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1-Examine the ethical and legal implications for breaches of health information privacy by health professionals. 250 words, add references. 2-List 5 common shortcuts when working with a word document. List 5 shortcuts when working with a spreadsheet. 250 words, add references. please place the reference underneath each write up separately.

. What are two ways that implementing PMH increases the quality of care for patients?

Autonomy: 1. Does the concept of autonomy impair the dispensation of adequate care? What are some of the issues that may arise when autonomy is understood as "non-interference"? Are there any justifications that can be made for pursuing a course of treatment when it is against the patient's wishes? Do you agree with Ackerman's assertion that "true respect for a patient's autonomy may require the physician to intervene, to deviate from the patient's stated preferences? 2. Discuss the impact of moral relativism on medical practice. Should medical professionals disregard a patient's religious values in the pursuit of treatment? What should doctors do when a patient refuses treatment (either for themselves or their children) on religious grounds? Should the wishes of parents be respected if they, for example, refuse to vaccinate their child on moral or religious grounds?

The United States Government, much like the endlessly-rebooting Spider Man franchise, has journeyed through the years with certain fixed features that we've come to expect as iconic and unchangeable. Things like the three-branch structure, the House of Representatives, the Senate, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben have become timeless facets of our system of Government. (Hmm. Maybe Aunt May and Uncle Ben didn't actually exist when the Founding Fathers were doing their Founding Father thing…although we think people like James Madison would have given the thumbs up to the phrase "With great power comes great responsibility.") Nevertheless, the Constitution has proven a stable and flexible foundation for our current government, only really requiring tweaks and edits to persist in the present. But—and this is a big but and we cannot lie—the Constitutional Government was not the first government of the United States. Mind blown? Mind blown. The United State's O.G. (that's Original Government) was prescribed by the Articles of Confederation. That government wasn't going so hot though, so the Constitutional Convention was held in 1786 to toss the old one out the window and start from scratch. The various delegates to the Constitutional Convention had to create a document—and a government by proxy—that would have support from at least nine of the thirteen states in order to come into law. No biggie, right? To get the support the Constitution needed, Alexander Hamilton rounded up James Madison and John Jay—together three of the MVPs in statecraft—to write a series of newspaper essays in support of the Constitution. (Give this a listen for a quick run-down.) Basically, the Federalist Papers were a series of commercials for the United States, coming to an America near you.    The nation was brand new, something that its founders viewed as an experimental form of government, and a lot of them strongly disagreed on how it should even look. The Articles of Confederation had been a disaster, giving the federal government the power to make laws but not the power to enforce them, no power to hold a standing army, and a bunch of other serious weaknesses. People were understandably worried about tyrannical rule after fighting a war to overthrow one, but the government was weak to the point of being ineffectual. It was a Goldilocks situation, with the British Empire in the role of Papa Bear's oatmeal, and the Articles of Confederation in the role of Mama Bear's oatmeal. While the devs of the Constitution were working on the balance changes for patch 1.786, the authors of the Federalist Papers were working on writing out the patch notes. These Federalist Papers ultimately serve as a pretty essential behind-the-scenes peek at the thought process that went into forming the Constitution. James Madison wrote Federalist Papers 10 and 51, two essays in an absurdly long 85-essay series. Both generally had to do with the structure of the United States Government, and how the proposed structure specifically would keep the power of the majority from taking control of the Government, and keeping the power of corruption down. He argues that the most effective way to do this is to have a Democratic Republic, broken down into a three-branch system. (Rule of three, y'all.) This was still a touchy idea, and was a stronger government than some of the delegates would have liked. This central conflict, over a strong versus a weak federal government, would fracture American politics irreparably into the two-party system. The years to follow would have the issue even split the writers of the Federalist Papers apart, with James Madison and Alexander Hamilton going from co-writers to political rivals over the issue. While the papers weren't wildly influential in their own time, today they provide us a window into the mind-sets of some of the people behind the Constitution, flaws and all. If you ever wanted to get inside the head of James Madison without some Magic School Bus-style trip there, Federalist papers 10 and 51 are a good place to start.

