with the devil, and the evil inclination that dwells in the mind of all human beings.⁵In modern times, the concept of an angel of death has come to designate a serial killer who is a health care professional (HCP). A group of forensic scientists, HCPs, and attorneys, including former VA Under Secretary for Health Dr. Kenneth Kizer, published a study of HCPs who had been prosecuted or convicted of serial murder. Nurses constituted the largest group of offenders (60%) with nursing aides like Mays responsible for 18% of murders, and physicians 12%. The review found that though health care serial killers are rare, they operate in nations across the Western world, in many different states in this country, and in almost all health care settings, including previous VA angels of death.⁶Nursing aides who are not supposed to have access to medications—a major problem in Mays’ case—nor permitted to administer them more often resort to noncontrolled substances to kill their victims.¹ Mays chose insulin as her murder weapon as did 13% of serial killers. Just as insulin may be difficult to detect in toxicology, so Mays and others like her committed their crimes on the night shift when they were less likely to be discovered.⁶

Many of us feel compelled to seek a rational motivation for why healers would mutate into killers: If we can find a reason for this heinous behavior it somehow helps us feel the world is more intelligible and controllable. Unfortunately, despite intensive forensic investigations of multiple angels of death, there is little definitive understanding of the motives of these murders.⁶ Mays disclosed more than most. As part of a plea bargain, she provided investigators with 2 rationales for her killing: She wanted to ease the patients’ suffering. Such claims of being an angel of mercy are common among HCP serial murders, which the patterns of the killings generally disprove. The patients Mays lethally injected, while mostly old and ill, were all expected to recover and leave the hospital. The Inspector General report uncovered a cautionary detail that has at least indirect bearing on the nursing assistant’s contention that she “wanted to let the patient’s die gently”: Contrary to VHA requirements, the facility had no functioning palliative care team. This finding in no way excuses or even explains Mays’ actions; it does, however, reinforce the essential value of palliative care expertise in an aging veteran population with many life-limiting conditions.⁷

Mays’ second motivation seems more plausible, based on her life narrative and the literature on HCP serial killers. Mays disclosed to investigators that she “had a lot of stress and chaos in [her] personal and professional life and these actions gave [her] a sense of control.”¹ Her prior use of excessive force when employed at a prison as well as forensic science indicating that feelings of wielding power over life and death often drive health care murders, suggest this may have been a factor in Mays’ horrific conduct.⁸

It seems blasphemous to associate the word good in the same pages with this terrible evil. Nothing can compensate or justify the betrayal of the sacred oath of an HCP and the public trust of a VHA employee. Yet that very impossibility carries with it an obligation to ask, as did the author of an article about a recent Canadian nurse serial killer, “What can we learn from the [Mays] story?”⁹

Mays could never have taken the lives of 8 patients without clinical and administrative lapses and shortcuts at all levels of the health care system. Indeed, the 100-plus page Inspector General report makes 15 recommendations for the VHA, the Veterans Integrated Service Network, and the facility, encompassing areas of personnel hiring and performance evaluation, medication management and security, reporting and responding to unexplained events, quality and safety programs oversight, leaders’ responses, corrective actions, and even computer systems data analysis.

I want to suggest 2 ethical additions to this list addressed to all of us as VHA staff and especially to those of us who are HCPs. From the perspective of virtue ethics, Reta Mays is a tragedy about complacency and compromise in everyday work that the pandemic has made even more frequent and challenging to avoid and resist. This is what the Roman Virgil means in the epigraph that the road down to hell is easy and the road back very difficult.

I propose the need for discernment in trying to listen to our moral intuitions that tell us something is amiss and diligence in adhering to best practices even when we are fearful, exhausted, demoralized, or apathetic. These 2 habits of commitment to veterans, one of compassion and the other of competence, can help us follow the good inclinations of our hearts and together with system changes can bar the doors of our hospitals to the visits of future angels of death. This dedication is the least we owe to the families of the patients at Clarksburg whose loved ones never came home and whose questions likely can never be fully answered.

Readers of this column may recall that since I have been the Editor-in-Chief of Federal Practitioner, my December editorial focuses on the best and worst of the year in federal medicine. In 2021, these evaluative terms fail to capture the sadness and global devastation that mark this grim epoch of the continuing pandemic, increasing climate disasters, rising political tensions, and racial violence. Thus, this year my editorial is framed in terms of the philosophical or theological categories of good and evil as the only concepts that can even begin to express the horrendous events that occurred in West Virginia.

On June 28, 2018, then US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Veterans Health Administration (VHA) Executive-in-Charge, Carolyn Clancy, MD, contacted Inspector General Michael Missal to alert him that “there may be an ‘Angel of Death’ in Clarksburg [West Virginia].”¹ Two years later Reta Mays, a 46-year-old VA nursing assistant, entered a guilty plea in federal court to the deaths of 7 vulnerable veterans. The legal charges were second-degree murder and 1 count of assault with intent to commit murder by injecting insulin. The victims were all patients on Ward 3 at the Louis A. Johnson VA, Medical Center in Clarksburg, where Mays worked the night shift from 2015 to 2018.² Mays was sentenced in May of this year to 7 consecutive life terms for each of the veterans whose lives she cruelly ended and an additional 240 months for the eighth patient who survived her murder attempt.3

The term angel of death has religious roots in Judaism, although not strictly in the Hebrew scriptures. Neither the Jewish nor Christian Bible identifies a specific figure who is the angel of death. The idea first appears in Rabbinic literature and Jewish tradition.⁴ The angel God sends as a messenger of death is known as malakh ha-mavet in Hebrew. The revered Jewish physician and philosopher Moses Maimonides taught in his Guide for the Perplexed the angel of death is synonymous with the devil, and the evil inclination that dwells in the mind of all human beings.⁵In modern times, the concept of an angel of death has come to designate a serial killer who is a health care professional (HCP). A group of forensic scientists, HCPs, and attorneys, including former VA Under Secretary for Health Dr. Kenneth Kizer, published a study of HCPs who had been prosecuted or convicted of serial murder. Nurses constituted the largest group of offenders (60%) with nursing aides like Mays responsible for 18% of murders, and physicians 12%. The review found that though health care serial killers are rare, they operate in nations across the Western world, in many different states in this country, and in almost all health care settings, including previous VA angels of death.⁶Nursing aides who are not supposed to have access to medications—a major problem in Mays’ case—nor permitted to administer them more often resort to noncontrolled substances to kill their victims.¹ Mays chose insulin as her murder weapon as did 13% of serial killers. Just as insulin may be difficult to detect in toxicology, so Mays and others like her committed their crimes on the night shift when they were less likely to be discovered.⁶

Many of us feel compelled to seek a rational motivation for why healers would mutate into killers: If we can find a reason for this heinous behavior it somehow helps us feel the world is more intelligible and controllable. Unfortunately, despite intensive forensic investigations of multiple angels of death, there is little definitive understanding of the motives of these murders.⁶ Mays disclosed more than most. As part of a plea bargain, she provided investigators with 2 rationales for her killing: She wanted to ease the patients’ suffering. Such claims of being an angel of mercy are common among HCP serial murders, which the patterns of the killings generally disprove. The patients Mays lethally injected, while mostly old and ill, were all expected to recover and leave the hospital. The Inspector General report uncovered a cautionary detail that has at least indirect bearing on the nursing assistant’s contention that she “wanted to let the patient’s die gently”: Contrary to VHA requirements, the facility had no functioning palliative care team. This finding in no way excuses or even explains Mays’ actions; it does, however, reinforce the essential value of palliative care expertise in an aging veteran population with many life-limiting conditions.⁷

Mays’ second motivation seems more plausible, based on her life narrative and the literature on HCP serial killers. Mays disclosed to investigators that she “had a lot of stress and chaos in [her] personal and professional life and these actions gave [her] a sense of control.”¹ Her prior use of excessive force when employed at a prison as well as forensic science indicating that feelings of wielding power over life and death often drive health care murders, suggest this may have been a factor in Mays’ horrific conduct.⁸

It seems blasphemous to associate the word good in the same pages with this terrible evil. Nothing can compensate or justify the betrayal of the sacred oath of an HCP and the public trust of a VHA employee. Yet that very impossibility carries with it an obligation to ask, as did the author of an article about a recent Canadian nurse serial killer, “What can we learn from the [Mays] story?”⁹

Mays could never have taken the lives of 8 patients without clinical and administrative lapses and shortcuts at all levels of the health care system. Indeed, the 100-plus page Inspector General report makes 15 recommendations for the VHA, the Veterans Integrated Service Network, and the facility, encompassing areas of personnel hiring and performance evaluation, medication management and security, reporting and responding to unexplained events, quality and safety programs oversight, leaders’ responses, corrective actions, and even computer systems data analysis.

I want to suggest 2 ethical additions to this list addressed to all of us as VHA staff and especially to those of us who are HCPs. From the perspective of virtue ethics, Reta Mays is a tragedy about complacency and compromise in everyday work that the pandemic has made even more frequent and challenging to avoid and resist. This is what the Roman Virgil means in the epigraph that the road down to hell is easy and the road back very difficult.

I propose the need for discernment in trying to listen to our moral intuitions that tell us something is amiss and diligence in adhering to best practices even when we are fearful, exhausted, demoralized, or apathetic. These 2 habits of commitment to veterans, one of compassion and the other of competence, can help us follow the good inclinations of our hearts and together with system changes can bar the doors of our hospitals to the visits of future angels of death. This dedication is the least we owe to the families of the patients at Clarksburg whose loved ones never came home and whose questions likely can never be fully answered.

Several weeks ago, I received a call from my brother who, though not a health care professional, wanted me to know he thought the public was being too critical of scientists and physicians who “are giving us the best advice they can about COVID. People think they should have all the answers. But this virus is complicated, and they don’t always know what is going to happen next.” What makes his charitable read of the public health situation remarkable is that he is a COVID-19 survivor of one of the first reported cases of Guillain-Barre syndrome, which several expert neurologists believe is the result of COVID-19. Like so many other COVID-19 long-haul patients, he is left with lingering symptoms and residual deficits.¹

I use this personal story as the overture to this piece on why I am changing my opinion regarding a COVID-19 mandate for federal practitioners. In June I raised ethical concerns about compelling vaccination especially for service members of color based on a current and historical climate of mistrust and discrimination in health care that compulsory vaccination could exacerbate.² Instead, I followed the lead of Secretary of Defense J. Lloyd Austin III and advocated continued education and encouragement for vaccine-hesitant troops.³ So in 2 months what has so radically changed to lead Secretary Austin and US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary Denis R. McDonough to mandate vaccination for their workforce?^4,5

I am calling the change the Delta Factor. This is not to be confused with the spy-thrillers that ironically involved rescuing a scientist! The Delta Factor is a catch-all phrase to cover the protean public health impacts of the devastating COVID-19 Delta variant now ravaging the country. Depending on the area of the country as of mid-August, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimated that 80% to > 90% of new cases were the Delta variant.⁶ An increasing number of these cases sadly are in children.⁷

According to the CDC, the Delta variant is more than twice as contagious as index or subsequent strains: making it about as contagious as chicken pox. The unvaccinated are the most susceptible to Delta and may develop more serious illness and risk of death than with other strains. Those who are fully vaccinated can still contract the virus although usually with milder cases. More worrisome is that individuals with these breakthrough infections have the same viral load as those without vaccinations, rendering them vectors of transmission, although for a shorter time than unvaccinated persons.⁸

The VA first mandated vaccination among its health care employees in July and then expanded it to all staff in August.⁹ The US Department of Defense (DoD) mandatory vaccination was announced prior to US Food and Drug Administration’s (FDA) full approval of the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine.¹⁰ Secretary Austin asked President Biden to grant a waiver to permit mandatory vaccination even without full FDA approval, and Biden has indicated his support, but the full approval expedited the time line for implementation.¹¹

Both agencies directly referenced Delta as a primary reason for their vaccination mandates. The VA argued that the mandate was necessary to protect the safety of veterans, while the DoD noted that vaccination was essential to ensure the health of the fighting force. In his initial announcement, Secretary McDonough explicitly mentioned the Delta variant as a primary reason for his decision. noting “it’s the best way to keep veterans safe, especially as the Delta variant spreads across the country.”⁴ Similarly, Secretary Austin declared, “We will also be keeping a close eye on infection rates, which are on the rise now due to the Delta variant and the impact these rates might have on our readiness.”⁵

VA and DoD leadership emphasized the safety and effectiveness of the vaccine and urged employees to voluntarily obtain the vaccine or obtain a religious or medical exemption. Those without such an exemption must adhere to masking, testing, and other restrictions.⁵ As anticipated in the earlier editorial, there has been opposition to the mandate from the workforce of the 2 agencies and their political supporters some of whom view vaccine mandates as violations of personal liberty and bodily integrity and for whom rampant disinformation has amplified entrenched distrust of the government.¹²

The decision to shift from voluntary to mandatory vaccination of federal employees responsible for the health care of veterans and the defense of citizens, which may seem draconian to some, is grounded in core public health ethical and legal principles. The first is the doctrine of the least restrictive alternative, which dictates that implemented public health policies should have the least infringement on individual liberties as possible.¹³ A corollary is that less coercive methods should be reasonably attempted before moving to more restrictive policies. Both agencies have struggled somewhat unsuccessfully to vaccinate employees even with extensive education, persuasion, and incentives. In July, the active-duty vaccination rates ranged from 58 to 77%; among VA employees it ranged from 59 to 85%, depending on the facility.¹⁴

