The Optimized Doctor

“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.” – Ernst Toller

A nice feature of the Apple watch is the stopwatch. With it, I can discreetly click the timer and watch seconds tick away. Tap. There’s one lap. Tap. Two. Tap. That was a quick visit, 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Tap. Under 2 minutes to close the chart. Let’s see if I can beat it. Tap. Tap. What if I moved my Mayo stand over to this side of the room? How about a sign, “All patients must have clothes off if you want a skin exam.” You think ob.gyns. are quick from skin to baby in a stat C-section? You should see how fast I can go from alcohol wipe to Drysol on a biopsy. Seconds. Tick, tick, tap.

Every day I look for ways to go faster. This is not so I can be out the door by 3. Rather, it’s simply to make it through the day without having to log on after we put the kids to bed at night.

[embed:render:related:node:263056]

Speaking of bedtimes, another nice feature of the Apple watch is the timer. With it, I can set a timer and a lovely chimey alarm will go off. This comes in handy with 3-year-olds. “Sloan, in two minutes we are going to brush your teeth.” Ding. “Sloan, you have one minute to get your pajamas on.” Ding. “Sloanie, I’ll give you 3 more minutes to put the kitties away, then get into bed.” Ding, ding, ding ...

As you can see, using the stopwatch to time a bedtime routine would be demoralizing. If you’ve tried to put a toddler to bed in summer you know. They explore every option to avoid sleeping: one more book (that would make 3), “accidentally” putting their pajamas on backwards, offering to brush their teeth a second time. And once the light is off, “Papa, I have to potty.” No, bedtime routines cannot be standardized. They resist being made efficient.

In contrast, we think of seeing patients as a standardizable process; work to be optimized. This idea that work should be as efficient as possible came from the father of business management, Frederick Taylor. Taylor, a mechanical engineer, observed inefficiencies on the factory floor. His work was seminal in the development of the second industrial revolution. Before then no one had applied scientific rigor to productivity. His book, “The Principles of Scientific Management,” written in 1909, is considered the most influential management book of the 20th century. He was the first to use stopwatches to perform time studies, noting how long each task took with the belief that there was one best way. The worker was an extension of the machine, tuned by management such that he was as efficient as possible.

Ford_assembly_line_1913_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

A more insidious downside on the drive to efficiency lies in the nature of what we do. We aren’t factory workers punching out widgets, we’re physicians caring for people and people cannot be standardized. In this way, seeing patients is more like putting a toddler to bed than like assembling an iPhone. There will always be by-the-ways, basal cells hiding behind the ear, traffic jams, and bags of products that they want to review. Not sure how to use your fluorouracil? Let’s go over it again. Need to talk more about why you have granuloma annulare? Let me explain. Despite Taylor’s vision, some work simply cannot be optimized. And shouldn’t.

“Where’s my 11:30 patient who checked in half an hour ago?!” I asked my medical assistant. “Oh, she had to go to the bathroom.” Tap.
 

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

“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.” – Ernst Toller

A nice feature of the Apple watch is the stopwatch. With it, I can discreetly click the timer and watch seconds tick away. Tap. There’s one lap. Tap. Two. Tap. That was a quick visit, 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Tap. Under 2 minutes to close the chart. Let’s see if I can beat it. Tap. Tap. What if I moved my Mayo stand over to this side of the room? How about a sign, “All patients must have clothes off if you want a skin exam.” You think ob.gyns. are quick from skin to baby in a stat C-section? You should see how fast I can go from alcohol wipe to Drysol on a biopsy. Seconds. Tick, tick, tap.

Every day I look for ways to go faster. This is not so I can be out the door by 3. Rather, it’s simply to make it through the day without having to log on after we put the kids to bed at night.

[embed:render:related:node:263056]

Speaking of bedtimes, another nice feature of the Apple watch is the timer. With it, I can set a timer and a lovely chimey alarm will go off. This comes in handy with 3-year-olds. “Sloan, in two minutes we are going to brush your teeth.” Ding. “Sloan, you have one minute to get your pajamas on.” Ding. “Sloanie, I’ll give you 3 more minutes to put the kitties away, then get into bed.” Ding, ding, ding ...

As you can see, using the stopwatch to time a bedtime routine would be demoralizing. If you’ve tried to put a toddler to bed in summer you know. They explore every option to avoid sleeping: one more book (that would make 3), “accidentally” putting their pajamas on backwards, offering to brush their teeth a second time. And once the light is off, “Papa, I have to potty.” No, bedtime routines cannot be standardized. They resist being made efficient.

In contrast, we think of seeing patients as a standardizable process; work to be optimized. This idea that work should be as efficient as possible came from the father of business management, Frederick Taylor. Taylor, a mechanical engineer, observed inefficiencies on the factory floor. His work was seminal in the development of the second industrial revolution. Before then no one had applied scientific rigor to productivity. His book, “The Principles of Scientific Management,” written in 1909, is considered the most influential management book of the 20th century. He was the first to use stopwatches to perform time studies, noting how long each task took with the belief that there was one best way. The worker was an extension of the machine, tuned by management such that he was as efficient as possible.

Ford_assembly_line_1913_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

A more insidious downside on the drive to efficiency lies in the nature of what we do. We aren’t factory workers punching out widgets, we’re physicians caring for people and people cannot be standardized. In this way, seeing patients is more like putting a toddler to bed than like assembling an iPhone. There will always be by-the-ways, basal cells hiding behind the ear, traffic jams, and bags of products that they want to review. Not sure how to use your fluorouracil? Let’s go over it again. Need to talk more about why you have granuloma annulare? Let me explain. Despite Taylor’s vision, some work simply cannot be optimized. And shouldn’t.

“Where’s my 11:30 patient who checked in half an hour ago?!” I asked my medical assistant. “Oh, she had to go to the bathroom.” Tap.
 

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

“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.” – Ernst Toller

A nice feature of the Apple watch is the stopwatch. With it, I can discreetly click the timer and watch seconds tick away. Tap. There’s one lap. Tap. Two. Tap. That was a quick visit, 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Tap. Under 2 minutes to close the chart. Let’s see if I can beat it. Tap. Tap. What if I moved my Mayo stand over to this side of the room? How about a sign, “All patients must have clothes off if you want a skin exam.” You think ob.gyns. are quick from skin to baby in a stat C-section? You should see how fast I can go from alcohol wipe to Drysol on a biopsy. Seconds. Tick, tick, tap.

Every day I look for ways to go faster. This is not so I can be out the door by 3. Rather, it’s simply to make it through the day without having to log on after we put the kids to bed at night.

[embed:render:related:node:263056]

Speaking of bedtimes, another nice feature of the Apple watch is the timer. With it, I can set a timer and a lovely chimey alarm will go off. This comes in handy with 3-year-olds. “Sloan, in two minutes we are going to brush your teeth.” Ding. “Sloan, you have one minute to get your pajamas on.” Ding. “Sloanie, I’ll give you 3 more minutes to put the kitties away, then get into bed.” Ding, ding, ding ...

As you can see, using the stopwatch to time a bedtime routine would be demoralizing. If you’ve tried to put a toddler to bed in summer you know. They explore every option to avoid sleeping: one more book (that would make 3), “accidentally” putting their pajamas on backwards, offering to brush their teeth a second time. And once the light is off, “Papa, I have to potty.” No, bedtime routines cannot be standardized. They resist being made efficient.

In contrast, we think of seeing patients as a standardizable process; work to be optimized. This idea that work should be as efficient as possible came from the father of business management, Frederick Taylor. Taylor, a mechanical engineer, observed inefficiencies on the factory floor. His work was seminal in the development of the second industrial revolution. Before then no one had applied scientific rigor to productivity. His book, “The Principles of Scientific Management,” written in 1909, is considered the most influential management book of the 20th century. He was the first to use stopwatches to perform time studies, noting how long each task took with the belief that there was one best way. The worker was an extension of the machine, tuned by management such that he was as efficient as possible.

