Allan M. Block, MD

Christmas, like New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and anniversaries, is one of those times that we use to mark where we were and how far we’ve come.

I’m in a mixed marriage, so we celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas. Twenty-five years ago I was a newly minted attending neurologist, not even 6 months out of fellowship.

My wife was pregnant with our first child and had invited my Jewish family over for Christmas dinner. This was our first December in our first house and she wanted to do something special for them.

Being the low person on the totem pole, it was my first Christmas on call, covering for myself and two other neurologists.

So I was driving. A lot. My wife was on her own to get things ready, and I was hoping to be home for dinner.

It was, as always seems to be the case with holidays, quite busy. I was up long before dawn to start, driving a circular route to cover four hospitals scattered around Phoenix. At least the roads were empty.

At some point the planned pattern breaks down as new consults and urgent patient status changes happen. You try to start by going from A to B to C to D for rounds, but within a few hours I was going from A to B to C, then back to A, then D, then B, then A again, and so on. All the while I was returning patient calls. Wash, rinse, repeat.

At some point I dialed my wife to see how she was doing and she gave me a list of last-minute things she needed picked up (which included some dairy products and more Christmas lights for her tree). I found a small store that was still open. For the rest of my day on call a grocery bag full of dairy products was carried from hospital to hospital with me, being put in the doctor’s lounge refrigerator with my name on it (this is Phoenix, even in winter you can’t leave it in the car). This added another trip from C back to A when I realized I’d left the groceries there.

I got home a few minutes before my family came over, after 14-15 hours of driving between hospitals. I was putting up the new lights when they came in. Fortunately I wasn’t called back in that night, and turned things over to my call partners in the morning.

Now? Since early 2020 my hospital days are behind me. My kids have their own lives, jobs, and school, but still all came over to see us.

I didn’t have to leave the house. I spent most of the day in a robe and pajamas, working at my desk on this and that, sometimes wandering to another table to futz with my current jigsaw puzzle or chat with my kids or go soak in my hot tub.

In 1998 I weighed 50 pounds less (still working on losing it), had no kids, or dogs. Now I’m in another house, have three grown kids, and in the interim have enjoyed seven awesome dogs (currently only one). My wife still invited my family over for Christmas dinner, but now it’s my mom and uncle. My dad and aunt are gone.

The changes are mostly good, though, as with all passages of time there is sadness and loss. When all is said and done I wouldn’t have done much differently even if I could.

I’m lucky, and I know it. Regardless of what you celebrate, it’s a good time to take stock of your blessings. To quote Sheryl Crow, “It’s not having what you want, it’s wanting what you’ve got.”

Happy New Year to all.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Christmas, like New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and anniversaries, is one of those times that we use to mark where we were and how far we’ve come.

I’m in a mixed marriage, so we celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas. Twenty-five years ago I was a newly minted attending neurologist, not even 6 months out of fellowship.

My wife was pregnant with our first child and had invited my Jewish family over for Christmas dinner. This was our first December in our first house and she wanted to do something special for them.

Being the low person on the totem pole, it was my first Christmas on call, covering for myself and two other neurologists.

So I was driving. A lot. My wife was on her own to get things ready, and I was hoping to be home for dinner.

It was, as always seems to be the case with holidays, quite busy. I was up long before dawn to start, driving a circular route to cover four hospitals scattered around Phoenix. At least the roads were empty.

At some point the planned pattern breaks down as new consults and urgent patient status changes happen. You try to start by going from A to B to C to D for rounds, but within a few hours I was going from A to B to C, then back to A, then D, then B, then A again, and so on. All the while I was returning patient calls. Wash, rinse, repeat.

At some point I dialed my wife to see how she was doing and she gave me a list of last-minute things she needed picked up (which included some dairy products and more Christmas lights for her tree). I found a small store that was still open. For the rest of my day on call a grocery bag full of dairy products was carried from hospital to hospital with me, being put in the doctor’s lounge refrigerator with my name on it (this is Phoenix, even in winter you can’t leave it in the car). This added another trip from C back to A when I realized I’d left the groceries there.

I got home a few minutes before my family came over, after 14-15 hours of driving between hospitals. I was putting up the new lights when they came in. Fortunately I wasn’t called back in that night, and turned things over to my call partners in the morning.

Now? Since early 2020 my hospital days are behind me. My kids have their own lives, jobs, and school, but still all came over to see us.

I didn’t have to leave the house. I spent most of the day in a robe and pajamas, working at my desk on this and that, sometimes wandering to another table to futz with my current jigsaw puzzle or chat with my kids or go soak in my hot tub.

In 1998 I weighed 50 pounds less (still working on losing it), had no kids, or dogs. Now I’m in another house, have three grown kids, and in the interim have enjoyed seven awesome dogs (currently only one). My wife still invited my family over for Christmas dinner, but now it’s my mom and uncle. My dad and aunt are gone.

The changes are mostly good, though, as with all passages of time there is sadness and loss. When all is said and done I wouldn’t have done much differently even if I could.

I’m lucky, and I know it. Regardless of what you celebrate, it’s a good time to take stock of your blessings. To quote Sheryl Crow, “It’s not having what you want, it’s wanting what you’ve got.”

Happy New Year to all.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Christmas, like New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and anniversaries, is one of those times that we use to mark where we were and how far we’ve come.

I’m in a mixed marriage, so we celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas. Twenty-five years ago I was a newly minted attending neurologist, not even 6 months out of fellowship.

My wife was pregnant with our first child and had invited my Jewish family over for Christmas dinner. This was our first December in our first house and she wanted to do something special for them.

Being the low person on the totem pole, it was my first Christmas on call, covering for myself and two other neurologists.

So I was driving. A lot. My wife was on her own to get things ready, and I was hoping to be home for dinner.

It was, as always seems to be the case with holidays, quite busy. I was up long before dawn to start, driving a circular route to cover four hospitals scattered around Phoenix. At least the roads were empty.

At some point the planned pattern breaks down as new consults and urgent patient status changes happen. You try to start by going from A to B to C to D for rounds, but within a few hours I was going from A to B to C, then back to A, then D, then B, then A again, and so on. All the while I was returning patient calls. Wash, rinse, repeat.

At some point I dialed my wife to see how she was doing and she gave me a list of last-minute things she needed picked up (which included some dairy products and more Christmas lights for her tree). I found a small store that was still open. For the rest of my day on call a grocery bag full of dairy products was carried from hospital to hospital with me, being put in the doctor’s lounge refrigerator with my name on it (this is Phoenix, even in winter you can’t leave it in the car). This added another trip from C back to A when I realized I’d left the groceries there.

I got home a few minutes before my family came over, after 14-15 hours of driving between hospitals. I was putting up the new lights when they came in. Fortunately I wasn’t called back in that night, and turned things over to my call partners in the morning.

Now? Since early 2020 my hospital days are behind me. My kids have their own lives, jobs, and school, but still all came over to see us.

I didn’t have to leave the house. I spent most of the day in a robe and pajamas, working at my desk on this and that, sometimes wandering to another table to futz with my current jigsaw puzzle or chat with my kids or go soak in my hot tub.

In 1998 I weighed 50 pounds less (still working on losing it), had no kids, or dogs. Now I’m in another house, have three grown kids, and in the interim have enjoyed seven awesome dogs (currently only one). My wife still invited my family over for Christmas dinner, but now it’s my mom and uncle. My dad and aunt are gone.

The changes are mostly good, though, as with all passages of time there is sadness and loss. When all is said and done I wouldn’t have done much differently even if I could.

I’m lucky, and I know it. Regardless of what you celebrate, it’s a good time to take stock of your blessings. To quote Sheryl Crow, “It’s not having what you want, it’s wanting what you’ve got.”

Happy New Year to all.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In the last 3 months I’ve had an odd uptick in calls for foot-drop. Some of them said they’d seen other neurologists and were hoping I could help them, others that they wanted to see a specialist in foot-drop. Most called in, a few even showed up at the office wanting to be seen that day.

Now, I have nothing against seeing patients with foot-drop. It’s a relatively common issue in my field. But I’ve never claimed to be a “specialist” in foot-drop. I don’t even do my own EMG/NCVs anymore, except for the occasional carpal tunnel syndrome case.

So where were all these people coming from?

All of them had previously seen good neurologists, had the correct work-up, diagnoses, and treatment, but just hadn’t had the outcome they wanted. Now they were showing up at my little office, telling my staff that I was their last hope.

