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Say my name
Dr. Ben-a-bo?
Nope.
Ben-nabi?
Nope.
Ben-NO-bo?
Also no.
My surname is tricky to pronounce for some people. I sometimes exaggerate to help patients get it right: “Beh-NAAH-bee-oh.” Almost daily someone will reply: “Oh, you’re Italian!” Well, no actually, my friend Enzo who was born in Sicily and lives in Milan, he’s Italian. I’m just a Rhode Islander who knows some Italian words from his grandmother. Most times though, I just answer: ‘Yep, I’m Italian.” It’s faster.
We use names as a shortcut to identify people. In clinic, it can help to find things in common quickly, similar to asking where you’re from. (East Coast patients seem to love that I’m from New England and if they’re Italian and from New York, well then, we’re paisans right from the start.)
However, using names to guess how someone identifies can be risky. In some instances, it could even be seen as microaggressive, particularly if you got it wrong.
Like most of you I’ll bet, I’m pretty good at pronouncing names – we practice thousands of times! Other than accepting a compliment for getting a tricky one right, such as Radivojevic (I think it’s Ra-di-VOI-ye-vich), I hadn’t thought much about names until I heard a great podcast on the topic. I thought I’d share a couple tips.
First, if you’re not particularly good at names or if you struggle with certain types of names, it’s better to ask than to butcher it. Like learning the wrong way to hit a golf ball, you may never be able to do it properly once you’ve done it wrong. (Trust me, I know from both.)
If I’m feeling confident, I’ll give it a try. But if unsure, I ask the patient to pronounce it for me, then I repeat it to confirm I’ve gotten it correct. Then I say it once or twice more during the visit. Lastly, for the knotty tongue-twisting ones, I write it phonetically in their chart.
It is important because mispronouncing names can alienate patients. It might make them feel like we don’t “know” them or that we don’t care about them. and eliminating ethnic disparities in care. Just think how much harder it might be to convince skeptical patients to take their lisinopril if you can’t even get their names right.
Worse perhaps than getting the pronunciation wrong is to turn the name into an issue. Saying: “Oh, that’s hard to pronounce” could be felt as a subtly racist remark – it’s not hard for them to pronounce of course, only for you. Also, guessing a patient’s nationality from the name is risky. Asking “are you Russian?” to someone from Ukraine or “is that Chinese?” to someone from Vietnam can quickly turn a nice office visit down a road named “Awkward.” It can give the impression that they “all look the same” to you, exactly the type of exclusion we’re trying to eliminate in medicine.
Saying a patient’s name perfectly is rewarding and a super-efficient way to connect. It can make salient the truth that you care about the patient and about his or her story, even if the name happens to be Mrs. Xiomara Winyuwongse Khosrowshahi Sundararajan Ngoc. Go ahead, give it a try.
Want more on how properly pronounce names correctly? You might like this episode of NPR’s Life Kit.
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
Dr. Ben-a-bo?
Nope.
Ben-nabi?
Nope.
Ben-NO-bo?
Also no.
My surname is tricky to pronounce for some people. I sometimes exaggerate to help patients get it right: “Beh-NAAH-bee-oh.” Almost daily someone will reply: “Oh, you’re Italian!” Well, no actually, my friend Enzo who was born in Sicily and lives in Milan, he’s Italian. I’m just a Rhode Islander who knows some Italian words from his grandmother. Most times though, I just answer: ‘Yep, I’m Italian.” It’s faster.
We use names as a shortcut to identify people. In clinic, it can help to find things in common quickly, similar to asking where you’re from. (East Coast patients seem to love that I’m from New England and if they’re Italian and from New York, well then, we’re paisans right from the start.)
However, using names to guess how someone identifies can be risky. In some instances, it could even be seen as microaggressive, particularly if you got it wrong.
Like most of you I’ll bet, I’m pretty good at pronouncing names – we practice thousands of times! Other than accepting a compliment for getting a tricky one right, such as Radivojevic (I think it’s Ra-di-VOI-ye-vich), I hadn’t thought much about names until I heard a great podcast on the topic. I thought I’d share a couple tips.
First, if you’re not particularly good at names or if you struggle with certain types of names, it’s better to ask than to butcher it. Like learning the wrong way to hit a golf ball, you may never be able to do it properly once you’ve done it wrong. (Trust me, I know from both.)
If I’m feeling confident, I’ll give it a try. But if unsure, I ask the patient to pronounce it for me, then I repeat it to confirm I’ve gotten it correct. Then I say it once or twice more during the visit. Lastly, for the knotty tongue-twisting ones, I write it phonetically in their chart.
It is important because mispronouncing names can alienate patients. It might make them feel like we don’t “know” them or that we don’t care about them. and eliminating ethnic disparities in care. Just think how much harder it might be to convince skeptical patients to take their lisinopril if you can’t even get their names right.
Worse perhaps than getting the pronunciation wrong is to turn the name into an issue. Saying: “Oh, that’s hard to pronounce” could be felt as a subtly racist remark – it’s not hard for them to pronounce of course, only for you. Also, guessing a patient’s nationality from the name is risky. Asking “are you Russian?” to someone from Ukraine or “is that Chinese?” to someone from Vietnam can quickly turn a nice office visit down a road named “Awkward.” It can give the impression that they “all look the same” to you, exactly the type of exclusion we’re trying to eliminate in medicine.
Saying a patient’s name perfectly is rewarding and a super-efficient way to connect. It can make salient the truth that you care about the patient and about his or her story, even if the name happens to be Mrs. Xiomara Winyuwongse Khosrowshahi Sundararajan Ngoc. Go ahead, give it a try.
Want more on how properly pronounce names correctly? You might like this episode of NPR’s Life Kit.
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
Dr. Ben-a-bo?
Nope.
Ben-nabi?
Nope.
Ben-NO-bo?
Also no.
My surname is tricky to pronounce for some people. I sometimes exaggerate to help patients get it right: “Beh-NAAH-bee-oh.” Almost daily someone will reply: “Oh, you’re Italian!” Well, no actually, my friend Enzo who was born in Sicily and lives in Milan, he’s Italian. I’m just a Rhode Islander who knows some Italian words from his grandmother. Most times though, I just answer: ‘Yep, I’m Italian.” It’s faster.
We use names as a shortcut to identify people. In clinic, it can help to find things in common quickly, similar to asking where you’re from. (East Coast patients seem to love that I’m from New England and if they’re Italian and from New York, well then, we’re paisans right from the start.)
However, using names to guess how someone identifies can be risky. In some instances, it could even be seen as microaggressive, particularly if you got it wrong.
Like most of you I’ll bet, I’m pretty good at pronouncing names – we practice thousands of times! Other than accepting a compliment for getting a tricky one right, such as Radivojevic (I think it’s Ra-di-VOI-ye-vich), I hadn’t thought much about names until I heard a great podcast on the topic. I thought I’d share a couple tips.
First, if you’re not particularly good at names or if you struggle with certain types of names, it’s better to ask than to butcher it. Like learning the wrong way to hit a golf ball, you may never be able to do it properly once you’ve done it wrong. (Trust me, I know from both.)
If I’m feeling confident, I’ll give it a try. But if unsure, I ask the patient to pronounce it for me, then I repeat it to confirm I’ve gotten it correct. Then I say it once or twice more during the visit. Lastly, for the knotty tongue-twisting ones, I write it phonetically in their chart.
It is important because mispronouncing names can alienate patients. It might make them feel like we don’t “know” them or that we don’t care about them. and eliminating ethnic disparities in care. Just think how much harder it might be to convince skeptical patients to take their lisinopril if you can’t even get their names right.
Worse perhaps than getting the pronunciation wrong is to turn the name into an issue. Saying: “Oh, that’s hard to pronounce” could be felt as a subtly racist remark – it’s not hard for them to pronounce of course, only for you. Also, guessing a patient’s nationality from the name is risky. Asking “are you Russian?” to someone from Ukraine or “is that Chinese?” to someone from Vietnam can quickly turn a nice office visit down a road named “Awkward.” It can give the impression that they “all look the same” to you, exactly the type of exclusion we’re trying to eliminate in medicine.
Saying a patient’s name perfectly is rewarding and a super-efficient way to connect. It can make salient the truth that you care about the patient and about his or her story, even if the name happens to be Mrs. Xiomara Winyuwongse Khosrowshahi Sundararajan Ngoc. Go ahead, give it a try.
Want more on how properly pronounce names correctly? You might like this episode of NPR’s Life Kit.
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
Applying lessons from Oprah to your practice
In my last column, I explained how I’m like Tom Brady. I’m not really. Brady is a Super Bowl–winning quarterback worth over $200 million. No, I’m like Oprah. Well, trying anyway.