Ford_assembly_line_1913_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

A more insidious downside on the drive to efficiency lies in the nature of what we do. We aren’t factory workers punching out widgets, we’re physicians caring for people and people cannot be standardized. In this way, seeing patients is more like putting a toddler to bed than like assembling an iPhone. There will always be by-the-ways, basal cells hiding behind the ear, traffic jams, and bags of products that they want to review. Not sure how to use your fluorouracil? Let’s go over it again. Need to talk more about why you have granuloma annulare? Let me explain. Despite Taylor’s vision, some work simply cannot be optimized. And shouldn’t.

“Where’s my 11:30 patient who checked in half an hour ago?!” I asked my medical assistant. “Oh, she had to go to the bathroom.” Tap.
 

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

Church architecture describes visually the idea of the sacred, which is a fundamental need of man.

– Mario Botta, Swiss architect

My parents are visiting the Holy See today – prima volta in Italia! My mom waited years for this. She isn’t meeting the Pope or attending Mass. Yet, in the Whatsapp pics they sent me, you can see tears well up as she experiences St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a visceral response to what is just a building and a poignant example of the significance of spaces.

More than just appreciating an edifice’s grandeur or exquisiteness, we are wired to connect with spaces emotionally. Beautiful or significant buildings move us, they make us feel something. Churches, synagogues, or mosques are good examples. They combine spiritual and aesthetic allure. But so too do gorgeous hotels, Apple stores, and posh restaurants. We crave the richness of an environment experienced through our five senses. The glory of sunlight through stained glass, the smell of luxurious scent pumped into a lobby, the weight of a silky new iPhone in your hand. We also have a sixth sense, that feeling we get from knowing that we are standing in a sacred place. A physical space that connects us with something wider and deeper than ourselves.

HolySee_Benabio_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Every day when I cover patient messages, I offer some patients an immediate, free solution to their problem. Just today I exchanged emails with a patient thinking I had addressed her concern by reassuring her that it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. Done. She then replied, “Thanks so much, Dr. Benabio! I still would like to schedule an appointment to come in person.” So much for the efficiency of digital medicine.

Before dismissing these patients as Luddites, understand what they want is the doctor’s office experience. The sights, the smells, the sacredness of what happens here. It is no coincidence that the first clinics were temples. In ancient Greece and Rome, the sick and the gashed made pilgrimages to one of at least 300 Asclepieia, temples of healing. During the medieval period, monasteries doubled as housing for the sick until the church began constructing stand-alone hospitals, often in cross-shaped design with an altar in the middle (eventually that became the nurses station, but without the wine).

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Patients entrust us with their lives and their loved ones’ lives and a visit takes on far more significance than a simple service transaction. Forty years on, I can recall visits to Dr. Bellin’s office. He saw pediatric patients out of his Victorian home office with broad, creaky hardwood floors, stained glass, and cast iron radiators. The scent of isopropyl soaked cotton balls and typewriter ink is unforgettable. Far from sterile, it was warm, safe. It was a sacred place, one for which we still sometimes drive by when doing the tour of where I grew up.

We shall forge ahead and continue to offer virtual channels to serve our patients just as any service industry. But don’t force them there. At the same time Starbucks has been building its digital app, it is also building Starbucks Reserve Roasteries. Immense cathedral edifices with warm woods and luxurious brass, the smell of roasting coffee and warm leather perfuming the air. It is where patrons will travel long distances and endure long waits to pay a lot more for a cup of coffee.

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

Church architecture describes visually the idea of the sacred, which is a fundamental need of man.

– Mario Botta, Swiss architect

My parents are visiting the Holy See today – prima volta in Italia! My mom waited years for this. She isn’t meeting the Pope or attending Mass. Yet, in the Whatsapp pics they sent me, you can see tears well up as she experiences St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a visceral response to what is just a building and a poignant example of the significance of spaces.

More than just appreciating an edifice’s grandeur or exquisiteness, we are wired to connect with spaces emotionally. Beautiful or significant buildings move us, they make us feel something. Churches, synagogues, or mosques are good examples. They combine spiritual and aesthetic allure. But so too do gorgeous hotels, Apple stores, and posh restaurants. We crave the richness of an environment experienced through our five senses. The glory of sunlight through stained glass, the smell of luxurious scent pumped into a lobby, the weight of a silky new iPhone in your hand. We also have a sixth sense, that feeling we get from knowing that we are standing in a sacred place. A physical space that connects us with something wider and deeper than ourselves.

HolySee_Benabio_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Every day when I cover patient messages, I offer some patients an immediate, free solution to their problem. Just today I exchanged emails with a patient thinking I had addressed her concern by reassuring her that it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. Done. She then replied, “Thanks so much, Dr. Benabio! I still would like to schedule an appointment to come in person.” So much for the efficiency of digital medicine.

Before dismissing these patients as Luddites, understand what they want is the doctor’s office experience. The sights, the smells, the sacredness of what happens here. It is no coincidence that the first clinics were temples. In ancient Greece and Rome, the sick and the gashed made pilgrimages to one of at least 300 Asclepieia, temples of healing. During the medieval period, monasteries doubled as housing for the sick until the church began constructing stand-alone hospitals, often in cross-shaped design with an altar in the middle (eventually that became the nurses station, but without the wine).

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Patients entrust us with their lives and their loved ones’ lives and a visit takes on far more significance than a simple service transaction. Forty years on, I can recall visits to Dr. Bellin’s office. He saw pediatric patients out of his Victorian home office with broad, creaky hardwood floors, stained glass, and cast iron radiators. The scent of isopropyl soaked cotton balls and typewriter ink is unforgettable. Far from sterile, it was warm, safe. It was a sacred place, one for which we still sometimes drive by when doing the tour of where I grew up.

We shall forge ahead and continue to offer virtual channels to serve our patients just as any service industry. But don’t force them there. At the same time Starbucks has been building its digital app, it is also building Starbucks Reserve Roasteries. Immense cathedral edifices with warm woods and luxurious brass, the smell of roasting coffee and warm leather perfuming the air. It is where patrons will travel long distances and endure long waits to pay a lot more for a cup of coffee.

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

Church architecture describes visually the idea of the sacred, which is a fundamental need of man.

– Mario Botta, Swiss architect

My parents are visiting the Holy See today – prima volta in Italia! My mom waited years for this. She isn’t meeting the Pope or attending Mass. Yet, in the Whatsapp pics they sent me, you can see tears well up as she experiences St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a visceral response to what is just a building and a poignant example of the significance of spaces.

More than just appreciating an edifice’s grandeur or exquisiteness, we are wired to connect with spaces emotionally. Beautiful or significant buildings move us, they make us feel something. Churches, synagogues, or mosques are good examples. They combine spiritual and aesthetic allure. But so too do gorgeous hotels, Apple stores, and posh restaurants. We crave the richness of an environment experienced through our five senses. The glory of sunlight through stained glass, the smell of luxurious scent pumped into a lobby, the weight of a silky new iPhone in your hand. We also have a sixth sense, that feeling we get from knowing that we are standing in a sacred place. A physical space that connects us with something wider and deeper than ourselves.

HolySee_Benabio_web.jpg

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Every day when I cover patient messages, I offer some patients an immediate, free solution to their problem. Just today I exchanged emails with a patient thinking I had addressed her concern by reassuring her that it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. Done. She then replied, “Thanks so much, Dr. Benabio! I still would like to schedule an appointment to come in person.” So much for the efficiency of digital medicine.

Before dismissing these patients as Luddites, understand what they want is the doctor’s office experience. The sights, the smells, the sacredness of what happens here. It is no coincidence that the first clinics were temples. In ancient Greece and Rome, the sick and the gashed made pilgrimages to one of at least 300 Asclepieia, temples of healing. During the medieval period, monasteries doubled as housing for the sick until the church began constructing stand-alone hospitals, often in cross-shaped design with an altar in the middle (eventually that became the nurses station, but without the wine).

