A Medical Surgical Nursing Study Guide with Test Bank Including 600 Practice

A Medical Surgical Nursing Study Guide with Test Bank Including 600 Practice

CMSRN Exam Prep 2021-2022: A Medical Surgical Nursing Study Guide with Test Bank Including 600 Practice Questions and Answers (Med Surg Certification Review Book)

Nursing Study Guide

Here’s how you can pass the CMSRN exam without any lost sleep or unnecessary stress. Keep reading…

 

Does knowing that this upcoming exam could change your life forever have you a little stressed?

 

Even if you’re confident that you know all the information, the testing atmosphere and structure of this particular exam might be something different and uncomfortable for you…

 

Or perhaps you’re not even close to being prepared yet, the day is fast approaching, and suddenly it’s time for you to master the information as quickly as possible?

 

Whatever the case may be, there is a method to this madness.

 

It doesn’t have to be some kind of chaotic and confusing mess that leaves you feeling uncertain and lost.

 

You also don’t have to continue running around in circles, jamming more and more information into your brain and hoping for the best.

 

The clarity and confidence you need to walk into that exam room with your head held high are something you cultivate and develop.

 

Once you understand how to properly train this methodology, you’ll find everything else coming to you rather effortlessly.

 

There is a step-by-step process that can help you accomplish all of your goals through a seamless and peaceful approach.

 

With the right insight, a deeper look at some of the most effective testing techniques and strategies, and a new and empowered plan of action… you’re sure to bring home the victory!

 

In CMSRN Exam Prep 2021-2022, you’ll discover:

 

  • Why developing a broad and cohesive study plan is the most important first step you should take – and how this will help you organize the chaos
  • Why patience is going to be your friend — and how to make the best use of every single second you have in that testing room
  • Everything you’ll need to know about assessments and diagnostics so that you can properly plan and evaluate any patient’s unique situation
  • Why you should have a strategy for guessing — and how to find hints within the test questions to help you guess correctly
  • The most up-to-date knowledge for everything you’ll need to master — from cardiovascular and respiratory illness… all the way to psychological disorders and more
  • Specific ways this exam might try to trick you so you can be prepared for any curve balls before they come your way
  • 4 different practice exams for you to work through, allowing you to build the necessary confidence to conquer it all

 

… and much more!

 

You have the ability to overcome all of this stress and worry — it doesn’t matter if you have a year or even just a few days.

 

 

With the right support and guidance, you can accomplish anything.

 

Take a step back, take a few deep breaths, and dive into this with all you’ve got!

 

If you’re ready to ace this exam and move forward into the life of your dreams, then you need this book today!


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20 Pcs Advanced Dissection Kit Biology Lab with Reusable Silicone Pad Anatomy Dissecting Set with Stainless Steel Scalpel Knife Handle Blades

20 Pcs Advanced Dissection Kit Biology Lab with Reusable Silicone Pad Anatomy Dissecting Set with Stainless Steel Scalpel Knife Handle Blades

for Medical Students
Advanced Dissection Kit – 37 Pieces Total. High Grade Stainless Steel Instruments Perfect for Anatomy, Biology, Botany, Veterinary and Medical Students
✔Best match – Our goal is to provide what you need at the lowest cost but also the highest quality. We know when you find high value in your purchase you will look to us for all your dissection needs.
✔Based on usage research – We have select most needed and usually used instruments for most cases you will have. So, whatever you need to do, you will find needed tool.
✔Easy to clean – You can boil them or swab by alcohol, or sterilizer, with no risk of damage to your instruments.
✔Premium grade stainless steel dissection kit is perfect for students, teachers, artists and other professionals looking to perform their work safely, and effectively.
✔20 Pieces in nice useful container – Everything you need to practice techniques and dissecting skills.
20 Pcs Advanced Dissection Kit Biology Lab with Reusable Silicone Pad Anatomy Dissecting Set with Stainless Steel Scalpel Knife Handle Blades for Medical Students and Veterinaryperfect for students

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best books about EKG : An Illustrated Study Guide For Students To Easily Learn How To Read

best books about EKG : An Illustrated Study Guide For Students To Easily Learn How To Read

1- EKG | ECG Interpretation Made Easy: An Illustrated Study Guide For Students To Easily Learn How To Read & Interpret ECG Strips

Over 300 Illustrations Inside – Special Launch Price!

