The Connections
What are the real connections between UCSF, the University of Minnesota, the Mayo Clinic, and Lindsey?
Delving into the interconnections between Mayo Clinic and UCSF introduces an additional dimension of intricacy to the narrative, especially in the context of Lindsey's history and her ties to the University of Minnesota. Initially, the inclusion of Lindsey's past might be an intentionally added element that I injected into the narrative in an effort to add mystery and intrigue to the tale. Nevertheless, it's vital to underscore that it was the judge and guardian, under the direction of Dr. Huskins, who would incorporate Lindsey's history into the narrative, not me.
Upon hearing mentions of the "functional cure" and the prosecutor's allusion to the "Mississippi baby," which seamlessly tied into the guardian and judge's assertions about Lindsey's AZT treatment as a child, I felt compelled to revisit Dr. Huskins' initial contact with UCSF on the day Rico was born. Delving into the Mississippi story, the concept of a functional cure and UCSF inevitably brings attention to Dr. Steven Deeks. Dr. Deeks holds a prominent position at Ward 86, part of the University of California San Francisco (UCSF). Ward 86 stands as the largest clinic in San Francisco dedicated to HIV-infected patients. It is globally recognized as a hub for HIV research, making Dr. Deeks a notable figure in the HIV community. He was renowned for his media presence and active involvement in the field and was deeply involved in the Mississippi story.
Dr. Deeks also serves on the boards of Health and Human Services (HHS) and the Office of AIDS Research Advisory Council (OARAC), both of which were also mentioned as contacts by Dr. Huskins on the day of Rico's birth. While the designation of Ward 86 as a "world-renowned" HIV research center might explain its inclusion as one of Huskins' initial contacts, it also brings us back to the overarching theme of research. This is also an opportunity to revisit the timeline of the events and statements made under oath by Dr. Huskins.
It appears quite evident that Dr. Huskins, by introducing entities such as OARAC, HHS, UCSF, and the Mississippi baby into the narrative, had some form of communication or connection with Dr. Deeks, despite the absence of Dr. Deeks' name in any documents within my possession. However, suppose we review Huskins' claimed contacts in reverse. In that case, it becomes plausible that by singularly contacting Dr. Deeks, Huskins could have indirectly tapped into the knowledge of OARAC and HHS through this one connection.
The sequence of events surrounding Dr. Huskins' testimony in 2013, five months post-Rico's birth, presents a perplexing scenario. He stated being "not aware" of the Mississippi baby while discussing Rico's therapy in December 2012, coinciding with Rico's birth. This timing is crucial, as it aligns with the initiation of treatment for the Mississippi baby, a milestone that would have brought clarity regarding the treatment regimen. Given that the Mississippi baby's case dates back to 2010, with Dr. Deeks' involvement evident from the outset, Huskins' assertion of unawareness regarding the therapy's specifics raises doubts.
Furthermore, Huskins' credibility comes under scrutiny when considering ABC correspondent Anthony Castellano's public disclosure of the therapy details two months before Huskins' claim. Castellano's revelation underscores the widespread availability of this information, casting doubt on Huskins' professed lack of awareness. This discrepancy in timelines and disclosures complicates the understanding of Huskins' testimony and calls into question the veracity of his statements regarding his knowledge of the therapy used in the Mississippi baby case. It also hints at a platform of intention leading back to a date no later than the day of Rico's birth.
Moreover, it's important to note Dr. Huskins' own account from the day of Rico's birth, wherein he documented, "I had sought additional advice …from the National HIV/AIDS Consultation Center at the University of California at San Francisco…the recommendation of this group was that therapy should be begun immediately…with [AZT], lamivudine, and nevirapine." Interestingly, these are the exact same three medications mentioned by Dr. Deeks and referenced by Castellano, which were administered to the Mississippi baby on the day of her birth two years prior to Rico's birth. Whether Dr. Huskins was aware of the Mississippi baby on the day of Rico's birth is a question left for the reader to ponder.
This distinction carries significance, as one might speculate that if Dr. Huskins had indeed contacted Lindsey on the day of Rico's birth and discussed the concept of the functional cure, she might have been more open to accepting the treatment, potentially averting the abduction.