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Patients entrust us with their lives and their loved ones’ lives and a visit takes on far more significance than a simple service transaction. Forty years on, I can recall visits to Dr. Bellin’s office. He saw pediatric patients out of his Victorian home office with broad, creaky hardwood floors, stained glass, and cast iron radiators. The scent of isopropyl soaked cotton balls and typewriter ink is unforgettable. Far from sterile, it was warm, safe. It was a sacred place, one for which we still sometimes drive by when doing the tour of where I grew up.

We shall forge ahead and continue to offer virtual channels to serve our patients just as any service industry. But don’t force them there. At the same time Starbucks has been building its digital app, it is also building Starbucks Reserve Roasteries. Immense cathedral edifices with warm woods and luxurious brass, the smell of roasting coffee and warm leather perfuming the air. It is where patrons will travel long distances and endure long waits to pay a lot more for a cup of coffee.

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

1. Stride confidently into the room to greet your 84-year-old female patient.

2. Introduce yourself saying, “Hi, I’m Dr. Jeff Benabio.”

3. Extend your clenched fist toward her chest and wait for her to reciprocate.

4. Smile awkwardly behind your mask while you wait.

5. Advise that you are doing a fist bump instead of a handshake to prevent the spread of viruses.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

6. Wait.

7. Explain that she can bump, also known as “dap,” you back by extending her clenched fist and bumping into yours.

8. Wait a bit more.

9. Lower your fist and pat her on the shoulder with your left hand. Do so gently so it doesn’t seem like you just did a quick right jab followed by a left hook.

10. Sit down diffidently and pray that you can help her so this office visit is not an utter disaster.

It seemed a good idea for 2020: Let’s stop shaking hands while we wait out this viral apocalypse. Sensible, but entering a patient room and just sitting down didn’t work. It felt cold, impolite – this isn’t the DMV. In medicine, a complete stranger has to trust us to get naked, tell intimate secrets, even be stuck by needles all within minutes of meeting. We needed a trust-building substitute greeting.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

There was the Muslim hand-on-my-heart greeting. Or the Hindu “namaste” or Buddhist “amituofo” folded hands. Or perhaps the paternalistic shoulder pat? I went with the fist bump. With some of my partner docs, my old MBA squad, my neighbor, the fist bump felt natural, reciprocated without hesitation. But it fails with many patients. To understand why, it’s helpful to know the history of the fist bump, also known as the dap.

Dap is an acronym for Dignity And Pride. It’s a variation of a handshake that originated among Black soldiers in the Vietnam war as a means of showing fraternity and establishing connectedness. In Vietnam, 30% of the combat battalions were Black. Marginalized in the military and at home, they created a greeting that was meaningful and unique. The dap was a series of shakes, bumps, slaps, and hugs that was symbolic. It was a means of showing respect and humility, that no one is above others, that I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. It was a powerful recognition of humanity and effective means of personal connection. It spread from the Black community to the general population and it exists still today. The choreographed pregame handshake you see so many NBA players engage in is a descendant of the dap. Like many rituals, it reinforces bonds with those who are your people, your team, those you trust.

shaking_hands_web.jpg

The more generalized version is the simple fist bump. It is widely used, notably by President Obama, and in the appropriate circumstance, will almost always be reciprocated. But it doesn’t work well to create trust with a stranger. With a patient for example, you are not showing them respect for some accomplishment. Nor are we connecting with them as a member of your team. Unless this is a patient whom you’ve seen many times before, a fist bump attempt might be met with “are you serious?” In fact, a survey done in 2016 asking infectious disease professionals what they thought of fist bumps as a greeting, very few replied it was a good idea. Most felt it was unprofessional. Not to mention that a fist bump does not symbolize an agreement in the way that a handshake does (and has done since at least the 9th century BC).

With COVID waning and masks doffed, I’ve found myself back to handshaking. Yes, I sanitize before and after, another ritual that has symbolic as well as practical significance. I get fewer sideways glances from my geriatric patients for sure. But I do still offer a little dap for my liquid nitrogen–survivor kids and for the occasional fellow Gen Xer. “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

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

1. Stride confidently into the room to greet your 84-year-old female patient.

2. Introduce yourself saying, “Hi, I’m Dr. Jeff Benabio.”

3. Extend your clenched fist toward her chest and wait for her to reciprocate.

4. Smile awkwardly behind your mask while you wait.

5. Advise that you are doing a fist bump instead of a handshake to prevent the spread of viruses.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

6. Wait.

7. Explain that she can bump, also known as “dap,” you back by extending her clenched fist and bumping into yours.

8. Wait a bit more.

9. Lower your fist and pat her on the shoulder with your left hand. Do so gently so it doesn’t seem like you just did a quick right jab followed by a left hook.

10. Sit down diffidently and pray that you can help her so this office visit is not an utter disaster.

It seemed a good idea for 2020: Let’s stop shaking hands while we wait out this viral apocalypse. Sensible, but entering a patient room and just sitting down didn’t work. It felt cold, impolite – this isn’t the DMV. In medicine, a complete stranger has to trust us to get naked, tell intimate secrets, even be stuck by needles all within minutes of meeting. We needed a trust-building substitute greeting.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

There was the Muslim hand-on-my-heart greeting. Or the Hindu “namaste” or Buddhist “amituofo” folded hands. Or perhaps the paternalistic shoulder pat? I went with the fist bump. With some of my partner docs, my old MBA squad, my neighbor, the fist bump felt natural, reciprocated without hesitation. But it fails with many patients. To understand why, it’s helpful to know the history of the fist bump, also known as the dap.

Dap is an acronym for Dignity And Pride. It’s a variation of a handshake that originated among Black soldiers in the Vietnam war as a means of showing fraternity and establishing connectedness. In Vietnam, 30% of the combat battalions were Black. Marginalized in the military and at home, they created a greeting that was meaningful and unique. The dap was a series of shakes, bumps, slaps, and hugs that was symbolic. It was a means of showing respect and humility, that no one is above others, that I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. It was a powerful recognition of humanity and effective means of personal connection. It spread from the Black community to the general population and it exists still today. The choreographed pregame handshake you see so many NBA players engage in is a descendant of the dap. Like many rituals, it reinforces bonds with those who are your people, your team, those you trust.

shaking_hands_web.jpg

The more generalized version is the simple fist bump. It is widely used, notably by President Obama, and in the appropriate circumstance, will almost always be reciprocated. But it doesn’t work well to create trust with a stranger. With a patient for example, you are not showing them respect for some accomplishment. Nor are we connecting with them as a member of your team. Unless this is a patient whom you’ve seen many times before, a fist bump attempt might be met with “are you serious?” In fact, a survey done in 2016 asking infectious disease professionals what they thought of fist bumps as a greeting, very few replied it was a good idea. Most felt it was unprofessional. Not to mention that a fist bump does not symbolize an agreement in the way that a handshake does (and has done since at least the 9th century BC).

With COVID waning and masks doffed, I’ve found myself back to handshaking. Yes, I sanitize before and after, another ritual that has symbolic as well as practical significance. I get fewer sideways glances from my geriatric patients for sure. But I do still offer a little dap for my liquid nitrogen–survivor kids and for the occasional fellow Gen Xer. “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

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

1. Stride confidently into the room to greet your 84-year-old female patient.

2. Introduce yourself saying, “Hi, I’m Dr. Jeff Benabio.”

3. Extend your clenched fist toward her chest and wait for her to reciprocate.

4. Smile awkwardly behind your mask while you wait.

5. Advise that you are doing a fist bump instead of a handshake to prevent the spread of viruses.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

6. Wait.

7. Explain that she can bump, also known as “dap,” you back by extending her clenched fist and bumping into yours.

8. Wait a bit more.

9. Lower your fist and pat her on the shoulder with your left hand. Do so gently so it doesn’t seem like you just did a quick right jab followed by a left hook.