You Have Nothing To Fear Except Fear Itself…And Tarantulas Fear. It's not just a cheesy-but-awesome 1996 movie where Reese Witherspoon and Mark Wahlberg get it on on top of a roller coaster. It's also, according to everyone's favorite cigarette holder-user—FDR—the only thing we really have to be afraid of. Especially during a nationwide financial meltdown. We completely understand the reason people were freaked out during the Great Depression. Imagine waking up in the morning to find that all of your money has disappeared. Your bank accounts are suddenly empty. Everyone you know is getting fired. Your family has gone from happy and free from want to poor, desperate, and hungry. And most families in the country are in the same boat. Yeah; that's pretty much the definition of fear…and here we were thinking that the definition of fear was the sensation of binge-watching Stranger Things at three in the morning. Enter the President of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Everyone is looking at him for answers, for an explanation, and for help. What in the world could he say that would calm the frantic, scared families? What could he possibly do to reassure people that everything will be okay? And could he know that everything actually would be okay? Not only was the economy in a depression, but the American people were depressed—sad, desperate, unsure of where their next meal would come from. Americans needed help, but before that, they needed reassurance. They needed a calm, confident voice of leadership. They needed someone to tell them that they are not going through this fear alone, and that by working together and trusting in each other, this depression would end. President Roosevelt worked with his speechwriters to create a series of reassuring, confidence-building speeches to give to Americans, which became known as the "Fireside Chats." Because nothing sounds more reassuring than the idea of snuggling up next to a crackling fire and sipping some cocoa in your bunny slippers and…having a chat with the leader of the free world.    Come On Baby, Light My Fireside Chat His first chat was given in March of 1933, almost four years after the Stock Market Crash of 1929, which, although not the direct cause of the Great Depression, is considered the starting point. Formally titled "On the Bank Crisis" (yeah; "First Fireside Chat" is a way better name) FDR spoke to Americans in an informal, conversational tone. He described what was happening in the country, what he and the government were doing to fix it, and what people could expect to see. The result was immediate. Americans experienced a surge in confidence, and the talks became an endearing and powerful part of Roosevelt's legacy. Because almost nine out of every ten American homes owned a radio, the "First Fireside Chat" was heard by millions of families seeking hope and confidence. FDR calmly and plainly told the people about the country's banking system, about how it can recover, and what everyone needs to do. He even sneaks a quick economics lesson in…and somehow manages not to bore the pants off of the American listening public. By using comforting language such as calling Americans his "friends" and assuring them that "we're all in this together," people saw him as more than just a president, but as a human being. Pretty important when you're relying on someone to get you out of poverty and hardship. Roosevelt's "First Fireside Chat" launched a series of Sunday night radio speeches, with thirty total from March 1933 to June 1944. While the chats didn't directly bring Americans out of the Great Depression, they were integral to making sure the public was informed, confident, and not likely to do anything rash (like make a run on a bank). FDR is remembered as a well-liked, personable, effective president in United States history, and his Fireside Chats definitely helped him gain that reputation. We can't imagine hearing anything more soothing than FDR if we were stuck in a financial crisis…unless it was some magical combination of Bob Ross and Maya Angelou's voices and a cat purring.

