Jeffrey Benabio, MD, MBA

When you fly as a physician, there’s always a chance you’ll get a free drink. It’s not free, of course. For at least a few minutes, you worked. “Is there a physician onboard? – Ah, just how badly do you want that vodka tonic?

I ring my call button, as I’m sure you do. (It’s worth it to see the flight attendant’s face when I reply: “I’m a dermatologist.”) Last time it was for a 68-year-old man who was vomiting. There was no rash.

I responded along with a pediatrician and an ER nurse – gratitude is an ER nurse at 38,000 feet. The patient had chemotherapy-induced nausea. We three managed to get him well enough to finish the flight. Our ER nurse team member ran the show; she was excellent. She asked all the right questions and helped us all make good decisions. Unlike in clinic, I wasn’t an expert here despite my MD.

Several weeks ago, I saw a patient in the office with severe psoriasis. She stood before me erythrodermic. As I was adjusting her orders, I stepped out of the office to call one of my partners for her opinion. She examined the patient and declared: “I don’t think it’s psoriasis. Despite that biopsy, I think this is chronic eczema.” Brilliant.

In contrast to the former story, I was an expert in my office. And yet, success depended in both instances on my recognizing a cognitive bias: I don’t know everything, and worse, I sometimes don’t realize what I don’t know.

There are several biases of overconfidence. One is the expert trap: You believe you are an expert or correct, but you are wrong and you don’t see it. It’s a common mistake and manifests as overconfidence in our own abilities. For example, what decade did Hawaii join the union? Who is on the 20-dollar bill? Which is the farthest planet? You might be 90% confident of your answers, but most of us are more confident than we ought to be. Chances are you’ll be wrong on one. Recognizing this is hard. And yet, it’s what separates the good from the great clinicians.

Short of having your medical assistant whisper in your ear each day “Memento stultus” (remember you’re stupid), avoiding this bias is difficult. Signs that you might be trapped in an expert mindset are: 1. You believe your patients’ failure to improve is due to lack of adherence to your plan. 2. You cannot recall the last time you tried a new treatment. 3. You never ask others for second opinions. 4. Your colleagues stop asking for your opinion. 5. A flight attendant asks if you would mind returning to your seat rather than help with a medical situation.

If you want to be a better doctor, try working on your sense of self-importance. Remember your limitations and those of medicine. Be methodical in questioning your assumptions. Could you be wrong? Could the data you have be misleading? What are you missing? Ask a colleague to review some of your charts or spend time with you during procedures. Join (or start!) a journal club. Share your difficult cases with others and take note of how their advice differs from your approach.

By recognizing when you might be wrong and humbly stepping aside or taking the time to learn, you might just earn that free drink.

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.

When you fly as a physician, there’s always a chance you’ll get a free drink. It’s not free, of course. For at least a few minutes, you worked. “Is there a physician onboard? – Ah, just how badly do you want that vodka tonic?

I ring my call button, as I’m sure you do. (It’s worth it to see the flight attendant’s face when I reply: “I’m a dermatologist.”) Last time it was for a 68-year-old man who was vomiting. There was no rash.

I responded along with a pediatrician and an ER nurse – gratitude is an ER nurse at 38,000 feet. The patient had chemotherapy-induced nausea. We three managed to get him well enough to finish the flight. Our ER nurse team member ran the show; she was excellent. She asked all the right questions and helped us all make good decisions. Unlike in clinic, I wasn’t an expert here despite my MD.

Several weeks ago, I saw a patient in the office with severe psoriasis. She stood before me erythrodermic. As I was adjusting her orders, I stepped out of the office to call one of my partners for her opinion. She examined the patient and declared: “I don’t think it’s psoriasis. Despite that biopsy, I think this is chronic eczema.” Brilliant.

In contrast to the former story, I was an expert in my office. And yet, success depended in both instances on my recognizing a cognitive bias: I don’t know everything, and worse, I sometimes don’t realize what I don’t know.

There are several biases of overconfidence. One is the expert trap: You believe you are an expert or correct, but you are wrong and you don’t see it. It’s a common mistake and manifests as overconfidence in our own abilities. For example, what decade did Hawaii join the union? Who is on the 20-dollar bill? Which is the farthest planet? You might be 90% confident of your answers, but most of us are more confident than we ought to be. Chances are you’ll be wrong on one. Recognizing this is hard. And yet, it’s what separates the good from the great clinicians.

Short of having your medical assistant whisper in your ear each day “Memento stultus” (remember you’re stupid), avoiding this bias is difficult. Signs that you might be trapped in an expert mindset are: 1. You believe your patients’ failure to improve is due to lack of adherence to your plan. 2. You cannot recall the last time you tried a new treatment. 3. You never ask others for second opinions. 4. Your colleagues stop asking for your opinion. 5. A flight attendant asks if you would mind returning to your seat rather than help with a medical situation.

If you want to be a better doctor, try working on your sense of self-importance. Remember your limitations and those of medicine. Be methodical in questioning your assumptions. Could you be wrong? Could the data you have be misleading? What are you missing? Ask a colleague to review some of your charts or spend time with you during procedures. Join (or start!) a journal club. Share your difficult cases with others and take note of how their advice differs from your approach.

By recognizing when you might be wrong and humbly stepping aside or taking the time to learn, you might just earn that free drink.

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.

When you fly as a physician, there’s always a chance you’ll get a free drink. It’s not free, of course. For at least a few minutes, you worked. “Is there a physician onboard? – Ah, just how badly do you want that vodka tonic?

I ring my call button, as I’m sure you do. (It’s worth it to see the flight attendant’s face when I reply: “I’m a dermatologist.”) Last time it was for a 68-year-old man who was vomiting. There was no rash.

I responded along with a pediatrician and an ER nurse – gratitude is an ER nurse at 38,000 feet. The patient had chemotherapy-induced nausea. We three managed to get him well enough to finish the flight. Our ER nurse team member ran the show; she was excellent. She asked all the right questions and helped us all make good decisions. Unlike in clinic, I wasn’t an expert here despite my MD.

Several weeks ago, I saw a patient in the office with severe psoriasis. She stood before me erythrodermic. As I was adjusting her orders, I stepped out of the office to call one of my partners for her opinion. She examined the patient and declared: “I don’t think it’s psoriasis. Despite that biopsy, I think this is chronic eczema.” Brilliant.

In contrast to the former story, I was an expert in my office. And yet, success depended in both instances on my recognizing a cognitive bias: I don’t know everything, and worse, I sometimes don’t realize what I don’t know.

There are several biases of overconfidence. One is the expert trap: You believe you are an expert or correct, but you are wrong and you don’t see it. It’s a common mistake and manifests as overconfidence in our own abilities. For example, what decade did Hawaii join the union? Who is on the 20-dollar bill? Which is the farthest planet? You might be 90% confident of your answers, but most of us are more confident than we ought to be. Chances are you’ll be wrong on one. Recognizing this is hard. And yet, it’s what separates the good from the great clinicians.

Short of having your medical assistant whisper in your ear each day “Memento stultus” (remember you’re stupid), avoiding this bias is difficult. Signs that you might be trapped in an expert mindset are: 1. You believe your patients’ failure to improve is due to lack of adherence to your plan. 2. You cannot recall the last time you tried a new treatment. 3. You never ask others for second opinions. 4. Your colleagues stop asking for your opinion. 5. A flight attendant asks if you would mind returning to your seat rather than help with a medical situation.

If you want to be a better doctor, try working on your sense of self-importance. Remember your limitations and those of medicine. Be methodical in questioning your assumptions. Could you be wrong? Could the data you have be misleading? What are you missing? Ask a colleague to review some of your charts or spend time with you during procedures. Join (or start!) a journal club. Share your difficult cases with others and take note of how their advice differs from your approach.

By recognizing when you might be wrong and humbly stepping aside or taking the time to learn, you might just earn that free drink.

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 best way to ensure that I’ll run late in clinic is to start late. I avoid such delayed starts as scabies, yet, sometimes it’s unavoidable. I walked into my 1:30 appointment at 1:35. “Can I ask you a question?” my bony, patient with the long gray beard asked. “Sure.” I replied. “Is your time important to you?” he snapped.

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“I’m sorry I’m running late and kept you waiting,” I offered, “but I had a sick patient this morning.” When he retorted that his time was important, too, I interrupted him.

“Please sit on the exam table and tell me how I can help you so we don’t waste any more of your time.” He went on to complain that the treatments for his facial seborrheic dermatitis did not resolve the problem. When he stops treatment, it flares. I explained that this was a chronic condition and that he could manage it with my help. He resisted, but with each parry, his aggressiveness weakened. We reviewed behavior, product, and medication options for him. By the end of the visit, he was (mostly) pleased and left with a plan and prescription to help.

Early in my career, this appointment might have been disastrous: It would have ruined my afternoon and possibly led to a formal patient complaint. His antagonistic comments and boorish behavior would have unsettled me. But it didn’t now.

I had the confidence to know his diagnosis and how to help him, despite his dissatisfaction. Confidence is one of the key differences that distinguish good doctors from great doctors. Those with strong self-confidence not only have better patient satisfaction and higher quality but also are more efficient and have high level of satisfaction with their career. When your confidence is low, medical decision making and managing patient expectations become difficult. This is particularly true when a patient comes “informed.” Often their knowledge is helpful but, as we know, sometimes it’s bogus, even detrimental. Although we ought to have come a long way from the brash doctor-knows-best days of our past, we also ought not capitulate to patients. Sometimes, you have to be the doctor. Balancing confidence with compassion is tricky yet essential to success.


When I meet with our young doctors, I try to provide feedback not only on their medical acumen but also on their confidence to deploy that expertise. Like a skill, self-confidence can be improved. The best way is to recognize difficult conversations and do not avoid them. When you feel your face flush and heart race, take a good belly breath and step into it. You don’t have to confront or argue with your patient, you do have to assert and negotiate. Helping a difficult patient can feel like you’ve done something wrong, but chances are, you haven’t. Reframe the situation, think of it as you doing the hard work to help them. Being confident is as important as getting the diagnosis right. Even when you don’t know the diagnosis, you can be most helpful when you are direct and say so. “I’m not sure what you have, but here is how I’m going to help you.”