10. Sit down diffidently and pray that you can help her so this office visit is not an utter disaster.

It seemed a good idea for 2020: Let’s stop shaking hands while we wait out this viral apocalypse. Sensible, but entering a patient room and just sitting down didn’t work. It felt cold, impolite – this isn’t the DMV. In medicine, a complete stranger has to trust us to get naked, tell intimate secrets, even be stuck by needles all within minutes of meeting. We needed a trust-building substitute greeting.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

There was the Muslim hand-on-my-heart greeting. Or the Hindu “namaste” or Buddhist “amituofo” folded hands. Or perhaps the paternalistic shoulder pat? I went with the fist bump. With some of my partner docs, my old MBA squad, my neighbor, the fist bump felt natural, reciprocated without hesitation. But it fails with many patients. To understand why, it’s helpful to know the history of the fist bump, also known as the dap.

Dap is an acronym for Dignity And Pride. It’s a variation of a handshake that originated among Black soldiers in the Vietnam war as a means of showing fraternity and establishing connectedness. In Vietnam, 30% of the combat battalions were Black. Marginalized in the military and at home, they created a greeting that was meaningful and unique. The dap was a series of shakes, bumps, slaps, and hugs that was symbolic. It was a means of showing respect and humility, that no one is above others, that I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. It was a powerful recognition of humanity and effective means of personal connection. It spread from the Black community to the general population and it exists still today. The choreographed pregame handshake you see so many NBA players engage in is a descendant of the dap. Like many rituals, it reinforces bonds with those who are your people, your team, those you trust.

shaking_hands_web.jpg

The more generalized version is the simple fist bump. It is widely used, notably by President Obama, and in the appropriate circumstance, will almost always be reciprocated. But it doesn’t work well to create trust with a stranger. With a patient for example, you are not showing them respect for some accomplishment. Nor are we connecting with them as a member of your team. Unless this is a patient whom you’ve seen many times before, a fist bump attempt might be met with “are you serious?” In fact, a survey done in 2016 asking infectious disease professionals what they thought of fist bumps as a greeting, very few replied it was a good idea. Most felt it was unprofessional. Not to mention that a fist bump does not symbolize an agreement in the way that a handshake does (and has done since at least the 9th century BC).

With COVID waning and masks doffed, I’ve found myself back to handshaking. Yes, I sanitize before and after, another ritual that has symbolic as well as practical significance. I get fewer sideways glances from my geriatric patients for sure. But I do still offer a little dap for my liquid nitrogen–survivor kids and for the occasional fellow Gen Xer. “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

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

Tuesdays and Fridays are tough. Not so much because of clinic, but rather because of the 32 minutes before clinic that I’m on the Peloton bike. They are the mornings I dedicate to training VO_2max. 

Training VO_2max, or maximal oxygen consumption, is simple. Spin for a leisurely, easy-breathing, 4 minutes, then for 4 minutes push yourself until you see the light of heaven and wish for death to come. Then relax for 4 minutes again. Repeat this cycle four to six times. Done justly, you will dread Tuesdays and Fridays too. The punishing cycle of a 4-minute push, then 4-minute recovery is, however, an excellent way to improve cardiovascular fitness. And no, I’m not training for the Boston Marathon, so why am I working so hard? Because I’m training for marathon clinic days for the next 20 years.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now more than ever, I feel we have to be physically fit to deal with a physicians’ day’s work. By the time the last patient leaves, I’m beat. From the first bell, patients are packed in, our in boxes are overflowing with messages, pathology results are piling up. It’s exhausting. The root cause is too much work, yes, but I believe being physically fit could help. 

I was talking to an 86-year-old patient about this very topic recently. He was short, with a well-manicured goatee and shiny head. He stuck his arm out to shake my hand. “Glad we’re back to handshakes again, doc.” His grip was that of a 30-year-old. “Buff” you’d likely describe him: He is noticeably muscular, not a skinny old man. He’s an old Navy Master Chief who started a business in wholesale flowers, which distributes all over the United States. And he’s still working full time. Impressed, I asked his secret for such vigor. PT, he replied. 

PT, or physical training, is a foundational element of the Navy. Every sailor starts his or her day with morning PT before carrying out their duties. Some 30 years later, this guy is still getting after it. He does push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups nearly every morning. Morning PT is what he attributes to his success not only in health, but also business. As he sees it, he has the business savvy and experience of an old guy and the energy and stamina of a college kid. A good combination for a successful life.

I’ve always been pretty fit. Lately, I’ve been trying to take it to the next level, to not just be “physically active,” but rather “high-performance fit.” There are plenty of sources for instruction; how to stay young and healthy isn’t a new idea after all. I mean, Herodotus wrote of finding the Fountain of Youth in the 5th century BCE. A couple thousand years later, it’s still on trend. One of my favorite sages giving health span advice is Peter Attia, MD. I’ve been a fan since I met him at TEDMED in 2013 and I marvel at the astounding body of work he has created since. A Johns Hopkins–trained surgeon, he has spent his career reviewing the scientific literature about longevity and sharing it as actionable content. His book, “Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity” (New York: Penguin Random House, 2023) is a nice summary of his work. I recommend it. 

Right now I’m switching between type 2 muscle fiber work (lots of jumping like my 2-year-old) and cardiovascular training including the aforementioned VO_2max work. I cannot say that my patient inbox is any cleaner, or that I’m faster in the office, but I’m not flagging by the end of the day anymore. Master Chief challenged me to match his 10 pull-ups before he returns for his follow up visit. I’ll gladly give up Peloton sprints to work on that.

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

Tuesdays and Fridays are tough. Not so much because of clinic, but rather because of the 32 minutes before clinic that I’m on the Peloton bike. They are the mornings I dedicate to training VO_2max. 

Training VO_2max, or maximal oxygen consumption, is simple. Spin for a leisurely, easy-breathing, 4 minutes, then for 4 minutes push yourself until you see the light of heaven and wish for death to come. Then relax for 4 minutes again. Repeat this cycle four to six times. Done justly, you will dread Tuesdays and Fridays too. The punishing cycle of a 4-minute push, then 4-minute recovery is, however, an excellent way to improve cardiovascular fitness. And no, I’m not training for the Boston Marathon, so why am I working so hard? Because I’m training for marathon clinic days for the next 20 years.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now more than ever, I feel we have to be physically fit to deal with a physicians’ day’s work. By the time the last patient leaves, I’m beat. From the first bell, patients are packed in, our in boxes are overflowing with messages, pathology results are piling up. It’s exhausting. The root cause is too much work, yes, but I believe being physically fit could help. 

I was talking to an 86-year-old patient about this very topic recently. He was short, with a well-manicured goatee and shiny head. He stuck his arm out to shake my hand. “Glad we’re back to handshakes again, doc.” His grip was that of a 30-year-old. “Buff” you’d likely describe him: He is noticeably muscular, not a skinny old man. He’s an old Navy Master Chief who started a business in wholesale flowers, which distributes all over the United States. And he’s still working full time. Impressed, I asked his secret for such vigor. PT, he replied. 

PT, or physical training, is a foundational element of the Navy. Every sailor starts his or her day with morning PT before carrying out their duties. Some 30 years later, this guy is still getting after it. He does push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups nearly every morning. Morning PT is what he attributes to his success not only in health, but also business. As he sees it, he has the business savvy and experience of an old guy and the energy and stamina of a college kid. A good combination for a successful life.

I’ve always been pretty fit. Lately, I’ve been trying to take it to the next level, to not just be “physically active,” but rather “high-performance fit.” There are plenty of sources for instruction; how to stay young and healthy isn’t a new idea after all. I mean, Herodotus wrote of finding the Fountain of Youth in the 5th century BCE. A couple thousand years later, it’s still on trend. One of my favorite sages giving health span advice is Peter Attia, MD. I’ve been a fan since I met him at TEDMED in 2013 and I marvel at the astounding body of work he has created since. A Johns Hopkins–trained surgeon, he has spent his career reviewing the scientific literature about longevity and sharing it as actionable content. His book, “Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity” (New York: Penguin Random House, 2023) is a nice summary of his work. I recommend it. 