All of them had the common thread that they weren’t sent by my regular referral base. Instead, they found me on “the Internet.” Of course, none remembered where. This isn’t easy, as there are hundreds of physician listing and review sites out there. But, because of the number of calls, and the abuse that my staff and I were getting when people found out I wasn’t some magical foot-drop guru, I decided to try to find out.

After a few days of searching in my spare time, I finally had it. A site called MediFind lists me as being “advanced” in treating foot-drop, to the extent that it’s at the top of my “Areas of Expertise.” The site also says I handle “Autosomal Dominant Partial Epilepsy with Auditory Features” (no, I don’t. Try the epilepsy centers in town), “Familial Neurocardiogenic Syncope” (no), and narcolepsy (definitely not, try a sleep specialist).

I have no affiliation with MediFind. In fact, I’d never heard of them until I began tracking down this issue. How they came to have such incorrect information about me I don’t know, perhaps pulled from insurance billing data, or patient reviews, or a Magic 8 Ball.

But the foot-drop issue had, oddly, become a problem. My staff was having to tell people who called in with it that I wanted to see their previous neurology records so I didn’t waste their time. People being told I wasn’t some Ivory Tower foot-dropologist often became abusive and nasty, something I won’t tolerate (5 years ago this was rarely a problem, now it’s frighteningly common). People who made it as far as seeing me (a few when this began) were livid when I looked through their records and said I had nothing to offer that their previous neurologist(s) hadn’t done. I was accused of false advertising, misrepresenting myself, etc, even though I had nothing to do with why MediFind put that up.

So I wrote to MediFind, using the email info on their page. I told them I didn’t specialize in foot-drop, and didn’t even handle several of the other conditions on their page. I asked them to take those things out, or (preferably) simply delete my listing from their site.

I got an automated reply thanking me for writing to them and saying their team would look into it. That was almost a month ago. I haven’t heard back, and the listing is, as of this writing, still up.

Like the “once in, never out” issue with a wrong diagnosis in the EMR, erroneous professional information on the Internet probably isn’t going to go away. The computer algorithms that create such listings have no interest in correcting their errors, and so the frustration for these patients, my staff, and myself, is going to continue for a while. It’s a waste of time for them and us.

And, as this point, I doubt there’s much I can do about it.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In the last 3 months I’ve had an odd uptick in calls for foot-drop. Some of them said they’d seen other neurologists and were hoping I could help them, others that they wanted to see a specialist in foot-drop. Most called in, a few even showed up at the office wanting to be seen that day.

Now, I have nothing against seeing patients with foot-drop. It’s a relatively common issue in my field. But I’ve never claimed to be a “specialist” in foot-drop. I don’t even do my own EMG/NCVs anymore, except for the occasional carpal tunnel syndrome case.

So where were all these people coming from?

All of them had previously seen good neurologists, had the correct work-up, diagnoses, and treatment, but just hadn’t had the outcome they wanted. Now they were showing up at my little office, telling my staff that I was their last hope.

All of them had the common thread that they weren’t sent by my regular referral base. Instead, they found me on “the Internet.” Of course, none remembered where. This isn’t easy, as there are hundreds of physician listing and review sites out there. But, because of the number of calls, and the abuse that my staff and I were getting when people found out I wasn’t some magical foot-drop guru, I decided to try to find out.

After a few days of searching in my spare time, I finally had it. A site called MediFind lists me as being “advanced” in treating foot-drop, to the extent that it’s at the top of my “Areas of Expertise.” The site also says I handle “Autosomal Dominant Partial Epilepsy with Auditory Features” (no, I don’t. Try the epilepsy centers in town), “Familial Neurocardiogenic Syncope” (no), and narcolepsy (definitely not, try a sleep specialist).

I have no affiliation with MediFind. In fact, I’d never heard of them until I began tracking down this issue. How they came to have such incorrect information about me I don’t know, perhaps pulled from insurance billing data, or patient reviews, or a Magic 8 Ball.

But the foot-drop issue had, oddly, become a problem. My staff was having to tell people who called in with it that I wanted to see their previous neurology records so I didn’t waste their time. People being told I wasn’t some Ivory Tower foot-dropologist often became abusive and nasty, something I won’t tolerate (5 years ago this was rarely a problem, now it’s frighteningly common). People who made it as far as seeing me (a few when this began) were livid when I looked through their records and said I had nothing to offer that their previous neurologist(s) hadn’t done. I was accused of false advertising, misrepresenting myself, etc, even though I had nothing to do with why MediFind put that up.

So I wrote to MediFind, using the email info on their page. I told them I didn’t specialize in foot-drop, and didn’t even handle several of the other conditions on their page. I asked them to take those things out, or (preferably) simply delete my listing from their site.

I got an automated reply thanking me for writing to them and saying their team would look into it. That was almost a month ago. I haven’t heard back, and the listing is, as of this writing, still up.

Like the “once in, never out” issue with a wrong diagnosis in the EMR, erroneous professional information on the Internet probably isn’t going to go away. The computer algorithms that create such listings have no interest in correcting their errors, and so the frustration for these patients, my staff, and myself, is going to continue for a while. It’s a waste of time for them and us.

And, as this point, I doubt there’s much I can do about it.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In the last 3 months I’ve had an odd uptick in calls for foot-drop. Some of them said they’d seen other neurologists and were hoping I could help them, others that they wanted to see a specialist in foot-drop. Most called in, a few even showed up at the office wanting to be seen that day.

Now, I have nothing against seeing patients with foot-drop. It’s a relatively common issue in my field. But I’ve never claimed to be a “specialist” in foot-drop. I don’t even do my own EMG/NCVs anymore, except for the occasional carpal tunnel syndrome case.

So where were all these people coming from?

All of them had previously seen good neurologists, had the correct work-up, diagnoses, and treatment, but just hadn’t had the outcome they wanted. Now they were showing up at my little office, telling my staff that I was their last hope.

All of them had the common thread that they weren’t sent by my regular referral base. Instead, they found me on “the Internet.” Of course, none remembered where. This isn’t easy, as there are hundreds of physician listing and review sites out there. But, because of the number of calls, and the abuse that my staff and I were getting when people found out I wasn’t some magical foot-drop guru, I decided to try to find out.

After a few days of searching in my spare time, I finally had it. A site called MediFind lists me as being “advanced” in treating foot-drop, to the extent that it’s at the top of my “Areas of Expertise.” The site also says I handle “Autosomal Dominant Partial Epilepsy with Auditory Features” (no, I don’t. Try the epilepsy centers in town), “Familial Neurocardiogenic Syncope” (no), and narcolepsy (definitely not, try a sleep specialist).

I have no affiliation with MediFind. In fact, I’d never heard of them until I began tracking down this issue. How they came to have such incorrect information about me I don’t know, perhaps pulled from insurance billing data, or patient reviews, or a Magic 8 Ball.

But the foot-drop issue had, oddly, become a problem. My staff was having to tell people who called in with it that I wanted to see their previous neurology records so I didn’t waste their time. People being told I wasn’t some Ivory Tower foot-dropologist often became abusive and nasty, something I won’t tolerate (5 years ago this was rarely a problem, now it’s frighteningly common). People who made it as far as seeing me (a few when this began) were livid when I looked through their records and said I had nothing to offer that their previous neurologist(s) hadn’t done. I was accused of false advertising, misrepresenting myself, etc, even though I had nothing to do with why MediFind put that up.

So I wrote to MediFind, using the email info on their page. I told them I didn’t specialize in foot-drop, and didn’t even handle several of the other conditions on their page. I asked them to take those things out, or (preferably) simply delete my listing from their site.

I got an automated reply thanking me for writing to them and saying their team would look into it. That was almost a month ago. I haven’t heard back, and the listing is, as of this writing, still up.

Like the “once in, never out” issue with a wrong diagnosis in the EMR, erroneous professional information on the Internet probably isn’t going to go away. The computer algorithms that create such listings have no interest in correcting their errors, and so the frustration for these patients, my staff, and myself, is going to continue for a while. It’s a waste of time for them and us.

And, as this point, I doubt there’s much I can do about it.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I don’t like EMR systems, with all their requirements, click boxes, endless cut & paste abuse, and 20-page notes that say nothing.

But I am a fan of what computers have brought to medical charts.

When I started out in 2000, I had no patients, hence no charts. I had the advantage of being able to start from scratch — there was nothing to convert to digital. So, from the beginning, that’s how I went. Back then, of course, everything came to the office as paper. It had to be scanned in, then named, then placed in the right computer file.