To improve self-confidence you’ll have to practice. When you have a difficult visit that ultimately ended well, make a note of it. Reflect on it. The next time you have a challenging patient, remember your previous success and how you felt. Then breathe and do it again. After all, you are the doctor.

Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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 best way to ensure that I’ll run late in clinic is to start late. I avoid such delayed starts as scabies, yet, sometimes it’s unavoidable. I walked into my 1:30 appointment at 1:35. “Can I ask you a question?” my bony, patient with the long gray beard asked. “Sure.” I replied. “Is your time important to you?” he snapped.

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“I’m sorry I’m running late and kept you waiting,” I offered, “but I had a sick patient this morning.” When he retorted that his time was important, too, I interrupted him.

“Please sit on the exam table and tell me how I can help you so we don’t waste any more of your time.” He went on to complain that the treatments for his facial seborrheic dermatitis did not resolve the problem. When he stops treatment, it flares. I explained that this was a chronic condition and that he could manage it with my help. He resisted, but with each parry, his aggressiveness weakened. We reviewed behavior, product, and medication options for him. By the end of the visit, he was (mostly) pleased and left with a plan and prescription to help.

Early in my career, this appointment might have been disastrous: It would have ruined my afternoon and possibly led to a formal patient complaint. His antagonistic comments and boorish behavior would have unsettled me. But it didn’t now.

I had the confidence to know his diagnosis and how to help him, despite his dissatisfaction. Confidence is one of the key differences that distinguish good doctors from great doctors. Those with strong self-confidence not only have better patient satisfaction and higher quality but also are more efficient and have high level of satisfaction with their career. When your confidence is low, medical decision making and managing patient expectations become difficult. This is particularly true when a patient comes “informed.” Often their knowledge is helpful but, as we know, sometimes it’s bogus, even detrimental. Although we ought to have come a long way from the brash doctor-knows-best days of our past, we also ought not capitulate to patients. Sometimes, you have to be the doctor. Balancing confidence with compassion is tricky yet essential to success.


When I meet with our young doctors, I try to provide feedback not only on their medical acumen but also on their confidence to deploy that expertise. Like a skill, self-confidence can be improved. The best way is to recognize difficult conversations and do not avoid them. When you feel your face flush and heart race, take a good belly breath and step into it. You don’t have to confront or argue with your patient, you do have to assert and negotiate. Helping a difficult patient can feel like you’ve done something wrong, but chances are, you haven’t. Reframe the situation, think of it as you doing the hard work to help them. Being confident is as important as getting the diagnosis right. Even when you don’t know the diagnosis, you can be most helpful when you are direct and say so. “I’m not sure what you have, but here is how I’m going to help you.”

To improve self-confidence you’ll have to practice. When you have a difficult visit that ultimately ended well, make a note of it. Reflect on it. The next time you have a challenging patient, remember your previous success and how you felt. Then breathe and do it again. After all, you are the doctor.

Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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 best way to ensure that I’ll run late in clinic is to start late. I avoid such delayed starts as scabies, yet, sometimes it’s unavoidable. I walked into my 1:30 appointment at 1:35. “Can I ask you a question?” my bony, patient with the long gray beard asked. “Sure.” I replied. “Is your time important to you?” he snapped.

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“I’m sorry I’m running late and kept you waiting,” I offered, “but I had a sick patient this morning.” When he retorted that his time was important, too, I interrupted him.

“Please sit on the exam table and tell me how I can help you so we don’t waste any more of your time.” He went on to complain that the treatments for his facial seborrheic dermatitis did not resolve the problem. When he stops treatment, it flares. I explained that this was a chronic condition and that he could manage it with my help. He resisted, but with each parry, his aggressiveness weakened. We reviewed behavior, product, and medication options for him. By the end of the visit, he was (mostly) pleased and left with a plan and prescription to help.

Early in my career, this appointment might have been disastrous: It would have ruined my afternoon and possibly led to a formal patient complaint. His antagonistic comments and boorish behavior would have unsettled me. But it didn’t now.

I had the confidence to know his diagnosis and how to help him, despite his dissatisfaction. Confidence is one of the key differences that distinguish good doctors from great doctors. Those with strong self-confidence not only have better patient satisfaction and higher quality but also are more efficient and have high level of satisfaction with their career. When your confidence is low, medical decision making and managing patient expectations become difficult. This is particularly true when a patient comes “informed.” Often their knowledge is helpful but, as we know, sometimes it’s bogus, even detrimental. Although we ought to have come a long way from the brash doctor-knows-best days of our past, we also ought not capitulate to patients. Sometimes, you have to be the doctor. Balancing confidence with compassion is tricky yet essential to success.


When I meet with our young doctors, I try to provide feedback not only on their medical acumen but also on their confidence to deploy that expertise. Like a skill, self-confidence can be improved. The best way is to recognize difficult conversations and do not avoid them. When you feel your face flush and heart race, take a good belly breath and step into it. You don’t have to confront or argue with your patient, you do have to assert and negotiate. Helping a difficult patient can feel like you’ve done something wrong, but chances are, you haven’t. Reframe the situation, think of it as you doing the hard work to help them. Being confident is as important as getting the diagnosis right. Even when you don’t know the diagnosis, you can be most helpful when you are direct and say so. “I’m not sure what you have, but here is how I’m going to help you.”

To improve self-confidence you’ll have to practice. When you have a difficult visit that ultimately ended well, make a note of it. Reflect on it. The next time you have a challenging patient, remember your previous success and how you felt. Then breathe and do it again. After all, you are the doctor.

Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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.

Just how good are you? Are you a pretty good doc? A better-than-average leader? Or, are you truly an eminently qualified physician?

For all the talk about maintenance of certification and continuing medical education, it isn’t easy to know if you really are a good physician, teacher, or leader. In medicine, we’re careful to show respect to each other and tend to be slow to be critical. This might seem a kind approach to feedback, but I wonder if it is.

There are other professions where evaluations and feedback are more direct. In the military, performance standards are often quite explicit. The Marines, for instance, take performance evaluations seriously. This is evident if you’ve ever completed, or been a recipient of, a U.S. Marine Corps fitness report. Reading it, I realized many of the criteria could apply to us in medicine. Here are a few examples from that form (lightly modified for physicians).

Think about your clinical and technical expertise. Would you grade yourself as “competent. Possesses requisite range of skills and knowledge commensurate with training and experience?” Or maybe the next grade “demonstrates mastery of all required skills. Expertise, education and experience consistently enhance department. Innovative troubleshooter and problem solver. Effectively imparts skills to trainees.” Or perhaps you’re a “true expert in the field. Knowledge and skills impact far beyond those of peers. Translates broad-based education into forward-thinking, innovative actions. Makes immeasurable impact on department. Peerless teacher, selflessly imparts expertise to peers, residents, students.”

What about your effectiveness under stress?

Do you act “commensurate with your training and role?” Or do you have an “uncanny ability to anticipate requirements and quickly formulate original solutions?” Do you always “take decisive, effective action?”

How about your leadership performance?

Are you simply “engaged, providing instruction and direction?” Or do you “achieve a highly effective balance between direction and delegation, effectively tasking subordinates and clearly delineating standards expected?” A few of us even “engender willing loyalty and trust that allow subordinates to overcome their perceived limitations.” And exhibit “leadership that fosters the highest levels of motivation and morale, ensuring accomplishment in the most difficult circumstances.”

We might even mitigate physician burnout better if we had better performance standards. For example, do you simply “deal confidently with issues pertinent to subordinate welfare and recognize suitable courses of action?” Maybe you’re at the next level, “actively fostering the development of and uses of support systems for subordinates which improve their ability to perform.” I’m fortunate to know a few physician leaders who “noticeably enhance subordinate well-being, resulting in measurable increase in department effectiveness and proactively energize team members to ‘take care of their own.’ Widely recognized for techniques and policies that produce results and build morale.” By codifying what the standard should be, we can better hold ourselves accountable for our performance. In doing so, we might be better at recognizing and reducing burnout in our direct reports and peers.

The final question on the Marine fitness report is a comparative assessment. The evaluating officer checks one of the following boxes: 1. Unsatisfactory; 2. A qualified Marine; 3. One of many highly qualified Marines; 4. One of the few exceptionally qualified Marines; or, 5. The eminently qualified Marine.

Which are you? Can you describe yourself as “the eminently qualified physician?” You’ll have to define that standard in order to reach it.

This post was inspired by the “Set Standards. Aspire to Achieve Them” episode of Jocko Podcast.

Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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.

Just how good are you? Are you a pretty good doc? A better-than-average leader? Or, are you truly an eminently qualified physician?

For all the talk about maintenance of certification and continuing medical education, it isn’t easy to know if you really are a good physician, teacher, or leader. In medicine, we’re careful to show respect to each other and tend to be slow to be critical. This might seem a kind approach to feedback, but I wonder if it is.

There are other professions where evaluations and feedback are more direct. In the military, performance standards are often quite explicit. The Marines, for instance, take performance evaluations seriously. This is evident if you’ve ever completed, or been a recipient of, a U.S. Marine Corps fitness report. Reading it, I realized many of the criteria could apply to us in medicine. Here are a few examples from that form (lightly modified for physicians).

Think about your clinical and technical expertise. Would you grade yourself as “competent. Possesses requisite range of skills and knowledge commensurate with training and experience?” Or maybe the next grade “demonstrates mastery of all required skills. Expertise, education and experience consistently enhance department. Innovative troubleshooter and problem solver. Effectively imparts skills to trainees.” Or perhaps you’re a “true expert in the field. Knowledge and skills impact far beyond those of peers. Translates broad-based education into forward-thinking, innovative actions. Makes immeasurable impact on department. Peerless teacher, selflessly imparts expertise to peers, residents, students.”

What about your effectiveness under stress?