Right now I’m switching between type 2 muscle fiber work (lots of jumping like my 2-year-old) and cardiovascular training including the aforementioned VO_2max work. I cannot say that my patient inbox is any cleaner, or that I’m faster in the office, but I’m not flagging by the end of the day anymore. Master Chief challenged me to match his 10 pull-ups before he returns for his follow up visit. I’ll gladly give up Peloton sprints to work on that.

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

Tuesdays and Fridays are tough. Not so much because of clinic, but rather because of the 32 minutes before clinic that I’m on the Peloton bike. They are the mornings I dedicate to training VO_2max. 

Training VO_2max, or maximal oxygen consumption, is simple. Spin for a leisurely, easy-breathing, 4 minutes, then for 4 minutes push yourself until you see the light of heaven and wish for death to come. Then relax for 4 minutes again. Repeat this cycle four to six times. Done justly, you will dread Tuesdays and Fridays too. The punishing cycle of a 4-minute push, then 4-minute recovery is, however, an excellent way to improve cardiovascular fitness. And no, I’m not training for the Boston Marathon, so why am I working so hard? Because I’m training for marathon clinic days for the next 20 years.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now more than ever, I feel we have to be physically fit to deal with a physicians’ day’s work. By the time the last patient leaves, I’m beat. From the first bell, patients are packed in, our in boxes are overflowing with messages, pathology results are piling up. It’s exhausting. The root cause is too much work, yes, but I believe being physically fit could help. 

I was talking to an 86-year-old patient about this very topic recently. He was short, with a well-manicured goatee and shiny head. He stuck his arm out to shake my hand. “Glad we’re back to handshakes again, doc.” His grip was that of a 30-year-old. “Buff” you’d likely describe him: He is noticeably muscular, not a skinny old man. He’s an old Navy Master Chief who started a business in wholesale flowers, which distributes all over the United States. And he’s still working full time. Impressed, I asked his secret for such vigor. PT, he replied. 

PT, or physical training, is a foundational element of the Navy. Every sailor starts his or her day with morning PT before carrying out their duties. Some 30 years later, this guy is still getting after it. He does push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups nearly every morning. Morning PT is what he attributes to his success not only in health, but also business. As he sees it, he has the business savvy and experience of an old guy and the energy and stamina of a college kid. A good combination for a successful life.

I’ve always been pretty fit. Lately, I’ve been trying to take it to the next level, to not just be “physically active,” but rather “high-performance fit.” There are plenty of sources for instruction; how to stay young and healthy isn’t a new idea after all. I mean, Herodotus wrote of finding the Fountain of Youth in the 5th century BCE. A couple thousand years later, it’s still on trend. One of my favorite sages giving health span advice is Peter Attia, MD. I’ve been a fan since I met him at TEDMED in 2013 and I marvel at the astounding body of work he has created since. A Johns Hopkins–trained surgeon, he has spent his career reviewing the scientific literature about longevity and sharing it as actionable content. His book, “Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity” (New York: Penguin Random House, 2023) is a nice summary of his work. I recommend it. 

Right now I’m switching between type 2 muscle fiber work (lots of jumping like my 2-year-old) and cardiovascular training including the aforementioned VO_2max work. I cannot say that my patient inbox is any cleaner, or that I’m faster in the office, but I’m not flagging by the end of the day anymore. Master Chief challenged me to match his 10 pull-ups before he returns for his follow up visit. I’ll gladly give up Peloton sprints to work on that.

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

“Papa! Where donut?” asks my 2½ year-old sitting with her legs dangling and hands folded in a bustling Starbucks. We’ve been waiting for 8 minutes and we’ve reached her limit of tolerance. She’s unimpressed by the queued customers who compliment her curly blonde hair, many of whom have come and gone since we’ve been waiting. I agree – how long does it take to pour a kiddie milk and grab a donut? We can both see it in the case right there!

163109_daughter_web.jpg

No one likes to wait. Truly, one of the great benefits of the modern world is that wait times are now incredibly short. Many Starbucks customers, unlike my daughter, ordered their drink ahead and waited exactly 0 minutes to get their drink. What about Amazon? I ordered a bird feeder this morning and it’s already hanging in the yard. It’s still daylight. Feel like Himalayan Momo Dumplings tonight? Your food could arrive in 37 minutes. The modern wait standard has been set impossibly high for us.

Yes, medicine is no doubt at the top of the list of “Worst Wait Times.” We make patients wait for appointments (sometimes months), wait to be seen, wait for biopsy results, wait for follow-up surgery, wait for those second results, even wait for PET scans and treatment plans for some. We created a whole room just for waiting. Airlines call theirs “The Platinum Executive Lounge.” Ours is “The waiting room.”

Excess waiting is a significant reason why health care gets beat up in reviews. We’re unable to keep up with the new expectations. Waiting is also a significant cause of distress. Many patients report the most difficult part of their cancer diagnosis was the waiting for results, not the treatment. It’s because when under stress, we are hardwired to take action. Binding patients into inaction while they wait is very uncomfortable.

[embed:render:related:node:259525]

Fortunately, the psychology of waiting is well understood and there are best practices that can help. First, anxiety makes waiting much worse. Conveying confidence and reassuring patients they are in the right place and that everything will be OK makes the wait time feel shorter for them. Uncertainty also compounds their apprehension. If you believe the diagnosis will be melanoma, tell them that at the time of the biopsy and tell them what you expect next. This is better than saying, “Well, that could be cancer. We’ll see.”

Knowing a wait time is also much better than not. Have your staff advise patients on how much longer they can expect before seeing you (telling them they’re next isn’t as effective). Advise that test results should be back by the end of next week. Of course, under promise and over deliver. When the results are back on Tuesday, you’ve got a pleased patient.

Explaining that you had to add in an urgent patient helps. Even if it’s not your fault, it’s still better to apologize. For example, the 78 highway, the left anterior descending artery to our office, has been closed because of a sinkhole this month (not kidding). I’ve been apologizing to a lot of patients saying that all our patients are arriving late, which is putting us behind. As they can envision the linear parking lot that used to be a highway, it helps.

Lastly, as any child can tell you, waiting has to not only be, but to also appear, fair. The only thing worse than waiting for an appointment, or donut, is seeing someone who came in after you get their donut before you do. If you’re pulling both Mohs and cosmetics patients from the same waiting area, then your surgery patients will see a lot of patients come and go while they are sitting. Demarcating one sitting area for Mohs and one for clinics might help. So does ordering ahead. I’d show my daughter how to use the app so we don’t have to wait so long next week, but she’s 2 and I’m quite sure she already knows.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

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

“Papa! Where donut?” asks my 2½ year-old sitting with her legs dangling and hands folded in a bustling Starbucks. We’ve been waiting for 8 minutes and we’ve reached her limit of tolerance. She’s unimpressed by the queued customers who compliment her curly blonde hair, many of whom have come and gone since we’ve been waiting. I agree – how long does it take to pour a kiddie milk and grab a donut? We can both see it in the case right there!

163109_daughter_web.jpg

No one likes to wait. Truly, one of the great benefits of the modern world is that wait times are now incredibly short. Many Starbucks customers, unlike my daughter, ordered their drink ahead and waited exactly 0 minutes to get their drink. What about Amazon? I ordered a bird feeder this morning and it’s already hanging in the yard. It’s still daylight. Feel like Himalayan Momo Dumplings tonight? Your food could arrive in 37 minutes. The modern wait standard has been set impossibly high for us.

Yes, medicine is no doubt at the top of the list of “Worst Wait Times.” We make patients wait for appointments (sometimes months), wait to be seen, wait for biopsy results, wait for follow-up surgery, wait for those second results, even wait for PET scans and treatment plans for some. We created a whole room just for waiting. Airlines call theirs “The Platinum Executive Lounge.” Ours is “The waiting room.”

