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Got a short attention span?
Have you every wondered whether you have an attention deficit disorder? I have and I suspect that there are plenty of folks who share my curiosity. Realistically I’m pretty sure I don’t have ADD because while I enjoy being physically active my folks never described me as “bouncing off the walls.” Although I think I am very aware of my surroundings and observant, I wouldn’t say I am unusually distractible. I can multitask reasonably well and have been reasonably successful academically and professionally. But the one characteristic I do share with most ADD patients is a short attention span.
Short, of course, is a relative term. Any academic class longer than 45 minutes pushes me past my limit. The same goes for movies and television documentaries. Reading always has been a challenge for me, and 20 minutes is about as long as I can sit with a book or magazine article – even if it’s about a topic that interests me.
Even when I am painting or wood carving, I need to put down my brushes and knives after 20 minutes and do something else. I am a one-set tennis player and about a seven-hole golfer. I have the physical stamina to go much longer, but by the second set or the 10th hole I would prefer to be moving on to some other activity.
In college, I quickly learned that all-nighters were counterproductive. My usual study pattern evolved into one in which I would spend about 20 minutes on one course, take a trip to the refrigerator and return to studying on another course for 20 minutes, then take a break outside to shoot some hoops and return to work for 20 minutes on a third course. This pattern of relatively short bouts of work punctuated by brief snack or exercise breaks seemed to be my most efficient, productive, and mental health–sparing strategy.
Just last week, I learned that there is a name associated with my system. It’s called the Pomodoro technique and was “invented” by a student in an Italian business school in the 1980s (“This Time-Management Trick Changed My Whole Relationship With Time,”By Dean Kissick, The New York Times, June 23, 2020). At its core is a rigid pattern of 25 minutes of work punctuated by 5-minute breaks. The name comes from the tomato-shaped kitchen timer the inventor used to keep himself on a schedule that kept him at optimal efficiency. Of course I have never needed a timer to prompt me to move to another task. My short attention span always has taken care of that.
It turns out that by stumbling into a career in outpatient general pediatrics I found a perfect fit for my truncated attention span. Visits seldom lasted more than 15 minutes followed by a quick sprint to the next room and a fresh and stimulating set of faces and complaints. You may think I should have been spending a minimum of 20 or 25 minutes, but visits of that length seldom fit the realities of my usual day.
There is a myth floating around that there is always a direct correlation between the length of an office visit and its quality. The patient’s perception of quality is most important, and it is based on multiple factors – not the least of which is the level of engagement the physician exhibits. The problem comes when – for whatever reason – closure can’t be achieved in even a 35- or 40-minute visit. Here is when the provider must fall back on her/his clinical artistry by first acknowledging that neither patient nor provider is content with the current situation, but that a follow-up call that evening or an office visit in a day or two will continue the process.
Of course, there were always days when I wish had more time to devote to certain office visits. But for the most part, the hectic pace of outpatient pediatrics fit with my need for a rapidly changing stream of fresh challenges to keep my attention.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Have you every wondered whether you have an attention deficit disorder? I have and I suspect that there are plenty of folks who share my curiosity. Realistically I’m pretty sure I don’t have ADD because while I enjoy being physically active my folks never described me as “bouncing off the walls.” Although I think I am very aware of my surroundings and observant, I wouldn’t say I am unusually distractible. I can multitask reasonably well and have been reasonably successful academically and professionally. But the one characteristic I do share with most ADD patients is a short attention span.
Short, of course, is a relative term. Any academic class longer than 45 minutes pushes me past my limit. The same goes for movies and television documentaries. Reading always has been a challenge for me, and 20 minutes is about as long as I can sit with a book or magazine article – even if it’s about a topic that interests me.
Even when I am painting or wood carving, I need to put down my brushes and knives after 20 minutes and do something else. I am a one-set tennis player and about a seven-hole golfer. I have the physical stamina to go much longer, but by the second set or the 10th hole I would prefer to be moving on to some other activity.
In college, I quickly learned that all-nighters were counterproductive. My usual study pattern evolved into one in which I would spend about 20 minutes on one course, take a trip to the refrigerator and return to studying on another course for 20 minutes, then take a break outside to shoot some hoops and return to work for 20 minutes on a third course. This pattern of relatively short bouts of work punctuated by brief snack or exercise breaks seemed to be my most efficient, productive, and mental health–sparing strategy.
Just last week, I learned that there is a name associated with my system. It’s called the Pomodoro technique and was “invented” by a student in an Italian business school in the 1980s (“This Time-Management Trick Changed My Whole Relationship With Time,”By Dean Kissick, The New York Times, June 23, 2020). At its core is a rigid pattern of 25 minutes of work punctuated by 5-minute breaks. The name comes from the tomato-shaped kitchen timer the inventor used to keep himself on a schedule that kept him at optimal efficiency. Of course I have never needed a timer to prompt me to move to another task. My short attention span always has taken care of that.
It turns out that by stumbling into a career in outpatient general pediatrics I found a perfect fit for my truncated attention span. Visits seldom lasted more than 15 minutes followed by a quick sprint to the next room and a fresh and stimulating set of faces and complaints. You may think I should have been spending a minimum of 20 or 25 minutes, but visits of that length seldom fit the realities of my usual day.
There is a myth floating around that there is always a direct correlation between the length of an office visit and its quality. The patient’s perception of quality is most important, and it is based on multiple factors – not the least of which is the level of engagement the physician exhibits. The problem comes when – for whatever reason – closure can’t be achieved in even a 35- or 40-minute visit. Here is when the provider must fall back on her/his clinical artistry by first acknowledging that neither patient nor provider is content with the current situation, but that a follow-up call that evening or an office visit in a day or two will continue the process.
Of course, there were always days when I wish had more time to devote to certain office visits. But for the most part, the hectic pace of outpatient pediatrics fit with my need for a rapidly changing stream of fresh challenges to keep my attention.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Have you every wondered whether you have an attention deficit disorder? I have and I suspect that there are plenty of folks who share my curiosity. Realistically I’m pretty sure I don’t have ADD because while I enjoy being physically active my folks never described me as “bouncing off the walls.” Although I think I am very aware of my surroundings and observant, I wouldn’t say I am unusually distractible. I can multitask reasonably well and have been reasonably successful academically and professionally. But the one characteristic I do share with most ADD patients is a short attention span.
Short, of course, is a relative term. Any academic class longer than 45 minutes pushes me past my limit. The same goes for movies and television documentaries. Reading always has been a challenge for me, and 20 minutes is about as long as I can sit with a book or magazine article – even if it’s about a topic that interests me.
Even when I am painting or wood carving, I need to put down my brushes and knives after 20 minutes and do something else. I am a one-set tennis player and about a seven-hole golfer. I have the physical stamina to go much longer, but by the second set or the 10th hole I would prefer to be moving on to some other activity.
In college, I quickly learned that all-nighters were counterproductive. My usual study pattern evolved into one in which I would spend about 20 minutes on one course, take a trip to the refrigerator and return to studying on another course for 20 minutes, then take a break outside to shoot some hoops and return to work for 20 minutes on a third course. This pattern of relatively short bouts of work punctuated by brief snack or exercise breaks seemed to be my most efficient, productive, and mental health–sparing strategy.
Just last week, I learned that there is a name associated with my system. It’s called the Pomodoro technique and was “invented” by a student in an Italian business school in the 1980s (“This Time-Management Trick Changed My Whole Relationship With Time,”By Dean Kissick, The New York Times, June 23, 2020). At its core is a rigid pattern of 25 minutes of work punctuated by 5-minute breaks. The name comes from the tomato-shaped kitchen timer the inventor used to keep himself on a schedule that kept him at optimal efficiency. Of course I have never needed a timer to prompt me to move to another task. My short attention span always has taken care of that.
It turns out that by stumbling into a career in outpatient general pediatrics I found a perfect fit for my truncated attention span. Visits seldom lasted more than 15 minutes followed by a quick sprint to the next room and a fresh and stimulating set of faces and complaints. You may think I should have been spending a minimum of 20 or 25 minutes, but visits of that length seldom fit the realities of my usual day.
There is a myth floating around that there is always a direct correlation between the length of an office visit and its quality. The patient’s perception of quality is most important, and it is based on multiple factors – not the least of which is the level of engagement the physician exhibits. The problem comes when – for whatever reason – closure can’t be achieved in even a 35- or 40-minute visit. Here is when the provider must fall back on her/his clinical artistry by first acknowledging that neither patient nor provider is content with the current situation, but that a follow-up call that evening or an office visit in a day or two will continue the process.
Of course, there were always days when I wish had more time to devote to certain office visits. But for the most part, the hectic pace of outpatient pediatrics fit with my need for a rapidly changing stream of fresh challenges to keep my attention.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Behind the mask
Bicycling has always been part of who I am because it offered me the freedom to explore as a preteen. As an adult I have always been a bicycle commuter and a very visible part of the community as I pedal around town to do my errands. But, I didn’t always wear a helmet ... because well, I just didn’t. I saw the helmet as a nuisance with very little benefit to myself. Eventually, when bike races required helmets I bought one just for the competitions. Until one day about 30 years ago when the mother of a child I was seeing in the office said, “Dr. Wilkoff, you know as an influential member of this community, particularly its children, you should be wearing a helmet.” My wife had been badgering me for years but this woman’s courage to speak up embarrassed me into changing my ways.
For some, maybe many, people, wearing a mask during the COVID-19 pandemic is a nuisance and an assault on their independence just as I viewed a bicycle helmet. Initially there was some information being circulated that any mask less robust than a N-95 had very little if any effect, either as protection or as way to decrease spread. I certainly had my doubts about the value of mask other than as a statement of solidarity. However, we are now learning that masks can serve an important role along with social distancing in a comprehensive community effort to minimize contagion.
In light of this new information, why are there are still people who won’t wear a mask? It may be that they are receiving their news filtered through a lens that discredits science. But, it is more likely the result of the same mindset that permeates the anti-vaccine faction that the common good is less important than personal freedom to follow their beliefs.