Do you act “commensurate with your training and role?” Or do you have an “uncanny ability to anticipate requirements and quickly formulate original solutions?” Do you always “take decisive, effective action?”

How about your leadership performance?

Are you simply “engaged, providing instruction and direction?” Or do you “achieve a highly effective balance between direction and delegation, effectively tasking subordinates and clearly delineating standards expected?” A few of us even “engender willing loyalty and trust that allow subordinates to overcome their perceived limitations.” And exhibit “leadership that fosters the highest levels of motivation and morale, ensuring accomplishment in the most difficult circumstances.”

We might even mitigate physician burnout better if we had better performance standards. For example, do you simply “deal confidently with issues pertinent to subordinate welfare and recognize suitable courses of action?” Maybe you’re at the next level, “actively fostering the development of and uses of support systems for subordinates which improve their ability to perform.” I’m fortunate to know a few physician leaders who “noticeably enhance subordinate well-being, resulting in measurable increase in department effectiveness and proactively energize team members to ‘take care of their own.’ Widely recognized for techniques and policies that produce results and build morale.” By codifying what the standard should be, we can better hold ourselves accountable for our performance. In doing so, we might be better at recognizing and reducing burnout in our direct reports and peers.

The final question on the Marine fitness report is a comparative assessment. The evaluating officer checks one of the following boxes: 1. Unsatisfactory; 2. A qualified Marine; 3. One of many highly qualified Marines; 4. One of the few exceptionally qualified Marines; or, 5. The eminently qualified Marine.

Which are you? Can you describe yourself as “the eminently qualified physician?” You’ll have to define that standard in order to reach it.

This post was inspired by the “Set Standards. Aspire to Achieve Them” episode of Jocko Podcast.

Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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.

Just how good are you? Are you a pretty good doc? A better-than-average leader? Or, are you truly an eminently qualified physician?

For all the talk about maintenance of certification and continuing medical education, it isn’t easy to know if you really are a good physician, teacher, or leader. In medicine, we’re careful to show respect to each other and tend to be slow to be critical. This might seem a kind approach to feedback, but I wonder if it is.

There are other professions where evaluations and feedback are more direct. In the military, performance standards are often quite explicit. The Marines, for instance, take performance evaluations seriously. This is evident if you’ve ever completed, or been a recipient of, a U.S. Marine Corps fitness report. Reading it, I realized many of the criteria could apply to us in medicine. Here are a few examples from that form (lightly modified for physicians).

Think about your clinical and technical expertise. Would you grade yourself as “competent. Possesses requisite range of skills and knowledge commensurate with training and experience?” Or maybe the next grade “demonstrates mastery of all required skills. Expertise, education and experience consistently enhance department. Innovative troubleshooter and problem solver. Effectively imparts skills to trainees.” Or perhaps you’re a “true expert in the field. Knowledge and skills impact far beyond those of peers. Translates broad-based education into forward-thinking, innovative actions. Makes immeasurable impact on department. Peerless teacher, selflessly imparts expertise to peers, residents, students.”

What about your effectiveness under stress?

Do you act “commensurate with your training and role?” Or do you have an “uncanny ability to anticipate requirements and quickly formulate original solutions?” Do you always “take decisive, effective action?”

How about your leadership performance?

Are you simply “engaged, providing instruction and direction?” Or do you “achieve a highly effective balance between direction and delegation, effectively tasking subordinates and clearly delineating standards expected?” A few of us even “engender willing loyalty and trust that allow subordinates to overcome their perceived limitations.” And exhibit “leadership that fosters the highest levels of motivation and morale, ensuring accomplishment in the most difficult circumstances.”

We might even mitigate physician burnout better if we had better performance standards. For example, do you simply “deal confidently with issues pertinent to subordinate welfare and recognize suitable courses of action?” Maybe you’re at the next level, “actively fostering the development of and uses of support systems for subordinates which improve their ability to perform.” I’m fortunate to know a few physician leaders who “noticeably enhance subordinate well-being, resulting in measurable increase in department effectiveness and proactively energize team members to ‘take care of their own.’ Widely recognized for techniques and policies that produce results and build morale.” By codifying what the standard should be, we can better hold ourselves accountable for our performance. In doing so, we might be better at recognizing and reducing burnout in our direct reports and peers.

The final question on the Marine fitness report is a comparative assessment. The evaluating officer checks one of the following boxes: 1. Unsatisfactory; 2. A qualified Marine; 3. One of many highly qualified Marines; 4. One of the few exceptionally qualified Marines; or, 5. The eminently qualified Marine.

Which are you? Can you describe yourself as “the eminently qualified physician?” You’ll have to define that standard in order to reach it.

This post was inspired by the “Set Standards. Aspire to Achieve Them” episode of Jocko Podcast.

Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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.

Hurray! We’re getting a version update of our electronic medical record (EMR) this month. Of course, I might be overplaying my excitement here: EMR updates are emotionally closest to a trip to the dentist – usually turn out fine, but hardly worth circling on the calendar.

copyright BrianAJackson/Thinkstock

Like a good dental cleaning however, these updates can be beneficial. Although uncomfortable, EMR redesigned menus and shortcuts can help – once you’re used to them. It typically doesn’t take long for most of us to learn the “improvements” so we’re at least not worse off. It is also a good time to update customized features. I try to use updates as an opportunity to refresh SmartPhrases, update order preferences, or rearrange my desktop to be more efficient.

Given how much my quality of life depends upon my EMR skills, it’s a shame I don’t make an effort to work on it more often. Really, why wait to make improvements just once a year? Why not get better every day?

This idea of continuous improvement is a popular meme in the self-improvement community right now. Instead of working on goals or adjusting your routine episodically, set an intention to get better, just a little, daily. Sometimes it’s described as the 1% model. The idea is that improving your habits or work flow by 1% each day will yield compound benefits with time. It is an aggregation of marginal gains with a surprising payout. For example, daily 1% improvements would mean you are 37 times more effective by the end of a year. Now, I don’t believe this mathematical model is necessarily accurate or even necessary. But the concept that a little development done daily yields lasting improvement seems to be true.

The corollary, that if you got a little worse each day, you’d be much worse off at the end of a year, is also reasonable. That’s how most health problems set in: continuous and insidious aggregation of bad choices. Why then not use that same principle for good instead?

The Japanese thought of this idea a generation ago. Applied to manufacturing, they called it Kaizen, “continuous improvement.” It was a managerial principle that reminded people to look for opportunities to improve, just a little, wherever they were in the process and to do so each day. It led to remarkable reductions in waste and became a key to their economic success.

Opportunities for relentless improvement abound in our work too. For example, when you write an order or work up a diagnosis, rather than just enter it, you might save it as a panel. When you find yourself using the same word or phrase, save it to your dictionary to pull it up with minimal keystrokes. When you research a difficult disease you’ve not seen lately, save the diagnostic questions as a template so you can pull it up in real time the next time it walks in. When you set up your procedure tray, place items so they can be picked up efficiently and moved out of the way quickly. No matter how good your setup or template is today, you can find a tiny improvement that would make it a little better tomorrow. And you’ll reap gains from that day forward.

I don’t expect this EMR update will have much impact on my quality of life. It will however be a reminder that like flossing, improvements are best done daily. You and your dentist will thank me someday.
 

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.

Hurray! We’re getting a version update of our electronic medical record (EMR) this month. Of course, I might be overplaying my excitement here: EMR updates are emotionally closest to a trip to the dentist – usually turn out fine, but hardly worth circling on the calendar.

copyright BrianAJackson/Thinkstock

Like a good dental cleaning however, these updates can be beneficial. Although uncomfortable, EMR redesigned menus and shortcuts can help – once you’re used to them. It typically doesn’t take long for most of us to learn the “improvements” so we’re at least not worse off. It is also a good time to update customized features. I try to use updates as an opportunity to refresh SmartPhrases, update order preferences, or rearrange my desktop to be more efficient.

Given how much my quality of life depends upon my EMR skills, it’s a shame I don’t make an effort to work on it more often. Really, why wait to make improvements just once a year? Why not get better every day?

This idea of continuous improvement is a popular meme in the self-improvement community right now. Instead of working on goals or adjusting your routine episodically, set an intention to get better, just a little, daily. Sometimes it’s described as the 1% model. The idea is that improving your habits or work flow by 1% each day will yield compound benefits with time. It is an aggregation of marginal gains with a surprising payout. For example, daily 1% improvements would mean you are 37 times more effective by the end of a year. Now, I don’t believe this mathematical model is necessarily accurate or even necessary. But the concept that a little development done daily yields lasting improvement seems to be true.

The corollary, that if you got a little worse each day, you’d be much worse off at the end of a year, is also reasonable. That’s how most health problems set in: continuous and insidious aggregation of bad choices. Why then not use that same principle for good instead?

The Japanese thought of this idea a generation ago. Applied to manufacturing, they called it Kaizen, “continuous improvement.” It was a managerial principle that reminded people to look for opportunities to improve, just a little, wherever they were in the process and to do so each day. It led to remarkable reductions in waste and became a key to their economic success.

Opportunities for relentless improvement abound in our work too. For example, when you write an order or work up a diagnosis, rather than just enter it, you might save it as a panel. When you find yourself using the same word or phrase, save it to your dictionary to pull it up with minimal keystrokes. When you research a difficult disease you’ve not seen lately, save the diagnostic questions as a template so you can pull it up in real time the next time it walks in. When you set up your procedure tray, place items so they can be picked up efficiently and moved out of the way quickly. No matter how good your setup or template is today, you can find a tiny improvement that would make it a little better tomorrow. And you’ll reap gains from that day forward.

I don’t expect this EMR update will have much impact on my quality of life. It will however be a reminder that like flossing, improvements are best done daily. You and your dentist will thank me someday.
 

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.