Excess waiting is a significant reason why health care gets beat up in reviews. We’re unable to keep up with the new expectations. Waiting is also a significant cause of distress. Many patients report the most difficult part of their cancer diagnosis was the waiting for results, not the treatment. It’s because when under stress, we are hardwired to take action. Binding patients into inaction while they wait is very uncomfortable.

[embed:render:related:node:259525]

Fortunately, the psychology of waiting is well understood and there are best practices that can help. First, anxiety makes waiting much worse. Conveying confidence and reassuring patients they are in the right place and that everything will be OK makes the wait time feel shorter for them. Uncertainty also compounds their apprehension. If you believe the diagnosis will be melanoma, tell them that at the time of the biopsy and tell them what you expect next. This is better than saying, “Well, that could be cancer. We’ll see.”

Knowing a wait time is also much better than not. Have your staff advise patients on how much longer they can expect before seeing you (telling them they’re next isn’t as effective). Advise that test results should be back by the end of next week. Of course, under promise and over deliver. When the results are back on Tuesday, you’ve got a pleased patient.

Explaining that you had to add in an urgent patient helps. Even if it’s not your fault, it’s still better to apologize. For example, the 78 highway, the left anterior descending artery to our office, has been closed because of a sinkhole this month (not kidding). I’ve been apologizing to a lot of patients saying that all our patients are arriving late, which is putting us behind. As they can envision the linear parking lot that used to be a highway, it helps.

Lastly, as any child can tell you, waiting has to not only be, but to also appear, fair. The only thing worse than waiting for an appointment, or donut, is seeing someone who came in after you get their donut before you do. If you’re pulling both Mohs and cosmetics patients from the same waiting area, then your surgery patients will see a lot of patients come and go while they are sitting. Demarcating one sitting area for Mohs and one for clinics might help. So does ordering ahead. I’d show my daughter how to use the app so we don’t have to wait so long next week, but she’s 2 and I’m quite sure she already knows.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

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

“Papa! Where donut?” asks my 2½ year-old sitting with her legs dangling and hands folded in a bustling Starbucks. We’ve been waiting for 8 minutes and we’ve reached her limit of tolerance. She’s unimpressed by the queued customers who compliment her curly blonde hair, many of whom have come and gone since we’ve been waiting. I agree – how long does it take to pour a kiddie milk and grab a donut? We can both see it in the case right there!

163109_daughter_web.jpg

No one likes to wait. Truly, one of the great benefits of the modern world is that wait times are now incredibly short. Many Starbucks customers, unlike my daughter, ordered their drink ahead and waited exactly 0 minutes to get their drink. What about Amazon? I ordered a bird feeder this morning and it’s already hanging in the yard. It’s still daylight. Feel like Himalayan Momo Dumplings tonight? Your food could arrive in 37 minutes. The modern wait standard has been set impossibly high for us.

Yes, medicine is no doubt at the top of the list of “Worst Wait Times.” We make patients wait for appointments (sometimes months), wait to be seen, wait for biopsy results, wait for follow-up surgery, wait for those second results, even wait for PET scans and treatment plans for some. We created a whole room just for waiting. Airlines call theirs “The Platinum Executive Lounge.” Ours is “The waiting room.”

Excess waiting is a significant reason why health care gets beat up in reviews. We’re unable to keep up with the new expectations. Waiting is also a significant cause of distress. Many patients report the most difficult part of their cancer diagnosis was the waiting for results, not the treatment. It’s because when under stress, we are hardwired to take action. Binding patients into inaction while they wait is very uncomfortable.

[embed:render:related:node:259525]

Fortunately, the psychology of waiting is well understood and there are best practices that can help. First, anxiety makes waiting much worse. Conveying confidence and reassuring patients they are in the right place and that everything will be OK makes the wait time feel shorter for them. Uncertainty also compounds their apprehension. If you believe the diagnosis will be melanoma, tell them that at the time of the biopsy and tell them what you expect next. This is better than saying, “Well, that could be cancer. We’ll see.”

Knowing a wait time is also much better than not. Have your staff advise patients on how much longer they can expect before seeing you (telling them they’re next isn’t as effective). Advise that test results should be back by the end of next week. Of course, under promise and over deliver. When the results are back on Tuesday, you’ve got a pleased patient.

Explaining that you had to add in an urgent patient helps. Even if it’s not your fault, it’s still better to apologize. For example, the 78 highway, the left anterior descending artery to our office, has been closed because of a sinkhole this month (not kidding). I’ve been apologizing to a lot of patients saying that all our patients are arriving late, which is putting us behind. As they can envision the linear parking lot that used to be a highway, it helps.

Lastly, as any child can tell you, waiting has to not only be, but to also appear, fair. The only thing worse than waiting for an appointment, or donut, is seeing someone who came in after you get their donut before you do. If you’re pulling both Mohs and cosmetics patients from the same waiting area, then your surgery patients will see a lot of patients come and go while they are sitting. Demarcating one sitting area for Mohs and one for clinics might help. So does ordering ahead. I’d show my daughter how to use the app so we don’t have to wait so long next week, but she’s 2 and I’m quite sure she already knows.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

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

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates

At what age is one supposed to be wise? I feel like I’m falling behind. I’ve crossed the middle of life and can check the prerequisite experiences: Joy, tragedy, love, adventure, love again. I lived a jetsetter life with an overnight bag always packed. I’ve sported the “Dad AF” tee with a fully loaded dad-pack. I’ve seen the 50 states and had my picture wrapped on a city bus (super-weird when you pull up next to one). Yet, when a moment arrives to pop in pithy advice for a resident or drop a few reassuring lines for a grieving friend, I’m often unable to find the words. If life were a video game, I’ve not earned the wisdom level yet.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Who are the wise men and women in your life? It’s difficult to list them. This is because it’s a complex attribute and hard to explain. It’s also because the wise who walk among us are rare. Wise is more than being brilliant at bullous diseases or knowing how to sleep train a baby. Nor is wise the buddy who purchased $1,000 of Bitcoin in 2010 (although stay close with him, he probably owns a jet). Neither content experts nor lucky friends rise to the appellation. To be wise you have to not only make good decisions, but also offer good advice. You need both knowledge and insight. Both experience and empathy.

The_School_of_Athens_web.jpg

The ancients considered wisdom to be one of the vital virtues. It was personified in high-profile gods like Apollo and Athena. It’s rare and important enough to be seen as spiritual. It features heavily in the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In some cultures the wise are called elders or sages. In all cultures they are helpful, respected, sought after, appreciated. We need more wise people in this game of life. I want to be one. But there’s no Coursera for it.

[embed:render:related:node:261216]

To become wise you have to pass through many levels, put in a lot of reps, suffer through many sleepless nights. Like the third molar, also known as the wisdom tooth, it takes years. You also have to emerge stronger and smarter through those experiences. FDR would not have become one of the wisest presidents in history had it not been for his trials, and victories, over polio. Osler missed Cushing syndrome multiple times before he got it right. It seems you have to go to the mountain, like Batman, and fight a few battles to realize your full wisdom potential.

You must also reflect on your experiences and hone your insight. The management sage Peter Drucker would write what he expected to happen after a decision. Then he’d return to it to hone his intuition and judgment.

Lastly, you have to use your powers for good. Using insight to win your NCAA bracket pool isn’t wisdom. Helping a friend whose marriage is falling apart or colleague whose patient is suing them or a resident whose excision hit an arteriole surely is.

I’ve got a ways to go before anyone puts me on their wise friend list. I’m working on it though. Perhaps you will too – we are desperately short-staffed in this area. For now, I can start with writing better condolences.



