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The envelope was a small one, with a handwritten address. Of course, there were other things in the mail to sort through: insurance payments, bills, correspondence. So I attended to those while I made coffee and started my computer.
After a few minutes I came back to the small envelope.
Inside was a card from a recently widowed lady, thanking me for my care of her husband and telling me I was very kind.
I’d only seem him once, about a year ago, and then had a follow-up phone call to go over the results.
In medicine you develop, as I’ve previously written, “Spidey Sense.” Things alert you that something bad is going on, even when you can’t quite put your finger on it yet. His story set off several of my alarms, and I sent him off for tests.
A few days later the electromyography and nerve conduction velocity (EMG/NCV) specialist I’d referred him to called to confirm the gentleman had ALS. He’d given him the diagnosis and started him on riluzole.
I called the patient and his wife that night to discuss things in more detail. My colleague, since neuromuscular disease is his field, had already started the process (this isn’t patient poaching, he and I have worked together long enough that he knows I’d rather he take over the case). I explained things further. They didn’t have any questions.
I didn’t hear from them again until the card came. On the flip side was a picture of them and their extended family. I have no idea how they vote, or what their religion is, or how much money they have. None of that matters.
They’re nice people, and a patient, who came to me for help. I was touched by her appreciation for the little I could do, and that she took time to express that to me.
None of us cures anyone in the long run. We can put off the inevitable, do our best to relieve suffering, and try to bring comfort — even when the last is all we can do.
Here in 2024, with all of our medications and computers and tests it’s hard to believe that we still come up short — very short – against so many diseases. Yet we do.
All of us can only do our best, even when the best we can do is to be kind.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Arizona.
The envelope was a small one, with a handwritten address. Of course, there were other things in the mail to sort through: insurance payments, bills, correspondence. So I attended to those while I made coffee and started my computer.
After a few minutes I came back to the small envelope.
Inside was a card from a recently widowed lady, thanking me for my care of her husband and telling me I was very kind.
I’d only seem him once, about a year ago, and then had a follow-up phone call to go over the results.
In medicine you develop, as I’ve previously written, “Spidey Sense.” Things alert you that something bad is going on, even when you can’t quite put your finger on it yet. His story set off several of my alarms, and I sent him off for tests.
A few days later the electromyography and nerve conduction velocity (EMG/NCV) specialist I’d referred him to called to confirm the gentleman had ALS. He’d given him the diagnosis and started him on riluzole.
I called the patient and his wife that night to discuss things in more detail. My colleague, since neuromuscular disease is his field, had already started the process (this isn’t patient poaching, he and I have worked together long enough that he knows I’d rather he take over the case). I explained things further. They didn’t have any questions.
I didn’t hear from them again until the card came. On the flip side was a picture of them and their extended family. I have no idea how they vote, or what their religion is, or how much money they have. None of that matters.
They’re nice people, and a patient, who came to me for help. I was touched by her appreciation for the little I could do, and that she took time to express that to me.
None of us cures anyone in the long run. We can put off the inevitable, do our best to relieve suffering, and try to bring comfort — even when the last is all we can do.
Here in 2024, with all of our medications and computers and tests it’s hard to believe that we still come up short — very short – against so many diseases. Yet we do.
All of us can only do our best, even when the best we can do is to be kind.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Arizona.
The envelope was a small one, with a handwritten address. Of course, there were other things in the mail to sort through: insurance payments, bills, correspondence. So I attended to those while I made coffee and started my computer.
After a few minutes I came back to the small envelope.
Inside was a card from a recently widowed lady, thanking me for my care of her husband and telling me I was very kind.
I’d only seem him once, about a year ago, and then had a follow-up phone call to go over the results.
In medicine you develop, as I’ve previously written, “Spidey Sense.” Things alert you that something bad is going on, even when you can’t quite put your finger on it yet. His story set off several of my alarms, and I sent him off for tests.
A few days later the electromyography and nerve conduction velocity (EMG/NCV) specialist I’d referred him to called to confirm the gentleman had ALS. He’d given him the diagnosis and started him on riluzole.
I called the patient and his wife that night to discuss things in more detail. My colleague, since neuromuscular disease is his field, had already started the process (this isn’t patient poaching, he and I have worked together long enough that he knows I’d rather he take over the case). I explained things further. They didn’t have any questions.
I didn’t hear from them again until the card came. On the flip side was a picture of them and their extended family. I have no idea how they vote, or what their religion is, or how much money they have. None of that matters.
They’re nice people, and a patient, who came to me for help. I was touched by her appreciation for the little I could do, and that she took time to express that to me.
None of us cures anyone in the long run. We can put off the inevitable, do our best to relieve suffering, and try to bring comfort — even when the last is all we can do.
Here in 2024, with all of our medications and computers and tests it’s hard to believe that we still come up short — very short – against so many diseases. Yet we do.