Do we have any tools at our disposal to increase the number of folks wearing masks? Based on our experience with attempts to convince those who are anti-vaccine, education will be ineffective in shifting the focus from personal freedom to a commitment to the welfare of the community at large. Shaming might be effective, but it runs the risk of igniting conflicts and further widening the gaps in our society. Some establishments have been effective in simply saying “no mask, no entry,” but this runs the same risk of creating friction depending on the community and the situation.
The ship may have already sailed on our best opportunity to achieve community compliance when the leaders of our national government have chosen to ignore their obligation to set an example by refusing to wear masks. I fear that the wedge has already been set and the widening of the gap between those who see their responsibility to the community at large and those who do not will continue to grow.
I am fortunate to live in a town whose residents look out for each other and have relied on local leaders to set an example in the absence of leadership on a national level.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Bicycling has always been part of who I am because it offered me the freedom to explore as a preteen. As an adult I have always been a bicycle commuter and a very visible part of the community as I pedal around town to do my errands. But, I didn’t always wear a helmet ... because well, I just didn’t. I saw the helmet as a nuisance with very little benefit to myself. Eventually, when bike races required helmets I bought one just for the competitions. Until one day about 30 years ago when the mother of a child I was seeing in the office said, “Dr. Wilkoff, you know as an influential member of this community, particularly its children, you should be wearing a helmet.” My wife had been badgering me for years but this woman’s courage to speak up embarrassed me into changing my ways.
For some, maybe many, people, wearing a mask during the COVID-19 pandemic is a nuisance and an assault on their independence just as I viewed a bicycle helmet. Initially there was some information being circulated that any mask less robust than a N-95 had very little if any effect, either as protection or as way to decrease spread. I certainly had my doubts about the value of mask other than as a statement of solidarity. However, we are now learning that masks can serve an important role along with social distancing in a comprehensive community effort to minimize contagion.
In light of this new information, why are there are still people who won’t wear a mask? It may be that they are receiving their news filtered through a lens that discredits science. But, it is more likely the result of the same mindset that permeates the anti-vaccine faction that the common good is less important than personal freedom to follow their beliefs.
Do we have any tools at our disposal to increase the number of folks wearing masks? Based on our experience with attempts to convince those who are anti-vaccine, education will be ineffective in shifting the focus from personal freedom to a commitment to the welfare of the community at large. Shaming might be effective, but it runs the risk of igniting conflicts and further widening the gaps in our society. Some establishments have been effective in simply saying “no mask, no entry,” but this runs the same risk of creating friction depending on the community and the situation.
The ship may have already sailed on our best opportunity to achieve community compliance when the leaders of our national government have chosen to ignore their obligation to set an example by refusing to wear masks. I fear that the wedge has already been set and the widening of the gap between those who see their responsibility to the community at large and those who do not will continue to grow.
I am fortunate to live in a town whose residents look out for each other and have relied on local leaders to set an example in the absence of leadership on a national level.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Bicycling has always been part of who I am because it offered me the freedom to explore as a preteen. As an adult I have always been a bicycle commuter and a very visible part of the community as I pedal around town to do my errands. But, I didn’t always wear a helmet ... because well, I just didn’t. I saw the helmet as a nuisance with very little benefit to myself. Eventually, when bike races required helmets I bought one just for the competitions. Until one day about 30 years ago when the mother of a child I was seeing in the office said, “Dr. Wilkoff, you know as an influential member of this community, particularly its children, you should be wearing a helmet.” My wife had been badgering me for years but this woman’s courage to speak up embarrassed me into changing my ways.
For some, maybe many, people, wearing a mask during the COVID-19 pandemic is a nuisance and an assault on their independence just as I viewed a bicycle helmet. Initially there was some information being circulated that any mask less robust than a N-95 had very little if any effect, either as protection or as way to decrease spread. I certainly had my doubts about the value of mask other than as a statement of solidarity. However, we are now learning that masks can serve an important role along with social distancing in a comprehensive community effort to minimize contagion.
In light of this new information, why are there are still people who won’t wear a mask? It may be that they are receiving their news filtered through a lens that discredits science. But, it is more likely the result of the same mindset that permeates the anti-vaccine faction that the common good is less important than personal freedom to follow their beliefs.
Do we have any tools at our disposal to increase the number of folks wearing masks? Based on our experience with attempts to convince those who are anti-vaccine, education will be ineffective in shifting the focus from personal freedom to a commitment to the welfare of the community at large. Shaming might be effective, but it runs the risk of igniting conflicts and further widening the gaps in our society. Some establishments have been effective in simply saying “no mask, no entry,” but this runs the same risk of creating friction depending on the community and the situation.
The ship may have already sailed on our best opportunity to achieve community compliance when the leaders of our national government have chosen to ignore their obligation to set an example by refusing to wear masks. I fear that the wedge has already been set and the widening of the gap between those who see their responsibility to the community at large and those who do not will continue to grow.
I am fortunate to live in a town whose residents look out for each other and have relied on local leaders to set an example in the absence of leadership on a national level.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
School daze
A few weeks ago I was asked by the head of our local parks and recreation department for my opinion on whether the town should open its summer recreation camps program. He had been receiving multiple inquiries from parents who in the past had relied on the day camps for day care. The director already had surveyed health care administrators and other providers in the town and his team had crafted a plan based on what guidelines they could glean from state and federal advisory groups. The feedback he had received from town officials and health care representatives was that they felt opening would be a bad decision. One physician observed that there is just “so much we don’t know about the virus at this point.”
I certainly agreed that we still have much to learn about COVID-19, but I told the director that we know enough that I would feel comfortable with opening the day camps, which have traditionally been held outdoors under open-sided tents. If group sizes were kept small, staff personnel were dedicated to just one group, and temperatures were taken at the beginning and at the midpoint of each daily session, I felt that the risk of triggering an outbreak was small. I told him that in my mind the Achilles heel of the plan was whether the camp staff, who are generally high school and college-age young people, could be trusted to follow rigorous social distancing in their off-work hours.
Eventually the decision was made by the traditionally risk-averse town officials to open the camps. I hope that this step forward will spur the process of reopening the schools in the fall by demonstrating that, at least in an open-air environment, some simple common sense measures could create a safe environment for children to congregate in. Unfortunately, the long delay in formulating the plan and a basic hesitancy on the part of some parents has resulted in disappointing enrollment figures so far.
I suspect that many of you have been asked to participate in the planning and decision-making processes for opening the school systems in your community or at least have some thoughts of your own about how best to begin the reopening process.
I suspect you agree that, if the number of new cases detected each day in your state is still rising and/or your state’s ability to test, track, case find, and quarantine is inadequate, reopening schools is probably just asking for trouble. However, a recent study has found that children and young adults under the age of 20 years were almost half as likely to become infected as those over the age of 20 (Nat Med. 2020 Jun 16. doi: 10.1038/s41591-020-0962-9). We already know that, in general, children are presenting with less severe illness. Although the authors observe that we still need to learn more about the transmissibility of subclinical infections, particularly in children, they suggest that “interventions aimed at children might have relatively little impact on reducing SARS-CoV-2 transmission.” It is sounding like reopening schools will place the children at relatively low risk. However, until we know more about transmissibility we have to assume reopening schools may place the community at an increased risk.
If this new information is confirmed by other studies, how would this change the recommendations you would make to the community about reopening its schools? What about masks? We are learning that they make a difference for adults, but is this true for very young children as well? Masks should probably remain part of the hygiene education program as well for at least the foreseeable future.
Do you think your school system can broaden its focus beyond surface cleaning to air handling and ventilation? Here in Maine, keeping the windows open for more than a few weeks a year is going to present problems that may be expensive to remedy.
There are always more questions than answers, but my hope is that here in Maine our apparent success on a state level will allow us to reopen the schools as long as we remain vigilant for the first signs that we need to return to lock down. How do you feel about your community’s situation?
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
A few weeks ago I was asked by the head of our local parks and recreation department for my opinion on whether the town should open its summer recreation camps program. He had been receiving multiple inquiries from parents who in the past had relied on the day camps for day care. The director already had surveyed health care administrators and other providers in the town and his team had crafted a plan based on what guidelines they could glean from state and federal advisory groups. The feedback he had received from town officials and health care representatives was that they felt opening would be a bad decision. One physician observed that there is just “so much we don’t know about the virus at this point.”
I certainly agreed that we still have much to learn about COVID-19, but I told the director that we know enough that I would feel comfortable with opening the day camps, which have traditionally been held outdoors under open-sided tents. If group sizes were kept small, staff personnel were dedicated to just one group, and temperatures were taken at the beginning and at the midpoint of each daily session, I felt that the risk of triggering an outbreak was small. I told him that in my mind the Achilles heel of the plan was whether the camp staff, who are generally high school and college-age young people, could be trusted to follow rigorous social distancing in their off-work hours.
Eventually the decision was made by the traditionally risk-averse town officials to open the camps. I hope that this step forward will spur the process of reopening the schools in the fall by demonstrating that, at least in an open-air environment, some simple common sense measures could create a safe environment for children to congregate in. Unfortunately, the long delay in formulating the plan and a basic hesitancy on the part of some parents has resulted in disappointing enrollment figures so far.
I suspect that many of you have been asked to participate in the planning and decision-making processes for opening the school systems in your community or at least have some thoughts of your own about how best to begin the reopening process.
I suspect you agree that, if the number of new cases detected each day in your state is still rising and/or your state’s ability to test, track, case find, and quarantine is inadequate, reopening schools is probably just asking for trouble. However, a recent study has found that children and young adults under the age of 20 years were almost half as likely to become infected as those over the age of 20 (Nat Med. 2020 Jun 16. doi: 10.1038/s41591-020-0962-9). We already know that, in general, children are presenting with less severe illness. Although the authors observe that we still need to learn more about the transmissibility of subclinical infections, particularly in children, they suggest that “interventions aimed at children might have relatively little impact on reducing SARS-CoV-2 transmission.” It is sounding like reopening schools will place the children at relatively low risk. However, until we know more about transmissibility we have to assume reopening schools may place the community at an increased risk.