Brady and Oprah, in addition to being gazillionaires, have in common that they’re arguably the GOATs (Greatest Of All Time) in their fields. Watching Oprah interview Meghan Markle and Prince Harry was like watching Tom Brady on the jumbotron – she made it look easy. Her ability to create conversation and coax information from guests is hall-of-fame good. But although they are both admirable, trying to be like Brady is useful only for next Thanksgiving when you’re trying to beat your cousins from Massachusetts in touch football. .
1. Prepare ahead. It’s clear that Oprah has binders of notes about her guests and thoroughly reviewed them before she invites them to sit down. We should do the same. Open the chart and read as much as you can before you open the door. Have important information in your head so you don’t have to break from your interview to refer to it.
2. Sprinkle pleasantry. She’d never start an interview with: So why are you here? Nor should we. Even one nonscripted question or comment can help build a little rapport before getting to the work.
3. Be brief. Oprah gets her question out fast, then gets out of the way. And as a bonus, this is the easiest place to shave a few minutes from your appointments from your own end. Think for a second before you speak and try to find the shortest route to your question. Try to keep your questions to just a sentence or two.
4. Stay on it. Once you’ve discovered something relevant, stay with it, resisting the urge to finish the review of symptoms. This is not just to make a diagnosis, but as importantly, trying to diagnose “the real reason” for the visit. Then, when the question is done, own the transition. Oprah uses: “Let’s move on.” This is a bit abrupt for us, but it can be helpful if used sparingly and gently. I might soften this a little by adding “I want to be sure we have enough time to get through everything for you.”
5. Wait. A few seconds seems an eternity on the air (and in clinic), but sometimes the silent pause is just what’s needed to help the patient expand and share.
6. Be nonjudgmental. Most of us believe we’re pretty good at this, yet, it’s sometimes a blind spot. It’s easy to blame the obese patient for his stasis dermatitis or the hidradenitis patient who hasn’t stop smoking for her cysts. It also helps to be nontransactional. If you make patients feel that you’re asking questions only to extract information, you’ll never reach Oprah level.
7. Be in the moment. It is difficult, but when possible, avoid typing notes while you’re still interviewing. We’re not just there to get the facts, we’re also trying to get the story and that sometimes takes really listening.
I’m no more like Oprah than Brady, of course. But it is more fun to close my eyes and imagine myself being her when I see my next patient. That is, until Thanksgiving. Watch out, Bedards from Attleboro.
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.
In my last column, I explained how I’m like Tom Brady. I’m not really. Brady is a Super Bowl–winning quarterback worth over $200 million. No, I’m like Oprah. Well, trying anyway.
Brady and Oprah, in addition to being gazillionaires, have in common that they’re arguably the GOATs (Greatest Of All Time) in their fields. Watching Oprah interview Meghan Markle and Prince Harry was like watching Tom Brady on the jumbotron – she made it look easy. Her ability to create conversation and coax information from guests is hall-of-fame good. But although they are both admirable, trying to be like Brady is useful only for next Thanksgiving when you’re trying to beat your cousins from Massachusetts in touch football. .
1. Prepare ahead. It’s clear that Oprah has binders of notes about her guests and thoroughly reviewed them before she invites them to sit down. We should do the same. Open the chart and read as much as you can before you open the door. Have important information in your head so you don’t have to break from your interview to refer to it.
2. Sprinkle pleasantry. She’d never start an interview with: So why are you here? Nor should we. Even one nonscripted question or comment can help build a little rapport before getting to the work.
3. Be brief. Oprah gets her question out fast, then gets out of the way. And as a bonus, this is the easiest place to shave a few minutes from your appointments from your own end. Think for a second before you speak and try to find the shortest route to your question. Try to keep your questions to just a sentence or two.
4. Stay on it. Once you’ve discovered something relevant, stay with it, resisting the urge to finish the review of symptoms. This is not just to make a diagnosis, but as importantly, trying to diagnose “the real reason” for the visit. Then, when the question is done, own the transition. Oprah uses: “Let’s move on.” This is a bit abrupt for us, but it can be helpful if used sparingly and gently. I might soften this a little by adding “I want to be sure we have enough time to get through everything for you.”
5. Wait. A few seconds seems an eternity on the air (and in clinic), but sometimes the silent pause is just what’s needed to help the patient expand and share.
6. Be nonjudgmental. Most of us believe we’re pretty good at this, yet, it’s sometimes a blind spot. It’s easy to blame the obese patient for his stasis dermatitis or the hidradenitis patient who hasn’t stop smoking for her cysts. It also helps to be nontransactional. If you make patients feel that you’re asking questions only to extract information, you’ll never reach Oprah level.
7. Be in the moment. It is difficult, but when possible, avoid typing notes while you’re still interviewing. We’re not just there to get the facts, we’re also trying to get the story and that sometimes takes really listening.
I’m no more like Oprah than Brady, of course. But it is more fun to close my eyes and imagine myself being her when I see my next patient. That is, until Thanksgiving. Watch out, Bedards from Attleboro.
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.
In my last column, I explained how I’m like Tom Brady. I’m not really. Brady is a Super Bowl–winning quarterback worth over $200 million. No, I’m like Oprah. Well, trying anyway.
Brady and Oprah, in addition to being gazillionaires, have in common that they’re arguably the GOATs (Greatest Of All Time) in their fields. Watching Oprah interview Meghan Markle and Prince Harry was like watching Tom Brady on the jumbotron – she made it look easy. Her ability to create conversation and coax information from guests is hall-of-fame good. But although they are both admirable, trying to be like Brady is useful only for next Thanksgiving when you’re trying to beat your cousins from Massachusetts in touch football. .
1. Prepare ahead. It’s clear that Oprah has binders of notes about her guests and thoroughly reviewed them before she invites them to sit down. We should do the same. Open the chart and read as much as you can before you open the door. Have important information in your head so you don’t have to break from your interview to refer to it.
2. Sprinkle pleasantry. She’d never start an interview with: So why are you here? Nor should we. Even one nonscripted question or comment can help build a little rapport before getting to the work.
3. Be brief. Oprah gets her question out fast, then gets out of the way. And as a bonus, this is the easiest place to shave a few minutes from your appointments from your own end. Think for a second before you speak and try to find the shortest route to your question. Try to keep your questions to just a sentence or two.
4. Stay on it. Once you’ve discovered something relevant, stay with it, resisting the urge to finish the review of symptoms. This is not just to make a diagnosis, but as importantly, trying to diagnose “the real reason” for the visit. Then, when the question is done, own the transition. Oprah uses: “Let’s move on.” This is a bit abrupt for us, but it can be helpful if used sparingly and gently. I might soften this a little by adding “I want to be sure we have enough time to get through everything for you.”
5. Wait. A few seconds seems an eternity on the air (and in clinic), but sometimes the silent pause is just what’s needed to help the patient expand and share.
6. Be nonjudgmental. Most of us believe we’re pretty good at this, yet, it’s sometimes a blind spot. It’s easy to blame the obese patient for his stasis dermatitis or the hidradenitis patient who hasn’t stop smoking for her cysts. It also helps to be nontransactional. If you make patients feel that you’re asking questions only to extract information, you’ll never reach Oprah level.
7. Be in the moment. It is difficult, but when possible, avoid typing notes while you’re still interviewing. We’re not just there to get the facts, we’re also trying to get the story and that sometimes takes really listening.
I’m no more like Oprah than Brady, of course. But it is more fun to close my eyes and imagine myself being her when I see my next patient. That is, until Thanksgiving. Watch out, Bedards from Attleboro.
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.
What Tom Brady and Patrick Mahomes can teach us about physicians
Warning: This article will be about Tom Brady. If you love Tom Brady, hate Tom Brady, previously loved and now hate Tom Brady, I’m just warning you so you’ll be in the right frame of mind to continue. (If you don’t know who Tom Brady is, he’s Gisele’s husband).
Brady, who plays for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, has played in the NFL for 21 seasons, an unbelievable number given the average career for a quarterback is 3 years. He’s 43 years old and was the oldest player in a Super Bowl, ever. He faced Patrick Mahomes, the quarterback for the opposing Kansas City Chiefs. Mahomes is one of the most athletic and talented quarterbacks of all time, and Mahomes is nearly 20 years younger than Brady. Yet, in a shot heard around the NFL world, Brady won.
But, was a Brady victory so shocking? Hot-shot residents may have a lot of moxie and talent, but experienced doctors often prevail by simply making sound decisions and avoiding mistakes. In our department, we’ve been discussing this lately: We’re hiring two dermatologists and we’re fortunate to have some amazing candidates apply. Some, like Mahomes, are young all-stars with outstanding ability and potential, right out of residency. Others, Brady-like, have been in practice for years and are ready to move to a new franchise.