Finally and most important, for a vaccine or other public health intervention to be ethically mandated it must have a high probability of attaining a serious purpose: here preventing the harms of sickness and death especially in the most vulnerable. In July, the White House COVID-19 Response Team reported that “preliminary data from several states over the last few months suggest that 99.5% of deaths from COVID-19 in the United States were in unvaccinated people” and were preventable.¹⁵ Ethically, even as mandates are implemented across the federal workforce, efforts to educate, encourage, and empower vaccination especially among disenfranchised cohorts must continue. But as a recently leaked CDC internal document acknowledged about the Delta Factor, “the war has changed” and so has my opinion about mandating vaccination among those upon whose service depends the life and security of us all.¹⁶

Several weeks ago, I received a call from my brother who, though not a health care professional, wanted me to know he thought the public was being too critical of scientists and physicians who “are giving us the best advice they can about COVID. People think they should have all the answers. But this virus is complicated, and they don’t always know what is going to happen next.” What makes his charitable read of the public health situation remarkable is that he is a COVID-19 survivor of one of the first reported cases of Guillain-Barre syndrome, which several expert neurologists believe is the result of COVID-19. Like so many other COVID-19 long-haul patients, he is left with lingering symptoms and residual deficits.¹

I use this personal story as the overture to this piece on why I am changing my opinion regarding a COVID-19 mandate for federal practitioners. In June I raised ethical concerns about compelling vaccination especially for service members of color based on a current and historical climate of mistrust and discrimination in health care that compulsory vaccination could exacerbate.² Instead, I followed the lead of Secretary of Defense J. Lloyd Austin III and advocated continued education and encouragement for vaccine-hesitant troops.³ So in 2 months what has so radically changed to lead Secretary Austin and US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary Denis R. McDonough to mandate vaccination for their workforce?^4,5

I am calling the change the Delta Factor. This is not to be confused with the spy-thrillers that ironically involved rescuing a scientist! The Delta Factor is a catch-all phrase to cover the protean public health impacts of the devastating COVID-19 Delta variant now ravaging the country. Depending on the area of the country as of mid-August, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimated that 80% to > 90% of new cases were the Delta variant.⁶ An increasing number of these cases sadly are in children.⁷

According to the CDC, the Delta variant is more than twice as contagious as index or subsequent strains: making it about as contagious as chicken pox. The unvaccinated are the most susceptible to Delta and may develop more serious illness and risk of death than with other strains. Those who are fully vaccinated can still contract the virus although usually with milder cases. More worrisome is that individuals with these breakthrough infections have the same viral load as those without vaccinations, rendering them vectors of transmission, although for a shorter time than unvaccinated persons.⁸

The VA first mandated vaccination among its health care employees in July and then expanded it to all staff in August.⁹ The US Department of Defense (DoD) mandatory vaccination was announced prior to US Food and Drug Administration’s (FDA) full approval of the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine.¹⁰ Secretary Austin asked President Biden to grant a waiver to permit mandatory vaccination even without full FDA approval, and Biden has indicated his support, but the full approval expedited the time line for implementation.¹¹

Both agencies directly referenced Delta as a primary reason for their vaccination mandates. The VA argued that the mandate was necessary to protect the safety of veterans, while the DoD noted that vaccination was essential to ensure the health of the fighting force. In his initial announcement, Secretary McDonough explicitly mentioned the Delta variant as a primary reason for his decision. noting “it’s the best way to keep veterans safe, especially as the Delta variant spreads across the country.”⁴ Similarly, Secretary Austin declared, “We will also be keeping a close eye on infection rates, which are on the rise now due to the Delta variant and the impact these rates might have on our readiness.”⁵

VA and DoD leadership emphasized the safety and effectiveness of the vaccine and urged employees to voluntarily obtain the vaccine or obtain a religious or medical exemption. Those without such an exemption must adhere to masking, testing, and other restrictions.⁵ As anticipated in the earlier editorial, there has been opposition to the mandate from the workforce of the 2 agencies and their political supporters some of whom view vaccine mandates as violations of personal liberty and bodily integrity and for whom rampant disinformation has amplified entrenched distrust of the government.¹²

The decision to shift from voluntary to mandatory vaccination of federal employees responsible for the health care of veterans and the defense of citizens, which may seem draconian to some, is grounded in core public health ethical and legal principles. The first is the doctrine of the least restrictive alternative, which dictates that implemented public health policies should have the least infringement on individual liberties as possible.¹³ A corollary is that less coercive methods should be reasonably attempted before moving to more restrictive policies. Both agencies have struggled somewhat unsuccessfully to vaccinate employees even with extensive education, persuasion, and incentives. In July, the active-duty vaccination rates ranged from 58 to 77%; among VA employees it ranged from 59 to 85%, depending on the facility.¹⁴

Finally and most important, for a vaccine or other public health intervention to be ethically mandated it must have a high probability of attaining a serious purpose: here preventing the harms of sickness and death especially in the most vulnerable. In July, the White House COVID-19 Response Team reported that “preliminary data from several states over the last few months suggest that 99.5% of deaths from COVID-19 in the United States were in unvaccinated people” and were preventable.¹⁵ Ethically, even as mandates are implemented across the federal workforce, efforts to educate, encourage, and empower vaccination especially among disenfranchised cohorts must continue. But as a recently leaked CDC internal document acknowledged about the Delta Factor, “the war has changed” and so has my opinion about mandating vaccination among those upon whose service depends the life and security of us all.¹⁶

Several weeks ago, I received a call from my brother who, though not a health care professional, wanted me to know he thought the public was being too critical of scientists and physicians who “are giving us the best advice they can about COVID. People think they should have all the answers. But this virus is complicated, and they don’t always know what is going to happen next.” What makes his charitable read of the public health situation remarkable is that he is a COVID-19 survivor of one of the first reported cases of Guillain-Barre syndrome, which several expert neurologists believe is the result of COVID-19. Like so many other COVID-19 long-haul patients, he is left with lingering symptoms and residual deficits.¹

I use this personal story as the overture to this piece on why I am changing my opinion regarding a COVID-19 mandate for federal practitioners. In June I raised ethical concerns about compelling vaccination especially for service members of color based on a current and historical climate of mistrust and discrimination in health care that compulsory vaccination could exacerbate.² Instead, I followed the lead of Secretary of Defense J. Lloyd Austin III and advocated continued education and encouragement for vaccine-hesitant troops.³ So in 2 months what has so radically changed to lead Secretary Austin and US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary Denis R. McDonough to mandate vaccination for their workforce?^4,5

I am calling the change the Delta Factor. This is not to be confused with the spy-thrillers that ironically involved rescuing a scientist! The Delta Factor is a catch-all phrase to cover the protean public health impacts of the devastating COVID-19 Delta variant now ravaging the country. Depending on the area of the country as of mid-August, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimated that 80% to > 90% of new cases were the Delta variant.⁶ An increasing number of these cases sadly are in children.⁷

According to the CDC, the Delta variant is more than twice as contagious as index or subsequent strains: making it about as contagious as chicken pox. The unvaccinated are the most susceptible to Delta and may develop more serious illness and risk of death than with other strains. Those who are fully vaccinated can still contract the virus although usually with milder cases. More worrisome is that individuals with these breakthrough infections have the same viral load as those without vaccinations, rendering them vectors of transmission, although for a shorter time than unvaccinated persons.⁸

The VA first mandated vaccination among its health care employees in July and then expanded it to all staff in August.⁹ The US Department of Defense (DoD) mandatory vaccination was announced prior to US Food and Drug Administration’s (FDA) full approval of the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine.¹⁰ Secretary Austin asked President Biden to grant a waiver to permit mandatory vaccination even without full FDA approval, and Biden has indicated his support, but the full approval expedited the time line for implementation.¹¹

Both agencies directly referenced Delta as a primary reason for their vaccination mandates. The VA argued that the mandate was necessary to protect the safety of veterans, while the DoD noted that vaccination was essential to ensure the health of the fighting force. In his initial announcement, Secretary McDonough explicitly mentioned the Delta variant as a primary reason for his decision. noting “it’s the best way to keep veterans safe, especially as the Delta variant spreads across the country.”⁴ Similarly, Secretary Austin declared, “We will also be keeping a close eye on infection rates, which are on the rise now due to the Delta variant and the impact these rates might have on our readiness.”⁵

VA and DoD leadership emphasized the safety and effectiveness of the vaccine and urged employees to voluntarily obtain the vaccine or obtain a religious or medical exemption. Those without such an exemption must adhere to masking, testing, and other restrictions.⁵ As anticipated in the earlier editorial, there has been opposition to the mandate from the workforce of the 2 agencies and their political supporters some of whom view vaccine mandates as violations of personal liberty and bodily integrity and for whom rampant disinformation has amplified entrenched distrust of the government.¹²

The decision to shift from voluntary to mandatory vaccination of federal employees responsible for the health care of veterans and the defense of citizens, which may seem draconian to some, is grounded in core public health ethical and legal principles. The first is the doctrine of the least restrictive alternative, which dictates that implemented public health policies should have the least infringement on individual liberties as possible.¹³ A corollary is that less coercive methods should be reasonably attempted before moving to more restrictive policies. Both agencies have struggled somewhat unsuccessfully to vaccinate employees even with extensive education, persuasion, and incentives. In July, the active-duty vaccination rates ranged from 58 to 77%; among VA employees it ranged from 59 to 85%, depending on the facility.¹⁴

Finally and most important, for a vaccine or other public health intervention to be ethically mandated it must have a high probability of attaining a serious purpose: here preventing the harms of sickness and death especially in the most vulnerable. In July, the White House COVID-19 Response Team reported that “preliminary data from several states over the last few months suggest that 99.5% of deaths from COVID-19 in the United States were in unvaccinated people” and were preventable.¹⁵ Ethically, even as mandates are implemented across the federal workforce, efforts to educate, encourage, and empower vaccination especially among disenfranchised cohorts must continue. But as a recently leaked CDC internal document acknowledged about the Delta Factor, “the war has changed” and so has my opinion about mandating vaccination among those upon whose service depends the life and security of us all.¹⁶

Amid the parades and speeches that commemorate Pride Month across the United States, a remarkable event occurred in Florida at the Orlando Veterans Affairs Healthcare System. At the 11th annual celebration of Pride on June 21, US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary Denis R. McDonough made a historic announcement, “We are taking the first necessary steps to expand VA’s care to include gender-confirmation surgery, thus allowing transgender vets to go through the full gender-confirmation process with VA by their side.”²

The proclamation reflected the results of a review of VA transgender policies that McDonough had ordered in February 2021 to coordinate VA policies with those of the US Department of Defense (DoD) and to actualize President Biden’s January 2021 executive order that prohibited discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity.^3,4 In an interview with NPR shortly after the Orlando commemoration, Secretary McDonough reported that the governing body overseeing VA health care services unanimously endorsed the proposal.⁵ The National Center for Transgender Equity estimates there are 134,000 transgender veterans.⁶ VA authorities believe 4000 transgender veterans may be interested in obtaining the new gender-affirming benefit when it is available, and Secretary McDonough indicated that about 543 veterans a year soon might be eligible.^5,7

Transgender veterans and their supporters along with many of the VA practitioners who care for them had long waited and hoped for this announcement. The Secretary ended a too-long period in which transgender veterans encountered enormous practical, financial, and personal obstacles, causing frustration and despair on their journey to becoming who they knew they are. Although VA previously did not provide gender-affirmation surgery, it did deliver other forms of transgender care to veterans, such as hormone therapy and other transition-related services. Yet it was painful for transgender veterans and their health care professionals (HCPs) to see that under the VA medical benefits package prior to Secretary McDonough’s historic announcement, gender-affirmation surgery was not deemed care “to promote, preserve, or restore the health of the individual.”⁸

Similarly, the decision is the beginning of the end of an ethical dilemma with which many VA clinicians struggled: They had the competence to perform gender-affirming surgery, but VA policy prohibited them from providing it to their patients.^9,10 The 2013 directive issued under the Obama administration made the ethics of gender-confirmation surgery even more complex. A VA surgeon could perform “medically-indicated procedures” or treat “other medical conditions” even if it simultaneously furthered gender transition. What the surgeon could not perform was a procedure solely for the purpose of gender transition. Because transgender veterans seeking gender-affirmation surgery were forced to go outside the VA system and use their resources to pay for the surgery, VA did permit practitioners to perform preoperative and postoperative treatment, including treating surgical complications of an outside gender-affirmation surgery. VA HCPs were placed in a catch-22 situation that pitted their duty to care in accordance with the preferences and interests of the veteran against their obligation to practice and adhere to VA policy and federal regulation.⁸ With his Pride-month speech, Secretary McDonough resolved this conflict for VA HCPs and made a strong public declaration VA should and will provide gender-affirming surgery that can promote, preserve, and restore the health of transgender veterans.