If this new information is confirmed by other studies, how would this change the recommendations you would make to the community about reopening its schools? What about masks? We are learning that they make a difference for adults, but is this true for very young children as well? Masks should probably remain part of the hygiene education program as well for at least the foreseeable future.
Do you think your school system can broaden its focus beyond surface cleaning to air handling and ventilation? Here in Maine, keeping the windows open for more than a few weeks a year is going to present problems that may be expensive to remedy.
There are always more questions than answers, but my hope is that here in Maine our apparent success on a state level will allow us to reopen the schools as long as we remain vigilant for the first signs that we need to return to lock down. How do you feel about your community’s situation?
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
A few weeks ago I was asked by the head of our local parks and recreation department for my opinion on whether the town should open its summer recreation camps program. He had been receiving multiple inquiries from parents who in the past had relied on the day camps for day care. The director already had surveyed health care administrators and other providers in the town and his team had crafted a plan based on what guidelines they could glean from state and federal advisory groups. The feedback he had received from town officials and health care representatives was that they felt opening would be a bad decision. One physician observed that there is just “so much we don’t know about the virus at this point.”
I certainly agreed that we still have much to learn about COVID-19, but I told the director that we know enough that I would feel comfortable with opening the day camps, which have traditionally been held outdoors under open-sided tents. If group sizes were kept small, staff personnel were dedicated to just one group, and temperatures were taken at the beginning and at the midpoint of each daily session, I felt that the risk of triggering an outbreak was small. I told him that in my mind the Achilles heel of the plan was whether the camp staff, who are generally high school and college-age young people, could be trusted to follow rigorous social distancing in their off-work hours.
Eventually the decision was made by the traditionally risk-averse town officials to open the camps. I hope that this step forward will spur the process of reopening the schools in the fall by demonstrating that, at least in an open-air environment, some simple common sense measures could create a safe environment for children to congregate in. Unfortunately, the long delay in formulating the plan and a basic hesitancy on the part of some parents has resulted in disappointing enrollment figures so far.
I suspect that many of you have been asked to participate in the planning and decision-making processes for opening the school systems in your community or at least have some thoughts of your own about how best to begin the reopening process.
I suspect you agree that, if the number of new cases detected each day in your state is still rising and/or your state’s ability to test, track, case find, and quarantine is inadequate, reopening schools is probably just asking for trouble. However, a recent study has found that children and young adults under the age of 20 years were almost half as likely to become infected as those over the age of 20 (Nat Med. 2020 Jun 16. doi: 10.1038/s41591-020-0962-9). We already know that, in general, children are presenting with less severe illness. Although the authors observe that we still need to learn more about the transmissibility of subclinical infections, particularly in children, they suggest that “interventions aimed at children might have relatively little impact on reducing SARS-CoV-2 transmission.” It is sounding like reopening schools will place the children at relatively low risk. However, until we know more about transmissibility we have to assume reopening schools may place the community at an increased risk.
If this new information is confirmed by other studies, how would this change the recommendations you would make to the community about reopening its schools? What about masks? We are learning that they make a difference for adults, but is this true for very young children as well? Masks should probably remain part of the hygiene education program as well for at least the foreseeable future.
Do you think your school system can broaden its focus beyond surface cleaning to air handling and ventilation? Here in Maine, keeping the windows open for more than a few weeks a year is going to present problems that may be expensive to remedy.
There are always more questions than answers, but my hope is that here in Maine our apparent success on a state level will allow us to reopen the schools as long as we remain vigilant for the first signs that we need to return to lock down. How do you feel about your community’s situation?
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
The grocery store hug
I grew up in a family that was pretty much devoid of physical demonstrations of affection. I certainly felt that my folks loved me, but there was no hugging. I don’t recall ever seeing my parents kiss or touch each other. My dad would occasionally physically tease my mother. For example, I can remember one incident at the dinner table when he was playfully and gently laying a hand on my mother’s arm just as she was raising her fork to her mouth. After about three of these gentle holds, she lifted her water glass and tossed its contents in his face. This was the full extent of physicality in our family.
It wasn’t just my parents. I can’t remember aunts or uncles or cousins ever hugging us when we met. Grandmothers of course would request a hug. I never knew either of my grandfathers, but I suspect they would not have been the hugging kind.
I never felt I was missing out on anything, because in the generally WASPish atmosphere of the community in which I grew up I saw very few public displays of affection. But somewhere over time, hugging crept into the American repertoire of expression. This incursion may have been a ripple effect from the flower power, free love hippiedom of the ‘60s and ‘70s. Or it may have been a symptom of globalization as Americans became more familiar with other cultures in which physical expression was more common.
Whatever the reason for the more widespread adoption of hugging in our social vocabulary with my somewhat physically impoverished upbringing, it took me longer than most folks to comfortably include it in my greeting options. Although I may have come to the dance late, I have fully adopted hugging as a way to greet people with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance.
In fact, the ability to comfortably hug former coworkers, old friends I haven’t seen in years, and parents with whom I had shared a particularly troublesome child is what I miss most about the restrictions that have come with the COVID-19 pandemic. Now when I meet folks in the grocery store with whom I share a special affection that magnetic spark still leaps between our eyes, just visible over our face masks, but mentally and physically we take a step back and say to ourselves that this hug shouldn’t happen and it isn’t going to happen. And that makes me sad.
One of the great perks of practicing pediatrics in a small town and then remaining there in retirement is that nearly every week I encounter one or two people with whom I have a long and sometimes emotionally charged relationship. Nurses with whom I sweated over difficult delivery room resuscitations. Parents for whom their anxiety was getting in the way of their ability to parent. Parents and caregivers of complex multiply disabled children who are now adults. Peers who have lost a spouse or a child.
I can envision a day sometime in the relatively near future that I will be able to hug my two grandchildren whom I haven’t hugged even though they live a short 10-minute walk away. But I have trouble imagining when I will again be able to enjoy and be enriched by those special grocery store hugs that I have grown to savor.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
I grew up in a family that was pretty much devoid of physical demonstrations of affection. I certainly felt that my folks loved me, but there was no hugging. I don’t recall ever seeing my parents kiss or touch each other. My dad would occasionally physically tease my mother. For example, I can remember one incident at the dinner table when he was playfully and gently laying a hand on my mother’s arm just as she was raising her fork to her mouth. After about three of these gentle holds, she lifted her water glass and tossed its contents in his face. This was the full extent of physicality in our family.
It wasn’t just my parents. I can’t remember aunts or uncles or cousins ever hugging us when we met. Grandmothers of course would request a hug. I never knew either of my grandfathers, but I suspect they would not have been the hugging kind.
I never felt I was missing out on anything, because in the generally WASPish atmosphere of the community in which I grew up I saw very few public displays of affection. But somewhere over time, hugging crept into the American repertoire of expression. This incursion may have been a ripple effect from the flower power, free love hippiedom of the ‘60s and ‘70s. Or it may have been a symptom of globalization as Americans became more familiar with other cultures in which physical expression was more common.
Whatever the reason for the more widespread adoption of hugging in our social vocabulary with my somewhat physically impoverished upbringing, it took me longer than most folks to comfortably include it in my greeting options. Although I may have come to the dance late, I have fully adopted hugging as a way to greet people with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance.
In fact, the ability to comfortably hug former coworkers, old friends I haven’t seen in years, and parents with whom I had shared a particularly troublesome child is what I miss most about the restrictions that have come with the COVID-19 pandemic. Now when I meet folks in the grocery store with whom I share a special affection that magnetic spark still leaps between our eyes, just visible over our face masks, but mentally and physically we take a step back and say to ourselves that this hug shouldn’t happen and it isn’t going to happen. And that makes me sad.
One of the great perks of practicing pediatrics in a small town and then remaining there in retirement is that nearly every week I encounter one or two people with whom I have a long and sometimes emotionally charged relationship. Nurses with whom I sweated over difficult delivery room resuscitations. Parents for whom their anxiety was getting in the way of their ability to parent. Parents and caregivers of complex multiply disabled children who are now adults. Peers who have lost a spouse or a child.
I can envision a day sometime in the relatively near future that I will be able to hug my two grandchildren whom I haven’t hugged even though they live a short 10-minute walk away. But I have trouble imagining when I will again be able to enjoy and be enriched by those special grocery store hugs that I have grown to savor.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
I grew up in a family that was pretty much devoid of physical demonstrations of affection. I certainly felt that my folks loved me, but there was no hugging. I don’t recall ever seeing my parents kiss or touch each other. My dad would occasionally physically tease my mother. For example, I can remember one incident at the dinner table when he was playfully and gently laying a hand on my mother’s arm just as she was raising her fork to her mouth. After about three of these gentle holds, she lifted her water glass and tossed its contents in his face. This was the full extent of physicality in our family.
It wasn’t just my parents. I can’t remember aunts or uncles or cousins ever hugging us when we met. Grandmothers of course would request a hug. I never knew either of my grandfathers, but I suspect they would not have been the hugging kind.
I never felt I was missing out on anything, because in the generally WASPish atmosphere of the community in which I grew up I saw very few public displays of affection. But somewhere over time, hugging crept into the American repertoire of expression. This incursion may have been a ripple effect from the flower power, free love hippiedom of the ‘60s and ‘70s. Or it may have been a symptom of globalization as Americans became more familiar with other cultures in which physical expression was more common.
Whatever the reason for the more widespread adoption of hugging in our social vocabulary with my somewhat physically impoverished upbringing, it took me longer than most folks to comfortably include it in my greeting options. Although I may have come to the dance late, I have fully adopted hugging as a way to greet people with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance.
In fact, the ability to comfortably hug former coworkers, old friends I haven’t seen in years, and parents with whom I had shared a particularly troublesome child is what I miss most about the restrictions that have come with the COVID-19 pandemic. Now when I meet folks in the grocery store with whom I share a special affection that magnetic spark still leaps between our eyes, just visible over our face masks, but mentally and physically we take a step back and say to ourselves that this hug shouldn’t happen and it isn’t going to happen. And that makes me sad.
