Jeffrey Benabio, MD, MBA

Halifax, Nova Scotia; American Samoa; Queens, New York; Lansing, Michigan; Gurugram, India. I often ask patients where they’re from. Practicing in San Diego, the answers are a geography lesson. People from around the world come here. I sometimes add the more interesting question: How’d you end up here? Many took the three highways to San Diego: the Navy, the defense industry (like General Dynamics), or followed a partner. My Queens patient had a better answer: Super Bowl XXII. On Sunday, Jan. 31st, 1988, the Redskins played the Broncos in San Diego. John Elway and the Broncos lost, but it didn’t matter. “I was scrapin’ the ice off my windshield that Monday morning when I thought, that’s it. I’m done! I drove to the garage where I worked and quit on the spot. Then I drove home and packed my bags.”

In a paper on how to make life decisions, this guy would be Exhibit A: “Don’t overthink it.” That approach might not be suitable for everyone, or for every decision. It might actually be an example of how not to make life decisions (more on that later). But, is there a best way to go about making big life decisions?

The first treatise on this subject was a paper by one Franklin, Ben in 1772. Providing advice to a friend on how to make a career decision, Franklin argued: “My way is to divide half a sheet of paper by a line into two columns; writing over the one Pro and over the other Con.” This “moral algebra” as he called it was a framework to put rigor to a messy, organic problem.

wrawecihokilospeslofriphohobuchibiletutawrospepehophastephechewrubrelopadrocosleswobislimimumesoclupiuiposwocihistithophabru

The flaw in this method is that in the end you have two lists. Then what? Do the length of the lists decide? What if some factors are more important? Well, let’s add tools to help. You could use a spreadsheet and assign weights to each variable. Then sum the values and choose based on that. So if “not scraping ice off your windshield” is twice as important as “doubling your rent,” then you’ve got your answer. But what if you aren’t good at estimating how important things are? Actually, most of us are pretty awful at assigning weights to life variables – having bags of money is the consummate example. Seems important, but because of habituation, it turns out to not be sustainable. Note Exhibit B, our wealthy neighbor who owns a Lambo and G-Wagen (AMG squared, of course), who just parked a Cybertruck in his driveway. Realizing the risk of depending on peoples’ flawed judgment, companies instead use statistical modeling called bootstrap aggregating to “vote” on the weights for variables in a prediction. If you aren’t sure how important a new Rivian or walking to the beach would be, a model can answer that for you! It’s a bit disconcerting, I know. I mean, how can a model know what we’d like? Wait, isn’t that how Netflix picks stuff for you? Exactly.

Ok, so why don’t we just ask our friendly personal AI? “OK, ChatGPT, given what you know about me, where can I have it all?” Alas, here we slam into a glass wall. It seems the answer is out there but even our life-changing magical AI tools fail us. Mathematically, it is impossible to have it all. An illustrative example of this is called the economic “impossible trinity problem.” Even the most sophisticated algorithm cannot find an optional solution to some trinities such as fixed foreign exchange rate, free capital movement, and an independent monetary policy. Economists have concluded you must trade off one to have the other two. Impossible trinities are common in economics and in life. Armistead Maupin in his “Tales of the City” codifies it as Mona’s Law, the essence of which is: You cannot have the perfect job, the perfect partner, and the perfect house at the same time. (See Exhibit C, one Tom Brady).

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

This brings me to my final point, hard decisions are matters of the heart and experiencing life is the best way to understand its beautiful chaos. If making rash judgments is ill-advised and using technology cannot solve all problems (try asking your AI buddy for the square root of 2 as a fraction) what tools can we use? Maybe try reading more novels. They allow us to experience multiple lifetimes in a short time, which is what we need to learn what matters. Reading Dorothea’s choice at the end of “Middlemarch” is a nice example. Should she give up Lowick Manor and marry the penniless Ladislaw or keep it and use her wealth to help others? Seeing her struggle helps us understand how to answer questions like: Should I give up my academic practice or marry that guy or move to Texas? These cannot be reduced to arithmetic. The only way to know is to know as much of life as possible.

My last visit with my Queens patient was our last together. He’s divorced and moving from San Diego to Gallatin, Tennessee. “I’ve paid my last taxes to California, Doc. I decided that’s it, I’m done!” Perhaps he should have read “The Grapes of Wrath” before he set out for California in the first place.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Halifax, Nova Scotia; American Samoa; Queens, New York; Lansing, Michigan; Gurugram, India. I often ask patients where they’re from. Practicing in San Diego, the answers are a geography lesson. People from around the world come here. I sometimes add the more interesting question: How’d you end up here? Many took the three highways to San Diego: the Navy, the defense industry (like General Dynamics), or followed a partner. My Queens patient had a better answer: Super Bowl XXII. On Sunday, Jan. 31st, 1988, the Redskins played the Broncos in San Diego. John Elway and the Broncos lost, but it didn’t matter. “I was scrapin’ the ice off my windshield that Monday morning when I thought, that’s it. I’m done! I drove to the garage where I worked and quit on the spot. Then I drove home and packed my bags.”

In a paper on how to make life decisions, this guy would be Exhibit A: “Don’t overthink it.” That approach might not be suitable for everyone, or for every decision. It might actually be an example of how not to make life decisions (more on that later). But, is there a best way to go about making big life decisions?

The first treatise on this subject was a paper by one Franklin, Ben in 1772. Providing advice to a friend on how to make a career decision, Franklin argued: “My way is to divide half a sheet of paper by a line into two columns; writing over the one Pro and over the other Con.” This “moral algebra” as he called it was a framework to put rigor to a messy, organic problem.

wrawecihokilospeslofriphohobuchibiletutawrospepehophastephechewrubrelopadrocosleswobislimimumesoclupiuiposwocihistithophabru

The flaw in this method is that in the end you have two lists. Then what? Do the length of the lists decide? What if some factors are more important? Well, let’s add tools to help. You could use a spreadsheet and assign weights to each variable. Then sum the values and choose based on that. So if “not scraping ice off your windshield” is twice as important as “doubling your rent,” then you’ve got your answer. But what if you aren’t good at estimating how important things are? Actually, most of us are pretty awful at assigning weights to life variables – having bags of money is the consummate example. Seems important, but because of habituation, it turns out to not be sustainable. Note Exhibit B, our wealthy neighbor who owns a Lambo and G-Wagen (AMG squared, of course), who just parked a Cybertruck in his driveway. Realizing the risk of depending on peoples’ flawed judgment, companies instead use statistical modeling called bootstrap aggregating to “vote” on the weights for variables in a prediction. If you aren’t sure how important a new Rivian or walking to the beach would be, a model can answer that for you! It’s a bit disconcerting, I know. I mean, how can a model know what we’d like? Wait, isn’t that how Netflix picks stuff for you? Exactly.

Ok, so why don’t we just ask our friendly personal AI? “OK, ChatGPT, given what you know about me, where can I have it all?” Alas, here we slam into a glass wall. It seems the answer is out there but even our life-changing magical AI tools fail us. Mathematically, it is impossible to have it all. An illustrative example of this is called the economic “impossible trinity problem.” Even the most sophisticated algorithm cannot find an optional solution to some trinities such as fixed foreign exchange rate, free capital movement, and an independent monetary policy. Economists have concluded you must trade off one to have the other two. Impossible trinities are common in economics and in life. Armistead Maupin in his “Tales of the City” codifies it as Mona’s Law, the essence of which is: You cannot have the perfect job, the perfect partner, and the perfect house at the same time. (See Exhibit C, one Tom Brady).

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

This brings me to my final point, hard decisions are matters of the heart and experiencing life is the best way to understand its beautiful chaos. If making rash judgments is ill-advised and using technology cannot solve all problems (try asking your AI buddy for the square root of 2 as a fraction) what tools can we use? Maybe try reading more novels. They allow us to experience multiple lifetimes in a short time, which is what we need to learn what matters. Reading Dorothea’s choice at the end of “Middlemarch” is a nice example. Should she give up Lowick Manor and marry the penniless Ladislaw or keep it and use her wealth to help others? Seeing her struggle helps us understand how to answer questions like: Should I give up my academic practice or marry that guy or move to Texas? These cannot be reduced to arithmetic. The only way to know is to know as much of life as possible.

My last visit with my Queens patient was our last together. He’s divorced and moving from San Diego to Gallatin, Tennessee. “I’ve paid my last taxes to California, Doc. I decided that’s it, I’m done!” Perhaps he should have read “The Grapes of Wrath” before he set out for California in the first place.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Halifax, Nova Scotia; American Samoa; Queens, New York; Lansing, Michigan; Gurugram, India. I often ask patients where they’re from. Practicing in San Diego, the answers are a geography lesson. People from around the world come here. I sometimes add the more interesting question: How’d you end up here? Many took the three highways to San Diego: the Navy, the defense industry (like General Dynamics), or followed a partner. My Queens patient had a better answer: Super Bowl XXII. On Sunday, Jan. 31st, 1988, the Redskins played the Broncos in San Diego. John Elway and the Broncos lost, but it didn’t matter. “I was scrapin’ the ice off my windshield that Monday morning when I thought, that’s it. I’m done! I drove to the garage where I worked and quit on the spot. Then I drove home and packed my bags.”

In a paper on how to make life decisions, this guy would be Exhibit A: “Don’t overthink it.” That approach might not be suitable for everyone, or for every decision. It might actually be an example of how not to make life decisions (more on that later). But, is there a best way to go about making big life decisions?

The first treatise on this subject was a paper by one Franklin, Ben in 1772. Providing advice to a friend on how to make a career decision, Franklin argued: “My way is to divide half a sheet of paper by a line into two columns; writing over the one Pro and over the other Con.” This “moral algebra” as he called it was a framework to put rigor to a messy, organic problem.

wrawecihokilospeslofriphohobuchibiletutawrospepehophastephechewrubrelopadrocosleswobislimimumesoclupiuiposwocihistithophabru

The flaw in this method is that in the end you have two lists. Then what? Do the length of the lists decide? What if some factors are more important? Well, let’s add tools to help. You could use a spreadsheet and assign weights to each variable. Then sum the values and choose based on that. So if “not scraping ice off your windshield” is twice as important as “doubling your rent,” then you’ve got your answer. But what if you aren’t good at estimating how important things are? Actually, most of us are pretty awful at assigning weights to life variables – having bags of money is the consummate example. Seems important, but because of habituation, it turns out to not be sustainable. Note Exhibit B, our wealthy neighbor who owns a Lambo and G-Wagen (AMG squared, of course), who just parked a Cybertruck in his driveway. Realizing the risk of depending on peoples’ flawed judgment, companies instead use statistical modeling called bootstrap aggregating to “vote” on the weights for variables in a prediction. If you aren’t sure how important a new Rivian or walking to the beach would be, a model can answer that for you! It’s a bit disconcerting, I know. I mean, how can a model know what we’d like? Wait, isn’t that how Netflix picks stuff for you? Exactly.