Electrocardiograms (or “ECGs”) can seem very daunting when you first try to read them. There are so many squiggles, often visualized in six different “boxes” on the ECG interpretation page. You’ve been told that those squiggles mean something important about the heart—but what? In this guide, you will understand how ECGs are performed, what they represent about the heart, and what it means to see something you don’t think is normal.

Before you get into the hard stuff—the actual interpretation of ECGs, and what to do about what you’ve read—you’ll study the source of the ECG, which is the heart. By reviewing what this important organ looks like and does every moment of your life, you’ll see how those ECG lines get generated and what exactly they mean.

Then we’ll talk about how the ECG is generated and how you obtain an ECG. What is the difference between a “rhythm strip” and a 12-lead ECG, for example? What is a P wave or a QRS complex? After you learn these, you’ll be ready to interpret what you see on an ECG reading.

The rest of the guide gives you the tools to read any ECG and know what it means. We’ll cover all sorts of arrhythmias as well as ECG evidence of ischemia and infarction. We’ll also talk about what you need to know concerning how drugs and electrolyte abnormalities affect the heart, and what kind of ECG you’ll see under such influences.








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Working Stiff: Two Years, Making of a Medical Examiner Paperback

Working Stiff: Two Years, Making of a Medical Examiner Paperback

 

Working Stiff: Two Years, 262 Bodies, and the Making of a Medical Examiner

“Fun…and full of smart science. Fans of CSI—the real kind—will want to read it” (The Washington Post): A young forensic pathologist’s “rookie season” as a NYC medical examiner, and the hair-raising cases that shaped her as a physician and human being.

Just two months before the September 11 terrorist attacks, Dr. Judy Melinek began her training as a New York City forensic pathologist. While her husband and their toddler held down the home front, Judy threw herself into the fascinating world of death investigation—performing autopsies, investigating death scenes, counseling grieving relatives. Working Stiff chronicles Judy’s two years of training, taking readers behind the police tape of some of the most harrowing deaths in the Big Apple, including a firsthand account of the events of September 11, the subsequent anthrax bio-terrorism attack, and the disastrous crash of American Airlines Flight 587.

An unvarnished portrait of the daily life of medical examiners—complete with grisly anecdotes, chilling crime scenes, and a welcome dose of gallows humor—Working Stiff offers a glimpse into the daily life of one of America’s most arduous professions, and the unexpected challenges of shuttling between the domains of the living and the dead. The body never lies—and through the murders, accidents, and suicides that land on her table, Dr. Melinek lays bare the truth behind the glamorized depictions of autopsy work on television to reveal the secret story of the real morgue. “Haunting and illuminating…the stories from her average workdays…transfix the reader with their demonstration that medical science can diagnose and console long after the heartbeat stops” (The New York Times).

Working Stiff1This Can Only End Badly“Remember: This can only end badly.” That’s what my husband says anytime I start a story. He’s right.So. This carpenter is sitting on a sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan with his buddies, half a dozen subcontractors in hard hats sipping their coffees before the morning shift gets started. The remains of a hurricane blew over the city the day before, halting construction, but now it’s back to business on the office tower they’ve been building for eight months.

As the sun comes up and the traffic din grows, a new noise punctures the hum of taxis and buses: a metallic creak, not immediately menacing. The creak turns into a groan, and somebody yells. The workers can’t hear too well over the diesel noise and gusting wind, but they can tell the voice is directed at them. The groan sharpens to a screech. The men look up—then jump to their feet and sprint off, their coffee flying everywhere. The carpenter chooses the wrong direction.

With an earthshaking crash, the derrick of a 383-foot-tall construction crane slams down on James Friarson’s head.

I arrived at this gruesome scene two hours later with a team of MLIs, medicolegal investigators from the New York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner. The crane had fallen directly across a busy intersection at rush hour and the police had shut it down, snarling traffic in all directions. The MLI driving the morgue van cursed like a sailor as he inched us the last few blocks to the cordon line. Medicolegal investigators are the medical examiner’s first responders, going to the site of an untimely death, examining and documenting everything there, and transporting the body back to the city morgue for autopsy. I was starting a monthlong program designed to introduce young doctors to the world of forensic death investigation and had never worked outside a hospital. “Doc,” the MLI behind the wheel said to me at one hopelessly gridlocked corner, “I hope you don’t turn out to be a black cloud. Yesterday all we had to do was scoop up one little old lady from Beth Israel ER. Today, we get this clusterfuck.”

