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How to become wise
The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates
At what age is one supposed to be wise? I feel like I’m falling behind. I’ve crossed the middle of life and can check the prerequisite experiences: Joy, tragedy, love, adventure, love again. I lived a jetsetter life with an overnight bag always packed. I’ve sported the “Dad AF” tee with a fully loaded dad-pack. I’ve seen the 50 states and had my picture wrapped on a city bus (super-weird when you pull up next to one). Yet, when a moment arrives to pop in pithy advice for a resident or drop a few reassuring lines for a grieving friend, I’m often unable to find the words. If life were a video game, I’ve not earned the wisdom level yet.
Who are the wise men and women in your life? It’s difficult to list them. This is because it’s a complex attribute and hard to explain. It’s also because the wise who walk among us are rare. Wise is more than being brilliant at bullous diseases or knowing how to sleep train a baby. Nor is wise the buddy who purchased $1,000 of Bitcoin in 2010 (although stay close with him, he probably owns a jet). Neither content experts nor lucky friends rise to the appellation. Both experience and empathy.
The ancients considered wisdom to be one of the vital virtues. It was personified in high-profile gods like Apollo and Athena. It’s rare and important enough to be seen as spiritual. It features heavily in the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In some cultures the wise are called elders or sages. In all cultures they are helpful, respected, sought after, appreciated. We need more wise people in this game of life. I want to be one. But there’s no Coursera for it.
To become wise you have to pass through many levels, put in a lot of reps, suffer through many sleepless nights. Like the third molar, also known as the wisdom tooth, it takes years. You also have to emerge stronger and smarter through those experiences. FDR would not have become one of the wisest presidents in history had it not been for his trials, and victories, over polio. Osler missed Cushing syndrome multiple times before he got it right. It seems you have to go to the mountain, like Batman, and fight a few battles to realize your full wisdom potential.
You must also reflect on your experiences and hone your insight. The management sage Peter Drucker would write what he expected to happen after a decision. Then he’d return to it to hone his intuition and judgment.
Lastly, you have to use your powers for good. Using insight to win your NCAA bracket pool isn’t wisdom. Helping a friend whose marriage is falling apart or colleague whose patient is suing them or a resident whose excision hit an arteriole surely is.
I’ve got a ways to go before anyone puts me on their wise friend list. I’m working on it though. Perhaps you will too – we are desperately short-staffed in this area. For now, I can start with writing better condolences.
“Who maintains that it is not a heavy blow? But it is part of being human.” – Seneca
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates
At what age is one supposed to be wise? I feel like I’m falling behind. I’ve crossed the middle of life and can check the prerequisite experiences: Joy, tragedy, love, adventure, love again. I lived a jetsetter life with an overnight bag always packed. I’ve sported the “Dad AF” tee with a fully loaded dad-pack. I’ve seen the 50 states and had my picture wrapped on a city bus (super-weird when you pull up next to one). Yet, when a moment arrives to pop in pithy advice for a resident or drop a few reassuring lines for a grieving friend, I’m often unable to find the words. If life were a video game, I’ve not earned the wisdom level yet.
Who are the wise men and women in your life? It’s difficult to list them. This is because it’s a complex attribute and hard to explain. It’s also because the wise who walk among us are rare. Wise is more than being brilliant at bullous diseases or knowing how to sleep train a baby. Nor is wise the buddy who purchased $1,000 of Bitcoin in 2010 (although stay close with him, he probably owns a jet). Neither content experts nor lucky friends rise to the appellation. Both experience and empathy.
The ancients considered wisdom to be one of the vital virtues. It was personified in high-profile gods like Apollo and Athena. It’s rare and important enough to be seen as spiritual. It features heavily in the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In some cultures the wise are called elders or sages. In all cultures they are helpful, respected, sought after, appreciated. We need more wise people in this game of life. I want to be one. But there’s no Coursera for it.
To become wise you have to pass through many levels, put in a lot of reps, suffer through many sleepless nights. Like the third molar, also known as the wisdom tooth, it takes years. You also have to emerge stronger and smarter through those experiences. FDR would not have become one of the wisest presidents in history had it not been for his trials, and victories, over polio. Osler missed Cushing syndrome multiple times before he got it right. It seems you have to go to the mountain, like Batman, and fight a few battles to realize your full wisdom potential.
You must also reflect on your experiences and hone your insight. The management sage Peter Drucker would write what he expected to happen after a decision. Then he’d return to it to hone his intuition and judgment.
Lastly, you have to use your powers for good. Using insight to win your NCAA bracket pool isn’t wisdom. Helping a friend whose marriage is falling apart or colleague whose patient is suing them or a resident whose excision hit an arteriole surely is.
I’ve got a ways to go before anyone puts me on their wise friend list. I’m working on it though. Perhaps you will too – we are desperately short-staffed in this area. For now, I can start with writing better condolences.
“Who maintains that it is not a heavy blow? But it is part of being human.” – Seneca
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates
At what age is one supposed to be wise? I feel like I’m falling behind. I’ve crossed the middle of life and can check the prerequisite experiences: Joy, tragedy, love, adventure, love again. I lived a jetsetter life with an overnight bag always packed. I’ve sported the “Dad AF” tee with a fully loaded dad-pack. I’ve seen the 50 states and had my picture wrapped on a city bus (super-weird when you pull up next to one). Yet, when a moment arrives to pop in pithy advice for a resident or drop a few reassuring lines for a grieving friend, I’m often unable to find the words. If life were a video game, I’ve not earned the wisdom level yet.
Who are the wise men and women in your life? It’s difficult to list them. This is because it’s a complex attribute and hard to explain. It’s also because the wise who walk among us are rare. Wise is more than being brilliant at bullous diseases or knowing how to sleep train a baby. Nor is wise the buddy who purchased $1,000 of Bitcoin in 2010 (although stay close with him, he probably owns a jet). Neither content experts nor lucky friends rise to the appellation. Both experience and empathy.
The ancients considered wisdom to be one of the vital virtues. It was personified in high-profile gods like Apollo and Athena. It’s rare and important enough to be seen as spiritual. It features heavily in the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In some cultures the wise are called elders or sages. In all cultures they are helpful, respected, sought after, appreciated. We need more wise people in this game of life. I want to be one. But there’s no Coursera for it.
To become wise you have to pass through many levels, put in a lot of reps, suffer through many sleepless nights. Like the third molar, also known as the wisdom tooth, it takes years. You also have to emerge stronger and smarter through those experiences. FDR would not have become one of the wisest presidents in history had it not been for his trials, and victories, over polio. Osler missed Cushing syndrome multiple times before he got it right. It seems you have to go to the mountain, like Batman, and fight a few battles to realize your full wisdom potential.
You must also reflect on your experiences and hone your insight. The management sage Peter Drucker would write what he expected to happen after a decision. Then he’d return to it to hone his intuition and judgment.
Lastly, you have to use your powers for good. Using insight to win your NCAA bracket pool isn’t wisdom. Helping a friend whose marriage is falling apart or colleague whose patient is suing them or a resident whose excision hit an arteriole surely is.
I’ve got a ways to go before anyone puts me on their wise friend list. I’m working on it though. Perhaps you will too – we are desperately short-staffed in this area. For now, I can start with writing better condolences.
“Who maintains that it is not a heavy blow? But it is part of being human.” – Seneca
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Could ChatGPT write this column?
, but I am starting to think it is the real deal. Just how powerful is it? Well, ChatGPT might in fact be writing this column right now. It isn’t. No really, it’s me. But if not for the few cues (“super-buzzy”) that you’ll recognize as my writing voice, there might not be any way for you to know if I wrote this or not.
It’s perfectly OK if you’ve no clue what I’m talking about. ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that burst into public view just a couple months ago. Not your parent’s chatbot, this one is capable of answering questions in conversational language. It is jaw-droppingly good. Like Google, you can type in a question and it offers you answers. Rather than giving you a list of websites and a few Wikipedia blurbs, however, ChatGPT answers your question in human-like text. It can also create content on demand. For example, I asked it to write a Valentine poem to a dermatologist, and it gave me five stanzas starting with:
Oh gentle healer of skin so fair,
Not good enough to send to my wife. But not bad.