However, this ambiguity might have been intentional. Conversely, had Huskins proposed experimenting on her son, similar to what was done to Lindsey and her peers, who all died before the age of six, it could have negatively influenced her decision adversely, and the outward perception of the word "experiment" could have complicated the legal proceedings for the doctors presenting their case to Mower County which again leads back to the creation of a platform of intention.
Having served on the boards of both OARAC & HHS, Deeks played a significant role in shaping Rico's life trajectory, as these boards established a policy of universal antiretroviral treatment (ART) for HIV-infected individuals. This policy was formulated based on an "increasing body of emerging research," which led to the conclusion that HIV-infected patients should receive treatment immediately upon diagnosis.
In light of my personal tragedy, having lost two immediate family members to medical research, I feel compelled to scrutinize the phrase "based on a growing body of emerging research." Thankfully, most readers have not faced such an ordeal, so I ask them to imagine a comparable scenario: being compelled to board a plane where the pilot assures you that "a growing body of emerging research" suggests a safe arrival. However, there's a crucial caveat to Dr. Deeks' notion of "emerging research" - he also acknowledges the existence of a potential "healthy lifestyle bias" affecting mortality rates. To illustrate, it's like having the choice to fly on a "healthy" plane versus being forced onto a "research plane."
Both Deeks and Huskins lack specificity, and Deeks' use of the term "emerging" implies relatively new or ongoing research, a reality all too familiar to Lindsey's deceased peers. This lack of reliability and citation scrutiny creates a distorted overall picture of scientific consensus, implying a greater understanding than truly exists and has continually evolved, leading to tragic outcomes. In essence, Dr. Deeks, along with the government boards, has enacted "recommendations" that, in practice, function as binding regulations for children, compelling the administration of black-label drugs known for their life-threatening side effects and limited effectiveness and commence "immediately upon diagnosis." It's this type of "consensus," paired with terms like "best interest" and "recommendations," that allowed doctor Dr. Huskins to mold "a growing body of emerging research" into what he deems "a medical necessity," and from there, the legal process takes over.
When mothers are compelled to adhere to recommendations from clinics like Ward 86, which tout their methods as groundbreaking and pioneering, it prompts reflection on the term "pioneering" and the myriad interpretations it can evoke, particularly in the context of Lindsey and Rico's experiences. One may ponder how indigenous Native Americans perceived pioneering, highlighting that what appears bold and adventurous to some might be viewed as highly invasive, even perilous, by others. This line of inquiry underscores the need to delve into the mindset of world-renowned researchers like Deeks, who possess the authority to translate "recommendations" into authoritative mandates, particularly when they involve the obligatory administration of potent drugs to newborns under the guise of "medical necessity." Dr. Deeks facilitates this exploration with his penchant for the limelight, given his prominent status in the medical community. This journey through Dr. Deeks's career corridors unveils an intriguing anecdote about HIV involving one of his patients, famously known as the "Baboon Man."
In 1995, one of Dr. Deeks's patients, bearing the moniker of the "Baboon Man," underwent a controversial transplant procedure involving baboon bone marrow as a potential treatment for AIDS. This experimental transplantation necessitated a series of intensive radiation and chemotherapy sessions to prepare the patient for the infusion of baboon tissue into his bloodstream. Dr. Deeks grounded this audacious endeavor on the observation that baboons, as a rule, remain immune to AIDS, which I would suggest could be attributed to their "healthy lifestyle bias." While the precise mechanisms behind this immunity continue to elude researchers, one could also speculate that the inclusion or non-inclusion of AZT in the equation could potentially yield the desired outcomes.
Jonathan Allan, a virologist at the Southwest Foundation for Biomedical Research, raised vehement objections to Dr. Deeks's Baboon Man experiment. He asserted, "The [Baboon Man] case is mostly about politics. It is certainly not about good science." Allan expressed skepticism over the notion that baboon cells and human cells would readily communicate simply by coexisting within the same immune system, deeming it more akin to science fiction. His concerns extended beyond the welfare of Dr. Deeks's patient, encompassing the broader ramifications: "Let's say there's a virus sitting smoldering in baboons…It takes only one transmission from one baboon to a human to start an epidemic. This is a serious mistake." The individuals overseeing the experiment sought to allay concerns, assuring critics like Allan that the selected baboon was exceptionally "clean," a sentiment echoed by the Baboon Man himself.