Secretary McDonough called the move to formally change the rule regarding gender-affirming surgery “the right thing to do” and emphasized that it was “life-saving.”⁷ This last remark was in recognition of the strong evidence demonstrating the adverse psychological impact on transgender veterans of the previous position.²

Denial of gender-confirmation surgery was not the only health care inequity identified among transgender veterans. Research inside and outside VA has found significant health disparities between transgender and nontransgender veterans, including higher rates of depression, suicidality, serious mental illness, posttraumatic stress disorder, military sexual trauma, and homelessness.¹¹ The provision of gender-affirming surgery to transgender veterans whether through VA hospitals or through partnerships with academic affiliates and the community is a major step to remedy these disparities. A 2019 systematic review found that gender-affirming surgery is far from cosmetic: It leads to marked improvement in many of the mental health problems transgender persons experience.¹²

Anyone who has experienced the snail’s pace of change in the behemoth VA bureaucracy knows that this initial movement is only the beginning of the laborious federal process of changing the regulation that currently prohibits VA from offering and paying for gender-confirmation surgery under the VA medical benefits package. Once the regulation is changed, then VA will be empowered to establish policy that in Secretary McDonough’s words, “will ensure the equitable treatment and safety of transgender veterans.”² The decision to eventually provide gender-confirmation surgery as part of VA care was an important aspect of the agency’s overall attempt to make VA more welcome to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) veterans. During the Orlando speech, Secretary McDonough also announced that VA was changing the name of its LGBT program to LGBTQ+ to clearly communicate that all veterans are included in VA care.²

The announcement sends a powerful message of hope, which was a central theme of slain San Francisco supervisor, Harvey Milk, an early and influential LGBTQ activist and advocate.¹ But as always in our polarized country, there was immediate opposition to the proposal arguing that the surgery would place transgender veterans at greater risk of depression and suicide, was not compatible with the VA mission and diverts VA funding from meeting more legitimate care needs in a timely manner.¹¹ It is a sad irony that transgender veterans defended the freedom of their opponents to express their opinion and had to fight this long and hard for their liberty to live as they choose.

Amid the parades and speeches that commemorate Pride Month across the United States, a remarkable event occurred in Florida at the Orlando Veterans Affairs Healthcare System. At the 11th annual celebration of Pride on June 21, US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary Denis R. McDonough made a historic announcement, “We are taking the first necessary steps to expand VA’s care to include gender-confirmation surgery, thus allowing transgender vets to go through the full gender-confirmation process with VA by their side.”²

The proclamation reflected the results of a review of VA transgender policies that McDonough had ordered in February 2021 to coordinate VA policies with those of the US Department of Defense (DoD) and to actualize President Biden’s January 2021 executive order that prohibited discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity.^3,4 In an interview with NPR shortly after the Orlando commemoration, Secretary McDonough reported that the governing body overseeing VA health care services unanimously endorsed the proposal.⁵ The National Center for Transgender Equity estimates there are 134,000 transgender veterans.⁶ VA authorities believe 4000 transgender veterans may be interested in obtaining the new gender-affirming benefit when it is available, and Secretary McDonough indicated that about 543 veterans a year soon might be eligible.^5,7

Transgender veterans and their supporters along with many of the VA practitioners who care for them had long waited and hoped for this announcement. The Secretary ended a too-long period in which transgender veterans encountered enormous practical, financial, and personal obstacles, causing frustration and despair on their journey to becoming who they knew they are. Although VA previously did not provide gender-affirmation surgery, it did deliver other forms of transgender care to veterans, such as hormone therapy and other transition-related services. Yet it was painful for transgender veterans and their health care professionals (HCPs) to see that under the VA medical benefits package prior to Secretary McDonough’s historic announcement, gender-affirmation surgery was not deemed care “to promote, preserve, or restore the health of the individual.”⁸

Similarly, the decision is the beginning of the end of an ethical dilemma with which many VA clinicians struggled: They had the competence to perform gender-affirming surgery, but VA policy prohibited them from providing it to their patients.^9,10 The 2013 directive issued under the Obama administration made the ethics of gender-confirmation surgery even more complex. A VA surgeon could perform “medically-indicated procedures” or treat “other medical conditions” even if it simultaneously furthered gender transition. What the surgeon could not perform was a procedure solely for the purpose of gender transition. Because transgender veterans seeking gender-affirmation surgery were forced to go outside the VA system and use their resources to pay for the surgery, VA did permit practitioners to perform preoperative and postoperative treatment, including treating surgical complications of an outside gender-affirmation surgery. VA HCPs were placed in a catch-22 situation that pitted their duty to care in accordance with the preferences and interests of the veteran against their obligation to practice and adhere to VA policy and federal regulation.⁸ With his Pride-month speech, Secretary McDonough resolved this conflict for VA HCPs and made a strong public declaration VA should and will provide gender-affirming surgery that can promote, preserve, and restore the health of transgender veterans.

Secretary McDonough called the move to formally change the rule regarding gender-affirming surgery “the right thing to do” and emphasized that it was “life-saving.”⁷ This last remark was in recognition of the strong evidence demonstrating the adverse psychological impact on transgender veterans of the previous position.²

Denial of gender-confirmation surgery was not the only health care inequity identified among transgender veterans. Research inside and outside VA has found significant health disparities between transgender and nontransgender veterans, including higher rates of depression, suicidality, serious mental illness, posttraumatic stress disorder, military sexual trauma, and homelessness.¹¹ The provision of gender-affirming surgery to transgender veterans whether through VA hospitals or through partnerships with academic affiliates and the community is a major step to remedy these disparities. A 2019 systematic review found that gender-affirming surgery is far from cosmetic: It leads to marked improvement in many of the mental health problems transgender persons experience.¹²

Anyone who has experienced the snail’s pace of change in the behemoth VA bureaucracy knows that this initial movement is only the beginning of the laborious federal process of changing the regulation that currently prohibits VA from offering and paying for gender-confirmation surgery under the VA medical benefits package. Once the regulation is changed, then VA will be empowered to establish policy that in Secretary McDonough’s words, “will ensure the equitable treatment and safety of transgender veterans.”² The decision to eventually provide gender-confirmation surgery as part of VA care was an important aspect of the agency’s overall attempt to make VA more welcome to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) veterans. During the Orlando speech, Secretary McDonough also announced that VA was changing the name of its LGBT program to LGBTQ+ to clearly communicate that all veterans are included in VA care.²

The announcement sends a powerful message of hope, which was a central theme of slain San Francisco supervisor, Harvey Milk, an early and influential LGBTQ activist and advocate.¹ But as always in our polarized country, there was immediate opposition to the proposal arguing that the surgery would place transgender veterans at greater risk of depression and suicide, was not compatible with the VA mission and diverts VA funding from meeting more legitimate care needs in a timely manner.¹¹ It is a sad irony that transgender veterans defended the freedom of their opponents to express their opinion and had to fight this long and hard for their liberty to live as they choose.

Amid the parades and speeches that commemorate Pride Month across the United States, a remarkable event occurred in Florida at the Orlando Veterans Affairs Healthcare System. At the 11th annual celebration of Pride on June 21, US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary Denis R. McDonough made a historic announcement, “We are taking the first necessary steps to expand VA’s care to include gender-confirmation surgery, thus allowing transgender vets to go through the full gender-confirmation process with VA by their side.”²

The proclamation reflected the results of a review of VA transgender policies that McDonough had ordered in February 2021 to coordinate VA policies with those of the US Department of Defense (DoD) and to actualize President Biden’s January 2021 executive order that prohibited discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity.^3,4 In an interview with NPR shortly after the Orlando commemoration, Secretary McDonough reported that the governing body overseeing VA health care services unanimously endorsed the proposal.⁵ The National Center for Transgender Equity estimates there are 134,000 transgender veterans.⁶ VA authorities believe 4000 transgender veterans may be interested in obtaining the new gender-affirming benefit when it is available, and Secretary McDonough indicated that about 543 veterans a year soon might be eligible.^5,7

Transgender veterans and their supporters along with many of the VA practitioners who care for them had long waited and hoped for this announcement. The Secretary ended a too-long period in which transgender veterans encountered enormous practical, financial, and personal obstacles, causing frustration and despair on their journey to becoming who they knew they are. Although VA previously did not provide gender-affirmation surgery, it did deliver other forms of transgender care to veterans, such as hormone therapy and other transition-related services. Yet it was painful for transgender veterans and their health care professionals (HCPs) to see that under the VA medical benefits package prior to Secretary McDonough’s historic announcement, gender-affirmation surgery was not deemed care “to promote, preserve, or restore the health of the individual.”⁸

Similarly, the decision is the beginning of the end of an ethical dilemma with which many VA clinicians struggled: They had the competence to perform gender-affirming surgery, but VA policy prohibited them from providing it to their patients.^9,10 The 2013 directive issued under the Obama administration made the ethics of gender-confirmation surgery even more complex. A VA surgeon could perform “medically-indicated procedures” or treat “other medical conditions” even if it simultaneously furthered gender transition. What the surgeon could not perform was a procedure solely for the purpose of gender transition. Because transgender veterans seeking gender-affirmation surgery were forced to go outside the VA system and use their resources to pay for the surgery, VA did permit practitioners to perform preoperative and postoperative treatment, including treating surgical complications of an outside gender-affirmation surgery. VA HCPs were placed in a catch-22 situation that pitted their duty to care in accordance with the preferences and interests of the veteran against their obligation to practice and adhere to VA policy and federal regulation.⁸ With his Pride-month speech, Secretary McDonough resolved this conflict for VA HCPs and made a strong public declaration VA should and will provide gender-affirming surgery that can promote, preserve, and restore the health of transgender veterans.

Secretary McDonough called the move to formally change the rule regarding gender-affirming surgery “the right thing to do” and emphasized that it was “life-saving.”⁷ This last remark was in recognition of the strong evidence demonstrating the adverse psychological impact on transgender veterans of the previous position.²

Denial of gender-confirmation surgery was not the only health care inequity identified among transgender veterans. Research inside and outside VA has found significant health disparities between transgender and nontransgender veterans, including higher rates of depression, suicidality, serious mental illness, posttraumatic stress disorder, military sexual trauma, and homelessness.¹¹ The provision of gender-affirming surgery to transgender veterans whether through VA hospitals or through partnerships with academic affiliates and the community is a major step to remedy these disparities. A 2019 systematic review found that gender-affirming surgery is far from cosmetic: It leads to marked improvement in many of the mental health problems transgender persons experience.¹²

Anyone who has experienced the snail’s pace of change in the behemoth VA bureaucracy knows that this initial movement is only the beginning of the laborious federal process of changing the regulation that currently prohibits VA from offering and paying for gender-confirmation surgery under the VA medical benefits package. Once the regulation is changed, then VA will be empowered to establish policy that in Secretary McDonough’s words, “will ensure the equitable treatment and safety of transgender veterans.”² The decision to eventually provide gender-confirmation surgery as part of VA care was an important aspect of the agency’s overall attempt to make VA more welcome to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) veterans. During the Orlando speech, Secretary McDonough also announced that VA was changing the name of its LGBT program to LGBTQ+ to clearly communicate that all veterans are included in VA care.²

The announcement sends a powerful message of hope, which was a central theme of slain San Francisco supervisor, Harvey Milk, an early and influential LGBTQ activist and advocate.¹ But as always in our polarized country, there was immediate opposition to the proposal arguing that the surgery would place transgender veterans at greater risk of depression and suicide, was not compatible with the VA mission and diverts VA funding from meeting more legitimate care needs in a timely manner.¹¹ It is a sad irony that transgender veterans defended the freedom of their opponents to express their opinion and had to fight this long and hard for their liberty to live as they choose.

It is June and most of us are looking forward to a more normal summer than the one we had in 2020. Many Americans have been vaccinated and states are rolling back some (or all) masking requirements and restrictions on gatherings. In many sectors, including the US Department of Defense (DoD) and the US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), worries from public health officials about vaccine supply and how to ethically allocate demand have given way to a new set of concerns: We have the shots, but for widespread protection we have to get them into arms.

The reluctance to roll up the sleeve is known as vaccine hesitancy. The National Academies of Science comments on vaccine hesitancy in its report on COVID-19 vaccination allocation. “Potential consequences of vaccine hesitancy—which the committee views as an attitude, preference, or motivational state—are the behaviors of vaccine refusal or delay.”²

On that count, there was encouraging albeit unexpected news in waning days of May. Media reported a sharp increase in the COVID-vaccination of military personnel. Unnamed DoD officials indicated, they had seen a 55% increase in the vaccination of active-duty service members over the previous month. This news represents a dramatic turnaround in a trend of vaccine hesitancy among military members that has persisted since the vaccine became available.³ Even last month, this would have been a very different column. The DoD has not disclosed the exact number of service members who have declined COVID-19 vaccination but multiple news outlets have documented that there was widespread and significant vaccine hesitancy among military personnel. In February, Military News reported that one-third of troops who were offered the vaccine declined it; and in April, USA Today stated that 40% of Marines had refused vaccination.^4,5

Still, it is worth examining the data on vaccination among active duty service members. From December 2020 through March 2021, the military conducted the first study to evaluate rates of vaccine initiation and completion in the military in general and for service members from racial/ethnic minorities in particular. Black military personnel were 28% less likely than non-Hispanic White service members to initiate vaccination against coronavirus even after adjusting for other possible confounders. Just 29% of White, 25.5% of Hispanic, and 18.7% of Black service members had initiated the vaccine process in the survey.⁶

The authors suggest that in part, vaccine hesitancy explains the findings.⁴ Vaccine hesitancy among racial and ethnic minorities is even more tragic because these same already disadvantaged cohorts have disproportionately suffered from COVID-19 throughout the pandemic with higher rates of infection, serious illness requiring hospitalization, and infection-related morbidity.⁷

Vaccine hesitancy, delay, or refusal in Black Americans whether military or civilian often is attributed to the historical abuses like the Tuskegee syphilis experiments or the more recent example of cancer cell lines taken from Henrietta Lacks without consent.⁸ Such government sponsored betrayals no doubt are the soil in which hesitancy grows but recent commentators have opined that focusing solely on these infamous examples may ignore current systemic racism that is pervasively feeding Black Americans reluctance to consider or accept COVID-19 vaccination.⁹ Blaming infamous research also provides a convenient excuse for confronting contemporary racial discrimination in health care and taking responsibility as health care practitioners for reversing it. “Framing the conversation about distrust in COVID vaccines in terms of everyday racism rather than historical atrocities may increase underserved communities’ willingness to be vaccinated,” Bajaj and Stanford wrote in a recent recent New England Journal of Medicine commentary. “When we hyperfocus on Sims, Lacks, and Tuskegee, we ascribe the current Black health experience to past racism, rooting our present in immovable historical occurrences and undermining efforts to combat mistrust. Everyday racism, by contrast, can be tackled in the present.”⁹

The study of racial/ethnic disparities in COVID-19 vaccination in active-duty service members was a work product of the Armed Forces Health Surveillance Division. The authors underscore several factors that support the connection between discrimination and vaccine hesitancy in the military. Lack of access to and ability to obtain COVID-19 vaccination continues to be a major barrier that disadvantaged populations must overcome.¹⁰ The COVID-19 vaccine is widely available, easily obtained, and free of charge for all military personnel. Yet the vaccine hesitancy in the military parallels that of the civilian sector. This led the study authors to opine that, “forces external to the U.S. Military, such as interpersonal and societal factors also contribute to vaccine hesitancy among military service members.”⁶

Obviously, any unvaccinated active-duty service member reduces the combat readiness of the fighting force a consideration that led some in Congress to call for mandating vaccination. The vaccine is currently being administered under an emergency use authorization (EUA), which prevents even the military from mandating it.¹¹ Even if President Joseph Biden obtained a waiver to make the vaccine mandatory, the implications of forcing service members who have volunteered to serve their country is ethically problematic. Those problems are exponentially amplified when applied to members of ethnic and racial minorities who have a past and present of health disparities and discrimination. Respecting the decision of those in uniform to decline COVID-19 vaccination is the first and perhaps most important step to rebuilding the trust that is the most promising means of reducing vaccine hesitancy.