If you ask it again, it will create a whole new one for you. Amusing, yes? What if you asked ChatGPT to explain psoriasis, or any medical condition for that matter, to a patient? The replies are quite good. Some even better than what I’m currently using for my patients. It can also offer treatment recommendations, vacation advice, and plan, with recipes, a dinner party for six with one vegan and one gluten-free couple. If you are a programmer, it can write code. Ask it for a Wordpress plugin to add to your website and your eyes will widen as you see it magically appear before you. What if you find that you just don’t like your daughter’s new boyfriend? Yep, it will write the text or email for you to help with this discussion. I’ve saved that one.
I tried “What are treatments for bullous pemphigoid that has been refractory to topical steroid, oral prednisone, and oral tetracyclines?” It replied with five ideas, including the standard methotrexate and azathioprine but also IVIG, Rituxan, even other biologics. Write an op note? Appeal a denied prior authorization to a payer? Write a clinic note for a complete skin exam? Check, check, check. Are you starting to think it might be the real deal, too?
Before we sell the farm though, there are significant limitations. Despite how swotty ChatGPT seems, it is not smart. That is, “it” has no idea what “it” is saying. ChatGPT is an incredibly sophisticated algorithm that has learned the probability of what word comes next in a conversation. To do so, it read the Internet. Billions (trillions?) of words make it possible to predict what is the best answer to any question. But – it’s only as good as the Internet, so there’s that. My patient who used ChatGPT has dissecting cellulitis and asked what to do for scarring alopecia. Some of the answers were reasonable, but some, such as transplanting hairs into the scarred areas, would not likely be helpful. That is unless ChatGPT knows something I don’t.
Having wasted hours of time playing with this thing rather than writing my column, I asked ChatGPT to write an article about itself in the style of Christopher Hitchens. It was nothing like his incisive and eloquent prose, but it wrote 500 words in a few seconds ending with:
“The reality is that there is no substitute for human interaction and empathy in the field of dermatology. Dermatologists must be cautious in their adoption of ChatGPT and ensure that they are not sacrificing the quality of patient care in the pursuit of efficiency and convenience.”
I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
, but I am starting to think it is the real deal. Just how powerful is it? Well, ChatGPT might in fact be writing this column right now. It isn’t. No really, it’s me. But if not for the few cues (“super-buzzy”) that you’ll recognize as my writing voice, there might not be any way for you to know if I wrote this or not.
It’s perfectly OK if you’ve no clue what I’m talking about. ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that burst into public view just a couple months ago. Not your parent’s chatbot, this one is capable of answering questions in conversational language. It is jaw-droppingly good. Like Google, you can type in a question and it offers you answers. Rather than giving you a list of websites and a few Wikipedia blurbs, however, ChatGPT answers your question in human-like text. It can also create content on demand. For example, I asked it to write a Valentine poem to a dermatologist, and it gave me five stanzas starting with:
Oh gentle healer of skin so fair,
Not good enough to send to my wife. But not bad.
If you ask it again, it will create a whole new one for you. Amusing, yes? What if you asked ChatGPT to explain psoriasis, or any medical condition for that matter, to a patient? The replies are quite good. Some even better than what I’m currently using for my patients. It can also offer treatment recommendations, vacation advice, and plan, with recipes, a dinner party for six with one vegan and one gluten-free couple. If you are a programmer, it can write code. Ask it for a Wordpress plugin to add to your website and your eyes will widen as you see it magically appear before you. What if you find that you just don’t like your daughter’s new boyfriend? Yep, it will write the text or email for you to help with this discussion. I’ve saved that one.
I tried “What are treatments for bullous pemphigoid that has been refractory to topical steroid, oral prednisone, and oral tetracyclines?” It replied with five ideas, including the standard methotrexate and azathioprine but also IVIG, Rituxan, even other biologics. Write an op note? Appeal a denied prior authorization to a payer? Write a clinic note for a complete skin exam? Check, check, check. Are you starting to think it might be the real deal, too?
Before we sell the farm though, there are significant limitations. Despite how swotty ChatGPT seems, it is not smart. That is, “it” has no idea what “it” is saying. ChatGPT is an incredibly sophisticated algorithm that has learned the probability of what word comes next in a conversation. To do so, it read the Internet. Billions (trillions?) of words make it possible to predict what is the best answer to any question. But – it’s only as good as the Internet, so there’s that. My patient who used ChatGPT has dissecting cellulitis and asked what to do for scarring alopecia. Some of the answers were reasonable, but some, such as transplanting hairs into the scarred areas, would not likely be helpful. That is unless ChatGPT knows something I don’t.
Having wasted hours of time playing with this thing rather than writing my column, I asked ChatGPT to write an article about itself in the style of Christopher Hitchens. It was nothing like his incisive and eloquent prose, but it wrote 500 words in a few seconds ending with:
“The reality is that there is no substitute for human interaction and empathy in the field of dermatology. Dermatologists must be cautious in their adoption of ChatGPT and ensure that they are not sacrificing the quality of patient care in the pursuit of efficiency and convenience.”
I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
, but I am starting to think it is the real deal. Just how powerful is it? Well, ChatGPT might in fact be writing this column right now. It isn’t. No really, it’s me. But if not for the few cues (“super-buzzy”) that you’ll recognize as my writing voice, there might not be any way for you to know if I wrote this or not.
It’s perfectly OK if you’ve no clue what I’m talking about. ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that burst into public view just a couple months ago. Not your parent’s chatbot, this one is capable of answering questions in conversational language. It is jaw-droppingly good. Like Google, you can type in a question and it offers you answers. Rather than giving you a list of websites and a few Wikipedia blurbs, however, ChatGPT answers your question in human-like text. It can also create content on demand. For example, I asked it to write a Valentine poem to a dermatologist, and it gave me five stanzas starting with:
Oh gentle healer of skin so fair,
Not good enough to send to my wife. But not bad.
If you ask it again, it will create a whole new one for you. Amusing, yes? What if you asked ChatGPT to explain psoriasis, or any medical condition for that matter, to a patient? The replies are quite good. Some even better than what I’m currently using for my patients. It can also offer treatment recommendations, vacation advice, and plan, with recipes, a dinner party for six with one vegan and one gluten-free couple. If you are a programmer, it can write code. Ask it for a Wordpress plugin to add to your website and your eyes will widen as you see it magically appear before you. What if you find that you just don’t like your daughter’s new boyfriend? Yep, it will write the text or email for you to help with this discussion. I’ve saved that one.
I tried “What are treatments for bullous pemphigoid that has been refractory to topical steroid, oral prednisone, and oral tetracyclines?” It replied with five ideas, including the standard methotrexate and azathioprine but also IVIG, Rituxan, even other biologics. Write an op note? Appeal a denied prior authorization to a payer? Write a clinic note for a complete skin exam? Check, check, check. Are you starting to think it might be the real deal, too?
Before we sell the farm though, there are significant limitations. Despite how swotty ChatGPT seems, it is not smart. That is, “it” has no idea what “it” is saying. ChatGPT is an incredibly sophisticated algorithm that has learned the probability of what word comes next in a conversation. To do so, it read the Internet. Billions (trillions?) of words make it possible to predict what is the best answer to any question. But – it’s only as good as the Internet, so there’s that. My patient who used ChatGPT has dissecting cellulitis and asked what to do for scarring alopecia. Some of the answers were reasonable, but some, such as transplanting hairs into the scarred areas, would not likely be helpful. That is unless ChatGPT knows something I don’t.
Having wasted hours of time playing with this thing rather than writing my column, I asked ChatGPT to write an article about itself in the style of Christopher Hitchens. It was nothing like his incisive and eloquent prose, but it wrote 500 words in a few seconds ending with:
“The reality is that there is no substitute for human interaction and empathy in the field of dermatology. Dermatologists must be cautious in their adoption of ChatGPT and ensure that they are not sacrificing the quality of patient care in the pursuit of efficiency and convenience.”
I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
The loss of letters
My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.
My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.
Upon my skinny, adaptable desk the other day sat a white envelope that was hand addressed to me. It was postmarked more than 2 weeks before as it had been waylaid in Endocrinology before being couriered to the rightful recipient. It had not been opened. Nor did I have any way to do so gracefully. I tore it apart with a fat finger while clicking through path reports that just arrived in my inbox.