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It appears that all it takes to jeopardize the entire world is a so-called "clean" baboon, or perhaps a "clean" bat from a cave in China, or even the consumption of raw pangolin. Regrettably, there is scant evidence to suggest that in the realm of medical research, the perspectives and needs of patients and their families are prioritized over researchers' quests for novel experiences. This discrepancy becomes even more pronounced, especially in cases involving children who may be perceived as having little to no social value. In such instances, there appears to be a disturbing willingness to sacrifice their well-being in the name of experimentation.
In a sobering side note, it's worth noting that both Rico and the Baboon Man have met their demise, while Deeks, Huskins, and Fauci continue to live on. In parallel, the University of California at San Francisco seems to be placing the world's population at risk by introducing baboon bone marrow into individuals sourced from ostensibly "clean" baboons. Additionally, researchers are infecting baboons with a particular subtype of the virus responsible for AIDS to explore new therapies and vaccines. To create an AIDS-like syndrome that is notably swift and lethal, these researchers repeatedly reinfect the animals with the virus obtained from AIDS-afflicted animals. Consequently, the infected monkeys fall gravely ill, with approximately half succumbing within a mere 140 days.
With his expert insight, Dr. Allan candidly expressed his apprehensions regarding the potential for transmitting baboon bone marrow to humans and initiating "an epidemic." It begs the question of why researchers would place their faith in therapies and vaccines studied on a "sub-type virus" that has been repeatedly reintroduced into an animal until it developed an "AIDS-like syndrome." Suppose this line of reasoning indeed holds merit for researchers. In that case, one might propose applying these therapies to themselves or their children, relying on their trusted science to ascertain their efficacy.
Considering the unsettling examples of expendable lives, including beagle puppies, aborted fetus scalps, and the mingling of baboon bone marrow with HIV-infected individuals, it becomes imperative to delve into what connections may exist between Dr. Steven Deeks, UCSF, and Lindsey's treatment as an infant. In 1993, Dr. Steven Deeks was appointed to his role by the founder of Ward 86, Dr. Paul Volberding, and this pivotal year also marked the first full year during which Lindsey had been removed from AZT treatment. Notably, Dr. Volberding had played a significant part in the 1987 study that led to the introduction of AZT as a treatment for HIV, further weaving the intricate web of connections between Volberding, Deeks, and Huskins, who, in a sense, involved themselves in Lindsey and Rico, 's extraordinary journey.
In 1994, a remarkable confluence of events occurred when Cheryl and I engaged in an interview with the esteemed L.A. Times. The resultant article, titled "Parents of HIV-Positive Girl Shun Drug AZT," shed light on our decision to discontinue Lindsey's AZT treatment in 1992. Interestingly, the article also featured perspectives from Dr. Volberding, offering a counterpoint to our stance. Simultaneously, while Volberding from UCSF defended the use of AZT on infants like Lindsey, he was collaborating with Dr. Frank Rhame. At that time, Rhame held the position of Principal Investigator at the University of Minnesota, where Lindsey was receiving medical care as an infant.
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The connection between Volberding, Rhame, the University of Minnesota, and Lindsey appears to be more than a mere coincidence. Our interview with the L.A. Times occurred shortly after we had ceased Lindsey's AZT treatment and severed ties with the University of Minnesota. Although the University declined an interview request from the L.A. Times, it is plausible that Principal Investigator Rhame played a pivotal role in facilitating a connection between his colleague, researcher Volberding, and the newspaper. This connection between Rhame and Volberding aligns with their joint conclusion that AZT effectively delays the progression of HIV disease while causing minimal toxicity.
The University of Minnesota's and Dr. Rhame's deep involvement in research during Lindsey's treatment is well-documented in publicly available records. These records reveal that Dr. Rhame received substantial financial compensation, ranking him among the top 2% of infectious disease specialists nationwide. Moreover, he garnered significant funding from medical companies, including those producing AZT.