Our medical group’s experiences are probably similar to many practices: New physicians out of residency often bring energy, inspiration, and ease with the latest therapies, devices, and surgical techniques. Yet, they sometimes struggle with efficiency and unforced errors. Experienced physicians might not know what’s hot, but they can often see where the best course of action lies, understanding not only the physiology but also the patient in ways that only experience can teach you. Fortunately, for those like me who’ve crossed midlife, there doesn’t seem to be an upper limit to experience – it is possible to keep getting better. Yes, I’m just like Tom Brady. (I wrote this article just to print that line.)
Some of the best doctors I’ve ever seen in action were emeritus physicians. In medical school at Wake Forest University, one of my professors was Dr. Eben Alexander. A retired neurosurgeon, he taught a case-based critical thinking skills class. I recall his brilliant insight and coaching, working through cases that had nothing to do with the brain or with surgery. He used his vast experience and wisdom to teach us how to practice medicine. He was, at that time, nearly 90 years old. Despite having been retired for decades, he was still writing articles and editing journals. He was inspiring. For a minute, he had me thinking I’d like to be a neurosurgeon, so I could be just like Eben Alexander. I did not, but I learned things from him that still impact my practice as a dermatologist today.
I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences of older colleagues or mentors who were the best doctor in the clinic or the O.R. They are the Dr. Anthony Faucis, not just practicing, but leading while in their 8th or 9th decade. We are all so fortunate that they keep playing.
We’ve not made our final choices on whom to hire, but with two positions, I expect we’ll choose both a young doctor and an experienced one to add to our team. It will be fun to watch and learn from them. Just like it will be fun to watch Tom Brady in the Super Bowl again next year.
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.
Warning: This article will be about Tom Brady. If you love Tom Brady, hate Tom Brady, previously loved and now hate Tom Brady, I’m just warning you so you’ll be in the right frame of mind to continue. (If you don’t know who Tom Brady is, he’s Gisele’s husband).
Brady, who plays for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, has played in the NFL for 21 seasons, an unbelievable number given the average career for a quarterback is 3 years. He’s 43 years old and was the oldest player in a Super Bowl, ever. He faced Patrick Mahomes, the quarterback for the opposing Kansas City Chiefs. Mahomes is one of the most athletic and talented quarterbacks of all time, and Mahomes is nearly 20 years younger than Brady. Yet, in a shot heard around the NFL world, Brady won.
But, was a Brady victory so shocking? Hot-shot residents may have a lot of moxie and talent, but experienced doctors often prevail by simply making sound decisions and avoiding mistakes. In our department, we’ve been discussing this lately: We’re hiring two dermatologists and we’re fortunate to have some amazing candidates apply. Some, like Mahomes, are young all-stars with outstanding ability and potential, right out of residency. Others, Brady-like, have been in practice for years and are ready to move to a new franchise.
Our medical group’s experiences are probably similar to many practices: New physicians out of residency often bring energy, inspiration, and ease with the latest therapies, devices, and surgical techniques. Yet, they sometimes struggle with efficiency and unforced errors. Experienced physicians might not know what’s hot, but they can often see where the best course of action lies, understanding not only the physiology but also the patient in ways that only experience can teach you. Fortunately, for those like me who’ve crossed midlife, there doesn’t seem to be an upper limit to experience – it is possible to keep getting better. Yes, I’m just like Tom Brady. (I wrote this article just to print that line.)
Some of the best doctors I’ve ever seen in action were emeritus physicians. In medical school at Wake Forest University, one of my professors was Dr. Eben Alexander. A retired neurosurgeon, he taught a case-based critical thinking skills class. I recall his brilliant insight and coaching, working through cases that had nothing to do with the brain or with surgery. He used his vast experience and wisdom to teach us how to practice medicine. He was, at that time, nearly 90 years old. Despite having been retired for decades, he was still writing articles and editing journals. He was inspiring. For a minute, he had me thinking I’d like to be a neurosurgeon, so I could be just like Eben Alexander. I did not, but I learned things from him that still impact my practice as a dermatologist today.
I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences of older colleagues or mentors who were the best doctor in the clinic or the O.R. They are the Dr. Anthony Faucis, not just practicing, but leading while in their 8th or 9th decade. We are all so fortunate that they keep playing.
We’ve not made our final choices on whom to hire, but with two positions, I expect we’ll choose both a young doctor and an experienced one to add to our team. It will be fun to watch and learn from them. Just like it will be fun to watch Tom Brady in the Super Bowl again next year.
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.
Warning: This article will be about Tom Brady. If you love Tom Brady, hate Tom Brady, previously loved and now hate Tom Brady, I’m just warning you so you’ll be in the right frame of mind to continue. (If you don’t know who Tom Brady is, he’s Gisele’s husband).
Brady, who plays for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, has played in the NFL for 21 seasons, an unbelievable number given the average career for a quarterback is 3 years. He’s 43 years old and was the oldest player in a Super Bowl, ever. He faced Patrick Mahomes, the quarterback for the opposing Kansas City Chiefs. Mahomes is one of the most athletic and talented quarterbacks of all time, and Mahomes is nearly 20 years younger than Brady. Yet, in a shot heard around the NFL world, Brady won.
But, was a Brady victory so shocking? Hot-shot residents may have a lot of moxie and talent, but experienced doctors often prevail by simply making sound decisions and avoiding mistakes. In our department, we’ve been discussing this lately: We’re hiring two dermatologists and we’re fortunate to have some amazing candidates apply. Some, like Mahomes, are young all-stars with outstanding ability and potential, right out of residency. Others, Brady-like, have been in practice for years and are ready to move to a new franchise.
Our medical group’s experiences are probably similar to many practices: New physicians out of residency often bring energy, inspiration, and ease with the latest therapies, devices, and surgical techniques. Yet, they sometimes struggle with efficiency and unforced errors. Experienced physicians might not know what’s hot, but they can often see where the best course of action lies, understanding not only the physiology but also the patient in ways that only experience can teach you. Fortunately, for those like me who’ve crossed midlife, there doesn’t seem to be an upper limit to experience – it is possible to keep getting better. Yes, I’m just like Tom Brady. (I wrote this article just to print that line.)
Some of the best doctors I’ve ever seen in action were emeritus physicians. In medical school at Wake Forest University, one of my professors was Dr. Eben Alexander. A retired neurosurgeon, he taught a case-based critical thinking skills class. I recall his brilliant insight and coaching, working through cases that had nothing to do with the brain or with surgery. He used his vast experience and wisdom to teach us how to practice medicine. He was, at that time, nearly 90 years old. Despite having been retired for decades, he was still writing articles and editing journals. He was inspiring. For a minute, he had me thinking I’d like to be a neurosurgeon, so I could be just like Eben Alexander. I did not, but I learned things from him that still impact my practice as a dermatologist today.
I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences of older colleagues or mentors who were the best doctor in the clinic or the O.R. They are the Dr. Anthony Faucis, not just practicing, but leading while in their 8th or 9th decade. We are all so fortunate that they keep playing.
We’ve not made our final choices on whom to hire, but with two positions, I expect we’ll choose both a young doctor and an experienced one to add to our team. It will be fun to watch and learn from them. Just like it will be fun to watch Tom Brady in the Super Bowl again next year.
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.
An introduction to Naikan
The list of things to be ungrateful for last year is long. You’re not supposed to make this list, though. The best practice is to list what you’re grateful for, even when living in trying times. That’s a long list too, but I find making it similarly unfruitful.
Of course, I’m grateful I don’t have COVID-19, thankful my practice hasn’t been significantly impacted, grateful I got the vaccine. But simply repeating these gratitudes daily seems ineffective. I’ve learned a different “gratefulness practice” that perhaps works better.
It’s a Japanese method called Naikan (pronounced “nye-kan”). The word means introspection and the practice is one of self-reflection. But . Yoshimoto Ishin developed Naikan in the 1940s. He was a Japanese businessman and devout Buddhist who wanted to make a difficult form of meditation more accessible. He removed the ascetic bits like sleep deprivation and refined the exercises such that they better see how others see us. The result is a way to reframe your life experiences and help you understand how much others do for us and how our actions and attitudes impact others. It can be done alone or with a partner. You can do it at the beginning or end of your day.
The method is simple. You ask three questions:
What have I received today from ___________?
What have I given today to ___________?
What difficulty or trouble have I caused to ___________?
The first question is similar to most gratitude practices. For example, you might ask, “What have I received from (my husband or nurse or friend, etc.)? Today, I received a beautifully tidied-up office from my wife who spent time last night sorting things. This made it easy for me to sit down and start writing this piece.