“Watch your step,” a police officer warned when I got out of the van. The steel boom had punched a foot-deep hole in the sidewalk when it came down on Friarson. A hard hat was still there, lying on its side in a pool of blood and brains, coffee and doughnuts. I had spent the previous four years training as a hospital pathologist in a fluorescent-lit world of sterile labs and blue scrubs. Now I found myself at a windy crime scene in the middle of Manhattan rush hour, gore on the sidewalk, blue lights and yellow tape, a crowd of gawkers, grim cops, and coworkers who kept using the word “clusterfuck.”

I was hooked.

“How did it happen?” my husband, T.J., wanted to know when I got home.

“The crane crushed his head.”

He winced. “I mean, how come it toppled over?” We were at the small playground downstairs from the apartment, watching our toddler son, Danny, arrange all of the battered plastic trucks and rusty tricycles in a line, making a train.

“The crane was strapped down overnight because of the hurricane warning yesterday. The operator either forgot or never knew, and I guess he didn’t check it. He started the engine, pushed the throttle, and nothing happened. So he gunned it—and the straps broke.”

“Oh, man,” T.J. said, rubbing his forehead. “Now it’s a catapult.”

“Exactly. The crane went up, hung there for a second—and crumpled over itself backwards.”

“Jesus. What about the driver?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was the crane driver hurt?”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“Well, what about the other workers?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated. “None of them were dead.”

T.J. was looking off into the trees. “Where did this happen?”

“I told you, on Sixth Avenue.”

“And what?”

“I don’t remember! What does it matter? You’re going to avoid that corner because a crane could drop on your head?”

“Well?”

“It doesn’t happen that often, believe me.” Our raised voices had drawn the attention of the other parents on the bench.

“Civilians,” T.J. warned under his breath, reminding me that no one on a playground full of preschoolers wanted to hear our discussion of a grisly workplace accident. “Did he have a wife, kids?” he asked quietly.

“He had a wife. I don’t know about kids.”

My husband looked at me askance.

“Look, I don’t deal with these things! The investigators take care of all that. I only have to worry about the body.”

“Okay. So tell me about the body.”

As part of my medical school training I had done autopsies before—but they were all clinical, patients who had died in the hospital. I had never seen a corpse like this one. “We had to do a full autopsy because it’s a workplace accident. It was amazing. He was a big guy, muscular. No heart disease, vessels clean. Not a scratch on his limbs or torso—but his head looked like an egg you smash on the counter. We even call it an ‘eggshell skull fracture.’ Isn’t that cool?”

“No,” T.J. replied, suddenly ashen. “No, it isn’t.”

I’m not a ghoulish person. I’m a guileless, sunny optimist, in fact. When I first started training in death investigation, T.J. worried my new job would change the way I looked at the world. He feared that after a few months of hearing about the myriad ways New Yorkers die, the two of us would start looking up nervously for window air conditioners to fall on our heads. Maybe we’d steer Danny’s stroller around sidewalk grates instead of rolling over them. We would, he was sure, never again set foot in murderous Central Park. “You’re going to turn me into one of those crazy people who leaves the house wearing a surgical mask and gloves,” he declared during a West Nile virus scare.

Instead, my experience had the opposite effect. It freed me—and, eventually, my husband as well—from our six o’clock news phobias. Once I became an eyewitness to death, I found that nearly every unexpected fatality I investigated was either the result of something dangerously mundane, or of something predictably hazardous.

So don’t jaywalk. Wear your seat belt when you drive. Better yet, stay out of your car and get some exercise. Watch your weight. If you’re a smoker, stop right now. If you aren’t, don’t start. Guns put holes in people. Drugs are bad. You know that yellow line on the subway platform? It’s there for a reason. Staying alive, as it turns out, is mostly common sense.

Mostly. As I would also learn at the New York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner, undetected anatomical defects do occasionally cause otherwise healthy people to drop dead. One-in-a-­million fatal diseases crop up, and New York has eight million people. There are open manholes. Stray bullets. There are crane accidents.

“I don’t understand how you can do it,” friends—even fellow physicians—tell me. But all doctors learn to objectify their patients to a certain extent. You have to suppress your emotional responses or you wouldn’t be able to do your job. In some ways it’s easier for me, because a dead body really is an object, no longer a person at all. More important, that dead body is not my only patient. The survivors are the ones who really matter. I work for them too.