A direct linkage between the University of Minnesota and UCSF was facilitated by Dr. Keith Henry, connecting Deeks and Henry to a study focusing on "rare individuals who initiate antiretroviral therapy (ART) but maintain HIV suppression even after treatment interruptions." Every aspect mentioned in this paragraph aligns seamlessly with Lindsey and Rico's situation, suggesting that Lindsey continued to be a subject of experimentation even after ceasing AZT treatment. Viewing Lindsey and Rico as valuable test subjects not only connects them through their rarity—Lindsey being one of twelve in 1990 and Rico one of only eleven perinatally infected babies in Minnesota over sixteen years by 2012—but also underscores their appeal to researchers eager to study such unique cases, especially given their familial relationship.
One might assume that the medical community would never engage in unethical or uninformed testing on a patient. However, I strongly encourage reevaluating this assumption based on the narrative presented thus far. Doctors are not solely driven by the pursuit of medical knowledge when it comes to cases like Lindsey and Rico. Doctors and researchers were likely also motivated by financial incentives in their roles as "principal investigators," possibly even with backing from influential figures like Fauci himself. Take, for example, Lindsey's childhood doctor. While Dr. Hostetter was threatening to remove Lindsey from our home due to our non-compliance with AZT, she may have simultaneously been receiving research funding to study the very situation she was attempting to undermine. In other words, our decision to discontinue Lindsey's AZT treatment, which was Hostetter's intended path to maximizing AZT treatment, may have inadvertently turned into a counter-study examining the effects of discontinuing AZT treatment.
Cheryl's notes from 1993 show little doubt that the scientific community continued their surveillance even after Lindsey was no longer Hostetter's patient.
Cheryl's notes-
On March 26, 1993, Steve got a call from Dr. McHugh, the pediatrician who first told us of Lindsey's diagnosis. He said Dr. Hostetter would welcome us at the University any time to at least continue to go in for continuing blood work. Steve felt like McHugh must have been in Dr. Hostetter's presence at the time of the call because as the phone call progressed, Dr. McHugh shared his knowledge about HIV/ AIDS. Twice, he asked Steve about repeating Lindsey's blood work and asked if we had had blood work done lately. "Who are you taking Lindsey to now?" Dr. McHugh then said we did not have grounds to take Lindsey off AZT. Steve replied, "I don't think any of you doctors should be putting a stamp on the use of AZT. You should not be prescribing AZT for anyone because your profession has yet to save its first life. Refer to your Physician's Desk Reference and look up AZT for use in children!"
McHugh replied the info in the Physician's Desk Reference is for adults, not pediatric patients." Steve then said, "NO, there is a section about pediatric patients, and it is very clear that AZT should not be used in children unless they have compromised lab results." Then Dr. McHugh said, "Mr. Nagel, I did not call to argue with you." He repeated that at least three times during this phone conversation. Really, he did not call to argue with Steve- he just called to let us know he was right!
As I revisit and refine this narrative in 2024, I am reminded of events from Lindsey's childhood that struck me as peculiar at the time. When Lindsey was around 15 years old, she sought medical attention at a hospital for an issue unrelated to HIV. However, it's important to note that doctors often attribute most health concerns to HIV if an individual tests positive. What stood out as unusual was that Lindsey had never been to this specific hospital before, yet the attending doctor immediately inquired about her HIV status. The only plausible explanation for this could be the existence of a directive or watchlist based on her insurance or social security number. While the concept of a doctor's "watchlist" might sound conspiratorial to the general public, it's essential to understand that such a watchlist does exist in the form of the electronic health records (EHRs) system. Moreover, this system would allow for a high-profile case like Lindsey's to be flagged within the system. The EHRs not only made it possible for a doctor to access Lindsey's past records in 2005 but also made it highly probable.
Although the public at large may have been unaware, or perhaps skeptical, of such surveillance practices back in 2005 and even today, individuals must recognize that we've been inhabiting an era characterized not only by heightened surveillance but also by the manipulation of viruses, potentially rendering them into lethal pathogens. Certain researchers have suggested that the COVID virus would have required around 500 years to naturally mutate to its present state and cross species barriers, mirroring the mindset apparent in Dr. Deeks and his Baboon Man experiment.
