Design for emotions

Or ‘A designer’s adventures in [hospital] wonderland’

So I had a bit of an operation recently (you may imagine me wrapped in bandages as we speak). And because most of the things happening in my life in one or other way bring my thoughts to what I do and love (design that is), I thought this experience would be fun to share.

So it started from…

A lot of paper

Forms to prove you’re serious, forms to hold less responsibility, forms for everything. Forms covering my family’s medical history from the Palaeolithic era to now and subsequently filling me in with knowledge on Hepatitis, Yellow Fever and ‘do you drink more than two glasses a week ‘ — well, when you put it like this I feel like shamelessly lying to you, paper.

A lot of examination

Then the games begun, and for about 4 hours we were thoroughly examined to make sure the surgery can be performed. It’s worth to say every doctor visit was a bit of a gamble, so roommate and I made bets on who’s coming in next and what exactly are they going to do to us.

Specialist visit

The specialist visit deserves a special mention because it was remarkable. A gentleman entered the room announcing himself with cheerful “Does-everyone-know-what-we-anaesthesiologists-do” in a mix of army/school-like manner. “Yes? Great. Then it’s much easier to explain. I’m going to put a needle in your vein, and you are going to have a nice sleep. And when you wake up all is good again”. My roommate murmurs “Why don’t you keep us this way for longer, doctor” which is met with “because there’s a line of people queueing for the experience, love”.

But the true marvel is a document he leaves behind. It starts with the divinely intellectual text “Ancient Greek ἀναισθησία (anaisthēsía), from ἀν- (an-, “not”) with αἴσθησις (aísthēsis, “sensation”) is a state of temporary induced loss of sensation or awareness” and rapidly deteriorates from there listing every possible way to make you insensitive to pain; the possible consequences of lightening your burden which is directly proportionate to the size of the intervention, and a list of unwanted consequences that may accompany it.

Over 4 pages in total.

Both of us shed a tear by the end of it and kind of wish we hadn’t read that, seriously considering making a rope out of blankets and leaving the building via the window.

The thing itself

The nurse enters ever so rapidly (that knock that doesn’t signify permission, only an entry warning), asking me to change into operation clothes and lay on the bed. I understand why I can’t walk to the theatre when I put those on: here I am in a ridiculous gown open at the back for anyone to whiteness my lovely see-through garment. At this point I’m feeling pretty helpless as these Amazonian healthcare workers roll me our and mention, ‘keep your hands close to your body so we don’t bump your limbs off the corners of the corridor’.

As long as the lift and corridor last, they keep quiet, silently acknowledging the meaningfulness of that ritual, and blood cooling fear starts to dawn on me because that scene in any medicine-related movies, as we all know them, is always followed by ‘we’re losing him’.

The corridor abruptly ends spitting me out into a massive room full of devices and people. Nurses say ‘good luck’ and disappear whispering “even I’d be scared if they were to do anything to me” (THANK YOU).

By which point I shake and hold the tears back (firmly, with both hands). The nurse remarks ‘don’t tremble that much’ while wrestling my hands down to measure my blood pressure (surely it’s going through the roof) and put a catheter in me.

I recognise the eyes of the doctor over one of the masks as he approaches saying “How are you feeling? Scared? That’s only human.” I look at the back of the room and then the room blurs into a single large orange spot… I wake up in an intense care unit in a very blissful mood, feeling like if somebody punched me in the face I’d just smile in return. The bliss continues until the painkillers wear out.

An open (design) question

What am I on about here, besides trying to be funny?

Hospitals (as systems) tend to morph over time: new treatments and regulations come out and it’s vital that we keep systems true to who they were designed for and are aimed at serving on the first place — humans.

So, coming back to the single and scariest moment that happened to me on the way to operating theatre, coupled with the first few seconds on the table — how could it have been solved?

Whether it is allowing me to walk there and having a changing room next to the operating theatre (service solution), or giving a note of warning and encouragement, something along the lines of “You may feel anxious in the corridor prior to operating table, but fear not, etc.”(experience solution) or “once at the theatre, look at this funny thing on the wall and smile” (yes, grown ups need these kind of things too!) or in any other way — there are multiple answers. The point is acknowledging what the problem is, not that I don’t know the ancient greek for anaesthesia.

Beyond anything — any service journeys, any touch points, designing for emotion, I’d argue, is one of the most important ‘lenses’ to consider when our systems grow and expand, bursting with processes and paper. More specifically designing for the single (most horrifying) emotional dip that no one accounts for, but everyone feels.

Now this dip may happen at different points of the journey for different people, this is where we need the understanding of the system users and accounting for their previous experiences as well as their current state.

I’m sure that, with purposeful design firmly and consistently entering all the systems we grow (and we grow with), one day our process will not diminish but highlight amazing jobs done by people. Because anyone who is capable of fine-tuning and fixing the beautifully complex thing that is the human body deserves the highest praise and the best designed system.

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All comments left here will reach me, Aleks Melnikova, founder of Cosmic Velocity. Come to us for good design, inclusive research and team training.