“Who maintains that it is not a heavy blow? But it is part of being human.” – Seneca

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

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates

At what age is one supposed to be wise? I feel like I’m falling behind. I’ve crossed the middle of life and can check the prerequisite experiences: Joy, tragedy, love, adventure, love again. I lived a jetsetter life with an overnight bag always packed. I’ve sported the “Dad AF” tee with a fully loaded dad-pack. I’ve seen the 50 states and had my picture wrapped on a city bus (super-weird when you pull up next to one). Yet, when a moment arrives to pop in pithy advice for a resident or drop a few reassuring lines for a grieving friend, I’m often unable to find the words. If life were a video game, I’ve not earned the wisdom level yet.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Who are the wise men and women in your life? It’s difficult to list them. This is because it’s a complex attribute and hard to explain. It’s also because the wise who walk among us are rare. Wise is more than being brilliant at bullous diseases or knowing how to sleep train a baby. Nor is wise the buddy who purchased $1,000 of Bitcoin in 2010 (although stay close with him, he probably owns a jet). Neither content experts nor lucky friends rise to the appellation. To be wise you have to not only make good decisions, but also offer good advice. You need both knowledge and insight. Both experience and empathy.

The_School_of_Athens_web.jpg

The ancients considered wisdom to be one of the vital virtues. It was personified in high-profile gods like Apollo and Athena. It’s rare and important enough to be seen as spiritual. It features heavily in the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In some cultures the wise are called elders or sages. In all cultures they are helpful, respected, sought after, appreciated. We need more wise people in this game of life. I want to be one. But there’s no Coursera for it.

[embed:render:related:node:261216]

To become wise you have to pass through many levels, put in a lot of reps, suffer through many sleepless nights. Like the third molar, also known as the wisdom tooth, it takes years. You also have to emerge stronger and smarter through those experiences. FDR would not have become one of the wisest presidents in history had it not been for his trials, and victories, over polio. Osler missed Cushing syndrome multiple times before he got it right. It seems you have to go to the mountain, like Batman, and fight a few battles to realize your full wisdom potential.

You must also reflect on your experiences and hone your insight. The management sage Peter Drucker would write what he expected to happen after a decision. Then he’d return to it to hone his intuition and judgment.

Lastly, you have to use your powers for good. Using insight to win your NCAA bracket pool isn’t wisdom. Helping a friend whose marriage is falling apart or colleague whose patient is suing them or a resident whose excision hit an arteriole surely is.

I’ve got a ways to go before anyone puts me on their wise friend list. I’m working on it though. Perhaps you will too – we are desperately short-staffed in this area. For now, I can start with writing better condolences.



“Who maintains that it is not a heavy blow? But it is part of being human.” – Seneca

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

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates

At what age is one supposed to be wise? I feel like I’m falling behind. I’ve crossed the middle of life and can check the prerequisite experiences: Joy, tragedy, love, adventure, love again. I lived a jetsetter life with an overnight bag always packed. I’ve sported the “Dad AF” tee with a fully loaded dad-pack. I’ve seen the 50 states and had my picture wrapped on a city bus (super-weird when you pull up next to one). Yet, when a moment arrives to pop in pithy advice for a resident or drop a few reassuring lines for a grieving friend, I’m often unable to find the words. If life were a video game, I’ve not earned the wisdom level yet.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Who are the wise men and women in your life? It’s difficult to list them. This is because it’s a complex attribute and hard to explain. It’s also because the wise who walk among us are rare. Wise is more than being brilliant at bullous diseases or knowing how to sleep train a baby. Nor is wise the buddy who purchased $1,000 of Bitcoin in 2010 (although stay close with him, he probably owns a jet). Neither content experts nor lucky friends rise to the appellation. To be wise you have to not only make good decisions, but also offer good advice. You need both knowledge and insight. Both experience and empathy.

The_School_of_Athens_web.jpg

The ancients considered wisdom to be one of the vital virtues. It was personified in high-profile gods like Apollo and Athena. It’s rare and important enough to be seen as spiritual. It features heavily in the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In some cultures the wise are called elders or sages. In all cultures they are helpful, respected, sought after, appreciated. We need more wise people in this game of life. I want to be one. But there’s no Coursera for it.

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To become wise you have to pass through many levels, put in a lot of reps, suffer through many sleepless nights. Like the third molar, also known as the wisdom tooth, it takes years. You also have to emerge stronger and smarter through those experiences. FDR would not have become one of the wisest presidents in history had it not been for his trials, and victories, over polio. Osler missed Cushing syndrome multiple times before he got it right. It seems you have to go to the mountain, like Batman, and fight a few battles to realize your full wisdom potential.

You must also reflect on your experiences and hone your insight. The management sage Peter Drucker would write what he expected to happen after a decision. Then he’d return to it to hone his intuition and judgment.

Lastly, you have to use your powers for good. Using insight to win your NCAA bracket pool isn’t wisdom. Helping a friend whose marriage is falling apart or colleague whose patient is suing them or a resident whose excision hit an arteriole surely is.

I’ve got a ways to go before anyone puts me on their wise friend list. I’m working on it though. Perhaps you will too – we are desperately short-staffed in this area. For now, I can start with writing better condolences.



“Who maintains that it is not a heavy blow? But it is part of being human.” – Seneca

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

Friday, Feb. 10, 2023, marked the first time a patient told me they had used ChatGPT to answer a medical question. I’ve been reluctant to write about this super-buzzy new AI chatbot, but I am starting to think it is the real deal. Just how powerful is it? Well, ChatGPT might in fact be writing this column right now. It isn’t. No really, it’s me. But if not for the few cues (“super-buzzy”) that you’ll recognize as my writing voice, there might not be any way for you to know if I wrote this or not.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

It’s perfectly OK if you’ve no clue what I’m talking about. ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that burst into public view just a couple months ago. Not your parent’s chatbot, this one is capable of answering questions in conversational language. It is jaw-droppingly good. Like Google, you can type in a question and it offers you answers. Rather than giving you a list of websites and a few Wikipedia blurbs, however, ChatGPT answers your question in human-like text. It can also create content on demand. For example, I asked it to write a Valentine poem to a dermatologist, and it gave me five stanzas starting with:

Oh gentle healer of skin so fair,
Your touch is soft and hands so rare,
With your skills and gentle care,
You make my heart skip with a flare.

Not good enough to send to my wife. But not bad.

If you ask it again, it will create a whole new one for you. Amusing, yes? What if you asked ChatGPT to explain psoriasis, or any medical condition for that matter, to a patient? The replies are quite good. Some even better than what I’m currently using for my patients. It can also offer treatment recommendations, vacation advice, and plan, with recipes, a dinner party for six with one vegan and one gluten-free couple. If you are a programmer, it can write code. Ask it for a Wordpress plugin to add to your website and your eyes will widen as you see it magically appear before you. What if you find that you just don’t like your daughter’s new boyfriend? Yep, it will write the text or email for you to help with this discussion. I’ve saved that one.

I tried “What are treatments for bullous pemphigoid that has been refractory to topical steroid, oral prednisone, and oral tetracyclines?” It replied with five ideas, including the standard methotrexate and azathioprine but also IVIG, Rituxan, even other biologics. Write an op note? Appeal a denied prior authorization to a payer? Write a clinic note for a complete skin exam? Check, check, check. Are you starting to think it might be the real deal, too?

[embed:render:related:node:258705]

Before we sell the farm though, there are significant limitations. Despite how swotty ChatGPT seems, it is not smart. That is, “it” has no idea what “it” is saying. ChatGPT is an incredibly sophisticated algorithm that has learned the probability of what word comes next in a conversation. To do so, it read the Internet. Billions (trillions?) of words make it possible to predict what is the best answer to any question. But – it’s only as good as the Internet, so there’s that. My patient who used ChatGPT has dissecting cellulitis and asked what to do for scarring alopecia. Some of the answers were reasonable, but some, such as transplanting hairs into the scarred areas, would not likely be helpful. That is unless ChatGPT knows something I don’t.

Having wasted hours of time playing with this thing rather than writing my column, I asked ChatGPT to write an article about itself in the style of Christopher Hitchens. It was nothing like his incisive and eloquent prose, but it wrote 500 words in a few seconds ending with:

“The reality is that there is no substitute for human interaction and empathy in the field of dermatology. Dermatologists must be cautious in their adoption of ChatGPT and ensure that they are not sacrificing the quality of patient care in the pursuit of efficiency and convenience.”