Hurray! We’re getting a version update of our electronic medical record (EMR) this month. Of course, I might be overplaying my excitement here: EMR updates are emotionally closest to a trip to the dentist – usually turn out fine, but hardly worth circling on the calendar.

copyright BrianAJackson/Thinkstock

Like a good dental cleaning however, these updates can be beneficial. Although uncomfortable, EMR redesigned menus and shortcuts can help – once you’re used to them. It typically doesn’t take long for most of us to learn the “improvements” so we’re at least not worse off. It is also a good time to update customized features. I try to use updates as an opportunity to refresh SmartPhrases, update order preferences, or rearrange my desktop to be more efficient.

Given how much my quality of life depends upon my EMR skills, it’s a shame I don’t make an effort to work on it more often. Really, why wait to make improvements just once a year? Why not get better every day?

This idea of continuous improvement is a popular meme in the self-improvement community right now. Instead of working on goals or adjusting your routine episodically, set an intention to get better, just a little, daily. Sometimes it’s described as the 1% model. The idea is that improving your habits or work flow by 1% each day will yield compound benefits with time. It is an aggregation of marginal gains with a surprising payout. For example, daily 1% improvements would mean you are 37 times more effective by the end of a year. Now, I don’t believe this mathematical model is necessarily accurate or even necessary. But the concept that a little development done daily yields lasting improvement seems to be true.

The corollary, that if you got a little worse each day, you’d be much worse off at the end of a year, is also reasonable. That’s how most health problems set in: continuous and insidious aggregation of bad choices. Why then not use that same principle for good instead?

The Japanese thought of this idea a generation ago. Applied to manufacturing, they called it Kaizen, “continuous improvement.” It was a managerial principle that reminded people to look for opportunities to improve, just a little, wherever they were in the process and to do so each day. It led to remarkable reductions in waste and became a key to their economic success.

Opportunities for relentless improvement abound in our work too. For example, when you write an order or work up a diagnosis, rather than just enter it, you might save it as a panel. When you find yourself using the same word or phrase, save it to your dictionary to pull it up with minimal keystrokes. When you research a difficult disease you’ve not seen lately, save the diagnostic questions as a template so you can pull it up in real time the next time it walks in. When you set up your procedure tray, place items so they can be picked up efficiently and moved out of the way quickly. No matter how good your setup or template is today, you can find a tiny improvement that would make it a little better tomorrow. And you’ll reap gains from that day forward.

I don’t expect this EMR update will have much impact on my quality of life. It will however be a reminder that like flossing, improvements are best done daily. You and your dentist will thank me someday.
 

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.

There is little to want for living in San Diego, America’s Finest City. The weather here is 72 and sunny year round. Yet, there are shortcomings. For one, there are no Forsythia. Forsythia are the deciduous shrubs that act as the harbingers of spring, blooming brilliant yellow across cold gray damp parts of the United States right now.

KiHoon/Getty Images

I grew up in New England where Forsythia bushes flower this time of year – a most welcome sign that the winter’s worst was over. Along with the purple crocus plants popping up in the warm bits of grass that breaks through the snow, seeing the Forsythia bloom always evoked that most appealing of feelings, hope. Hope that the discomfort of winter has passed. Hope that the beauty of nature will return. A promise that this year’s cycle of life will continue.

Hope is what we give our patients every day. Whatever their disease, their cancer, their distress, we can see a future that is better for them. A future with less suffering or with more joy. And as their doctors, we can help them get there.

A newly insured patient came to see me today. She had severe psoriasis. Her face, masked with red scaly patches, was heavy with the burden of the long winter she had endured. She was itchy and flaky and so embarrassed as to struggle to make eye contact with me. When I told her that we could help her, that there are treatments for her that would clear up the psoriasis and relieve her symptoms, she started to cry. Her husband intervened, apologizing for her. “I’m sorry. She has had this for so long, and you are the first person to tell her that she can get better. You have given us hope.”

Milenius/Getty Images

When I walked back to my office I noticed the Rhode Island flag that I have mounted. Under the stars and blue anchor on it is the word “hope.” In 1664, when the state seal was created, it was the most important of ideas. It is why the settlers of Rhode Island risked their lives to cross an ocean to start anew, why my ancestors came from Italy two centuries later, why my parents sent me to college, why I decided to try for medicine. It is what most of us give every day. Hope, the ability to see into the future and bring that feeling back to the present. The belief that whatever and wherever you are, soon it will be even better. It cannot, however, be commanded. You can’t insist a patient hope any more than you can make them love. You must first understand what they see and feel, then show them how things might be better through trust.

Throughout life, hope creates possibilities. It unites us. It motivates us. It is the destroyer of winter and of burnout and of disease. It is one of the most important gifts that we give patients, and we do it everyday. Tomorrow in your practice, notice how often you foster it. Pay attention to how your patient changes the moment you give it to them. Watch the Forsythia bloom as you reassure them that their spring will return again.

“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
 

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.

There is little to want for living in San Diego, America’s Finest City. The weather here is 72 and sunny year round. Yet, there are shortcomings. For one, there are no Forsythia. Forsythia are the deciduous shrubs that act as the harbingers of spring, blooming brilliant yellow across cold gray damp parts of the United States right now.

KiHoon/Getty Images

I grew up in New England where Forsythia bushes flower this time of year – a most welcome sign that the winter’s worst was over. Along with the purple crocus plants popping up in the warm bits of grass that breaks through the snow, seeing the Forsythia bloom always evoked that most appealing of feelings, hope. Hope that the discomfort of winter has passed. Hope that the beauty of nature will return. A promise that this year’s cycle of life will continue.

Hope is what we give our patients every day. Whatever their disease, their cancer, their distress, we can see a future that is better for them. A future with less suffering or with more joy. And as their doctors, we can help them get there.

A newly insured patient came to see me today. She had severe psoriasis. Her face, masked with red scaly patches, was heavy with the burden of the long winter she had endured. She was itchy and flaky and so embarrassed as to struggle to make eye contact with me. When I told her that we could help her, that there are treatments for her that would clear up the psoriasis and relieve her symptoms, she started to cry. Her husband intervened, apologizing for her. “I’m sorry. She has had this for so long, and you are the first person to tell her that she can get better. You have given us hope.”

Milenius/Getty Images

When I walked back to my office I noticed the Rhode Island flag that I have mounted. Under the stars and blue anchor on it is the word “hope.” In 1664, when the state seal was created, it was the most important of ideas. It is why the settlers of Rhode Island risked their lives to cross an ocean to start anew, why my ancestors came from Italy two centuries later, why my parents sent me to college, why I decided to try for medicine. It is what most of us give every day. Hope, the ability to see into the future and bring that feeling back to the present. The belief that whatever and wherever you are, soon it will be even better. It cannot, however, be commanded. You can’t insist a patient hope any more than you can make them love. You must first understand what they see and feel, then show them how things might be better through trust.

Throughout life, hope creates possibilities. It unites us. It motivates us. It is the destroyer of winter and of burnout and of disease. It is one of the most important gifts that we give patients, and we do it everyday. Tomorrow in your practice, notice how often you foster it. Pay attention to how your patient changes the moment you give it to them. Watch the Forsythia bloom as you reassure them that their spring will return again.

“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
 

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.

There is little to want for living in San Diego, America’s Finest City. The weather here is 72 and sunny year round. Yet, there are shortcomings. For one, there are no Forsythia. Forsythia are the deciduous shrubs that act as the harbingers of spring, blooming brilliant yellow across cold gray damp parts of the United States right now.

KiHoon/Getty Images

I grew up in New England where Forsythia bushes flower this time of year – a most welcome sign that the winter’s worst was over. Along with the purple crocus plants popping up in the warm bits of grass that breaks through the snow, seeing the Forsythia bloom always evoked that most appealing of feelings, hope. Hope that the discomfort of winter has passed. Hope that the beauty of nature will return. A promise that this year’s cycle of life will continue.

Hope is what we give our patients every day. Whatever their disease, their cancer, their distress, we can see a future that is better for them. A future with less suffering or with more joy. And as their doctors, we can help them get there.

A newly insured patient came to see me today. She had severe psoriasis. Her face, masked with red scaly patches, was heavy with the burden of the long winter she had endured. She was itchy and flaky and so embarrassed as to struggle to make eye contact with me. When I told her that we could help her, that there are treatments for her that would clear up the psoriasis and relieve her symptoms, she started to cry. Her husband intervened, apologizing for her. “I’m sorry. She has had this for so long, and you are the first person to tell her that she can get better. You have given us hope.”

Milenius/Getty Images

When I walked back to my office I noticed the Rhode Island flag that I have mounted. Under the stars and blue anchor on it is the word “hope.” In 1664, when the state seal was created, it was the most important of ideas. It is why the settlers of Rhode Island risked their lives to cross an ocean to start anew, why my ancestors came from Italy two centuries later, why my parents sent me to college, why I decided to try for medicine. It is what most of us give every day. Hope, the ability to see into the future and bring that feeling back to the present. The belief that whatever and wherever you are, soon it will be even better. It cannot, however, be commanded. You can’t insist a patient hope any more than you can make them love. You must first understand what they see and feel, then show them how things might be better through trust.

Throughout life, hope creates possibilities. It unites us. It motivates us. It is the destroyer of winter and of burnout and of disease. It is one of the most important gifts that we give patients, and we do it everyday. Tomorrow in your practice, notice how often you foster it. Pay attention to how your patient changes the moment you give it to them. Watch the Forsythia bloom as you reassure them that their spring will return again.

“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
 

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.

For most things, the harder you work at it, the more successful you’ll be. Except when it comes to sleep. Nothing frightens sleep away faster than an all-out effort to find it. And yet, it should be the easiest of all health habits to cultivate. Sleep should be a hardwired, physiologic, default condition (sort of like eating and sex, all are which are evolutionary imperatives). And yet, lack of sleep is a common and grave problem even in our safe and comfortable modern environment.

tru/E+/Getty Images

Sleep really is the keystone to your health, without which all other healthy choices would fall to the ground, ineffectual. Lack of sleep depletes your willpower, making it less likely you’ll actually go to the gym or be able to resist that bear claw pastry calling you back to the break room. Poor sleep impairs your ability to lose and keep off weight. It can lead to mistakes of inattention – a problem if you’re flying a plane or screening for melanoma.

