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Malaria: Not just someone else’s problem
What is the most dangerous animal on Earth? Which one has killed more humans since we first began walking upright?
The mind leaps to the vicious and dangerous – great white sharks. lions. tigers. crocodiles. The fearsome predators of the planet But realistically, more people are killed and injured by large herbivores each year than predators. Just watch news updates from Yellowstone during their busy season.
Anyway, the correct answer is ... none of the above.
It’s the mosquito, and the many microbes it’s a vector for. Malaria, in particular. Even the once-devastating bubonic plague is no longer a major concern.
What do Presidents Washington, Kennedy, Eisenhower, Lincoln, Monroe, Grant, Garfield, Jackson, Teddy Roosevelt, and other historical VIPs like Oliver Cromwell, King Tut, and numerous kings, queens, and popes all have in common? They all had malaria. Cromwell, Tut, and many royal and religious figures died of it.
You can make a solid argument that malaria is the disease that’s affected the course of history more than any other (you could make a good case for the plague, too, but it’s less relevant today). The control of malaria is what allowed the Panama canal to happen.
I’m bringing this up because, mostly overlooked in the news recently as we argued about light beer endorsements, TV pundits, and the NFL draft, is the approval and gradual increase in use of a malaria vaccine.
This is a pretty big deal given the scope of the problem and the fact that the most effective prevention up until recently was a mosquito net.
We tend to see malaria as someone else’s problem, something that affects the tropics, but forget that as recently as the 1940s it was still common in the U.S. During the Civil War as many as 1 million soldiers were infected with it. Given the right conditions it could easily return here.
Which is why we should be more aware of these things. As COVID showed, infectious diseases are never some other country’s, or continent’s, problem. They affect all of us either directly or indirectly. In the interconnected economies of the world illnesses in one area can spread to others. Even if they don’t they can still have significant effects on supply chains, since so much of what we depend on comes from somewhere else.
COVID, by comparison, is small beer. Just think about smallpox, or the plague, or polio, as to what an unchecked disease can do to a society until medicine catches up with it.
There will always be new diseases. Microbes and humans have been in a state of hostilities for a few million years now, and likely always will be. But every victory along the way is a victory for everyone, regardless of who they are or where they live.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
What is the most dangerous animal on Earth? Which one has killed more humans since we first began walking upright?
The mind leaps to the vicious and dangerous – great white sharks. lions. tigers. crocodiles. The fearsome predators of the planet But realistically, more people are killed and injured by large herbivores each year than predators. Just watch news updates from Yellowstone during their busy season.
Anyway, the correct answer is ... none of the above.
It’s the mosquito, and the many microbes it’s a vector for. Malaria, in particular. Even the once-devastating bubonic plague is no longer a major concern.
What do Presidents Washington, Kennedy, Eisenhower, Lincoln, Monroe, Grant, Garfield, Jackson, Teddy Roosevelt, and other historical VIPs like Oliver Cromwell, King Tut, and numerous kings, queens, and popes all have in common? They all had malaria. Cromwell, Tut, and many royal and religious figures died of it.
You can make a solid argument that malaria is the disease that’s affected the course of history more than any other (you could make a good case for the plague, too, but it’s less relevant today). The control of malaria is what allowed the Panama canal to happen.
I’m bringing this up because, mostly overlooked in the news recently as we argued about light beer endorsements, TV pundits, and the NFL draft, is the approval and gradual increase in use of a malaria vaccine.
This is a pretty big deal given the scope of the problem and the fact that the most effective prevention up until recently was a mosquito net.
We tend to see malaria as someone else’s problem, something that affects the tropics, but forget that as recently as the 1940s it was still common in the U.S. During the Civil War as many as 1 million soldiers were infected with it. Given the right conditions it could easily return here.
Which is why we should be more aware of these things. As COVID showed, infectious diseases are never some other country’s, or continent’s, problem. They affect all of us either directly or indirectly. In the interconnected economies of the world illnesses in one area can spread to others. Even if they don’t they can still have significant effects on supply chains, since so much of what we depend on comes from somewhere else.
COVID, by comparison, is small beer. Just think about smallpox, or the plague, or polio, as to what an unchecked disease can do to a society until medicine catches up with it.
There will always be new diseases. Microbes and humans have been in a state of hostilities for a few million years now, and likely always will be. But every victory along the way is a victory for everyone, regardless of who they are or where they live.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
What is the most dangerous animal on Earth? Which one has killed more humans since we first began walking upright?
The mind leaps to the vicious and dangerous – great white sharks. lions. tigers. crocodiles. The fearsome predators of the planet But realistically, more people are killed and injured by large herbivores each year than predators. Just watch news updates from Yellowstone during their busy season.
Anyway, the correct answer is ... none of the above.
It’s the mosquito, and the many microbes it’s a vector for. Malaria, in particular. Even the once-devastating bubonic plague is no longer a major concern.
What do Presidents Washington, Kennedy, Eisenhower, Lincoln, Monroe, Grant, Garfield, Jackson, Teddy Roosevelt, and other historical VIPs like Oliver Cromwell, King Tut, and numerous kings, queens, and popes all have in common? They all had malaria. Cromwell, Tut, and many royal and religious figures died of it.
You can make a solid argument that malaria is the disease that’s affected the course of history more than any other (you could make a good case for the plague, too, but it’s less relevant today). The control of malaria is what allowed the Panama canal to happen.
I’m bringing this up because, mostly overlooked in the news recently as we argued about light beer endorsements, TV pundits, and the NFL draft, is the approval and gradual increase in use of a malaria vaccine.
This is a pretty big deal given the scope of the problem and the fact that the most effective prevention up until recently was a mosquito net.
We tend to see malaria as someone else’s problem, something that affects the tropics, but forget that as recently as the 1940s it was still common in the U.S. During the Civil War as many as 1 million soldiers were infected with it. Given the right conditions it could easily return here.
Which is why we should be more aware of these things. As COVID showed, infectious diseases are never some other country’s, or continent’s, problem. They affect all of us either directly or indirectly. In the interconnected economies of the world illnesses in one area can spread to others. Even if they don’t they can still have significant effects on supply chains, since so much of what we depend on comes from somewhere else.
COVID, by comparison, is small beer. Just think about smallpox, or the plague, or polio, as to what an unchecked disease can do to a society until medicine catches up with it.
There will always be new diseases. Microbes and humans have been in a state of hostilities for a few million years now, and likely always will be. But every victory along the way is a victory for everyone, regardless of who they are or where they live.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
The amazing brain
Last week, unbeknownst to most people, Dayton, Ohio, hosted the world championships of Winter Drumline. It’s a combination of percussion instruments, dance, and music, with a storyline. Think of it as a very fast-paced half-time show, with only percussion, in 6 minutes or less.
My daughter fell in love with it her second year of high school, and has participated in it through college. Her specialty is the pit – marimba, vibraphone, xylophone. This gives our house a cruise ship atmosphere when she comes home to practice on weekends.
Over the years my wife and I have gone to many of her shows and competitions, streamed others online, and always been amazed by the variety of costumes, choreography, music numbers, and overall themes different teams come up with. We’ve seen shows based on 1930s detective fiction, ocean life, westerns, science fiction, toxic waste, emotions, relationships, flamenco, pirate ships, and many others.
And, as always, I marvel at the human brain.
Only 2-3 pounds but still an amazing thing. The capacity for imagination is endless, and one of the things that got us where we are today. The ability to see things that don’t exist yet, and work out the details on how to get there. The pyramids, Petra, the Great Wall, flight, the steam engine, landing on the moon, the ISS. And, of course, Winter Drumline.
It’s a uniquely (as far as we know) human capacity. To look at a rock and envision what it might be carved into. To look at Jupiter and think of a way to get a probe there. To sit in an empty gym and imagine the floor covered with dozens of percussion instruments and their players, imagining what each will be playing and doing at a given moment.
It’s really a remarkable capacity when you think about it. I’m sure it originally began as a way to figure out where you might find shelter or food, or simply to outwit the other tribe. But it’s become so much more than that. Someone envisioned every movie you see, book you read, and the computer I’m writing this on.