One of the great perks of practicing pediatrics in a small town and then remaining there in retirement is that nearly every week I encounter one or two people with whom I have a long and sometimes emotionally charged relationship. Nurses with whom I sweated over difficult delivery room resuscitations. Parents for whom their anxiety was getting in the way of their ability to parent. Parents and caregivers of complex multiply disabled children who are now adults. Peers who have lost a spouse or a child.
I can envision a day sometime in the relatively near future that I will be able to hug my two grandchildren whom I haven’t hugged even though they live a short 10-minute walk away. But I have trouble imagining when I will again be able to enjoy and be enriched by those special grocery store hugs that I have grown to savor.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
On being nonessential
I don’t need to tell you that the COVID-19 pandemic has leveled a major hit on outpatient pediatrics. Offices that once had waiting rooms overflowing with tantruming toddlers and anxious adolescents are empty. With income slowed to trickle, support staff has had to be furloughed. Student loans, mortgage loans, and car payments are stretching the budgets of even the most cautious spenders. In many parts of the country, it is an economic apocalypse for outpatient physicians who once saw their jobs as financially secure. Despite the persistent efforts of the American Academy of Pediatrics, pediatricians have been left off the list of recipients for financial support from the federal government.
The recent marketing initiative labeled “Call Your Pediatrician” sounds like an S.O.S. As I mentioned in a recent Letters from Maine column, I never envisioned a scenario in which I wouldn’t be busy and paying the bills if I continued to show up in the office at least 5 days a week. I guess I never thought of my work as a general pediatrician in terms of essentialness. The issue of being essential just wasn’t something anyone ever thought about. I guess if you had asked me, I would have admitted that, compared with some other health care providers, what I did was low on the essential scale. But I figured enough people thought what I provided was of sufficient value that they would pay to come see me.
If I step back and look at what of all the things I did as a pediatrician might be considered essential, it boils down to providing immunizations. If you remove my delivery room experience from the picture, there were very few instances when I might have saved a life. I hope that I calmed a lot of anxious parents and gave them some suggestions that made the job of parenting a bit easier. But while my efforts may have seemed valuable at the time, they certainly wouldn’t pass the straight-faced test of essentialness that is being applied during this pandemic. The young man or woman who stocks the toilet paper shelves at the grocery store and who accepts the risk of contagion working behind the cash register would certainly win more votes than I would garner.
So it is not surprising, given the scope of the pandemic and the anxiety compounded by what we don’t know about the virus, that office pediatrics has been left out in the cold when federal financial support is being handed out. I’m certainly not saying the oversight is warranted. It’s just not surprising. Outpatient pediatricians have always been there and it is unfortunately assumed that we will continue to be there when this whole thing blows over and we are needed again.
The failure to support pediatric offices is shortsighted because, even when we return to the new normal, pediatricians will again be valued. However, without financial support some offices will close and some support staff and physicians will leave the practice of pediatrics. It has been suggested that in the wake of the pandemic, the demand for mental health support for children may increase. The new normal may see our patient mix shift even further toward behavioral problems.
For whatever reason, COVID-19 appears to attack the older end of the age spectrum. It is very possible that the next pandemic targets children. If that happens, whether or not we are considered essential will not be one of our worries.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Updated on 6/10/2020
I don’t need to tell you that the COVID-19 pandemic has leveled a major hit on outpatient pediatrics. Offices that once had waiting rooms overflowing with tantruming toddlers and anxious adolescents are empty. With income slowed to trickle, support staff has had to be furloughed. Student loans, mortgage loans, and car payments are stretching the budgets of even the most cautious spenders. In many parts of the country, it is an economic apocalypse for outpatient physicians who once saw their jobs as financially secure. Despite the persistent efforts of the American Academy of Pediatrics, pediatricians have been left off the list of recipients for financial support from the federal government.
The recent marketing initiative labeled “Call Your Pediatrician” sounds like an S.O.S. As I mentioned in a recent Letters from Maine column, I never envisioned a scenario in which I wouldn’t be busy and paying the bills if I continued to show up in the office at least 5 days a week. I guess I never thought of my work as a general pediatrician in terms of essentialness. The issue of being essential just wasn’t something anyone ever thought about. I guess if you had asked me, I would have admitted that, compared with some other health care providers, what I did was low on the essential scale. But I figured enough people thought what I provided was of sufficient value that they would pay to come see me.
If I step back and look at what of all the things I did as a pediatrician might be considered essential, it boils down to providing immunizations. If you remove my delivery room experience from the picture, there were very few instances when I might have saved a life. I hope that I calmed a lot of anxious parents and gave them some suggestions that made the job of parenting a bit easier. But while my efforts may have seemed valuable at the time, they certainly wouldn’t pass the straight-faced test of essentialness that is being applied during this pandemic. The young man or woman who stocks the toilet paper shelves at the grocery store and who accepts the risk of contagion working behind the cash register would certainly win more votes than I would garner.
So it is not surprising, given the scope of the pandemic and the anxiety compounded by what we don’t know about the virus, that office pediatrics has been left out in the cold when federal financial support is being handed out. I’m certainly not saying the oversight is warranted. It’s just not surprising. Outpatient pediatricians have always been there and it is unfortunately assumed that we will continue to be there when this whole thing blows over and we are needed again.
The failure to support pediatric offices is shortsighted because, even when we return to the new normal, pediatricians will again be valued. However, without financial support some offices will close and some support staff and physicians will leave the practice of pediatrics. It has been suggested that in the wake of the pandemic, the demand for mental health support for children may increase. The new normal may see our patient mix shift even further toward behavioral problems.
For whatever reason, COVID-19 appears to attack the older end of the age spectrum. It is very possible that the next pandemic targets children. If that happens, whether or not we are considered essential will not be one of our worries.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Updated on 6/10/2020
I don’t need to tell you that the COVID-19 pandemic has leveled a major hit on outpatient pediatrics. Offices that once had waiting rooms overflowing with tantruming toddlers and anxious adolescents are empty. With income slowed to trickle, support staff has had to be furloughed. Student loans, mortgage loans, and car payments are stretching the budgets of even the most cautious spenders. In many parts of the country, it is an economic apocalypse for outpatient physicians who once saw their jobs as financially secure. Despite the persistent efforts of the American Academy of Pediatrics, pediatricians have been left off the list of recipients for financial support from the federal government.
The recent marketing initiative labeled “Call Your Pediatrician” sounds like an S.O.S. As I mentioned in a recent Letters from Maine column, I never envisioned a scenario in which I wouldn’t be busy and paying the bills if I continued to show up in the office at least 5 days a week. I guess I never thought of my work as a general pediatrician in terms of essentialness. The issue of being essential just wasn’t something anyone ever thought about. I guess if you had asked me, I would have admitted that, compared with some other health care providers, what I did was low on the essential scale. But I figured enough people thought what I provided was of sufficient value that they would pay to come see me.
If I step back and look at what of all the things I did as a pediatrician might be considered essential, it boils down to providing immunizations. If you remove my delivery room experience from the picture, there were very few instances when I might have saved a life. I hope that I calmed a lot of anxious parents and gave them some suggestions that made the job of parenting a bit easier. But while my efforts may have seemed valuable at the time, they certainly wouldn’t pass the straight-faced test of essentialness that is being applied during this pandemic. The young man or woman who stocks the toilet paper shelves at the grocery store and who accepts the risk of contagion working behind the cash register would certainly win more votes than I would garner.
So it is not surprising, given the scope of the pandemic and the anxiety compounded by what we don’t know about the virus, that office pediatrics has been left out in the cold when federal financial support is being handed out. I’m certainly not saying the oversight is warranted. It’s just not surprising. Outpatient pediatricians have always been there and it is unfortunately assumed that we will continue to be there when this whole thing blows over and we are needed again.
The failure to support pediatric offices is shortsighted because, even when we return to the new normal, pediatricians will again be valued. However, without financial support some offices will close and some support staff and physicians will leave the practice of pediatrics. It has been suggested that in the wake of the pandemic, the demand for mental health support for children may increase. The new normal may see our patient mix shift even further toward behavioral problems.
For whatever reason, COVID-19 appears to attack the older end of the age spectrum. It is very possible that the next pandemic targets children. If that happens, whether or not we are considered essential will not be one of our worries.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Updated on 6/10/2020
Is HIPAA critical?
Ignorance may be bliss for some. But as I sit here in my scenic social isolation on the Maine coast I find that, like most people, what I don’t know unsettles me. How is the COVID-19 virus spread? Does my wife’s wipe down of the doorknobs after I return from the grocery store really make us any less likely to contract the virus? Is wearing my homemade bandana face mask doing anything to protect me? I suspect not, but I wear it as a statement of courtesy and solidarity to my fellow community members.
Does the 6-foot rule make any sense? I’ve read that it is based on a study dating back to the 1930s. I’ve seen images of the 25-foot droplet plume blasting out from a sneeze and understand that, as a bicyclist, I may be generating a shower of droplets in my wake. But, are those droplets a threat to anyone I pedal by if I am symptom free? What does being a carrier mean when we are talking about COVID-19?
What makes me more vulnerable to this particular virus as an apparently healthy septuagenarian? What collection of misfortunes have fallen on those younger victims of the pandemic? How often was it genetic?
Of course, none of us has the information yet that can provide us answers. This vacuum has attracted scores of “experts” bold enough or careless enough to venture an opinion. They may have also issued a caveat, but how often have the media failed to include it in the report or buried it in the fine print at the end of the story?
My discomfort with this information void has left me and you and everyone else to our imaginations to craft our own explanations. So, I try to piece together a construct based on what I can glean from what I read and see in the news because like most people I fortunately have no first-hand information about even a single case. The number of deaths is horrifying, but may not have hit close to home and given most of us a real personal sense of the illness and its character.
Maine is a small state with just over a million inhabitants, and most of us have some connection to one another. It may be that a person is the second cousin of someone who used to live 2 miles down the road. But, there is some feeling of familiarity. We have had deaths related to COVID-19, but very scanty information other than the county about where they occurred and whether the victim was a resident of an extended care facility. We are told very little if any details about exposure as officials invoke HIPAA regulations that leave us in the dark. Other than one vague reference to a “traveling salesman” who may have introduced the virus to several nursing homes, there has been very little information about how the virus may have been spread here in Maine. Even national reports of the deaths of high-profile entertainers and retired athletes are usually draped in the same haze of privacy.