Dear Dr. Benabio,
Pat
. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had.
Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.
My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.
Upon my skinny, adaptable desk the other day sat a white envelope that was hand addressed to me. It was postmarked more than 2 weeks before as it had been waylaid in Endocrinology before being couriered to the rightful recipient. It had not been opened. Nor did I have any way to do so gracefully. I tore it apart with a fat finger while clicking through path reports that just arrived in my inbox.
Dear Dr. Benabio,
Pat
. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had.
Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.
My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.
Upon my skinny, adaptable desk the other day sat a white envelope that was hand addressed to me. It was postmarked more than 2 weeks before as it had been waylaid in Endocrinology before being couriered to the rightful recipient. It had not been opened. Nor did I have any way to do so gracefully. I tore it apart with a fat finger while clicking through path reports that just arrived in my inbox.
Dear Dr. Benabio,
Pat
. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had.
Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Time for a rest
“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am
You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.
So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.
I asked some docs when they thought this feeling of exhaustion first began. We agreed that the pandemic, doubledemic, tripledemic, backlog have taken a toll. But The consumerization of medicine? All factors, but not the beginning. No, the beginning was before paper charts. Well, actually it was before paper. We have to go back to the 5th or 6th century BCE. That is when scholars believe the book of Genesis originated from the Yahwist source. In it, it is written that the 7th day be set aside as a day of rest from labor. It is not written that burnout would ensue if sabbath wasn’t observed; however, if you failed to keep it, then you might have been killed. They took rest seriously back then.
This innovation of setting aside a day each week to rest, reflect, and worship was such a good idea that it was codified as one of the 10 commandments. It spread widely. Early Christians kept the Jewish tradition of observing Shabbat from Friday sundown to Saturday until the ever practical Romans decided that Sunday would be a better day. Sunday was already the day to worship the sun god. The newly-converted Christian Emperor Constantine issued an edict on March 7th, 321 CE that all “city people and craftsmen shall rest from labor upon the venerable day of the sun.” And so Sunday it was.
Protestant Seventh-day denomination churches later shifted sabbath back to Saturday believing that Sunday must have been the Pope’s idea. The best deal seems to have been around 1273 when the Ethiopian Orthodox leader Ewostatewos decreed that both Saturday AND Sunday would be days of rest. (But when would one go to Costco?!) In Islam, there is Jumu’ah on Friday. Buddhists have Uposatha, a day of rest and observance every 7 or 8 days. Bah’ai keep Friday as a day of rest and worship. So vital are days of respite to the health of our communities that the state has made working on certain days a violation of the law, “blue laws” they are called. We’ve had blue laws on the books since the time of the Jamestown Colony in 1619 where the first Virginia Assembly required taking Sunday off for worship. Most of these laws have been repealed, although a few states, such as Rhode Island, still have blue laws prohibiting retail and grocery stores from opening on Thanksgiving or Christmas. So there – enjoy your two days off this year!
Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.
Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.
I wonder if I can choose Mondays.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am
You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.
So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.
I asked some docs when they thought this feeling of exhaustion first began. We agreed that the pandemic, doubledemic, tripledemic, backlog have taken a toll. But The consumerization of medicine? All factors, but not the beginning. No, the beginning was before paper charts. Well, actually it was before paper. We have to go back to the 5th or 6th century BCE. That is when scholars believe the book of Genesis originated from the Yahwist source. In it, it is written that the 7th day be set aside as a day of rest from labor. It is not written that burnout would ensue if sabbath wasn’t observed; however, if you failed to keep it, then you might have been killed. They took rest seriously back then.
This innovation of setting aside a day each week to rest, reflect, and worship was such a good idea that it was codified as one of the 10 commandments. It spread widely. Early Christians kept the Jewish tradition of observing Shabbat from Friday sundown to Saturday until the ever practical Romans decided that Sunday would be a better day. Sunday was already the day to worship the sun god. The newly-converted Christian Emperor Constantine issued an edict on March 7th, 321 CE that all “city people and craftsmen shall rest from labor upon the venerable day of the sun.” And so Sunday it was.
Protestant Seventh-day denomination churches later shifted sabbath back to Saturday believing that Sunday must have been the Pope’s idea. The best deal seems to have been around 1273 when the Ethiopian Orthodox leader Ewostatewos decreed that both Saturday AND Sunday would be days of rest. (But when would one go to Costco?!) In Islam, there is Jumu’ah on Friday. Buddhists have Uposatha, a day of rest and observance every 7 or 8 days. Bah’ai keep Friday as a day of rest and worship. So vital are days of respite to the health of our communities that the state has made working on certain days a violation of the law, “blue laws” they are called. We’ve had blue laws on the books since the time of the Jamestown Colony in 1619 where the first Virginia Assembly required taking Sunday off for worship. Most of these laws have been repealed, although a few states, such as Rhode Island, still have blue laws prohibiting retail and grocery stores from opening on Thanksgiving or Christmas. So there – enjoy your two days off this year!
Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.
Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.
I wonder if I can choose Mondays.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am
You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.
So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.
I asked some docs when they thought this feeling of exhaustion first began. We agreed that the pandemic, doubledemic, tripledemic, backlog have taken a toll. But The consumerization of medicine? All factors, but not the beginning. No, the beginning was before paper charts. Well, actually it was before paper. We have to go back to the 5th or 6th century BCE. That is when scholars believe the book of Genesis originated from the Yahwist source. In it, it is written that the 7th day be set aside as a day of rest from labor. It is not written that burnout would ensue if sabbath wasn’t observed; however, if you failed to keep it, then you might have been killed. They took rest seriously back then.
This innovation of setting aside a day each week to rest, reflect, and worship was such a good idea that it was codified as one of the 10 commandments. It spread widely. Early Christians kept the Jewish tradition of observing Shabbat from Friday sundown to Saturday until the ever practical Romans decided that Sunday would be a better day. Sunday was already the day to worship the sun god. The newly-converted Christian Emperor Constantine issued an edict on March 7th, 321 CE that all “city people and craftsmen shall rest from labor upon the venerable day of the sun.” And so Sunday it was.
Protestant Seventh-day denomination churches later shifted sabbath back to Saturday believing that Sunday must have been the Pope’s idea. The best deal seems to have been around 1273 when the Ethiopian Orthodox leader Ewostatewos decreed that both Saturday AND Sunday would be days of rest. (But when would one go to Costco?!) In Islam, there is Jumu’ah on Friday. Buddhists have Uposatha, a day of rest and observance every 7 or 8 days. Bah’ai keep Friday as a day of rest and worship. So vital are days of respite to the health of our communities that the state has made working on certain days a violation of the law, “blue laws” they are called. We’ve had blue laws on the books since the time of the Jamestown Colony in 1619 where the first Virginia Assembly required taking Sunday off for worship. Most of these laws have been repealed, although a few states, such as Rhode Island, still have blue laws prohibiting retail and grocery stores from opening on Thanksgiving or Christmas. So there – enjoy your two days off this year!
Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.
Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.
I wonder if I can choose Mondays.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Sick call
They call me and I go.
– William Carlos Williams
I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.
I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.
In fact, That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.
We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.
Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.
Of course, it’s not always easy to tell if you’re sick enough to stay home. But the stigma of calling out is so great that we often show up no matter what symptoms. A recent Medscape survey of physicians found that 85% said they had come to work sick in 2022.
We can do better. Perhaps creating sick-leave protocols could help? For example, if you have a fever above 100.4, have contact with someone positive for influenza, are unable to take POs, etc. then stay home. So might building rolling slack into schedules to accommodate the inevitable physician illness, parenting emergency, or death of an beloved uncle. And if there is one thing artificial intelligence could help us with, it would be smart scheduling. Can’t we build algorithms for anticipating and absorbing these predictable events? I’d take that over an AI skin cancer detector any day. Yet this year we’ll struggle through the cold and flu (and COVID) season again and nothing will have changed.
Our daughter hasn’t had hand, foot, and mouth disease yet. It’s not a question of if, but rather when she, and her mom and I, will get it. I hope it happens on a Friday so that my Monday clinic will be bearable when I show up.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com
They call me and I go.