In his 1968 novelization of “2001: A Space Odyssey” Arthur C. Clarke described the thoughts of the unknown civilization that had left the Monolith behind for us as “in all the galaxy they had found nothing more precious than Mind.”
I’d agree with that. Even after 30 years of learning about the 2-3 pounds of semi-solid tissue we all carry upstairs, and doing my best to treat its malfunctions, I’ve never ceased to be amazed by it.
I hope I always will be.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Last week, unbeknownst to most people, Dayton, Ohio, hosted the world championships of Winter Drumline. It’s a combination of percussion instruments, dance, and music, with a storyline. Think of it as a very fast-paced half-time show, with only percussion, in 6 minutes or less.
My daughter fell in love with it her second year of high school, and has participated in it through college. Her specialty is the pit – marimba, vibraphone, xylophone. This gives our house a cruise ship atmosphere when she comes home to practice on weekends.
Over the years my wife and I have gone to many of her shows and competitions, streamed others online, and always been amazed by the variety of costumes, choreography, music numbers, and overall themes different teams come up with. We’ve seen shows based on 1930s detective fiction, ocean life, westerns, science fiction, toxic waste, emotions, relationships, flamenco, pirate ships, and many others.
And, as always, I marvel at the human brain.
Only 2-3 pounds but still an amazing thing. The capacity for imagination is endless, and one of the things that got us where we are today. The ability to see things that don’t exist yet, and work out the details on how to get there. The pyramids, Petra, the Great Wall, flight, the steam engine, landing on the moon, the ISS. And, of course, Winter Drumline.
It’s a uniquely (as far as we know) human capacity. To look at a rock and envision what it might be carved into. To look at Jupiter and think of a way to get a probe there. To sit in an empty gym and imagine the floor covered with dozens of percussion instruments and their players, imagining what each will be playing and doing at a given moment.
It’s really a remarkable capacity when you think about it. I’m sure it originally began as a way to figure out where you might find shelter or food, or simply to outwit the other tribe. But it’s become so much more than that. Someone envisioned every movie you see, book you read, and the computer I’m writing this on.
In his 1968 novelization of “2001: A Space Odyssey” Arthur C. Clarke described the thoughts of the unknown civilization that had left the Monolith behind for us as “in all the galaxy they had found nothing more precious than Mind.”
I’d agree with that. Even after 30 years of learning about the 2-3 pounds of semi-solid tissue we all carry upstairs, and doing my best to treat its malfunctions, I’ve never ceased to be amazed by it.
I hope I always will be.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Last week, unbeknownst to most people, Dayton, Ohio, hosted the world championships of Winter Drumline. It’s a combination of percussion instruments, dance, and music, with a storyline. Think of it as a very fast-paced half-time show, with only percussion, in 6 minutes or less.
My daughter fell in love with it her second year of high school, and has participated in it through college. Her specialty is the pit – marimba, vibraphone, xylophone. This gives our house a cruise ship atmosphere when she comes home to practice on weekends.
Over the years my wife and I have gone to many of her shows and competitions, streamed others online, and always been amazed by the variety of costumes, choreography, music numbers, and overall themes different teams come up with. We’ve seen shows based on 1930s detective fiction, ocean life, westerns, science fiction, toxic waste, emotions, relationships, flamenco, pirate ships, and many others.
And, as always, I marvel at the human brain.
Only 2-3 pounds but still an amazing thing. The capacity for imagination is endless, and one of the things that got us where we are today. The ability to see things that don’t exist yet, and work out the details on how to get there. The pyramids, Petra, the Great Wall, flight, the steam engine, landing on the moon, the ISS. And, of course, Winter Drumline.
It’s a uniquely (as far as we know) human capacity. To look at a rock and envision what it might be carved into. To look at Jupiter and think of a way to get a probe there. To sit in an empty gym and imagine the floor covered with dozens of percussion instruments and their players, imagining what each will be playing and doing at a given moment.
It’s really a remarkable capacity when you think about it. I’m sure it originally began as a way to figure out where you might find shelter or food, or simply to outwit the other tribe. But it’s become so much more than that. Someone envisioned every movie you see, book you read, and the computer I’m writing this on.
In his 1968 novelization of “2001: A Space Odyssey” Arthur C. Clarke described the thoughts of the unknown civilization that had left the Monolith behind for us as “in all the galaxy they had found nothing more precious than Mind.”
I’d agree with that. Even after 30 years of learning about the 2-3 pounds of semi-solid tissue we all carry upstairs, and doing my best to treat its malfunctions, I’ve never ceased to be amazed by it.
I hope I always will be.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Artificial intelligence versus real patients
STAT recently published an article on a new aspect of managed medical care.
They found that
That’s ... kind of scary.
Certainly, computers aren’t bad things. In 2023 America you can’t practice medicine without them. They aren’t malicious. They can analyze a lot of data faster than we can (for the record, the average memory capacity of a human brain is 1 petabyte, so we’re still ahead of the average desktop in that regard).
Computers, though, are pretty uniform. I’m a Mac person, and I can go into any Apple store and buy one. Right off the shelf I know how to work it, how it will run a given program, and can predict how it will handle different commands and such. They’re pretty much the same.
People are not quite as easy. Anatomically and chemically we’re similar, but that’s not the same. There are immune, genetic, and multiple other factors that put a lot of variables into the equation. Part of our training is knowing that and taking it into account when making treatment plans.
Algorithms, and artificial intelligence, can only do so much of that. If they were right all the time sports betting wouldn’t exist. But it does, because sports depends on the participants, who are people (or horses), and they’re not exactly alike ... for that matter how they’ll perform varies from day to day for the same individual.
But medical care isn’t a sport (even though hospital call can seem like a marathon). The data we give computers to use is generally based on averages – a rehab stay of 16.6 days for an 85-year-old woman with a broken shoulder (per the above article). But they don’t realize that averages are actually a collection of data on a bell-shaped curve. An insurance company will be only too happy when one person completes their rehabilitation in 11.6 days, and then feel it’s unreasonable when another takes 21.6.
That said, many of the companies involved say the final decisions are made by humans and that the algorithms are just guidelines.
Maybe so, but the STAT article suggests they’re putting too much credence in what the computer says, and not the specific circumstances of the individual involved.
That ain’t good, at least not for the patients.
Medicine, for better or worse, is a business. In an ideal world it probably wouldn’t be, but we don’t live in one.
But it’s unlike any other business out there, and shouldn’t be run like one. A car repair shop knows what parts to order and generally how long repairs will take. Once they’re done the car should be ready to roll out of the shop.
People aren’t like that.
I understand the need to prevent abuse and overbilling for unnecessary days and services. Medicine, unfortunately, has plenty of opportunities for the dishonest to take advantage of.
It’s a thin line, but, at least today, turning treatment decisions over to algorithms and computers is a bad idea for the people we’re supposed to be caring for.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
STAT recently published an article on a new aspect of managed medical care.
They found that
That’s ... kind of scary.
Certainly, computers aren’t bad things. In 2023 America you can’t practice medicine without them. They aren’t malicious. They can analyze a lot of data faster than we can (for the record, the average memory capacity of a human brain is 1 petabyte, so we’re still ahead of the average desktop in that regard).
Computers, though, are pretty uniform. I’m a Mac person, and I can go into any Apple store and buy one. Right off the shelf I know how to work it, how it will run a given program, and can predict how it will handle different commands and such. They’re pretty much the same.
People are not quite as easy. Anatomically and chemically we’re similar, but that’s not the same. There are immune, genetic, and multiple other factors that put a lot of variables into the equation. Part of our training is knowing that and taking it into account when making treatment plans.
Algorithms, and artificial intelligence, can only do so much of that. If they were right all the time sports betting wouldn’t exist. But it does, because sports depends on the participants, who are people (or horses), and they’re not exactly alike ... for that matter how they’ll perform varies from day to day for the same individual.