Most of us don’t need to know the names and street addresses of the victims but a few anonymous narratives that include some general information on how epidemiologists believe clusters began and propagated would help us understand our risks with just a glimmer of clarity.
Of course the epidemiologists may not have the answers we are seeking because they too are struggling to untangle connections hampered by concerns of privacy. There is no question that privacy must remain an important part of the physician-patient relationship. But a pandemic has thrown us into a situation where common sense demands that HIPAA be interpreted with an emphasis on the greater good. Finding that balance between privacy and public knowledge will continue to be one of our greatest challenges.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Ignorance may be bliss for some. But as I sit here in my scenic social isolation on the Maine coast I find that, like most people, what I don’t know unsettles me. How is the COVID-19 virus spread? Does my wife’s wipe down of the doorknobs after I return from the grocery store really make us any less likely to contract the virus? Is wearing my homemade bandana face mask doing anything to protect me? I suspect not, but I wear it as a statement of courtesy and solidarity to my fellow community members.
Does the 6-foot rule make any sense? I’ve read that it is based on a study dating back to the 1930s. I’ve seen images of the 25-foot droplet plume blasting out from a sneeze and understand that, as a bicyclist, I may be generating a shower of droplets in my wake. But, are those droplets a threat to anyone I pedal by if I am symptom free? What does being a carrier mean when we are talking about COVID-19?
What makes me more vulnerable to this particular virus as an apparently healthy septuagenarian? What collection of misfortunes have fallen on those younger victims of the pandemic? How often was it genetic?
Of course, none of us has the information yet that can provide us answers. This vacuum has attracted scores of “experts” bold enough or careless enough to venture an opinion. They may have also issued a caveat, but how often have the media failed to include it in the report or buried it in the fine print at the end of the story?
My discomfort with this information void has left me and you and everyone else to our imaginations to craft our own explanations. So, I try to piece together a construct based on what I can glean from what I read and see in the news because like most people I fortunately have no first-hand information about even a single case. The number of deaths is horrifying, but may not have hit close to home and given most of us a real personal sense of the illness and its character.
Maine is a small state with just over a million inhabitants, and most of us have some connection to one another. It may be that a person is the second cousin of someone who used to live 2 miles down the road. But, there is some feeling of familiarity. We have had deaths related to COVID-19, but very scanty information other than the county about where they occurred and whether the victim was a resident of an extended care facility. We are told very little if any details about exposure as officials invoke HIPAA regulations that leave us in the dark. Other than one vague reference to a “traveling salesman” who may have introduced the virus to several nursing homes, there has been very little information about how the virus may have been spread here in Maine. Even national reports of the deaths of high-profile entertainers and retired athletes are usually draped in the same haze of privacy.
Most of us don’t need to know the names and street addresses of the victims but a few anonymous narratives that include some general information on how epidemiologists believe clusters began and propagated would help us understand our risks with just a glimmer of clarity.
Of course the epidemiologists may not have the answers we are seeking because they too are struggling to untangle connections hampered by concerns of privacy. There is no question that privacy must remain an important part of the physician-patient relationship. But a pandemic has thrown us into a situation where common sense demands that HIPAA be interpreted with an emphasis on the greater good. Finding that balance between privacy and public knowledge will continue to be one of our greatest challenges.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Ignorance may be bliss for some. But as I sit here in my scenic social isolation on the Maine coast I find that, like most people, what I don’t know unsettles me. How is the COVID-19 virus spread? Does my wife’s wipe down of the doorknobs after I return from the grocery store really make us any less likely to contract the virus? Is wearing my homemade bandana face mask doing anything to protect me? I suspect not, but I wear it as a statement of courtesy and solidarity to my fellow community members.
Does the 6-foot rule make any sense? I’ve read that it is based on a study dating back to the 1930s. I’ve seen images of the 25-foot droplet plume blasting out from a sneeze and understand that, as a bicyclist, I may be generating a shower of droplets in my wake. But, are those droplets a threat to anyone I pedal by if I am symptom free? What does being a carrier mean when we are talking about COVID-19?
What makes me more vulnerable to this particular virus as an apparently healthy septuagenarian? What collection of misfortunes have fallen on those younger victims of the pandemic? How often was it genetic?
Of course, none of us has the information yet that can provide us answers. This vacuum has attracted scores of “experts” bold enough or careless enough to venture an opinion. They may have also issued a caveat, but how often have the media failed to include it in the report or buried it in the fine print at the end of the story?
My discomfort with this information void has left me and you and everyone else to our imaginations to craft our own explanations. So, I try to piece together a construct based on what I can glean from what I read and see in the news because like most people I fortunately have no first-hand information about even a single case. The number of deaths is horrifying, but may not have hit close to home and given most of us a real personal sense of the illness and its character.
Maine is a small state with just over a million inhabitants, and most of us have some connection to one another. It may be that a person is the second cousin of someone who used to live 2 miles down the road. But, there is some feeling of familiarity. We have had deaths related to COVID-19, but very scanty information other than the county about where they occurred and whether the victim was a resident of an extended care facility. We are told very little if any details about exposure as officials invoke HIPAA regulations that leave us in the dark. Other than one vague reference to a “traveling salesman” who may have introduced the virus to several nursing homes, there has been very little information about how the virus may have been spread here in Maine. Even national reports of the deaths of high-profile entertainers and retired athletes are usually draped in the same haze of privacy.
Most of us don’t need to know the names and street addresses of the victims but a few anonymous narratives that include some general information on how epidemiologists believe clusters began and propagated would help us understand our risks with just a glimmer of clarity.
Of course the epidemiologists may not have the answers we are seeking because they too are struggling to untangle connections hampered by concerns of privacy. There is no question that privacy must remain an important part of the physician-patient relationship. But a pandemic has thrown us into a situation where common sense demands that HIPAA be interpreted with an emphasis on the greater good. Finding that balance between privacy and public knowledge will continue to be one of our greatest challenges.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Tool-less but not clueless
There is apparently some debate about which of our ancestors was the first to use tools. It probably was Homo habilis, the “handy man.” But it could have been a relative of Lucy, of the Australopithecus afarensis tribe. Regardless of which pile of chipped rocks looks more tool-like to you, it is generally agreed that our ability to make and use tools is one of the key ingredients to our evolutionary success.
I have always enjoyed the feel of good quality knife when I am woodcarving, and the tool collection hanging on the wall over my work bench is one of my most prized possessions. But when I was practicing general pediatrics, I could never really warm up to the screening tools that were being touted as must-haves for detecting developmental delays.
It turns out I was not alone. A recent study published in Pediatrics found that the number of pediatricians who reported using developmental screening tools increased from 21% to 63% between 2002 and 2016. (Pediatrics. 2020 Apr. doi: 10.1542/peds.2019-0851). However, this means that, despite a significant increase in usage, more than a third of pediatricians still are not employing screening tools. Does this suggest that one out of every three pediatricians, including me and maybe you, is a knuckle-dragging pre–Homo sapiens practicing in blissful and clueless ignorance?
Mei Elansary MD, MPhil, and Michael Silverstein, MD, MPH, who wrote a companion commentary in the same journal, suggested that maybe those of us who have resisted the call to be tool users aren’t prehistoric ignoramuses (Pediatrics. 2020 Apr. doi: 10.1542/peds.2020-0164). They observed that, regardless of whether the pediatricians were using screening tools, more than 40% of the those surveyed did not refer patients for early intervention.
The commentators pointed out that the decision of when, whom, and how to screen must be viewed as part of a “complicated web of changing epidemiology, time and reimbursement constraints, and service availability.” They observe that pediatricians facing this landscape in upheaval “default to what they know best: clinical judgment.” Citing one study of the management of febrile infants, the authors point out that relying on guidelines doesn’t always result in improved clinical care.
My decision of when to refer a patient for early intervention was based on what I had observed over a series of visits and whether I thought that the early intervention resources available in my community would have a significant benefit for any particular child. Because I crafted my practice around a model that put a strong emphasis on continuity, my patients almost never saw another provider for a health maintenance visit and usually saw me for their sick visits, including ear rechecks.
I guess you could argue that there are situations in which seeing a variety of providers, each with a slightly different perspective, might benefit the patient. But when we are talking about a domain like development that is defined by change, or lack of change, over time, multiple observations by a single observer usually can be more valuable.
If I were practicing in a situation in which I didn’t have the luxury of continuity, I think I would be more likely to use a screening tool. Although I have found screening guidelines can be helpful as mnemonics in some situations, they aren’t equally applicable in all clinical settings.
While I may be asking for trouble by questioning anything even remotely related to the concept of early intervention, I must say that I wholeheartedly agree with Dr. Elansary and Dr. Silverstein when they wrote “the pediatrics community may have something to learn from the significant minority of pediatricians who do not practice formalized screening.”
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
There is apparently some debate about which of our ancestors was the first to use tools. It probably was Homo habilis, the “handy man.” But it could have been a relative of Lucy, of the Australopithecus afarensis tribe. Regardless of which pile of chipped rocks looks more tool-like to you, it is generally agreed that our ability to make and use tools is one of the key ingredients to our evolutionary success.
I have always enjoyed the feel of good quality knife when I am woodcarving, and the tool collection hanging on the wall over my work bench is one of my most prized possessions. But when I was practicing general pediatrics, I could never really warm up to the screening tools that were being touted as must-haves for detecting developmental delays.
It turns out I was not alone. A recent study published in Pediatrics found that the number of pediatricians who reported using developmental screening tools increased from 21% to 63% between 2002 and 2016. (Pediatrics. 2020 Apr. doi: 10.1542/peds.2019-0851). However, this means that, despite a significant increase in usage, more than a third of pediatricians still are not employing screening tools. Does this suggest that one out of every three pediatricians, including me and maybe you, is a knuckle-dragging pre–Homo sapiens practicing in blissful and clueless ignorance?