As suspicion escalated following the 2005 incident, Cheryl and I made a strategic decision. To avoid attracting attention, we opted for legitimate minute clinics for Lindsey's visits, as they were less likely to have prior knowledge of Lindsey's situation. Even at the age of 15, we remained apprehensive about involvement from Child Protective Services (CPS). The use of minute clinics in Lindsey's medical history was later characterized by the Mower County prosecutor as flying "under the radar" during the trial, portraying our family as a potential threat to Rico. It was ironic that the very individuals who had decided to take Lindsey off AZT in 1990, thereby extending her life for 23 years, were now being portrayed as a danger to Rico, who was compelled to remain on the drugs and faced a grim prognosis of not surviving beyond the age of six.
At this analysis stage, a convergence of established facts starkly contrasts with the narratives presented by the authoritative figures concerning Rico's and Lindsey's lives and how their stories intertwine. Dr. Huskins asserted that Lindsey's lack of treatment during pregnancy was the pivotal factor determining Rico's fate, a sentiment echoed by Judge Wellman, who cited Lindsey's alleged refusal of treatment as justification for Rico's removal, underscoring its role in Rico's HIV-positive status at birth. These assertions underscore the importance of understanding the nature, scope, and limitations of the knowledge available from Lindsey's initial visit to Mayo Clinic's O.B. department. By delving into concepts like the "theory of knowledge" or "epistemology," we can examine the framework of established facts and their methodologies, aiming to achieve certainty or mitigate ambiguity in our understanding of reality.
There is clarity in the fact that Lindsey did not undergo treatment during her pregnancy. However, ambiguity arises when Lindsey is accused of both refusing treatment during pregnancy and concealing her HIV status from the Mayo Clinic, despite the Mayo Clinic diagnosing her as HIV-positive during childhood. Despite providing her childhood patient number from the Mayo Clinic during her initial O.B. department visit six months before Rico's birth, Dr. Huskins, prosecutor Jones, and Judge Wellman fail to establish a basis justifying their firm convictions that Lindsey could have simultaneously concealed her HIV status and declined treatment. These two elements seem to contradict each other.
The recurrence of the patient number and treatment refusal serves as a pivotal aspect of this narrative, and to minimize ambiguity, it's imperative to scrutinize the available information to discern what the elites should have been aware of in this critical life-and-death scenario that formed the basis of their decisions. Beginning with the fundamentals, Dr. Huskins emphasized in his initial contact with UCSF that researchers are part of a collective community rather than solely affiliated with specific hospitals: this interconnected community exchanges information and ideas through extensive professional networks and organizations that transcend institutional confines. Considering Lindsey within this framework, her case would undeniably have garnered immense interest and discussion, leading to heightened awareness among researchers regarding her unique circumstances and remarkable longevity as an HIV-positive individual.
In addition to the connection between UCSF and Dr. Volberding and then his association with Lindsey in the L.A. Times article, which likely reached a broad scientific audience, Lindsey's childhood story gained further visibility through a prominent television news program called Day One. The Day One program was dedicated to our experiences with AZT. It featured compelling interviews with influential figures, including the vice president of the drug manufacturer GlaxoSmithKline, Dr. Dave Barry, and the esteemed head of the FDA, Dr. David Kessler, along with other prominent figures in the HIV/AIDS community during that period. The convergence of these noteworthy individuals, who continue to be influential voices in the field today, accentuates the intricate network of connections that would have seen Lindsey and Rico's unfortunate situation as a source of valuable information to be explored in the years to come.
For anyone in the realm of HIV research who may not have been initially aware of Lindsey from her 1994 appearance in the Day One broadcast, it would have been highly likely that they would have been aware of her story in 2009 when a long list of prominent scientists appeared alongside Lindsey in the documentary "House of Numbers." The House of Numbers dealt mainly with the testing and the drugs used to treat HIV and did not promote the idea that HIV did or did not cause AIDS, as implied by the elites of Mower County. What does stand out is that in our interactions with the producers of both "House of Numbers" and "Day One," Cheryl and I discovered that, similar to the situation with the L.A. Times story, Lindsey's doctors at that time declined interview requests for both productions. However, the mere fact that they were approached for interviews indicates their awareness of these stories.