But medical care isn’t a sport (even though hospital call can seem like a marathon). The data we give computers to use is generally based on averages – a rehab stay of 16.6 days for an 85-year-old woman with a broken shoulder (per the above article). But they don’t realize that averages are actually a collection of data on a bell-shaped curve. An insurance company will be only too happy when one person completes their rehabilitation in 11.6 days, and then feel it’s unreasonable when another takes 21.6.
That said, many of the companies involved say the final decisions are made by humans and that the algorithms are just guidelines.
Maybe so, but the STAT article suggests they’re putting too much credence in what the computer says, and not the specific circumstances of the individual involved.
That ain’t good, at least not for the patients.
Medicine, for better or worse, is a business. In an ideal world it probably wouldn’t be, but we don’t live in one.
But it’s unlike any other business out there, and shouldn’t be run like one. A car repair shop knows what parts to order and generally how long repairs will take. Once they’re done the car should be ready to roll out of the shop.
People aren’t like that.
I understand the need to prevent abuse and overbilling for unnecessary days and services. Medicine, unfortunately, has plenty of opportunities for the dishonest to take advantage of.
It’s a thin line, but, at least today, turning treatment decisions over to algorithms and computers is a bad idea for the people we’re supposed to be caring for.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
STAT recently published an article on a new aspect of managed medical care.
They found that
That’s ... kind of scary.
Certainly, computers aren’t bad things. In 2023 America you can’t practice medicine without them. They aren’t malicious. They can analyze a lot of data faster than we can (for the record, the average memory capacity of a human brain is 1 petabyte, so we’re still ahead of the average desktop in that regard).
Computers, though, are pretty uniform. I’m a Mac person, and I can go into any Apple store and buy one. Right off the shelf I know how to work it, how it will run a given program, and can predict how it will handle different commands and such. They’re pretty much the same.
People are not quite as easy. Anatomically and chemically we’re similar, but that’s not the same. There are immune, genetic, and multiple other factors that put a lot of variables into the equation. Part of our training is knowing that and taking it into account when making treatment plans.
Algorithms, and artificial intelligence, can only do so much of that. If they were right all the time sports betting wouldn’t exist. But it does, because sports depends on the participants, who are people (or horses), and they’re not exactly alike ... for that matter how they’ll perform varies from day to day for the same individual.
But medical care isn’t a sport (even though hospital call can seem like a marathon). The data we give computers to use is generally based on averages – a rehab stay of 16.6 days for an 85-year-old woman with a broken shoulder (per the above article). But they don’t realize that averages are actually a collection of data on a bell-shaped curve. An insurance company will be only too happy when one person completes their rehabilitation in 11.6 days, and then feel it’s unreasonable when another takes 21.6.
That said, many of the companies involved say the final decisions are made by humans and that the algorithms are just guidelines.
Maybe so, but the STAT article suggests they’re putting too much credence in what the computer says, and not the specific circumstances of the individual involved.
That ain’t good, at least not for the patients.
Medicine, for better or worse, is a business. In an ideal world it probably wouldn’t be, but we don’t live in one.
But it’s unlike any other business out there, and shouldn’t be run like one. A car repair shop knows what parts to order and generally how long repairs will take. Once they’re done the car should be ready to roll out of the shop.
People aren’t like that.
I understand the need to prevent abuse and overbilling for unnecessary days and services. Medicine, unfortunately, has plenty of opportunities for the dishonest to take advantage of.
It’s a thin line, but, at least today, turning treatment decisions over to algorithms and computers is a bad idea for the people we’re supposed to be caring for.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Helping a patient buck the odds
I’m not going to get rich off Mike.
Of course, I’m not going to get rich off anyone, nor do I want to. I’m not here to rip anyone off.
Mike goes back with me, roughly 23 years.
He was born with cerebral palsy and refractory seizures. His birth mother gave him up quickly, and he was adopted by a couple who knew what they were getting into (to me that constitutes sainthood).
Over the years Mike has done his best to buck the odds. He’s tried to stay employed, in spite of his physical limitations, working variously as a janitor, grocery courtesy clerk, and store greeter. He tells me that he can still work and wants to, even with having to rely on public transportation.
By the time he came to me he’d been through several neurologists and even more failed epilepsy drugs. His brain MRI and EEGs showed multifocal seizures from numerous inoperable cortical heterotopias.
I dabbled with a few newer drugs at the time for him, without success. Finally, I reached for the neurological equivalent of unstable dynamite – Felbatol (felbamate).
As it often does, it worked. One of my attendings in training (you, Bob) told me it was the home-run drug. When nothing else worked, it might – but you had to handle it carefully.
Fortunately, after 23 years, that hasn’t happened. Mike’s labs have looked good. His seizures have dropped from several a week to a few per year.
Ten years ago Mike had to change insurance to one I don’t take, and had me forward his records to another neurologist. That office told him they don’t handle Felbatol. As did another. And another.
Mike, understandably, doesn’t want to change meds. This is the only drug that’s given him a decent quality of life, and let him have a job. That’s pretty important to him.
So, I see him for free now, once or twice a year. Sometimes he offers me a token payment of $5-$10, but I turn it down. He needs it more than I do, for bus fair to my office if nothing else.
I’m sure some would be critical of me, saying that I should be more open to new drugs and treatments. I am, believe me. But Mike can’t afford many of them, or the loss of work they’d entail if his seizures worsen. He doesn’t want to take that chance, and I don’t blame him.
Of course, none of us can see everyone for free. In fact, he’s the only one I do. I’m not greedy, but I also have to pay my rent, staff, and mortgage.
But taking money from Mike, who’s come up on the short end of the stick in so many ways, doesn’t seem right. I can’t do it, and really don’t want to.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
I’m not going to get rich off Mike.
Of course, I’m not going to get rich off anyone, nor do I want to. I’m not here to rip anyone off.
Mike goes back with me, roughly 23 years.
He was born with cerebral palsy and refractory seizures. His birth mother gave him up quickly, and he was adopted by a couple who knew what they were getting into (to me that constitutes sainthood).
Over the years Mike has done his best to buck the odds. He’s tried to stay employed, in spite of his physical limitations, working variously as a janitor, grocery courtesy clerk, and store greeter. He tells me that he can still work and wants to, even with having to rely on public transportation.
By the time he came to me he’d been through several neurologists and even more failed epilepsy drugs. His brain MRI and EEGs showed multifocal seizures from numerous inoperable cortical heterotopias.
I dabbled with a few newer drugs at the time for him, without success. Finally, I reached for the neurological equivalent of unstable dynamite – Felbatol (felbamate).
As it often does, it worked. One of my attendings in training (you, Bob) told me it was the home-run drug. When nothing else worked, it might – but you had to handle it carefully.
Fortunately, after 23 years, that hasn’t happened. Mike’s labs have looked good. His seizures have dropped from several a week to a few per year.
Ten years ago Mike had to change insurance to one I don’t take, and had me forward his records to another neurologist. That office told him they don’t handle Felbatol. As did another. And another.
Mike, understandably, doesn’t want to change meds. This is the only drug that’s given him a decent quality of life, and let him have a job. That’s pretty important to him.
So, I see him for free now, once or twice a year. Sometimes he offers me a token payment of $5-$10, but I turn it down. He needs it more than I do, for bus fair to my office if nothing else.
I’m sure some would be critical of me, saying that I should be more open to new drugs and treatments. I am, believe me. But Mike can’t afford many of them, or the loss of work they’d entail if his seizures worsen. He doesn’t want to take that chance, and I don’t blame him.
Of course, none of us can see everyone for free. In fact, he’s the only one I do. I’m not greedy, but I also have to pay my rent, staff, and mortgage.
But taking money from Mike, who’s come up on the short end of the stick in so many ways, doesn’t seem right. I can’t do it, and really don’t want to.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
I’m not going to get rich off Mike.
Of course, I’m not going to get rich off anyone, nor do I want to. I’m not here to rip anyone off.
Mike goes back with me, roughly 23 years.
He was born with cerebral palsy and refractory seizures. His birth mother gave him up quickly, and he was adopted by a couple who knew what they were getting into (to me that constitutes sainthood).