The second question is better. What have I given today to (my wife, or patient, or mom, etc.)? It can be simple as: Today, I slowed down to let everyone who was in the closed highway lane back into traffic (even though some were clearly undeserving of my generosity). Or last night, I worked to coordinate with anesthesia and scheduling to help a little girl who would benefit from conscious sedation for her procedure.
Combined, these two questions pull you 180 degrees from our default mode, which is complaining. We are wired to find, and talk about, all the inconveniences in our lives: Roadway construction caused a traffic backup that led to running late for clinic. First patient was peeved and had a list of complaints, the last of which was hair loss. Isn’t it much better to rave about how our dermatology nurse volunteered to work the hospital COVID-19 unit to give her colleagues a break? Or how my 10:15 patient came early to be sure she was on time? (It happens.)
The last question is the best. We all spend time thinking about what others think of us. We should spend time thinking about what impact we’ve had on them. Like a cold shower, it’s both briskly awakening and easy to do. Go back through your day and reflect on what you did that made things difficult for others. It can be as simple as I started whining about how a patient waylaid me with her silly complaints. That led to my colleague’s joining in about difficult patients. Or I was late turning in my article, which made my editor have to work harder to get it completed in time.
There’s plenty of things we should be grateful for. In doing these exercises you’ll learn just how much others have cared for you and, I hope, how you might do things to make them grateful for you.
If you’re interested in learning more about Naikan, I discovered this from Brett McKay’s The Art of Manliness podcast and the teaching of Gregg Krech, summarized in his book, “Naikan: Gratitude, Grace, and the Japanese Art of Self-Reflection.”
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 list of things to be ungrateful for last year is long. You’re not supposed to make this list, though. The best practice is to list what you’re grateful for, even when living in trying times. That’s a long list too, but I find making it similarly unfruitful.
Of course, I’m grateful I don’t have COVID-19, thankful my practice hasn’t been significantly impacted, grateful I got the vaccine. But simply repeating these gratitudes daily seems ineffective. I’ve learned a different “gratefulness practice” that perhaps works better.
It’s a Japanese method called Naikan (pronounced “nye-kan”). The word means introspection and the practice is one of self-reflection. But . Yoshimoto Ishin developed Naikan in the 1940s. He was a Japanese businessman and devout Buddhist who wanted to make a difficult form of meditation more accessible. He removed the ascetic bits like sleep deprivation and refined the exercises such that they better see how others see us. The result is a way to reframe your life experiences and help you understand how much others do for us and how our actions and attitudes impact others. It can be done alone or with a partner. You can do it at the beginning or end of your day.
The method is simple. You ask three questions:
What have I received today from ___________?
What have I given today to ___________?
What difficulty or trouble have I caused to ___________?
The first question is similar to most gratitude practices. For example, you might ask, “What have I received from (my husband or nurse or friend, etc.)? Today, I received a beautifully tidied-up office from my wife who spent time last night sorting things. This made it easy for me to sit down and start writing this piece.
The second question is better. What have I given today to (my wife, or patient, or mom, etc.)? It can be simple as: Today, I slowed down to let everyone who was in the closed highway lane back into traffic (even though some were clearly undeserving of my generosity). Or last night, I worked to coordinate with anesthesia and scheduling to help a little girl who would benefit from conscious sedation for her procedure.
Combined, these two questions pull you 180 degrees from our default mode, which is complaining. We are wired to find, and talk about, all the inconveniences in our lives: Roadway construction caused a traffic backup that led to running late for clinic. First patient was peeved and had a list of complaints, the last of which was hair loss. Isn’t it much better to rave about how our dermatology nurse volunteered to work the hospital COVID-19 unit to give her colleagues a break? Or how my 10:15 patient came early to be sure she was on time? (It happens.)
The last question is the best. We all spend time thinking about what others think of us. We should spend time thinking about what impact we’ve had on them. Like a cold shower, it’s both briskly awakening and easy to do. Go back through your day and reflect on what you did that made things difficult for others. It can be as simple as I started whining about how a patient waylaid me with her silly complaints. That led to my colleague’s joining in about difficult patients. Or I was late turning in my article, which made my editor have to work harder to get it completed in time.
There’s plenty of things we should be grateful for. In doing these exercises you’ll learn just how much others have cared for you and, I hope, how you might do things to make them grateful for you.
If you’re interested in learning more about Naikan, I discovered this from Brett McKay’s The Art of Manliness podcast and the teaching of Gregg Krech, summarized in his book, “Naikan: Gratitude, Grace, and the Japanese Art of Self-Reflection.”
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 list of things to be ungrateful for last year is long. You’re not supposed to make this list, though. The best practice is to list what you’re grateful for, even when living in trying times. That’s a long list too, but I find making it similarly unfruitful.
Of course, I’m grateful I don’t have COVID-19, thankful my practice hasn’t been significantly impacted, grateful I got the vaccine. But simply repeating these gratitudes daily seems ineffective. I’ve learned a different “gratefulness practice” that perhaps works better.
It’s a Japanese method called Naikan (pronounced “nye-kan”). The word means introspection and the practice is one of self-reflection. But . Yoshimoto Ishin developed Naikan in the 1940s. He was a Japanese businessman and devout Buddhist who wanted to make a difficult form of meditation more accessible. He removed the ascetic bits like sleep deprivation and refined the exercises such that they better see how others see us. The result is a way to reframe your life experiences and help you understand how much others do for us and how our actions and attitudes impact others. It can be done alone or with a partner. You can do it at the beginning or end of your day.
The method is simple. You ask three questions:
What have I received today from ___________?
What have I given today to ___________?
What difficulty or trouble have I caused to ___________?
The first question is similar to most gratitude practices. For example, you might ask, “What have I received from (my husband or nurse or friend, etc.)? Today, I received a beautifully tidied-up office from my wife who spent time last night sorting things. This made it easy for me to sit down and start writing this piece.
The second question is better. What have I given today to (my wife, or patient, or mom, etc.)? It can be simple as: Today, I slowed down to let everyone who was in the closed highway lane back into traffic (even though some were clearly undeserving of my generosity). Or last night, I worked to coordinate with anesthesia and scheduling to help a little girl who would benefit from conscious sedation for her procedure.
Combined, these two questions pull you 180 degrees from our default mode, which is complaining. We are wired to find, and talk about, all the inconveniences in our lives: Roadway construction caused a traffic backup that led to running late for clinic. First patient was peeved and had a list of complaints, the last of which was hair loss. Isn’t it much better to rave about how our dermatology nurse volunteered to work the hospital COVID-19 unit to give her colleagues a break? Or how my 10:15 patient came early to be sure she was on time? (It happens.)
The last question is the best. We all spend time thinking about what others think of us. We should spend time thinking about what impact we’ve had on them. Like a cold shower, it’s both briskly awakening and easy to do. Go back through your day and reflect on what you did that made things difficult for others. It can be as simple as I started whining about how a patient waylaid me with her silly complaints. That led to my colleague’s joining in about difficult patients. Or I was late turning in my article, which made my editor have to work harder to get it completed in time.
There’s plenty of things we should be grateful for. In doing these exercises you’ll learn just how much others have cared for you and, I hope, how you might do things to make them grateful for you.
If you’re interested in learning more about Naikan, I discovered this from Brett McKay’s The Art of Manliness podcast and the teaching of Gregg Krech, summarized in his book, “Naikan: Gratitude, Grace, and the Japanese Art of Self-Reflection.”
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 .
Distinguishing between joy and pleasure during the pandemic
You can now buy vegan eggnog, made from almond milk. The fact that someone created this wasn’t a surprise – plant milks are taking over. That it gave me such pleasure was. It’s rich, and if you love eggnog, like all normal people, it’s amazingly satisfying when mixed in a Nespresso latte swirled creamy white and brown. It seems some things, like Netflix’s The Crown, my Peloton spin classes, long Sunday walks on the beach, and the best mushroom risotto I ever made were still pleasurable this year, despite all. I’d daresay, there was joy even in the time of COVID.
.
Pleasure is pretty constant. It pops up even in the worst times. It seems, there’s plenty to be found even now. Unless, perhaps it’s just me. The label my mother pinned on me as a boy has remained into adulthood: “Easy to please.” There’s hardly a movie I’ve seen that I didn’t like. I’m quite comfortable in the middle seat. I thought the EPIC updates this year were nice. I’ve liked the vast majority of pizzas I’ve ever eaten – even those contaminated with Truffle salt. Easy to please is a gift, not something I’ve acquired through hours of meditation or aesthetic fasts. But surely pleasure isn’t the same as joy. No one has tears of pleasure. (Not to mention, pleasure as a verb has obvious NSFW connotations; not true of joy).