Mei Elansary MD, MPhil, and Michael Silverstein, MD, MPH, who wrote a companion commentary in the same journal, suggested that maybe those of us who have resisted the call to be tool users aren’t prehistoric ignoramuses (Pediatrics. 2020 Apr. doi: 10.1542/peds.2020-0164). They observed that, regardless of whether the pediatricians were using screening tools, more than 40% of the those surveyed did not refer patients for early intervention.
The commentators pointed out that the decision of when, whom, and how to screen must be viewed as part of a “complicated web of changing epidemiology, time and reimbursement constraints, and service availability.” They observe that pediatricians facing this landscape in upheaval “default to what they know best: clinical judgment.” Citing one study of the management of febrile infants, the authors point out that relying on guidelines doesn’t always result in improved clinical care.
My decision of when to refer a patient for early intervention was based on what I had observed over a series of visits and whether I thought that the early intervention resources available in my community would have a significant benefit for any particular child. Because I crafted my practice around a model that put a strong emphasis on continuity, my patients almost never saw another provider for a health maintenance visit and usually saw me for their sick visits, including ear rechecks.
I guess you could argue that there are situations in which seeing a variety of providers, each with a slightly different perspective, might benefit the patient. But when we are talking about a domain like development that is defined by change, or lack of change, over time, multiple observations by a single observer usually can be more valuable.
If I were practicing in a situation in which I didn’t have the luxury of continuity, I think I would be more likely to use a screening tool. Although I have found screening guidelines can be helpful as mnemonics in some situations, they aren’t equally applicable in all clinical settings.
While I may be asking for trouble by questioning anything even remotely related to the concept of early intervention, I must say that I wholeheartedly agree with Dr. Elansary and Dr. Silverstein when they wrote “the pediatrics community may have something to learn from the significant minority of pediatricians who do not practice formalized screening.”
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
There is apparently some debate about which of our ancestors was the first to use tools. It probably was Homo habilis, the “handy man.” But it could have been a relative of Lucy, of the Australopithecus afarensis tribe. Regardless of which pile of chipped rocks looks more tool-like to you, it is generally agreed that our ability to make and use tools is one of the key ingredients to our evolutionary success.
I have always enjoyed the feel of good quality knife when I am woodcarving, and the tool collection hanging on the wall over my work bench is one of my most prized possessions. But when I was practicing general pediatrics, I could never really warm up to the screening tools that were being touted as must-haves for detecting developmental delays.
It turns out I was not alone. A recent study published in Pediatrics found that the number of pediatricians who reported using developmental screening tools increased from 21% to 63% between 2002 and 2016. (Pediatrics. 2020 Apr. doi: 10.1542/peds.2019-0851). However, this means that, despite a significant increase in usage, more than a third of pediatricians still are not employing screening tools. Does this suggest that one out of every three pediatricians, including me and maybe you, is a knuckle-dragging pre–Homo sapiens practicing in blissful and clueless ignorance?
Mei Elansary MD, MPhil, and Michael Silverstein, MD, MPH, who wrote a companion commentary in the same journal, suggested that maybe those of us who have resisted the call to be tool users aren’t prehistoric ignoramuses (Pediatrics. 2020 Apr. doi: 10.1542/peds.2020-0164). They observed that, regardless of whether the pediatricians were using screening tools, more than 40% of the those surveyed did not refer patients for early intervention.
The commentators pointed out that the decision of when, whom, and how to screen must be viewed as part of a “complicated web of changing epidemiology, time and reimbursement constraints, and service availability.” They observe that pediatricians facing this landscape in upheaval “default to what they know best: clinical judgment.” Citing one study of the management of febrile infants, the authors point out that relying on guidelines doesn’t always result in improved clinical care.
My decision of when to refer a patient for early intervention was based on what I had observed over a series of visits and whether I thought that the early intervention resources available in my community would have a significant benefit for any particular child. Because I crafted my practice around a model that put a strong emphasis on continuity, my patients almost never saw another provider for a health maintenance visit and usually saw me for their sick visits, including ear rechecks.
I guess you could argue that there are situations in which seeing a variety of providers, each with a slightly different perspective, might benefit the patient. But when we are talking about a domain like development that is defined by change, or lack of change, over time, multiple observations by a single observer usually can be more valuable.
If I were practicing in a situation in which I didn’t have the luxury of continuity, I think I would be more likely to use a screening tool. Although I have found screening guidelines can be helpful as mnemonics in some situations, they aren’t equally applicable in all clinical settings.
While I may be asking for trouble by questioning anything even remotely related to the concept of early intervention, I must say that I wholeheartedly agree with Dr. Elansary and Dr. Silverstein when they wrote “the pediatrics community may have something to learn from the significant minority of pediatricians who do not practice formalized screening.”
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Armchair epidemiology
Real epidemiologists are out knocking on doors, chasing down contacts, or hunched over their computers trying to make sense out of screens full of data and maps. A few are trying valiantly to talk some sense into our elected officials.
This leaves the rest of us with time on our hands to fabricate our own less-than-scientific explanations for the behavior of the SARS-CoV-2 virus. So I have decided to put on hold my current mental challenge of choosing which pasta shape to pair with the sauce I’ve prepared from an online recipe. Here is my educated guess based on what I can glean from media sources that may have been filtered through a variety politically biased lenses. Remember, I did go to medical school; however, when I was in college the DNA helix was still just theoretical.
From those halcyon days of mid-February when our attention was focused on the Diamond Princess quarantined in Yokohama Harbor, it didn’t take a board-certified epidemiologist to suspect that the virus was spreading through the ventilating system in the ship’s tight quarters. Subsequent outbreaks on U.S. and French military ships suggests a similar explanation.
While still not proven, it sounds like SARS-CoV-2 jumped to humans from bats. It should not surprise us that having evolved in a dense population of mammals it would thrive in other high-density populations such as New York and nursing homes. Because we have lacked a robust testing capability, it has been less obvious until recently that, while it is easily transmitted, the virus has infected many who are asymptomatic (“Antibody surveys suggesting vast undercount of coronavirus infections may be unreliable,” Gretchen Vogel, Science, April 21, 2020). Subsequent surveys seem to confirm this higher level carrier state; it suggests that the virus is far less deadly than was previously suggested. However, it seems to be a crafty little bug attacking just about any organ system it lands on.
I don’t think any of us are surprised that the elderly population with weakened immune systems, particularly those in congregate housing, has been much more vulnerable. However, many of the deaths among younger apparently healthy people have defied explanation. The anecdotal observations that physicians, particularly those who practice in-your-face medicine (e.g., ophthalmologists and otolaryngologists) may be more vulnerable raises the issue of viral load. It may be that, although it can be extremely contagious, the virus is not terribly dangerous for most people until the inoculum dose of the virus reaches a certain level. To my knowledge this dose is unknown.
A published survey of more than 300 outbreaks from 120 Chinese cities also may support my suspicion that viral load is of critical importance. The researchers found that all the “identified outbreaks of three or more cases occurred in an indoor environment, which confirms that sharing indoor space is a major SARS-CoV-2 infection risk” (Huan Qian et al. “Indoor transmission of SARS-CoV-2,” MedRxiv. 2020 Apr 7. doi: 10.1101/2020.04.04.20053058). Again, this data shouldn’t surprise us when we look back at what little we know about the outbreaks in the confined spaces on cruise ships and in nursing homes.
I’m not sure that we have any data that helps us determine whether wearing a mask in an outdoor space has any more than symbolic value when we are talking about this particular virus. We may read that the virus in a droplet can survive on the surface it lands on for 8 minutes, and we can see those slow motion videos of the impressive plume of snot spray released by a sneeze. It would seem obvious that even outside someone within 10 feet of the sneeze has a good chance of being infected. However, how much of a threat is the asymptomatic carrier who passes within three feet of you while you are out on lovely summer day stroll? This armchair epidemiologist suspects that, when we are talking about an outside space, the 6-foot guideline for small groups of a dozen or less is overly restrictive. But until we know, I’m staying put in my armchair ... outside on the porch overlooking Casco Bay.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” He has no disclosures. Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Real epidemiologists are out knocking on doors, chasing down contacts, or hunched over their computers trying to make sense out of screens full of data and maps. A few are trying valiantly to talk some sense into our elected officials.
This leaves the rest of us with time on our hands to fabricate our own less-than-scientific explanations for the behavior of the SARS-CoV-2 virus. So I have decided to put on hold my current mental challenge of choosing which pasta shape to pair with the sauce I’ve prepared from an online recipe. Here is my educated guess based on what I can glean from media sources that may have been filtered through a variety politically biased lenses. Remember, I did go to medical school; however, when I was in college the DNA helix was still just theoretical.
From those halcyon days of mid-February when our attention was focused on the Diamond Princess quarantined in Yokohama Harbor, it didn’t take a board-certified epidemiologist to suspect that the virus was spreading through the ventilating system in the ship’s tight quarters. Subsequent outbreaks on U.S. and French military ships suggests a similar explanation.
While still not proven, it sounds like SARS-CoV-2 jumped to humans from bats. It should not surprise us that having evolved in a dense population of mammals it would thrive in other high-density populations such as New York and nursing homes. Because we have lacked a robust testing capability, it has been less obvious until recently that, while it is easily transmitted, the virus has infected many who are asymptomatic (“Antibody surveys suggesting vast undercount of coronavirus infections may be unreliable,” Gretchen Vogel, Science, April 21, 2020). Subsequent surveys seem to confirm this higher level carrier state; it suggests that the virus is far less deadly than was previously suggested. However, it seems to be a crafty little bug attacking just about any organ system it lands on.
I don’t think any of us are surprised that the elderly population with weakened immune systems, particularly those in congregate housing, has been much more vulnerable. However, many of the deaths among younger apparently healthy people have defied explanation. The anecdotal observations that physicians, particularly those who practice in-your-face medicine (e.g., ophthalmologists and otolaryngologists) may be more vulnerable raises the issue of viral load. It may be that, although it can be extremely contagious, the virus is not terribly dangerous for most people until the inoculum dose of the virus reaches a certain level. To my knowledge this dose is unknown.