I didn’t start off wanting to be a forensic pathologist. You don’t say to yourself in second grade, “When I grow up, I want to cut up dead people.” It’s not what you think a doctor should do. A doctor should heal people. My dad was that kind of doctor. He was the chief of emergency room psychiatry at Jacobi Medical Center in the Bronx. My father instilled in me a fascination with how the human body works. He had kept all his medical school textbooks, and when I started asking questions he would pull those tomes off their high shelf so we could explore the anatomical drawings together. The books were explorers’ charts, and he moved with such ease over them, with such assurance and enthusiasm, that I figured if I became a doctor I could sail those seas with him.

I never got the chance. My father committed suicide at age thirty-eight. I was thirteen.

People kept coming up to me during his funeral and saying the same thing: “I’m so sorry.” I hated that. It roused me out of my numbness, to anger. All I could think to say was, “Why are you saying you’re sorry? It’s not your fault!” It was his fault alone. My father was a psychiatrist and knew full well, professionally and personally, that he should have sought help. He knew the protocol; he had asked his own patients the three diagnostic questions all of us learn in medical school when we believe someone is having suicidal ideations. First, “Do you want to hurt yourself or kill yourself?” If the answer is yes, then you are supposed to ask, “Do you have a plan?” If again the patient answers yes, the final question is, “What is that plan?” If your patient has a credible suicide plan, he or she needs to be hospitalized. My father’s suicide plan was to hang himself, an act that requires considerable determination. After he succeeded in carrying out that plan, I spent many years angry at him, for betraying himself and for abandoning me.

Today, when I tell the families and loved ones of a suicide that I understand exactly what they’re going through—and why—they believe me. Many have told me it helps them come to terms with it. Over the years some of these family members have continued to call me, the doctor who was on the phone with them on the single worst day of their lives, to include me in the celebration of graduations, weddings, new grandchildren. You miss the person who was taken away from you most deeply during the times of greatest joy. Getting those calls, thank-you cards, and birth announcements—exclamation marks, wrinkled newborns, new life—is the most rewarding part of my job.

This personal experience with death did not cause me to choose a profession steeped in it. My dad’s suicide led me to embrace life—to celebrate it and cling to it. I came to a career performing autopsies in a roundabout way.

When I graduated from UCLA medical school in 1996 I wanted to be a surgeon, and I began a surgical residency at a teaching hospital in Boston. The program had a reputation for working its surgery trainees brutally; but the senior residents all assured me, conspiratorially, that the payoff outweighed the short-term cost. “You work like a dog for five years. Tough it out. When you’re done and you become an attending physician, you’ve got it made. The hours are good, you save lives all day long, and you make a lot of money doing it.” I bought the pitch.

Before long I started noticing that many of the surgeons’ offices had a cot folded away in a corner. “Who keeps a bed in his office? Somebody who never has time to go home and sleep, that’s who,” a veteran nurse pointed out. My workweek started at four thirty on a Monday morning and ended at five thirty Tuesday evening—a 36-hour shift. A 24-hour shift would follow it, then another 36, and the week would end with a 12-hour shift. I got one full day off every two weeks. That was the standard 108-hour work schedule. Sometimes it was worse. On several occasions I was wielding a scalpel for 60 straight hours relieved only by brief naps. I clocked a few 130-hour workweeks.

T.J. started buying lots of eggs, red meat, protein shakes, boxes of high-calorie snack bars he could stick into the pockets of my lab coat. He had to cram as much fuel into me as he could during the predawn gloom of breakfast, and again when I dropped into a chair at the dinner table, still in my dirty scrubs, the following night. During my fifteen-minute commute home, I’d often take catnaps at red lights—“I’ll just close my eyes for a minute”—and wake to the sound of the guy behind me laying on his horn, the light green.

Boston is T.J.’s hometown. His family was overjoyed when we moved back there from Los Angeles. We were eighteen when we started dating—college freshmen, practically high school sweethearts—and had entered our twenties happy, and serious about each other. I wanted to get married—but he had begun to have his doubts. He doubted, I would later find out, that he wanted to be married to a surgeon. I was fading into a pallid, shuffling specter and was steadily losing the man I loved, and who loved me.

Then, one day in September, I fainted on the job at the end of a thirty-six-hour shift. I dropped to the linoleum right next to a patient in his sickbed and awoke on a gurney being wheeled to the emergency room, an intravenous glucose drip in my arm. The diagnosis was exhaustion and dehydration. The head of the residency program, my boss, came in and stood next to the IV drip bag, obviously impatient but not visibly concerned. “Okay,” he said, “you’re just tired. Go home, take twelve hours off, and sleep. Drink plenty of fluids, all right?” I was in a daze, wiped out and ashamed, and could only nod back. “I’ll get somebody to cover your next shift,” the surgeon told me, his back to my bed as he hurried out the door.