"Please help the soldiers to keep the mobs away from me," wrote Melba Pattillo in her diary on the night of September 24, 1957. We're guessing you've never had to write that line in your diary. The previous day in Little Rock, Arkansas, police had escorted Pattillo, a 15-year-old high school junior, and eight other Black students out of Central High School as angry white protesters threatened the students. Then, on September 24, President Dwight D. Eisenhower issued Executive Order 10730 and sent the U.S. Army—the 101st Airborne "Screaming Eagles," to be exact—to escort the Black students back in. Need us to back up a little more? Okay, here we go. As you undoubtedly know from acing every U.S History class you've ever taken, the 1954 Supreme Court ruling in Brown v. Board of Education declared that segregating public schools by race was unconstitutional. Segregation denied Black students their Fourteenth Amendment right to equal protection under the law; a public education, said the court, was "a right which must be made available to all on equal terms." This decision body-slammed the 1896 "separate but equal is okay" opinion in Plessy v. Ferguson, which permitted racially segregated public facilities as long as they were equal. Which they never were, by the way. A second Brown decision in 1955 ordered school integration to proceed "with all deliberate speed." (Isn't that an oxymoron?) Little Rock's school board, like many others throughout the South, voted to integrate gradually. Beginning with Central High in 1957, the plan called for the rest of the district to be integrated by 1963. Nine Black students from the city's all-Black schools—known to history books and Shmoop learning guides as the Little Rock Nine—volunteered to be the first to attend Central High.    Their classmates would be 2,000 white students. This wasn't Arkansas' first rodeo. Other school districts had integrated before Little Rock. There were lawsuits and ugly protests, but no violence. Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus generally stayed out of things and left integration to the local authorities. But when Little Rock's turn came in 1957, Faubus changed his mind about his whole "don't come crying to me" approach. Without the support of white segregationists, he knew he'd lose the next gubernatorial election. So when, at the end of August, a federal judge ordered integration to proceed, Faubus loudly and publicly let it be known that he had no intent of complying. He didn't know what was about to hit him. On September 2, Faubus deployed the Arkansas National Guard on the pretext of "keeping order" in Little Rock. In reality, the Guard was there to keep the Black students out of Central High. When the students showed up for classes on September 4, the Guard turned them away. For the next three weeks, Little Rock simmered as the governor defied the court order. Then, on Friday, September 20, in response to another court order, he withdrew the National Guard. Predictably, when the nine Black students at arrived at Central High the next Monday, the school was quickly surrounded by a screaming, spitting mob of 1,000+ protesters. Fearful that they couldn't control the mob, city police escorted the students home. At this point, President Eisenhower issued a proclamation ordering the protesters to go home and allow enforcement of the District Court order to integrate. The next morning, he received a telegram from the mayor of Little Rock saying that the "mob is armed and engaging in fisticuffs and other acts of violence. Situation is out of control." Oh, no, not fisticuffs. Eisenhower had sworn to uphold the Constitution, and the Supreme Court had made it clear that an equal right to public education was protected by the Constitution. If the state wouldn't guarantee the constitutional rights of its citizens, the federal government would have to do it for them. Ike wasn't happy about having to use federal troops against American citizens; it hadn't happened since Reconstruction. He and his advisors reflected on other times in history when the feds had to use force, like when Washington used troops to put down the Whiskey Rebellion in 1794. But the rule of law was at stake here. "Mob rule cannot be allowed to override the decisions of the courts," Eisenhower said (source). Executive Order 10730 of September 24, 1957 placed the Arkansas National Guard under federal control and allowed the U.S. Army to intervene to remove this obstruction of justice. It was an epic showdown between the state of Alabama and the federal government. David Halberstam, in his book The Fifties, wrote: With the arrival of the 101st, the nation witnessed again a stunning spectacle on TV; elite paratroopers of one of the most honored divisions in the United States Army escorting young black children where once there had been a mob. The soldiers set up their perimeter. Their faces were immobile and, unlike the Guardsmen's, betrayed no politics, only duty. As they marched in, the clear, sharp sound of their boots clacking on the street was a reminder of their professionalism. When the segregationists in the street protested, the paratroopers turned out to be very different from the National Guard soldiers who had so recently been their pals. The men of the 101st fixed their bayonets and placed them right at the throats of the protesters, quickly moving them out of the school area. (Source) Governor Faubus didn't see the soldiers' actions as so heroic, telling his fellow Alabamans, "My fellow citizens, we are now an occupied territory […]" (source). Years later, Melba Pattillo wrote in her memoir Warriors Don't Cry, "I felt proud and sad at the same time. Proud that I lived in a country that would go this far to bring justice to a Little Rock girl like me, but sad that they had to go to such great lengths." President Ronald Reagan once joked that "The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: "I'm from the government and I'm here to help." He must have forgotten about Executive Order 10730.