Part of the accountability we all bear for health care inequity and racism is to continue the work of this landmark study to better understand vaccine hesitancy among military and veteran cohorts, develop counseling and education that target those attitudes, beliefs, and motivations with education, counseling, and support. All of us can in some small measure follow the ethical mandate “to dispel rumors and provide facts to people” of Secretary Austin, a Black retired 4-star Army general.¹

It is June and most of us are looking forward to a more normal summer than the one we had in 2020. Many Americans have been vaccinated and states are rolling back some (or all) masking requirements and restrictions on gatherings. In many sectors, including the US Department of Defense (DoD) and the US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), worries from public health officials about vaccine supply and how to ethically allocate demand have given way to a new set of concerns: We have the shots, but for widespread protection we have to get them into arms.

The reluctance to roll up the sleeve is known as vaccine hesitancy. The National Academies of Science comments on vaccine hesitancy in its report on COVID-19 vaccination allocation. “Potential consequences of vaccine hesitancy—which the committee views as an attitude, preference, or motivational state—are the behaviors of vaccine refusal or delay.”²

On that count, there was encouraging albeit unexpected news in waning days of May. Media reported a sharp increase in the COVID-vaccination of military personnel. Unnamed DoD officials indicated, they had seen a 55% increase in the vaccination of active-duty service members over the previous month. This news represents a dramatic turnaround in a trend of vaccine hesitancy among military members that has persisted since the vaccine became available.³ Even last month, this would have been a very different column. The DoD has not disclosed the exact number of service members who have declined COVID-19 vaccination but multiple news outlets have documented that there was widespread and significant vaccine hesitancy among military personnel. In February, Military News reported that one-third of troops who were offered the vaccine declined it; and in April, USA Today stated that 40% of Marines had refused vaccination.^4,5

Still, it is worth examining the data on vaccination among active duty service members. From December 2020 through March 2021, the military conducted the first study to evaluate rates of vaccine initiation and completion in the military in general and for service members from racial/ethnic minorities in particular. Black military personnel were 28% less likely than non-Hispanic White service members to initiate vaccination against coronavirus even after adjusting for other possible confounders. Just 29% of White, 25.5% of Hispanic, and 18.7% of Black service members had initiated the vaccine process in the survey.⁶

The authors suggest that in part, vaccine hesitancy explains the findings.⁴ Vaccine hesitancy among racial and ethnic minorities is even more tragic because these same already disadvantaged cohorts have disproportionately suffered from COVID-19 throughout the pandemic with higher rates of infection, serious illness requiring hospitalization, and infection-related morbidity.⁷

Vaccine hesitancy, delay, or refusal in Black Americans whether military or civilian often is attributed to the historical abuses like the Tuskegee syphilis experiments or the more recent example of cancer cell lines taken from Henrietta Lacks without consent.⁸ Such government sponsored betrayals no doubt are the soil in which hesitancy grows but recent commentators have opined that focusing solely on these infamous examples may ignore current systemic racism that is pervasively feeding Black Americans reluctance to consider or accept COVID-19 vaccination.⁹ Blaming infamous research also provides a convenient excuse for confronting contemporary racial discrimination in health care and taking responsibility as health care practitioners for reversing it. “Framing the conversation about distrust in COVID vaccines in terms of everyday racism rather than historical atrocities may increase underserved communities’ willingness to be vaccinated,” Bajaj and Stanford wrote in a recent recent New England Journal of Medicine commentary. “When we hyperfocus on Sims, Lacks, and Tuskegee, we ascribe the current Black health experience to past racism, rooting our present in immovable historical occurrences and undermining efforts to combat mistrust. Everyday racism, by contrast, can be tackled in the present.”⁹

The study of racial/ethnic disparities in COVID-19 vaccination in active-duty service members was a work product of the Armed Forces Health Surveillance Division. The authors underscore several factors that support the connection between discrimination and vaccine hesitancy in the military. Lack of access to and ability to obtain COVID-19 vaccination continues to be a major barrier that disadvantaged populations must overcome.¹⁰ The COVID-19 vaccine is widely available, easily obtained, and free of charge for all military personnel. Yet the vaccine hesitancy in the military parallels that of the civilian sector. This led the study authors to opine that, “forces external to the U.S. Military, such as interpersonal and societal factors also contribute to vaccine hesitancy among military service members.”⁶

Obviously, any unvaccinated active-duty service member reduces the combat readiness of the fighting force a consideration that led some in Congress to call for mandating vaccination. The vaccine is currently being administered under an emergency use authorization (EUA), which prevents even the military from mandating it.¹¹ Even if President Joseph Biden obtained a waiver to make the vaccine mandatory, the implications of forcing service members who have volunteered to serve their country is ethically problematic. Those problems are exponentially amplified when applied to members of ethnic and racial minorities who have a past and present of health disparities and discrimination. Respecting the decision of those in uniform to decline COVID-19 vaccination is the first and perhaps most important step to rebuilding the trust that is the most promising means of reducing vaccine hesitancy.

Part of the accountability we all bear for health care inequity and racism is to continue the work of this landmark study to better understand vaccine hesitancy among military and veteran cohorts, develop counseling and education that target those attitudes, beliefs, and motivations with education, counseling, and support. All of us can in some small measure follow the ethical mandate “to dispel rumors and provide facts to people” of Secretary Austin, a Black retired 4-star Army general.¹

It is June and most of us are looking forward to a more normal summer than the one we had in 2020. Many Americans have been vaccinated and states are rolling back some (or all) masking requirements and restrictions on gatherings. In many sectors, including the US Department of Defense (DoD) and the US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), worries from public health officials about vaccine supply and how to ethically allocate demand have given way to a new set of concerns: We have the shots, but for widespread protection we have to get them into arms.

The reluctance to roll up the sleeve is known as vaccine hesitancy. The National Academies of Science comments on vaccine hesitancy in its report on COVID-19 vaccination allocation. “Potential consequences of vaccine hesitancy—which the committee views as an attitude, preference, or motivational state—are the behaviors of vaccine refusal or delay.”²

On that count, there was encouraging albeit unexpected news in waning days of May. Media reported a sharp increase in the COVID-vaccination of military personnel. Unnamed DoD officials indicated, they had seen a 55% increase in the vaccination of active-duty service members over the previous month. This news represents a dramatic turnaround in a trend of vaccine hesitancy among military members that has persisted since the vaccine became available.³ Even last month, this would have been a very different column. The DoD has not disclosed the exact number of service members who have declined COVID-19 vaccination but multiple news outlets have documented that there was widespread and significant vaccine hesitancy among military personnel. In February, Military News reported that one-third of troops who were offered the vaccine declined it; and in April, USA Today stated that 40% of Marines had refused vaccination.^4,5

Still, it is worth examining the data on vaccination among active duty service members. From December 2020 through March 2021, the military conducted the first study to evaluate rates of vaccine initiation and completion in the military in general and for service members from racial/ethnic minorities in particular. Black military personnel were 28% less likely than non-Hispanic White service members to initiate vaccination against coronavirus even after adjusting for other possible confounders. Just 29% of White, 25.5% of Hispanic, and 18.7% of Black service members had initiated the vaccine process in the survey.⁶

The authors suggest that in part, vaccine hesitancy explains the findings.⁴ Vaccine hesitancy among racial and ethnic minorities is even more tragic because these same already disadvantaged cohorts have disproportionately suffered from COVID-19 throughout the pandemic with higher rates of infection, serious illness requiring hospitalization, and infection-related morbidity.⁷

Vaccine hesitancy, delay, or refusal in Black Americans whether military or civilian often is attributed to the historical abuses like the Tuskegee syphilis experiments or the more recent example of cancer cell lines taken from Henrietta Lacks without consent.⁸ Such government sponsored betrayals no doubt are the soil in which hesitancy grows but recent commentators have opined that focusing solely on these infamous examples may ignore current systemic racism that is pervasively feeding Black Americans reluctance to consider or accept COVID-19 vaccination.⁹ Blaming infamous research also provides a convenient excuse for confronting contemporary racial discrimination in health care and taking responsibility as health care practitioners for reversing it. “Framing the conversation about distrust in COVID vaccines in terms of everyday racism rather than historical atrocities may increase underserved communities’ willingness to be vaccinated,” Bajaj and Stanford wrote in a recent recent New England Journal of Medicine commentary. “When we hyperfocus on Sims, Lacks, and Tuskegee, we ascribe the current Black health experience to past racism, rooting our present in immovable historical occurrences and undermining efforts to combat mistrust. Everyday racism, by contrast, can be tackled in the present.”⁹

The study of racial/ethnic disparities in COVID-19 vaccination in active-duty service members was a work product of the Armed Forces Health Surveillance Division. The authors underscore several factors that support the connection between discrimination and vaccine hesitancy in the military. Lack of access to and ability to obtain COVID-19 vaccination continues to be a major barrier that disadvantaged populations must overcome.¹⁰ The COVID-19 vaccine is widely available, easily obtained, and free of charge for all military personnel. Yet the vaccine hesitancy in the military parallels that of the civilian sector. This led the study authors to opine that, “forces external to the U.S. Military, such as interpersonal and societal factors also contribute to vaccine hesitancy among military service members.”⁶

Obviously, any unvaccinated active-duty service member reduces the combat readiness of the fighting force a consideration that led some in Congress to call for mandating vaccination. The vaccine is currently being administered under an emergency use authorization (EUA), which prevents even the military from mandating it.¹¹ Even if President Joseph Biden obtained a waiver to make the vaccine mandatory, the implications of forcing service members who have volunteered to serve their country is ethically problematic. Those problems are exponentially amplified when applied to members of ethnic and racial minorities who have a past and present of health disparities and discrimination. Respecting the decision of those in uniform to decline COVID-19 vaccination is the first and perhaps most important step to rebuilding the trust that is the most promising means of reducing vaccine hesitancy.

Part of the accountability we all bear for health care inequity and racism is to continue the work of this landmark study to better understand vaccine hesitancy among military and veteran cohorts, develop counseling and education that target those attitudes, beliefs, and motivations with education, counseling, and support. All of us can in some small measure follow the ethical mandate “to dispel rumors and provide facts to people” of Secretary Austin, a Black retired 4-star Army general.¹

Many events both personal and public have been deferred during the 15 plus months of the pandemic. Almost everyone has an example of a friend or family member who would have been sitting at what President Biden, during his memorial speech for the 500,000 victims of the virus referred to as the “empty chair” at a holiday gathering sans COVID-19.² For many in our country, part of the agonizing effort to awaken from the long nightmare of the pandemic is to resume the rhythm of rituals national, local, and personal that mark the year with meaning and offer rest and rejuvenation from the daily toil of duty. There are family dinners now cautiously resumed due to vaccinations; small celebrations of belated birthdays in family pods; socially distanced outdoor gatherings suspended in the cold communicable winter now gingerly possible with the warmth of spring.

As a nation, one of the events that was put on hold was the commemoration of the Vietnam War. On March 16, 2021, following guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) announced it was postponing commemoration events “until further notice.”³ Annually, the VA partners with the US Department of Defense, state, and local organizations to recognize “the service and sacrifices made by the nearly 3 million service members who served in Vietnam.”⁴

In 2012, President Barak Obama signed a proclamation establishing a 13-year commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Vietnam War.⁵ Five years later, President Donald Trump signed the War Veterans Recognition Act of 2017, designating March 29 annually as National Vietnam War Veterans Day.⁶ Though many of the events planned for March and April could not take place, the Vietnam War Commemoration (https://www.vietnamwar50th.com) offers information and ideas for honoring and supporting Vietnam War veterans. As Memorial Day approaches in this year of so much loss and heroism, I encourage you to find a way to thank Vietnam veterans who may have received the opposite of gratitude when they initially returned home.

As my small contribution to the commemoration, this editorial will focus on the psychiatric disorder of memory: posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and how the Vietnam War brought definition—albeit delayed—to the agonizing diagnosis that too many veterans experience.