As soon as the boss had left me alone in that ER bed, I was no longer ashamed. I was infuriated. Nobody should be expected to practice clinical medicine, much less perform surgery, on the three hours’ sleep I had been living with. But I had wanted to be a surgeon since I first picked up a scalpel in medical school. I had been in the operating room and watched lives saved, and wasn’t ready to give it up just because my body gave out on me one time. I went back to work.

Less than a month later I was forced to consider the hazards my patients might be facing at the hands of their exhausted doctors. The hospital pharmacy paged me during morning rounds. When I called in, a woman’s voice asked, “Do you really want to put two hundred units of insulin in this patient’s hyperal, Doctor?”

I had had a full night’s sleep and was as alert as I ever got to be, but I still blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What? No! That’d kill a horse!”

Hyperal, short for hyperalimentation, is a type of intravenous nutritional supply that puts food energy directly into your bloodstream. It has to include a carefully calibrated number of insulin units—fifteen or twenty units, for instance—so that your body can maintain its healthy cycle of fuel storage and release. If instead you were to receive two hundred units of insulin, you would pass out from hypoglycemia and die within minutes of a fatal cardiac arrhythmia, a terminal seizure, or both.

“I didn’t write that order, did I?”

“What’s your name?”

“Dr. Melinek.”

“Melinek. Let’s see.” There was a shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. “No,” the woman finally replied, and I was able to breathe again.

“Okay,” I said. “How many units of insulin did the patient get in his hyperal yesterday?”

“Twenty units.”

“And the day before?”

“Twenty.”

“Let’s just make it twenty units, then.”

“Right,” confirmed the pharmacy technician, who had just saved somebody’s life.

The doctor who wrote that order during the last shift was a fellow surgery resident. He had almost killed a patient by writing an extra zero on a nutrition order. I didn’t fill out an incident report about the near-fatal mistake. Nobody had been hurt and nobody had died, so there was no incident. During one of those 130-hour workweeks, had I hurt patients without even knowing it? Had I killed anyone?

The end of my surgical career came three months later, when I caught the flu—ordinary seasonal influenza—and tried to call in sick. “There’s no one to take up the slack this time,” my boss scolded, as though my trip to the hospital ER in September had been some sort of shirking ploy. I swallowed two Tylenol, stuck the rest of the bottle in my pocket, and went to work.

The shift was a blur. The Tylenol wore off after a couple of hours, and I started shaking with chills. I took a moment to slip into an empty nurses’ alcove and measure my temperature: 102º. While I was gulping two more pills, an emergency came through the door, a young woman with acute appendicitis. Somebody thrust the medical chart in my hand as I followed the gurney down to the operating room. The patient’s fever was 101.2º—lower than mine.

My hands didn’t shake. I opened her up, tied off the appendix, cut it out, and sutured the site of excision. The room was swaying, and I was sweating in sheets—but I took a deep breath, focused all my attention on the needle, and finished stitching. That was the sixty-first operation I performed during six months of surgical residency, and the last. The minute I scrubbed out of the operating room, I told the chief resident I was too sick to work and had to go home right away. “Don’t feel too bad,” she tried to comfort me. “I once had a miscarriage while on call.”

I called T.J.—feverish, despondent, bawling. When he arrived at the residents’ call room, he closed and locked the door without a word. Then he crouched down by my bunk and asked, “Do you want to quit?” I confessed that I did. “Good,” T.J. said with conviction. “You should.”

“But what are we going to do? What hospital is going to take me if I quit?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not anymore. Quit.”

He was right. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting out of there. I resigned my position as a surgery resident the next day. T.J. and I started spending time together again. On Valentine’s Day of 1997 we were walking down a street we had traversed on our first date, nine years before to the day, back when we were teenagers. When we reached the spot where we had first held hands, he stopped, took both of mine, and lowered one knee to the icy sidewalk. I was surprised, delighted, giggling helplessly. “Would you give me an answer, yes or no?” he pleaded. “My knee is getting cold.”

I was happy for the first time in nearly a year—but scared too. I had learned only what kind of doctor I did not want to be, and was convinced no hospital would take me as a new resident in any specialty now that I was damaged goods. The happiest I’d been in medical school was during the pathology rotation. The science was fascinating, the cases engaging, and the doctors seemed to have stable lives. The director of the pathology residency program at UCLA had tried to recruit me during my last year of medical school. “No, no,” I had told her back in the day, driven and cocksure. “I’m going to be a surgeon.”