A published survey of more than 300 outbreaks from 120 Chinese cities also may support my suspicion that viral load is of critical importance. The researchers found that all the “identified outbreaks of three or more cases occurred in an indoor environment, which confirms that sharing indoor space is a major SARS-CoV-2 infection risk” (Huan Qian et al. “Indoor transmission of SARS-CoV-2,” MedRxiv. 2020 Apr 7. doi: 10.1101/2020.04.04.20053058). Again, this data shouldn’t surprise us when we look back at what little we know about the outbreaks in the confined spaces on cruise ships and in nursing homes.
I’m not sure that we have any data that helps us determine whether wearing a mask in an outdoor space has any more than symbolic value when we are talking about this particular virus. We may read that the virus in a droplet can survive on the surface it lands on for 8 minutes, and we can see those slow motion videos of the impressive plume of snot spray released by a sneeze. It would seem obvious that even outside someone within 10 feet of the sneeze has a good chance of being infected. However, how much of a threat is the asymptomatic carrier who passes within three feet of you while you are out on lovely summer day stroll? This armchair epidemiologist suspects that, when we are talking about an outside space, the 6-foot guideline for small groups of a dozen or less is overly restrictive. But until we know, I’m staying put in my armchair ... outside on the porch overlooking Casco Bay.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” He has no disclosures. Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Real epidemiologists are out knocking on doors, chasing down contacts, or hunched over their computers trying to make sense out of screens full of data and maps. A few are trying valiantly to talk some sense into our elected officials.
This leaves the rest of us with time on our hands to fabricate our own less-than-scientific explanations for the behavior of the SARS-CoV-2 virus. So I have decided to put on hold my current mental challenge of choosing which pasta shape to pair with the sauce I’ve prepared from an online recipe. Here is my educated guess based on what I can glean from media sources that may have been filtered through a variety politically biased lenses. Remember, I did go to medical school; however, when I was in college the DNA helix was still just theoretical.
From those halcyon days of mid-February when our attention was focused on the Diamond Princess quarantined in Yokohama Harbor, it didn’t take a board-certified epidemiologist to suspect that the virus was spreading through the ventilating system in the ship’s tight quarters. Subsequent outbreaks on U.S. and French military ships suggests a similar explanation.
While still not proven, it sounds like SARS-CoV-2 jumped to humans from bats. It should not surprise us that having evolved in a dense population of mammals it would thrive in other high-density populations such as New York and nursing homes. Because we have lacked a robust testing capability, it has been less obvious until recently that, while it is easily transmitted, the virus has infected many who are asymptomatic (“Antibody surveys suggesting vast undercount of coronavirus infections may be unreliable,” Gretchen Vogel, Science, April 21, 2020). Subsequent surveys seem to confirm this higher level carrier state; it suggests that the virus is far less deadly than was previously suggested. However, it seems to be a crafty little bug attacking just about any organ system it lands on.
I don’t think any of us are surprised that the elderly population with weakened immune systems, particularly those in congregate housing, has been much more vulnerable. However, many of the deaths among younger apparently healthy people have defied explanation. The anecdotal observations that physicians, particularly those who practice in-your-face medicine (e.g., ophthalmologists and otolaryngologists) may be more vulnerable raises the issue of viral load. It may be that, although it can be extremely contagious, the virus is not terribly dangerous for most people until the inoculum dose of the virus reaches a certain level. To my knowledge this dose is unknown.
A published survey of more than 300 outbreaks from 120 Chinese cities also may support my suspicion that viral load is of critical importance. The researchers found that all the “identified outbreaks of three or more cases occurred in an indoor environment, which confirms that sharing indoor space is a major SARS-CoV-2 infection risk” (Huan Qian et al. “Indoor transmission of SARS-CoV-2,” MedRxiv. 2020 Apr 7. doi: 10.1101/2020.04.04.20053058). Again, this data shouldn’t surprise us when we look back at what little we know about the outbreaks in the confined spaces on cruise ships and in nursing homes.
I’m not sure that we have any data that helps us determine whether wearing a mask in an outdoor space has any more than symbolic value when we are talking about this particular virus. We may read that the virus in a droplet can survive on the surface it lands on for 8 minutes, and we can see those slow motion videos of the impressive plume of snot spray released by a sneeze. It would seem obvious that even outside someone within 10 feet of the sneeze has a good chance of being infected. However, how much of a threat is the asymptomatic carrier who passes within three feet of you while you are out on lovely summer day stroll? This armchair epidemiologist suspects that, when we are talking about an outside space, the 6-foot guideline for small groups of a dozen or less is overly restrictive. But until we know, I’m staying put in my armchair ... outside on the porch overlooking Casco Bay.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” He has no disclosures. Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
What will pediatrics look like in 2022?
In 1966 I was struggling with the decision of whether to become an art historian or go to medical school. I decided corporate ladder climbs and tenure chases were not for me. I wanted to be my own boss. I reckoned that medicine would offer me rock-solid job security and a comfortable income that I could adjust to my needs simply by working harder. In my Norman Rockwell–influenced view of the world, there would always be sick children. There would never be a quiet week or even a day when I would have to worry about not having an income.
So it was an idyllic existence for decades, tarnished only slightly when corporate entities began gobbling up owner-operator practices. But I never envisioned a pandemic that would turn the world – including its pediatricians – upside down. For the last several weeks as I pedal past my old office, I am dumbstruck by the empty parking lot. For the present I appear to be buffered by my retirement, but know that many of you are under serious financial pressure as a result of the pandemic.
We are all yearning to return to business as usual, but we know that it isn’t going to happen because everything has changed. The usual has yet to be defined. When you finally reopen your offices, you will be walking into a strange and eerie new normal. Initially you may struggle to make it feel like nothing has changed, but very quickly the full force of the postpandemic tsunami will hit us all broadside. In 2 years, the ship may still be rocking but what will clinical pediatrics look like in the late spring of 2022?
Will the patient mix have shifted even more toward behavioral and mental health complaints as a ripple effect of the pandemic’s emotional turmoil? Will your waiting room have become a maze of plexiglass barriers to separate the sick from the well? Has the hospital invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in a ventilation system in hopes of minimizing contagion in your exam rooms? Maybe you will have instituted an appointment schedule with sick visits in the morning and well checks in the afternoon. Or you may no longer have a waiting room because patients are queuing in their cars in the parking lot. Your support staff may be rollerskating around like carhops at a drive-in recording histories and taking vital signs.
Telemedicine will hopefully have gone mainstream with more robust guidelines for billing and quality control. Medical schools may be devoting more attention to teaching student how to assess remotely. Parents may now be equipped with a tool kit of remote sensors so that you can assess their child’s tympanic membranes, pulse rate, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure on your office computer screen.
Will the EHR finally have begun to emerge from its awkward and at times painful adolescence into an easily accessible and transportable nationwide data bank that includes immunization records for all ages? Patients may have been asked or ordered to allow their cell phones to be used as tracking devices for serious communicable diseases. How many vaccine-resistant people will have responded to the pandemic by deciding that immunizations are worth the minimal risks? I fear not many.
How many of your colleagues will have left pediatrics and heeded the call for more epidemiologists? Will you be required to take a CME course in ventilation management? The good news may be that to keep the pediatric workforce robust the government has decided to forgive your student loans.
None of these changes may have come to pass because we have notoriously short memories. But I am sure that we will all still bear the deep scars of this world changing event.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
In 1966 I was struggling with the decision of whether to become an art historian or go to medical school. I decided corporate ladder climbs and tenure chases were not for me. I wanted to be my own boss. I reckoned that medicine would offer me rock-solid job security and a comfortable income that I could adjust to my needs simply by working harder. In my Norman Rockwell–influenced view of the world, there would always be sick children. There would never be a quiet week or even a day when I would have to worry about not having an income.
So it was an idyllic existence for decades, tarnished only slightly when corporate entities began gobbling up owner-operator practices. But I never envisioned a pandemic that would turn the world – including its pediatricians – upside down. For the last several weeks as I pedal past my old office, I am dumbstruck by the empty parking lot. For the present I appear to be buffered by my retirement, but know that many of you are under serious financial pressure as a result of the pandemic.
We are all yearning to return to business as usual, but we know that it isn’t going to happen because everything has changed. The usual has yet to be defined. When you finally reopen your offices, you will be walking into a strange and eerie new normal. Initially you may struggle to make it feel like nothing has changed, but very quickly the full force of the postpandemic tsunami will hit us all broadside. In 2 years, the ship may still be rocking but what will clinical pediatrics look like in the late spring of 2022?
Will the patient mix have shifted even more toward behavioral and mental health complaints as a ripple effect of the pandemic’s emotional turmoil? Will your waiting room have become a maze of plexiglass barriers to separate the sick from the well? Has the hospital invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in a ventilation system in hopes of minimizing contagion in your exam rooms? Maybe you will have instituted an appointment schedule with sick visits in the morning and well checks in the afternoon. Or you may no longer have a waiting room because patients are queuing in their cars in the parking lot. Your support staff may be rollerskating around like carhops at a drive-in recording histories and taking vital signs.
Telemedicine will hopefully have gone mainstream with more robust guidelines for billing and quality control. Medical schools may be devoting more attention to teaching student how to assess remotely. Parents may now be equipped with a tool kit of remote sensors so that you can assess their child’s tympanic membranes, pulse rate, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure on your office computer screen.
Will the EHR finally have begun to emerge from its awkward and at times painful adolescence into an easily accessible and transportable nationwide data bank that includes immunization records for all ages? Patients may have been asked or ordered to allow their cell phones to be used as tracking devices for serious communicable diseases. How many vaccine-resistant people will have responded to the pandemic by deciding that immunizations are worth the minimal risks? I fear not many.
How many of your colleagues will have left pediatrics and heeded the call for more epidemiologists? Will you be required to take a CME course in ventilation management? The good news may be that to keep the pediatric workforce robust the government has decided to forgive your student loans.