No, joy is waaay bigger. Joy is shared. Joy is to the whole world. Joy is what happens when you have a baby. Pleasure is what happens when you remembered to put a burp cloth in the car. Pleasure is when three patients in a row take merely 5 minutes each. Joy is when an itchy patient is cured.
2020 was one of the most miserable years in the last century. We didn’t expect it, but we ought to have. I mean really, how many plagues have we endured? How many times has inequality led to social unrest? Many times. We, by luck and dint of hard work, have always managed to get through. Although suffering would surely have been greater during those times of sickness and loss, I don’t believe joy would have been less. Indeed, maybe it is those difficulties and that suffering that allows us to feel joy in the first place. It is only once you summit that you experience joy. The run-up is just pain.
It is no coincidence that it is now during this cold, dark, difficult part of the year that we wish joy. We’ve made it. We light the darkness with candles to joyously celebrate Mawlid, Diwali, then Hanukkah and Christmas. Had malls been open now, you’d hear amongst the din of ringing bells Rejoice! Rejoice! O Emmanuel! You’d sing along, “Joy to the world, now we sing, let the Angel voices ring.” Joy: A pleasure so great and so deserved, it is shared by all. It is good news, hope, gratitude.
A joy shared amongst us all is also coming. Through the wrenching pain of watching patients suffocate, fogged shields, and bleached masks, through canceled Thanksgivings, through weekends spent in the OR on the backlog of patients, after months spent sitting in empty clinics, though the long, orange-cone-winding lines of testing, at last, at last a vaccine is here to light the darkness.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy.
Joy to the world.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
You can now buy vegan eggnog, made from almond milk. The fact that someone created this wasn’t a surprise – plant milks are taking over. That it gave me such pleasure was. It’s rich, and if you love eggnog, like all normal people, it’s amazingly satisfying when mixed in a Nespresso latte swirled creamy white and brown. It seems some things, like Netflix’s The Crown, my Peloton spin classes, long Sunday walks on the beach, and the best mushroom risotto I ever made were still pleasurable this year, despite all. I’d daresay, there was joy even in the time of COVID.
.
Pleasure is pretty constant. It pops up even in the worst times. It seems, there’s plenty to be found even now. Unless, perhaps it’s just me. The label my mother pinned on me as a boy has remained into adulthood: “Easy to please.” There’s hardly a movie I’ve seen that I didn’t like. I’m quite comfortable in the middle seat. I thought the EPIC updates this year were nice. I’ve liked the vast majority of pizzas I’ve ever eaten – even those contaminated with Truffle salt. Easy to please is a gift, not something I’ve acquired through hours of meditation or aesthetic fasts. But surely pleasure isn’t the same as joy. No one has tears of pleasure. (Not to mention, pleasure as a verb has obvious NSFW connotations; not true of joy).
No, joy is waaay bigger. Joy is shared. Joy is to the whole world. Joy is what happens when you have a baby. Pleasure is what happens when you remembered to put a burp cloth in the car. Pleasure is when three patients in a row take merely 5 minutes each. Joy is when an itchy patient is cured.
2020 was one of the most miserable years in the last century. We didn’t expect it, but we ought to have. I mean really, how many plagues have we endured? How many times has inequality led to social unrest? Many times. We, by luck and dint of hard work, have always managed to get through. Although suffering would surely have been greater during those times of sickness and loss, I don’t believe joy would have been less. Indeed, maybe it is those difficulties and that suffering that allows us to feel joy in the first place. It is only once you summit that you experience joy. The run-up is just pain.
It is no coincidence that it is now during this cold, dark, difficult part of the year that we wish joy. We’ve made it. We light the darkness with candles to joyously celebrate Mawlid, Diwali, then Hanukkah and Christmas. Had malls been open now, you’d hear amongst the din of ringing bells Rejoice! Rejoice! O Emmanuel! You’d sing along, “Joy to the world, now we sing, let the Angel voices ring.” Joy: A pleasure so great and so deserved, it is shared by all. It is good news, hope, gratitude.
A joy shared amongst us all is also coming. Through the wrenching pain of watching patients suffocate, fogged shields, and bleached masks, through canceled Thanksgivings, through weekends spent in the OR on the backlog of patients, after months spent sitting in empty clinics, though the long, orange-cone-winding lines of testing, at last, at last a vaccine is here to light the darkness.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy.
Joy to the world.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
You can now buy vegan eggnog, made from almond milk. The fact that someone created this wasn’t a surprise – plant milks are taking over. That it gave me such pleasure was. It’s rich, and if you love eggnog, like all normal people, it’s amazingly satisfying when mixed in a Nespresso latte swirled creamy white and brown. It seems some things, like Netflix’s The Crown, my Peloton spin classes, long Sunday walks on the beach, and the best mushroom risotto I ever made were still pleasurable this year, despite all. I’d daresay, there was joy even in the time of COVID.
.
Pleasure is pretty constant. It pops up even in the worst times. It seems, there’s plenty to be found even now. Unless, perhaps it’s just me. The label my mother pinned on me as a boy has remained into adulthood: “Easy to please.” There’s hardly a movie I’ve seen that I didn’t like. I’m quite comfortable in the middle seat. I thought the EPIC updates this year were nice. I’ve liked the vast majority of pizzas I’ve ever eaten – even those contaminated with Truffle salt. Easy to please is a gift, not something I’ve acquired through hours of meditation or aesthetic fasts. But surely pleasure isn’t the same as joy. No one has tears of pleasure. (Not to mention, pleasure as a verb has obvious NSFW connotations; not true of joy).
No, joy is waaay bigger. Joy is shared. Joy is to the whole world. Joy is what happens when you have a baby. Pleasure is what happens when you remembered to put a burp cloth in the car. Pleasure is when three patients in a row take merely 5 minutes each. Joy is when an itchy patient is cured.
2020 was one of the most miserable years in the last century. We didn’t expect it, but we ought to have. I mean really, how many plagues have we endured? How many times has inequality led to social unrest? Many times. We, by luck and dint of hard work, have always managed to get through. Although suffering would surely have been greater during those times of sickness and loss, I don’t believe joy would have been less. Indeed, maybe it is those difficulties and that suffering that allows us to feel joy in the first place. It is only once you summit that you experience joy. The run-up is just pain.
It is no coincidence that it is now during this cold, dark, difficult part of the year that we wish joy. We’ve made it. We light the darkness with candles to joyously celebrate Mawlid, Diwali, then Hanukkah and Christmas. Had malls been open now, you’d hear amongst the din of ringing bells Rejoice! Rejoice! O Emmanuel! You’d sing along, “Joy to the world, now we sing, let the Angel voices ring.” Joy: A pleasure so great and so deserved, it is shared by all. It is good news, hope, gratitude.
A joy shared amongst us all is also coming. Through the wrenching pain of watching patients suffocate, fogged shields, and bleached masks, through canceled Thanksgivings, through weekends spent in the OR on the backlog of patients, after months spent sitting in empty clinics, though the long, orange-cone-winding lines of testing, at last, at last a vaccine is here to light the darkness.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy.
Joy to the world.
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.
Practicing medicine without judgment
“What do you think of all this election stuff?” I froze. Sitting on the exam table was a 50-something-year-old woman. Her hair was long, but not gray. She was wearing a mask without distinctive markings, such as Trump lips or #BLM to identify the political leanings of the owner. She had a subtle New York accent, perhaps dating back to the Giuliani years. It was hard to know her intention. “It’s a trap!” I could hear Admiral Ackbar’s voice in my head. “Don’t engage.” We all know nothing erodes trust faster than showing your blue or red colors before you know which your patient identifies.
Instead, I replied that indeed it has been a stressful year for us all. Then I paused. She shifted a bit and tugged at the gown sleeves and admitted this was the most stress she felt in years. She was seeing me for lichen sclerosus et atrophicus, a terribly itchy, sometimes-disfiguring eruption that can occur in the vulva. She was dealing with COVID-19, kids, divorce, a new partner, working from home, parents, and now the election drama.
At this point in the visit, I knew I could help her. First, the treatment for lichen sclerosus is straightforward and mostly effective. Second, I knew I’d have 7 minutes to spare to just listen. It was a lucky break, as often no such gift of time presents itself while seeing patients in a busy clinic. We take vitals, history (typing), do an exam, make a diagnosis (more typing), and maybe a procedure (yet more typing). All of this is necessary, but sometimes not what our patient needs. Some really need just to connect and share their burden with someone who isn’t a friend or family. As physicians, we have a unique opportunity to see and hear people without judgment.