But it was still easier than amassing paper records. At that time I subleased from a doc who’d been in practice for 15 years. His charts were all paper. Charts were neatly filed on shelves, everything was initialed, hole-punched, and put in the right section (which involved pulling out other stuff and putting it back). A few times a year, his staff would comb through the charts in front, and anyone who hadn’t been seen in 2 years would have their chart moved to a storage room in the back. Once a year they’d pull the charts of anyone not seen in 7 years and a company would come in and shred those records.

After 23 years, I still have it all. The whole thing takes up a little over 50 gigabytes on a hard drive, which realistically is nothing these days. Electrons don’t take up much space.

The majority of the charts — those that are more than 7 years old — I’ll probably never need to access, but it still happens sometimes. People call in and say they’ve moved back to Phoenix, or need to see a neurologist again, or need the records for insurance reasons, or whatever. My staff is also spared from moving charts to a storage room, then to shredding. Since they don’t take up any physical space, it’s no effort to keep everything.

And they aren’t just at my office. They’re at home, on my phone, wherever I am. If I get called from an ER, I can pull them up quickly. If I travel, they’re with me. My memory is good, but not that good, and I’d rather be able to look things up than guess.

This, at least to me, is the advantage of computers. Their data storage and retrieval advantages far exceed that of paper. In my opinion EMRs, while well-intentioned, have taken these benefits and twisted them into something cumbersome, geared more to meet nonmedical requirements and billing purposes.

In the process they’ve lost sight of our age-old job of caring for patients.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I don’t like EMR systems, with all their requirements, click boxes, endless cut & paste abuse, and 20-page notes that say nothing.

But I am a fan of what computers have brought to medical charts.

When I started out in 2000, I had no patients, hence no charts. I had the advantage of being able to start from scratch — there was nothing to convert to digital. So, from the beginning, that’s how I went. Back then, of course, everything came to the office as paper. It had to be scanned in, then named, then placed in the right computer file.

But it was still easier than amassing paper records. At that time I subleased from a doc who’d been in practice for 15 years. His charts were all paper. Charts were neatly filed on shelves, everything was initialed, hole-punched, and put in the right section (which involved pulling out other stuff and putting it back). A few times a year, his staff would comb through the charts in front, and anyone who hadn’t been seen in 2 years would have their chart moved to a storage room in the back. Once a year they’d pull the charts of anyone not seen in 7 years and a company would come in and shred those records.

After 23 years, I still have it all. The whole thing takes up a little over 50 gigabytes on a hard drive, which realistically is nothing these days. Electrons don’t take up much space.

The majority of the charts — those that are more than 7 years old — I’ll probably never need to access, but it still happens sometimes. People call in and say they’ve moved back to Phoenix, or need to see a neurologist again, or need the records for insurance reasons, or whatever. My staff is also spared from moving charts to a storage room, then to shredding. Since they don’t take up any physical space, it’s no effort to keep everything.

And they aren’t just at my office. They’re at home, on my phone, wherever I am. If I get called from an ER, I can pull them up quickly. If I travel, they’re with me. My memory is good, but not that good, and I’d rather be able to look things up than guess.

This, at least to me, is the advantage of computers. Their data storage and retrieval advantages far exceed that of paper. In my opinion EMRs, while well-intentioned, have taken these benefits and twisted them into something cumbersome, geared more to meet nonmedical requirements and billing purposes.

In the process they’ve lost sight of our age-old job of caring for patients.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I don’t like EMR systems, with all their requirements, click boxes, endless cut & paste abuse, and 20-page notes that say nothing.

But I am a fan of what computers have brought to medical charts.

When I started out in 2000, I had no patients, hence no charts. I had the advantage of being able to start from scratch — there was nothing to convert to digital. So, from the beginning, that’s how I went. Back then, of course, everything came to the office as paper. It had to be scanned in, then named, then placed in the right computer file.

But it was still easier than amassing paper records. At that time I subleased from a doc who’d been in practice for 15 years. His charts were all paper. Charts were neatly filed on shelves, everything was initialed, hole-punched, and put in the right section (which involved pulling out other stuff and putting it back). A few times a year, his staff would comb through the charts in front, and anyone who hadn’t been seen in 2 years would have their chart moved to a storage room in the back. Once a year they’d pull the charts of anyone not seen in 7 years and a company would come in and shred those records.

After 23 years, I still have it all. The whole thing takes up a little over 50 gigabytes on a hard drive, which realistically is nothing these days. Electrons don’t take up much space.

The majority of the charts — those that are more than 7 years old — I’ll probably never need to access, but it still happens sometimes. People call in and say they’ve moved back to Phoenix, or need to see a neurologist again, or need the records for insurance reasons, or whatever. My staff is also spared from moving charts to a storage room, then to shredding. Since they don’t take up any physical space, it’s no effort to keep everything.

And they aren’t just at my office. They’re at home, on my phone, wherever I am. If I get called from an ER, I can pull them up quickly. If I travel, they’re with me. My memory is good, but not that good, and I’d rather be able to look things up than guess.

This, at least to me, is the advantage of computers. Their data storage and retrieval advantages far exceed that of paper. In my opinion EMRs, while well-intentioned, have taken these benefits and twisted them into something cumbersome, geared more to meet nonmedical requirements and billing purposes.

In the process they’ve lost sight of our age-old job of caring for patients.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I’m a general neurologist. I consider myself a jack of all (or at least most) trades in my field, and a master of none.

In the April 2023 issue of JAMA Neurology there was an editorial about neurology training, with general neurology being renamed “comprehensive neurology” and a fellowship offered in practicing general neurology.

This seems rather silly to me. If 4 years of residency (1 of internship and 3 of neurology) don’t prepare you to practice general neurology, then what’s the point of residency at all? For that matter, what difference will renaming it do?

Imagine completing a 3-year internal medicine residency, then being told you need to do a fellowship in “comprehensive medicine” in order to practice. Or at least so you can add the word “comprehensive” to your shingle.

The authors bemoan the increasing number of neurology residents wanting to do fellowships and subspecialize, a situation that mirrors the general trend of people away from general medicine toward specialties.

While I agree we do need subspecialists in neurology (and currently there are at least 31 recognized, which is way more than I would have guessed), the fact is that patients, and sometimes their internists, aren’t going to be the best judge of who does or doesn’t need to see one, compared with a general neurologist.

Most of us general people can handle straightforward Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, migraines, etc. Certainly, there are times where the condition is refractory to our care, or there’s something unusual about the case, that leads us to refer them to someone with more expertise. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Like medicine in general, we need more general people than subspecialists.

Honestly, I can’t claim to be any different. Twenty-six years ago, when I finished residency, I did a clinical neurophysiology fellowship. From a practical view it was an epilepsy fellowship at my program. Some of this was an interest at the time in subspecializing, some of it was me putting off joining the “real world” of having to find a job for a year.

When I hung up my own shingle, my business card listed a subspecialty in epilepsy. Looking back years later, this wasn’t the best move. In solo practice I had no access to an epilepsy monitoring unit, vagus nerve stimulation capabilities, or epilepsy surgery at the hospital I rounded at. Not only that, I discovered it put me at a disadvantage, as internists were referring only epilepsy patients to me, and all the other stuff (which is the majority of patients) to the general (or comprehensive) neurologists around me. Which, financially, wasn’t a good thing when you’re young and starting out.

Not only that, but I discovered that I didn’t like only seeing one thing. I found it boring, and not for me.

So after a year or so, I took the word “epilepsy” off my card, left it at “general neurology,” and sent out letters reminding my referral base that I was willing to see the majority of things in my field (rare diseases, even today, I won’t attempt to handle).

So now my days are a mix of things, which I like. Neurology is enough of a specialty for me without going further up the pyramid. Having sub (and even sub-sub) specialists is important to maintain medical excellence, but we still need people willing to do general neurology, and I’m happy there.

Changing my title to “comprehensive” is unnecessary. I’m happy with what I am.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I’m a general neurologist. I consider myself a jack of all (or at least most) trades in my field, and a master of none.

In the April 2023 issue of JAMA Neurology there was an editorial about neurology training, with general neurology being renamed “comprehensive neurology” and a fellowship offered in practicing general neurology.

This seems rather silly to me. If 4 years of residency (1 of internship and 3 of neurology) don’t prepare you to practice general neurology, then what’s the point of residency at all? For that matter, what difference will renaming it do?

Imagine completing a 3-year internal medicine residency, then being told you need to do a fellowship in “comprehensive medicine” in order to practice. Or at least so you can add the word “comprehensive” to your shingle.

The authors bemoan the increasing number of neurology residents wanting to do fellowships and subspecialize, a situation that mirrors the general trend of people away from general medicine toward specialties.