I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.

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

Friday, Feb. 10, 2023, marked the first time a patient told me they had used ChatGPT to answer a medical question. I’ve been reluctant to write about this super-buzzy new AI chatbot, but I am starting to think it is the real deal. Just how powerful is it? Well, ChatGPT might in fact be writing this column right now. It isn’t. No really, it’s me. But if not for the few cues (“super-buzzy”) that you’ll recognize as my writing voice, there might not be any way for you to know if I wrote this or not.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

It’s perfectly OK if you’ve no clue what I’m talking about. ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that burst into public view just a couple months ago. Not your parent’s chatbot, this one is capable of answering questions in conversational language. It is jaw-droppingly good. Like Google, you can type in a question and it offers you answers. Rather than giving you a list of websites and a few Wikipedia blurbs, however, ChatGPT answers your question in human-like text. It can also create content on demand. For example, I asked it to write a Valentine poem to a dermatologist, and it gave me five stanzas starting with:

Oh gentle healer of skin so fair,
Your touch is soft and hands so rare,
With your skills and gentle care,
You make my heart skip with a flare.

Not good enough to send to my wife. But not bad.

If you ask it again, it will create a whole new one for you. Amusing, yes? What if you asked ChatGPT to explain psoriasis, or any medical condition for that matter, to a patient? The replies are quite good. Some even better than what I’m currently using for my patients. It can also offer treatment recommendations, vacation advice, and plan, with recipes, a dinner party for six with one vegan and one gluten-free couple. If you are a programmer, it can write code. Ask it for a Wordpress plugin to add to your website and your eyes will widen as you see it magically appear before you. What if you find that you just don’t like your daughter’s new boyfriend? Yep, it will write the text or email for you to help with this discussion. I’ve saved that one.

I tried “What are treatments for bullous pemphigoid that has been refractory to topical steroid, oral prednisone, and oral tetracyclines?” It replied with five ideas, including the standard methotrexate and azathioprine but also IVIG, Rituxan, even other biologics. Write an op note? Appeal a denied prior authorization to a payer? Write a clinic note for a complete skin exam? Check, check, check. Are you starting to think it might be the real deal, too?

[embed:render:related:node:258705]

Before we sell the farm though, there are significant limitations. Despite how swotty ChatGPT seems, it is not smart. That is, “it” has no idea what “it” is saying. ChatGPT is an incredibly sophisticated algorithm that has learned the probability of what word comes next in a conversation. To do so, it read the Internet. Billions (trillions?) of words make it possible to predict what is the best answer to any question. But – it’s only as good as the Internet, so there’s that. My patient who used ChatGPT has dissecting cellulitis and asked what to do for scarring alopecia. Some of the answers were reasonable, but some, such as transplanting hairs into the scarred areas, would not likely be helpful. That is unless ChatGPT knows something I don’t.

Having wasted hours of time playing with this thing rather than writing my column, I asked ChatGPT to write an article about itself in the style of Christopher Hitchens. It was nothing like his incisive and eloquent prose, but it wrote 500 words in a few seconds ending with:

“The reality is that there is no substitute for human interaction and empathy in the field of dermatology. Dermatologists must be cautious in their adoption of ChatGPT and ensure that they are not sacrificing the quality of patient care in the pursuit of efficiency and convenience.”

I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.

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

Friday, Feb. 10, 2023, marked the first time a patient told me they had used ChatGPT to answer a medical question. I’ve been reluctant to write about this super-buzzy new AI chatbot, but I am starting to think it is the real deal. Just how powerful is it? Well, ChatGPT might in fact be writing this column right now. It isn’t. No really, it’s me. But if not for the few cues (“super-buzzy”) that you’ll recognize as my writing voice, there might not be any way for you to know if I wrote this or not.

It’s perfectly OK if you’ve no clue what I’m talking about. ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that burst into public view just a couple months ago. Not your parent’s chatbot, this one is capable of answering questions in conversational language. It is jaw-droppingly good. Like Google, you can type in a question and it offers you answers. Rather than giving you a list of websites and a few Wikipedia blurbs, however, ChatGPT answers your question in human-like text. It can also create content on demand. For example, I asked it to write a Valentine poem to a dermatologist, and it gave me five stanzas starting with:

Oh gentle healer of skin so fair,
Your touch is soft and hands so rare,
With your skills and gentle care,
You make my heart skip with a flare.

Not good enough to send to my wife. But not bad.

If you ask it again, it will create a whole new one for you. Amusing, yes? What if you asked ChatGPT to explain psoriasis, or any medical condition for that matter, to a patient? The replies are quite good. Some even better than what I’m currently using for my patients. It can also offer treatment recommendations, vacation advice, and plan, with recipes, a dinner party for six with one vegan and one gluten-free couple. If you are a programmer, it can write code. Ask it for a Wordpress plugin to add to your website and your eyes will widen as you see it magically appear before you. What if you find that you just don’t like your daughter’s new boyfriend? Yep, it will write the text or email for you to help with this discussion. I’ve saved that one.

I tried “What are treatments for bullous pemphigoid that has been refractory to topical steroid, oral prednisone, and oral tetracyclines?” It replied with five ideas, including the standard methotrexate and azathioprine but also IVIG, Rituxan, even other biologics. Write an op note? Appeal a denied prior authorization to a payer? Write a clinic note for a complete skin exam? Check, check, check. Are you starting to think it might be the real deal, too?

[embed:render:related:node:258705]

Before we sell the farm though, there are significant limitations. Despite how swotty ChatGPT seems, it is not smart. That is, “it” has no idea what “it” is saying. ChatGPT is an incredibly sophisticated algorithm that has learned the probability of what word comes next in a conversation. To do so, it read the Internet. Billions (trillions?) of words make it possible to predict what is the best answer to any question. But – it’s only as good as the Internet, so there’s that. My patient who used ChatGPT has dissecting cellulitis and asked what to do for scarring alopecia. Some of the answers were reasonable, but some, such as transplanting hairs into the scarred areas, would not likely be helpful. That is unless ChatGPT knows something I don’t.

Having wasted hours of time playing with this thing rather than writing my column, I asked ChatGPT to write an article about itself in the style of Christopher Hitchens. It was nothing like his incisive and eloquent prose, but it wrote 500 words in a few seconds ending with:

“The reality is that there is no substitute for human interaction and empathy in the field of dermatology. Dermatologists must be cautious in their adoption of ChatGPT and ensure that they are not sacrificing the quality of patient care in the pursuit of efficiency and convenience.”

I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.

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

My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.

Kind Regards, 

Pat

I sat down, my desk nearly at eye level now, and felt the paper in my hand. It was white, college ruled paper and a blue ink pen. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had. 

Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”

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

My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.

Kind Regards, 

Pat

I sat down, my desk nearly at eye level now, and felt the paper in my hand. It was white, college ruled paper and a blue ink pen. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had. 

Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”

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

My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.

Kind Regards, 

Pat

I sat down, my desk nearly at eye level now, and felt the paper in my hand. It was white, college ruled paper and a blue ink pen. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had. 

Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”

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

“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am

You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.

So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.

[embed:render:related:node:253897]

Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.

Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.

I wonder if I can choose Mondays.

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

“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am

You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.

So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.

[embed:render:related:node:253897]

Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.

Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.

I wonder if I can choose Mondays.

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

“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am

You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.

So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.

[embed:render:related:node:253897]

Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.

Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.

I wonder if I can choose Mondays.

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

They call me and I go.

– William Carlos Williams

I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.

I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.

In fact, we reached the high water mark for physicians calling out sick from my department this year. That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.

We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.

Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.

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

They call me and I go.

– William Carlos Williams

I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.

I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.

In fact, we reached the high water mark for physicians calling out sick from my department this year. That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.

We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.

Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.

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

They call me and I go.

– William Carlos Williams

I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.

I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.

In fact, we reached the high water mark for physicians calling out sick from my department this year. That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.

We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.

Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.

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