This reminds me of a recent episode from Sam Harris’s podcast, “Making Sense.” Mr. Harris, a philosopher (and “blue” all the way through) revealed his insight into Presidents Trump’s appeal. Leaving policy aside, Mr. Harris notes that people are drawn to the President because he never judges you. He is incapable of being sanctimonious, Mr. Harris argues, and therefore creates a safe space for people to continue their lives, however flawed, without expectation that they improve.
I’m unsure just how much of this theory explains the devotion of his supporters, but it resonated with me. We doctors are sanctimonious by nature. The better part of my day is spent prodding people to be better: Wear more sunscreen, exercise more, stop believing in conspiracy theories, get your flu shot, and above all, stop scratching! In doing so, I’m in a way judging them. Finger wagging: You’re lazy or poor or dumb or stubborn. “You aren’t as good as me,” is what they might feel after 15 minutes of my pep talk.
But what if that’s wrong? What if they are just fine exactly the way they are? Perhaps what my lichen sclerosis patient needs more than anything is unconditional attention? She, like most of our patients, is well aware of how her shortcomings might contribute to her own anxiety or difficulties. And now she has this rash and that’s probably somehow her fault too, she thinks.
How can I best help her? Betamethasone dipropionate b.i.d. for 2 weeks and spend the last 7 minutes just sitting and listening without judgment or advice. I don’t know who she wanted to win the election. It didn’t matter, she was exactly right to believe what she believed, either way.
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.
“What do you think of all this election stuff?” I froze. Sitting on the exam table was a 50-something-year-old woman. Her hair was long, but not gray. She was wearing a mask without distinctive markings, such as Trump lips or #BLM to identify the political leanings of the owner. She had a subtle New York accent, perhaps dating back to the Giuliani years. It was hard to know her intention. “It’s a trap!” I could hear Admiral Ackbar’s voice in my head. “Don’t engage.” We all know nothing erodes trust faster than showing your blue or red colors before you know which your patient identifies.
Instead, I replied that indeed it has been a stressful year for us all. Then I paused. She shifted a bit and tugged at the gown sleeves and admitted this was the most stress she felt in years. She was seeing me for lichen sclerosus et atrophicus, a terribly itchy, sometimes-disfiguring eruption that can occur in the vulva. She was dealing with COVID-19, kids, divorce, a new partner, working from home, parents, and now the election drama.
At this point in the visit, I knew I could help her. First, the treatment for lichen sclerosus is straightforward and mostly effective. Second, I knew I’d have 7 minutes to spare to just listen. It was a lucky break, as often no such gift of time presents itself while seeing patients in a busy clinic. We take vitals, history (typing), do an exam, make a diagnosis (more typing), and maybe a procedure (yet more typing). All of this is necessary, but sometimes not what our patient needs. Some really need just to connect and share their burden with someone who isn’t a friend or family. As physicians, we have a unique opportunity to see and hear people without judgment.
This reminds me of a recent episode from Sam Harris’s podcast, “Making Sense.” Mr. Harris, a philosopher (and “blue” all the way through) revealed his insight into Presidents Trump’s appeal. Leaving policy aside, Mr. Harris notes that people are drawn to the President because he never judges you. He is incapable of being sanctimonious, Mr. Harris argues, and therefore creates a safe space for people to continue their lives, however flawed, without expectation that they improve.
I’m unsure just how much of this theory explains the devotion of his supporters, but it resonated with me. We doctors are sanctimonious by nature. The better part of my day is spent prodding people to be better: Wear more sunscreen, exercise more, stop believing in conspiracy theories, get your flu shot, and above all, stop scratching! In doing so, I’m in a way judging them. Finger wagging: You’re lazy or poor or dumb or stubborn. “You aren’t as good as me,” is what they might feel after 15 minutes of my pep talk.
But what if that’s wrong? What if they are just fine exactly the way they are? Perhaps what my lichen sclerosis patient needs more than anything is unconditional attention? She, like most of our patients, is well aware of how her shortcomings might contribute to her own anxiety or difficulties. And now she has this rash and that’s probably somehow her fault too, she thinks.
How can I best help her? Betamethasone dipropionate b.i.d. for 2 weeks and spend the last 7 minutes just sitting and listening without judgment or advice. I don’t know who she wanted to win the election. It didn’t matter, she was exactly right to believe what she believed, either way.
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.
“What do you think of all this election stuff?” I froze. Sitting on the exam table was a 50-something-year-old woman. Her hair was long, but not gray. She was wearing a mask without distinctive markings, such as Trump lips or #BLM to identify the political leanings of the owner. She had a subtle New York accent, perhaps dating back to the Giuliani years. It was hard to know her intention. “It’s a trap!” I could hear Admiral Ackbar’s voice in my head. “Don’t engage.” We all know nothing erodes trust faster than showing your blue or red colors before you know which your patient identifies.
Instead, I replied that indeed it has been a stressful year for us all. Then I paused. She shifted a bit and tugged at the gown sleeves and admitted this was the most stress she felt in years. She was seeing me for lichen sclerosus et atrophicus, a terribly itchy, sometimes-disfiguring eruption that can occur in the vulva. She was dealing with COVID-19, kids, divorce, a new partner, working from home, parents, and now the election drama.
At this point in the visit, I knew I could help her. First, the treatment for lichen sclerosus is straightforward and mostly effective. Second, I knew I’d have 7 minutes to spare to just listen. It was a lucky break, as often no such gift of time presents itself while seeing patients in a busy clinic. We take vitals, history (typing), do an exam, make a diagnosis (more typing), and maybe a procedure (yet more typing). All of this is necessary, but sometimes not what our patient needs. Some really need just to connect and share their burden with someone who isn’t a friend or family. As physicians, we have a unique opportunity to see and hear people without judgment.
This reminds me of a recent episode from Sam Harris’s podcast, “Making Sense.” Mr. Harris, a philosopher (and “blue” all the way through) revealed his insight into Presidents Trump’s appeal. Leaving policy aside, Mr. Harris notes that people are drawn to the President because he never judges you. He is incapable of being sanctimonious, Mr. Harris argues, and therefore creates a safe space for people to continue their lives, however flawed, without expectation that they improve.
I’m unsure just how much of this theory explains the devotion of his supporters, but it resonated with me. We doctors are sanctimonious by nature. The better part of my day is spent prodding people to be better: Wear more sunscreen, exercise more, stop believing in conspiracy theories, get your flu shot, and above all, stop scratching! In doing so, I’m in a way judging them. Finger wagging: You’re lazy or poor or dumb or stubborn. “You aren’t as good as me,” is what they might feel after 15 minutes of my pep talk.
But what if that’s wrong? What if they are just fine exactly the way they are? Perhaps what my lichen sclerosis patient needs more than anything is unconditional attention? She, like most of our patients, is well aware of how her shortcomings might contribute to her own anxiety or difficulties. And now she has this rash and that’s probably somehow her fault too, she thinks.
How can I best help her? Betamethasone dipropionate b.i.d. for 2 weeks and spend the last 7 minutes just sitting and listening without judgment or advice. I don’t know who she wanted to win the election. It didn’t matter, she was exactly right to believe what she believed, either way.
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.
Mastering mask communicating
. For those specialties not accustomed to wearing a mask all day, it’s frustrating: How many times have you had to repeat yourself today? Or ask your patient to say something again? (Ain’t no one got time to repeat a third time how to do that prednisone taper). Worse, we’re losing important nonverbal cues that help us connect with our patients. How can we be understood when our faces are covered and 6 feet away?
Masks muffle both verbal and nonverbal communication. For soft-spoken or high-pitched speakers, the verbal effect is significant. In particular, masks make hearing consonants more difficult. They can make the “sh,” “th,” “f,” and “s” sounds difficult to distinguish. Typically, we’d use context and lip reading to boost the signal, but this fix is blocked (and the clear mouth-window masks are kinda creepy).
Masks also prevent us from seeing facial microexpressions, critical information when you are trying to connect with someone or to build trust. A randomized controlled trial published in 2013 indeed showed that doctors wearing a mask were perceived as less empathetic and had diminished relational continuity with patients as compared to doctors not wearing a mask. There are a few things we can do to help.
Speak more loudly is obvious advice. Loud talking has limitations though, as it can feel rude, and it blunts inflections, which add richness and emotion. (Shouting “THIS WILL ONLY HURT A LITTLE” seems a mixed message). More important than the volume is your choice of words. Try to use simple terms and short sentences. Pause between points. Hit your consonants harder.
It’s also important that you have their full attention and are giving yours. As much as possible, try to align squared up with patients. Facing your computer exacerbates the problem. Look them in their eyes and be sure they are connected with you before any complex or difficult conversations. Hearing-impaired patients are now sometimes leaving out their aids because it’s too uncomfortable to wear them with their mask. You might ask them to put them back in. Check in with patients and repeat back what you heard them say. This can help with clarity and with connecting. Use your face more: if you’ve ever acted on stage, this would be your on-stage face. Exaggerate your expressions so it’s a little easier for them to read you.