While I agree we do need subspecialists in neurology (and currently there are at least 31 recognized, which is way more than I would have guessed), the fact is that patients, and sometimes their internists, aren’t going to be the best judge of who does or doesn’t need to see one, compared with a general neurologist.

Most of us general people can handle straightforward Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, migraines, etc. Certainly, there are times where the condition is refractory to our care, or there’s something unusual about the case, that leads us to refer them to someone with more expertise. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Like medicine in general, we need more general people than subspecialists.

Honestly, I can’t claim to be any different. Twenty-six years ago, when I finished residency, I did a clinical neurophysiology fellowship. From a practical view it was an epilepsy fellowship at my program. Some of this was an interest at the time in subspecializing, some of it was me putting off joining the “real world” of having to find a job for a year.

When I hung up my own shingle, my business card listed a subspecialty in epilepsy. Looking back years later, this wasn’t the best move. In solo practice I had no access to an epilepsy monitoring unit, vagus nerve stimulation capabilities, or epilepsy surgery at the hospital I rounded at. Not only that, I discovered it put me at a disadvantage, as internists were referring only epilepsy patients to me, and all the other stuff (which is the majority of patients) to the general (or comprehensive) neurologists around me. Which, financially, wasn’t a good thing when you’re young and starting out.

Not only that, but I discovered that I didn’t like only seeing one thing. I found it boring, and not for me.

So after a year or so, I took the word “epilepsy” off my card, left it at “general neurology,” and sent out letters reminding my referral base that I was willing to see the majority of things in my field (rare diseases, even today, I won’t attempt to handle).

So now my days are a mix of things, which I like. Neurology is enough of a specialty for me without going further up the pyramid. Having sub (and even sub-sub) specialists is important to maintain medical excellence, but we still need people willing to do general neurology, and I’m happy there.

Changing my title to “comprehensive” is unnecessary. I’m happy with what I am.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I’m a general neurologist. I consider myself a jack of all (or at least most) trades in my field, and a master of none.

In the April 2023 issue of JAMA Neurology there was an editorial about neurology training, with general neurology being renamed “comprehensive neurology” and a fellowship offered in practicing general neurology.

This seems rather silly to me. If 4 years of residency (1 of internship and 3 of neurology) don’t prepare you to practice general neurology, then what’s the point of residency at all? For that matter, what difference will renaming it do?

Imagine completing a 3-year internal medicine residency, then being told you need to do a fellowship in “comprehensive medicine” in order to practice. Or at least so you can add the word “comprehensive” to your shingle.

The authors bemoan the increasing number of neurology residents wanting to do fellowships and subspecialize, a situation that mirrors the general trend of people away from general medicine toward specialties.

While I agree we do need subspecialists in neurology (and currently there are at least 31 recognized, which is way more than I would have guessed), the fact is that patients, and sometimes their internists, aren’t going to be the best judge of who does or doesn’t need to see one, compared with a general neurologist.

Most of us general people can handle straightforward Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, migraines, etc. Certainly, there are times where the condition is refractory to our care, or there’s something unusual about the case, that leads us to refer them to someone with more expertise. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Like medicine in general, we need more general people than subspecialists.

Honestly, I can’t claim to be any different. Twenty-six years ago, when I finished residency, I did a clinical neurophysiology fellowship. From a practical view it was an epilepsy fellowship at my program. Some of this was an interest at the time in subspecializing, some of it was me putting off joining the “real world” of having to find a job for a year.

When I hung up my own shingle, my business card listed a subspecialty in epilepsy. Looking back years later, this wasn’t the best move. In solo practice I had no access to an epilepsy monitoring unit, vagus nerve stimulation capabilities, or epilepsy surgery at the hospital I rounded at. Not only that, I discovered it put me at a disadvantage, as internists were referring only epilepsy patients to me, and all the other stuff (which is the majority of patients) to the general (or comprehensive) neurologists around me. Which, financially, wasn’t a good thing when you’re young and starting out.

Not only that, but I discovered that I didn’t like only seeing one thing. I found it boring, and not for me.

So after a year or so, I took the word “epilepsy” off my card, left it at “general neurology,” and sent out letters reminding my referral base that I was willing to see the majority of things in my field (rare diseases, even today, I won’t attempt to handle).

So now my days are a mix of things, which I like. Neurology is enough of a specialty for me without going further up the pyramid. Having sub (and even sub-sub) specialists is important to maintain medical excellence, but we still need people willing to do general neurology, and I’m happy there.

Changing my title to “comprehensive” is unnecessary. I’m happy with what I am.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In one of my favorite fall rituals, I fired up my hot tub. In Phoenix the months for relaxing in one are limited, so I try to enjoy it when I can.

It’s a routine I know well. Remove the coverings it’s been hiding under for the 8-month Phoenix summer. Clean out the dust, dead bugs, leaves. Connect the pipes and hoses, tighten the clamps, and begin filling it with water. A pinch of water softener, a dash of chlorine, plug in the motor, and stir.

After a few minutes of running, however, I noticed water starting to come out from under the motor unit. That ain’t good. I checked the fittings to make sure everything was in place and tight. They were. So the problem was somewhere inside the motor.

I unplugged the hot tub and went to my computer. Using the ever-popular Google, I looked at diagrams of motor plumbing and wiring, then watched several DIY videos on YouTube.

After about an hour of this I got some screwdrivers, went back out to the hot tub, stared at it for a few minutes ... then I realized I was out of my league and called a repair service.

Part of life is accepting what you can and can’t do.

I’m a neurologist. I hope I’m a decent one. But I’m not a hot tub mechanic anymore than I am a neurosurgeon. Or, as Bones McCoy would have said, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a spa repairman.” Either way, I was out of my league and I knew it. My taking the motor apart – while certainly feasible – was more likely to make things worse.

Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. Although I spent quite a few years learning to be a neurologist, it’s amazing how many people feel that, after a similar time on Google, they’re qualified to diagnose and treat neurological (or any medical) conditions. They know what they have, what tests need to be done, and which medications should be prescribed. They only need me to rubber stamp their plan, since their insurance won’t take orders from them. (They often won’t take orders from me, either, but that’s another matter).

While occasionally they’re correct, most of the time I have to politely explain why I disagree with them, or why other possibilities have to be considered and treated. No one is forcing them to follow my plan, but if they aren’t happy with it, they’ll have to find another neurologist. I have to go with my education and experience over theirs. I mean, this is my job. I’ve been doing it for more than 25 years.

I’m sure if the hot tub mechanic showed up and I told him where and how to fix the problem he’d wonder what my qualifications were. I may be right, but I may be crazy (or at least wrong).

Unlike medicine, there’s nothing to keep me from trying to fix the hot tub myself, except my own awareness that I have no practical idea how to do so.

I try my best not to practice outside of my field. Google isn’t going to make me a cardiologist any more than it will let me fix hot tubs.

I’m all for knowledge, but it also has its limits. Why some patients think the Internet is a good substitute for 9 years of education and 25 years of ongoing experience, I have no idea.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In one of my favorite fall rituals, I fired up my hot tub. In Phoenix the months for relaxing in one are limited, so I try to enjoy it when I can.

It’s a routine I know well. Remove the coverings it’s been hiding under for the 8-month Phoenix summer. Clean out the dust, dead bugs, leaves. Connect the pipes and hoses, tighten the clamps, and begin filling it with water. A pinch of water softener, a dash of chlorine, plug in the motor, and stir.

After a few minutes of running, however, I noticed water starting to come out from under the motor unit. That ain’t good. I checked the fittings to make sure everything was in place and tight. They were. So the problem was somewhere inside the motor.

I unplugged the hot tub and went to my computer. Using the ever-popular Google, I looked at diagrams of motor plumbing and wiring, then watched several DIY videos on YouTube.

After about an hour of this I got some screwdrivers, went back out to the hot tub, stared at it for a few minutes ... then I realized I was out of my league and called a repair service.

Part of life is accepting what you can and can’t do.

I’m a neurologist. I hope I’m a decent one. But I’m not a hot tub mechanic anymore than I am a neurosurgeon. Or, as Bones McCoy would have said, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a spa repairman.” Either way, I was out of my league and I knew it. My taking the motor apart – while certainly feasible – was more likely to make things worse.

Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. Although I spent quite a few years learning to be a neurologist, it’s amazing how many people feel that, after a similar time on Google, they’re qualified to diagnose and treat neurological (or any medical) conditions. They know what they have, what tests need to be done, and which medications should be prescribed. They only need me to rubber stamp their plan, since their insurance won’t take orders from them. (They often won’t take orders from me, either, but that’s another matter).