– William Carlos Williams
I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.
I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.
In fact, That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.
We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.
Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.
Of course, it’s not always easy to tell if you’re sick enough to stay home. But the stigma of calling out is so great that we often show up no matter what symptoms. A recent Medscape survey of physicians found that 85% said they had come to work sick in 2022.
We can do better. Perhaps creating sick-leave protocols could help? For example, if you have a fever above 100.4, have contact with someone positive for influenza, are unable to take POs, etc. then stay home. So might building rolling slack into schedules to accommodate the inevitable physician illness, parenting emergency, or death of an beloved uncle. And if there is one thing artificial intelligence could help us with, it would be smart scheduling. Can’t we build algorithms for anticipating and absorbing these predictable events? I’d take that over an AI skin cancer detector any day. Yet this year we’ll struggle through the cold and flu (and COVID) season again and nothing will have changed.
Our daughter hasn’t had hand, foot, and mouth disease yet. It’s not a question of if, but rather when she, and her mom and I, will get it. I hope it happens on a Friday so that my Monday clinic will be bearable when I show up.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com
They call me and I go.
– William Carlos Williams
I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.
I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.
In fact, That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.
We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.
Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.
Of course, it’s not always easy to tell if you’re sick enough to stay home. But the stigma of calling out is so great that we often show up no matter what symptoms. A recent Medscape survey of physicians found that 85% said they had come to work sick in 2022.
We can do better. Perhaps creating sick-leave protocols could help? For example, if you have a fever above 100.4, have contact with someone positive for influenza, are unable to take POs, etc. then stay home. So might building rolling slack into schedules to accommodate the inevitable physician illness, parenting emergency, or death of an beloved uncle. And if there is one thing artificial intelligence could help us with, it would be smart scheduling. Can’t we build algorithms for anticipating and absorbing these predictable events? I’d take that over an AI skin cancer detector any day. Yet this year we’ll struggle through the cold and flu (and COVID) season again and nothing will have changed.
Our daughter hasn’t had hand, foot, and mouth disease yet. It’s not a question of if, but rather when she, and her mom and I, will get it. I hope it happens on a Friday so that my Monday clinic will be bearable when I show up.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com
The ‘root cause’ visit
“How did we miss out on that?” “What?” my physician friend replied as we stood in line at the coffee cart. “Root cause. I mean, we invented this idea and now all these naturopaths and functional medicine quacks are gettin’ rich off it.” “Take it easy,” he says. “Just order a coffee.”
It’s hard not to be indignant. I had a morning clinic with three patients insisting I find the “root cause” of their problem. Now, if one had flagellate dermatitis after eating Asian mushroom soup, I’d have said “Root cause? Shiitake mushrooms!” and walked out like Costanza in Seinfeld, “All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”
Alas no. They had perioral dermatitis, alopecia areata, eczema – no satisfying “roots” for walk-off answers.
There is a universal desire to find the proximal cause for problems. Patients often want to know it so that we address the root of their trouble and not just cut off the branches. This is deeply gratifying for those who want not only to know why, but also to have agency in how to control their disease. For example, if they believe the root cause of perioral dermatitis was excess yeast, then eating a “candida diet’’ should do the trick! Food sensitivities, hormones, and heavy metals round out the top suspects that root cause patients want to talk about.
Of course, patients have been asking about this for a long time, but lately, the root cause visit seems to be on trend. Check out any hip primary care start-up such as One Medical or any hot direct-to-consumer virtual offering such as ParsleyHealth and you will see root-cause everywhere. Our patients are expecting us to address it, or it seems they will find someone cooler who will.
Yet, it wasn’t the slick marketing team at ParsleyHeath who invented the “root cause doctor visit.” We did. It’s an idea that started with our Greek physician ancestors. Breaking from the diviners and priests, we were the first “naturalists” positing that there was a natural, not a divine cause for illness. The cardinal concept in the Hippocratic Corpus was that health was an equilibrium and illness an imbalance. They didn’t have dehydroepiandrosterone tests or mercury levels, but did have bodily fluids. Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm, were the root of all root causes. A physician simply had to identify which was in excess or deficient and fix that to cure the disease. Interestingly, the word “diagnosis” appears only once in the Corpus. The word “Diagignoskein” appears occasionally but this describes studying thoroughly, not naming a diagnosis as we understand it.
Advances in chemistry in the 17th century meant physicians could add new theories, and new root causes. Now alkaline or other chemical elixirs were added to cure at the source. Since there was no verifiable evidence to prove causes, theories were adopted to provide some rational direction to treatment. In the 18th century, physicians such as Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the original faculty at the University of Pennsylvania school of medicine, taught that spasms of the arteries were the root cause of illnesses. “Heroic” treatments such as extreme bloodletting were the cure. (Note, those patients who survived us kept coming back to us for more).
Scientific knowledge and diagnostic technologies led to more and more complex and abstruse causes. Yet, as we became more precise and effective, our explanations became less satisfying to our patients. I can diagnose and readily treat perioral dermatitis, yet I’m hard pressed to give an answer to its root cause. “Root cause? Yes. Just apply this pimecrolimus cream for a couple of weeks and it’ll be better! All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”
You’ll have to do better, George.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com
“How did we miss out on that?” “What?” my physician friend replied as we stood in line at the coffee cart. “Root cause. I mean, we invented this idea and now all these naturopaths and functional medicine quacks are gettin’ rich off it.” “Take it easy,” he says. “Just order a coffee.”
It’s hard not to be indignant. I had a morning clinic with three patients insisting I find the “root cause” of their problem. Now, if one had flagellate dermatitis after eating Asian mushroom soup, I’d have said “Root cause? Shiitake mushrooms!” and walked out like Costanza in Seinfeld, “All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”
Alas no. They had perioral dermatitis, alopecia areata, eczema – no satisfying “roots” for walk-off answers.
There is a universal desire to find the proximal cause for problems. Patients often want to know it so that we address the root of their trouble and not just cut off the branches. This is deeply gratifying for those who want not only to know why, but also to have agency in how to control their disease. For example, if they believe the root cause of perioral dermatitis was excess yeast, then eating a “candida diet’’ should do the trick! Food sensitivities, hormones, and heavy metals round out the top suspects that root cause patients want to talk about.
Of course, patients have been asking about this for a long time, but lately, the root cause visit seems to be on trend. Check out any hip primary care start-up such as One Medical or any hot direct-to-consumer virtual offering such as ParsleyHealth and you will see root-cause everywhere. Our patients are expecting us to address it, or it seems they will find someone cooler who will.
Yet, it wasn’t the slick marketing team at ParsleyHeath who invented the “root cause doctor visit.” We did. It’s an idea that started with our Greek physician ancestors. Breaking from the diviners and priests, we were the first “naturalists” positing that there was a natural, not a divine cause for illness. The cardinal concept in the Hippocratic Corpus was that health was an equilibrium and illness an imbalance. They didn’t have dehydroepiandrosterone tests or mercury levels, but did have bodily fluids. Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm, were the root of all root causes. A physician simply had to identify which was in excess or deficient and fix that to cure the disease. Interestingly, the word “diagnosis” appears only once in the Corpus. The word “Diagignoskein” appears occasionally but this describes studying thoroughly, not naming a diagnosis as we understand it.
Advances in chemistry in the 17th century meant physicians could add new theories, and new root causes. Now alkaline or other chemical elixirs were added to cure at the source. Since there was no verifiable evidence to prove causes, theories were adopted to provide some rational direction to treatment. In the 18th century, physicians such as Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the original faculty at the University of Pennsylvania school of medicine, taught that spasms of the arteries were the root cause of illnesses. “Heroic” treatments such as extreme bloodletting were the cure. (Note, those patients who survived us kept coming back to us for more).
Scientific knowledge and diagnostic technologies led to more and more complex and abstruse causes. Yet, as we became more precise and effective, our explanations became less satisfying to our patients. I can diagnose and readily treat perioral dermatitis, yet I’m hard pressed to give an answer to its root cause. “Root cause? Yes. Just apply this pimecrolimus cream for a couple of weeks and it’ll be better! All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”
You’ll have to do better, George.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com
“How did we miss out on that?” “What?” my physician friend replied as we stood in line at the coffee cart. “Root cause. I mean, we invented this idea and now all these naturopaths and functional medicine quacks are gettin’ rich off it.” “Take it easy,” he says. “Just order a coffee.”