Lastly, there are apps such as Ava or Google Live Translator, which can transcribe your speech real time. You could then share your screen with the patient so they can read exactly what you’ve said.
Some of us are natural communicators. Even if you are not, you can mitigate some of our current challenges. I’ll admit, it’s been a bit easier for me than for others. Between my prominent eyebrows and Italian-American upbringing, I can express my way through pretty much any face covering. If you’d like to learn how to use your hands better, then just watch this little girl: https://youtu.be/Z5wAWyqDrnc.
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.
. For those specialties not accustomed to wearing a mask all day, it’s frustrating: How many times have you had to repeat yourself today? Or ask your patient to say something again? (Ain’t no one got time to repeat a third time how to do that prednisone taper). Worse, we’re losing important nonverbal cues that help us connect with our patients. How can we be understood when our faces are covered and 6 feet away?
Masks muffle both verbal and nonverbal communication. For soft-spoken or high-pitched speakers, the verbal effect is significant. In particular, masks make hearing consonants more difficult. They can make the “sh,” “th,” “f,” and “s” sounds difficult to distinguish. Typically, we’d use context and lip reading to boost the signal, but this fix is blocked (and the clear mouth-window masks are kinda creepy).
Masks also prevent us from seeing facial microexpressions, critical information when you are trying to connect with someone or to build trust. A randomized controlled trial published in 2013 indeed showed that doctors wearing a mask were perceived as less empathetic and had diminished relational continuity with patients as compared to doctors not wearing a mask. There are a few things we can do to help.
Speak more loudly is obvious advice. Loud talking has limitations though, as it can feel rude, and it blunts inflections, which add richness and emotion. (Shouting “THIS WILL ONLY HURT A LITTLE” seems a mixed message). More important than the volume is your choice of words. Try to use simple terms and short sentences. Pause between points. Hit your consonants harder.
It’s also important that you have their full attention and are giving yours. As much as possible, try to align squared up with patients. Facing your computer exacerbates the problem. Look them in their eyes and be sure they are connected with you before any complex or difficult conversations. Hearing-impaired patients are now sometimes leaving out their aids because it’s too uncomfortable to wear them with their mask. You might ask them to put them back in. Check in with patients and repeat back what you heard them say. This can help with clarity and with connecting. Use your face more: if you’ve ever acted on stage, this would be your on-stage face. Exaggerate your expressions so it’s a little easier for them to read you.
Lastly, there are apps such as Ava or Google Live Translator, which can transcribe your speech real time. You could then share your screen with the patient so they can read exactly what you’ve said.
Some of us are natural communicators. Even if you are not, you can mitigate some of our current challenges. I’ll admit, it’s been a bit easier for me than for others. Between my prominent eyebrows and Italian-American upbringing, I can express my way through pretty much any face covering. If you’d like to learn how to use your hands better, then just watch this little girl: https://youtu.be/Z5wAWyqDrnc.
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.
. For those specialties not accustomed to wearing a mask all day, it’s frustrating: How many times have you had to repeat yourself today? Or ask your patient to say something again? (Ain’t no one got time to repeat a third time how to do that prednisone taper). Worse, we’re losing important nonverbal cues that help us connect with our patients. How can we be understood when our faces are covered and 6 feet away?
Masks muffle both verbal and nonverbal communication. For soft-spoken or high-pitched speakers, the verbal effect is significant. In particular, masks make hearing consonants more difficult. They can make the “sh,” “th,” “f,” and “s” sounds difficult to distinguish. Typically, we’d use context and lip reading to boost the signal, but this fix is blocked (and the clear mouth-window masks are kinda creepy).
Masks also prevent us from seeing facial microexpressions, critical information when you are trying to connect with someone or to build trust. A randomized controlled trial published in 2013 indeed showed that doctors wearing a mask were perceived as less empathetic and had diminished relational continuity with patients as compared to doctors not wearing a mask. There are a few things we can do to help.
Speak more loudly is obvious advice. Loud talking has limitations though, as it can feel rude, and it blunts inflections, which add richness and emotion. (Shouting “THIS WILL ONLY HURT A LITTLE” seems a mixed message). More important than the volume is your choice of words. Try to use simple terms and short sentences. Pause between points. Hit your consonants harder.
It’s also important that you have their full attention and are giving yours. As much as possible, try to align squared up with patients. Facing your computer exacerbates the problem. Look them in their eyes and be sure they are connected with you before any complex or difficult conversations. Hearing-impaired patients are now sometimes leaving out their aids because it’s too uncomfortable to wear them with their mask. You might ask them to put them back in. Check in with patients and repeat back what you heard them say. This can help with clarity and with connecting. Use your face more: if you’ve ever acted on stage, this would be your on-stage face. Exaggerate your expressions so it’s a little easier for them to read you.
Lastly, there are apps such as Ava or Google Live Translator, which can transcribe your speech real time. You could then share your screen with the patient so they can read exactly what you’ve said.
Some of us are natural communicators. Even if you are not, you can mitigate some of our current challenges. I’ll admit, it’s been a bit easier for me than for others. Between my prominent eyebrows and Italian-American upbringing, I can express my way through pretty much any face covering. If you’d like to learn how to use your hands better, then just watch this little girl: https://youtu.be/Z5wAWyqDrnc.
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.
Conspiracy theories
It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. – Josh Billings
and intends to use COVID vaccinations as a devious way to implant microchips in us. He will then, of course, use the new 5G towers to track us all (although what Gates will do with the information that I was shopping at a Trader Joe’s yesterday is yet unknown).
It’s easy to dismiss patients with these beliefs as nuts or dumb or both. They’re neither, they’re just human. Conspiracy theories have been shared from the first time two humans met. They are, after all, simply hypotheses to explain an experience that’s difficult to understand. Making up a story to explain things feels safer than living with the unknown, and so we do. Our natural tendency to be suspicious makes conspiracy hypotheses more salient and more likely to spread. The pandemic itself is exacerbating this problem: People are alone and afraid, and dependent on social media for connection. Add a compelling story about a nefarious robber baron plotting to exploit us and you’ve got the conditions for conspiracy theories to explode like wind-driven wildfires. Astonishingly, a Pew Research poll showed 36% of Americans surveyed who have heard something about it say the Bill Gates cabal theory is “probably” or “definitely” true.
That many patients fervently believe conspiracy theories poses several problems for us. First, when a vaccine does become available, some patients will refuse to be vaccinated. The consequences to their health and the health of the community are grave. Secondly, whenever patients have cause to distrust doctors, it makes our jobs more challenging. If they don’t trust us on vaccines, it can spread to not trusting us about wearing masks or sunscreens or taking statins. Lastly, it’s near impossible to have a friendly conversation with a patient carrying forth on why Bill Gates is not in jail or how I’m part of the medical-industrial complex enabling him. Sheesh.
It isn’t their fault. The underpinning of these beliefs can be understood as a cognitive bias. In this case, an idea that is easy to imagine or recall is believed to be true more than an idea that is complex and difficult. Understanding viral replication and R0 numbers or viral vectors and protein subunit vaccines is hard. Imagining a chip being injected into your arm is easy. And, as behavioral economist Daniel Kahneman opined, we humans possess an almost unlimited ability to ignore our ignorance. We physicians can help in a way that friends and family members can’t. Here are ways you can help patients who believe in conspiracy theories:
Approach this problem like any other infirmity, with compassion. No one wants to drink too much and knock out their teeth falling off a bike. It was a mistake. Similarly, when people are steeped in self-delusion, it’s not a misdeed, it’s a lapse. Be kind and respectful.
Meet them where they are. It might be helpful to state with sincerity: So you feel that there is a government plot to use COVID to track us? Have you considered that might not be true?
Have the conversation in private. Harder even than being wrong is being publicly wrong.
Try the Socratic method. (We’re pretty good at this from teaching students and residents.) Conspiracy-believing patients have the illusion of knowledge, yet, like students, it’s often easy to show them their gaps. Do so gently by leading them to discover for themselves.
Stop when you stall. You cannot change someone’s mind by dint of force. However, you surely can damage your relationship if you keep pushing them.
Don’t worry if you fail to break through; you might yet have moved them a bit. This might make it possible for them to discover the truth later. Or, you could simply switch to explain what holds up the ground we walk upon. There’s rumor we’re supported on the backs of turtles, all the way down. Maybe Bill Gates is feeding them.
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.
It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. – Josh Billings
and intends to use COVID vaccinations as a devious way to implant microchips in us. He will then, of course, use the new 5G towers to track us all (although what Gates will do with the information that I was shopping at a Trader Joe’s yesterday is yet unknown).