Ok, so why don’t we just ask our friendly personal AI? “OK, ChatGPT, given what you know about me, where can I have it all?” Alas, here we slam into a glass wall. It seems the answer is out there but even our life-changing magical AI tools fail us. Mathematically, it is impossible to have it all. An illustrative example of this is called the economic “impossible trinity problem.” Even the most sophisticated algorithm cannot find an optional solution to some trinities such as fixed foreign exchange rate, free capital movement, and an independent monetary policy. Economists have concluded you must trade off one to have the other two. Impossible trinities are common in economics and in life. Armistead Maupin in his “Tales of the City” codifies it as Mona’s Law, the essence of which is: You cannot have the perfect job, the perfect partner, and the perfect house at the same time. (See Exhibit C, one Tom Brady).

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

This brings me to my final point, hard decisions are matters of the heart and experiencing life is the best way to understand its beautiful chaos. If making rash judgments is ill-advised and using technology cannot solve all problems (try asking your AI buddy for the square root of 2 as a fraction) what tools can we use? Maybe try reading more novels. They allow us to experience multiple lifetimes in a short time, which is what we need to learn what matters. Reading Dorothea’s choice at the end of “Middlemarch” is a nice example. Should she give up Lowick Manor and marry the penniless Ladislaw or keep it and use her wealth to help others? Seeing her struggle helps us understand how to answer questions like: Should I give up my academic practice or marry that guy or move to Texas? These cannot be reduced to arithmetic. The only way to know is to know as much of life as possible.

My last visit with my Queens patient was our last together. He’s divorced and moving from San Diego to Gallatin, Tennessee. “I’ve paid my last taxes to California, Doc. I decided that’s it, I’m done!” Perhaps he should have read “The Grapes of Wrath” before he set out for California in the first place.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Each month I set out on an expedition to find a topic for this column. I came across a new book Rebel Health by Susannah Fox that I thought might be a good one. It’s both a treatise on the shortcomings of healthcare and a Baedeker for patients on how to find their way to being better served. Her argument is that many patients’ needs are unmet and their conditions are often invisible to us in mainstream healthcare. We fail to find solutions to help them. Patients would benefit from more open access to their records and more resources to take control of their own health, she argues. A few chapters in, I thought, “Oh, here we go, another diatribe on doctors and how we care most about how to keep patients in their rightful, subordinate place.” The “Rebel” title is provocative and implies patients need to overthrow the status quo. Well, I am part of the establishment. I stopped reading. This book doesn’t apply to me, I thought.

After all, I’m a healthcare progressive, right? My notes and results have been open for years. I encourage shared decision-making and try to empower patients as much as treat them. The idea that I or my colleagues are unwilling to do whatever is necessary to meet our patients’ needs was maddening. We dedicate our lives to it. My young daughter often greets me in the morning by asking if I’ll be working tonight. Most nights, I am — answering patient messages, collaborating with colleagues to help patients, keeping up with medical knowledge. I was angry at what felt like unjust criticism, especially that we’d neglect patients because their problems are not obvious or worse, there is not enough money to be made helping them. Harrumph.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

That’s when I realized the best thing for me was to read the entire book and digest the arguments. I pride myself on being well-read, but I fall into a common trap: the podcasts I listen to, news I consume, and books I read mostly affirm my beliefs. It is a healthy choice to seek dispositive data and contrasting stories rather than always feeding our personal opinions.

Rebel Health was not written by Robespierre. It was penned by a thoughtful, articulate patient advocate with over 20 years experience. She has far more bona fides than I could achieve in two lifetimes. In the book, she reminds us that scientific advances in the last 100 years have made medicine more effective but also disintermediated caregivers, family, and patients. Patients and caregivers can not only help but also offer innovative and customized solutions to their problems. She describes four patient archetypes: seekers, networkers, solvers, and champions, and offers a four-quadrant model to visualize how some patients are unhelped by our current healthcare system. She advocates for frictionless, open access to health data and tries to inspire patients to connect, innovate, and create to fill the voids that exist in healthcare. We have come a long way from the immured system of a decade ago; much of that is the result of patient advocates. But healthcare is still too costly, too fragmented and too many patients unhelped. “Community is a superpower,” she writes. I agree, we should assemble all the heroes in the universe for this challenge.

Fox also tells stories of patients who solved diagnostic dilemmas through their own research and advocacy. I thought of my own contrasting experiences of patients whose DIY care was based on misinformation and how their false confidence led to poorer outcomes for them. I want to share with her readers how physicians feel hurt when patients question our competence or place the opinion of an adversarial Redditor over ours. Physicians are sometimes wrong and often in doubt. Most of us care deeply about our patients regardless of how visible their diagnosis or how easy they are to appease.

[embed:render:related:node:268462]

We don’t have time to engage back-and-forth on an insignificantly abnormal test they find in their open chart or why B12 and hormone testing would not be helpful for their disease. It’s also not the patients’ fault. Having unfettered access to their data might add work, but it also adds value. They are trying to learn and be active in their care. Physicians are frustrated mostly because we don’t have time to meet these unmet needs. Everyone is trying their best and we all want the same thing: patients to be satisfied and well.

As for learning the skill of being open-minded, an excellent reference is Adam Grant’s Think Again. It’s inspiring and instructive of how we can all be more open, including how to have productive arguments rather than fruitless fights. We live in divisive times. Perhaps if we all put in effort to be open-minded, push down righteous indignation, and advance more honest humility we’d all be a bit better off.

Patients are the primary audience for the Rebel Health book. Yet, as we care about them and we all want to make healthcare better, it is worth reading in its entirety. I told my daughter I don’t have to work tonight because I’ve written my article this month. When she’s a little older, I’ll tell her all about it. To be successful, she’ll have to be as open-minded as she is smart. She can learn both.

I have no conflict of interest in the book.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Each month I set out on an expedition to find a topic for this column. I came across a new book Rebel Health by Susannah Fox that I thought might be a good one. It’s both a treatise on the shortcomings of healthcare and a Baedeker for patients on how to find their way to being better served. Her argument is that many patients’ needs are unmet and their conditions are often invisible to us in mainstream healthcare. We fail to find solutions to help them. Patients would benefit from more open access to their records and more resources to take control of their own health, she argues. A few chapters in, I thought, “Oh, here we go, another diatribe on doctors and how we care most about how to keep patients in their rightful, subordinate place.” The “Rebel” title is provocative and implies patients need to overthrow the status quo. Well, I am part of the establishment. I stopped reading. This book doesn’t apply to me, I thought.

After all, I’m a healthcare progressive, right? My notes and results have been open for years. I encourage shared decision-making and try to empower patients as much as treat them. The idea that I or my colleagues are unwilling to do whatever is necessary to meet our patients’ needs was maddening. We dedicate our lives to it. My young daughter often greets me in the morning by asking if I’ll be working tonight. Most nights, I am — answering patient messages, collaborating with colleagues to help patients, keeping up with medical knowledge. I was angry at what felt like unjust criticism, especially that we’d neglect patients because their problems are not obvious or worse, there is not enough money to be made helping them. Harrumph.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

That’s when I realized the best thing for me was to read the entire book and digest the arguments. I pride myself on being well-read, but I fall into a common trap: the podcasts I listen to, news I consume, and books I read mostly affirm my beliefs. It is a healthy choice to seek dispositive data and contrasting stories rather than always feeding our personal opinions.

Rebel Health was not written by Robespierre. It was penned by a thoughtful, articulate patient advocate with over 20 years experience. She has far more bona fides than I could achieve in two lifetimes. In the book, she reminds us that scientific advances in the last 100 years have made medicine more effective but also disintermediated caregivers, family, and patients. Patients and caregivers can not only help but also offer innovative and customized solutions to their problems. She describes four patient archetypes: seekers, networkers, solvers, and champions, and offers a four-quadrant model to visualize how some patients are unhelped by our current healthcare system. She advocates for frictionless, open access to health data and tries to inspire patients to connect, innovate, and create to fill the voids that exist in healthcare. We have come a long way from the immured system of a decade ago; much of that is the result of patient advocates. But healthcare is still too costly, too fragmented and too many patients unhelped. “Community is a superpower,” she writes. I agree, we should assemble all the heroes in the universe for this challenge.

Fox also tells stories of patients who solved diagnostic dilemmas through their own research and advocacy. I thought of my own contrasting experiences of patients whose DIY care was based on misinformation and how their false confidence led to poorer outcomes for them. I want to share with her readers how physicians feel hurt when patients question our competence or place the opinion of an adversarial Redditor over ours. Physicians are sometimes wrong and often in doubt. Most of us care deeply about our patients regardless of how visible their diagnosis or how easy they are to appease.

[embed:render:related:node:268462]

We don’t have time to engage back-and-forth on an insignificantly abnormal test they find in their open chart or why B12 and hormone testing would not be helpful for their disease. It’s also not the patients’ fault. Having unfettered access to their data might add work, but it also adds value. They are trying to learn and be active in their care. Physicians are frustrated mostly because we don’t have time to meet these unmet needs. Everyone is trying their best and we all want the same thing: patients to be satisfied and well.

As for learning the skill of being open-minded, an excellent reference is Adam Grant’s Think Again. It’s inspiring and instructive of how we can all be more open, including how to have productive arguments rather than fruitless fights. We live in divisive times. Perhaps if we all put in effort to be open-minded, push down righteous indignation, and advance more honest humility we’d all be a bit better off.

Patients are the primary audience for the Rebel Health book. Yet, as we care about them and we all want to make healthcare better, it is worth reading in its entirety. I told my daughter I don’t have to work tonight because I’ve written my article this month. When she’s a little older, I’ll tell her all about it. To be successful, she’ll have to be as open-minded as she is smart. She can learn both.

I have no conflict of interest in the book.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Each month I set out on an expedition to find a topic for this column. I came across a new book Rebel Health by Susannah Fox that I thought might be a good one. It’s both a treatise on the shortcomings of healthcare and a Baedeker for patients on how to find their way to being better served. Her argument is that many patients’ needs are unmet and their conditions are often invisible to us in mainstream healthcare. We fail to find solutions to help them. Patients would benefit from more open access to their records and more resources to take control of their own health, she argues. A few chapters in, I thought, “Oh, here we go, another diatribe on doctors and how we care most about how to keep patients in their rightful, subordinate place.” The “Rebel” title is provocative and implies patients need to overthrow the status quo. Well, I am part of the establishment. I stopped reading. This book doesn’t apply to me, I thought.

After all, I’m a healthcare progressive, right? My notes and results have been open for years. I encourage shared decision-making and try to empower patients as much as treat them. The idea that I or my colleagues are unwilling to do whatever is necessary to meet our patients’ needs was maddening. We dedicate our lives to it. My young daughter often greets me in the morning by asking if I’ll be working tonight. Most nights, I am — answering patient messages, collaborating with colleagues to help patients, keeping up with medical knowledge. I was angry at what felt like unjust criticism, especially that we’d neglect patients because their problems are not obvious or worse, there is not enough money to be made helping them. Harrumph.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

That’s when I realized the best thing for me was to read the entire book and digest the arguments. I pride myself on being well-read, but I fall into a common trap: the podcasts I listen to, news I consume, and books I read mostly affirm my beliefs. It is a healthy choice to seek dispositive data and contrasting stories rather than always feeding our personal opinions.