The known clinical entity of PTSD is ancient. Narrative descriptions of the disorder are written in the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh and in Deuteronomy 20:1-9.⁷ American and European military physicians have given various names to the destructive effects of combat on body and mind from “soldier’s heart” in the American Civil War, to “shell shock” in World War I to “battle fatigue” during World War II.⁸ These were all descriptive diagnoses field practitioners used to grasp the psychosomatic decompensation they observed in service members who had been exposed to the horrors of war. The VA was the impetus and agent of the earliest attempts at scientific definition. The American Psychiatric Association further developed this nosology in 1952 with the diagnosis of gross stress reaction in the first Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM)-1.⁹

The combat experience shaped the definition: the stressor had to be extreme, the civilian comparison would be a natural disaster; the reaction could occur only in a previously normal individual, it would be attributed to the extant psychiatric condition in anyone with a premorbid illness; and if it did not remit by 6 months, another primary psychiatric diagnosis must be assigned.

From our vantage point, this set of criteria is obviously woefully inadequate, yet it was at least a beginning of formal recognition of the experience that veterans endured in wartime and real progress compared with what happened next. When DSM-1 was revised in 1968, the diagnosis of gross stress reaction was eliminated without explanation. Researcher Andreasen and others speculate that its disappearance can be attributed to association of the diagnosis with war in a country that had been at peace since the end of the Korean War in 1953.¹⁰ Yet military historians among my readers will immediately counter that the Vietnam War began 2 years later and that the year of the revision saw major combat operations.

Many veterans living with the psychological and physical suffering of their service in Vietnam and the organizations that supported them advocated for the psychiatric profession to formally acknowledge post-Vietnam syndrome.¹¹ Five years after the end of the Vietnam War, the experts who authored DSM-III, decided to include a new stress-induced diagnosis.¹² Although the manual did not limit the traumatic experience to combat in Vietnam as some veterans wanted, there is no doubt that the criteria reflect the extensive research validating the illness narratives of thousands of service men and women.

The DSM-III criteria clearly had war in mind when it stipulated that the stressor had to be outside the range of usual human experience that would likely trigger significant symptoms in almost anyone as well as specifying chronic symptoms lasting more than 6 months. Despite the controversy about the diagnosis, Vietnam veterans helped bring the PTSD diagnosis to official psychiatric nomenclature and in a more recognizable form that began to capture the intensity of their reexperiencing of the trauma, the psychosocial difficulties numbing caused, and the pervasive interference of hyperarousal and vigilance many aspects and areas of life.¹³

The National Vietnam Veterans Longitudinal Study examined the course of PTSD over 25 years, using the newly formulated diagnostic criteria for PTSD.¹⁴ Results were reported to Congress in 2012 and showed that 11% of men and 7% of women who were in a war theater were still struggling with PTSD 40 years after the war. Of those, 37% met major depressive disorder criteria. Male veterans who in 1987 still met criteria for PTSD were twice as likely to have died than the comparator group of veterans without PTSD. Two-thirds of veterans with PTSD from war zone exposure discussed behavioral health or substance misuse concerns with a health care provider, and 37% of those were receiving VA care.¹⁴

Given these disturbing data, perhaps the best way we can pay homage to the aging Vietnam veterans is to support continued research into effective evidence-based treatments for PTSD and funding for the training and recruiting of mental health practitioners to all 3 branches of federal health care who can deliver that care compassionately and competently.

Many events both personal and public have been deferred during the 15 plus months of the pandemic. Almost everyone has an example of a friend or family member who would have been sitting at what President Biden, during his memorial speech for the 500,000 victims of the virus referred to as the “empty chair” at a holiday gathering sans COVID-19.² For many in our country, part of the agonizing effort to awaken from the long nightmare of the pandemic is to resume the rhythm of rituals national, local, and personal that mark the year with meaning and offer rest and rejuvenation from the daily toil of duty. There are family dinners now cautiously resumed due to vaccinations; small celebrations of belated birthdays in family pods; socially distanced outdoor gatherings suspended in the cold communicable winter now gingerly possible with the warmth of spring.

As a nation, one of the events that was put on hold was the commemoration of the Vietnam War. On March 16, 2021, following guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) announced it was postponing commemoration events “until further notice.”³ Annually, the VA partners with the US Department of Defense, state, and local organizations to recognize “the service and sacrifices made by the nearly 3 million service members who served in Vietnam.”⁴

In 2012, President Barak Obama signed a proclamation establishing a 13-year commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Vietnam War.⁵ Five years later, President Donald Trump signed the War Veterans Recognition Act of 2017, designating March 29 annually as National Vietnam War Veterans Day.⁶ Though many of the events planned for March and April could not take place, the Vietnam War Commemoration (https://www.vietnamwar50th.com) offers information and ideas for honoring and supporting Vietnam War veterans. As Memorial Day approaches in this year of so much loss and heroism, I encourage you to find a way to thank Vietnam veterans who may have received the opposite of gratitude when they initially returned home.

As my small contribution to the commemoration, this editorial will focus on the psychiatric disorder of memory: posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and how the Vietnam War brought definition—albeit delayed—to the agonizing diagnosis that too many veterans experience.

The known clinical entity of PTSD is ancient. Narrative descriptions of the disorder are written in the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh and in Deuteronomy 20:1-9.⁷ American and European military physicians have given various names to the destructive effects of combat on body and mind from “soldier’s heart” in the American Civil War, to “shell shock” in World War I to “battle fatigue” during World War II.⁸ These were all descriptive diagnoses field practitioners used to grasp the psychosomatic decompensation they observed in service members who had been exposed to the horrors of war. The VA was the impetus and agent of the earliest attempts at scientific definition. The American Psychiatric Association further developed this nosology in 1952 with the diagnosis of gross stress reaction in the first Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM)-1.⁹

The combat experience shaped the definition: the stressor had to be extreme, the civilian comparison would be a natural disaster; the reaction could occur only in a previously normal individual, it would be attributed to the extant psychiatric condition in anyone with a premorbid illness; and if it did not remit by 6 months, another primary psychiatric diagnosis must be assigned.

From our vantage point, this set of criteria is obviously woefully inadequate, yet it was at least a beginning of formal recognition of the experience that veterans endured in wartime and real progress compared with what happened next. When DSM-1 was revised in 1968, the diagnosis of gross stress reaction was eliminated without explanation. Researcher Andreasen and others speculate that its disappearance can be attributed to association of the diagnosis with war in a country that had been at peace since the end of the Korean War in 1953.¹⁰ Yet military historians among my readers will immediately counter that the Vietnam War began 2 years later and that the year of the revision saw major combat operations.

Many veterans living with the psychological and physical suffering of their service in Vietnam and the organizations that supported them advocated for the psychiatric profession to formally acknowledge post-Vietnam syndrome.¹¹ Five years after the end of the Vietnam War, the experts who authored DSM-III, decided to include a new stress-induced diagnosis.¹² Although the manual did not limit the traumatic experience to combat in Vietnam as some veterans wanted, there is no doubt that the criteria reflect the extensive research validating the illness narratives of thousands of service men and women.

The DSM-III criteria clearly had war in mind when it stipulated that the stressor had to be outside the range of usual human experience that would likely trigger significant symptoms in almost anyone as well as specifying chronic symptoms lasting more than 6 months. Despite the controversy about the diagnosis, Vietnam veterans helped bring the PTSD diagnosis to official psychiatric nomenclature and in a more recognizable form that began to capture the intensity of their reexperiencing of the trauma, the psychosocial difficulties numbing caused, and the pervasive interference of hyperarousal and vigilance many aspects and areas of life.¹³

The National Vietnam Veterans Longitudinal Study examined the course of PTSD over 25 years, using the newly formulated diagnostic criteria for PTSD.¹⁴ Results were reported to Congress in 2012 and showed that 11% of men and 7% of women who were in a war theater were still struggling with PTSD 40 years after the war. Of those, 37% met major depressive disorder criteria. Male veterans who in 1987 still met criteria for PTSD were twice as likely to have died than the comparator group of veterans without PTSD. Two-thirds of veterans with PTSD from war zone exposure discussed behavioral health or substance misuse concerns with a health care provider, and 37% of those were receiving VA care.¹⁴

Given these disturbing data, perhaps the best way we can pay homage to the aging Vietnam veterans is to support continued research into effective evidence-based treatments for PTSD and funding for the training and recruiting of mental health practitioners to all 3 branches of federal health care who can deliver that care compassionately and competently.

Many events both personal and public have been deferred during the 15 plus months of the pandemic. Almost everyone has an example of a friend or family member who would have been sitting at what President Biden, during his memorial speech for the 500,000 victims of the virus referred to as the “empty chair” at a holiday gathering sans COVID-19.² For many in our country, part of the agonizing effort to awaken from the long nightmare of the pandemic is to resume the rhythm of rituals national, local, and personal that mark the year with meaning and offer rest and rejuvenation from the daily toil of duty. There are family dinners now cautiously resumed due to vaccinations; small celebrations of belated birthdays in family pods; socially distanced outdoor gatherings suspended in the cold communicable winter now gingerly possible with the warmth of spring.

As a nation, one of the events that was put on hold was the commemoration of the Vietnam War. On March 16, 2021, following guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) announced it was postponing commemoration events “until further notice.”³ Annually, the VA partners with the US Department of Defense, state, and local organizations to recognize “the service and sacrifices made by the nearly 3 million service members who served in Vietnam.”⁴

In 2012, President Barak Obama signed a proclamation establishing a 13-year commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Vietnam War.⁵ Five years later, President Donald Trump signed the War Veterans Recognition Act of 2017, designating March 29 annually as National Vietnam War Veterans Day.⁶ Though many of the events planned for March and April could not take place, the Vietnam War Commemoration (https://www.vietnamwar50th.com) offers information and ideas for honoring and supporting Vietnam War veterans. As Memorial Day approaches in this year of so much loss and heroism, I encourage you to find a way to thank Vietnam veterans who may have received the opposite of gratitude when they initially returned home.

As my small contribution to the commemoration, this editorial will focus on the psychiatric disorder of memory: posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and how the Vietnam War brought definition—albeit delayed—to the agonizing diagnosis that too many veterans experience.

The known clinical entity of PTSD is ancient. Narrative descriptions of the disorder are written in the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh and in Deuteronomy 20:1-9.⁷ American and European military physicians have given various names to the destructive effects of combat on body and mind from “soldier’s heart” in the American Civil War, to “shell shock” in World War I to “battle fatigue” during World War II.⁸ These were all descriptive diagnoses field practitioners used to grasp the psychosomatic decompensation they observed in service members who had been exposed to the horrors of war. The VA was the impetus and agent of the earliest attempts at scientific definition. The American Psychiatric Association further developed this nosology in 1952 with the diagnosis of gross stress reaction in the first Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM)-1.⁹

The combat experience shaped the definition: the stressor had to be extreme, the civilian comparison would be a natural disaster; the reaction could occur only in a previously normal individual, it would be attributed to the extant psychiatric condition in anyone with a premorbid illness; and if it did not remit by 6 months, another primary psychiatric diagnosis must be assigned.

From our vantage point, this set of criteria is obviously woefully inadequate, yet it was at least a beginning of formal recognition of the experience that veterans endured in wartime and real progress compared with what happened next. When DSM-1 was revised in 1968, the diagnosis of gross stress reaction was eliminated without explanation. Researcher Andreasen and others speculate that its disappearance can be attributed to association of the diagnosis with war in a country that had been at peace since the end of the Korean War in 1953.¹⁰ Yet military historians among my readers will immediately counter that the Vietnam War began 2 years later and that the year of the revision saw major combat operations.

Many veterans living with the psychological and physical suffering of their service in Vietnam and the organizations that supported them advocated for the psychiatric profession to formally acknowledge post-Vietnam syndrome.¹¹ Five years after the end of the Vietnam War, the experts who authored DSM-III, decided to include a new stress-induced diagnosis.¹² Although the manual did not limit the traumatic experience to combat in Vietnam as some veterans wanted, there is no doubt that the criteria reflect the extensive research validating the illness narratives of thousands of service men and women.

The DSM-III criteria clearly had war in mind when it stipulated that the stressor had to be outside the range of usual human experience that would likely trigger significant symptoms in almost anyone as well as specifying chronic symptoms lasting more than 6 months. Despite the controversy about the diagnosis, Vietnam veterans helped bring the PTSD diagnosis to official psychiatric nomenclature and in a more recognizable form that began to capture the intensity of their reexperiencing of the trauma, the psychosocial difficulties numbing caused, and the pervasive interference of hyperarousal and vigilance many aspects and areas of life.¹³

The National Vietnam Veterans Longitudinal Study examined the course of PTSD over 25 years, using the newly formulated diagnostic criteria for PTSD.¹⁴ Results were reported to Congress in 2012 and showed that 11% of men and 7% of women who were in a war theater were still struggling with PTSD 40 years after the war. Of those, 37% met major depressive disorder criteria. Male veterans who in 1987 still met criteria for PTSD were twice as likely to have died than the comparator group of veterans without PTSD. Two-thirds of veterans with PTSD from war zone exposure discussed behavioral health or substance misuse concerns with a health care provider, and 37% of those were receiving VA care.¹⁴

Given these disturbing data, perhaps the best way we can pay homage to the aging Vietnam veterans is to support continued research into effective evidence-based treatments for PTSD and funding for the training and recruiting of mental health practitioners to all 3 branches of federal health care who can deliver that care compassionately and competently.

