At about the same time, another vice-president at Griffin was in a serious car accident and was hospitalized for nearly three months in Hartford. Meanwhile, the wife of Griffin's then CEO, John Bustelos, went into a diabetic coma and died at Griffin; a Griffin vice-president lost a breast to cancer; and the father of then Griffin assistant administrator Patrick Charmel--Charmel is now Griffin's CEO--suffered a heart attack and was hospitalized on Long Island.
When the executive staff members were finally back mulling over Griffin's image problem, they happened to compare notes on their personal run-ins with the medical establishment. They reached an immediate consensus: hospital experiences were significantly more unpleasant than they ought to be. To figure out how Griffin could do better, and maybe win new patients out of it, they decided to go back to their potential customers for more detailed research.
But which customers? Griffin's board wanted the executives to focus on geriatrics, noting that the population was aging. But Charmel, then a rangy, softspoken but direct 27-year-old who essentially ran the hospital's day-to-day operations while CEO Bustelos focused on starting up a Griffin health-maintenance organization, had his eye on obstetrics and maternity. "I figured we should catch them while they're young," says Charmel. "Then we'd automatically get them later, when they're old." The board gave in.
Griffin passed out detailed questionnaires to its obstetrics patients, as well as to new and expectant mothers who had chosen to use other hospitals, and ran focus groups. After a few months the executives had assembled an impressive maternity wish list. For example, not only did mothers want their husbands there during delivery, but many wanted their children and their own parents in the birthing room, too. They wanted rooms that didn't look like hospital rooms. They wanted double beds, so their husbands--or whoever--could sleep next to them. They wanted Jacuzzis. They wanted big windows and skylights. They wanted fresh flowers. They wanted big, comfortable lounges where the family could gather. They wanted nurses who paid close attention to them and doctors who followed up on problems.
Now it was time to draw up plans. "We knew what our customers wanted," says Powanda. "So we figured all we had to do was find a hospital that offered these things, and then just imitate it." Charmel had one of the female managers stuff a pillow under her dress, and the two of them visited every obstetrics and maternity ward within an hour's drive, posing as expectant parents who wanted to tour the facilities. At the same time, other managers searched through industry literature to identify the half dozen or so hospitals in the country with the best delivery and maternity reputation, and then flew out to visit them. Then the team members gathered again to compare notes and select the hospital that would serve as their template for customer satisfaction. The winner was...nobody. "So we decided we'd build it ourselves," says Powanda.
It seemed obvious to everyone involved that the first step should be to prioritize the wish list and winnow it down. After all, some of the ideas, like allowing children in delivery rooms, seemed goofy. Some, like skylights, seemed frivolous. Some, like Jacuzzis, seemed downright dangerous--since any obstetrician could tell you that bathing during labor carried a risk of infection. As for double-size hospital beds--well, they didn't even exist. And how was the hospital supposed to change the behavior of doctors and nurses, who tend to be fiercely protective of their routines? The team had the various ideas written out on flip charts around the room, and they were arguing and crossing out, then arguing some more and crossing out some more. Suddenly, Charmel spoke up. "Why are we doing this?" he said. "We asked them what they wanted, and they told us. Now let's just give it to them."
After a stunned pause, someone said, "You mean, all of it?"
"Yeah," said Charmel. "All of it."
The new obstetrics and maternity unit opened in 1987. It had rooms where families could gather. It had fresh flowers. It had skylights. It had a Jacuzzi. (Research revealed that the concern over infection was a myth.) It had custom-built double beds. It had birthing-helper classes for children and grandparents. And it had "primary-care nursing"--each patient was the responsibility of a single nurse who would make sure that all the patient's needs were met and that the doctors were taking care of business.
Patient response was immediate and enthusiastic. But some of the nurses complained to Charmel when a swarm of family and friends took over one of the communal rooms for pizza parties or late-night card games. "Excellent," replied Charmel. "That's what the room is there for." Some staffers complained when a husband got off the late shift at the factory, headed over to the ward, and climbed into the double bed with his wife, waking up mother and baby. "What's going to happen when we discharge her tomorrow?" replied Charmel. "He's going to come home from the late shift and wake his wife and baby up. As long as they're not complaining, we might as well let them get used to it here." Several of the obstetricians, meanwhile, grumbled about having to be at the beck and call of patients.