Rebel Health was not written by Robespierre. It was penned by a thoughtful, articulate patient advocate with over 20 years experience. She has far more bona fides than I could achieve in two lifetimes. In the book, she reminds us that scientific advances in the last 100 years have made medicine more effective but also disintermediated caregivers, family, and patients. Patients and caregivers can not only help but also offer innovative and customized solutions to their problems. She describes four patient archetypes: seekers, networkers, solvers, and champions, and offers a four-quadrant model to visualize how some patients are unhelped by our current healthcare system. She advocates for frictionless, open access to health data and tries to inspire patients to connect, innovate, and create to fill the voids that exist in healthcare. We have come a long way from the immured system of a decade ago; much of that is the result of patient advocates. But healthcare is still too costly, too fragmented and too many patients unhelped. “Community is a superpower,” she writes. I agree, we should assemble all the heroes in the universe for this challenge.

Fox also tells stories of patients who solved diagnostic dilemmas through their own research and advocacy. I thought of my own contrasting experiences of patients whose DIY care was based on misinformation and how their false confidence led to poorer outcomes for them. I want to share with her readers how physicians feel hurt when patients question our competence or place the opinion of an adversarial Redditor over ours. Physicians are sometimes wrong and often in doubt. Most of us care deeply about our patients regardless of how visible their diagnosis or how easy they are to appease.

[embed:render:related:node:268462]

We don’t have time to engage back-and-forth on an insignificantly abnormal test they find in their open chart or why B12 and hormone testing would not be helpful for their disease. It’s also not the patients’ fault. Having unfettered access to their data might add work, but it also adds value. They are trying to learn and be active in their care. Physicians are frustrated mostly because we don’t have time to meet these unmet needs. Everyone is trying their best and we all want the same thing: patients to be satisfied and well.

As for learning the skill of being open-minded, an excellent reference is Adam Grant’s Think Again. It’s inspiring and instructive of how we can all be more open, including how to have productive arguments rather than fruitless fights. We live in divisive times. Perhaps if we all put in effort to be open-minded, push down righteous indignation, and advance more honest humility we’d all be a bit better off.

Patients are the primary audience for the Rebel Health book. Yet, as we care about them and we all want to make healthcare better, it is worth reading in its entirety. I told my daughter I don’t have to work tonight because I’ve written my article this month. When she’s a little older, I’ll tell her all about it. To be successful, she’ll have to be as open-minded as she is smart. She can learn both.

I have no conflict of interest in the book.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

You know what the happiest animal in the world is? A goldfish. You know why? It’s got a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish. — Ted Lasso

I don’t play much golf. When I do, it’s when my dad is in town. He shoots his age (78). I shoot double mine (52). He was recently here. We played and watched the Masters where he pointed out how I looked a lot like Scottie Scheffler, the now two-time Masters champion. On the 10th hole of his third round, you could see the resemblance. Scheffler’s third shot flew past the hole into the galley. He rifled the fourth past the hole on its way back toward the fairway. It was now a good distance further from the cup than a minute ago. He proceeded to misread his bogey putt, ending his misery with a double bogey. Scheffler went on to bogey the next hole and dropped from first on the leaderboard to fifth. Yes, I looked just like that on my last round. But here is where Scheffler and I differ. After a hole like that, I’d have been apoplectic, seething with self loathing. Scheffler was not. He kept moving. Head up, he sauntered to the next hole as if he had no awareness of what just transpired.

The ability to compartmentalize is useful not only to become the Masters champion, but also to become master of your day. In this way, golf is a nice approximation for life. The best golfers in the world will always have horrible shots and dreadful holes. The winning ones are often those who recover rather than continue in a downward spiral of one bad shot after another.

167822_golfphoto_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Scheffler went on to eagle the 13th hole on that round. He eventually won the 2024 Masters Tournament. Remember that the next time you find yourself in a day that feels like it is spiraling toward disaster. Close the door on the compartment that was the last miserable hole and saunter to the next patient like it never happened.

And maybe close the clubface a bit on address for your next drive. 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

You know what the happiest animal in the world is? A goldfish. You know why? It’s got a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish. — Ted Lasso

I don’t play much golf. When I do, it’s when my dad is in town. He shoots his age (78). I shoot double mine (52). He was recently here. We played and watched the Masters where he pointed out how I looked a lot like Scottie Scheffler, the now two-time Masters champion. On the 10th hole of his third round, you could see the resemblance. Scheffler’s third shot flew past the hole into the galley. He rifled the fourth past the hole on its way back toward the fairway. It was now a good distance further from the cup than a minute ago. He proceeded to misread his bogey putt, ending his misery with a double bogey. Scheffler went on to bogey the next hole and dropped from first on the leaderboard to fifth. Yes, I looked just like that on my last round. But here is where Scheffler and I differ. After a hole like that, I’d have been apoplectic, seething with self loathing. Scheffler was not. He kept moving. Head up, he sauntered to the next hole as if he had no awareness of what just transpired.

The ability to compartmentalize is useful not only to become the Masters champion, but also to become master of your day. In this way, golf is a nice approximation for life. The best golfers in the world will always have horrible shots and dreadful holes. The winning ones are often those who recover rather than continue in a downward spiral of one bad shot after another.

167822_golfphoto_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Scheffler went on to eagle the 13th hole on that round. He eventually won the 2024 Masters Tournament. Remember that the next time you find yourself in a day that feels like it is spiraling toward disaster. Close the door on the compartment that was the last miserable hole and saunter to the next patient like it never happened.

And maybe close the clubface a bit on address for your next drive. 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

You know what the happiest animal in the world is? A goldfish. You know why? It’s got a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish. — Ted Lasso

I don’t play much golf. When I do, it’s when my dad is in town. He shoots his age (78). I shoot double mine (52). He was recently here. We played and watched the Masters where he pointed out how I looked a lot like Scottie Scheffler, the now two-time Masters champion. On the 10th hole of his third round, you could see the resemblance. Scheffler’s third shot flew past the hole into the galley. He rifled the fourth past the hole on its way back toward the fairway. It was now a good distance further from the cup than a minute ago. He proceeded to misread his bogey putt, ending his misery with a double bogey. Scheffler went on to bogey the next hole and dropped from first on the leaderboard to fifth. Yes, I looked just like that on my last round. But here is where Scheffler and I differ. After a hole like that, I’d have been apoplectic, seething with self loathing. Scheffler was not. He kept moving. Head up, he sauntered to the next hole as if he had no awareness of what just transpired.

The ability to compartmentalize is useful not only to become the Masters champion, but also to become master of your day. In this way, golf is a nice approximation for life. The best golfers in the world will always have horrible shots and dreadful holes. The winning ones are often those who recover rather than continue in a downward spiral of one bad shot after another.

167822_golfphoto_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Scheffler went on to eagle the 13th hole on that round. He eventually won the 2024 Masters Tournament. Remember that the next time you find yourself in a day that feels like it is spiraling toward disaster. Close the door on the compartment that was the last miserable hole and saunter to the next patient like it never happened.

And maybe close the clubface a bit on address for your next drive. 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I don’t recommend ice baths. Perhaps I should. On my podcast-filled commute, I am reminded for miles of the mental and physical benefits of this revolutionary wellness routine: Cold exposure causes a spike in adrenaline and raises your baseline dopamine, thereby giving you superhuman focus and energy. Goodbye procrastination! Eliminate your ADHD in one icy step! I’m trying to be the fashionable mustached-columnist here so maybe I should get on board.

In fact, a heavyset, similarly-mustached 32-year-old patient just asked if I do ice baths. It was meant as a compliment, I believe. Displaying poise wearing my Chief of Dermatology embroidered white coat in my toddler-art-adorned office, I could hear him thinking: “This doc is legit. On fleek.” (Note, this is an approximation and the patient’s actual thoughts may have varied). We were talking podcasts and he was curious about my daily routine.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now, ice baths probably do have the benefits that Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan, and the others have described, I don’t argue. And the experience is oft described as invigorating with a runner’s high-like euphoria that follows a good dunk. I’ve tried it. I would describe it as “very uncomfortable.” To boot, following icy-cold morning showers, I wasn’t any better able to stave off opening my New York Times app on a newsy day. No, cold water isn’t my jams. But then again, I don’t journal like Marcus Aurelius or sleep on a mattress that keeps my body a chill 97 degrees like an inverse sous vide. If I were asked by Huberman in an interview what I do to be mentally strong, I’d answer, “I clean the pool.”

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

“Here’s how I do it, Dr. Huberman,” I’d say. “First, open the pool cover. Then with a cup with pool water from about 12 inches down, fill these little beakers with water and add a few drops of chemical reagents. Then calculate the ounces of calcium hypochlorite, muriatic acid, and other chemicals to make your pools sparkle. After skimming, take your pool brush and brush the bottom and sides of your pool. Rack your equipment when done and close the cover back up. This exercise takes about 15 minutes.” It’s a mundane task, but ah, there’s the point. Like folding the laundry, weeding the garden, emptying the dishwasher, they can be oh, so gratifying. Each of these has a crisp beginning and end and offer a lovely spot to be present. Let the thoughts flow with each stroke of the brush. Watch the water ripple the surface as you slowly pull the long pole out, dripping 7.4 pH water as you glide it in for the next pass. This is the Benabio secret to success.

BenabioAprilcolumn_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I don’t recommend ice baths. Perhaps I should. On my podcast-filled commute, I am reminded for miles of the mental and physical benefits of this revolutionary wellness routine: Cold exposure causes a spike in adrenaline and raises your baseline dopamine, thereby giving you superhuman focus and energy. Goodbye procrastination! Eliminate your ADHD in one icy step! I’m trying to be the fashionable mustached-columnist here so maybe I should get on board.

In fact, a heavyset, similarly-mustached 32-year-old patient just asked if I do ice baths. It was meant as a compliment, I believe. Displaying poise wearing my Chief of Dermatology embroidered white coat in my toddler-art-adorned office, I could hear him thinking: “This doc is legit. On fleek.” (Note, this is an approximation and the patient’s actual thoughts may have varied). We were talking podcasts and he was curious about my daily routine.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now, ice baths probably do have the benefits that Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan, and the others have described, I don’t argue. And the experience is oft described as invigorating with a runner’s high-like euphoria that follows a good dunk. I’ve tried it. I would describe it as “very uncomfortable.” To boot, following icy-cold morning showers, I wasn’t any better able to stave off opening my New York Times app on a newsy day. No, cold water isn’t my jams. But then again, I don’t journal like Marcus Aurelius or sleep on a mattress that keeps my body a chill 97 degrees like an inverse sous vide. If I were asked by Huberman in an interview what I do to be mentally strong, I’d answer, “I clean the pool.”

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

“Here’s how I do it, Dr. Huberman,” I’d say. “First, open the pool cover. Then with a cup with pool water from about 12 inches down, fill these little beakers with water and add a few drops of chemical reagents. Then calculate the ounces of calcium hypochlorite, muriatic acid, and other chemicals to make your pools sparkle. After skimming, take your pool brush and brush the bottom and sides of your pool. Rack your equipment when done and close the cover back up. This exercise takes about 15 minutes.” It’s a mundane task, but ah, there’s the point. Like folding the laundry, weeding the garden, emptying the dishwasher, they can be oh, so gratifying. Each of these has a crisp beginning and end and offer a lovely spot to be present. Let the thoughts flow with each stroke of the brush. Watch the water ripple the surface as you slowly pull the long pole out, dripping 7.4 pH water as you glide it in for the next pass. This is the Benabio secret to success.