It’s hard not to be indignant. I had a morning clinic with three patients insisting I find the “root cause” of their problem. Now, if one had flagellate dermatitis after eating Asian mushroom soup, I’d have said “Root cause? Shiitake mushrooms!” and walked out like Costanza in Seinfeld, “All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”
Alas no. They had perioral dermatitis, alopecia areata, eczema – no satisfying “roots” for walk-off answers.
There is a universal desire to find the proximal cause for problems. Patients often want to know it so that we address the root of their trouble and not just cut off the branches. This is deeply gratifying for those who want not only to know why, but also to have agency in how to control their disease. For example, if they believe the root cause of perioral dermatitis was excess yeast, then eating a “candida diet’’ should do the trick! Food sensitivities, hormones, and heavy metals round out the top suspects that root cause patients want to talk about.
Of course, patients have been asking about this for a long time, but lately, the root cause visit seems to be on trend. Check out any hip primary care start-up such as One Medical or any hot direct-to-consumer virtual offering such as ParsleyHealth and you will see root-cause everywhere. Our patients are expecting us to address it, or it seems they will find someone cooler who will.
Yet, it wasn’t the slick marketing team at ParsleyHeath who invented the “root cause doctor visit.” We did. It’s an idea that started with our Greek physician ancestors. Breaking from the diviners and priests, we were the first “naturalists” positing that there was a natural, not a divine cause for illness. The cardinal concept in the Hippocratic Corpus was that health was an equilibrium and illness an imbalance. They didn’t have dehydroepiandrosterone tests or mercury levels, but did have bodily fluids. Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm, were the root of all root causes. A physician simply had to identify which was in excess or deficient and fix that to cure the disease. Interestingly, the word “diagnosis” appears only once in the Corpus. The word “Diagignoskein” appears occasionally but this describes studying thoroughly, not naming a diagnosis as we understand it.
Advances in chemistry in the 17th century meant physicians could add new theories, and new root causes. Now alkaline or other chemical elixirs were added to cure at the source. Since there was no verifiable evidence to prove causes, theories were adopted to provide some rational direction to treatment. In the 18th century, physicians such as Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the original faculty at the University of Pennsylvania school of medicine, taught that spasms of the arteries were the root cause of illnesses. “Heroic” treatments such as extreme bloodletting were the cure. (Note, those patients who survived us kept coming back to us for more).
Scientific knowledge and diagnostic technologies led to more and more complex and abstruse causes. Yet, as we became more precise and effective, our explanations became less satisfying to our patients. I can diagnose and readily treat perioral dermatitis, yet I’m hard pressed to give an answer to its root cause. “Root cause? Yes. Just apply this pimecrolimus cream for a couple of weeks and it’ll be better! All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”
You’ll have to do better, George.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com
Dignity
Queen Elizabeth is everywhere. She was even on the last slide of a presentation on COVID, monkeypox, and influenza vaccines given by our physician in charge of quality. This was odd. The presenter wasn’t English. The Queen had nothing to do with vaccines. Nor apparently would she have said even if she did have an opinion about them. But there we were, an audience of physicians and staff pausing for a moment of remembrance of her.
I’m not a Monarchist – except perhaps for the Kennedys. I grew up in New England. I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the British Crown should endure. But I do marvel at the astounding effect Queen Elizabeth’s passing had on so many around the world. Her personal qualities, particularly her steadiness and humane sympathy, might explain why so many are sad hearing the news. But also I think there was something in her role that we all wished for: Not the owning of palaces and sceptres, but rather, the respect that was given to her.
She was a stateswoman of “unmatched dignity,” the White House wrote. That was true, but it seems being the Queen might have been the last job on earth where such dignity is still possible. Certainly in politics, education, and even health care, there doesn’t seem to be much left lately.
The same day of that presentation I walked into the room of a patient 22 minutes late, she held her arm forth tapping her watch to indicate the time and my tardiness. Unnecessary, if not impertinent. Covering for one of my female physician colleagues, I read an email from a patient which began, “Dear Julie, With all due respect …” Another patient submitted a photo for us to review that was clearly taken from her car while waiting at a stop light. Hardly the consideration a clinical encounter should be given.
Much has been lost for patients. too. There are patients trying to make appointments lately who are told: “There are none. Call back later.” . There is no dignified way to remove exam paper stuck to your backside before introducing yourself to the doctor. Maybe that last slide of Her Majesty was in fact for us to have a moment of silence for what we’ve all lost.
Walter Bagehot (pronounce it “Baj-et” if you tell this story to your Harlan wine friends) was a political writer and editor of The Economist in the 1860s. He famously said that the secret to the English government was having two kinds of institutions, the dignified and the efficient. The efficient, Parliament, was responsible for all the work. The dignified, the Crown, gives significance and holds everyone’s respect. If medicine ever once was both dignified and efficient, we aren’t lately. We push to reduce backlogs, offer same-time virtual care, work to reduce costs. We’ve driven medicine to the efficient and left little of the dignity it seems.
The Queen will be remembered for her lifelong dedication to the laborious service of others. Even though each of us in medicine pledges the same, we also mourn this week the loss of dignity that once came with it.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Queen Elizabeth is everywhere. She was even on the last slide of a presentation on COVID, monkeypox, and influenza vaccines given by our physician in charge of quality. This was odd. The presenter wasn’t English. The Queen had nothing to do with vaccines. Nor apparently would she have said even if she did have an opinion about them. But there we were, an audience of physicians and staff pausing for a moment of remembrance of her.
I’m not a Monarchist – except perhaps for the Kennedys. I grew up in New England. I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the British Crown should endure. But I do marvel at the astounding effect Queen Elizabeth’s passing had on so many around the world. Her personal qualities, particularly her steadiness and humane sympathy, might explain why so many are sad hearing the news. But also I think there was something in her role that we all wished for: Not the owning of palaces and sceptres, but rather, the respect that was given to her.
She was a stateswoman of “unmatched dignity,” the White House wrote. That was true, but it seems being the Queen might have been the last job on earth where such dignity is still possible. Certainly in politics, education, and even health care, there doesn’t seem to be much left lately.
The same day of that presentation I walked into the room of a patient 22 minutes late, she held her arm forth tapping her watch to indicate the time and my tardiness. Unnecessary, if not impertinent. Covering for one of my female physician colleagues, I read an email from a patient which began, “Dear Julie, With all due respect …” Another patient submitted a photo for us to review that was clearly taken from her car while waiting at a stop light. Hardly the consideration a clinical encounter should be given.
Much has been lost for patients. too. There are patients trying to make appointments lately who are told: “There are none. Call back later.” . There is no dignified way to remove exam paper stuck to your backside before introducing yourself to the doctor. Maybe that last slide of Her Majesty was in fact for us to have a moment of silence for what we’ve all lost.
Walter Bagehot (pronounce it “Baj-et” if you tell this story to your Harlan wine friends) was a political writer and editor of The Economist in the 1860s. He famously said that the secret to the English government was having two kinds of institutions, the dignified and the efficient. The efficient, Parliament, was responsible for all the work. The dignified, the Crown, gives significance and holds everyone’s respect. If medicine ever once was both dignified and efficient, we aren’t lately. We push to reduce backlogs, offer same-time virtual care, work to reduce costs. We’ve driven medicine to the efficient and left little of the dignity it seems.
The Queen will be remembered for her lifelong dedication to the laborious service of others. Even though each of us in medicine pledges the same, we also mourn this week the loss of dignity that once came with it.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Queen Elizabeth is everywhere. She was even on the last slide of a presentation on COVID, monkeypox, and influenza vaccines given by our physician in charge of quality. This was odd. The presenter wasn’t English. The Queen had nothing to do with vaccines. Nor apparently would she have said even if she did have an opinion about them. But there we were, an audience of physicians and staff pausing for a moment of remembrance of her.