Over the years Mike has done his best to buck the odds. He’s tried to stay employed, in spite of his physical limitations, working variously as a janitor, grocery courtesy clerk, and store greeter. He tells me that he can still work and wants to, even with having to rely on public transportation.
By the time he came to me he’d been through several neurologists and even more failed epilepsy drugs. His brain MRI and EEGs showed multifocal seizures from numerous inoperable cortical heterotopias.
I dabbled with a few newer drugs at the time for him, without success. Finally, I reached for the neurological equivalent of unstable dynamite – Felbatol (felbamate).
As it often does, it worked. One of my attendings in training (you, Bob) told me it was the home-run drug. When nothing else worked, it might – but you had to handle it carefully.
Fortunately, after 23 years, that hasn’t happened. Mike’s labs have looked good. His seizures have dropped from several a week to a few per year.
Ten years ago Mike had to change insurance to one I don’t take, and had me forward his records to another neurologist. That office told him they don’t handle Felbatol. As did another. And another.
Mike, understandably, doesn’t want to change meds. This is the only drug that’s given him a decent quality of life, and let him have a job. That’s pretty important to him.
So, I see him for free now, once or twice a year. Sometimes he offers me a token payment of $5-$10, but I turn it down. He needs it more than I do, for bus fair to my office if nothing else.
I’m sure some would be critical of me, saying that I should be more open to new drugs and treatments. I am, believe me. But Mike can’t afford many of them, or the loss of work they’d entail if his seizures worsen. He doesn’t want to take that chance, and I don’t blame him.
Of course, none of us can see everyone for free. In fact, he’s the only one I do. I’m not greedy, but I also have to pay my rent, staff, and mortgage.
But taking money from Mike, who’s come up on the short end of the stick in so many ways, doesn’t seem right. I can’t do it, and really don’t want to.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Take time to relax and enjoy the ride
This past weekend was one of my least-favorite parts of the annual cycle: I shut off and drained my hot tub.
I’ve always loved sitting in hot tubs, as far back as I can remember. Growing up on family vacations I preferred them to the pool. So when I was grown up and could afford one, I got it for my house.
I spend my winter weekend afternoons relaxing in it with a can of beer, some bottles of iced tea, and a pile of journals or a book. I put instrumental jazz on my phone and spend a few pleasant hours there, catching up on my reading.
But, as the Phoenix weather swings back to summer temps, it’s time to turn it off until next November.
It’s interesting the ways we mark the passage of time in our lives. The traditional standards are New Year’s, major holidays, and birthdays. Some may mark it by their favorite sports seasons starting.
In medicine we may mark it by patient ages, or a drug that we thought just came to market now going generic, or realizing our state or DEA license is up for renewal.
It doesn’t really matter how you mark the time – it’s going to happen whether you do or don’t. The person you see in the mirror is the same one there since you were tall enough to see over the bathroom countertop. Isn’t it just the ones around us who change?
As Phoenix moves back to a summer footing, and as someone who’s been through 56 of them, it’s hard not to think about it. Summer vacations growing up, summer classes in college, summer elective rotations in medical school. Now I work year-round and watch the same cycle play out with my kids in college.
You often hear the phrase “a hundred years from now it won’t make a difference.” Probably true. In 2123 the time I spent relaxing in my hot tub won’t mean anything, or be remembered by anyone.
But I’m not sitting in it to think about that. I’m in it because I have what I have now, and none of us will ever have that again. And part of that, to me, is enjoying some time in the hot tub.
Because That may not matter in one hundred years, but it matters to me today. And that’s what’s really important.
To all of us.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
This past weekend was one of my least-favorite parts of the annual cycle: I shut off and drained my hot tub.
I’ve always loved sitting in hot tubs, as far back as I can remember. Growing up on family vacations I preferred them to the pool. So when I was grown up and could afford one, I got it for my house.
I spend my winter weekend afternoons relaxing in it with a can of beer, some bottles of iced tea, and a pile of journals or a book. I put instrumental jazz on my phone and spend a few pleasant hours there, catching up on my reading.
But, as the Phoenix weather swings back to summer temps, it’s time to turn it off until next November.
It’s interesting the ways we mark the passage of time in our lives. The traditional standards are New Year’s, major holidays, and birthdays. Some may mark it by their favorite sports seasons starting.
In medicine we may mark it by patient ages, or a drug that we thought just came to market now going generic, or realizing our state or DEA license is up for renewal.
It doesn’t really matter how you mark the time – it’s going to happen whether you do or don’t. The person you see in the mirror is the same one there since you were tall enough to see over the bathroom countertop. Isn’t it just the ones around us who change?
As Phoenix moves back to a summer footing, and as someone who’s been through 56 of them, it’s hard not to think about it. Summer vacations growing up, summer classes in college, summer elective rotations in medical school. Now I work year-round and watch the same cycle play out with my kids in college.
You often hear the phrase “a hundred years from now it won’t make a difference.” Probably true. In 2123 the time I spent relaxing in my hot tub won’t mean anything, or be remembered by anyone.
But I’m not sitting in it to think about that. I’m in it because I have what I have now, and none of us will ever have that again. And part of that, to me, is enjoying some time in the hot tub.
Because That may not matter in one hundred years, but it matters to me today. And that’s what’s really important.
To all of us.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
This past weekend was one of my least-favorite parts of the annual cycle: I shut off and drained my hot tub.
I’ve always loved sitting in hot tubs, as far back as I can remember. Growing up on family vacations I preferred them to the pool. So when I was grown up and could afford one, I got it for my house.
I spend my winter weekend afternoons relaxing in it with a can of beer, some bottles of iced tea, and a pile of journals or a book. I put instrumental jazz on my phone and spend a few pleasant hours there, catching up on my reading.
But, as the Phoenix weather swings back to summer temps, it’s time to turn it off until next November.
It’s interesting the ways we mark the passage of time in our lives. The traditional standards are New Year’s, major holidays, and birthdays. Some may mark it by their favorite sports seasons starting.
In medicine we may mark it by patient ages, or a drug that we thought just came to market now going generic, or realizing our state or DEA license is up for renewal.
It doesn’t really matter how you mark the time – it’s going to happen whether you do or don’t. The person you see in the mirror is the same one there since you were tall enough to see over the bathroom countertop. Isn’t it just the ones around us who change?
As Phoenix moves back to a summer footing, and as someone who’s been through 56 of them, it’s hard not to think about it. Summer vacations growing up, summer classes in college, summer elective rotations in medical school. Now I work year-round and watch the same cycle play out with my kids in college.
You often hear the phrase “a hundred years from now it won’t make a difference.” Probably true. In 2123 the time I spent relaxing in my hot tub won’t mean anything, or be remembered by anyone.
But I’m not sitting in it to think about that. I’m in it because I have what I have now, and none of us will ever have that again. And part of that, to me, is enjoying some time in the hot tub.
Because That may not matter in one hundred years, but it matters to me today. And that’s what’s really important.
To all of us.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
The desk
Recently, Dr. Jeffrey Benabio (I don’t believe we’ve ever met), wrote an enjoyable commentary mourning the loss of letters – the wonderful paper-and-pen documents that were, for the vast majority of human history, the main method of long distance communication. Even today, he notes, there’s something special about a letter, with the time and human effort required to sit down and put pen to paper, seal it into an envelope, and entrust it to the post office.
In his piece, Dr. Benabio describes his work desk as “a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug ... it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.”
With all due respect, I can’t do that. I need a desk to function. A REAL one.
I was 9 when I got my first desk, far more than a 4th-grader needed. My dad was an attorney and had an extra desk from a partner who’d retired. It was big and heavy and made of wood. It had three drawers on each side, one in the middle, and pull-outs on each side in case you needed even more writing space. I loved it. As the years went by I did homework, wrote short stories, and built models on it. I covered the pull-outs with stickers for starship controls, so on a whim I could jump to hyperspace. In 1984 a brand-new Apple Macintosh, with 128K of RAM showed up on it. I began using the computer to write college papers, but most of my work at the desk still involved books and handwriting.
My current home desk has been with me through college, medical school, residency, and fellowship, and it continues with me today.
At my office, though, is my main desk. Before 2013 I was in a small back office, with only room for a tiny three-drawer college desk.