In April 2020, I pledged to focus my editorials on the pandemic. In subsequent editorials I renewed that intention. And it is a promise I have kept during the long plague year for all my editorials. When I announced my plan to write solely on COVID-19, my astute editor asked me, “How are you going to know when to stop?” I reminded myself of his question as I sat down to write each month and never arrived at a satisfactory answer. Nor do I have an answer now for why I am asking readers to release me from my vow—except for the somewhat trivial reason that a year seems enough. Is there more to say about the pandemic? Yes, there is so much more that needs to be discovered and unraveled, contemplated and analyzed; no doubt oceans of print and electronic pages will wash over us in the coming decade from thousands of scientists and journalists commenting on the topic of this public health crisis.²

Nevertheless, I have run the gauntlet of salient subjects within my wheelhouse: The plague year of editorials opened with a primer on public health ethics; the May column studied the duty to care for health care professionals in the midst of the first surge of virus; June examined the controversy around remdesivir and hydroxcholoroquine as medicine frantically sought some way to treat the sick; in July, I took a lighter look at the “Dog Days” of COVID-19 staring my Labrador Retriever mix, Reed, snoozing on his couch on the patio; August celebrated the amazing outreach of the US Department of Defense, US Public Health Service, and US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) in service to the community; September discussed the adverse effects of the prolonged pandemic on the human psyche and some positive ways of handling the stress; October lamented the exponential rise in substance misuse as human beings struggled to manage the emotional toll of the pandemic; in December, COVID-19 was the sole subject of my annual Best and Worst ethics column; the new year saw the emergency use authorizations of the first and second vaccines and the editorial laid out the critical challenges for vaccination; in February my esteemed colleague Anita Tarzian joined me in an article explaining the ethical approach to vaccine allocation developed by the VA.^3-12

A reader might aptly ask whether I am laying down the COVID-19 gauntlet because I believe the pandemic is over and done with us. The news is full of pundits opining when things will return to normal (if that ever existed or will again) and soothsayers divining the signs of the plague’s end.¹³ What I think is that we are more than done with the pandemic and unfortunately that may be the central cause of its perpetuation; which brings me to Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year.¹

Defoe is better known to most of us if at all from modern films of his best-seller Robinson Crusoe. Yet A Journal of the Plague Year and other books about epidemics have become popular reading as we seek clues to the mystery of how to affirm life amid a death-dealing infectious disease.¹⁴ There is even an emerging lockdown literature genre. (Before anyone asks, I am in no way so pretentious as to suggest my columns should be included in that scholarly body of work).

Defoe’s book chronicles the last episode of the bubonic plague that afflicted London in 1665 and claimed 100,000 lives. Defoe was only 5 years old when the epidemic devastated one of the greatest cities in Europe. In 1772 he published what one recent reviewer called “a fascinating record of trying to cope with the capital’s last plague.”¹⁵ Defoe presciently documented the central reason I think the pandemic may not end anytime soon despite the increasing success of vaccination, at least in the United States. “But the Case was this...that the infection was propagated insensibly, and by such Persons, as were not visibly infected, who neither knew who they infected, or who they were infected by.”¹

Ignorance and apathy are not confined to the streets of 17th century England: We see state after state lift restrictions prematurely, guaranteeing the scientists prediction that the wave now hitting Europe could again breach our shores. Defoe wrote long before germ theory and the ascendancy of public health, yet he knew that the inability or unwillingness to stick close to home kept the plague circulating. “And here I must observe again, that this Necessity of going out of our Houses to buy Provisions, was in a Great Measure the Ruin of the whole City, for the people catch’d the Distemper, on those Occasions, one of another...”¹ While provisions may equate to food for many, for others necessities include going to bars, dining inside restaurants, and working out at gyms—all are natural laboratories for the spread and mutation of COVID-19 into variants against which physicians warn that the vaccine may not offer protection.

Defoe’s insights were at least in part due to his distance from the horror of the plague, which enabled him to study it with both empathy and objectivity, critical thinking, and creative observation. Similarly, it is time to take a brief breathing space from the pandemic as the central preoccupation of our existence: not just for me but for all of us to the extent possible given that unlike Defoe’s epoch it is still very much our reality. Even a few moments imagining a world without COVID-19 or more accurately one where it is under some reasonable control can help us reconceive how we want to live in it.

Can we use that luminal period to reenvision society along the lines Defoe idealistically drew even while we contribute to the collective search for the Holy Grail of herd immunity? During this second plague year, in coming editorials and in my own small circle of concern I will try to take a different less frustrated, embittered view of our lives scarred as they may be. It is only such a reorientation of perspectives in the shadow of so much death and suffering that can give us the energy and empathy to wear masks, go only where we must, follow public health measures and direction, and persuade the hesitant to be vaccinated so this truly is the last plague year at least for a long, quiet while.

In April 2020, I pledged to focus my editorials on the pandemic. In subsequent editorials I renewed that intention. And it is a promise I have kept during the long plague year for all my editorials. When I announced my plan to write solely on COVID-19, my astute editor asked me, “How are you going to know when to stop?” I reminded myself of his question as I sat down to write each month and never arrived at a satisfactory answer. Nor do I have an answer now for why I am asking readers to release me from my vow—except for the somewhat trivial reason that a year seems enough. Is there more to say about the pandemic? Yes, there is so much more that needs to be discovered and unraveled, contemplated and analyzed; no doubt oceans of print and electronic pages will wash over us in the coming decade from thousands of scientists and journalists commenting on the topic of this public health crisis.²

Nevertheless, I have run the gauntlet of salient subjects within my wheelhouse: The plague year of editorials opened with a primer on public health ethics; the May column studied the duty to care for health care professionals in the midst of the first surge of virus; June examined the controversy around remdesivir and hydroxcholoroquine as medicine frantically sought some way to treat the sick; in July, I took a lighter look at the “Dog Days” of COVID-19 staring my Labrador Retriever mix, Reed, snoozing on his couch on the patio; August celebrated the amazing outreach of the US Department of Defense, US Public Health Service, and US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) in service to the community; September discussed the adverse effects of the prolonged pandemic on the human psyche and some positive ways of handling the stress; October lamented the exponential rise in substance misuse as human beings struggled to manage the emotional toll of the pandemic; in December, COVID-19 was the sole subject of my annual Best and Worst ethics column; the new year saw the emergency use authorizations of the first and second vaccines and the editorial laid out the critical challenges for vaccination; in February my esteemed colleague Anita Tarzian joined me in an article explaining the ethical approach to vaccine allocation developed by the VA.^3-12

A reader might aptly ask whether I am laying down the COVID-19 gauntlet because I believe the pandemic is over and done with us. The news is full of pundits opining when things will return to normal (if that ever existed or will again) and soothsayers divining the signs of the plague’s end.¹³ What I think is that we are more than done with the pandemic and unfortunately that may be the central cause of its perpetuation; which brings me to Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year.¹

Defoe is better known to most of us if at all from modern films of his best-seller Robinson Crusoe. Yet A Journal of the Plague Year and other books about epidemics have become popular reading as we seek clues to the mystery of how to affirm life amid a death-dealing infectious disease.¹⁴ There is even an emerging lockdown literature genre. (Before anyone asks, I am in no way so pretentious as to suggest my columns should be included in that scholarly body of work).

Defoe’s book chronicles the last episode of the bubonic plague that afflicted London in 1665 and claimed 100,000 lives. Defoe was only 5 years old when the epidemic devastated one of the greatest cities in Europe. In 1772 he published what one recent reviewer called “a fascinating record of trying to cope with the capital’s last plague.”¹⁵ Defoe presciently documented the central reason I think the pandemic may not end anytime soon despite the increasing success of vaccination, at least in the United States. “But the Case was this...that the infection was propagated insensibly, and by such Persons, as were not visibly infected, who neither knew who they infected, or who they were infected by.”¹

Ignorance and apathy are not confined to the streets of 17th century England: We see state after state lift restrictions prematurely, guaranteeing the scientists prediction that the wave now hitting Europe could again breach our shores. Defoe wrote long before germ theory and the ascendancy of public health, yet he knew that the inability or unwillingness to stick close to home kept the plague circulating. “And here I must observe again, that this Necessity of going out of our Houses to buy Provisions, was in a Great Measure the Ruin of the whole City, for the people catch’d the Distemper, on those Occasions, one of another...”¹ While provisions may equate to food for many, for others necessities include going to bars, dining inside restaurants, and working out at gyms—all are natural laboratories for the spread and mutation of COVID-19 into variants against which physicians warn that the vaccine may not offer protection.

Defoe’s insights were at least in part due to his distance from the horror of the plague, which enabled him to study it with both empathy and objectivity, critical thinking, and creative observation. Similarly, it is time to take a brief breathing space from the pandemic as the central preoccupation of our existence: not just for me but for all of us to the extent possible given that unlike Defoe’s epoch it is still very much our reality. Even a few moments imagining a world without COVID-19 or more accurately one where it is under some reasonable control can help us reconceive how we want to live in it.

Can we use that luminal period to reenvision society along the lines Defoe idealistically drew even while we contribute to the collective search for the Holy Grail of herd immunity? During this second plague year, in coming editorials and in my own small circle of concern I will try to take a different less frustrated, embittered view of our lives scarred as they may be. It is only such a reorientation of perspectives in the shadow of so much death and suffering that can give us the energy and empathy to wear masks, go only where we must, follow public health measures and direction, and persuade the hesitant to be vaccinated so this truly is the last plague year at least for a long, quiet while.

In April 2020, I pledged to focus my editorials on the pandemic. In subsequent editorials I renewed that intention. And it is a promise I have kept during the long plague year for all my editorials. When I announced my plan to write solely on COVID-19, my astute editor asked me, “How are you going to know when to stop?” I reminded myself of his question as I sat down to write each month and never arrived at a satisfactory answer. Nor do I have an answer now for why I am asking readers to release me from my vow—except for the somewhat trivial reason that a year seems enough. Is there more to say about the pandemic? Yes, there is so much more that needs to be discovered and unraveled, contemplated and analyzed; no doubt oceans of print and electronic pages will wash over us in the coming decade from thousands of scientists and journalists commenting on the topic of this public health crisis.²

Nevertheless, I have run the gauntlet of salient subjects within my wheelhouse: The plague year of editorials opened with a primer on public health ethics; the May column studied the duty to care for health care professionals in the midst of the first surge of virus; June examined the controversy around remdesivir and hydroxcholoroquine as medicine frantically sought some way to treat the sick; in July, I took a lighter look at the “Dog Days” of COVID-19 staring my Labrador Retriever mix, Reed, snoozing on his couch on the patio; August celebrated the amazing outreach of the US Department of Defense, US Public Health Service, and US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) in service to the community; September discussed the adverse effects of the prolonged pandemic on the human psyche and some positive ways of handling the stress; October lamented the exponential rise in substance misuse as human beings struggled to manage the emotional toll of the pandemic; in December, COVID-19 was the sole subject of my annual Best and Worst ethics column; the new year saw the emergency use authorizations of the first and second vaccines and the editorial laid out the critical challenges for vaccination; in February my esteemed colleague Anita Tarzian joined me in an article explaining the ethical approach to vaccine allocation developed by the VA.^3-12

A reader might aptly ask whether I am laying down the COVID-19 gauntlet because I believe the pandemic is over and done with us. The news is full of pundits opining when things will return to normal (if that ever existed or will again) and soothsayers divining the signs of the plague’s end.¹³ What I think is that we are more than done with the pandemic and unfortunately that may be the central cause of its perpetuation; which brings me to Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year.¹

Defoe is better known to most of us if at all from modern films of his best-seller Robinson Crusoe. Yet A Journal of the Plague Year and other books about epidemics have become popular reading as we seek clues to the mystery of how to affirm life amid a death-dealing infectious disease.¹⁴ There is even an emerging lockdown literature genre. (Before anyone asks, I am in no way so pretentious as to suggest my columns should be included in that scholarly body of work).

Defoe’s book chronicles the last episode of the bubonic plague that afflicted London in 1665 and claimed 100,000 lives. Defoe was only 5 years old when the epidemic devastated one of the greatest cities in Europe. In 1772 he published what one recent reviewer called “a fascinating record of trying to cope with the capital’s last plague.”¹⁵ Defoe presciently documented the central reason I think the pandemic may not end anytime soon despite the increasing success of vaccination, at least in the United States. “But the Case was this...that the infection was propagated insensibly, and by such Persons, as were not visibly infected, who neither knew who they infected, or who they were infected by.”¹

Ignorance and apathy are not confined to the streets of 17th century England: We see state after state lift restrictions prematurely, guaranteeing the scientists prediction that the wave now hitting Europe could again breach our shores. Defoe wrote long before germ theory and the ascendancy of public health, yet he knew that the inability or unwillingness to stick close to home kept the plague circulating. “And here I must observe again, that this Necessity of going out of our Houses to buy Provisions, was in a Great Measure the Ruin of the whole City, for the people catch’d the Distemper, on those Occasions, one of another...”¹ While provisions may equate to food for many, for others necessities include going to bars, dining inside restaurants, and working out at gyms—all are natural laboratories for the spread and mutation of COVID-19 into variants against which physicians warn that the vaccine may not offer protection.

Defoe’s insights were at least in part due to his distance from the horror of the plague, which enabled him to study it with both empathy and objectivity, critical thinking, and creative observation. Similarly, it is time to take a brief breathing space from the pandemic as the central preoccupation of our existence: not just for me but for all of us to the extent possible given that unlike Defoe’s epoch it is still very much our reality. Even a few moments imagining a world without COVID-19 or more accurately one where it is under some reasonable control can help us reconceive how we want to live in it.