While occasionally they’re correct, most of the time I have to politely explain why I disagree with them, or why other possibilities have to be considered and treated. No one is forcing them to follow my plan, but if they aren’t happy with it, they’ll have to find another neurologist. I have to go with my education and experience over theirs. I mean, this is my job. I’ve been doing it for more than 25 years.

I’m sure if the hot tub mechanic showed up and I told him where and how to fix the problem he’d wonder what my qualifications were. I may be right, but I may be crazy (or at least wrong).

Unlike medicine, there’s nothing to keep me from trying to fix the hot tub myself, except my own awareness that I have no practical idea how to do so.

I try my best not to practice outside of my field. Google isn’t going to make me a cardiologist any more than it will let me fix hot tubs.

I’m all for knowledge, but it also has its limits. Why some patients think the Internet is a good substitute for 9 years of education and 25 years of ongoing experience, I have no idea.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In one of my favorite fall rituals, I fired up my hot tub. In Phoenix the months for relaxing in one are limited, so I try to enjoy it when I can.

It’s a routine I know well. Remove the coverings it’s been hiding under for the 8-month Phoenix summer. Clean out the dust, dead bugs, leaves. Connect the pipes and hoses, tighten the clamps, and begin filling it with water. A pinch of water softener, a dash of chlorine, plug in the motor, and stir.

After a few minutes of running, however, I noticed water starting to come out from under the motor unit. That ain’t good. I checked the fittings to make sure everything was in place and tight. They were. So the problem was somewhere inside the motor.

I unplugged the hot tub and went to my computer. Using the ever-popular Google, I looked at diagrams of motor plumbing and wiring, then watched several DIY videos on YouTube.

After about an hour of this I got some screwdrivers, went back out to the hot tub, stared at it for a few minutes ... then I realized I was out of my league and called a repair service.

Part of life is accepting what you can and can’t do.

I’m a neurologist. I hope I’m a decent one. But I’m not a hot tub mechanic anymore than I am a neurosurgeon. Or, as Bones McCoy would have said, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a spa repairman.” Either way, I was out of my league and I knew it. My taking the motor apart – while certainly feasible – was more likely to make things worse.

Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. Although I spent quite a few years learning to be a neurologist, it’s amazing how many people feel that, after a similar time on Google, they’re qualified to diagnose and treat neurological (or any medical) conditions. They know what they have, what tests need to be done, and which medications should be prescribed. They only need me to rubber stamp their plan, since their insurance won’t take orders from them. (They often won’t take orders from me, either, but that’s another matter).

While occasionally they’re correct, most of the time I have to politely explain why I disagree with them, or why other possibilities have to be considered and treated. No one is forcing them to follow my plan, but if they aren’t happy with it, they’ll have to find another neurologist. I have to go with my education and experience over theirs. I mean, this is my job. I’ve been doing it for more than 25 years.

I’m sure if the hot tub mechanic showed up and I told him where and how to fix the problem he’d wonder what my qualifications were. I may be right, but I may be crazy (or at least wrong).

Unlike medicine, there’s nothing to keep me from trying to fix the hot tub myself, except my own awareness that I have no practical idea how to do so.

I try my best not to practice outside of my field. Google isn’t going to make me a cardiologist any more than it will let me fix hot tubs.

I’m all for knowledge, but it also has its limits. Why some patients think the Internet is a good substitute for 9 years of education and 25 years of ongoing experience, I have no idea.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am not a marketing person. I never will be. I don’t think like one.

A current article on FiercePharma talked about Boehringer Ingelheim’s recent “rebranding,” which involved (among other things) changing the blues in its logo and ads to greens.

Maybe someone else out there would notice that change, but I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t read about it. Nor am I sure what affect it would have on me, if any. But I’m sure they paid psychologists and marketing teams quite a bit to make sure it was a good idea.

Likewise, when AbbVie repackaged Ubrelvy from 10 to a package to 16, the company felt the need to change the design of the sample boxes (which are also now green). I’m pretty sure none of my patients noticed. The only reason I did is because I’m the one who stocks my sample shelf here.

Abbvie and Boehringer aren’t alone in this, of course. Pharmaceutical marketing is big business. I understand the companies want doctors and patients to know about their products. In that respect they’re no different from General Motors or Kellogg’s.

But pharmaceuticals fall into a different area. Kellogg’s products don’t require a middleman handing you a script allowing you to buy corn flakes, so although the products are sold to the public, they also have to be sold to a person who isn’t buying them – the prescriber.

Not all these ads are bad, of course. At best they raise public awareness of different health conditions and the options to treat them. At worst ... well, currently there are several movies out there about the results of marketing done by the Sackler family and Purdue.

To me, most pharmaceutical ads look the same. They show happy people going about their lives, with the impression being that they couldn’t have done this without the benefit of the drug being marketed.

To a large extent I can’t knock that. Pharmaceuticals are amazing things. They’ve contributed dramatically to human health, life quality, and longevity.

But would I, or most people, notice if the lettering in the ads were blue, green, or yellow? Probably not. Someone with a background in the psychology of marketing would be able to show me data on how different colors affect our perceptions, but I still look at this and wonder if the money could have been better spent.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in marketing. I tend to be on the practical side. The idea of hiring a celebrity to endorse a migraine (or pretty much any) medication would never have occurred to me. I have no idea how much Pfizer paid Lady Gaga to sell Nurtec, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more than I’ll earn this year. Probably ever.

Like most neurologists I’m hopelessly left-brained. But I still wonder how much things like this really make a difference.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am not a marketing person. I never will be. I don’t think like one.

A current article on FiercePharma talked about Boehringer Ingelheim’s recent “rebranding,” which involved (among other things) changing the blues in its logo and ads to greens.

Maybe someone else out there would notice that change, but I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t read about it. Nor am I sure what affect it would have on me, if any. But I’m sure they paid psychologists and marketing teams quite a bit to make sure it was a good idea.

Likewise, when AbbVie repackaged Ubrelvy from 10 to a package to 16, the company felt the need to change the design of the sample boxes (which are also now green). I’m pretty sure none of my patients noticed. The only reason I did is because I’m the one who stocks my sample shelf here.

Abbvie and Boehringer aren’t alone in this, of course. Pharmaceutical marketing is big business. I understand the companies want doctors and patients to know about their products. In that respect they’re no different from General Motors or Kellogg’s.

But pharmaceuticals fall into a different area. Kellogg’s products don’t require a middleman handing you a script allowing you to buy corn flakes, so although the products are sold to the public, they also have to be sold to a person who isn’t buying them – the prescriber.

Not all these ads are bad, of course. At best they raise public awareness of different health conditions and the options to treat them. At worst ... well, currently there are several movies out there about the results of marketing done by the Sackler family and Purdue.

To me, most pharmaceutical ads look the same. They show happy people going about their lives, with the impression being that they couldn’t have done this without the benefit of the drug being marketed.

To a large extent I can’t knock that. Pharmaceuticals are amazing things. They’ve contributed dramatically to human health, life quality, and longevity.

But would I, or most people, notice if the lettering in the ads were blue, green, or yellow? Probably not. Someone with a background in the psychology of marketing would be able to show me data on how different colors affect our perceptions, but I still look at this and wonder if the money could have been better spent.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in marketing. I tend to be on the practical side. The idea of hiring a celebrity to endorse a migraine (or pretty much any) medication would never have occurred to me. I have no idea how much Pfizer paid Lady Gaga to sell Nurtec, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more than I’ll earn this year. Probably ever.

Like most neurologists I’m hopelessly left-brained. But I still wonder how much things like this really make a difference.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am not a marketing person. I never will be. I don’t think like one.

A current article on FiercePharma talked about Boehringer Ingelheim’s recent “rebranding,” which involved (among other things) changing the blues in its logo and ads to greens.

Maybe someone else out there would notice that change, but I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t read about it. Nor am I sure what affect it would have on me, if any. But I’m sure they paid psychologists and marketing teams quite a bit to make sure it was a good idea.

Likewise, when AbbVie repackaged Ubrelvy from 10 to a package to 16, the company felt the need to change the design of the sample boxes (which are also now green). I’m pretty sure none of my patients noticed. The only reason I did is because I’m the one who stocks my sample shelf here.

Abbvie and Boehringer aren’t alone in this, of course. Pharmaceutical marketing is big business. I understand the companies want doctors and patients to know about their products. In that respect they’re no different from General Motors or Kellogg’s.

But pharmaceuticals fall into a different area. Kellogg’s products don’t require a middleman handing you a script allowing you to buy corn flakes, so although the products are sold to the public, they also have to be sold to a person who isn’t buying them – the prescriber.