But in 2013 I moved into my own office, for the first time in my career. Now it was time to bring in my real desk, waiting in storage since my Dad had retired.
This is my desk now. It’s huge. It’s heavy. My dad bought it when he started his law practice in 1968. It has eight drawers, and my Dad’s original leather blotter is on top. It came with his chrome and brass letter opener in the top drawer. It has space for my computer, writing pads, exam tools (for people who can’t get on the exam table across the hall), business cards, a few baubles from my kids, stapler, tape dispenser, pen cup, phone, coffee mug, and a million other things.
It takes up a lot of space, but I don’t mind. There’s a human comfort to it and the organized disorder on top of it.
Everyone practices medicine differently. What works for me isn’t going to work for another doctor, and definitely not for another specialty.
But here, the big desk is part of my personal style. Sitting there gets me into “doctor mode” each day. I hope the more casual surroundings make it comfortable for patients, too.
It’s part of the soul of my practice, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Recently, Dr. Jeffrey Benabio (I don’t believe we’ve ever met), wrote an enjoyable commentary mourning the loss of letters – the wonderful paper-and-pen documents that were, for the vast majority of human history, the main method of long distance communication. Even today, he notes, there’s something special about a letter, with the time and human effort required to sit down and put pen to paper, seal it into an envelope, and entrust it to the post office.
In his piece, Dr. Benabio describes his work desk as “a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug ... it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.”
With all due respect, I can’t do that. I need a desk to function. A REAL one.
I was 9 when I got my first desk, far more than a 4th-grader needed. My dad was an attorney and had an extra desk from a partner who’d retired. It was big and heavy and made of wood. It had three drawers on each side, one in the middle, and pull-outs on each side in case you needed even more writing space. I loved it. As the years went by I did homework, wrote short stories, and built models on it. I covered the pull-outs with stickers for starship controls, so on a whim I could jump to hyperspace. In 1984 a brand-new Apple Macintosh, with 128K of RAM showed up on it. I began using the computer to write college papers, but most of my work at the desk still involved books and handwriting.
My current home desk has been with me through college, medical school, residency, and fellowship, and it continues with me today.
At my office, though, is my main desk. Before 2013 I was in a small back office, with only room for a tiny three-drawer college desk.
But in 2013 I moved into my own office, for the first time in my career. Now it was time to bring in my real desk, waiting in storage since my Dad had retired.
This is my desk now. It’s huge. It’s heavy. My dad bought it when he started his law practice in 1968. It has eight drawers, and my Dad’s original leather blotter is on top. It came with his chrome and brass letter opener in the top drawer. It has space for my computer, writing pads, exam tools (for people who can’t get on the exam table across the hall), business cards, a few baubles from my kids, stapler, tape dispenser, pen cup, phone, coffee mug, and a million other things.
It takes up a lot of space, but I don’t mind. There’s a human comfort to it and the organized disorder on top of it.
Everyone practices medicine differently. What works for me isn’t going to work for another doctor, and definitely not for another specialty.
But here, the big desk is part of my personal style. Sitting there gets me into “doctor mode” each day. I hope the more casual surroundings make it comfortable for patients, too.
It’s part of the soul of my practice, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Recently, Dr. Jeffrey Benabio (I don’t believe we’ve ever met), wrote an enjoyable commentary mourning the loss of letters – the wonderful paper-and-pen documents that were, for the vast majority of human history, the main method of long distance communication. Even today, he notes, there’s something special about a letter, with the time and human effort required to sit down and put pen to paper, seal it into an envelope, and entrust it to the post office.
In his piece, Dr. Benabio describes his work desk as “a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug ... it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.”
With all due respect, I can’t do that. I need a desk to function. A REAL one.
I was 9 when I got my first desk, far more than a 4th-grader needed. My dad was an attorney and had an extra desk from a partner who’d retired. It was big and heavy and made of wood. It had three drawers on each side, one in the middle, and pull-outs on each side in case you needed even more writing space. I loved it. As the years went by I did homework, wrote short stories, and built models on it. I covered the pull-outs with stickers for starship controls, so on a whim I could jump to hyperspace. In 1984 a brand-new Apple Macintosh, with 128K of RAM showed up on it. I began using the computer to write college papers, but most of my work at the desk still involved books and handwriting.
My current home desk has been with me through college, medical school, residency, and fellowship, and it continues with me today.
At my office, though, is my main desk. Before 2013 I was in a small back office, with only room for a tiny three-drawer college desk.
But in 2013 I moved into my own office, for the first time in my career. Now it was time to bring in my real desk, waiting in storage since my Dad had retired.
This is my desk now. It’s huge. It’s heavy. My dad bought it when he started his law practice in 1968. It has eight drawers, and my Dad’s original leather blotter is on top. It came with his chrome and brass letter opener in the top drawer. It has space for my computer, writing pads, exam tools (for people who can’t get on the exam table across the hall), business cards, a few baubles from my kids, stapler, tape dispenser, pen cup, phone, coffee mug, and a million other things.
It takes up a lot of space, but I don’t mind. There’s a human comfort to it and the organized disorder on top of it.
Everyone practices medicine differently. What works for me isn’t going to work for another doctor, and definitely not for another specialty.
But here, the big desk is part of my personal style. Sitting there gets me into “doctor mode” each day. I hope the more casual surroundings make it comfortable for patients, too.
It’s part of the soul of my practice, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Fast, cheap ... or accurate?
A recent study on the JAMA Network found that, .
Does this surprise anyone?
One of my friends, a pharmacist, has a sign in his home office: “Fast. Accurate. Cheap. You can’t have all 3.” A true statement. I’ve also seen it at car repair places, but they’re doctors in their own way.
The problem here is that physicians are increasingly squeezed for time. If your only revenue stream is seeing patients, and your expenses are going up (and whose aren’t?) then your options are to either raise your prices or see more patients.
Of course, raising prices in medicine can’t happen for most of us. We’re all tied into insurance contracts, which themselves are pegged to Medicare, as to how much we get paid. I mean, yes, you can raise your prices, but that doesn’t matter. The insurance company will still pay a predetermined amount set years ago, in better economic times, no matter what you charge.
So the only real option for most is to see more patients. Which means less time with each one. Which, inevitably, leads to more snap judgments, inappropriate prescriptions, and mistakes.
Patients may get Fast and Cheap, but Accurate gets sidelined. This is the nature of things. If you don’t have enough time to gather and process data, then you’re less likely to reach the right answer.
There’s also the fact that sometimes it’s easier for anyone to just take the path of least resistance. The patient wants an antibiotic, and you realize it’s going to take less time to hand them a script for one than to explain why they don’t need it for what’s probably a viral infection. Not only that, but then you run the risk of their giving you a bad Yelp review (“incompetent, refused to give me antibiotics when I obviously needed them, 1 star”) and who needs that? If you’re employed by a large health care system a bad online review will get you a talking-to by some nonmedical admin from marketing, saying you’re hurting the practice’s “brand.”
Years ago the satire site The Onion had an article about a doctor who specialized in “giving a shit” - assumedly where Accurate dominates. While none of us may intentionally rush through patients or do half-assed jobs, we also have to deal with pressures of time. There never seems to be enough in a workday.
Nowhere is this more true than in primary care, where the pressures of time, overhead, and a large patient volume intersect. There are patients to see, labs to review, phone calls to return, forms to complete, meetings to attend, samples to sign for ... and probably many other things I’ve left out.
The fact that this situation exists shouldn’t surprise anyone. People talk about “burnout” and “making health care better” but that just seems to be lip service. They give you a free subscription to a meditation app, phone access to a counselor, and a mandatory early morning meeting to discuss stress reduction. Of course, these things take time away from seeing patients, which sort of defeats the whole purpose. Unless you want to do them at home – taking time away from your family, or doing the taxes, or other things you have to do besides your day job.
This is not sustainable for patients, doctors, or the health care system as a whole. But right now the situation is only getting worse, and there aren’t any easy answers.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
A recent study on the JAMA Network found that, .
Does this surprise anyone?