I’m not a Monarchist – except perhaps for the Kennedys. I grew up in New England. I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the British Crown should endure. But I do marvel at the astounding effect Queen Elizabeth’s passing had on so many around the world. Her personal qualities, particularly her steadiness and humane sympathy, might explain why so many are sad hearing the news. But also I think there was something in her role that we all wished for: Not the owning of palaces and sceptres, but rather, the respect that was given to her.
She was a stateswoman of “unmatched dignity,” the White House wrote. That was true, but it seems being the Queen might have been the last job on earth where such dignity is still possible. Certainly in politics, education, and even health care, there doesn’t seem to be much left lately.
The same day of that presentation I walked into the room of a patient 22 minutes late, she held her arm forth tapping her watch to indicate the time and my tardiness. Unnecessary, if not impertinent. Covering for one of my female physician colleagues, I read an email from a patient which began, “Dear Julie, With all due respect …” Another patient submitted a photo for us to review that was clearly taken from her car while waiting at a stop light. Hardly the consideration a clinical encounter should be given.
Much has been lost for patients. too. There are patients trying to make appointments lately who are told: “There are none. Call back later.” . There is no dignified way to remove exam paper stuck to your backside before introducing yourself to the doctor. Maybe that last slide of Her Majesty was in fact for us to have a moment of silence for what we’ve all lost.
Walter Bagehot (pronounce it “Baj-et” if you tell this story to your Harlan wine friends) was a political writer and editor of The Economist in the 1860s. He famously said that the secret to the English government was having two kinds of institutions, the dignified and the efficient. The efficient, Parliament, was responsible for all the work. The dignified, the Crown, gives significance and holds everyone’s respect. If medicine ever once was both dignified and efficient, we aren’t lately. We push to reduce backlogs, offer same-time virtual care, work to reduce costs. We’ve driven medicine to the efficient and left little of the dignity it seems.
The Queen will be remembered for her lifelong dedication to the laborious service of others. Even though each of us in medicine pledges the same, we also mourn this week the loss of dignity that once came with it.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Dig like an archaeologist
You can observe a lot by watching. – Yogi Berra
He was a fit man in his 40s. Thick legs. Maybe he was a long-distance walker? The bones of his right arm were more developed than his left – a right-handed thrower. His lower left fibula was fractured from a severely rolled ankle. He carried a walking stick that was glossy in the middle from where he gripped it with his left hand, dragging his bad left foot along. Dental cavities tell the story of his diet: honey, carobs, dates. Carbon 14 dating confirms that he lived during the Chalcolithic period, approximately 6,000 years ago. He was likely a shepherd in the Judean Desert.
Isn’t it amazing how much we can know about another human even across such an enormous chasm of time? If you’d asked me when I was 11 what I wanted to be, I’d have said archaeologist. .
A 64-year-old woman with a 4-cm red, brown shiny plaque on her right calf. She burned it on her boyfriend’s Harley Davidson nearly 40 years ago. She wonders where he is now.
A 58-year-old man with a 3-inch scar on his right wrist. He fell off his 6-year-old’s skimboard. ORIF.
A 40-year-old woman with bilateral mastectomy scars.
A 66-year-old with a lichenified nodule on his left forearm. When I shaved it off, a quarter inch spicule of glass came out. It was from a car accident in his first car, a Chevy Impala. He saved the piece of glass as a souvenir.
A fit 50-year-old with extensive scars on his feet and ankles. “Yeah, I went ‘whistling-in’ on a training jump,” he said. He was a retired Navy Seal and raconteur with quite a tale about the day his parachute malfunctioned. Some well placed live oak trees is why he’s around for his skin screening.
A classic, rope-like open-heart scar on the chest of a thin, young, healthy, flaxen-haired woman. Dissected aorta.
A 30-something woman dressed in a pants suit with razor-thin parallel scars on her volar forearms and proximal thighs. She asks if any laser could remove them.
A rotund, hard-living, bearded man with chest and upper-arm tattoos of flames and nudie girls now mixed with the striking face of an old woman and three little kids: His mom and grandkids. He shows me where the fourth grandkid will go and gives me a bear hug to thank me for the care when he leaves.
Attending to these details shifts us from autopilot to present. It keeps us involved, holding our attention even if it’s the 20th skin screening or diabetic foot exam of the day. And what a gift to share in the intimate details of another’s life.
Like examining the minute details of an ancient bone, dig for the history with curiosity, pity, humility. The perfect moment for asking might be when you stand with your #15 blade ready to introduce a new scar and become part of this human’s story forever.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
You can observe a lot by watching. – Yogi Berra
He was a fit man in his 40s. Thick legs. Maybe he was a long-distance walker? The bones of his right arm were more developed than his left – a right-handed thrower. His lower left fibula was fractured from a severely rolled ankle. He carried a walking stick that was glossy in the middle from where he gripped it with his left hand, dragging his bad left foot along. Dental cavities tell the story of his diet: honey, carobs, dates. Carbon 14 dating confirms that he lived during the Chalcolithic period, approximately 6,000 years ago. He was likely a shepherd in the Judean Desert.
Isn’t it amazing how much we can know about another human even across such an enormous chasm of time? If you’d asked me when I was 11 what I wanted to be, I’d have said archaeologist. .
A 64-year-old woman with a 4-cm red, brown shiny plaque on her right calf. She burned it on her boyfriend’s Harley Davidson nearly 40 years ago. She wonders where he is now.
A 58-year-old man with a 3-inch scar on his right wrist. He fell off his 6-year-old’s skimboard. ORIF.
A 40-year-old woman with bilateral mastectomy scars.
A 66-year-old with a lichenified nodule on his left forearm. When I shaved it off, a quarter inch spicule of glass came out. It was from a car accident in his first car, a Chevy Impala. He saved the piece of glass as a souvenir.
A fit 50-year-old with extensive scars on his feet and ankles. “Yeah, I went ‘whistling-in’ on a training jump,” he said. He was a retired Navy Seal and raconteur with quite a tale about the day his parachute malfunctioned. Some well placed live oak trees is why he’s around for his skin screening.
A classic, rope-like open-heart scar on the chest of a thin, young, healthy, flaxen-haired woman. Dissected aorta.
A 30-something woman dressed in a pants suit with razor-thin parallel scars on her volar forearms and proximal thighs. She asks if any laser could remove them.
A rotund, hard-living, bearded man with chest and upper-arm tattoos of flames and nudie girls now mixed with the striking face of an old woman and three little kids: His mom and grandkids. He shows me where the fourth grandkid will go and gives me a bear hug to thank me for the care when he leaves.
Attending to these details shifts us from autopilot to present. It keeps us involved, holding our attention even if it’s the 20th skin screening or diabetic foot exam of the day. And what a gift to share in the intimate details of another’s life.
Like examining the minute details of an ancient bone, dig for the history with curiosity, pity, humility. The perfect moment for asking might be when you stand with your #15 blade ready to introduce a new scar and become part of this human’s story forever.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
You can observe a lot by watching. – Yogi Berra
He was a fit man in his 40s. Thick legs. Maybe he was a long-distance walker? The bones of his right arm were more developed than his left – a right-handed thrower. His lower left fibula was fractured from a severely rolled ankle. He carried a walking stick that was glossy in the middle from where he gripped it with his left hand, dragging his bad left foot along. Dental cavities tell the story of his diet: honey, carobs, dates. Carbon 14 dating confirms that he lived during the Chalcolithic period, approximately 6,000 years ago. He was likely a shepherd in the Judean Desert.
Isn’t it amazing how much we can know about another human even across such an enormous chasm of time? If you’d asked me when I was 11 what I wanted to be, I’d have said archaeologist. .
A 64-year-old woman with a 4-cm red, brown shiny plaque on her right calf. She burned it on her boyfriend’s Harley Davidson nearly 40 years ago. She wonders where he is now.
A 58-year-old man with a 3-inch scar on his right wrist. He fell off his 6-year-old’s skimboard. ORIF.
A 40-year-old woman with bilateral mastectomy scars.
A 66-year-old with a lichenified nodule on his left forearm. When I shaved it off, a quarter inch spicule of glass came out. It was from a car accident in his first car, a Chevy Impala. He saved the piece of glass as a souvenir.