BenabioAprilcolumn_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I don’t recommend ice baths. Perhaps I should. On my podcast-filled commute, I am reminded for miles of the mental and physical benefits of this revolutionary wellness routine: Cold exposure causes a spike in adrenaline and raises your baseline dopamine, thereby giving you superhuman focus and energy. Goodbye procrastination! Eliminate your ADHD in one icy step! I’m trying to be the fashionable mustached-columnist here so maybe I should get on board.

In fact, a heavyset, similarly-mustached 32-year-old patient just asked if I do ice baths. It was meant as a compliment, I believe. Displaying poise wearing my Chief of Dermatology embroidered white coat in my toddler-art-adorned office, I could hear him thinking: “This doc is legit. On fleek.” (Note, this is an approximation and the patient’s actual thoughts may have varied). We were talking podcasts and he was curious about my daily routine.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now, ice baths probably do have the benefits that Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan, and the others have described, I don’t argue. And the experience is oft described as invigorating with a runner’s high-like euphoria that follows a good dunk. I’ve tried it. I would describe it as “very uncomfortable.” To boot, following icy-cold morning showers, I wasn’t any better able to stave off opening my New York Times app on a newsy day. No, cold water isn’t my jams. But then again, I don’t journal like Marcus Aurelius or sleep on a mattress that keeps my body a chill 97 degrees like an inverse sous vide. If I were asked by Huberman in an interview what I do to be mentally strong, I’d answer, “I clean the pool.”

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

“Here’s how I do it, Dr. Huberman,” I’d say. “First, open the pool cover. Then with a cup with pool water from about 12 inches down, fill these little beakers with water and add a few drops of chemical reagents. Then calculate the ounces of calcium hypochlorite, muriatic acid, and other chemicals to make your pools sparkle. After skimming, take your pool brush and brush the bottom and sides of your pool. Rack your equipment when done and close the cover back up. This exercise takes about 15 minutes.” It’s a mundane task, but ah, there’s the point. Like folding the laundry, weeding the garden, emptying the dishwasher, they can be oh, so gratifying. Each of these has a crisp beginning and end and offer a lovely spot to be present. Let the thoughts flow with each stroke of the brush. Watch the water ripple the surface as you slowly pull the long pole out, dripping 7.4 pH water as you glide it in for the next pass. This is the Benabio secret to success.

BenabioAprilcolumn_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You’ll never walk alone.” — Nettie Fowler, Carousel

A few winters ago, a young man and his fiancée were driving on the 91 freeway in southern California during a torrential downpour when their Honda Civic hydroplaned, slamming into the jersey barrier. They were both unhurt. Unsure what to do next, they made the catastrophic decision to exit the vehicle. As the man walked around the back of the car he was nearly hit by a black sedan sliding out of control trying to avoid them. When he came around the car, his fiancé was nowhere to be found. She had been struck at highway speed and lay crushed under the sedan hundreds of feet away.

I know this poor man because he was referred to me. Not as a dermatologist, but as a fellow human healing from trauma. On January 1, 2019, at about 9:30 PM, while we were home together, my beloved wife of 24 years took her own life. Even 5 years on it is difficult to believe that she isn’t proofing this paragraph like she had done for every one of my Derm News columns for years. We had been together since teenagers and had lived a joy-filled life. As anyone who has lost a loved one to suicide knows, it is an unknowable, fatal disease. Very few of my patients know my story. There isn’t any medical reason to share. But that day I joined the community of those who have carried unbearable heaviness of grief and survived. Sometimes others seek me out for help.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

At first, my instinct was to guide them, to give advice, to tell them what to do and where to go. But I’ve learned that people in this dark valley don’t need a guide. They need someone to accompany them. To walk with them for a few minutes on their lonely journey. I recently read David Brooks’s new book, How to Know a Person. I’ve been a fan of his since he joined the New York Times in 2003 and have read almost everything he’s written. I sometimes even imagine how he might approach a column whenever I’m stuck (thank you, David). His The Road to Character book is in my canon of literature for self-growth. This latest book is an interesting digression from that central theme. He argues that our society is in acute need of forming better connections and that an important way we can be moral is to learn, and to practice, how to know each other. He shares an emotional experience of losing a close friend to suicide and writes a poignant explanation of what it means to accompany someone in need. It particularly resonated with me. We are doctors and are wired to find the source of a problem, like quickly rotating through the 4X, 10X, 40X on a microscope. Once identified, we spend most of our time creating and explaining treatments. I see how this makes me a great dermatologist but just an average human.

Brooks tells the story of a woman with a brain tumor who often finds herself on the ground surrounded by well-meaning people trying to help. She explains later that what she really needs in those moments is just for someone to get on the ground and lie with her. To accompany her.

Having crossed the midpoint of life, I see with the benefit of perspective how suffering has afforded me wisdom: I am more sensitive and attuned to others. It also gave me credibility: I know how it feels to walk life’s loneliest journey. I’ve also learned to make myself vulnerable for someone to share their story with me. I won’t be afraid to hear the details. I won’t judge them for weeping too little or for sobbing too much. I don’t answer whys. I won’t say what they should do next. But for a few minutes I can walk beside them as a person who cares.

166939_photo_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You’ll never walk alone.” — Nettie Fowler, Carousel

A few winters ago, a young man and his fiancée were driving on the 91 freeway in southern California during a torrential downpour when their Honda Civic hydroplaned, slamming into the jersey barrier. They were both unhurt. Unsure what to do next, they made the catastrophic decision to exit the vehicle. As the man walked around the back of the car he was nearly hit by a black sedan sliding out of control trying to avoid them. When he came around the car, his fiancé was nowhere to be found. She had been struck at highway speed and lay crushed under the sedan hundreds of feet away.

I know this poor man because he was referred to me. Not as a dermatologist, but as a fellow human healing from trauma. On January 1, 2019, at about 9:30 PM, while we were home together, my beloved wife of 24 years took her own life. Even 5 years on it is difficult to believe that she isn’t proofing this paragraph like she had done for every one of my Derm News columns for years. We had been together since teenagers and had lived a joy-filled life. As anyone who has lost a loved one to suicide knows, it is an unknowable, fatal disease. Very few of my patients know my story. There isn’t any medical reason to share. But that day I joined the community of those who have carried unbearable heaviness of grief and survived. Sometimes others seek me out for help.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

At first, my instinct was to guide them, to give advice, to tell them what to do and where to go. But I’ve learned that people in this dark valley don’t need a guide. They need someone to accompany them. To walk with them for a few minutes on their lonely journey. I recently read David Brooks’s new book, How to Know a Person. I’ve been a fan of his since he joined the New York Times in 2003 and have read almost everything he’s written. I sometimes even imagine how he might approach a column whenever I’m stuck (thank you, David). His The Road to Character book is in my canon of literature for self-growth. This latest book is an interesting digression from that central theme. He argues that our society is in acute need of forming better connections and that an important way we can be moral is to learn, and to practice, how to know each other. He shares an emotional experience of losing a close friend to suicide and writes a poignant explanation of what it means to accompany someone in need. It particularly resonated with me. We are doctors and are wired to find the source of a problem, like quickly rotating through the 4X, 10X, 40X on a microscope. Once identified, we spend most of our time creating and explaining treatments. I see how this makes me a great dermatologist but just an average human.

Brooks tells the story of a woman with a brain tumor who often finds herself on the ground surrounded by well-meaning people trying to help. She explains later that what she really needs in those moments is just for someone to get on the ground and lie with her. To accompany her.

Having crossed the midpoint of life, I see with the benefit of perspective how suffering has afforded me wisdom: I am more sensitive and attuned to others. It also gave me credibility: I know how it feels to walk life’s loneliest journey. I’ve also learned to make myself vulnerable for someone to share their story with me. I won’t be afraid to hear the details. I won’t judge them for weeping too little or for sobbing too much. I don’t answer whys. I won’t say what they should do next. But for a few minutes I can walk beside them as a person who cares.

166939_photo_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You’ll never walk alone.” — Nettie Fowler, Carousel

A few winters ago, a young man and his fiancée were driving on the 91 freeway in southern California during a torrential downpour when their Honda Civic hydroplaned, slamming into the jersey barrier. They were both unhurt. Unsure what to do next, they made the catastrophic decision to exit the vehicle. As the man walked around the back of the car he was nearly hit by a black sedan sliding out of control trying to avoid them. When he came around the car, his fiancé was nowhere to be found. She had been struck at highway speed and lay crushed under the sedan hundreds of feet away.

I know this poor man because he was referred to me. Not as a dermatologist, but as a fellow human healing from trauma. On January 1, 2019, at about 9:30 PM, while we were home together, my beloved wife of 24 years took her own life. Even 5 years on it is difficult to believe that she isn’t proofing this paragraph like she had done for every one of my Derm News columns for years. We had been together since teenagers and had lived a joy-filled life. As anyone who has lost a loved one to suicide knows, it is an unknowable, fatal disease. Very few of my patients know my story. There isn’t any medical reason to share. But that day I joined the community of those who have carried unbearable heaviness of grief and survived. Sometimes others seek me out for help.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

At first, my instinct was to guide them, to give advice, to tell them what to do and where to go. But I’ve learned that people in this dark valley don’t need a guide. They need someone to accompany them. To walk with them for a few minutes on their lonely journey. I recently read David Brooks’s new book, How to Know a Person. I’ve been a fan of his since he joined the New York Times in 2003 and have read almost everything he’s written. I sometimes even imagine how he might approach a column whenever I’m stuck (thank you, David). His The Road to Character book is in my canon of literature for self-growth. This latest book is an interesting digression from that central theme. He argues that our society is in acute need of forming better connections and that an important way we can be moral is to learn, and to practice, how to know each other. He shares an emotional experience of losing a close friend to suicide and writes a poignant explanation of what it means to accompany someone in need. It particularly resonated with me. We are doctors and are wired to find the source of a problem, like quickly rotating through the 4X, 10X, 40X on a microscope. Once identified, we spend most of our time creating and explaining treatments. I see how this makes me a great dermatologist but just an average human.

Brooks tells the story of a woman with a brain tumor who often finds herself on the ground surrounded by well-meaning people trying to help. She explains later that what she really needs in those moments is just for someone to get on the ground and lie with her. To accompany her.

Having crossed the midpoint of life, I see with the benefit of perspective how suffering has afforded me wisdom: I am more sensitive and attuned to others. It also gave me credibility: I know how it feels to walk life’s loneliest journey. I’ve also learned to make myself vulnerable for someone to share their story with me. I won’t be afraid to hear the details. I won’t judge them for weeping too little or for sobbing too much. I don’t answer whys. I won’t say what they should do next. But for a few minutes I can walk beside them as a person who cares.