The U.S. had a beef with the Soviet Union because the two countries had very different ideas of what a government should be able to do. Here's the thing about the USSR that really ruffled Ronald Reagan's feathers: millions of Soviet citizens were killed fighting for basic human rights. Yeah…that's bad. By the time he appeared in front of the National Association of Evangelists, Ronnie'd had enough. He and the Soviet Union were in talks to limit production of nuclear weapons, and while that was definitely a relief, it was only part of the problem—like wearing a bicycle helmet without knowing how to first ride a bicycle. But Reagan knew what he was doing, and while everyone else was focused first and foremost on this intense game of nuclear freeze tag, he took the training wheels off and decided to play hardball. "The Evil Empire" speech focused on highlighting the evil of the Soviet Union, which really wasn't anything new. However, after spending the first half of his speech airing some of America's dirty laundry, he emphasized that ideological disagreements wouldn't be solved on battlefields. Those kind of shenanigans were so last war season. Instead, the Soviet Union needed to learn from their mistakes the same way we had to learn from ours. President Reagan's speech marked a change in U.S. foreign relations with the Soviet Union. He stood up and called the USSR an evil empire (ooh, sick burn) and insisted no godliness or goodness could ever really exist in nations under communist control. In other words, no more Mr. Nice Guy—Reagan wasn't getting what he wanted in negotiations, so he stood up in front of the world and said the Soviet Union was evil, and only through a strong belief in a higher power could western goodness overcome them. And the reason he could say such a thing? The U.S. had some experience with evil—you remember that dirty laundry we were talking about earlier? Well, as leader of a country that had buckled down and tried to fix the dark parts of the past, the whole world listened when Ronnie said the key to playing nice with the Soviets was there all along, nestled all comfy-cozy in the very foundation of American society.   

In the history of the United States, we've had plenty of strong-man presidents who've managed to force through legislation, sway public opinion, and mostly get their way despite that annoying system of checks and balances. But through all that, there's one thing we know is true: We don't do dictators. Nope. No Stalins or Hitlers or Chairman Maos, no Assads or Putins or Kims for us. But here's a question you probably haven't asked yourself before: in the history of the U.S., who came closest? Well, most historians' votes would probably go to a traveling salesman from the backwoods of Louisiana, now largely forgotten by most Americans. That salesman's name was Huey Pierce Long Jr. of Winn Parish, Louisiana, and in the 1920s and '30s, Huey rocketed through the ranks from country lawyer to two-bit politician to governor to senator to presidential candidate. Long was a politician like nobody had ever seen: a colorful, vulgar, boisterous, ruthless bully who had nothing but contempt for the establishment and who threatened, bribed, fired, jailed, or beat up any political opponents who didn't see the wisdom of caving in to his demands. The people loved him. During the Great Depression, Long found himself in the perfect position to take political advantage of the worst economic disaster in the nation's history. In doing so, he became—depending on who you asked—either the democratic champion of poor working folks or a dangerous, dictatorial demagogue. In 1934, he gave a speech that put the question to millions of Americans. Their answer? He was their champion.    Looking Out for the 99% Long got his political start by battling big business in Louisiana and defending the poor folks who'd been shut out of opportunities for education and financial security. He won elections by traveling thousands of miles across Louisiana dirt roads to stump and make speeches and kiss babies in every backwoods corner of the state. Speechifyin' was his strong point. Long once told an interviewer that "I can't remember back to a time when my mouth wasn't open whenever there was a chance to make a speech" (source). And boy, was it one big mouth. Even his political enemies (and there were plenty) recognized an oratorical genius when they saw one. Long saw that most Louisianans were living in desperate poverty, without access to basic education, proper medical care, or decent roads. He saw that the political machine that ran Louisiana from the time of Reconstruction had become a corrupt and bloated mess that only benefited Baton Rouge and New Orleans and the fat cats who lived there. Long set out to change this. As governor, he brought Louisiana into the 20th century by giving out free textbooks, building schools and universities and roads, reducing electricity costs and property taxes, and abolishing the poll tax—all mostly paid for by increasing taxes on the wealthy. African-Americans, who'd been especially disenfranchised by the political system in the South, benefited from the new voting rights and social programs Long instituted. But building schools and roads wasn't enough for Long, who saw wealth inequality as a result of a basic unfairness in how capitalism operated in the U.S., a system that allowed a handful of men to own most of the nation's resources, wealth, and political power. People were going hungry in the middle of abundance because