All of us can only do our best, even when the best we can do is to be kind.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Arizona.
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This material may not be published, broadcast, copied, or otherwise reproduced or distributed without the prior written permission of Frontline Medical Communications Inc.</copyrightNotice> </rightsInfo> </provider> <abstract/> <metaDescription>Sometimes a cure is not possible, and the best we can do is put off the inevitable, do our best to relieve suffering, and try to bring comfort.</metaDescription> <articlePDF/> <teaserImage>170246</teaserImage> <teaser> <span class="tag metaDescription">Sometimes a cure is not possible, and the best we can do is put off the inevitable, do our best to relieve suffering, and try to bring comfort.</span> </teaser> <title>Beyond the Prescription Pad</title> <deck/> <disclaimer/> <AuthorList/> <articleURL/> <doi/> <pubMedID/> <publishXMLStatus/> <publishXMLVersion>1</publishXMLVersion> <useEISSN>0</useEISSN> <urgency/> <pubPubdateYear>2024</pubPubdateYear> <pubPubdateMonth/> <pubPubdateDay/> <pubVolume/> <pubNumber/> <wireChannels/> <primaryCMSID/> <CMSIDs/> <keywords/> <seeAlsos/> <publications_g> <publicationData> <publicationCode>nr</publicationCode> <pubIssueName>January 2021</pubIssueName> <pubArticleType/> <pubTopics/> <pubCategories/> <pubSections/> <journalTitle>Neurology Reviews</journalTitle> <journalFullTitle>Neurology Reviews</journalFullTitle> <copyrightStatement>2018 Frontline Medical Communications Inc.,</copyrightStatement> </publicationData> </publications_g> <publications> <term canonical="true">22</term> </publications> <sections> <term>39313</term> <term canonical="true">78</term> <term>41022</term> </sections> <topics> <term canonical="true">38029</term> </topics> <links> <link> <itemClass qcode="ninat:picture"/> <altRep contenttype="image/jpeg">images/24005f83.jpg</altRep> <description role="drol:caption">Dr. Allan M. Block</description> <description role="drol:credit"/> </link> </links> </header> <itemSet> <newsItem> <itemMeta> <itemRole>Main</itemRole> <itemClass>text</itemClass> <title>Beyond the Prescription Pad</title> <deck/> </itemMeta> <itemContent> <p>The envelope was a small one, with a handwritten address. Of course, there were other things in the mail to sort through: insurance payments, bills, correspondence. So I attended to those while I made coffee and started my computer.<br/><br/>After a few minutes I came back to the small envelope.<br/><br/>Inside was a card from a recently widowed lady, thanking me for my care of her husband and telling me I was very kind.<br/><br/>I’d only seem him once, about a year ago, and then had a follow-up phone call to go over the results.<br/><br/>[[{"fid":"170246","view_mode":"medstat_image_flush_left","fields":{"format":"medstat_image_flush_left","field_file_image_alt_text[und][0][value]":"Dr. Allan M. Block, a neurologist in Scottsdale, Arizona.","field_file_image_credit[und][0][value]":"","field_file_image_caption[und][0][value]":"Dr. Allan M. Block"},"type":"media","attributes":{"class":"media-element file-medstat_image_flush_left"}}]]In medicine you develop, as I’ve previously written, “Spidey Sense.” Things alert you that something bad is going on, even when you can’t quite put your finger on it yet. His story set off several of my alarms, and I sent him off for tests.<br/><br/>A few days later the electromyography and nerve conduction velocity (EMG/NCV) specialist I’d referred him to called to confirm the gentleman had ALS. He’d given him the diagnosis and started him on riluzole.<br/><br/>I called the patient and his wife that night to discuss things in more detail. My colleague, since neuromuscular disease is his field, had already started the process (this isn’t patient poaching, he and I have worked together long enough that he knows I’d rather he take over the case). I explained things further. They didn’t have any questions.<br/><br/>I didn’t hear from them again until the card came. On the flip side was a picture of them and their extended family. I have no idea how they vote, or what their religion is, or how much money they have. None of that matters.<br/><br/>They’re nice people, and a patient, who came to me for help. I was touched by her appreciation for the little I could do, and that she took time to express that to me.<br/><br/>None of us cures anyone in the long run. We can put off the inevitable, do our best to relieve suffering, and try to bring comfort — even when the last is all we can do.<br/><br/>Here in 2024, with all of our medications and computers and tests it’s hard to believe that we still come up short — very short – against so many diseases. Yet we do.<br/><br/>All of us can only do our best, even when the best we can do is to be kind.<br/><br/></p> <p> <em>Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Arizona.</em> </p> </itemContent> </newsItem> <newsItem> <itemMeta> <itemRole>teaser</itemRole> <itemClass>text</itemClass> <title/> <deck/> </itemMeta> <itemContent> </itemContent> </newsItem> </itemSet></root>