Can we use that luminal period to reenvision society along the lines Defoe idealistically drew even while we contribute to the collective search for the Holy Grail of herd immunity? During this second plague year, in coming editorials and in my own small circle of concern I will try to take a different less frustrated, embittered view of our lives scarred as they may be. It is only such a reorientation of perspectives in the shadow of so much death and suffering that can give us the energy and empathy to wear masks, go only where we must, follow public health measures and direction, and persuade the hesitant to be vaccinated so this truly is the last plague year at least for a long, quiet while.

“Lord have mercy on me, was the kneeling drunkard’s plea.”

—Johnny Cash

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association defines opioid-use disorder (OUD) as a problematic pattern of prescription and/or illicit opioid medication use leading to clinically significant impairment or distress.¹ Compared with their non-OUD counterparts, patients with OUD have poorer overall health and worse health service outcomes, including higher rates of morbidity, mortality, HIV and HCV transmission, and 30-day readmissions.² With the rate of fatal overdoses from opioids at crisis levels, leading scientific and professional organizations have declared OUD to be a public health emergency in the United States.³

The opioid epidemic affects hospitalists through the rising incidence of hospitalization, not only as a result of OUD’s indirect complications, but also its direct effects of intoxication and withdrawal.⁴ In caring for patients with OUD, hospitalists are often presented with many ethical dilemmas. Whether the dilemma involves timing and circumstances of discharge or the permission to leave the hospital floor, they often involve elements of mutual mistrust. In qualitative ethnographic studies, patients with OUD report not trusting that the medical staff will take their concerns of inadequately treated pain and other needs seriously. Providers may mistrust the patient’s report of pain and withhold treatment for OUD for nonclinical reasons.⁵ Here, we examine two ethical dilemmas specific to OUD in hospitalized patients. Our aim in describing these dilemmas is to help hospitalists recognize that targeting issues of mistrust may assist them to deliver better care to hospitalized patients with OUD.

In the inpatient setting, ethical dilemmas surrounding discharge are common among people who inject drugs (PWID). These patients have disproportionately high rates of soft tissue and systemic infections, such as endocarditis and osteomyelitis, and subsequently often require long-term, outpatient parenteral antibiotic therapy (OPAT).⁶ From both the clinical and ethical perspectives, discharging PWID requiring OPAT to an unsupervised setting or continuing inpatient hospitalization to prevent a potential adverse event are equally imperfect solutions.

These patients may be clinically stable, suitable for discharge, and prefer to be discharged, but the practitioner’s concerns regarding untoward complications frequently override the patient’s wishes. Valid reasons for this exercise of what could be considered soft-paternalism are considered when physicians unilaterally decide what is best for patients, including refusal of community agencies to provide OPAT to PWID, inadequate social support and/or health literacy to administer the therapy, or varying degrees of homelessness that can affect timely follow-up. However, surveys of both hospitalists and infectious disease specialists also indicate that they may avoid discharge because of concerns the PWID will tamper with the intravenous (IV) catheter to inject drugs.⁷ This reluctance to discharge otherwise socially and medically suitable patients increases length of stay,⁷ decreases patient satisfaction, and could lead to misuse of limited hospital resources.

Both patient mistrust and stigmatization may contribute to this dilemma. Healthcare professionals have been shown to share and reflect a long-standing bias in their attitudes toward patients with substance-use disorders and OUD, in particular.⁸ Studies of providers’ attitudes are limited but suggest that legal concerns over liability and professional sanctions,⁹ reluctance to contribute to the development or relapse of addiction,¹⁰ and a strong psychological investment in not being deceived by the patient¹¹ may influence physicians’ decisions about care.

Closely supervising IV antibiotic therapy for all PWID may not reflect current medical knowledge and may imply a moral assessment of patients’ culpability and lack of will power to resist using drugs.¹² No evidence is available to suggest that inpatient parenteral antibiotic treatment offers superior adherence, and emerging evidence showing that carefully selected patients with an injection drug-use history can be safely and effectively treated as outpatients has been obtained.^13,14 Ho et al. found high rates of treatment success in patients with adequate housing, a reliable guardian, and willingness to comply with appropriate IV catheter use.¹³ Although the study by Buehrle et al. found higher rates of OPAT failure among PWIDs, 25% of these failures were due to adverse drug reactions and only 2% were due to documented line manipulations.¹⁴ This research suggests that disposition to alternative settings for OPAT in PWID may be feasible, reasonable, and deserving of further study. Rather than treating PWIDs as a homogenous group of increased risk, contextualizing care based on individual risk stratification promotes more patient-centered care that is medically appropriate and potentially more cost efficient. A thorough risk assessment includes medical evaluation of remote versus recent drug use, other psychiatric comorbidities, and a current willingness to avoid drug use and initiate treatment for it.

Patient-centered approaches that respond to the individual needs of patients have altered the care delivery model in order to improve health services outcomes. In developing an alternative care model to inpatient treatment in PWID who required OPAT, Jafari et al.¹⁵ evaluated a community model of care that provided a home-like residence as an alternative to hospitalization where patients could receive OPAT in a medically and socially supportive environment. This environment, which included RN and mental health staff for substance-use counseling, wound care, medication management, and IV therapy, demonstrated lower rates of against medical advice (AMA) discharge and higher patient satisfaction compared with hospitalization.¹⁵

Ethical dilemmas may also arise when patients with OUD desire greater mobility in the hospital. Although some inpatients may be permitted to leave the floor, some treatment teams may believe that patients with OUD leave the floor to use drugs and that the patient’s IV will facilitate such behavior. Nursing and medical staff may also believe that, if they agree to a request to leave the floor, they are complicit in any potential drug use or harmful consequences resulting from this use. For their part, patients may have a desire for more mobility because of the sometimes unpleasant constraints of hospitalization, which are not unique to these patients¹⁶ or to distract them from their cravings. Patients, unable to tolerate the restriction emotionally or believing they are being treated unfairly, even punitively, may leave AMA rather than complete needed medical care. Once more, distrust of the patient and fear of liability may lead hospital staff to respond in counterproductive ways.

Addressing this dilemma depends, in part on creating an environment where PWID and patients with OUD are treated fairly and appropriately for their underlying illness. Such treatment includes ensuring withdrawal symptoms and pain are adequately treated, building trust by empathically addressing patients’ needs and preferences,¹⁷ and having a systematic (ie, policy-based) approach for requests to leave the floor. The latter intervention assures a transparent, referable standard that providers can apply and refer to as needed.

Efforts to adequately treat withdrawal symptoms in the hospital setting have shown promise in maintaining patient engagement, reducing the rate of AMA discharges, and improving follow up with outpatient medical and substance-use treatment.¹⁸ Because physicians consistently cite the lack of advanced training in addiction medicine as a treatment limitation,¹² training may go a long way in closing this knowledge and skill gap. Furthermore, systematic efforts to better educate and train hospitalists in the care of patients with addiction can improve both knowledge and attitudes about caring for this vulnerable population,¹⁹ thereby enhancing therapeutic relationships and patient centeredness. Finally, institutional policies promoting fair, systematic, and transparent guidance are needed for front-line practitioners to manage the legal, clinical, and ethical ambiguities involved when PWID wish to leave the hospital floor.

In addressing the mistrust some staff may have toward the patients described in the preceding ethical dilemmas, the use of universal precautions is an ethical and efficacious approach that balances reliance on patients’ veracity with due diligence in objective clinical assessments.²⁰ These universal precautions, which are grounded in mutual respect and responsibility between physician and patient, include a set of strategies originally established in infectious disease practice and adapted to the management of chronic pain particularly when opioids are used.²¹ They are based on the recognition that identifying which patients prescribed opioids will develop an OUD or misuse opioids is difficult. Hence, the safest and least-stigmatizing approach is to treat all patients as individuals who could potentially be at risk. This is an ethically strong approach that seeks to balance the competing values of patent safety and patient centeredness, and involves taking a substance-use history from all patients admitted to the hospital and routinely checking state prescription-drug monitoring programs among other steps. Although self-reporting, at least of prescription-drug misuse, is fairly reliable,²² establishing expectations for mutual respect when working with patients with OUD and other addictive disorders is more likely to garner valid reports and a positive alliance. Once this relationship is established, the practitioner can respond to problematic behaviors with clear, compassionate limit setting.

From a broader perspective, a hospital system and culture that is unable to promote trust and adequately treat pain and withdrawal can create a “risk environment” for PWID.²³ When providers are inadequately trained in the management of pain and addiction, or there is a shortage of addiction specialists, or inadequate policy guidance for managing the care of these patients, this can result in AMA discharges and reduced willingness to seek future care. Viewing this problem more expansively may persuade healthcare professionals that patients alone are not entirely responsible for the outcomes related to their illness but that modifying practices and structure at the hospital level has the potential to mitigate harm to this vulnerable population.

As inpatient team leaders, hospitalists have the unique opportunity to address the opioid crisis by enhancing the quality of care provided to hospitalized patients with OUD. This enhancement can be accomplished by destigmatizing substance-use disorders, establishing relationships of trust, and promoting remedies to structural deficiencies in the healthcare system that contribute to the problem. These approaches have the potential to enhance not only the care of patients with OUD but also the satisfaction of the treatment team caring for these patients.²⁴ Such changes will ideally allow physicians to better treat the illness, address ethical and clinical concerns when they arise, and promote enhanced participation in treatment planning.

Disclosures

The authors have no conflicts of interest to disclose, financial or otherwise. The views expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the position or policy of the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, the U.S. Government, or the VA National Center for Ethics in Health Care.

“Lord have mercy on me, was the kneeling drunkard’s plea.”

—Johnny Cash

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association defines opioid-use disorder (OUD) as a problematic pattern of prescription and/or illicit opioid medication use leading to clinically significant impairment or distress.¹ Compared with their non-OUD counterparts, patients with OUD have poorer overall health and worse health service outcomes, including higher rates of morbidity, mortality, HIV and HCV transmission, and 30-day readmissions.² With the rate of fatal overdoses from opioids at crisis levels, leading scientific and professional organizations have declared OUD to be a public health emergency in the United States.³

The opioid epidemic affects hospitalists through the rising incidence of hospitalization, not only as a result of OUD’s indirect complications, but also its direct effects of intoxication and withdrawal.⁴ In caring for patients with OUD, hospitalists are often presented with many ethical dilemmas. Whether the dilemma involves timing and circumstances of discharge or the permission to leave the hospital floor, they often involve elements of mutual mistrust. In qualitative ethnographic studies, patients with OUD report not trusting that the medical staff will take their concerns of inadequately treated pain and other needs seriously. Providers may mistrust the patient’s report of pain and withhold treatment for OUD for nonclinical reasons.⁵ Here, we examine two ethical dilemmas specific to OUD in hospitalized patients. Our aim in describing these dilemmas is to help hospitalists recognize that targeting issues of mistrust may assist them to deliver better care to hospitalized patients with OUD.

In the inpatient setting, ethical dilemmas surrounding discharge are common among people who inject drugs (PWID). These patients have disproportionately high rates of soft tissue and systemic infections, such as endocarditis and osteomyelitis, and subsequently often require long-term, outpatient parenteral antibiotic therapy (OPAT).⁶ From both the clinical and ethical perspectives, discharging PWID requiring OPAT to an unsupervised setting or continuing inpatient hospitalization to prevent a potential adverse event are equally imperfect solutions.

These patients may be clinically stable, suitable for discharge, and prefer to be discharged, but the practitioner’s concerns regarding untoward complications frequently override the patient’s wishes. Valid reasons for this exercise of what could be considered soft-paternalism are considered when physicians unilaterally decide what is best for patients, including refusal of community agencies to provide OPAT to PWID, inadequate social support and/or health literacy to administer the therapy, or varying degrees of homelessness that can affect timely follow-up. However, surveys of both hospitalists and infectious disease specialists also indicate that they may avoid discharge because of concerns the PWID will tamper with the intravenous (IV) catheter to inject drugs.⁷ This reluctance to discharge otherwise socially and medically suitable patients increases length of stay,⁷ decreases patient satisfaction, and could lead to misuse of limited hospital resources.

Both patient mistrust and stigmatization may contribute to this dilemma. Healthcare professionals have been shown to share and reflect a long-standing bias in their attitudes toward patients with substance-use disorders and OUD, in particular.⁸ Studies of providers’ attitudes are limited but suggest that legal concerns over liability and professional sanctions,⁹ reluctance to contribute to the development or relapse of addiction,¹⁰ and a strong psychological investment in not being deceived by the patient¹¹ may influence physicians’ decisions about care.

Closely supervising IV antibiotic therapy for all PWID may not reflect current medical knowledge and may imply a moral assessment of patients’ culpability and lack of will power to resist using drugs.¹² No evidence is available to suggest that inpatient parenteral antibiotic treatment offers superior adherence, and emerging evidence showing that carefully selected patients with an injection drug-use history can be safely and effectively treated as outpatients has been obtained.^13,14 Ho et al. found high rates of treatment success in patients with adequate housing, a reliable guardian, and willingness to comply with appropriate IV catheter use.¹³ Although the study by Buehrle et al. found higher rates of OPAT failure among PWIDs, 25% of these failures were due to adverse drug reactions and only 2% were due to documented line manipulations.¹⁴ This research suggests that disposition to alternative settings for OPAT in PWID may be feasible, reasonable, and deserving of further study. Rather than treating PWIDs as a homogenous group of increased risk, contextualizing care based on individual risk stratification promotes more patient-centered care that is medically appropriate and potentially more cost efficient. A thorough risk assessment includes medical evaluation of remote versus recent drug use, other psychiatric comorbidities, and a current willingness to avoid drug use and initiate treatment for it.