a few men were gobbling it all up. As a senator, Long proposed an ambitious program to redistribute this wealth; he called it the Share Our Wealth Plan. And on February 23, 1934, he explained the plan to America in a radio speech. Historians call it the "Every Man a King" (or "Share our Wealth, or Every Man a King") speech, after the motto that exemplified the ideals of his platform. With 30 minutes of airtime donated by NBC, Long laid out his simple solution. By limiting the amount of wealth any given greedy individual might own (he's looking at you, J.P. Morgan) and distributing the rest to the neediest, there'd be enough food and clothing and cars and radios for everyone in the country. In practice, the plan was impossible, but at the time, it appealed to the jobless and the disenfranchised. This was good for Long's political ambitions, since about one in four Americans was unemployed at the time of the speech and a heck of a lot more were stuck in poverty and had been their entire lives (and their parents', grandparents', and their grandparents' lives, for that matter). Power Play Letters of support buried Long's office after the speech. Share Our Wealth chapters were set up all over the country and a populist movement was born. But while Huey Long was promising to make every man a king, he was also strong-arming and brutally punishing his political enemies, playing fast and loose with the law, extorting kickbacks, and keeping a stranglehold over Louisiana politics. When he was elected senator in 1932, he refused to give up being the governor of Louisiana; when his term as governor finally ended, he installed a man who'd do exactly what he ordered. "The only kind of a band in which Huey Long can play," a newspaper editor once observed, "is a one-man band" (source). Long scared people. In July 1935, one commentator wrote, "Unlike the German intelligentsia, who could not judge from experience what Hitler might do, Americans may turn the pages of Louisiana's recent history for…insight into the sort of country we would have if Long became our Hitler" (source). Huey countered that "A man is not a dictator when he is given a commission from the people and carries it out" (source). America never got to find out. Long was assassinated in 1935 before he could get his hands on the presidency. Dictator or democrat, his "Every Man a King" speech is a great example of his legacy. It's Long talking directly to the people in clear and simple language without coming across as a high-and-mighty politician, asking them to help him overthrow the establishment.

Here's a lesson that every child arguing with his parents learns before she's out of footie pajamas: you have to back up anger with reasonable demands. This has been immortalized in a zillion cute-kid Youtube videos—negotiation is key. You can't just throw a temper tantrum. You have to discuss. You have to list what you want: access to cupcakes, a later bedtime, or full access to Mom's iPad. And while this situation is adorable when the aggrieved party in question is a diplomatic three-year-old and the Powers That Be are exhausted parents, it's decidedly not adorable when the aggrieved party is the (very much adult) people of France and the Powers That Be are bratty monarchs. In 1789 the French people had been screaming and yelling about how much they disliked their king and queen and about how they wanted a revolution. And finally people were listening (violent mobs tend to get that reaction). Now they had to say something smart so that everybody would take them seriously and not assume that they were just a bunch of guillotine-happy hooligans. They needed a declaration—something to sum up what this revolution was really all about. Not a declaration of independence, because (a) that title was taken already, and (b) they weren't declaring themselves independent from anything, they were still planning on being thoroughly French. They just wanted more rights than the king was currently giving them. So instead they came up with the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, which is kind of like if the Declaration of Independence and the American Bill of Rights had a sassy French baby together. It lists the rights that the French revolutionaries believed all male, French citizens should have in their government and does so in a strong declarative format (learned from those brave American revolutionaries). The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen was the brainchild of the Marquis de Lafayette, who'd been a big part of the French military help in the American Revolutionary War, and Thomas Jefferson, who had some prior experience writing documents that outlined the basis for a new form of government that didn't include monarchs. So did it work? Did the French people get full access to cupcakes and a later bedtime—er—equality and fair taxation? Did they, like the Americans, get rid of their king and start a new government based on equality and democracy? Well…it's complicated. The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen was a success and remains the cornerstone of the present-day French Republic, but their revolution didn't go as smoothly as the one in America. In France there were a lot more beheadings, then a dictator,…and then some more kings, and then an emperor. It was messy and unpleasant, but they had good ideas all along as evidenced in the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. So they get an A+ for ideas and an F for poor behavior and crazy leaders.   