166939_photo_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You have psoriasis,” I say all the time. I mean it when I say it, of course. But I don’t always to the same degree. Sometimes I’m trying to say, “You probably have psoriasis.” Other times I mean, “You most definitely have psoriasis.” I rarely use those terms though.

One 36-year-old man with a flaky scalp and scaly elbows wasn’t satisfied with my assessment. His dad has psoriasis. So does his older brother. He was in to see me to find out if he had psoriasis too. “Probably” was what I gave him. He pushed back, “What percent chance?” That’s a good question — must be an engineer. I’m unsure.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

With the exception of the poker players, our species is notoriously bad at probabilities. We’re wired to notice the significance of events, but terrible at understanding their likelihood. This is salient in lottery ticket holders and some NFL offensive coordinators who persist despite very long odds of things working out. It’s also reflected in the language we use. Rarely do we say, there’s a sixty percent chance something will happen. Rather, we say, “it’s likely.” There are two problems here. One, we often misjudge the actual probability of something occurring and two, the terms we use are subjective and differences in interpretation can lead to misunderstandings.

Let’s take a look. A 55-year-old man with a chronic eczematous rash on his trunk and extremities is getting worse despite dupilumab. He recently had night sweats. Do you think he has atopic dermatitis or cutaneous T-cell lymphoma? If you had to place a $100 bet, would you change your answer? Immanuel Kant thinks you would. In his “Critique of Pure Reason,” the German philosopher proposes that betting helps clarify the mind, an antidote to brashness. The example Kant uses is of a physician who observes a patient and concludes he has phthisis (tuberculosis), but we really don’t know if the physician is confident. Kant proposes that if he had to bet on his conclusion, then we’d have insight into just how convinced he is of phthisis. So, what’s your bet?

If you’re a bad poker player, then you might bet he has cutaneous T-cell lymphoma. However, not having any additional information, the smart call is atopic dermatitis, which has a base rate 1000-fold higher than CTCL. It is therefore more probable to be eczema even in a case that worsens despite dupilumab or with recent night sweats, both of which could be a result of common variables such as weather and COVID. Failure to account for the base rate is a mistake we physicians sometimes make. Economists rarely do. Try to think like one before answering a likelihood question.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

For my scaly patient, we know psoriasis is common and so it’s likely he has it. The trouble is what “probably” means to me might mean something different to him. If you think about it, “probably” means something different even to me, depending on the situation. I might say I’ll probably go to Montana this summer and I’ll probably retire at 65. The actual likelihoods might be 95% and 70%. That’s a big difference. What about between probably and likely? Or possibly and maybe? Do they mean the same to you as to the person you’re speaking with? For much of the work we do, precise likelihoods aren’t critical. Yet, it can be important in decision making and in discussing probabilities, such as the risk of hepatitis on terbinafine or of melanoma recurrence after Mohs.

I told my patient “I say about a 70% chance you have psoriasis. I could do a biopsy today to confirm.” He thought for a second and asked, “What is the chance it’s psoriasis if the biopsy shows it?” “Eighty six percent,” I replied.

Seemed like a good bet to me.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You have psoriasis,” I say all the time. I mean it when I say it, of course. But I don’t always to the same degree. Sometimes I’m trying to say, “You probably have psoriasis.” Other times I mean, “You most definitely have psoriasis.” I rarely use those terms though.

One 36-year-old man with a flaky scalp and scaly elbows wasn’t satisfied with my assessment. His dad has psoriasis. So does his older brother. He was in to see me to find out if he had psoriasis too. “Probably” was what I gave him. He pushed back, “What percent chance?” That’s a good question — must be an engineer. I’m unsure.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

With the exception of the poker players, our species is notoriously bad at probabilities. We’re wired to notice the significance of events, but terrible at understanding their likelihood. This is salient in lottery ticket holders and some NFL offensive coordinators who persist despite very long odds of things working out. It’s also reflected in the language we use. Rarely do we say, there’s a sixty percent chance something will happen. Rather, we say, “it’s likely.” There are two problems here. One, we often misjudge the actual probability of something occurring and two, the terms we use are subjective and differences in interpretation can lead to misunderstandings.

Let’s take a look. A 55-year-old man with a chronic eczematous rash on his trunk and extremities is getting worse despite dupilumab. He recently had night sweats. Do you think he has atopic dermatitis or cutaneous T-cell lymphoma? If you had to place a $100 bet, would you change your answer? Immanuel Kant thinks you would. In his “Critique of Pure Reason,” the German philosopher proposes that betting helps clarify the mind, an antidote to brashness. The example Kant uses is of a physician who observes a patient and concludes he has phthisis (tuberculosis), but we really don’t know if the physician is confident. Kant proposes that if he had to bet on his conclusion, then we’d have insight into just how convinced he is of phthisis. So, what’s your bet?

If you’re a bad poker player, then you might bet he has cutaneous T-cell lymphoma. However, not having any additional information, the smart call is atopic dermatitis, which has a base rate 1000-fold higher than CTCL. It is therefore more probable to be eczema even in a case that worsens despite dupilumab or with recent night sweats, both of which could be a result of common variables such as weather and COVID. Failure to account for the base rate is a mistake we physicians sometimes make. Economists rarely do. Try to think like one before answering a likelihood question.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

For my scaly patient, we know psoriasis is common and so it’s likely he has it. The trouble is what “probably” means to me might mean something different to him. If you think about it, “probably” means something different even to me, depending on the situation. I might say I’ll probably go to Montana this summer and I’ll probably retire at 65. The actual likelihoods might be 95% and 70%. That’s a big difference. What about between probably and likely? Or possibly and maybe? Do they mean the same to you as to the person you’re speaking with? For much of the work we do, precise likelihoods aren’t critical. Yet, it can be important in decision making and in discussing probabilities, such as the risk of hepatitis on terbinafine or of melanoma recurrence after Mohs.

I told my patient “I say about a 70% chance you have psoriasis. I could do a biopsy today to confirm.” He thought for a second and asked, “What is the chance it’s psoriasis if the biopsy shows it?” “Eighty six percent,” I replied.

Seemed like a good bet to me.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You have psoriasis,” I say all the time. I mean it when I say it, of course. But I don’t always to the same degree. Sometimes I’m trying to say, “You probably have psoriasis.” Other times I mean, “You most definitely have psoriasis.” I rarely use those terms though.

One 36-year-old man with a flaky scalp and scaly elbows wasn’t satisfied with my assessment. His dad has psoriasis. So does his older brother. He was in to see me to find out if he had psoriasis too. “Probably” was what I gave him. He pushed back, “What percent chance?” That’s a good question — must be an engineer. I’m unsure.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

With the exception of the poker players, our species is notoriously bad at probabilities. We’re wired to notice the significance of events, but terrible at understanding their likelihood. This is salient in lottery ticket holders and some NFL offensive coordinators who persist despite very long odds of things working out. It’s also reflected in the language we use. Rarely do we say, there’s a sixty percent chance something will happen. Rather, we say, “it’s likely.” There are two problems here. One, we often misjudge the actual probability of something occurring and two, the terms we use are subjective and differences in interpretation can lead to misunderstandings.

Let’s take a look. A 55-year-old man with a chronic eczematous rash on his trunk and extremities is getting worse despite dupilumab. He recently had night sweats. Do you think he has atopic dermatitis or cutaneous T-cell lymphoma? If you had to place a $100 bet, would you change your answer? Immanuel Kant thinks you would. In his “Critique of Pure Reason,” the German philosopher proposes that betting helps clarify the mind, an antidote to brashness. The example Kant uses is of a physician who observes a patient and concludes he has phthisis (tuberculosis), but we really don’t know if the physician is confident. Kant proposes that if he had to bet on his conclusion, then we’d have insight into just how convinced he is of phthisis. So, what’s your bet?

If you’re a bad poker player, then you might bet he has cutaneous T-cell lymphoma. However, not having any additional information, the smart call is atopic dermatitis, which has a base rate 1000-fold higher than CTCL. It is therefore more probable to be eczema even in a case that worsens despite dupilumab or with recent night sweats, both of which could be a result of common variables such as weather and COVID. Failure to account for the base rate is a mistake we physicians sometimes make. Economists rarely do. Try to think like one before answering a likelihood question.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

For my scaly patient, we know psoriasis is common and so it’s likely he has it. The trouble is what “probably” means to me might mean something different to him. If you think about it, “probably” means something different even to me, depending on the situation. I might say I’ll probably go to Montana this summer and I’ll probably retire at 65. The actual likelihoods might be 95% and 70%. That’s a big difference. What about between probably and likely? Or possibly and maybe? Do they mean the same to you as to the person you’re speaking with? For much of the work we do, precise likelihoods aren’t critical. Yet, it can be important in decision making and in discussing probabilities, such as the risk of hepatitis on terbinafine or of melanoma recurrence after Mohs.

I told my patient “I say about a 70% chance you have psoriasis. I could do a biopsy today to confirm.” He thought for a second and asked, “What is the chance it’s psoriasis if the biopsy shows it?” “Eighty six percent,” I replied.

Seemed like a good bet to me.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

‘Twas the night before Festivus and all through the house, everyone was griping.

In case you’ve only been watching Friends reruns lately, Festivus is a holiday that originated 25 years ago in the last season of Seinfeld. George’s father created it as an alternative to Christmas hype. In addition to an aluminum pole, the holiday features the annual airing of grievances, when one is encouraged to voice complaints. Aluminum poles haven’t replaced Christmas trees, but the spirit of Festivus is still with us in the widespread airing of grievances in 2023.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Complaining isn’t just a post-pandemic problem. Hector spends quite a bit of time complaining about Paris in the Iliad. That was a few pandemics ago. And repining is ubiquitous in literature — as human as walking on two limbs it seems. Ostensibly, we complain to effect change: Something is wrong and we expect it to be different. But that’s not the whole story. No one believes the weather will improve or the Patriots will play better because we complain about them. So why do we bother?

Even if nothing changes on the outside, it does seem to alter our internal state, serving a healthy psychological function. Putting to words what is aggravating can have the same benefit of deep breathing. We describe it as “getting something off our chest” because that’s what it feels like. We feel unburdened just by saying it out loud. Complaining is also a way to bond with others. We have a strong instinct to be with people like ourselves and what better way to connect than to find common suffering? Think about the last time you complained: Cranky staff, prior auths, Medicare, disrespectful patients, many of your colleagues will nod in agreement, validating your feelings and making you feel less isolated.

There are also maladaptive reasons for whining. It’s obviously an elementary way to get attention or to remove responsibility. It can also be a political weapon (office politics included). It’s such a potent way to connect that it’s used to build alliances and clout. “Washington is doing a great job,” said no candidate ever. No, if you want to get people on your side, find something irritating and complain to everyone how annoying it is. This solidifies “us” versus “them,” which can harm organizations and families alike.

[embed:render:related:node:266599]

Yet, eliminating all complaints is neither feasible, nor probably advisable. You could try to make your office a complaint-free zone, but the likely result would be to push any griping to the remote corners where you can no longer hear them. These criticisms might have uncovered missed opportunities, identify problems, and even improve cohesion if done in a safe and transparent setting. If they are left unaddressed or if the underlying culture isn’t sound, then they can propagate and lead to factions that harm productivity.