Not all these ads are bad, of course. At best they raise public awareness of different health conditions and the options to treat them. At worst ... well, currently there are several movies out there about the results of marketing done by the Sackler family and Purdue.

To me, most pharmaceutical ads look the same. They show happy people going about their lives, with the impression being that they couldn’t have done this without the benefit of the drug being marketed.

To a large extent I can’t knock that. Pharmaceuticals are amazing things. They’ve contributed dramatically to human health, life quality, and longevity.

But would I, or most people, notice if the lettering in the ads were blue, green, or yellow? Probably not. Someone with a background in the psychology of marketing would be able to show me data on how different colors affect our perceptions, but I still look at this and wonder if the money could have been better spent.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in marketing. I tend to be on the practical side. The idea of hiring a celebrity to endorse a migraine (or pretty much any) medication would never have occurred to me. I have no idea how much Pfizer paid Lady Gaga to sell Nurtec, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more than I’ll earn this year. Probably ever.

Like most neurologists I’m hopelessly left-brained. But I still wonder how much things like this really make a difference.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

As I noted in my last column, I recently had a generic cold.

One of the more irritating aspects is that I usually get a cough that lasts a few weeks afterwards, and, like most people, I try to do something about it. So I load up on various over-the-counter remedies.

I have no idea if they work, or if I’m shelling out for a placebo. I’m not alone in buying these, or they wouldn’t be on the market, or making money, at all.

But the placebo effect is pretty strong. Phenylephrine has been around since 1938. It’s sold on its own and is an ingredient in almost every anti-cough/cold combination medication out there (NyQuil, DayQuil, Robitussin Multi-Symptom, and their many generic store brands). Millions of people use it every year.

Yet, after sifting through piles of accumulated data, the Food and Drug Administration announced earlier this year that phenylephrine ... doesn’t do anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. When compared with a placebo in controlled trials, you couldn’t tell the difference between them. So now the use of it is being questioned. CVS has started pulling it off their shelves, and I suspect other pharmacies will follow.

But back to my cough. A time-honored tradition in American childhood is having to cram down Robitussin and gagging from its nasty taste (the cherry and orange flavoring don’t make a difference, it tastes terrible no matter what you do). So that gets ingrained into us, and to this day I, and most adults, reach for a bottle of dextromethorphan when they have a cough.

But the evidence for that is spotty, too. Several studies have shown equivocal, if any, evidence to suggest it helps with coughs, though others have shown some. Nothing really amazing though.

But we still buy it by the gallon when we’re sick, because we want something, anything, that will make us better. Even if we’re doing so more from hope than conviction.

There’s also the old standby of cough drops, which have been used for more than 3,000 years. Ingredients vary, but menthol is probably the most common one. I go through those, too. I keep a bag in my desk at work. In medical school, during cold season, it was in my backpack. I remember sitting in the Creighton library to study, quietly sucking on a lozenge to keep my cough from disturbing other students.

But even then, the evidence is iffy as to whether they do anything. In fact, one interesting (though small) study in 2018 suggested they may actually prolong coughs.

The fact is that we are all susceptible to the placebo effect, regardless of how much we know about illness and medication. Maybe these things work, maybe they don’t, but it’s a valid question. How often do we let wishful thinking beat objective data?

Probably more often than we want to admit.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

As I noted in my last column, I recently had a generic cold.

One of the more irritating aspects is that I usually get a cough that lasts a few weeks afterwards, and, like most people, I try to do something about it. So I load up on various over-the-counter remedies.

I have no idea if they work, or if I’m shelling out for a placebo. I’m not alone in buying these, or they wouldn’t be on the market, or making money, at all.

But the placebo effect is pretty strong. Phenylephrine has been around since 1938. It’s sold on its own and is an ingredient in almost every anti-cough/cold combination medication out there (NyQuil, DayQuil, Robitussin Multi-Symptom, and their many generic store brands). Millions of people use it every year.

Yet, after sifting through piles of accumulated data, the Food and Drug Administration announced earlier this year that phenylephrine ... doesn’t do anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. When compared with a placebo in controlled trials, you couldn’t tell the difference between them. So now the use of it is being questioned. CVS has started pulling it off their shelves, and I suspect other pharmacies will follow.

But back to my cough. A time-honored tradition in American childhood is having to cram down Robitussin and gagging from its nasty taste (the cherry and orange flavoring don’t make a difference, it tastes terrible no matter what you do). So that gets ingrained into us, and to this day I, and most adults, reach for a bottle of dextromethorphan when they have a cough.

But the evidence for that is spotty, too. Several studies have shown equivocal, if any, evidence to suggest it helps with coughs, though others have shown some. Nothing really amazing though.

But we still buy it by the gallon when we’re sick, because we want something, anything, that will make us better. Even if we’re doing so more from hope than conviction.

There’s also the old standby of cough drops, which have been used for more than 3,000 years. Ingredients vary, but menthol is probably the most common one. I go through those, too. I keep a bag in my desk at work. In medical school, during cold season, it was in my backpack. I remember sitting in the Creighton library to study, quietly sucking on a lozenge to keep my cough from disturbing other students.

But even then, the evidence is iffy as to whether they do anything. In fact, one interesting (though small) study in 2018 suggested they may actually prolong coughs.

The fact is that we are all susceptible to the placebo effect, regardless of how much we know about illness and medication. Maybe these things work, maybe they don’t, but it’s a valid question. How often do we let wishful thinking beat objective data?

Probably more often than we want to admit.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

As I noted in my last column, I recently had a generic cold.

One of the more irritating aspects is that I usually get a cough that lasts a few weeks afterwards, and, like most people, I try to do something about it. So I load up on various over-the-counter remedies.

I have no idea if they work, or if I’m shelling out for a placebo. I’m not alone in buying these, or they wouldn’t be on the market, or making money, at all.

But the placebo effect is pretty strong. Phenylephrine has been around since 1938. It’s sold on its own and is an ingredient in almost every anti-cough/cold combination medication out there (NyQuil, DayQuil, Robitussin Multi-Symptom, and their many generic store brands). Millions of people use it every year.

Yet, after sifting through piles of accumulated data, the Food and Drug Administration announced earlier this year that phenylephrine ... doesn’t do anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. When compared with a placebo in controlled trials, you couldn’t tell the difference between them. So now the use of it is being questioned. CVS has started pulling it off their shelves, and I suspect other pharmacies will follow.

But back to my cough. A time-honored tradition in American childhood is having to cram down Robitussin and gagging from its nasty taste (the cherry and orange flavoring don’t make a difference, it tastes terrible no matter what you do). So that gets ingrained into us, and to this day I, and most adults, reach for a bottle of dextromethorphan when they have a cough.

But the evidence for that is spotty, too. Several studies have shown equivocal, if any, evidence to suggest it helps with coughs, though others have shown some. Nothing really amazing though.

But we still buy it by the gallon when we’re sick, because we want something, anything, that will make us better. Even if we’re doing so more from hope than conviction.

There’s also the old standby of cough drops, which have been used for more than 3,000 years. Ingredients vary, but menthol is probably the most common one. I go through those, too. I keep a bag in my desk at work. In medical school, during cold season, it was in my backpack. I remember sitting in the Creighton library to study, quietly sucking on a lozenge to keep my cough from disturbing other students.

But even then, the evidence is iffy as to whether they do anything. In fact, one interesting (though small) study in 2018 suggested they may actually prolong coughs.

The fact is that we are all susceptible to the placebo effect, regardless of how much we know about illness and medication. Maybe these things work, maybe they don’t, but it’s a valid question. How often do we let wishful thinking beat objective data?

Probably more often than we want to admit.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I have a cold.

This is nothing new. Like most of us, I’ve probably gotten two or three a year for most of my life. I load up on Tylenol, Sudafed, cough syrup, and ginger ale (I’m not a chicken soup person), and I power through.

I may be sick, but there are patients to see. For better or worse, the idea of calling in sick never seems to apply to the health care profession. So I put on a mask to protect my patients and go ahead with my day.

But, as I blow my nose and accept my fate for the next week, I realize that I haven’t been sick with anything since 2019. Really.

Somewhere, with the masks, extra hand washing, Purell, and some good luck, I’d managed to dodge the rhinoviruses for 4 years.

I have no idea how many times in the last week I’ve told someone “I’d forgotten how much I hated being sick.” Certainly there are far worse things to have (colds are high on the “annoying” but low on the “serious” scales), but it’s odd to find myself back in the familiar pattern of coughing, sneezing, and low-grade fever that used to be a semi-annual occurrence.