As a recovering insomniac, I’ve scouted out the territory for you and have taken a few notes as a Baedeker on your journey to better sleep. Tracking sleep is easy; most any fitness tracker or smart watch outfitted with the right app will do the work for you. I’ve used my Apple Watch and Pillow for years. (I’ve no conflict of interest). I’ve found that the quality score it provides each night is interesting, but not all that important. Using pad and paper you could just as easily quantify your sleep: How many hours were you in bed, asleep, and how did you feel the next day.

Here is something important I learned about myself: I don’t need 8 hours. You might not either. Most articles say that we adults need 7-8 hours of sleep. I wasted a lot of effort trying to keep it above the 7-hour mark. Then I realized that even on nights when I got 6-7, I felt fine the next day! Don’t assume you need 8 hours. It could be 6 or it could be 9. It might in fact change depending on how you slept recently, what is happening in your life, or which season it is. If you feel alert and well rested, then you’ve likely found all the sleep you need.

Let’s assume you aren’t well rested. Now what? Like most of good health, a behavioral approach is needed to get you on the right path. You’ve likely heard that bright, particularly blue, light is harmful to falling asleep. Good news! Most devices will let you filter blue light out if you must continue that “Better Call Saul” binge. Better options: Leave your tablet in the living room and plug in your phone on the opposite side of the room (with a short cord). Invest instead in a book light and actual books. There is something about the patina of paper that can encourage sleep to come find you.

Keep the room comfortably cool. What’s important here is the temperature drop. That is, going from warm to cool. This is why a warm shower or bath before getting into bed can help you. Your temperature will drop, a signal for sleep.

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.

For most things, the harder you work at it, the more successful you’ll be. Except when it comes to sleep. Nothing frightens sleep away faster than an all-out effort to find it. And yet, it should be the easiest of all health habits to cultivate. Sleep should be a hardwired, physiologic, default condition (sort of like eating and sex, all are which are evolutionary imperatives). And yet, lack of sleep is a common and grave problem even in our safe and comfortable modern environment.

tru/E+/Getty Images

Sleep really is the keystone to your health, without which all other healthy choices would fall to the ground, ineffectual. Lack of sleep depletes your willpower, making it less likely you’ll actually go to the gym or be able to resist that bear claw pastry calling you back to the break room. Poor sleep impairs your ability to lose and keep off weight. It can lead to mistakes of inattention – a problem if you’re flying a plane or screening for melanoma.

As a recovering insomniac, I’ve scouted out the territory for you and have taken a few notes as a Baedeker on your journey to better sleep. Tracking sleep is easy; most any fitness tracker or smart watch outfitted with the right app will do the work for you. I’ve used my Apple Watch and Pillow for years. (I’ve no conflict of interest). I’ve found that the quality score it provides each night is interesting, but not all that important. Using pad and paper you could just as easily quantify your sleep: How many hours were you in bed, asleep, and how did you feel the next day.

Here is something important I learned about myself: I don’t need 8 hours. You might not either. Most articles say that we adults need 7-8 hours of sleep. I wasted a lot of effort trying to keep it above the 7-hour mark. Then I realized that even on nights when I got 6-7, I felt fine the next day! Don’t assume you need 8 hours. It could be 6 or it could be 9. It might in fact change depending on how you slept recently, what is happening in your life, or which season it is. If you feel alert and well rested, then you’ve likely found all the sleep you need.

Let’s assume you aren’t well rested. Now what? Like most of good health, a behavioral approach is needed to get you on the right path. You’ve likely heard that bright, particularly blue, light is harmful to falling asleep. Good news! Most devices will let you filter blue light out if you must continue that “Better Call Saul” binge. Better options: Leave your tablet in the living room and plug in your phone on the opposite side of the room (with a short cord). Invest instead in a book light and actual books. There is something about the patina of paper that can encourage sleep to come find you.

Keep the room comfortably cool. What’s important here is the temperature drop. That is, going from warm to cool. This is why a warm shower or bath before getting into bed can help you. Your temperature will drop, a signal for sleep.

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.

For most things, the harder you work at it, the more successful you’ll be. Except when it comes to sleep. Nothing frightens sleep away faster than an all-out effort to find it. And yet, it should be the easiest of all health habits to cultivate. Sleep should be a hardwired, physiologic, default condition (sort of like eating and sex, all are which are evolutionary imperatives). And yet, lack of sleep is a common and grave problem even in our safe and comfortable modern environment.

tru/E+/Getty Images

Sleep really is the keystone to your health, without which all other healthy choices would fall to the ground, ineffectual. Lack of sleep depletes your willpower, making it less likely you’ll actually go to the gym or be able to resist that bear claw pastry calling you back to the break room. Poor sleep impairs your ability to lose and keep off weight. It can lead to mistakes of inattention – a problem if you’re flying a plane or screening for melanoma.

As a recovering insomniac, I’ve scouted out the territory for you and have taken a few notes as a Baedeker on your journey to better sleep. Tracking sleep is easy; most any fitness tracker or smart watch outfitted with the right app will do the work for you. I’ve used my Apple Watch and Pillow for years. (I’ve no conflict of interest). I’ve found that the quality score it provides each night is interesting, but not all that important. Using pad and paper you could just as easily quantify your sleep: How many hours were you in bed, asleep, and how did you feel the next day.

Here is something important I learned about myself: I don’t need 8 hours. You might not either. Most articles say that we adults need 7-8 hours of sleep. I wasted a lot of effort trying to keep it above the 7-hour mark. Then I realized that even on nights when I got 6-7, I felt fine the next day! Don’t assume you need 8 hours. It could be 6 or it could be 9. It might in fact change depending on how you slept recently, what is happening in your life, or which season it is. If you feel alert and well rested, then you’ve likely found all the sleep you need.

Let’s assume you aren’t well rested. Now what? Like most of good health, a behavioral approach is needed to get you on the right path. You’ve likely heard that bright, particularly blue, light is harmful to falling asleep. Good news! Most devices will let you filter blue light out if you must continue that “Better Call Saul” binge. Better options: Leave your tablet in the living room and plug in your phone on the opposite side of the room (with a short cord). Invest instead in a book light and actual books. There is something about the patina of paper that can encourage sleep to come find you.

Keep the room comfortably cool. What’s important here is the temperature drop. That is, going from warm to cool. This is why a warm shower or bath before getting into bed can help you. Your temperature will drop, a signal for sleep.

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.

A crimson November San Diego sunset over the Pacific Ocean. Seeing your parents dance on their 50th wedding anniversary. A stein of cold Oktoberfest beer. Your car, freshly detailed. Your name written in black ink on a Starbucks Pumpkin Latte. A nicely everted surgical wound.

The smile on your daughter’s face when descending the stairs after a huge trick-or-treat score. A perfectly arranged Mayo stand, oh, exactly as you like it. An empty EMR in basket. A flap close on the nose that closes just so.

A Red Sox World series win (again). Lollipop lamb chops sizzling on the grill on a chilly Saturday tailgating morning. The answer to 14 down that leads to all the other answers you’ve desperately been trying to solve. The “ting” sound that Mimosa glasses make toasting Sunday brunch with friends. The next episode of Black Mirror launching automatically. A brilliant orange maple tree against a brilliant blue sky. The fissures on the crust of a still-warm loaf of Italian bread.

An elderly woman, her husband, daughter, and son-in-law who waited weeks and traveled miles to see you because they know you care. And they insist on seeing only you. A man who comes to see you without his wife this time just because he wanted to tell you in person how much they appreciated your care for her in the end. Opening your mailbox to see the September issue of Vogue, waiting for you to tear off the plastic. An as-yet-untouched Sunday New York Times. The sound of wood popping in the fireplace. The string of melted marshmallow down your son’s arm still attached to a s’more at the other end. 7-7-7 on your dollar slot at the casino. Eight-year-old girls at the center of the field celebrating a Sunday morning soccer victory. Departures showing your flight, gate 8, on time.

The smell of incense. The smell of lightly roasting garlic and olive oil. The smell of your wife’s perfume. The smell of wet leaves. The smell of your favorite scented candle. The smell of burning firewood on an early-morning walk in the Rockies. Snow falling. Snow crunching under your feet. Snow melting.

Remembering the uproarious laughter after your belly flop into the pool back in July. Steph Curry shooting a 3 in slow motion. Snoopy floating over 5th Avenue on Thanksgiving morning. The sound of wrapping paper being stuffed into garbage bags when the opening is done. A prior auth letter of approval. The feeling when you turn that first page of a brand-new Stephen King book. The feel of the grip on your fairway wood. Seeing your favorite movie pop up on Amazon Prime. The head massage your stylist gives you when washing your hair. The near pain of a really good massage.

The warmth of a child on your lap. The bark your dog gives when he sees you for the first time today as if it has been a million years. The crack of your favorite beer can opening. The ding when your microwave popcorn is ready. That warm feeling when you realize that, no, you don’t need any filter for that picture, it is ready to post exactly the way it is. The smile on your medical assistant’s face when you hand her a gratitude card. The ping that an email makes when you’re dying to hear back. The pride you feel when you execute a downward-facing dog and the instructor tells everyone to do it just like you. The smell of balsam fir. A podcast episode so good, you sit in your driveway to finish listening. A patient with a delightful British accent. The feel of pasta dough in your hands after adding just the right amount of flour and water so it’s now ready to go. Watching the Red Sox win the World Series (Wait, did I say that already?). The sound of your laptop keyboard clicking away while you write this piece. The feeling that 2019 is going to be your best year ever.



So what are the beautiful things in your life? Sit down right now and list a few (or a lot) of them. I promise it will be a more beautiful place where you are when you’re done.
 

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.

A crimson November San Diego sunset over the Pacific Ocean. Seeing your parents dance on their 50th wedding anniversary. A stein of cold Oktoberfest beer. Your car, freshly detailed. Your name written in black ink on a Starbucks Pumpkin Latte. A nicely everted surgical wound.