Patient-centered approaches that respond to the individual needs of patients have altered the care delivery model in order to improve health services outcomes. In developing an alternative care model to inpatient treatment in PWID who required OPAT, Jafari et al.¹⁵ evaluated a community model of care that provided a home-like residence as an alternative to hospitalization where patients could receive OPAT in a medically and socially supportive environment. This environment, which included RN and mental health staff for substance-use counseling, wound care, medication management, and IV therapy, demonstrated lower rates of against medical advice (AMA) discharge and higher patient satisfaction compared with hospitalization.¹⁵

Ethical dilemmas may also arise when patients with OUD desire greater mobility in the hospital. Although some inpatients may be permitted to leave the floor, some treatment teams may believe that patients with OUD leave the floor to use drugs and that the patient’s IV will facilitate such behavior. Nursing and medical staff may also believe that, if they agree to a request to leave the floor, they are complicit in any potential drug use or harmful consequences resulting from this use. For their part, patients may have a desire for more mobility because of the sometimes unpleasant constraints of hospitalization, which are not unique to these patients¹⁶ or to distract them from their cravings. Patients, unable to tolerate the restriction emotionally or believing they are being treated unfairly, even punitively, may leave AMA rather than complete needed medical care. Once more, distrust of the patient and fear of liability may lead hospital staff to respond in counterproductive ways.

Addressing this dilemma depends, in part on creating an environment where PWID and patients with OUD are treated fairly and appropriately for their underlying illness. Such treatment includes ensuring withdrawal symptoms and pain are adequately treated, building trust by empathically addressing patients’ needs and preferences,¹⁷ and having a systematic (ie, policy-based) approach for requests to leave the floor. The latter intervention assures a transparent, referable standard that providers can apply and refer to as needed.

Efforts to adequately treat withdrawal symptoms in the hospital setting have shown promise in maintaining patient engagement, reducing the rate of AMA discharges, and improving follow up with outpatient medical and substance-use treatment.¹⁸ Because physicians consistently cite the lack of advanced training in addiction medicine as a treatment limitation,¹² training may go a long way in closing this knowledge and skill gap. Furthermore, systematic efforts to better educate and train hospitalists in the care of patients with addiction can improve both knowledge and attitudes about caring for this vulnerable population,¹⁹ thereby enhancing therapeutic relationships and patient centeredness. Finally, institutional policies promoting fair, systematic, and transparent guidance are needed for front-line practitioners to manage the legal, clinical, and ethical ambiguities involved when PWID wish to leave the hospital floor.

In addressing the mistrust some staff may have toward the patients described in the preceding ethical dilemmas, the use of universal precautions is an ethical and efficacious approach that balances reliance on patients’ veracity with due diligence in objective clinical assessments.²⁰ These universal precautions, which are grounded in mutual respect and responsibility between physician and patient, include a set of strategies originally established in infectious disease practice and adapted to the management of chronic pain particularly when opioids are used.²¹ They are based on the recognition that identifying which patients prescribed opioids will develop an OUD or misuse opioids is difficult. Hence, the safest and least-stigmatizing approach is to treat all patients as individuals who could potentially be at risk. This is an ethically strong approach that seeks to balance the competing values of patent safety and patient centeredness, and involves taking a substance-use history from all patients admitted to the hospital and routinely checking state prescription-drug monitoring programs among other steps. Although self-reporting, at least of prescription-drug misuse, is fairly reliable,²² establishing expectations for mutual respect when working with patients with OUD and other addictive disorders is more likely to garner valid reports and a positive alliance. Once this relationship is established, the practitioner can respond to problematic behaviors with clear, compassionate limit setting.

From a broader perspective, a hospital system and culture that is unable to promote trust and adequately treat pain and withdrawal can create a “risk environment” for PWID.²³ When providers are inadequately trained in the management of pain and addiction, or there is a shortage of addiction specialists, or inadequate policy guidance for managing the care of these patients, this can result in AMA discharges and reduced willingness to seek future care. Viewing this problem more expansively may persuade healthcare professionals that patients alone are not entirely responsible for the outcomes related to their illness but that modifying practices and structure at the hospital level has the potential to mitigate harm to this vulnerable population.

As inpatient team leaders, hospitalists have the unique opportunity to address the opioid crisis by enhancing the quality of care provided to hospitalized patients with OUD. This enhancement can be accomplished by destigmatizing substance-use disorders, establishing relationships of trust, and promoting remedies to structural deficiencies in the healthcare system that contribute to the problem. These approaches have the potential to enhance not only the care of patients with OUD but also the satisfaction of the treatment team caring for these patients.²⁴ Such changes will ideally allow physicians to better treat the illness, address ethical and clinical concerns when they arise, and promote enhanced participation in treatment planning.

Disclosures

The authors have no conflicts of interest to disclose, financial or otherwise. The views expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the position or policy of the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, the U.S. Government, or the VA National Center for Ethics in Health Care.

“Lord have mercy on me, was the kneeling drunkard’s plea.”

—Johnny Cash

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association defines opioid-use disorder (OUD) as a problematic pattern of prescription and/or illicit opioid medication use leading to clinically significant impairment or distress.¹ Compared with their non-OUD counterparts, patients with OUD have poorer overall health and worse health service outcomes, including higher rates of morbidity, mortality, HIV and HCV transmission, and 30-day readmissions.² With the rate of fatal overdoses from opioids at crisis levels, leading scientific and professional organizations have declared OUD to be a public health emergency in the United States.³

The opioid epidemic affects hospitalists through the rising incidence of hospitalization, not only as a result of OUD’s indirect complications, but also its direct effects of intoxication and withdrawal.⁴ In caring for patients with OUD, hospitalists are often presented with many ethical dilemmas. Whether the dilemma involves timing and circumstances of discharge or the permission to leave the hospital floor, they often involve elements of mutual mistrust. In qualitative ethnographic studies, patients with OUD report not trusting that the medical staff will take their concerns of inadequately treated pain and other needs seriously. Providers may mistrust the patient’s report of pain and withhold treatment for OUD for nonclinical reasons.⁵ Here, we examine two ethical dilemmas specific to OUD in hospitalized patients. Our aim in describing these dilemmas is to help hospitalists recognize that targeting issues of mistrust may assist them to deliver better care to hospitalized patients with OUD.

In the inpatient setting, ethical dilemmas surrounding discharge are common among people who inject drugs (PWID). These patients have disproportionately high rates of soft tissue and systemic infections, such as endocarditis and osteomyelitis, and subsequently often require long-term, outpatient parenteral antibiotic therapy (OPAT).⁶ From both the clinical and ethical perspectives, discharging PWID requiring OPAT to an unsupervised setting or continuing inpatient hospitalization to prevent a potential adverse event are equally imperfect solutions.

These patients may be clinically stable, suitable for discharge, and prefer to be discharged, but the practitioner’s concerns regarding untoward complications frequently override the patient’s wishes. Valid reasons for this exercise of what could be considered soft-paternalism are considered when physicians unilaterally decide what is best for patients, including refusal of community agencies to provide OPAT to PWID, inadequate social support and/or health literacy to administer the therapy, or varying degrees of homelessness that can affect timely follow-up. However, surveys of both hospitalists and infectious disease specialists also indicate that they may avoid discharge because of concerns the PWID will tamper with the intravenous (IV) catheter to inject drugs.⁷ This reluctance to discharge otherwise socially and medically suitable patients increases length of stay,⁷ decreases patient satisfaction, and could lead to misuse of limited hospital resources.

Both patient mistrust and stigmatization may contribute to this dilemma. Healthcare professionals have been shown to share and reflect a long-standing bias in their attitudes toward patients with substance-use disorders and OUD, in particular.⁸ Studies of providers’ attitudes are limited but suggest that legal concerns over liability and professional sanctions,⁹ reluctance to contribute to the development or relapse of addiction,¹⁰ and a strong psychological investment in not being deceived by the patient¹¹ may influence physicians’ decisions about care.

Closely supervising IV antibiotic therapy for all PWID may not reflect current medical knowledge and may imply a moral assessment of patients’ culpability and lack of will power to resist using drugs.¹² No evidence is available to suggest that inpatient parenteral antibiotic treatment offers superior adherence, and emerging evidence showing that carefully selected patients with an injection drug-use history can be safely and effectively treated as outpatients has been obtained.^13,14 Ho et al. found high rates of treatment success in patients with adequate housing, a reliable guardian, and willingness to comply with appropriate IV catheter use.¹³ Although the study by Buehrle et al. found higher rates of OPAT failure among PWIDs, 25% of these failures were due to adverse drug reactions and only 2% were due to documented line manipulations.¹⁴ This research suggests that disposition to alternative settings for OPAT in PWID may be feasible, reasonable, and deserving of further study. Rather than treating PWIDs as a homogenous group of increased risk, contextualizing care based on individual risk stratification promotes more patient-centered care that is medically appropriate and potentially more cost efficient. A thorough risk assessment includes medical evaluation of remote versus recent drug use, other psychiatric comorbidities, and a current willingness to avoid drug use and initiate treatment for it.

Patient-centered approaches that respond to the individual needs of patients have altered the care delivery model in order to improve health services outcomes. In developing an alternative care model to inpatient treatment in PWID who required OPAT, Jafari et al.¹⁵ evaluated a community model of care that provided a home-like residence as an alternative to hospitalization where patients could receive OPAT in a medically and socially supportive environment. This environment, which included RN and mental health staff for substance-use counseling, wound care, medication management, and IV therapy, demonstrated lower rates of against medical advice (AMA) discharge and higher patient satisfaction compared with hospitalization.¹⁵

Ethical dilemmas may also arise when patients with OUD desire greater mobility in the hospital. Although some inpatients may be permitted to leave the floor, some treatment teams may believe that patients with OUD leave the floor to use drugs and that the patient’s IV will facilitate such behavior. Nursing and medical staff may also believe that, if they agree to a request to leave the floor, they are complicit in any potential drug use or harmful consequences resulting from this use. For their part, patients may have a desire for more mobility because of the sometimes unpleasant constraints of hospitalization, which are not unique to these patients¹⁶ or to distract them from their cravings. Patients, unable to tolerate the restriction emotionally or believing they are being treated unfairly, even punitively, may leave AMA rather than complete needed medical care. Once more, distrust of the patient and fear of liability may lead hospital staff to respond in counterproductive ways.

Addressing this dilemma depends, in part on creating an environment where PWID and patients with OUD are treated fairly and appropriately for their underlying illness. Such treatment includes ensuring withdrawal symptoms and pain are adequately treated, building trust by empathically addressing patients’ needs and preferences,¹⁷ and having a systematic (ie, policy-based) approach for requests to leave the floor. The latter intervention assures a transparent, referable standard that providers can apply and refer to as needed.

Efforts to adequately treat withdrawal symptoms in the hospital setting have shown promise in maintaining patient engagement, reducing the rate of AMA discharges, and improving follow up with outpatient medical and substance-use treatment.¹⁸ Because physicians consistently cite the lack of advanced training in addiction medicine as a treatment limitation,¹² training may go a long way in closing this knowledge and skill gap. Furthermore, systematic efforts to better educate and train hospitalists in the care of patients with addiction can improve both knowledge and attitudes about caring for this vulnerable population,¹⁹ thereby enhancing therapeutic relationships and patient centeredness. Finally, institutional policies promoting fair, systematic, and transparent guidance are needed for front-line practitioners to manage the legal, clinical, and ethical ambiguities involved when PWID wish to leave the hospital floor.

In addressing the mistrust some staff may have toward the patients described in the preceding ethical dilemmas, the use of universal precautions is an ethical and efficacious approach that balances reliance on patients’ veracity with due diligence in objective clinical assessments.²⁰ These universal precautions, which are grounded in mutual respect and responsibility between physician and patient, include a set of strategies originally established in infectious disease practice and adapted to the management of chronic pain particularly when opioids are used.²¹ They are based on the recognition that identifying which patients prescribed opioids will develop an OUD or misuse opioids is difficult. Hence, the safest and least-stigmatizing approach is to treat all patients as individuals who could potentially be at risk. This is an ethically strong approach that seeks to balance the competing values of patent safety and patient centeredness, and involves taking a substance-use history from all patients admitted to the hospital and routinely checking state prescription-drug monitoring programs among other steps. Although self-reporting, at least of prescription-drug misuse, is fairly reliable,²² establishing expectations for mutual respect when working with patients with OUD and other addictive disorders is more likely to garner valid reports and a positive alliance. Once this relationship is established, the practitioner can respond to problematic behaviors with clear, compassionate limit setting.

From a broader perspective, a hospital system and culture that is unable to promote trust and adequately treat pain and withdrawal can create a “risk environment” for PWID.²³ When providers are inadequately trained in the management of pain and addiction, or there is a shortage of addiction specialists, or inadequate policy guidance for managing the care of these patients, this can result in AMA discharges and reduced willingness to seek future care. Viewing this problem more expansively may persuade healthcare professionals that patients alone are not entirely responsible for the outcomes related to their illness but that modifying practices and structure at the hospital level has the potential to mitigate harm to this vulnerable population.

As inpatient team leaders, hospitalists have the unique opportunity to address the opioid crisis by enhancing the quality of care provided to hospitalized patients with OUD. This enhancement can be accomplished by destigmatizing substance-use disorders, establishing relationships of trust, and promoting remedies to structural deficiencies in the healthcare system that contribute to the problem. These approaches have the potential to enhance not only the care of patients with OUD but also the satisfaction of the treatment team caring for these patients.²⁴ Such changes will ideally allow physicians to better treat the illness, address ethical and clinical concerns when they arise, and promote enhanced participation in treatment planning.

Disclosures

The authors have no conflicts of interest to disclose, financial or otherwise. The views expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the position or policy of the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, the U.S. Government, or the VA National Center for Ethics in Health Care.