It is reasonable to assume that the hospitals where these doctors practiced, specifically the Mayo Clinic and the University of Minnesota, would have also been informed about Lindsey's exceptional case, as she had been their patient. Being invited to appear on a primetime ABC show would likely have garnered much attention. This sequence of events once again raises questions about Mayo Clinic's insinuation they were not aware of Lindsey's HIV status at the time of her first O.B. visit or the six months that followed, despite their ability to issue her the same patient number she had since childhood.
The year that witnessed the release of the thought-provoking documentary "House of Numbers" drew a collective response from a group of esteemed professors and doctors who willingly participated in the film. These individuals, adorned with impressive accolades and perhaps accompanied by meticulously framed documents bearing a distinguished seal, joined forces to craft a compelling statement titled "A STATEMENT ABOUT THE FILM HOUSE OF NUMBERS BY PEOPLE WHO APPEAR IN IT."
In their collective statement, these 14 esteemed individuals vehemently objected to the documentary "House of Numbers" and its purported agendas. They claimed to possess an almost intuitive understanding of the documentary's alleged agenda, expressing profound dismay at the producer's audacity to highlight their "legitimate differences of scientific opinion" and weave them into a compelling 90-minute narrative. What makes their denouncement all the more intriguing is that they, like Wellman, had yet to watch the film before forming their opinions. When strung together, their "legitimate differences" seemed to tell a different story than the narrative they initially claimed as fact. Three of the fourteen individuals who objected to the documentary are affiliated with UCSF; one is Dr. Volberding, who graced the pages of Lindsey's story in the illustrious L.A. Times.
In a further attempt to achieve certainty and clean up some of the elite's ambiguity, this is the appropriate point to explore exactly what information Dr. Huskins himself acknowledged to be in possession of on the day of Rico's birth. Dr. Huskins clearly stated that he was able to review Mayo Clinic "records from 1993 [that] indicate several clinic visits with my colleague, Dr. Nancy Henry. Dr. Henry's notes are dated April 19, 1993".
"Based on the information discussed in the HPI (history of present illness) I conclude that Ms. Nagel (the infant's mother) has a history of positive HIV testing that is consistent with HIV infection." Most importantly, Huskins does not mention any problems accessing Lindsey's Mayo Clinic records from her childhood. The availability of Lindsey's records is further clarified one day later when Dr. Burgess writes, "at some point during the course of her care, she did disclose that she had a h/o being HIV positive as a child." There is no ambiguity in these statements, and there is no indication that people were not aware of Lindsey's HIV status or that her files from 1992 were not available to anyone who wished to and should have reviewed them at any point during the pregnancy. That is, not until three months later when Mayo lawyers cleaned up any foreseeable flaws and prepared Dr. Huskins for trial. At trial, Huskins will dedicate an entire paragraph making it known that Lindsey's records "were from nearly twenty years ago, and so they were paper records that were held in storage, so they had to be obtained, and after a couple hours, I was able to actually receive those records and review them."
Initially, the statement made by Dr. Huskins lacked relevance to the ongoing trial proceedings, serving merely to fill a legal gap that Mayo Clinic's legal team may have deemed problematic. However, upon closer examination, Dr. Huskins' voluntary disclosure of information seems to align with the phenomenon of "information control" or "information manipulation." In psychological and sociological contexts, this concept involves the deliberate manipulation or control of information to shape the thoughts, beliefs, or actions of others.
Dr. Huskins' mention of the records being "held in storage" and the need to "obtain" them may have seemed inconsequential on the surface. Yet, in the broader context, it diverts attention away from a potentially significant issue. By emphasizing the logistical aspect of obtaining records, Dr. Huskins could have been attempting to deter Lindsey's lawyer from delving deeper into how the hospital possessed Lindsey's files but had not reviewed them. In this way, the statement simultaneously highlighted and obscured a known situation, illustrating the complex dynamics of information control in legal proceedings.