A fit 50-year-old with extensive scars on his feet and ankles. “Yeah, I went ‘whistling-in’ on a training jump,” he said. He was a retired Navy Seal and raconteur with quite a tale about the day his parachute malfunctioned. Some well placed live oak trees is why he’s around for his skin screening.
A classic, rope-like open-heart scar on the chest of a thin, young, healthy, flaxen-haired woman. Dissected aorta.
A 30-something woman dressed in a pants suit with razor-thin parallel scars on her volar forearms and proximal thighs. She asks if any laser could remove them.
A rotund, hard-living, bearded man with chest and upper-arm tattoos of flames and nudie girls now mixed with the striking face of an old woman and three little kids: His mom and grandkids. He shows me where the fourth grandkid will go and gives me a bear hug to thank me for the care when he leaves.
Attending to these details shifts us from autopilot to present. It keeps us involved, holding our attention even if it’s the 20th skin screening or diabetic foot exam of the day. And what a gift to share in the intimate details of another’s life.
Like examining the minute details of an ancient bone, dig for the history with curiosity, pity, humility. The perfect moment for asking might be when you stand with your #15 blade ready to introduce a new scar and become part of this human’s story forever.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
‘I shall harm’
I was quite sure I had multiple sclerosis when I was a medical student. I first noticed symptoms during my neurology rotation. All the signs were there: Fatigue that was getting worse in the North Carolina heat (Uhthoff sign!). A tingle running down my neck (Lhermitte sign!). Blurry vision late at night while studying pathways in Lange Neurology. “Didn’t cousin Amy have MS?” I asked my Mom. I started researching which medical specialties didn’t require dexterity. My left eyelid began twitching and didn’t stop until I rotated to ob.gyn.
Fortunately, it was not multiple sclerosis I had, but rather nosophobia, also known as Medical Student’s Disease. The combination of intense study of symptoms, spotty knowledge of diagnoses, and grade anxiety makes nosophobia common in med students. Despite its name, it doesn’t afflict only doctors. Patients often come to us convinced they have a disease but without reason. So unshakable is their belief that multiple visits are often required to disabuse them of their self-diagnosis. I sometimes have to remind myself to appear concerned even when a “melanoma” is a freckle so small I can barely see it with a dermatoscope. Or a “genital wart” is a hair follicle that looks exactly like the hundreds on the patient’s scrotum. Tougher though, are the treatment-avoiders: patients whose imagined side effects lead them to stop or refuse treatment.
I recently saw a middle-aged man with erythroderma so severe he looked like a ghillie suit of scale. He had a lifelong history of atopic dermatitis and a 2-year history of avoiding treatments. At some point, he tried all the usual remedies: cyclosporine, methotrexate, azathioprine, light therapy, boxes of topicals. The last treatment had been dupilumab, which he tried for a few weeks. “Why did you stop that one?” I asked. The injections were making him go blind, he explained. “Not blurry? Blind?” I asked. Yes, he could not see at all after each injection. Perhaps he might have dry eyes or keratitis? Sure. But blindness? It seemed an unreasonable concern. Further discussion revealed that intolerance to medication side effects was why he had stopped all his other treatments.
Nocebo, from the Latin “I shall harm,” is the dark counterpart to the placebo. Patients experience imagined, or even real, adverse effects because they believe the treatment is causing them harm. This is true even though that treatment might not be having any unwanted physiologic effect. Statins are a good example. Studies have shown that most patient-reported side effects of statins are in fact nocebo effects rather than a result of pharmacologic causes.
Yet, many patients on statins report muscle pain or other concerns as unbearable. As a consequence, some patients who might have benefited from statins might be missing out on the protective gains. as compared with bad outcomes that occurred from not taking action. It’s frustrating when there’s a standard of care treatment, but our patient can’t get past their fear of harm to try it.
Despite my recommendations, my eczema patient insisted on continuing his nontreatment rather than take any risks with treatments for now. There are ways I might help, but I expect it will require additional visits to build trust. Today, the best I can do is to understand and respect him. At least he doesn’t think he has a genital wart – I’m not sure how I’d treat it if he did.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
I was quite sure I had multiple sclerosis when I was a medical student. I first noticed symptoms during my neurology rotation. All the signs were there: Fatigue that was getting worse in the North Carolina heat (Uhthoff sign!). A tingle running down my neck (Lhermitte sign!). Blurry vision late at night while studying pathways in Lange Neurology. “Didn’t cousin Amy have MS?” I asked my Mom. I started researching which medical specialties didn’t require dexterity. My left eyelid began twitching and didn’t stop until I rotated to ob.gyn.
Fortunately, it was not multiple sclerosis I had, but rather nosophobia, also known as Medical Student’s Disease. The combination of intense study of symptoms, spotty knowledge of diagnoses, and grade anxiety makes nosophobia common in med students. Despite its name, it doesn’t afflict only doctors. Patients often come to us convinced they have a disease but without reason. So unshakable is their belief that multiple visits are often required to disabuse them of their self-diagnosis. I sometimes have to remind myself to appear concerned even when a “melanoma” is a freckle so small I can barely see it with a dermatoscope. Or a “genital wart” is a hair follicle that looks exactly like the hundreds on the patient’s scrotum. Tougher though, are the treatment-avoiders: patients whose imagined side effects lead them to stop or refuse treatment.
I recently saw a middle-aged man with erythroderma so severe he looked like a ghillie suit of scale. He had a lifelong history of atopic dermatitis and a 2-year history of avoiding treatments. At some point, he tried all the usual remedies: cyclosporine, methotrexate, azathioprine, light therapy, boxes of topicals. The last treatment had been dupilumab, which he tried for a few weeks. “Why did you stop that one?” I asked. The injections were making him go blind, he explained. “Not blurry? Blind?” I asked. Yes, he could not see at all after each injection. Perhaps he might have dry eyes or keratitis? Sure. But blindness? It seemed an unreasonable concern. Further discussion revealed that intolerance to medication side effects was why he had stopped all his other treatments.
Nocebo, from the Latin “I shall harm,” is the dark counterpart to the placebo. Patients experience imagined, or even real, adverse effects because they believe the treatment is causing them harm. This is true even though that treatment might not be having any unwanted physiologic effect. Statins are a good example. Studies have shown that most patient-reported side effects of statins are in fact nocebo effects rather than a result of pharmacologic causes.
Yet, many patients on statins report muscle pain or other concerns as unbearable. As a consequence, some patients who might have benefited from statins might be missing out on the protective gains. as compared with bad outcomes that occurred from not taking action. It’s frustrating when there’s a standard of care treatment, but our patient can’t get past their fear of harm to try it.
Despite my recommendations, my eczema patient insisted on continuing his nontreatment rather than take any risks with treatments for now. There are ways I might help, but I expect it will require additional visits to build trust. Today, the best I can do is to understand and respect him. At least he doesn’t think he has a genital wart – I’m not sure how I’d treat it if he did.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
I was quite sure I had multiple sclerosis when I was a medical student. I first noticed symptoms during my neurology rotation. All the signs were there: Fatigue that was getting worse in the North Carolina heat (Uhthoff sign!). A tingle running down my neck (Lhermitte sign!). Blurry vision late at night while studying pathways in Lange Neurology. “Didn’t cousin Amy have MS?” I asked my Mom. I started researching which medical specialties didn’t require dexterity. My left eyelid began twitching and didn’t stop until I rotated to ob.gyn.
Fortunately, it was not multiple sclerosis I had, but rather nosophobia, also known as Medical Student’s Disease. The combination of intense study of symptoms, spotty knowledge of diagnoses, and grade anxiety makes nosophobia common in med students. Despite its name, it doesn’t afflict only doctors. Patients often come to us convinced they have a disease but without reason. So unshakable is their belief that multiple visits are often required to disabuse them of their self-diagnosis. I sometimes have to remind myself to appear concerned even when a “melanoma” is a freckle so small I can barely see it with a dermatoscope. Or a “genital wart” is a hair follicle that looks exactly like the hundreds on the patient’s scrotum. Tougher though, are the treatment-avoiders: patients whose imagined side effects lead them to stop or refuse treatment.