Griping is as much part of the holiday season as jingle bells and jelly donuts. I don’t believe complaining is up now because people were grumpier in 2023. Rather I think people just craved connection more than ever. So join in: Traffic after the time change, Tesla service, (super) late patients, prior auths, perioral dermatitis, post-COVID telogen effluvium.

I feel better.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X (formerly Twitter). Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

‘Twas the night before Festivus and all through the house, everyone was griping.

In case you’ve only been watching Friends reruns lately, Festivus is a holiday that originated 25 years ago in the last season of Seinfeld. George’s father created it as an alternative to Christmas hype. In addition to an aluminum pole, the holiday features the annual airing of grievances, when one is encouraged to voice complaints. Aluminum poles haven’t replaced Christmas trees, but the spirit of Festivus is still with us in the widespread airing of grievances in 2023.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Complaining isn’t just a post-pandemic problem. Hector spends quite a bit of time complaining about Paris in the Iliad. That was a few pandemics ago. And repining is ubiquitous in literature — as human as walking on two limbs it seems. Ostensibly, we complain to effect change: Something is wrong and we expect it to be different. But that’s not the whole story. No one believes the weather will improve or the Patriots will play better because we complain about them. So why do we bother?

Even if nothing changes on the outside, it does seem to alter our internal state, serving a healthy psychological function. Putting to words what is aggravating can have the same benefit of deep breathing. We describe it as “getting something off our chest” because that’s what it feels like. We feel unburdened just by saying it out loud. Complaining is also a way to bond with others. We have a strong instinct to be with people like ourselves and what better way to connect than to find common suffering? Think about the last time you complained: Cranky staff, prior auths, Medicare, disrespectful patients, many of your colleagues will nod in agreement, validating your feelings and making you feel less isolated.

There are also maladaptive reasons for whining. It’s obviously an elementary way to get attention or to remove responsibility. It can also be a political weapon (office politics included). It’s such a potent way to connect that it’s used to build alliances and clout. “Washington is doing a great job,” said no candidate ever. No, if you want to get people on your side, find something irritating and complain to everyone how annoying it is. This solidifies “us” versus “them,” which can harm organizations and families alike.

[embed:render:related:node:266599]

Yet, eliminating all complaints is neither feasible, nor probably advisable. You could try to make your office a complaint-free zone, but the likely result would be to push any griping to the remote corners where you can no longer hear them. These criticisms might have uncovered missed opportunities, identify problems, and even improve cohesion if done in a safe and transparent setting. If they are left unaddressed or if the underlying culture isn’t sound, then they can propagate and lead to factions that harm productivity.

Griping is as much part of the holiday season as jingle bells and jelly donuts. I don’t believe complaining is up now because people were grumpier in 2023. Rather I think people just craved connection more than ever. So join in: Traffic after the time change, Tesla service, (super) late patients, prior auths, perioral dermatitis, post-COVID telogen effluvium.

I feel better.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X (formerly Twitter). Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

‘Twas the night before Festivus and all through the house, everyone was griping.

In case you’ve only been watching Friends reruns lately, Festivus is a holiday that originated 25 years ago in the last season of Seinfeld. George’s father created it as an alternative to Christmas hype. In addition to an aluminum pole, the holiday features the annual airing of grievances, when one is encouraged to voice complaints. Aluminum poles haven’t replaced Christmas trees, but the spirit of Festivus is still with us in the widespread airing of grievances in 2023.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Complaining isn’t just a post-pandemic problem. Hector spends quite a bit of time complaining about Paris in the Iliad. That was a few pandemics ago. And repining is ubiquitous in literature — as human as walking on two limbs it seems. Ostensibly, we complain to effect change: Something is wrong and we expect it to be different. But that’s not the whole story. No one believes the weather will improve or the Patriots will play better because we complain about them. So why do we bother?

Even if nothing changes on the outside, it does seem to alter our internal state, serving a healthy psychological function. Putting to words what is aggravating can have the same benefit of deep breathing. We describe it as “getting something off our chest” because that’s what it feels like. We feel unburdened just by saying it out loud. Complaining is also a way to bond with others. We have a strong instinct to be with people like ourselves and what better way to connect than to find common suffering? Think about the last time you complained: Cranky staff, prior auths, Medicare, disrespectful patients, many of your colleagues will nod in agreement, validating your feelings and making you feel less isolated.

There are also maladaptive reasons for whining. It’s obviously an elementary way to get attention or to remove responsibility. It can also be a political weapon (office politics included). It’s such a potent way to connect that it’s used to build alliances and clout. “Washington is doing a great job,” said no candidate ever. No, if you want to get people on your side, find something irritating and complain to everyone how annoying it is. This solidifies “us” versus “them,” which can harm organizations and families alike.

[embed:render:related:node:266599]

Yet, eliminating all complaints is neither feasible, nor probably advisable. You could try to make your office a complaint-free zone, but the likely result would be to push any griping to the remote corners where you can no longer hear them. These criticisms might have uncovered missed opportunities, identify problems, and even improve cohesion if done in a safe and transparent setting. If they are left unaddressed or if the underlying culture isn’t sound, then they can propagate and lead to factions that harm productivity.

Griping is as much part of the holiday season as jingle bells and jelly donuts. I don’t believe complaining is up now because people were grumpier in 2023. Rather I think people just craved connection more than ever. So join in: Traffic after the time change, Tesla service, (super) late patients, prior auths, perioral dermatitis, post-COVID telogen effluvium.

I feel better.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X (formerly Twitter). Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” – Henry David Thoreau

I have many patients like Maxine. Tall, with a shock of white hair. Old, but still in charge. When you try to make eye contact, she looks right through you. First with her left eye. Then her right. Her face is inscrutable. What’s she thinking? Unlike many of my patients, however, this Maxine was a llama. Every morning my daughter and I tried to coax her into moving as we leaned on the cold steel gate that kept her in her pasture. We were visiting family in October and chose to stay on a working New England farm. The kids will love the animals, we thought, and we’ll appreciate the extra bedrooms.

165996_farm_pho_web.PNG

Airbnb helped us find this charming fiber-farm in Rhode Island where they raise Leicester Longwool sheep, a historic breed that once roamed George Washington’s pastures, along with a few goats, ducks, chickens, and Maxine. It’s situated deep in the woods, which were yellow, orange, and red that week. As it happens, we were just a short drive due south of Walden Pond where Henry David Thoreau spent 2 years, 2 months and 2 days escaping “overcivilization” nearly 175 years ago. Hoisting our overweight bags over the uneven granite stone steps when we arrived, I realized this was going to be more like the Thoreau experiment than I intended. The farmhouse dated to the 1790s. There were wide, creaky floorboards, low ceilings, one staircase to the bedrooms (which could have aptly been called a ladder) and loads of book-laden shelves. Instructions posted in the kitchen warned that the heat is tricky to regulate – a redundant admonition as we watched our 3-year-old putting on her socks and shoes as she got into bed.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Now, if you’ve ever been on vacation with little kids, you know that it’s basically just childcare in a novel location. After barricading the staircase with luggage and unplugging lamps from their dicey outlets we set out to feed the chickens and try to pet a sheep. Walking the perimeter of the farm we saw stone walls that needed mending and stumbled across two ancient cemeteries, one had been for family, the other for slaves. I wondered how many farmers and weavers and menders had walked this trail with their kids over the generations.

The next morning, we learned that roosters do not in fact crow at dawn, they crow before dawn (which could also aptly be called nighttime). There were no commutes or late patients here. But there was work to be done. Chickens don’t care that it’s Sunday. It downpoured. Watching the sheep from the kitchen as I sipped my coffee, they didn’t seem to mind. Nor did our farmer hosts who trudged past them in tall boots, just as they had every other day of their farmer lives.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

By the fifth day, we had fallen into the rhythms of the homestead. We cracked the blue, green, and brown eggs that our hosts placed outside our door in the early hours and made omelets that were as orange as the foliage. We finally learned to adjust the heat so we neither got chilblains nor had to open the windows and strip naked to cool down. The sky was a brilliant blue that last morning and Sloan ran around trying to catch leaves as they blew off the trees. She had no objective. No counting. No contest. Just chasing leaves as they fell. It was the ultimate atelic activity, done just for doing it. I joined her and found I was no better at this than a 3-year-old.

We came to see family and a few animals and we left with a new appreciation for the goodness of people and nature. Perhaps it’s time to bring back Transcendentalism again? We might all benefit from a little time in the woods.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” – Henry David Thoreau

I have many patients like Maxine. Tall, with a shock of white hair. Old, but still in charge. When you try to make eye contact, she looks right through you. First with her left eye. Then her right. Her face is inscrutable. What’s she thinking? Unlike many of my patients, however, this Maxine was a llama. Every morning my daughter and I tried to coax her into moving as we leaned on the cold steel gate that kept her in her pasture. We were visiting family in October and chose to stay on a working New England farm. The kids will love the animals, we thought, and we’ll appreciate the extra bedrooms.

165996_farm_pho_web.PNG

Airbnb helped us find this charming fiber-farm in Rhode Island where they raise Leicester Longwool sheep, a historic breed that once roamed George Washington’s pastures, along with a few goats, ducks, chickens, and Maxine. It’s situated deep in the woods, which were yellow, orange, and red that week. As it happens, we were just a short drive due south of Walden Pond where Henry David Thoreau spent 2 years, 2 months and 2 days escaping “overcivilization” nearly 175 years ago. Hoisting our overweight bags over the uneven granite stone steps when we arrived, I realized this was going to be more like the Thoreau experiment than I intended. The farmhouse dated to the 1790s. There were wide, creaky floorboards, low ceilings, one staircase to the bedrooms (which could have aptly been called a ladder) and loads of book-laden shelves. Instructions posted in the kitchen warned that the heat is tricky to regulate – a redundant admonition as we watched our 3-year-old putting on her socks and shoes as she got into bed.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Now, if you’ve ever been on vacation with little kids, you know that it’s basically just childcare in a novel location. After barricading the staircase with luggage and unplugging lamps from their dicey outlets we set out to feed the chickens and try to pet a sheep. Walking the perimeter of the farm we saw stone walls that needed mending and stumbled across two ancient cemeteries, one had been for family, the other for slaves. I wondered how many farmers and weavers and menders had walked this trail with their kids over the generations.

The next morning, we learned that roosters do not in fact crow at dawn, they crow before dawn (which could also aptly be called nighttime). There were no commutes or late patients here. But there was work to be done. Chickens don’t care that it’s Sunday. It downpoured. Watching the sheep from the kitchen as I sipped my coffee, they didn’t seem to mind. Nor did our farmer hosts who trudged past them in tall boots, just as they had every other day of their farmer lives.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

By the fifth day, we had fallen into the rhythms of the homestead. We cracked the blue, green, and brown eggs that our hosts placed outside our door in the early hours and made omelets that were as orange as the foliage. We finally learned to adjust the heat so we neither got chilblains nor had to open the windows and strip naked to cool down. The sky was a brilliant blue that last morning and Sloan ran around trying to catch leaves as they blew off the trees. She had no objective. No counting. No contest. Just chasing leaves as they fell. It was the ultimate atelic activity, done just for doing it. I joined her and found I was no better at this than a 3-year-old.