One of my friends, a pharmacist, has a sign in his home office: “Fast. Accurate. Cheap. You can’t have all 3.” A true statement. I’ve also seen it at car repair places, but they’re doctors in their own way.
The problem here is that physicians are increasingly squeezed for time. If your only revenue stream is seeing patients, and your expenses are going up (and whose aren’t?) then your options are to either raise your prices or see more patients.
Of course, raising prices in medicine can’t happen for most of us. We’re all tied into insurance contracts, which themselves are pegged to Medicare, as to how much we get paid. I mean, yes, you can raise your prices, but that doesn’t matter. The insurance company will still pay a predetermined amount set years ago, in better economic times, no matter what you charge.
So the only real option for most is to see more patients. Which means less time with each one. Which, inevitably, leads to more snap judgments, inappropriate prescriptions, and mistakes.
Patients may get Fast and Cheap, but Accurate gets sidelined. This is the nature of things. If you don’t have enough time to gather and process data, then you’re less likely to reach the right answer.
There’s also the fact that sometimes it’s easier for anyone to just take the path of least resistance. The patient wants an antibiotic, and you realize it’s going to take less time to hand them a script for one than to explain why they don’t need it for what’s probably a viral infection. Not only that, but then you run the risk of their giving you a bad Yelp review (“incompetent, refused to give me antibiotics when I obviously needed them, 1 star”) and who needs that? If you’re employed by a large health care system a bad online review will get you a talking-to by some nonmedical admin from marketing, saying you’re hurting the practice’s “brand.”
Years ago the satire site The Onion had an article about a doctor who specialized in “giving a shit” - assumedly where Accurate dominates. While none of us may intentionally rush through patients or do half-assed jobs, we also have to deal with pressures of time. There never seems to be enough in a workday.
Nowhere is this more true than in primary care, where the pressures of time, overhead, and a large patient volume intersect. There are patients to see, labs to review, phone calls to return, forms to complete, meetings to attend, samples to sign for ... and probably many other things I’ve left out.
The fact that this situation exists shouldn’t surprise anyone. People talk about “burnout” and “making health care better” but that just seems to be lip service. They give you a free subscription to a meditation app, phone access to a counselor, and a mandatory early morning meeting to discuss stress reduction. Of course, these things take time away from seeing patients, which sort of defeats the whole purpose. Unless you want to do them at home – taking time away from your family, or doing the taxes, or other things you have to do besides your day job.
This is not sustainable for patients, doctors, or the health care system as a whole. But right now the situation is only getting worse, and there aren’t any easy answers.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
A recent study on the JAMA Network found that, .
Does this surprise anyone?
One of my friends, a pharmacist, has a sign in his home office: “Fast. Accurate. Cheap. You can’t have all 3.” A true statement. I’ve also seen it at car repair places, but they’re doctors in their own way.
The problem here is that physicians are increasingly squeezed for time. If your only revenue stream is seeing patients, and your expenses are going up (and whose aren’t?) then your options are to either raise your prices or see more patients.
Of course, raising prices in medicine can’t happen for most of us. We’re all tied into insurance contracts, which themselves are pegged to Medicare, as to how much we get paid. I mean, yes, you can raise your prices, but that doesn’t matter. The insurance company will still pay a predetermined amount set years ago, in better economic times, no matter what you charge.
So the only real option for most is to see more patients. Which means less time with each one. Which, inevitably, leads to more snap judgments, inappropriate prescriptions, and mistakes.
Patients may get Fast and Cheap, but Accurate gets sidelined. This is the nature of things. If you don’t have enough time to gather and process data, then you’re less likely to reach the right answer.
There’s also the fact that sometimes it’s easier for anyone to just take the path of least resistance. The patient wants an antibiotic, and you realize it’s going to take less time to hand them a script for one than to explain why they don’t need it for what’s probably a viral infection. Not only that, but then you run the risk of their giving you a bad Yelp review (“incompetent, refused to give me antibiotics when I obviously needed them, 1 star”) and who needs that? If you’re employed by a large health care system a bad online review will get you a talking-to by some nonmedical admin from marketing, saying you’re hurting the practice’s “brand.”
Years ago the satire site The Onion had an article about a doctor who specialized in “giving a shit” - assumedly where Accurate dominates. While none of us may intentionally rush through patients or do half-assed jobs, we also have to deal with pressures of time. There never seems to be enough in a workday.
Nowhere is this more true than in primary care, where the pressures of time, overhead, and a large patient volume intersect. There are patients to see, labs to review, phone calls to return, forms to complete, meetings to attend, samples to sign for ... and probably many other things I’ve left out.
The fact that this situation exists shouldn’t surprise anyone. People talk about “burnout” and “making health care better” but that just seems to be lip service. They give you a free subscription to a meditation app, phone access to a counselor, and a mandatory early morning meeting to discuss stress reduction. Of course, these things take time away from seeing patients, which sort of defeats the whole purpose. Unless you want to do them at home – taking time away from your family, or doing the taxes, or other things you have to do besides your day job.
This is not sustainable for patients, doctors, or the health care system as a whole. But right now the situation is only getting worse, and there aren’t any easy answers.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Dodging PE
I was (probably) the bane of my elementary school nurse.
I hated PE (I know, who didn’t?). But I also had childhood asthma. So it was an easy out to go to the school nurse, Mrs. Reed, because I was having an asthma attack, or at least claiming to have one.
She’d put me in a chair to “keep an eye” on me, occasionally have me take the prescription drug my pediatrician had ordered (Marax – anyone else remember that?), and knew to send me back to class about 5 minutes before PE was over.
Maybe Mrs. Reed liked me. Maybe it was just the path of least resistance to let me dodge PE. Maybe she’d hated PE, too, and was sympathetic. Who knows?
So twice a week through years of elementary school she and I went through the same routine of my showing up in her office. No matter how busy she was, she always told me to take a seat and do a therapeutic application of her stethoscope. She often told others who noticed my frequent visits that I was “a sickly child” even though I knew she saw through me and said it with a sense of sarcasm and humor.
Of course, life goes on, and one day 20 years ago Mrs. Reed showed up on my hospital census as a new consult after she’d had a minor stroke.
She remembered me very well. Her first comment, said with the same tone I recalled, was that she was amazed I’d lived to adulthood after having been such “a sickly child.” We both laughed.
Now, in her late 80s, she still comes to see me for this and that. Sometimes we reminisce about the intertwined journey our lives have taken us on. Sometimes she asks if I’ve been to PE recently.
Like any patient, she occasionally shows up on the wrong day, or at the wrong time. I always do my best to see her, though.
After all, I owe her big time for letting me dodge PE.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
I was (probably) the bane of my elementary school nurse.
I hated PE (I know, who didn’t?). But I also had childhood asthma. So it was an easy out to go to the school nurse, Mrs. Reed, because I was having an asthma attack, or at least claiming to have one.
She’d put me in a chair to “keep an eye” on me, occasionally have me take the prescription drug my pediatrician had ordered (Marax – anyone else remember that?), and knew to send me back to class about 5 minutes before PE was over.
Maybe Mrs. Reed liked me. Maybe it was just the path of least resistance to let me dodge PE. Maybe she’d hated PE, too, and was sympathetic. Who knows?
So twice a week through years of elementary school she and I went through the same routine of my showing up in her office. No matter how busy she was, she always told me to take a seat and do a therapeutic application of her stethoscope. She often told others who noticed my frequent visits that I was “a sickly child” even though I knew she saw through me and said it with a sense of sarcasm and humor.
Of course, life goes on, and one day 20 years ago Mrs. Reed showed up on my hospital census as a new consult after she’d had a minor stroke.
She remembered me very well. Her first comment, said with the same tone I recalled, was that she was amazed I’d lived to adulthood after having been such “a sickly child.” We both laughed.
Now, in her late 80s, she still comes to see me for this and that. Sometimes we reminisce about the intertwined journey our lives have taken us on. Sometimes she asks if I’ve been to PE recently.
Like any patient, she occasionally shows up on the wrong day, or at the wrong time. I always do my best to see her, though.