I recently saw a middle-aged man with erythroderma so severe he looked like a ghillie suit of scale. He had a lifelong history of atopic dermatitis and a 2-year history of avoiding treatments. At some point, he tried all the usual remedies: cyclosporine, methotrexate, azathioprine, light therapy, boxes of topicals. The last treatment had been dupilumab, which he tried for a few weeks. “Why did you stop that one?” I asked. The injections were making him go blind, he explained. “Not blurry? Blind?” I asked. Yes, he could not see at all after each injection. Perhaps he might have dry eyes or keratitis? Sure. But blindness? It seemed an unreasonable concern. Further discussion revealed that intolerance to medication side effects was why he had stopped all his other treatments.
Nocebo, from the Latin “I shall harm,” is the dark counterpart to the placebo. Patients experience imagined, or even real, adverse effects because they believe the treatment is causing them harm. This is true even though that treatment might not be having any unwanted physiologic effect. Statins are a good example. Studies have shown that most patient-reported side effects of statins are in fact nocebo effects rather than a result of pharmacologic causes.
Yet, many patients on statins report muscle pain or other concerns as unbearable. As a consequence, some patients who might have benefited from statins might be missing out on the protective gains. as compared with bad outcomes that occurred from not taking action. It’s frustrating when there’s a standard of care treatment, but our patient can’t get past their fear of harm to try it.
Despite my recommendations, my eczema patient insisted on continuing his nontreatment rather than take any risks with treatments for now. There are ways I might help, but I expect it will require additional visits to build trust. Today, the best I can do is to understand and respect him. At least he doesn’t think he has a genital wart – I’m not sure how I’d treat it if he did.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“How long, how long to sing this song?”
“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” – Psalm 6
. A once-common word in the 1800s, it fell steeply in popularity in the 20th century. Lately, I see it everywhere. It’s a beautiful word, capturing not only sorrow, but also weariness. It is also audacious, facing injustice and acknowledging that it ought not be this way, and communal, bearing witness to the shared hardship of being human. The Hebrew scriptures captured the experience of lament in the form of psalms, from the Greek, psalmoi or “words to accompany the music.” A few thousand years later, the words still resonate, especially in times of grief. “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.”
“Hair loss” is not the chief complaint you want to see when running behind in clinic – it’s never a 15-minute visit. A woman in her late 30s with wavy, light-brown hair that grew to her waistline was seated on the exam chair. When I sat across from her, I couldn’t see her scalp. No erythema or scale. No frontal band of hair loss. Just a bit thin everywhere. Perhaps another post-COVID telogen? This might be easy. I blew right by her mother, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Her black and white horizontal striped shirt seemed to match her gray and white hair. She looked worried.
Having perused my patient’s labs and done an exam, I announced that the diagnosis was telogen effluvium. “There are many possible causes, stress is a common one. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” (The answer is always yes, thus providing a good foothold to climb out of a hair-loss visit). “Yes. My 1-year-old daughter died last year. She had choked on a cashew from a granola bar given by her sister.” I gasped and turned from her green eyes to her mom’s. Without saying a word, mom pleaded with me to help. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” Neither replied.
On the commute home that day I listened to a live recording of the U2 song, “40.” I had recently read about it in a touching essay about lament by Enuma Okoro of the Financial Times. I thought about my patient’s suffering and the brutal injustice of fate. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. Reporting from the events in Ukraine, Buffalo, Uvalde, Tulsa has put agonized faces like hers in the public square for us all to gape at and quietly mourn.
Even from a secular lens, it can be seen that a beauty of psalms is how they move from despair to hope. Prayers will be answered. Things will get better. Turn up the volume and feel the urgency and pathos Bono injects into your soul as he sings the refrain; “How long, how long? How long to sing this song?” In the live version we the audience take over for him. The words accompanying the music swell over the crowd. How much longer? How much more suffering? My patient’s hair will grow back. It will take years. All we can do is lament with her.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” – Psalm 6
. A once-common word in the 1800s, it fell steeply in popularity in the 20th century. Lately, I see it everywhere. It’s a beautiful word, capturing not only sorrow, but also weariness. It is also audacious, facing injustice and acknowledging that it ought not be this way, and communal, bearing witness to the shared hardship of being human. The Hebrew scriptures captured the experience of lament in the form of psalms, from the Greek, psalmoi or “words to accompany the music.” A few thousand years later, the words still resonate, especially in times of grief. “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.”
“Hair loss” is not the chief complaint you want to see when running behind in clinic – it’s never a 15-minute visit. A woman in her late 30s with wavy, light-brown hair that grew to her waistline was seated on the exam chair. When I sat across from her, I couldn’t see her scalp. No erythema or scale. No frontal band of hair loss. Just a bit thin everywhere. Perhaps another post-COVID telogen? This might be easy. I blew right by her mother, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Her black and white horizontal striped shirt seemed to match her gray and white hair. She looked worried.
Having perused my patient’s labs and done an exam, I announced that the diagnosis was telogen effluvium. “There are many possible causes, stress is a common one. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” (The answer is always yes, thus providing a good foothold to climb out of a hair-loss visit). “Yes. My 1-year-old daughter died last year. She had choked on a cashew from a granola bar given by her sister.” I gasped and turned from her green eyes to her mom’s. Without saying a word, mom pleaded with me to help. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” Neither replied.
On the commute home that day I listened to a live recording of the U2 song, “40.” I had recently read about it in a touching essay about lament by Enuma Okoro of the Financial Times. I thought about my patient’s suffering and the brutal injustice of fate. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. Reporting from the events in Ukraine, Buffalo, Uvalde, Tulsa has put agonized faces like hers in the public square for us all to gape at and quietly mourn.
Even from a secular lens, it can be seen that a beauty of psalms is how they move from despair to hope. Prayers will be answered. Things will get better. Turn up the volume and feel the urgency and pathos Bono injects into your soul as he sings the refrain; “How long, how long? How long to sing this song?” In the live version we the audience take over for him. The words accompanying the music swell over the crowd. How much longer? How much more suffering? My patient’s hair will grow back. It will take years. All we can do is lament with her.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” – Psalm 6
. A once-common word in the 1800s, it fell steeply in popularity in the 20th century. Lately, I see it everywhere. It’s a beautiful word, capturing not only sorrow, but also weariness. It is also audacious, facing injustice and acknowledging that it ought not be this way, and communal, bearing witness to the shared hardship of being human. The Hebrew scriptures captured the experience of lament in the form of psalms, from the Greek, psalmoi or “words to accompany the music.” A few thousand years later, the words still resonate, especially in times of grief. “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.”
“Hair loss” is not the chief complaint you want to see when running behind in clinic – it’s never a 15-minute visit. A woman in her late 30s with wavy, light-brown hair that grew to her waistline was seated on the exam chair. When I sat across from her, I couldn’t see her scalp. No erythema or scale. No frontal band of hair loss. Just a bit thin everywhere. Perhaps another post-COVID telogen? This might be easy. I blew right by her mother, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Her black and white horizontal striped shirt seemed to match her gray and white hair. She looked worried.
Having perused my patient’s labs and done an exam, I announced that the diagnosis was telogen effluvium. “There are many possible causes, stress is a common one. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” (The answer is always yes, thus providing a good foothold to climb out of a hair-loss visit). “Yes. My 1-year-old daughter died last year. She had choked on a cashew from a granola bar given by her sister.” I gasped and turned from her green eyes to her mom’s. Without saying a word, mom pleaded with me to help. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” Neither replied.
On the commute home that day I listened to a live recording of the U2 song, “40.” I had recently read about it in a touching essay about lament by Enuma Okoro of the Financial Times. I thought about my patient’s suffering and the brutal injustice of fate. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. Reporting from the events in Ukraine, Buffalo, Uvalde, Tulsa has put agonized faces like hers in the public square for us all to gape at and quietly mourn.
Even from a secular lens, it can be seen that a beauty of psalms is how they move from despair to hope. Prayers will be answered. Things will get better. Turn up the volume and feel the urgency and pathos Bono injects into your soul as he sings the refrain; “How long, how long? How long to sing this song?” In the live version we the audience take over for him. The words accompanying the music swell over the crowd. How much longer? How much more suffering? My patient’s hair will grow back. It will take years. All we can do is lament with her.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.