We came to see family and a few animals and we left with a new appreciation for the goodness of people and nature. Perhaps it’s time to bring back Transcendentalism again? We might all benefit from a little time in the woods.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” – Henry David Thoreau

I have many patients like Maxine. Tall, with a shock of white hair. Old, but still in charge. When you try to make eye contact, she looks right through you. First with her left eye. Then her right. Her face is inscrutable. What’s she thinking? Unlike many of my patients, however, this Maxine was a llama. Every morning my daughter and I tried to coax her into moving as we leaned on the cold steel gate that kept her in her pasture. We were visiting family in October and chose to stay on a working New England farm. The kids will love the animals, we thought, and we’ll appreciate the extra bedrooms.

165996_farm_pho_web.PNG

Airbnb helped us find this charming fiber-farm in Rhode Island where they raise Leicester Longwool sheep, a historic breed that once roamed George Washington’s pastures, along with a few goats, ducks, chickens, and Maxine. It’s situated deep in the woods, which were yellow, orange, and red that week. As it happens, we were just a short drive due south of Walden Pond where Henry David Thoreau spent 2 years, 2 months and 2 days escaping “overcivilization” nearly 175 years ago. Hoisting our overweight bags over the uneven granite stone steps when we arrived, I realized this was going to be more like the Thoreau experiment than I intended. The farmhouse dated to the 1790s. There were wide, creaky floorboards, low ceilings, one staircase to the bedrooms (which could have aptly been called a ladder) and loads of book-laden shelves. Instructions posted in the kitchen warned that the heat is tricky to regulate – a redundant admonition as we watched our 3-year-old putting on her socks and shoes as she got into bed.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Now, if you’ve ever been on vacation with little kids, you know that it’s basically just childcare in a novel location. After barricading the staircase with luggage and unplugging lamps from their dicey outlets we set out to feed the chickens and try to pet a sheep. Walking the perimeter of the farm we saw stone walls that needed mending and stumbled across two ancient cemeteries, one had been for family, the other for slaves. I wondered how many farmers and weavers and menders had walked this trail with their kids over the generations.

The next morning, we learned that roosters do not in fact crow at dawn, they crow before dawn (which could also aptly be called nighttime). There were no commutes or late patients here. But there was work to be done. Chickens don’t care that it’s Sunday. It downpoured. Watching the sheep from the kitchen as I sipped my coffee, they didn’t seem to mind. Nor did our farmer hosts who trudged past them in tall boots, just as they had every other day of their farmer lives.

By the fifth day, we had fallen into the rhythms of the homestead. We cracked the blue, green, and brown eggs that our hosts placed outside our door in the early hours and made omelets that were as orange as the foliage. We finally learned to adjust the heat so we neither got chilblains nor had to open the windows and strip naked to cool down. The sky was a brilliant blue that last morning and Sloan ran around trying to catch leaves as they blew off the trees. She had no objective. No counting. No contest. Just chasing leaves as they fell. It was the ultimate atelic activity, done just for doing it. I joined her and found I was no better at this than a 3-year-old.

We came to see family and a few animals and we left with a new appreciation for the goodness of people and nature. Perhaps it’s time to bring back Transcendentalism again? We might all benefit from a little time in the woods.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Look at this guy – NFL Chargers jersey and shorts with a RVCA hat on backward. And next to him, a woman wearing her spin-class-Lulu gear. There’s also a guy sporting a 2016 San Diego Rock ‘n Roll Marathon Tee. And that young woman is actually wearing slippers. A visitor from the 1950s would be thunderstruck to see such casual wear on people waiting to board a plane. Photos from that era show men buttoned up in white shirt and tie and women wearing Chanel with hats and white gloves. This dramatic transformation from formal to unfussy wear cuts through all social situations, including in my office. As a new doc out of residency, I used to wear a tie and shoes that could hold a shine. Now I wear jogger scrubs and sneakers. Rather than be offended by the lack of formality though, patients seem to appreciate it. Should they?

At first glance this seems to be a modern phenomenon. The reasons for casual wear today are manifold: about one-third of people work from home, Millennials are taking over with their TikTok values and general irreverence, COVID made us all fat and lazy. Heck, even the U.S. Senate briefly abolished the requirement to wear suits on the Senate floor. But getting dressed up was never to signal that you are elite or superior to others. It’s the opposite. To get dressed is a signal that you are serving others, a tradition that is as old as society.

Think of Downton Abbey as an example. The servants were always required to be smartly dressed when working, whereas members of the family could be dressed up or not. It’s clear who is serving whom. This tradition lives today in the hospitality industry. When you mosey into the lobby of a luxury hotel in your Rainbow sandals you can expect everyone who greets you will be in finery, signaling that they put in effort to serve you. You’ll find the same for all staff at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., which is no coincidence.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Suits used to be standard in medicine. In the 19th century, physicians wore formal black-tie when seeing patients. Unlike hospitality however, we had good reason to eschew the tradition: germs. Once we figured out that our pus-stained ties and jackets were doing harm, we switched to wearing sanitized uniforms. Casual wear for doctors isn’t a modern phenomenon after all, then. For proof, compare Thomas Eakins painting “The Gross Clinic” (1875) with his later “The Agnew Clinic” (1889). In the former, Dr. Gross is portrayed in formal black wear, bloody hand and all. In the latter, Dr. Agnew is wearing white FIGS (or the 1890’s equivalent anyway). Similarly, nurses uniforms traditionally resembled kitchen servants, with criss-cross aprons and floor length skirts. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that nurses stopped wearing dresses and white caps.

165543_Agnew_Clinic_web.jpg

In the operating theater it’s obviously critical that we wear sanitized scrubs to mitigate the risk of infection. Originally white to signal cleanliness, scrubs were changed to blue-green because surgeons were blinded by the lights bouncing off the uniforms. (Green is also opposite red on the color wheel, supposedly enhancing the ability to distinguish shades of red).

But in outpatient medicine, the effect size for preventing infection by not wearing a tie or jacket is less obvious. In addition to protecting patients, it seems that wearing scrubs and donning On Cloud sneakers might also be a bit of push-back from us. Over time we’ve lost significant autonomy in our practice and lost a little respect from our patients. Payers tell us what to do. Patients question our expertise. Choosing what we wear is one of the few bits of medicine we still have agency. Pewter or pink, joggers or cargo pants, we get to choose.

The last time I flew British Airways everyone was in lounge wear, except the flight crew, of course. They were all smartly dressed. Recently British Airways rolled out updated, slightly more relaxed dress codes. Very modern, but I wonder if in a way we’re not all just a bit worse off.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

Look at this guy – NFL Chargers jersey and shorts with a RVCA hat on backward. And next to him, a woman wearing her spin-class-Lulu gear. There’s also a guy sporting a 2016 San Diego Rock ‘n Roll Marathon Tee. And that young woman is actually wearing slippers. A visitor from the 1950s would be thunderstruck to see such casual wear on people waiting to board a plane. Photos from that era show men buttoned up in white shirt and tie and women wearing Chanel with hats and white gloves. This dramatic transformation from formal to unfussy wear cuts through all social situations, including in my office. As a new doc out of residency, I used to wear a tie and shoes that could hold a shine. Now I wear jogger scrubs and sneakers. Rather than be offended by the lack of formality though, patients seem to appreciate it. Should they?

At first glance this seems to be a modern phenomenon. The reasons for casual wear today are manifold: about one-third of people work from home, Millennials are taking over with their TikTok values and general irreverence, COVID made us all fat and lazy. Heck, even the U.S. Senate briefly abolished the requirement to wear suits on the Senate floor. But getting dressed up was never to signal that you are elite or superior to others. It’s the opposite. To get dressed is a signal that you are serving others, a tradition that is as old as society.

Think of Downton Abbey as an example. The servants were always required to be smartly dressed when working, whereas members of the family could be dressed up or not. It’s clear who is serving whom. This tradition lives today in the hospitality industry. When you mosey into the lobby of a luxury hotel in your Rainbow sandals you can expect everyone who greets you will be in finery, signaling that they put in effort to serve you. You’ll find the same for all staff at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., which is no coincidence.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Suits used to be standard in medicine. In the 19th century, physicians wore formal black-tie when seeing patients. Unlike hospitality however, we had good reason to eschew the tradition: germs. Once we figured out that our pus-stained ties and jackets were doing harm, we switched to wearing sanitized uniforms. Casual wear for doctors isn’t a modern phenomenon after all, then. For proof, compare Thomas Eakins painting “The Gross Clinic” (1875) with his later “The Agnew Clinic” (1889). In the former, Dr. Gross is portrayed in formal black wear, bloody hand and all. In the latter, Dr. Agnew is wearing white FIGS (or the 1890’s equivalent anyway). Similarly, nurses uniforms traditionally resembled kitchen servants, with criss-cross aprons and floor length skirts. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that nurses stopped wearing dresses and white caps.

165543_Agnew_Clinic_web.jpg

In the operating theater it’s obviously critical that we wear sanitized scrubs to mitigate the risk of infection. Originally white to signal cleanliness, scrubs were changed to blue-green because surgeons were blinded by the lights bouncing off the uniforms. (Green is also opposite red on the color wheel, supposedly enhancing the ability to distinguish shades of red).

But in outpatient medicine, the effect size for preventing infection by not wearing a tie or jacket is less obvious. In addition to protecting patients, it seems that wearing scrubs and donning On Cloud sneakers might also be a bit of push-back from us. Over time we’ve lost significant autonomy in our practice and lost a little respect from our patients. Payers tell us what to do. Patients question our expertise. Choosing what we wear is one of the few bits of medicine we still have agency. Pewter or pink, joggers or cargo pants, we get to choose.

The last time I flew British Airways everyone was in lounge wear, except the flight crew, of course. They were all smartly dressed. Recently British Airways rolled out updated, slightly more relaxed dress codes. Very modern, but I wonder if in a way we’re not all just a bit worse off.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

Look at this guy – NFL Chargers jersey and shorts with a RVCA hat on backward. And next to him, a woman wearing her spin-class-Lulu gear. There’s also a guy sporting a 2016 San Diego Rock ‘n Roll Marathon Tee. And that young woman is actually wearing slippers. A visitor from the 1950s would be thunderstruck to see such casual wear on people waiting to board a plane. Photos from that era show men buttoned up in white shirt and tie and women wearing Chanel with hats and white gloves. This dramatic transformation from formal to unfussy wear cuts through all social situations, including in my office. As a new doc out of residency, I used to wear a tie and shoes that could hold a shine. Now I wear jogger scrubs and sneakers. Rather than be offended by the lack of formality though, patients seem to appreciate it. Should they?

At first glance this seems to be a modern phenomenon. The reasons for casual wear today are manifold: about one-third of people work from home, Millennials are taking over with their TikTok values and general irreverence, COVID made us all fat and lazy. Heck, even the U.S. Senate briefly abolished the requirement to wear suits on the Senate floor. But getting dressed up was never to signal that you are elite or superior to others. It’s the opposite. To get dressed is a signal that you are serving others, a tradition that is as old as society.