After all, I owe her big time for letting me dodge PE.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
I was (probably) the bane of my elementary school nurse.
I hated PE (I know, who didn’t?). But I also had childhood asthma. So it was an easy out to go to the school nurse, Mrs. Reed, because I was having an asthma attack, or at least claiming to have one.
She’d put me in a chair to “keep an eye” on me, occasionally have me take the prescription drug my pediatrician had ordered (Marax – anyone else remember that?), and knew to send me back to class about 5 minutes before PE was over.
Maybe Mrs. Reed liked me. Maybe it was just the path of least resistance to let me dodge PE. Maybe she’d hated PE, too, and was sympathetic. Who knows?
So twice a week through years of elementary school she and I went through the same routine of my showing up in her office. No matter how busy she was, she always told me to take a seat and do a therapeutic application of her stethoscope. She often told others who noticed my frequent visits that I was “a sickly child” even though I knew she saw through me and said it with a sense of sarcasm and humor.
Of course, life goes on, and one day 20 years ago Mrs. Reed showed up on my hospital census as a new consult after she’d had a minor stroke.
She remembered me very well. Her first comment, said with the same tone I recalled, was that she was amazed I’d lived to adulthood after having been such “a sickly child.” We both laughed.
Now, in her late 80s, she still comes to see me for this and that. Sometimes we reminisce about the intertwined journey our lives have taken us on. Sometimes she asks if I’ve been to PE recently.
Like any patient, she occasionally shows up on the wrong day, or at the wrong time. I always do my best to see her, though.
After all, I owe her big time for letting me dodge PE.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Incommunicado no more
A few weeks ago I wrote about my glasses and the discovery that they’d been made incorrectly. The headline for the story was “The Way I See It.”
That’s the opening line from Joni Mitchell’s 1974 song “Free Man in Paris.” But I grew up in a Neil Diamond household (Dad always had Neil Diamond on when he was working at home) so the first time I heard the song was in 1977, when Diamond covered it. In fact, I didn’t even realize it was originally Mitchell’s song until I was in my 50s.
It’s about a world that doesn’t exist anymore.
The song is about music promoter David Geffen and a trip he took to Paris. Back in southern California, he was always working. There were continual phone calls, deals, meetings, and people looking for favors.
But on his trip to Paris in the early 1970s, he became just another person. No one could find him to ask for help or cut a deal. He couldn’t be reached. He felt “unfettered and alive” and could go from “cafe to cabaret,” relax, and enjoy himself.
Medical practice was once that way. You’d check-out patients to your call partners, leave town, and relax for a week or two.
Try doing that today.
We even have a new psychiatric condition – nomophobia – for the fear of not having our mobile phone handy. Every time I leave my house or office I repeat a simple mantra “phone, wallet, keys” as I pat my pockets.
Unless you can part with your gadget – which ain’t easy – no one is a “free man in Paris” (or Tokyo, or Rio, or Beijing) anymore. Even ships have cell service at sea. There are still places on Earth remote enough that you can’t be reached, but they get fewer and smaller every year.
When was the last time you really went somewhere and had no communication with your office at all? Emails, texts, anything? Unless you’re in a shift-work branch of medicine, like ER or hospitalist, I’m going to guess it’s been a while. And even in those branches you probably get emails about administrative matters, scheduling questions, and pointless memos.
Being in solo practice I’ve come to accept this, but it’s a conscious decision on my part. It’s easier than finding a call partner, and if I’m handling my own stuff at least I’m not going to come home to any surprises. So I’ve covered patients from as far west as Hawaii, north as Juneau, south as Panama City, and east as Le Havre.
Granted, this is medicine, and many other jobs don’t require the degree of involvement that it does. But I suspect pretty much any professional - attorney, accountant, executive - still has to deal with work-related stuff while traveling. Back in the 1970s to 1980s my dad, a solo-practice lawyer, had a set time each vacation weekday afternoon where he’d call his secretary to go over stuff. Today it would be by email or texts.
We’ve done this to ourselves. We’ve accepted the trade-off of better connectivity with family and friends for expanding our time at work. The same technology that lets me send in prescription refills from London also lets me send family pictures back from Maui. It’s not easy to draw a solid line between them, and I’m not so sure many of us want to.
Today, 50 years after Ms. Mitchell wrote the song, the idea of being a “free man in Paris” – or anywhere – really doesn’t exist for most of us anymore. You can argue whether that’s good or bad, but it’s where we are.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
A few weeks ago I wrote about my glasses and the discovery that they’d been made incorrectly. The headline for the story was “The Way I See It.”
That’s the opening line from Joni Mitchell’s 1974 song “Free Man in Paris.” But I grew up in a Neil Diamond household (Dad always had Neil Diamond on when he was working at home) so the first time I heard the song was in 1977, when Diamond covered it. In fact, I didn’t even realize it was originally Mitchell’s song until I was in my 50s.
It’s about a world that doesn’t exist anymore.
The song is about music promoter David Geffen and a trip he took to Paris. Back in southern California, he was always working. There were continual phone calls, deals, meetings, and people looking for favors.
But on his trip to Paris in the early 1970s, he became just another person. No one could find him to ask for help or cut a deal. He couldn’t be reached. He felt “unfettered and alive” and could go from “cafe to cabaret,” relax, and enjoy himself.
Medical practice was once that way. You’d check-out patients to your call partners, leave town, and relax for a week or two.
Try doing that today.
We even have a new psychiatric condition – nomophobia – for the fear of not having our mobile phone handy. Every time I leave my house or office I repeat a simple mantra “phone, wallet, keys” as I pat my pockets.
Unless you can part with your gadget – which ain’t easy – no one is a “free man in Paris” (or Tokyo, or Rio, or Beijing) anymore. Even ships have cell service at sea. There are still places on Earth remote enough that you can’t be reached, but they get fewer and smaller every year.
When was the last time you really went somewhere and had no communication with your office at all? Emails, texts, anything? Unless you’re in a shift-work branch of medicine, like ER or hospitalist, I’m going to guess it’s been a while. And even in those branches you probably get emails about administrative matters, scheduling questions, and pointless memos.
Being in solo practice I’ve come to accept this, but it’s a conscious decision on my part. It’s easier than finding a call partner, and if I’m handling my own stuff at least I’m not going to come home to any surprises. So I’ve covered patients from as far west as Hawaii, north as Juneau, south as Panama City, and east as Le Havre.
Granted, this is medicine, and many other jobs don’t require the degree of involvement that it does. But I suspect pretty much any professional - attorney, accountant, executive - still has to deal with work-related stuff while traveling. Back in the 1970s to 1980s my dad, a solo-practice lawyer, had a set time each vacation weekday afternoon where he’d call his secretary to go over stuff. Today it would be by email or texts.
We’ve done this to ourselves. We’ve accepted the trade-off of better connectivity with family and friends for expanding our time at work. The same technology that lets me send in prescription refills from London also lets me send family pictures back from Maui. It’s not easy to draw a solid line between them, and I’m not so sure many of us want to.
Today, 50 years after Ms. Mitchell wrote the song, the idea of being a “free man in Paris” – or anywhere – really doesn’t exist for most of us anymore. You can argue whether that’s good or bad, but it’s where we are.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
A few weeks ago I wrote about my glasses and the discovery that they’d been made incorrectly. The headline for the story was “The Way I See It.”
That’s the opening line from Joni Mitchell’s 1974 song “Free Man in Paris.” But I grew up in a Neil Diamond household (Dad always had Neil Diamond on when he was working at home) so the first time I heard the song was in 1977, when Diamond covered it. In fact, I didn’t even realize it was originally Mitchell’s song until I was in my 50s.
It’s about a world that doesn’t exist anymore.
The song is about music promoter David Geffen and a trip he took to Paris. Back in southern California, he was always working. There were continual phone calls, deals, meetings, and people looking for favors.
But on his trip to Paris in the early 1970s, he became just another person. No one could find him to ask for help or cut a deal. He couldn’t be reached. He felt “unfettered and alive” and could go from “cafe to cabaret,” relax, and enjoy himself.