The smile on your daughter’s face when descending the stairs after a huge trick-or-treat score. A perfectly arranged Mayo stand, oh, exactly as you like it. An empty EMR in basket. A flap close on the nose that closes just so.

A Red Sox World series win (again). Lollipop lamb chops sizzling on the grill on a chilly Saturday tailgating morning. The answer to 14 down that leads to all the other answers you’ve desperately been trying to solve. The “ting” sound that Mimosa glasses make toasting Sunday brunch with friends. The next episode of Black Mirror launching automatically. A brilliant orange maple tree against a brilliant blue sky. The fissures on the crust of a still-warm loaf of Italian bread.

An elderly woman, her husband, daughter, and son-in-law who waited weeks and traveled miles to see you because they know you care. And they insist on seeing only you. A man who comes to see you without his wife this time just because he wanted to tell you in person how much they appreciated your care for her in the end. Opening your mailbox to see the September issue of Vogue, waiting for you to tear off the plastic. An as-yet-untouched Sunday New York Times. The sound of wood popping in the fireplace. The string of melted marshmallow down your son’s arm still attached to a s’more at the other end. 7-7-7 on your dollar slot at the casino. Eight-year-old girls at the center of the field celebrating a Sunday morning soccer victory. Departures showing your flight, gate 8, on time.

The smell of incense. The smell of lightly roasting garlic and olive oil. The smell of your wife’s perfume. The smell of wet leaves. The smell of your favorite scented candle. The smell of burning firewood on an early-morning walk in the Rockies. Snow falling. Snow crunching under your feet. Snow melting.

Remembering the uproarious laughter after your belly flop into the pool back in July. Steph Curry shooting a 3 in slow motion. Snoopy floating over 5th Avenue on Thanksgiving morning. The sound of wrapping paper being stuffed into garbage bags when the opening is done. A prior auth letter of approval. The feeling when you turn that first page of a brand-new Stephen King book. The feel of the grip on your fairway wood. Seeing your favorite movie pop up on Amazon Prime. The head massage your stylist gives you when washing your hair. The near pain of a really good massage.

The warmth of a child on your lap. The bark your dog gives when he sees you for the first time today as if it has been a million years. The crack of your favorite beer can opening. The ding when your microwave popcorn is ready. That warm feeling when you realize that, no, you don’t need any filter for that picture, it is ready to post exactly the way it is. The smile on your medical assistant’s face when you hand her a gratitude card. The ping that an email makes when you’re dying to hear back. The pride you feel when you execute a downward-facing dog and the instructor tells everyone to do it just like you. The smell of balsam fir. A podcast episode so good, you sit in your driveway to finish listening. A patient with a delightful British accent. The feel of pasta dough in your hands after adding just the right amount of flour and water so it’s now ready to go. Watching the Red Sox win the World Series (Wait, did I say that already?). The sound of your laptop keyboard clicking away while you write this piece. The feeling that 2019 is going to be your best year ever.



So what are the beautiful things in your life? Sit down right now and list a few (or a lot) of them. I promise it will be a more beautiful place where you are when you’re done.
 

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.

A crimson November San Diego sunset over the Pacific Ocean. Seeing your parents dance on their 50th wedding anniversary. A stein of cold Oktoberfest beer. Your car, freshly detailed. Your name written in black ink on a Starbucks Pumpkin Latte. A nicely everted surgical wound.

The smile on your daughter’s face when descending the stairs after a huge trick-or-treat score. A perfectly arranged Mayo stand, oh, exactly as you like it. An empty EMR in basket. A flap close on the nose that closes just so.

A Red Sox World series win (again). Lollipop lamb chops sizzling on the grill on a chilly Saturday tailgating morning. The answer to 14 down that leads to all the other answers you’ve desperately been trying to solve. The “ting” sound that Mimosa glasses make toasting Sunday brunch with friends. The next episode of Black Mirror launching automatically. A brilliant orange maple tree against a brilliant blue sky. The fissures on the crust of a still-warm loaf of Italian bread.

An elderly woman, her husband, daughter, and son-in-law who waited weeks and traveled miles to see you because they know you care. And they insist on seeing only you. A man who comes to see you without his wife this time just because he wanted to tell you in person how much they appreciated your care for her in the end. Opening your mailbox to see the September issue of Vogue, waiting for you to tear off the plastic. An as-yet-untouched Sunday New York Times. The sound of wood popping in the fireplace. The string of melted marshmallow down your son’s arm still attached to a s’more at the other end. 7-7-7 on your dollar slot at the casino. Eight-year-old girls at the center of the field celebrating a Sunday morning soccer victory. Departures showing your flight, gate 8, on time.

The smell of incense. The smell of lightly roasting garlic and olive oil. The smell of your wife’s perfume. The smell of wet leaves. The smell of your favorite scented candle. The smell of burning firewood on an early-morning walk in the Rockies. Snow falling. Snow crunching under your feet. Snow melting.

Remembering the uproarious laughter after your belly flop into the pool back in July. Steph Curry shooting a 3 in slow motion. Snoopy floating over 5th Avenue on Thanksgiving morning. The sound of wrapping paper being stuffed into garbage bags when the opening is done. A prior auth letter of approval. The feeling when you turn that first page of a brand-new Stephen King book. The feel of the grip on your fairway wood. Seeing your favorite movie pop up on Amazon Prime. The head massage your stylist gives you when washing your hair. The near pain of a really good massage.

The warmth of a child on your lap. The bark your dog gives when he sees you for the first time today as if it has been a million years. The crack of your favorite beer can opening. The ding when your microwave popcorn is ready. That warm feeling when you realize that, no, you don’t need any filter for that picture, it is ready to post exactly the way it is. The smile on your medical assistant’s face when you hand her a gratitude card. The ping that an email makes when you’re dying to hear back. The pride you feel when you execute a downward-facing dog and the instructor tells everyone to do it just like you. The smell of balsam fir. A podcast episode so good, you sit in your driveway to finish listening. A patient with a delightful British accent. The feel of pasta dough in your hands after adding just the right amount of flour and water so it’s now ready to go. Watching the Red Sox win the World Series (Wait, did I say that already?). The sound of your laptop keyboard clicking away while you write this piece. The feeling that 2019 is going to be your best year ever.



So what are the beautiful things in your life? Sit down right now and list a few (or a lot) of them. I promise it will be a more beautiful place where you are when you’re done.
 

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.

Who’s your favorite superhero? I realize this might be impossible to answer – Marvel and DC Comics alone have thousands of heroes from which to choose. I recently visited the Seattle Museum of Pop Culture, known as MoPOP, where they have an awesome exhibit on the history of Marvel. I left understanding why superheroes are perennially popular and why we need them. I also felt a little more powerful myself.

fieldwork/gettyimages

The Avengers might seem like just a marketing scheme created to take your movie money. They’re more than that. Superheroes like Thor and Black Widow appear in all cultures and throughout time. There are short and tall, black and white, young and old, gay and straight, Muslim and Jewish, European, Asian, and African superheroes. The characters in The Iliad were superheroes to the ancients. In India today, you can buy comics featuring Lord Shiva.

Superheroes change with time, often reflecting our struggles and values. Captain America was created in 1941 to allay our fear of the then-metastasizing Nazis. The most popular Marvel hero at the MoPOP right now is Black Panther. Next year Captain Marvel will be released. Also known as Carol Danvers, Captain Marvel is one of Marvel Comics’ strongest women, a female Air Force officer with superhuman strength and speed.

Heroes change with the times and are metaphors for the real-life challenges we face and our abilities to overcome them. Superhero stories are our own stories.

When I was a kid, Spider-Man was my favorite. I watched him every afternoon at 3 o’clock when I got home from school. Spidey is a nerdy, little kid who can perform amazing feats to keep people safe and to right societal wrongs. Being a little kid who similarly loved science, he seemed like a good role model at the time. Interestingly, Spidey might have helped me. A couple of studies have shown that kids who pretend to be superheroes, like Batman for example, perform better on tasks, compared with those who aren’t pretending. In some ways, this strategy of imagining to have superpowers is an antidote to the impostor syndrome, a common experience of feeling powerless and undeserving of your position or role. By imagining that they have superpowers, children behave commensurately with these beliefs, which can help them develop self-efficacy at a critical period of development.

This strategy can work for adults too. Military men and women will adopt heroes like Punisher for their battalions, surgeons will don Superman scrub caps, and athletes will take nicknames like Batman for their professional personas. It is a strategy our ancient ancestors deployed, imagining they had the power of Hercules going into battle. No doubt, the energizing, empowering emotion we feel when we think of superheroes is why they are still so popular today. It is why you walk with a bit more swagger when you exit the theater of a good hero flick.

So indulge in a little Wonder Woman and Daredevil and Jessica Jones, even after Halloween has passed. When you do, remember they are here because they are us. That pulse of confidence you feel when you watch your favorite hero vanquish evil is a universal human experience and one that we need.

Nowadays, I probably relate most to Captain America: Lead a team, help make each team member better. And, yet, looking at Chris Evans, the actor who plays Captain America, it’s clear I need a lot more time at the gym. Or maybe I could just try to get bitten by a spider.



“Can he swing from a thread? Take a look overhead. Hey, there, there goes the Spider-Man!”
 

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.

Who’s your favorite superhero? I realize this might be impossible to answer – Marvel and DC Comics alone have thousands of heroes from which to choose. I recently visited the Seattle Museum of Pop Culture, known as MoPOP, where they have an awesome exhibit on the history of Marvel. I left understanding why superheroes are perennially popular and why we need them. I also felt a little more powerful myself.

fieldwork/gettyimages

The Avengers might seem like just a marketing scheme created to take your movie money. They’re more than that. Superheroes like Thor and Black Widow appear in all cultures and throughout time. There are short and tall, black and white, young and old, gay and straight, Muslim and Jewish, European, Asian, and African superheroes. The characters in The Iliad were superheroes to the ancients. In India today, you can buy comics featuring Lord Shiva.