The "military-industrial complex." Ominous right? You'd probably think that catchy phrase was coined by some radical antiwar '60s activist like Abbie Hoffman or Jerry Rubin, or maybe that peacenik, Hanoi-Jane-marrying congressman Tom Hayden ? You'd be wrong. It took a career soldier to warn against the rampant expansion of the arms industry and the military establishment. It took a five-star general, the Supreme Commander of the Allies in Europe who commanded the Normandy invasion that eventually liberated Europe and won the Second World War. The future Supreme Commander of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) who faced down the Soviet Union in order to contain the spread of communism. A Republican president of the United States who banned squirrels from the White House lawn because they were ruining his putting practice. It took Dwight David Eisenhower. Eisenhower, or, as we like to call him, Ike, or General Ike, or The Kansas Cyclone, or Duckpin (all totally real nicknames), was one of the greatest military and political leaders in American—let's make that world—history. For most of his life, Ike wasn't particularly political (unless you count kicking Nazi butt as a political activity). In the election cycles after WWII, both the Democrats and the Republicans begged him to join their ticket for a presidential run. The American people probably would have liked him if he ran for president as a Whig, to be honest. He was the most beloved public figure in the country. Ike thought it was unseemly for a career military guy to get involved in the messy business of partisan politics. But in 1952, when he saw one of the Republican candidate wannabes threatening to make the U.S. an isolationist country, he couldn't let that slide. He knew firsthand how important America's role in the world was. He declared himself a Republican, clinched the nomination, and won the election easy like Sunday morning. A young Richard Nixon was his vice president responsible for all the "political" stuff behind the scenes so Ike didn't have to worry about all of those shenanigans. With Nixon as attack dog, Ike could focus on the big picture. In that big picture, Ike believed balance was the answer to the challenges the country was facing. He was a remarkably moderate Republican, and ended up drawing criticism from both wings of the political spectrum for it. Still, he remained wildly popular with the American people. He was kinda like America's grandpa. They liked Ike. Eisenhower's "Farewell Address" came, duh, at the end of his presidency. True to form, he didn't use the opportunity to pat himself on the back or to give a list of shout-outs. To the last, he offered guidance and wisdom to an America that was radically different from the one he grew up in, but which he still believed was an exceptional nation with an exceptional responsibility to the rest of the world. Ike had three main points to make before he officially signed off, all involving a delicate balance between military preparedness and military spending that threated to eat up the whole budget.    (1) He knew the U.S. needed a big military and lots of weapons, but he warned against the "military-industrial complex"—the individuals, corporations, organizations, and ideological interest groups that are involved in the preparation for war and defense—having too much influence over policy. He thought that a permanent arms industry, coupled with a permanent large military, was a very dangerous combo. Pretty interesting point of view for an old soldier. (2) Ike thought the technology boom of the 1940s and '50s was a good thing, but warned against the "scientific-technological elite" having too much power, too. Ike was living in a world of epic technological advances, which he knew could be used for good (telecommunications) or bad (Hiroshima and Nagasaki). Ike wanted to keep alive the American spirit of innovation and entrepreneurship without Big Science gobbling up all the resources or the federal government deciding what could and couldn't be done. (2) Ike warned against living only in the moment, spending too much money, and using up resources without regard to future generations. Coming at a time of unprecedented industrial production and consumption, this was also a very gutsy thing to say. Having gotten all that off his chest, Ike bid the country goodnight, wished the new president well, and started planning his next golf trip. Looking at the subsequent course of American foreign policy, it seems like almost everybody promptly forgot every word he said. Oops?