Medical practice was once that way. You’d check-out patients to your call partners, leave town, and relax for a week or two.
Try doing that today.
We even have a new psychiatric condition – nomophobia – for the fear of not having our mobile phone handy. Every time I leave my house or office I repeat a simple mantra “phone, wallet, keys” as I pat my pockets.
Unless you can part with your gadget – which ain’t easy – no one is a “free man in Paris” (or Tokyo, or Rio, or Beijing) anymore. Even ships have cell service at sea. There are still places on Earth remote enough that you can’t be reached, but they get fewer and smaller every year.
When was the last time you really went somewhere and had no communication with your office at all? Emails, texts, anything? Unless you’re in a shift-work branch of medicine, like ER or hospitalist, I’m going to guess it’s been a while. And even in those branches you probably get emails about administrative matters, scheduling questions, and pointless memos.
Being in solo practice I’ve come to accept this, but it’s a conscious decision on my part. It’s easier than finding a call partner, and if I’m handling my own stuff at least I’m not going to come home to any surprises. So I’ve covered patients from as far west as Hawaii, north as Juneau, south as Panama City, and east as Le Havre.
Granted, this is medicine, and many other jobs don’t require the degree of involvement that it does. But I suspect pretty much any professional - attorney, accountant, executive - still has to deal with work-related stuff while traveling. Back in the 1970s to 1980s my dad, a solo-practice lawyer, had a set time each vacation weekday afternoon where he’d call his secretary to go over stuff. Today it would be by email or texts.
We’ve done this to ourselves. We’ve accepted the trade-off of better connectivity with family and friends for expanding our time at work. The same technology that lets me send in prescription refills from London also lets me send family pictures back from Maui. It’s not easy to draw a solid line between them, and I’m not so sure many of us want to.
Today, 50 years after Ms. Mitchell wrote the song, the idea of being a “free man in Paris” – or anywhere – really doesn’t exist for most of us anymore. You can argue whether that’s good or bad, but it’s where we are.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
Alzheimer’s disease: What is ‘clinically meaningful’?
A recent report in Alzheimer’s & Dementia: The Journal of the Alzheimer’s Association suggested that, at least for now, we need to lower the bar in Alzheimer’s disease drug trials.
Their point is that there’s no consensus on “clinically meaningful benefit.” Does it mean a complete cure for Alzheimer’s disease, with reversal of deficits? Or stopping disease progression where it is? Or just slowing things down enough that it means something to patients, family members, and caregivers?
The last one is, realistically, where we are now.
The problem with this is that many nonmedical people equate “treatment” with “cure,” which isn’t close to the truth for many diseases. In Alzheimer’s disease, it’s even trickier to figure out. There’s a disparity between imaging (which suggests something that should be quite effective) and clinical results (which aren’t nearly as impressive as the PET scans).
So when I prescribe any of the Alzheimer’s medications, I make it pretty clear to patients, and more importantly the patient’s family, what they can and can’t expect. This isn’t easy, because most will come back a month later, tell me their loved one is no better, and want to try something else. So I have to explain it again. These people aren’t stupid. They’re hopeful, and also facing an impossible question. “Better” is a lot easier to judge than “slowed progression.”
“Better” is a great word for migraines. Or seizures. Or Parkinson’s disease. These are condition where patients and families can tell us whether they’ve seen an improvement.
But with the current treatments for Alzheimer’s disease we’re asking patients and families “do you think you’ve gotten any worse than you would have if you hadn’t taken the drug at all?”
That’s an impossible question to answer, unless you’re following people with objective cognitive data over time and comparing them against a placebo group, which is how these drugs got here in the first place – we know they do that.
But to a family watching their loved ones go downhill, such reassurances aren’t what they want to hear.
Regrettably, it’s where things stand. While I want to strive for absolute success in these things, today it’s simply not possible. Maybe it never will be, though I hope it is.
But, for now, I agree that we need to reframe what we’re going to consider clinically meaningful. Sometimes you have to settle for a flight of stairs instead of an elevator, but still hope that you’ll get to the top. It just takes longer, and it’s better than not going anywhere at all.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
A recent report in Alzheimer’s & Dementia: The Journal of the Alzheimer’s Association suggested that, at least for now, we need to lower the bar in Alzheimer’s disease drug trials.
Their point is that there’s no consensus on “clinically meaningful benefit.” Does it mean a complete cure for Alzheimer’s disease, with reversal of deficits? Or stopping disease progression where it is? Or just slowing things down enough that it means something to patients, family members, and caregivers?
The last one is, realistically, where we are now.
The problem with this is that many nonmedical people equate “treatment” with “cure,” which isn’t close to the truth for many diseases. In Alzheimer’s disease, it’s even trickier to figure out. There’s a disparity between imaging (which suggests something that should be quite effective) and clinical results (which aren’t nearly as impressive as the PET scans).
So when I prescribe any of the Alzheimer’s medications, I make it pretty clear to patients, and more importantly the patient’s family, what they can and can’t expect. This isn’t easy, because most will come back a month later, tell me their loved one is no better, and want to try something else. So I have to explain it again. These people aren’t stupid. They’re hopeful, and also facing an impossible question. “Better” is a lot easier to judge than “slowed progression.”
“Better” is a great word for migraines. Or seizures. Or Parkinson’s disease. These are condition where patients and families can tell us whether they’ve seen an improvement.
But with the current treatments for Alzheimer’s disease we’re asking patients and families “do you think you’ve gotten any worse than you would have if you hadn’t taken the drug at all?”
That’s an impossible question to answer, unless you’re following people with objective cognitive data over time and comparing them against a placebo group, which is how these drugs got here in the first place – we know they do that.
But to a family watching their loved ones go downhill, such reassurances aren’t what they want to hear.
Regrettably, it’s where things stand. While I want to strive for absolute success in these things, today it’s simply not possible. Maybe it never will be, though I hope it is.
But, for now, I agree that we need to reframe what we’re going to consider clinically meaningful. Sometimes you have to settle for a flight of stairs instead of an elevator, but still hope that you’ll get to the top. It just takes longer, and it’s better than not going anywhere at all.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
A recent report in Alzheimer’s & Dementia: The Journal of the Alzheimer’s Association suggested that, at least for now, we need to lower the bar in Alzheimer’s disease drug trials.
Their point is that there’s no consensus on “clinically meaningful benefit.” Does it mean a complete cure for Alzheimer’s disease, with reversal of deficits? Or stopping disease progression where it is? Or just slowing things down enough that it means something to patients, family members, and caregivers?
The last one is, realistically, where we are now.
The problem with this is that many nonmedical people equate “treatment” with “cure,” which isn’t close to the truth for many diseases. In Alzheimer’s disease, it’s even trickier to figure out. There’s a disparity between imaging (which suggests something that should be quite effective) and clinical results (which aren’t nearly as impressive as the PET scans).
So when I prescribe any of the Alzheimer’s medications, I make it pretty clear to patients, and more importantly the patient’s family, what they can and can’t expect. This isn’t easy, because most will come back a month later, tell me their loved one is no better, and want to try something else. So I have to explain it again. These people aren’t stupid. They’re hopeful, and also facing an impossible question. “Better” is a lot easier to judge than “slowed progression.”
“Better” is a great word for migraines. Or seizures. Or Parkinson’s disease. These are condition where patients and families can tell us whether they’ve seen an improvement.
But with the current treatments for Alzheimer’s disease we’re asking patients and families “do you think you’ve gotten any worse than you would have if you hadn’t taken the drug at all?”
That’s an impossible question to answer, unless you’re following people with objective cognitive data over time and comparing them against a placebo group, which is how these drugs got here in the first place – we know they do that.
But to a family watching their loved ones go downhill, such reassurances aren’t what they want to hear.
Regrettably, it’s where things stand. While I want to strive for absolute success in these things, today it’s simply not possible. Maybe it never will be, though I hope it is.
But, for now, I agree that we need to reframe what we’re going to consider clinically meaningful. Sometimes you have to settle for a flight of stairs instead of an elevator, but still hope that you’ll get to the top. It just takes longer, and it’s better than not going anywhere at all.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.