So I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if the masks were that bad an idea? Certainly I have my share of patients, usually with immune diseases, who still wear them, and I see people at the store doing the same. There are countries where it was common to have them on even before the pandemic, though that was more for pollution.

I’m still pretty careful about hand washing, but that’s the nature of my job, anyway.

I keep coming back to the mask, though. Obviously, nothing is 100% successful, but certainly it puts a respiratory filter of sorts between us and the world (and vice versa). We use them in surgery and isolation rooms. It’s probably not the only reason I went 4 years without a cold, but it likely helped.

On the other hand, it has its drawbacks. A lot of my patients have hearing issues, and the mask doesn’t improve that. It also limits communication by facial expression, which is always important. It fogs up my classes (during the pandemic it became quite clear that any mask that claimed to be fog-free was lying).

I’m not saying everyone should wear them. This is up to me, that’s up to them.

But, for myself, it’s something to think about.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I have a cold.

This is nothing new. Like most of us, I’ve probably gotten two or three a year for most of my life. I load up on Tylenol, Sudafed, cough syrup, and ginger ale (I’m not a chicken soup person), and I power through.

I may be sick, but there are patients to see. For better or worse, the idea of calling in sick never seems to apply to the health care profession. So I put on a mask to protect my patients and go ahead with my day.

But, as I blow my nose and accept my fate for the next week, I realize that I haven’t been sick with anything since 2019. Really.

Somewhere, with the masks, extra hand washing, Purell, and some good luck, I’d managed to dodge the rhinoviruses for 4 years.

I have no idea how many times in the last week I’ve told someone “I’d forgotten how much I hated being sick.” Certainly there are far worse things to have (colds are high on the “annoying” but low on the “serious” scales), but it’s odd to find myself back in the familiar pattern of coughing, sneezing, and low-grade fever that used to be a semi-annual occurrence.

So I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if the masks were that bad an idea? Certainly I have my share of patients, usually with immune diseases, who still wear them, and I see people at the store doing the same. There are countries where it was common to have them on even before the pandemic, though that was more for pollution.

I’m still pretty careful about hand washing, but that’s the nature of my job, anyway.

I keep coming back to the mask, though. Obviously, nothing is 100% successful, but certainly it puts a respiratory filter of sorts between us and the world (and vice versa). We use them in surgery and isolation rooms. It’s probably not the only reason I went 4 years without a cold, but it likely helped.

On the other hand, it has its drawbacks. A lot of my patients have hearing issues, and the mask doesn’t improve that. It also limits communication by facial expression, which is always important. It fogs up my classes (during the pandemic it became quite clear that any mask that claimed to be fog-free was lying).

I’m not saying everyone should wear them. This is up to me, that’s up to them.

But, for myself, it’s something to think about.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I have a cold.

This is nothing new. Like most of us, I’ve probably gotten two or three a year for most of my life. I load up on Tylenol, Sudafed, cough syrup, and ginger ale (I’m not a chicken soup person), and I power through.

I may be sick, but there are patients to see. For better or worse, the idea of calling in sick never seems to apply to the health care profession. So I put on a mask to protect my patients and go ahead with my day.

But, as I blow my nose and accept my fate for the next week, I realize that I haven’t been sick with anything since 2019. Really.

Somewhere, with the masks, extra hand washing, Purell, and some good luck, I’d managed to dodge the rhinoviruses for 4 years.

I have no idea how many times in the last week I’ve told someone “I’d forgotten how much I hated being sick.” Certainly there are far worse things to have (colds are high on the “annoying” but low on the “serious” scales), but it’s odd to find myself back in the familiar pattern of coughing, sneezing, and low-grade fever that used to be a semi-annual occurrence.

So I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if the masks were that bad an idea? Certainly I have my share of patients, usually with immune diseases, who still wear them, and I see people at the store doing the same. There are countries where it was common to have them on even before the pandemic, though that was more for pollution.

I’m still pretty careful about hand washing, but that’s the nature of my job, anyway.

I keep coming back to the mask, though. Obviously, nothing is 100% successful, but certainly it puts a respiratory filter of sorts between us and the world (and vice versa). We use them in surgery and isolation rooms. It’s probably not the only reason I went 4 years without a cold, but it likely helped.

On the other hand, it has its drawbacks. A lot of my patients have hearing issues, and the mask doesn’t improve that. It also limits communication by facial expression, which is always important. It fogs up my classes (during the pandemic it became quite clear that any mask that claimed to be fog-free was lying).

I’m not saying everyone should wear them. This is up to me, that’s up to them.

But, for myself, it’s something to think about.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

“What do you think about the whole Israel thing?”

That question came at the end of an otherwise routine appointment.

My answer surprised her, but she didn’t push it. She paid her copay, scheduled a follow-up for 3 months, and left.

As I’ve written before, I try to avoid all news except the local weather. The sad reality is that most of it is bad and there’s nothing I can really do about it. It only upsets me, which isn’t good for my mental health and blood pressure, and if I can’t change it, what’s the point of knowing? It falls under the serenity prayer.

Of course, some news stories are too big not to hear something. I pass TVs in the doctors lounge or coffee house, hear others talking as I stand in line for the elevator, or see blurbs go by when checking the weather. It’s not entirely unavoidable.

I’m not trivializing the Middle East. But, to me, it’s not part of the doctor-patient relationship any more than my political views are. You run the risk of driving a wedge between you and the person you’re caring for. If you don’t like their opinion, you may find yourself less interested in them and their care. If they don’t like your opinion on news, they may start to question your ability as a doctor.

That’s not what we strive for, but it can be human nature. For better or worse we often reduce things to “us against them,” and learning someone is on the opposite side may, even subconsciously, alter how you treat them.

That’s not good, so to me it’s best not to know.

Some may think I’m being petty, or aloof, to be unwilling to discuss nonmedical issues of significance, but I don’t see it that way. Time is limited at the appointment and is best spent on medical care. Something unrelated to the visit that may alter my objective opinion of a patient – or theirs of me as a doctor – is best left out of it.

I’m here to be your doctor, and to do the best I can for you. I’m not here to be a debate partner. Whenever a patient asks me a question on politics or news I always think of the Monty Python skit “Argument Clinic.” That’s not why you’re here. There are plenty places to discuss such things. My office isn’t one of them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

“What do you think about the whole Israel thing?”

That question came at the end of an otherwise routine appointment.

My answer surprised her, but she didn’t push it. She paid her copay, scheduled a follow-up for 3 months, and left.

As I’ve written before, I try to avoid all news except the local weather. The sad reality is that most of it is bad and there’s nothing I can really do about it. It only upsets me, which isn’t good for my mental health and blood pressure, and if I can’t change it, what’s the point of knowing? It falls under the serenity prayer.

Of course, some news stories are too big not to hear something. I pass TVs in the doctors lounge or coffee house, hear others talking as I stand in line for the elevator, or see blurbs go by when checking the weather. It’s not entirely unavoidable.

I’m not trivializing the Middle East. But, to me, it’s not part of the doctor-patient relationship any more than my political views are. You run the risk of driving a wedge between you and the person you’re caring for. If you don’t like their opinion, you may find yourself less interested in them and their care. If they don’t like your opinion on news, they may start to question your ability as a doctor.

That’s not what we strive for, but it can be human nature. For better or worse we often reduce things to “us against them,” and learning someone is on the opposite side may, even subconsciously, alter how you treat them.

That’s not good, so to me it’s best not to know.

Some may think I’m being petty, or aloof, to be unwilling to discuss nonmedical issues of significance, but I don’t see it that way. Time is limited at the appointment and is best spent on medical care. Something unrelated to the visit that may alter my objective opinion of a patient – or theirs of me as a doctor – is best left out of it.

I’m here to be your doctor, and to do the best I can for you. I’m not here to be a debate partner. Whenever a patient asks me a question on politics or news I always think of the Monty Python skit “Argument Clinic.” That’s not why you’re here. There are plenty places to discuss such things. My office isn’t one of them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

“What do you think about the whole Israel thing?”

That question came at the end of an otherwise routine appointment.

My answer surprised her, but she didn’t push it. She paid her copay, scheduled a follow-up for 3 months, and left.

As I’ve written before, I try to avoid all news except the local weather. The sad reality is that most of it is bad and there’s nothing I can really do about it. It only upsets me, which isn’t good for my mental health and blood pressure, and if I can’t change it, what’s the point of knowing? It falls under the serenity prayer.

Of course, some news stories are too big not to hear something. I pass TVs in the doctors lounge or coffee house, hear others talking as I stand in line for the elevator, or see blurbs go by when checking the weather. It’s not entirely unavoidable.