Think of Downton Abbey as an example. The servants were always required to be smartly dressed when working, whereas members of the family could be dressed up or not. It’s clear who is serving whom. This tradition lives today in the hospitality industry. When you mosey into the lobby of a luxury hotel in your Rainbow sandals you can expect everyone who greets you will be in finery, signaling that they put in effort to serve you. You’ll find the same for all staff at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., which is no coincidence.

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Suits used to be standard in medicine. In the 19th century, physicians wore formal black-tie when seeing patients. Unlike hospitality however, we had good reason to eschew the tradition: germs. Once we figured out that our pus-stained ties and jackets were doing harm, we switched to wearing sanitized uniforms. Casual wear for doctors isn’t a modern phenomenon after all, then. For proof, compare Thomas Eakins painting “The Gross Clinic” (1875) with his later “The Agnew Clinic” (1889). In the former, Dr. Gross is portrayed in formal black wear, bloody hand and all. In the latter, Dr. Agnew is wearing white FIGS (or the 1890’s equivalent anyway). Similarly, nurses uniforms traditionally resembled kitchen servants, with criss-cross aprons and floor length skirts. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that nurses stopped wearing dresses and white caps.

165543_Agnew_Clinic_web.jpg

In the operating theater it’s obviously critical that we wear sanitized scrubs to mitigate the risk of infection. Originally white to signal cleanliness, scrubs were changed to blue-green because surgeons were blinded by the lights bouncing off the uniforms. (Green is also opposite red on the color wheel, supposedly enhancing the ability to distinguish shades of red).

But in outpatient medicine, the effect size for preventing infection by not wearing a tie or jacket is less obvious. In addition to protecting patients, it seems that wearing scrubs and donning On Cloud sneakers might also be a bit of push-back from us. Over time we’ve lost significant autonomy in our practice and lost a little respect from our patients. Payers tell us what to do. Patients question our expertise. Choosing what we wear is one of the few bits of medicine we still have agency. Pewter or pink, joggers or cargo pants, we get to choose.

The last time I flew British Airways everyone was in lounge wear, except the flight crew, of course. They were all smartly dressed. Recently British Airways rolled out updated, slightly more relaxed dress codes. Very modern, but I wonder if in a way we’re not all just a bit worse off.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

I’m not the smartest dermatologist in our department. We’re fortunate to have a few super-smarties, you know, the ones who can still recite all the genes in Jean Bolognia’s dermatology textbook and have “Dermpath Bowl Champion” plaques covering their walls. Yet as our chief, I often get requests for a second or third opinion, hoping somehow I’ll discover a diagnosis that others missed. Sometimes they are real diagnostic dilemmas. Oftentimes they’re just itchy.

Recently an itchy 73-year-old woman came to see me. She had seen several competent dermatologists, had comprehensive workups, and had reasonable, even aggressive, attempts at treating. Not much interesting in her history. Nothing on exam. Cancer workup was negative as was pretty much any autoimmune or allergic cause. Biopsy? Maybe a touch of “dermal hypersensitivity.” She was still upset at being told previously she might have scabies. “Scabies!” she said indignantly. “How could I have scabies? No one has touched this body in nearly 4 years!” That’s interesting, I thought.

The electronic medical record holds a lot of useful information. We spend hours combing through histories, labs, pathology, scans, drugs to search for clues that might help with diagnoses. One tab we hardly visit is demographics. Why should that matter, of course? Age, phone number, and address are typically not contributory. But for this woman there was a bit of data that mattered; I checked right after her remark. Marital status: Widowed. She couldn’t have had scabies because no one touches her. Anymore. As our comprehensive workup did not find a cause nor did treatments mitigate her symptoms, I wondered if loneliness might be a contributing factor. I asked if anyone else was itching, any family, any friends? “No, I live alone. I don’t have anyone.”

Loneliness is a huge health risk. Lacking personal connection has psychological and physical consequences, increasing the risk for depression, cardiovascular disease, and dementia for example. According to the U.S. Surgeon General, it increases the risk for premature death comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet, we rarely (ever?) ask people if they’re lonely. In part because we don’t have good treatments. Remedies for loneliness are mostly societal – reaching out to the widowed, creating spaces that encourage connection, organizing events that bring people together. I cannot type any of these into the EMR orders. However, merely mentioning that a patient could be lonely can be therapeutic. They might not recognize its impact or that they have agency to make it better. They also might not see how their lives still have meaning, an important comorbidity of loneliness.

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Not long after her appointment was a 63-year-old man who complained of a burning scrotum. He worked as a knife sharpener, setting up a folding table at local groceries and farmers markets. COVID killed most of his gigs. Like the woman who didn’t have scabies, comprehensive workups turned up nothing. And seemingly nothing, including antibiotics, gabapentin, indomethacin, lidocaine, helped. At his last visit, we talked about his condition. We had also talked about the proper way to sharpen a knife. I came in prepared to offer something dramatic this visit, methotrexate, dupilumab? But before I could speak, he opened a recycled plastic grocery bag and dumped out knives of various sizes. Also a small ax. He then proceeded to show me how each knife has to be sharpened in its own way. Before leaving he handed me a well-worn Arkansas sharpening stone. “For you,” he said. I gave him no additional recommendations or treatments. He hasn’t been back to dermatology since.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I’m not the smartest dermatologist in our department. We’re fortunate to have a few super-smarties, you know, the ones who can still recite all the genes in Jean Bolognia’s dermatology textbook and have “Dermpath Bowl Champion” plaques covering their walls. Yet as our chief, I often get requests for a second or third opinion, hoping somehow I’ll discover a diagnosis that others missed. Sometimes they are real diagnostic dilemmas. Oftentimes they’re just itchy.

Recently an itchy 73-year-old woman came to see me. She had seen several competent dermatologists, had comprehensive workups, and had reasonable, even aggressive, attempts at treating. Not much interesting in her history. Nothing on exam. Cancer workup was negative as was pretty much any autoimmune or allergic cause. Biopsy? Maybe a touch of “dermal hypersensitivity.” She was still upset at being told previously she might have scabies. “Scabies!” she said indignantly. “How could I have scabies? No one has touched this body in nearly 4 years!” That’s interesting, I thought.

The electronic medical record holds a lot of useful information. We spend hours combing through histories, labs, pathology, scans, drugs to search for clues that might help with diagnoses. One tab we hardly visit is demographics. Why should that matter, of course? Age, phone number, and address are typically not contributory. But for this woman there was a bit of data that mattered; I checked right after her remark. Marital status: Widowed. She couldn’t have had scabies because no one touches her. Anymore. As our comprehensive workup did not find a cause nor did treatments mitigate her symptoms, I wondered if loneliness might be a contributing factor. I asked if anyone else was itching, any family, any friends? “No, I live alone. I don’t have anyone.”

Loneliness is a huge health risk. Lacking personal connection has psychological and physical consequences, increasing the risk for depression, cardiovascular disease, and dementia for example. According to the U.S. Surgeon General, it increases the risk for premature death comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet, we rarely (ever?) ask people if they’re lonely. In part because we don’t have good treatments. Remedies for loneliness are mostly societal – reaching out to the widowed, creating spaces that encourage connection, organizing events that bring people together. I cannot type any of these into the EMR orders. However, merely mentioning that a patient could be lonely can be therapeutic. They might not recognize its impact or that they have agency to make it better. They also might not see how their lives still have meaning, an important comorbidity of loneliness.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Not long after her appointment was a 63-year-old man who complained of a burning scrotum. He worked as a knife sharpener, setting up a folding table at local groceries and farmers markets. COVID killed most of his gigs. Like the woman who didn’t have scabies, comprehensive workups turned up nothing. And seemingly nothing, including antibiotics, gabapentin, indomethacin, lidocaine, helped. At his last visit, we talked about his condition. We had also talked about the proper way to sharpen a knife. I came in prepared to offer something dramatic this visit, methotrexate, dupilumab? But before I could speak, he opened a recycled plastic grocery bag and dumped out knives of various sizes. Also a small ax. He then proceeded to show me how each knife has to be sharpened in its own way. Before leaving he handed me a well-worn Arkansas sharpening stone. “For you,” he said. I gave him no additional recommendations or treatments. He hasn’t been back to dermatology since.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I’m not the smartest dermatologist in our department. We’re fortunate to have a few super-smarties, you know, the ones who can still recite all the genes in Jean Bolognia’s dermatology textbook and have “Dermpath Bowl Champion” plaques covering their walls. Yet as our chief, I often get requests for a second or third opinion, hoping somehow I’ll discover a diagnosis that others missed. Sometimes they are real diagnostic dilemmas. Oftentimes they’re just itchy.

Recently an itchy 73-year-old woman came to see me. She had seen several competent dermatologists, had comprehensive workups, and had reasonable, even aggressive, attempts at treating. Not much interesting in her history. Nothing on exam. Cancer workup was negative as was pretty much any autoimmune or allergic cause. Biopsy? Maybe a touch of “dermal hypersensitivity.” She was still upset at being told previously she might have scabies. “Scabies!” she said indignantly. “How could I have scabies? No one has touched this body in nearly 4 years!” That’s interesting, I thought.

The electronic medical record holds a lot of useful information. We spend hours combing through histories, labs, pathology, scans, drugs to search for clues that might help with diagnoses. One tab we hardly visit is demographics. Why should that matter, of course? Age, phone number, and address are typically not contributory. But for this woman there was a bit of data that mattered; I checked right after her remark. Marital status: Widowed. She couldn’t have had scabies because no one touches her. Anymore. As our comprehensive workup did not find a cause nor did treatments mitigate her symptoms, I wondered if loneliness might be a contributing factor. I asked if anyone else was itching, any family, any friends? “No, I live alone. I don’t have anyone.”

Loneliness is a huge health risk. Lacking personal connection has psychological and physical consequences, increasing the risk for depression, cardiovascular disease, and dementia for example. According to the U.S. Surgeon General, it increases the risk for premature death comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet, we rarely (ever?) ask people if they’re lonely. In part because we don’t have good treatments. Remedies for loneliness are mostly societal – reaching out to the widowed, creating spaces that encourage connection, organizing events that bring people together. I cannot type any of these into the EMR orders. However, merely mentioning that a patient could be lonely can be therapeutic. They might not recognize its impact or that they have agency to make it better. They also might not see how their lives still have meaning, an important comorbidity of loneliness.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Not long after her appointment was a 63-year-old man who complained of a burning scrotum. He worked as a knife sharpener, setting up a folding table at local groceries and farmers markets. COVID killed most of his gigs. Like the woman who didn’t have scabies, comprehensive workups turned up nothing. And seemingly nothing, including antibiotics, gabapentin, indomethacin, lidocaine, helped. At his last visit, we talked about his condition. We had also talked about the proper way to sharpen a knife. I came in prepared to offer something dramatic this visit, methotrexate, dupilumab? But before I could speak, he opened a recycled plastic grocery bag and dumped out knives of various sizes. Also a small ax. He then proceeded to show me how each knife has to be sharpened in its own way. Before leaving he handed me a well-worn Arkansas sharpening stone. “For you,” he said. I gave him no additional recommendations or treatments. He hasn’t been back to dermatology since.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.