In logical terms, it's not a believable scenario that a world-class hospital could have given Lindsey the same patient number in June of 2012 that she had in 1992 without having that file in their hand and then six months later claim that it took "a couple of hours" to find that same file. While it may be tempting for judges and critics to attribute Mayo Clinic's challenges in connecting Lindsey to her earlier medical records to the passage of time, it's worth considering that Mayo Clinic has historically taken great pride in its patient records system. This pride is evident in a 2008 "Historical Vignette" titled "Patient Records at Mayo Clinic: Lessons Learned from the first 100 patients." The content of this vignette raises doubts about the credibility of claims that the diligent staff at Mayo Clinic could have inadvertently overlooked Lindsey's file, contrary to the implications made by healthcare professionals and legal authorities involved in Lindsey's case.
The author fondly reminisces that "for more than a century, Mayo has been assigning 'clinic numbers'…and logging all data under each patient's unique number." This practice was highlighted as a significant enhancement in patient care. The patient record system at Mayo Clinic, originally established by the renowned Dr. Henry S. Plummer over a century ago, was lauded as a groundbreaking innovation in patient care. Each patient received a serial number during their initial visit, and all their pertinent information was meticulously documented under this unique identifier. This system ensured that a comprehensive history of each patient was readily accessible to physicians upon request, with patients retaining the same number for all subsequent visits. This meticulous system significantly improved and streamlined patient care, making it exceedingly unlikely that what Dr. Huskins claimed at trial and insinuating in the documentation was true. While assigning a number to patient files doesn't seem that sophisticated to me, the author underscores that Dr. Plummer's contributions to patient care are regarded as among the most significant and enduring in the history of medicine, marking a true milestone in the Mayo Clinic's legacy.
Another challenge that needs to be addressed relates to Mayo Clinic's financial transactions involving Blue Cross Blue Shield (BCBS). Given that Mayo Clinic would have submitted bills to an insurance provider, BCBS, which Lindsey had her entire life, it would have been essential to provide a "Concise Medical Record" as part of the billing process. This documentation would have been expected to provide a chronological account of the patient's medical care, including pertinent details about the patient's health history, previous test results, diagnoses, and current health risk factors.
In accordance with guidelines set forth by the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS), a simple notation indicating that old records were reviewed or additional history was obtained from the family without further elaboration would not meet the standards required for proper billing documentation. Consequently, this raises questions about how Mayo Clinic's billing practices align with the guidelines established by HHS and whether a comprehensive medical record was submitted to BCBS for reimbursement. In other words, could Mayo Clinic potentially argue that they provided treatment to Lindsey free of charge?
In today's era of advanced artificial intelligence and electronic record-keeping, it seems implausible that neither Blue Cross nor Mayo Clinic would have overlooked the importance of documenting the "history of present illness." Mayo Clinic, in particular, heavily relies on a patient's "history of present illness" to make informed decisions regarding diagnosis and treatment. Likewise, Blue Cross bases its decisions on risk assessments, which naturally leads to the question of why Dr. Huskins and Mower County assumed there would be no system in place to link Lindsey's HIV status in 1993 with her pregnancy in 2012.
Another aspect worth scrutinizing concerning the misplacement of medical records in a renowned hospital directs attention back to the presence of Electronic Health Records (EHRs). These digital records hold the potential to illuminate how a physician at a facility where Lindsey had not received treatment came to be aware of her HIV status despite her not disclosing this information to him. The adoption of EHRs dates back several decades, with their widespread usage notably increasing over the past two decades. These records are intricately linked to unique patient identifiers, encompassing insurance numbers, social security numbers, and various other forms of identification provided by patients, including Lindsey, during their O.B. visits. This situation, in turn, raises further questions for Mayo Clinic to address.
Given Lindsey's intricate and high-priority medical condition, it is highly likely that her records would have been subject to additional flags or highlights within the EHR system, ensuring that healthcare providers were acutely aware of her specific medical history. It's also likely that previous healthcare providers included personalized notes in her records to underscore critical information. Should Dr. Huskins' testimony regarding Lindsey's files somehow be deemed accurate, and her past and present records indeed remained unaltered in the six months leading up to Rico's birth, this would constitute a grave oversight by the obstetrics department. Regardless of the perspective from which one examines this situation, no legitimate excuse or plausible explanation exists for this occurrence.