More than a year later, I called her to ask if she knew of any pathology jobs, anywhere, for a failed surgery resident.

“Can you start here in July?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Judy, I’ll keep a pathology residency position for you right here at UCLA if you’ll start in July.”

Even more shocking was T.J.’s enthusiasm for the idea. “You’ll be leaving your family behind again,” I pointed out.

“Doctor,” my fiancé replied, “I’ve followed you to hell and back. I’ll follow you to Los Angeles.”

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The subfascial interruption of incompetent medial calf communicating veins

  • This shows the lower leg with a group of large varicosities in the pos­teromedial aspect of the calf and an intraluminal stripper in the long saphenous vein. If only the long saphenous vein is removed, these varicosities will persist because they have developed as a result of the incompetence of the communicat­ing veins in this region and not primarily because the main saphenous vein is incompetent.
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The mode of production of iliofemoral thrombophlebitis

The mode of production of iliofemoral thrombophlebitis
  • Fortunately not all silent deep venous thrombi in the popliteal and femoral veins lodge in the pulmonary artery when they break off from their distal attach­ment; some lodge in the common femoral vein. It is significant that some patients have been known to complain of pain in the calf without much attention being paid to this complaint. Others may have had an unexplained concomitant rise in tem­perature, pulse and respirations, a complication not infrequently caused by deep venous thrombosis of one of the lower extremities and a minor pulmonary embolus.
  • Suddenly the patient experiences severe pain in the thigh. The leg often becomes pale in color and later cyanotic; the entire extremity to the groin becomes swollen in a matter of hours. It is believed that the long venous thrombus becomes impinged in the common femoral vein because in some patients the lumen of this vessel is uneven in outline, tending to entrap the thrombus at this site. Proximal thrombosis quickly develops to involve the external iliac vein, so that the outflow tract is markedly occluded. Temporarily at least, massive pulmo­nary embolism does not occur, but may develop from proximal propagating thrombi. In some patients after 72 hours a sterile inflammatory reaction develops between the thrombus and the venous endothelium, which causes it to become adherent in the iliofemoral region and results in the condition termed “occlusive thrombophlebitis.”
  • The above sequence of events should not occur if early surgical intervention by phlebotomy and thrombectomy is performed as soon as the diagnosis of an ob­structing thrombus in the femoral vein is made. Phlebography may be resorted to, but too often it may produce more thrombosis from the irritating effect of the radiopaque dye. From experience it has been observed that if the thrombus has been lodged in the femoral vein for less than 72 hours it can be extracted readily through a venotomy, similarly to an arterial embolus through an arteriotomy. The venous intima will still be smooth and shiny without adherent blood clot. Some surgeons favor closure of the venotomy to restore the continuity of the common femoral vein. It is my opinion, however, that interruption of it, as shown in this illustration, is preferable. Not only does this give immediate protection from a massive pulmonary embolus, but it also is the best insurance against emboli should phlebitis recur in the extremity. It also has the advantage that it helps to prevent the sequelae of the thrombotic state seen so commonly in the postthrom – botic limb with the uninterrupted femoral vein.

The mode of production of iliofemoral thrombophlebitis


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Superficial thrombophlebitis of the lower extremity

Superficial thrombophlebitis in the lower extremity is seen most frequently in middle-aged and elderly patients with longstanding varicose veins.

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Varicose veins – The Pathophysiology

Varicose veins – The Pathophysiology
    • A drawing showing the normal condition of the three venous systems of the lower extremity. The long and the short saphenous veins of the superficial system, and the femoral and posterior tibial veins of the deep system are shown with their competent bicuspid valves that permit blood to flow only toward the heart. The communicating system of veins between these two systems, the superficial and the deep, are shown with their competent valves that permit blood to flow only from the former to the latter.
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    Prophylaxis of deep venous thrombosis by ambulation in bed

    Prophylaxis of deep venous thrombosis by ambulation in bed
    • These drawings demonstrate the author’s method for ambulating patients who must remain in bed longer than 24 hours postoperatively.
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    Interruption of the inferior vena cava

    Interruption of the inferior vena cava
      • This shows the position of the patient on the operating table for the extraperi­toneal exposure of the infrarenal portion of the inferior vena cava through a right flank incision. The patient lies supine with the right side elevated approximately 15 degrees by blanket rolls under the right chest, hip and thigh.
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