I’m not trivializing the Middle East. But, to me, it’s not part of the doctor-patient relationship any more than my political views are. You run the risk of driving a wedge between you and the person you’re caring for. If you don’t like their opinion, you may find yourself less interested in them and their care. If they don’t like your opinion on news, they may start to question your ability as a doctor.

That’s not what we strive for, but it can be human nature. For better or worse we often reduce things to “us against them,” and learning someone is on the opposite side may, even subconsciously, alter how you treat them.

That’s not good, so to me it’s best not to know.

Some may think I’m being petty, or aloof, to be unwilling to discuss nonmedical issues of significance, but I don’t see it that way. Time is limited at the appointment and is best spent on medical care. Something unrelated to the visit that may alter my objective opinion of a patient – or theirs of me as a doctor – is best left out of it.

I’m here to be your doctor, and to do the best I can for you. I’m not here to be a debate partner. Whenever a patient asks me a question on politics or news I always think of the Monty Python skit “Argument Clinic.” That’s not why you’re here. There are plenty places to discuss such things. My office isn’t one of them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I was a resident, on morning rounds. The attending neurologist was young and ambitious (weren’t we all once?), trying to get the hospital to help him fund a research program in his subspecialty of interest.

One of the patients we saw that morning was a locally known successful businessman who’d been admitted, fortunately not for anything too serious.

Pretty standard up to that point.

After answering questions, however, the attending suddenly went into a sales pitch on his new research program, asking the guy for a financial donation, and giving him the card for the person at his office handling the funding.

I don’t remember anymore if he repeated that with other patients, but even now it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. As a resident I wasn’t in a position to criticize him, nor did I want to endanger my own standing in the program by talking to someone higher up.

He was, fortunately, the only attending I ever worked with who did that. It still stands out in my mind, perhaps as an example of what not to do, and sometimes I still think about it.

Perhaps I’m naive, but I assumed he was an aberration. Apparently not, as the American College of Physicians recently issued a position paper advising its members not to ask patients for donations to the doctor’s workplace. There’s actually an acronym, GPF (Grateful Patient Fundraising) for this.

I understand a lot of these doctors are in academics and need funding for research and other programs. I know that a lot of good comes from this research, and I fully support it.

But this seems to be a bad way of doing it. Standing at the bedside on that long-ago morning, I remember thinking the patient (who looked kind of surprised) was going to wonder if this was a vague sort of hint: You’ll get better care if you pay up. Or a veiled threat that you may not get decent care if you don’t. I have no idea if he donated.

There must be a better way to get funding than hitting up a patient as part of the care plan. Perhaps discharge materials might include a brochure about how to make a donation, if interested. Or the ubiquitous portal might have a “donate” box in the task bar.

If the patient were to initiate this on his own, I wouldn’t have an issue with it. He gets out of the hospital, is grateful for his care, and calls the physician’s office to say he’d like to make a donation to whatever his program is (or just goes online to do it). That’s fine. I’ve even had the occasional patient call my office to say they’d like to make a donation to my favorite charity, and I give them a list of various neurology research foundations (none of which I’m affiliated with, for the record).

But to actively solicit donations from someone under your care is tasteless and inappropriate. It creates a conflict of interest for both parties.

The patient may believe he’ll get better care, and is obligated to keep giving – or else. The physician may feel like he’s stuck going beyond what’s really needed, ordering unnecessary tests and such to keep the financial VIP happy. And what happens if the big donor patient calls in because he hurt his ankle and needs a Percocet refill that another doctor won’t give him?

The statement by the ACP is appropriate. The only thing that bothers me about it is that it had to be made at all.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I was a resident, on morning rounds. The attending neurologist was young and ambitious (weren’t we all once?), trying to get the hospital to help him fund a research program in his subspecialty of interest.

One of the patients we saw that morning was a locally known successful businessman who’d been admitted, fortunately not for anything too serious.

Pretty standard up to that point.

After answering questions, however, the attending suddenly went into a sales pitch on his new research program, asking the guy for a financial donation, and giving him the card for the person at his office handling the funding.

I don’t remember anymore if he repeated that with other patients, but even now it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. As a resident I wasn’t in a position to criticize him, nor did I want to endanger my own standing in the program by talking to someone higher up.

He was, fortunately, the only attending I ever worked with who did that. It still stands out in my mind, perhaps as an example of what not to do, and sometimes I still think about it.

Perhaps I’m naive, but I assumed he was an aberration. Apparently not, as the American College of Physicians recently issued a position paper advising its members not to ask patients for donations to the doctor’s workplace. There’s actually an acronym, GPF (Grateful Patient Fundraising) for this.

I understand a lot of these doctors are in academics and need funding for research and other programs. I know that a lot of good comes from this research, and I fully support it.

But this seems to be a bad way of doing it. Standing at the bedside on that long-ago morning, I remember thinking the patient (who looked kind of surprised) was going to wonder if this was a vague sort of hint: You’ll get better care if you pay up. Or a veiled threat that you may not get decent care if you don’t. I have no idea if he donated.

There must be a better way to get funding than hitting up a patient as part of the care plan. Perhaps discharge materials might include a brochure about how to make a donation, if interested. Or the ubiquitous portal might have a “donate” box in the task bar.

If the patient were to initiate this on his own, I wouldn’t have an issue with it. He gets out of the hospital, is grateful for his care, and calls the physician’s office to say he’d like to make a donation to whatever his program is (or just goes online to do it). That’s fine. I’ve even had the occasional patient call my office to say they’d like to make a donation to my favorite charity, and I give them a list of various neurology research foundations (none of which I’m affiliated with, for the record).

But to actively solicit donations from someone under your care is tasteless and inappropriate. It creates a conflict of interest for both parties.

The patient may believe he’ll get better care, and is obligated to keep giving – or else. The physician may feel like he’s stuck going beyond what’s really needed, ordering unnecessary tests and such to keep the financial VIP happy. And what happens if the big donor patient calls in because he hurt his ankle and needs a Percocet refill that another doctor won’t give him?

The statement by the ACP is appropriate. The only thing that bothers me about it is that it had to be made at all.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I was a resident, on morning rounds. The attending neurologist was young and ambitious (weren’t we all once?), trying to get the hospital to help him fund a research program in his subspecialty of interest.

One of the patients we saw that morning was a locally known successful businessman who’d been admitted, fortunately not for anything too serious.

Pretty standard up to that point.

After answering questions, however, the attending suddenly went into a sales pitch on his new research program, asking the guy for a financial donation, and giving him the card for the person at his office handling the funding.

I don’t remember anymore if he repeated that with other patients, but even now it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. As a resident I wasn’t in a position to criticize him, nor did I want to endanger my own standing in the program by talking to someone higher up.

He was, fortunately, the only attending I ever worked with who did that. It still stands out in my mind, perhaps as an example of what not to do, and sometimes I still think about it.

Perhaps I’m naive, but I assumed he was an aberration. Apparently not, as the American College of Physicians recently issued a position paper advising its members not to ask patients for donations to the doctor’s workplace. There’s actually an acronym, GPF (Grateful Patient Fundraising) for this.

I understand a lot of these doctors are in academics and need funding for research and other programs. I know that a lot of good comes from this research, and I fully support it.

But this seems to be a bad way of doing it. Standing at the bedside on that long-ago morning, I remember thinking the patient (who looked kind of surprised) was going to wonder if this was a vague sort of hint: You’ll get better care if you pay up. Or a veiled threat that you may not get decent care if you don’t. I have no idea if he donated.

There must be a better way to get funding than hitting up a patient as part of the care plan. Perhaps discharge materials might include a brochure about how to make a donation, if interested. Or the ubiquitous portal might have a “donate” box in the task bar.

If the patient were to initiate this on his own, I wouldn’t have an issue with it. He gets out of the hospital, is grateful for his care, and calls the physician’s office to say he’d like to make a donation to whatever his program is (or just goes online to do it). That’s fine. I’ve even had the occasional patient call my office to say they’d like to make a donation to my favorite charity, and I give them a list of various neurology research foundations (none of which I’m affiliated with, for the record).

But to actively solicit donations from someone under your care is tasteless and inappropriate. It creates a conflict of interest for both parties.

The patient may believe he’ll get better care, and is obligated to keep giving – or else. The physician may feel like he’s stuck going beyond what’s really needed, ordering unnecessary tests and such to keep the financial VIP happy. And what happens if the big donor patient calls in because he hurt his ankle and needs a Percocet refill that another doctor won’t give him?

The statement by the ACP is appropriate. The only thing that bothers me about it is that it had to be made at all.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.