Superheroes change with time, often reflecting our struggles and values. Captain America was created in 1941 to allay our fear of the then-metastasizing Nazis. The most popular Marvel hero at the MoPOP right now is Black Panther. Next year Captain Marvel will be released. Also known as Carol Danvers, Captain Marvel is one of Marvel Comics’ strongest women, a female Air Force officer with superhuman strength and speed.

Heroes change with the times and are metaphors for the real-life challenges we face and our abilities to overcome them. Superhero stories are our own stories.

When I was a kid, Spider-Man was my favorite. I watched him every afternoon at 3 o’clock when I got home from school. Spidey is a nerdy, little kid who can perform amazing feats to keep people safe and to right societal wrongs. Being a little kid who similarly loved science, he seemed like a good role model at the time. Interestingly, Spidey might have helped me. A couple of studies have shown that kids who pretend to be superheroes, like Batman for example, perform better on tasks, compared with those who aren’t pretending. In some ways, this strategy of imagining to have superpowers is an antidote to the impostor syndrome, a common experience of feeling powerless and undeserving of your position or role. By imagining that they have superpowers, children behave commensurately with these beliefs, which can help them develop self-efficacy at a critical period of development.

This strategy can work for adults too. Military men and women will adopt heroes like Punisher for their battalions, surgeons will don Superman scrub caps, and athletes will take nicknames like Batman for their professional personas. It is a strategy our ancient ancestors deployed, imagining they had the power of Hercules going into battle. No doubt, the energizing, empowering emotion we feel when we think of superheroes is why they are still so popular today. It is why you walk with a bit more swagger when you exit the theater of a good hero flick.

So indulge in a little Wonder Woman and Daredevil and Jessica Jones, even after Halloween has passed. When you do, remember they are here because they are us. That pulse of confidence you feel when you watch your favorite hero vanquish evil is a universal human experience and one that we need.

Nowadays, I probably relate most to Captain America: Lead a team, help make each team member better. And, yet, looking at Chris Evans, the actor who plays Captain America, it’s clear I need a lot more time at the gym. Or maybe I could just try to get bitten by a spider.



“Can he swing from a thread? Take a look overhead. Hey, there, there goes the Spider-Man!”
 

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.

Who’s your favorite superhero? I realize this might be impossible to answer – Marvel and DC Comics alone have thousands of heroes from which to choose. I recently visited the Seattle Museum of Pop Culture, known as MoPOP, where they have an awesome exhibit on the history of Marvel. I left understanding why superheroes are perennially popular and why we need them. I also felt a little more powerful myself.

fieldwork/gettyimages

The Avengers might seem like just a marketing scheme created to take your movie money. They’re more than that. Superheroes like Thor and Black Widow appear in all cultures and throughout time. There are short and tall, black and white, young and old, gay and straight, Muslim and Jewish, European, Asian, and African superheroes. The characters in The Iliad were superheroes to the ancients. In India today, you can buy comics featuring Lord Shiva.

Superheroes change with time, often reflecting our struggles and values. Captain America was created in 1941 to allay our fear of the then-metastasizing Nazis. The most popular Marvel hero at the MoPOP right now is Black Panther. Next year Captain Marvel will be released. Also known as Carol Danvers, Captain Marvel is one of Marvel Comics’ strongest women, a female Air Force officer with superhuman strength and speed.

Heroes change with the times and are metaphors for the real-life challenges we face and our abilities to overcome them. Superhero stories are our own stories.

When I was a kid, Spider-Man was my favorite. I watched him every afternoon at 3 o’clock when I got home from school. Spidey is a nerdy, little kid who can perform amazing feats to keep people safe and to right societal wrongs. Being a little kid who similarly loved science, he seemed like a good role model at the time. Interestingly, Spidey might have helped me. A couple of studies have shown that kids who pretend to be superheroes, like Batman for example, perform better on tasks, compared with those who aren’t pretending. In some ways, this strategy of imagining to have superpowers is an antidote to the impostor syndrome, a common experience of feeling powerless and undeserving of your position or role. By imagining that they have superpowers, children behave commensurately with these beliefs, which can help them develop self-efficacy at a critical period of development.

This strategy can work for adults too. Military men and women will adopt heroes like Punisher for their battalions, surgeons will don Superman scrub caps, and athletes will take nicknames like Batman for their professional personas. It is a strategy our ancient ancestors deployed, imagining they had the power of Hercules going into battle. No doubt, the energizing, empowering emotion we feel when we think of superheroes is why they are still so popular today. It is why you walk with a bit more swagger when you exit the theater of a good hero flick.

So indulge in a little Wonder Woman and Daredevil and Jessica Jones, even after Halloween has passed. When you do, remember they are here because they are us. That pulse of confidence you feel when you watch your favorite hero vanquish evil is a universal human experience and one that we need.

Nowadays, I probably relate most to Captain America: Lead a team, help make each team member better. And, yet, looking at Chris Evans, the actor who plays Captain America, it’s clear I need a lot more time at the gym. Or maybe I could just try to get bitten by a spider.



“Can he swing from a thread? Take a look overhead. Hey, there, there goes the Spider-Man!”
 

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.

Some people have nightmares of giant rats attacking from their basements, others encounter monsters from a Stephen King novel. My nightmares are of clinic where time is the beast pursuing me. In my nightmares, I’m running late and can’t get to my next patient, or I’m trapped somehow and unable to get to clinic at all.

liseykina/thinkstockphotos

Time demands that I provide patients access quickly, start clinic on time, double my speed to make up for add-ins, or worse, late patients. Time is a constant, relentless monster, one that has apparently infiltrated my subconscious. Yet, time is relative.

Over Memorial Day weekend, my wife and I flew from San Diego to Alaska. Somewhere between those places time transforms – early summer in San Diego becomes early spring in Alaska.

When we landed, daffodils were in bloom, buds on the alders were just arriving, and the sun struggled to warm the air to 50 degrees. The daytime defied gravity: it was daylight by 4 a.m. and still so after 11 p.m. We were the first visitors this season in our little cabin near Seward.

“Your hot water might take a bit to get hot,” our host, Jim, informed us. He wore a thick flannel shirt and Carhartt workman trousers. He leaned against the cabin’s door frame with one hand at the top and the other hanging from the weight of a DeWalt drill at his side. “I made these cabins myself,” he informed. I was anxious to move on, to unpack and start exploring, but every time I tried to break away from his conversation, he extended it. He shared how a cow and calf (that’s moose talk) had come through earlier that morning. Then he told us about working in the timber industry, starting by “pulling green chain” and working his way up to being the keeper of the saws. While he talked, I watched a raven drop down from the tall Sitka spruce to a branch just across from where we parked our car. Just behind Jim, the raven was not only watching, but also listening in on our conversation. Jim pointed, “That bit of snow over there was all that was left from the 12-foot-high snow earlier this year. It was an easy winter.” He then advised we should start our trip with a visit to Exit Glacier. It was reachable by road and an easy hike.

Leamus/iStock/Getty Images

Staying upright on the steep trail to the glacier’s Harding Icefield concentrates the mind. Looking down and across the glacial outwash, I imagined how the ice once thousands of feet above my head carved a valley from rock. Ice compacted so completely and so deep that only blue light escapes. Indeed, a glacier is just a pile of unmelted snow, thousands of years in the making. The Kenai fjords, deep enough that humpback whales swim there, were carved from granite – at glacial speed. Some of the rocks there contain fossils all the way from the tropics. They were transported by the Pacific tectonic plate that has rotated counterclockwise from the equator to Alaska over millions of years – at tectonic speed. Life here has a way of sharpening your focus, allowing you to see perspective as exists in nature. Alaska is so old that an ob.gyn. could have seen his or her first patient here – a mother with a stillborn child – at the Upward Sun River, 11,500 years ago, where in 2013, the fossil remains of a late-term fetus dating back to that time was discovered. It is indeed relative.

After a long hike, a crispy, hot halibut sandwich, we made it back to our cabin. There was no WiFi or reliable cell service, no TV, no Netflix. We read in bed by daylight. I slept soundly, despite the bright light. No nightmares. No monsters.

The next morning, as I sipped my steaming coffee on our porch, the raven didn’t waste much time to stop by. He paused before coming nearly eye to eye on the roof of the firewood shed in front of me. He looked me up and down and cackled. Not a cawh, not warning me of my intrusion, but rather a vocalization. He just wanted to strike up a conversation with the first guest of the season. He had nothing but time.

On our last night, I lit a fire with wood Jim had cut for us (with help from lots of lighter fluid). Jim ambled over to say goodbye. When I mentioned we had a 2½ hour drive back to Anchorage, he said 3 hours wasn’t a long time for Alaskans. He’d made that drive many times when his kids were little just to take them to McDonald’s. I asked if he ever got burned out, living here. He gave a long pause, turning his chin up, letting the question sink in before constructing an answer. “Burned out? Huh. I don’t know. I guess like when I was pulling green chain in the saw mill. I was pretty tired by the end of the day. But that’s how we sleep so good in Alaska.”

He didn’t get it. In the lower 48, we rush, scramble, and hurry trying to outrun time. At the end, we’re burned out. In Alaska, they don’t know what burned out means. They do understand that time can’t be controlled or beaten. Rather, it is observed and appreciated. I hoped to bring a little of that perspective to clinic on Monday morning.

My recommendation to you if want to sleep better, with fewer nightmares, if you want to reduce your risk for burn out, then go to Alaska (or Montana, or Wyoming, or Idaho, or your backyard). Like Thoreau, we can still learn a lot about life from nature. This is not medical advice, it’s life advice.

Some people have nightmares of giant rats attacking from their basements, others encounter monsters from a Stephen King novel. My nightmares are of clinic where time is the beast pursuing me. In my nightmares, I’m running late and can’t get to my next patient, or I’m trapped somehow and unable to get to clinic at all.

liseykina/thinkstockphotos

Time demands that I provide patients access quickly, start clinic on time, double my speed to make up for add-ins, or worse, late patients. Time is a constant, relentless monster, one that has apparently infiltrated my subconscious. Yet, time is relative.