None of these changes may have come to pass because we have notoriously short memories. But I am sure that we will all still bear the deep scars of this world changing event.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
In 1966 I was struggling with the decision of whether to become an art historian or go to medical school. I decided corporate ladder climbs and tenure chases were not for me. I wanted to be my own boss. I reckoned that medicine would offer me rock-solid job security and a comfortable income that I could adjust to my needs simply by working harder. In my Norman Rockwell–influenced view of the world, there would always be sick children. There would never be a quiet week or even a day when I would have to worry about not having an income.
So it was an idyllic existence for decades, tarnished only slightly when corporate entities began gobbling up owner-operator practices. But I never envisioned a pandemic that would turn the world – including its pediatricians – upside down. For the last several weeks as I pedal past my old office, I am dumbstruck by the empty parking lot. For the present I appear to be buffered by my retirement, but know that many of you are under serious financial pressure as a result of the pandemic.
We are all yearning to return to business as usual, but we know that it isn’t going to happen because everything has changed. The usual has yet to be defined. When you finally reopen your offices, you will be walking into a strange and eerie new normal. Initially you may struggle to make it feel like nothing has changed, but very quickly the full force of the postpandemic tsunami will hit us all broadside. In 2 years, the ship may still be rocking but what will clinical pediatrics look like in the late spring of 2022?
Will the patient mix have shifted even more toward behavioral and mental health complaints as a ripple effect of the pandemic’s emotional turmoil? Will your waiting room have become a maze of plexiglass barriers to separate the sick from the well? Has the hospital invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in a ventilation system in hopes of minimizing contagion in your exam rooms? Maybe you will have instituted an appointment schedule with sick visits in the morning and well checks in the afternoon. Or you may no longer have a waiting room because patients are queuing in their cars in the parking lot. Your support staff may be rollerskating around like carhops at a drive-in recording histories and taking vital signs.
Telemedicine will hopefully have gone mainstream with more robust guidelines for billing and quality control. Medical schools may be devoting more attention to teaching student how to assess remotely. Parents may now be equipped with a tool kit of remote sensors so that you can assess their child’s tympanic membranes, pulse rate, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure on your office computer screen.
Will the EHR finally have begun to emerge from its awkward and at times painful adolescence into an easily accessible and transportable nationwide data bank that includes immunization records for all ages? Patients may have been asked or ordered to allow their cell phones to be used as tracking devices for serious communicable diseases. How many vaccine-resistant people will have responded to the pandemic by deciding that immunizations are worth the minimal risks? I fear not many.
How many of your colleagues will have left pediatrics and heeded the call for more epidemiologists? Will you be required to take a CME course in ventilation management? The good news may be that to keep the pediatric workforce robust the government has decided to forgive your student loans.
None of these changes may have come to pass because we have notoriously short memories. But I am sure that we will all still bear the deep scars of this world changing event.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Learning about the curve
Empty shelves that once cradled toilet paper rolls; lines of shoppers, some with masks; waiting 6 feet or at least a shopping cart length apart to get into grocery stores; hazmat-suited workers loading body bags into makeshift mortuaries ... These are the images we have come to associate with the COVID-19 pandemic. But then there also are the graphs and charts, none of them bearing good news. Some are difficult to interpret because they may be missing a key ingredient, such as a scale. Day to day fluctuations in the timeliness of the data points can make valid comparisons impossible. In most cases, it is too early to look at the graphs and hope for the big picture. Whether you are concerned about the stock market or the number of new cases of the virus in your county, you are hoping to see some graphic depiction of a favorable trend.
We have suddenly learned about the urgency of a process called “flattening the curve.” Are we doing as good a job of flattening as we could be? Are we doing better than France or Spain? Or are we heading toward an Italianesque apocalypse? Who is going to tell us when the flattening is for real and not just a 2- or 3-day statistical aberration?
The curves we are obsessed with today are those showing us new cases and new deaths. But And we won’t be seeing this curve in four-color graphics on the front page of our newspapers. It is the learning curve, and we want it to be as steep as we can make it without any hint of flattening in the foreseeable future.
We need to learn more about corona-like viruses. Why are some of us more vulnerable? We need to learn more about contagion. Does the 6-foot guideline make any sense? How long are viral particles floating in the air capable of initiating disease? What about air flow and dilution? Can we build a cruise ship or airplane that will be less of a health hazard?
More importantly, we need to learn to be better prepared. Even before the pandemic there have been shortages in intravenous solutions and drugs of critical importance to common diseases. Can we learn how to create reliable and affordable supply chains that allow researchers and developers to make a reasonable profit? Can we relearn to value science? Can we learn to invest more heavily in epidemiology and make it a specialty that attracts our best thinkers and communicators? Then can we elect officials who will share our trust in their recommendations?
Can we do a better job of resolving the tension between those who believe in a strong federal government and those who believe in local autonomy because we are seeing every day that this is an issue of survival, not just coexistence? Can we learn that the globalization that has allowed this viral spread can also be leveraged to beat it into submission?
Over the last half century there has been an unfortunate flattening of the learning curve. Ironically we have seen exponential growth among hi-tech industries that have forced us to keep abreast of new developments. But along with this has been a growing skepticism about value of scientific investigation. It is time we climbed back on that steep learning curve. The view gets better the higher we climb.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Empty shelves that once cradled toilet paper rolls; lines of shoppers, some with masks; waiting 6 feet or at least a shopping cart length apart to get into grocery stores; hazmat-suited workers loading body bags into makeshift mortuaries ... These are the images we have come to associate with the COVID-19 pandemic. But then there also are the graphs and charts, none of them bearing good news. Some are difficult to interpret because they may be missing a key ingredient, such as a scale. Day to day fluctuations in the timeliness of the data points can make valid comparisons impossible. In most cases, it is too early to look at the graphs and hope for the big picture. Whether you are concerned about the stock market or the number of new cases of the virus in your county, you are hoping to see some graphic depiction of a favorable trend.
We have suddenly learned about the urgency of a process called “flattening the curve.” Are we doing as good a job of flattening as we could be? Are we doing better than France or Spain? Or are we heading toward an Italianesque apocalypse? Who is going to tell us when the flattening is for real and not just a 2- or 3-day statistical aberration?
The curves we are obsessed with today are those showing us new cases and new deaths. But And we won’t be seeing this curve in four-color graphics on the front page of our newspapers. It is the learning curve, and we want it to be as steep as we can make it without any hint of flattening in the foreseeable future.
We need to learn more about corona-like viruses. Why are some of us more vulnerable? We need to learn more about contagion. Does the 6-foot guideline make any sense? How long are viral particles floating in the air capable of initiating disease? What about air flow and dilution? Can we build a cruise ship or airplane that will be less of a health hazard?
More importantly, we need to learn to be better prepared. Even before the pandemic there have been shortages in intravenous solutions and drugs of critical importance to common diseases. Can we learn how to create reliable and affordable supply chains that allow researchers and developers to make a reasonable profit? Can we relearn to value science? Can we learn to invest more heavily in epidemiology and make it a specialty that attracts our best thinkers and communicators? Then can we elect officials who will share our trust in their recommendations?
Can we do a better job of resolving the tension between those who believe in a strong federal government and those who believe in local autonomy because we are seeing every day that this is an issue of survival, not just coexistence? Can we learn that the globalization that has allowed this viral spread can also be leveraged to beat it into submission?
Over the last half century there has been an unfortunate flattening of the learning curve. Ironically we have seen exponential growth among hi-tech industries that have forced us to keep abreast of new developments. But along with this has been a growing skepticism about value of scientific investigation. It is time we climbed back on that steep learning curve. The view gets better the higher we climb.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.
Empty shelves that once cradled toilet paper rolls; lines of shoppers, some with masks; waiting 6 feet or at least a shopping cart length apart to get into grocery stores; hazmat-suited workers loading body bags into makeshift mortuaries ... These are the images we have come to associate with the COVID-19 pandemic. But then there also are the graphs and charts, none of them bearing good news. Some are difficult to interpret because they may be missing a key ingredient, such as a scale. Day to day fluctuations in the timeliness of the data points can make valid comparisons impossible. In most cases, it is too early to look at the graphs and hope for the big picture. Whether you are concerned about the stock market or the number of new cases of the virus in your county, you are hoping to see some graphic depiction of a favorable trend.
We have suddenly learned about the urgency of a process called “flattening the curve.” Are we doing as good a job of flattening as we could be? Are we doing better than France or Spain? Or are we heading toward an Italianesque apocalypse? Who is going to tell us when the flattening is for real and not just a 2- or 3-day statistical aberration?
The curves we are obsessed with today are those showing us new cases and new deaths. But And we won’t be seeing this curve in four-color graphics on the front page of our newspapers. It is the learning curve, and we want it to be as steep as we can make it without any hint of flattening in the foreseeable future.
We need to learn more about corona-like viruses. Why are some of us more vulnerable? We need to learn more about contagion. Does the 6-foot guideline make any sense? How long are viral particles floating in the air capable of initiating disease? What about air flow and dilution? Can we build a cruise ship or airplane that will be less of a health hazard?
More importantly, we need to learn to be better prepared. Even before the pandemic there have been shortages in intravenous solutions and drugs of critical importance to common diseases. Can we learn how to create reliable and affordable supply chains that allow researchers and developers to make a reasonable profit? Can we relearn to value science? Can we learn to invest more heavily in epidemiology and make it a specialty that attracts our best thinkers and communicators? Then can we elect officials who will share our trust in their recommendations?
Can we do a better job of resolving the tension between those who believe in a strong federal government and those who believe in local autonomy because we are seeing every day that this is an issue of survival, not just coexistence? Can we learn that the globalization that has allowed this viral spread can also be leveraged to beat it into submission?
Over the last half century there has been an unfortunate flattening of the learning curve. Ironically we have seen exponential growth among hi-tech industries that have forced us to keep abreast of new developments. But along with this has been a growing skepticism about value of scientific investigation. It is time we climbed back on that steep learning curve. The view gets better the higher we climb.
Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Email him at pdnews@mdedge.com.