Over Memorial Day weekend, my wife and I flew from San Diego to Alaska. Somewhere between those places time transforms – early summer in San Diego becomes early spring in Alaska.

When we landed, daffodils were in bloom, buds on the alders were just arriving, and the sun struggled to warm the air to 50 degrees. The daytime defied gravity: it was daylight by 4 a.m. and still so after 11 p.m. We were the first visitors this season in our little cabin near Seward.

“Your hot water might take a bit to get hot,” our host, Jim, informed us. He wore a thick flannel shirt and Carhartt workman trousers. He leaned against the cabin’s door frame with one hand at the top and the other hanging from the weight of a DeWalt drill at his side. “I made these cabins myself,” he informed. I was anxious to move on, to unpack and start exploring, but every time I tried to break away from his conversation, he extended it. He shared how a cow and calf (that’s moose talk) had come through earlier that morning. Then he told us about working in the timber industry, starting by “pulling green chain” and working his way up to being the keeper of the saws. While he talked, I watched a raven drop down from the tall Sitka spruce to a branch just across from where we parked our car. Just behind Jim, the raven was not only watching, but also listening in on our conversation. Jim pointed, “That bit of snow over there was all that was left from the 12-foot-high snow earlier this year. It was an easy winter.” He then advised we should start our trip with a visit to Exit Glacier. It was reachable by road and an easy hike.

Leamus/iStock/Getty Images

Staying upright on the steep trail to the glacier’s Harding Icefield concentrates the mind. Looking down and across the glacial outwash, I imagined how the ice once thousands of feet above my head carved a valley from rock. Ice compacted so completely and so deep that only blue light escapes. Indeed, a glacier is just a pile of unmelted snow, thousands of years in the making. The Kenai fjords, deep enough that humpback whales swim there, were carved from granite – at glacial speed. Some of the rocks there contain fossils all the way from the tropics. They were transported by the Pacific tectonic plate that has rotated counterclockwise from the equator to Alaska over millions of years – at tectonic speed. Life here has a way of sharpening your focus, allowing you to see perspective as exists in nature. Alaska is so old that an ob.gyn. could have seen his or her first patient here – a mother with a stillborn child – at the Upward Sun River, 11,500 years ago, where in 2013, the fossil remains of a late-term fetus dating back to that time was discovered. It is indeed relative.

After a long hike, a crispy, hot halibut sandwich, we made it back to our cabin. There was no WiFi or reliable cell service, no TV, no Netflix. We read in bed by daylight. I slept soundly, despite the bright light. No nightmares. No monsters.

The next morning, as I sipped my steaming coffee on our porch, the raven didn’t waste much time to stop by. He paused before coming nearly eye to eye on the roof of the firewood shed in front of me. He looked me up and down and cackled. Not a cawh, not warning me of my intrusion, but rather a vocalization. He just wanted to strike up a conversation with the first guest of the season. He had nothing but time.

On our last night, I lit a fire with wood Jim had cut for us (with help from lots of lighter fluid). Jim ambled over to say goodbye. When I mentioned we had a 2½ hour drive back to Anchorage, he said 3 hours wasn’t a long time for Alaskans. He’d made that drive many times when his kids were little just to take them to McDonald’s. I asked if he ever got burned out, living here. He gave a long pause, turning his chin up, letting the question sink in before constructing an answer. “Burned out? Huh. I don’t know. I guess like when I was pulling green chain in the saw mill. I was pretty tired by the end of the day. But that’s how we sleep so good in Alaska.”

He didn’t get it. In the lower 48, we rush, scramble, and hurry trying to outrun time. At the end, we’re burned out. In Alaska, they don’t know what burned out means. They do understand that time can’t be controlled or beaten. Rather, it is observed and appreciated. I hoped to bring a little of that perspective to clinic on Monday morning.

My recommendation to you if want to sleep better, with fewer nightmares, if you want to reduce your risk for burn out, then go to Alaska (or Montana, or Wyoming, or Idaho, or your backyard). Like Thoreau, we can still learn a lot about life from nature. This is not medical advice, it’s life advice.

Some people have nightmares of giant rats attacking from their basements, others encounter monsters from a Stephen King novel. My nightmares are of clinic where time is the beast pursuing me. In my nightmares, I’m running late and can’t get to my next patient, or I’m trapped somehow and unable to get to clinic at all.

liseykina/thinkstockphotos

Time demands that I provide patients access quickly, start clinic on time, double my speed to make up for add-ins, or worse, late patients. Time is a constant, relentless monster, one that has apparently infiltrated my subconscious. Yet, time is relative.

Over Memorial Day weekend, my wife and I flew from San Diego to Alaska. Somewhere between those places time transforms – early summer in San Diego becomes early spring in Alaska.

When we landed, daffodils were in bloom, buds on the alders were just arriving, and the sun struggled to warm the air to 50 degrees. The daytime defied gravity: it was daylight by 4 a.m. and still so after 11 p.m. We were the first visitors this season in our little cabin near Seward.

“Your hot water might take a bit to get hot,” our host, Jim, informed us. He wore a thick flannel shirt and Carhartt workman trousers. He leaned against the cabin’s door frame with one hand at the top and the other hanging from the weight of a DeWalt drill at his side. “I made these cabins myself,” he informed. I was anxious to move on, to unpack and start exploring, but every time I tried to break away from his conversation, he extended it. He shared how a cow and calf (that’s moose talk) had come through earlier that morning. Then he told us about working in the timber industry, starting by “pulling green chain” and working his way up to being the keeper of the saws. While he talked, I watched a raven drop down from the tall Sitka spruce to a branch just across from where we parked our car. Just behind Jim, the raven was not only watching, but also listening in on our conversation. Jim pointed, “That bit of snow over there was all that was left from the 12-foot-high snow earlier this year. It was an easy winter.” He then advised we should start our trip with a visit to Exit Glacier. It was reachable by road and an easy hike.

Leamus/iStock/Getty Images

Staying upright on the steep trail to the glacier’s Harding Icefield concentrates the mind. Looking down and across the glacial outwash, I imagined how the ice once thousands of feet above my head carved a valley from rock. Ice compacted so completely and so deep that only blue light escapes. Indeed, a glacier is just a pile of unmelted snow, thousands of years in the making. The Kenai fjords, deep enough that humpback whales swim there, were carved from granite – at glacial speed. Some of the rocks there contain fossils all the way from the tropics. They were transported by the Pacific tectonic plate that has rotated counterclockwise from the equator to Alaska over millions of years – at tectonic speed. Life here has a way of sharpening your focus, allowing you to see perspective as exists in nature. Alaska is so old that an ob.gyn. could have seen his or her first patient here – a mother with a stillborn child – at the Upward Sun River, 11,500 years ago, where in 2013, the fossil remains of a late-term fetus dating back to that time was discovered. It is indeed relative.

After a long hike, a crispy, hot halibut sandwich, we made it back to our cabin. There was no WiFi or reliable cell service, no TV, no Netflix. We read in bed by daylight. I slept soundly, despite the bright light. No nightmares. No monsters.

The next morning, as I sipped my steaming coffee on our porch, the raven didn’t waste much time to stop by. He paused before coming nearly eye to eye on the roof of the firewood shed in front of me. He looked me up and down and cackled. Not a cawh, not warning me of my intrusion, but rather a vocalization. He just wanted to strike up a conversation with the first guest of the season. He had nothing but time.

On our last night, I lit a fire with wood Jim had cut for us (with help from lots of lighter fluid). Jim ambled over to say goodbye. When I mentioned we had a 2½ hour drive back to Anchorage, he said 3 hours wasn’t a long time for Alaskans. He’d made that drive many times when his kids were little just to take them to McDonald’s. I asked if he ever got burned out, living here. He gave a long pause, turning his chin up, letting the question sink in before constructing an answer. “Burned out? Huh. I don’t know. I guess like when I was pulling green chain in the saw mill. I was pretty tired by the end of the day. But that’s how we sleep so good in Alaska.”

He didn’t get it. In the lower 48, we rush, scramble, and hurry trying to outrun time. At the end, we’re burned out. In Alaska, they don’t know what burned out means. They do understand that time can’t be controlled or beaten. Rather, it is observed and appreciated. I hoped to bring a little of that perspective to clinic on Monday morning.

My recommendation to you if want to sleep better, with fewer nightmares, if you want to reduce your risk for burn out, then go to Alaska (or Montana, or Wyoming, or Idaho, or your backyard). Like Thoreau, we can still learn a lot about life from nature. This is not medical advice, it’s life advice.

I’m about to embark on a controversial topic. Perhaps it’s safer to avoid, but I can’t put it off any longer. We need to talk about diet.

Discussing diet, like politics, religion, or salary, is best done just with oneself. Yet, I’m compelled to share what I’ve learned. First, I’m agnostic. I don’t believe you need to be vegan or paleo to be saved. I eat plant-based foods. I also eat things that eat plants. I’m sure you’d find a fine film of gluten in my kitchen. What I’ve learned is that for me, it doesn’t matter.

baibaz/iStock/Getty Images

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’m about to embark on a controversial topic. Perhaps it’s safer to avoid, but I can’t put it off any longer. We need to talk about diet.

Discussing diet, like politics, religion, or salary, is best done just with oneself. Yet, I’m compelled to share what I’ve learned. First, I’m agnostic. I don’t believe you need to be vegan or paleo to be saved. I eat plant-based foods. I also eat things that eat plants. I’m sure you’d find a fine film of gluten in my kitchen. What I’ve learned is that for me, it doesn’t matter.

baibaz/iStock/Getty Images

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’m about to embark on a controversial topic. Perhaps it’s safer to avoid, but I can’t put it off any longer. We need to talk about diet.

Discussing diet, like politics, religion, or salary, is best done just with oneself. Yet, I’m compelled to share what I’ve learned. First, I’m agnostic. I don’t believe you need to be vegan or paleo to be saved. I eat plant-based foods. I also eat things that eat plants. I’m sure you’d find a fine film of gluten in my kitchen. What I’ve learned is that for me, it doesn’t matter.

baibaz/iStock/Getty Images

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.