It’s easy to dismiss patients with these beliefs as nuts or dumb or both. They’re neither, they’re just human. Conspiracy theories have been shared from the first time two humans met. They are, after all, simply hypotheses to explain an experience that’s difficult to understand. Making up a story to explain things feels safer than living with the unknown, and so we do. Our natural tendency to be suspicious makes conspiracy hypotheses more salient and more likely to spread. The pandemic itself is exacerbating this problem: People are alone and afraid, and dependent on social media for connection. Add a compelling story about a nefarious robber baron plotting to exploit us and you’ve got the conditions for conspiracy theories to explode like wind-driven wildfires. Astonishingly, a Pew Research poll showed 36% of Americans surveyed who have heard something about it say the Bill Gates cabal theory is “probably” or “definitely” true.
That many patients fervently believe conspiracy theories poses several problems for us. First, when a vaccine does become available, some patients will refuse to be vaccinated. The consequences to their health and the health of the community are grave. Secondly, whenever patients have cause to distrust doctors, it makes our jobs more challenging. If they don’t trust us on vaccines, it can spread to not trusting us about wearing masks or sunscreens or taking statins. Lastly, it’s near impossible to have a friendly conversation with a patient carrying forth on why Bill Gates is not in jail or how I’m part of the medical-industrial complex enabling him. Sheesh.
It isn’t their fault. The underpinning of these beliefs can be understood as a cognitive bias. In this case, an idea that is easy to imagine or recall is believed to be true more than an idea that is complex and difficult. Understanding viral replication and R0 numbers or viral vectors and protein subunit vaccines is hard. Imagining a chip being injected into your arm is easy. And, as behavioral economist Daniel Kahneman opined, we humans possess an almost unlimited ability to ignore our ignorance. We physicians can help in a way that friends and family members can’t. Here are ways you can help patients who believe in conspiracy theories:
Approach this problem like any other infirmity, with compassion. No one wants to drink too much and knock out their teeth falling off a bike. It was a mistake. Similarly, when people are steeped in self-delusion, it’s not a misdeed, it’s a lapse. Be kind and respectful.
Meet them where they are. It might be helpful to state with sincerity: So you feel that there is a government plot to use COVID to track us? Have you considered that might not be true?
Have the conversation in private. Harder even than being wrong is being publicly wrong.
Try the Socratic method. (We’re pretty good at this from teaching students and residents.) Conspiracy-believing patients have the illusion of knowledge, yet, like students, it’s often easy to show them their gaps. Do so gently by leading them to discover for themselves.
Stop when you stall. You cannot change someone’s mind by dint of force. However, you surely can damage your relationship if you keep pushing them.
Don’t worry if you fail to break through; you might yet have moved them a bit. This might make it possible for them to discover the truth later. Or, you could simply switch to explain what holds up the ground we walk upon. There’s rumor we’re supported on the backs of turtles, all the way down. Maybe Bill Gates is feeding them.
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.
It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. – Josh Billings
and intends to use COVID vaccinations as a devious way to implant microchips in us. He will then, of course, use the new 5G towers to track us all (although what Gates will do with the information that I was shopping at a Trader Joe’s yesterday is yet unknown).
It’s easy to dismiss patients with these beliefs as nuts or dumb or both. They’re neither, they’re just human. Conspiracy theories have been shared from the first time two humans met. They are, after all, simply hypotheses to explain an experience that’s difficult to understand. Making up a story to explain things feels safer than living with the unknown, and so we do. Our natural tendency to be suspicious makes conspiracy hypotheses more salient and more likely to spread. The pandemic itself is exacerbating this problem: People are alone and afraid, and dependent on social media for connection. Add a compelling story about a nefarious robber baron plotting to exploit us and you’ve got the conditions for conspiracy theories to explode like wind-driven wildfires. Astonishingly, a Pew Research poll showed 36% of Americans surveyed who have heard something about it say the Bill Gates cabal theory is “probably” or “definitely” true.
That many patients fervently believe conspiracy theories poses several problems for us. First, when a vaccine does become available, some patients will refuse to be vaccinated. The consequences to their health and the health of the community are grave. Secondly, whenever patients have cause to distrust doctors, it makes our jobs more challenging. If they don’t trust us on vaccines, it can spread to not trusting us about wearing masks or sunscreens or taking statins. Lastly, it’s near impossible to have a friendly conversation with a patient carrying forth on why Bill Gates is not in jail or how I’m part of the medical-industrial complex enabling him. Sheesh.
It isn’t their fault. The underpinning of these beliefs can be understood as a cognitive bias. In this case, an idea that is easy to imagine or recall is believed to be true more than an idea that is complex and difficult. Understanding viral replication and R0 numbers or viral vectors and protein subunit vaccines is hard. Imagining a chip being injected into your arm is easy. And, as behavioral economist Daniel Kahneman opined, we humans possess an almost unlimited ability to ignore our ignorance. We physicians can help in a way that friends and family members can’t. Here are ways you can help patients who believe in conspiracy theories:
Approach this problem like any other infirmity, with compassion. No one wants to drink too much and knock out their teeth falling off a bike. It was a mistake. Similarly, when people are steeped in self-delusion, it’s not a misdeed, it’s a lapse. Be kind and respectful.
Meet them where they are. It might be helpful to state with sincerity: So you feel that there is a government plot to use COVID to track us? Have you considered that might not be true?
Have the conversation in private. Harder even than being wrong is being publicly wrong.
Try the Socratic method. (We’re pretty good at this from teaching students and residents.) Conspiracy-believing patients have the illusion of knowledge, yet, like students, it’s often easy to show them their gaps. Do so gently by leading them to discover for themselves.
Stop when you stall. You cannot change someone’s mind by dint of force. However, you surely can damage your relationship if you keep pushing them.
Don’t worry if you fail to break through; you might yet have moved them a bit. This might make it possible for them to discover the truth later. Or, you could simply switch to explain what holds up the ground we walk upon. There’s rumor we’re supported on the backs of turtles, all the way down. Maybe Bill Gates is feeding them.
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.
Skin hunger
A patient hugged me yesterday, the second one in a week. I am not a hugging doctor. And if I were, sure, I wouldn’t be hugging now while we pass through the eye of the COVID-19 storm. But in both cases, my patients opened their arms wide and leaned in before I had a chance to defend myself.
The first, a carrot-coiffed 80-year-old who stood only as tall as my shoulders, asked if she could hug me just as she put her arms around me, closing any window of opportunity for me to foil her attempt. The second was more of a modified hug. She also was an elderly woman and she too walked in close, then started to put her arm around my back. I dodged, awkwardly so it was more shoulder-to-shoulder than a full on embrace. Best buds. She too acknowledged we shouldn’t be hugging in the time of COVID-19, but felt she just had to. She couldn’t resist the urge.
Hugs may be dangerous, but they’re special. They are how we thank family and close friends, how we say I love you, I missed you, or I got you. Hugging transfers a feeling of gratitude in a richer manner than just words. Both of these hugs given to me were done to thank me and show appreciation. They were also likely part of what they wanted from me in their visit.
Abraham Verghese, MD, the Stanford University professor of medicine and TED speaker, says indeed, the most important innovation in medicine is the human hand. Yet, because of the risks of infectious diseases and risk of harm caused by inappropriate or unwanted touch, we avert it more often than not these days. Or we use it with surgical precision to mitigate risks or chances of any misadventure.
Still, touch is powerful. It releases oxytocin, lowers blood pressure and cortisol, and boosts immune responses. To be held is a basic human need. And in this time of COVID-19, many of our patients are being deprived of it.
Psychologists have a name for this condition: “skin hunger.” Skin hunger describes our universal need to be touched and, like true hunger, the health consequences of being starved of it. The first thing we do to a newborn is plop her or him, skin to skin, right on mom’s chest. From the start, touch is life giving and is hardwired into our brains as a requirement for survival.
As the pandemic rolls on, it feels we’re losing the power of this most important innovation. Through our masks and face shields, sitting 6 feet away are some patients who might more than anything else need us to touch them. With safety superseding the desire to sate physical contact craving, touch has now become one of the more difficult tasks for us as physicians. We must iterate on this innovation of the human hand. Perhaps through deeper eye contact, by spending an extra minute or two to inquire about a patient’s family or favorite TV shows. It might be a few elbow bumps, perhaps lingering for just a second to transfer your energy and comfort to them. Or using the gloved auscultation exam as an opportunity to rest your hand gently on a patient’s back.
The dangers of COVID-19 won’t be with us forever, but perhaps we can use this extraordinary time to improve upon one of our most valuable tools, the touch that comforts and heals.
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
A patient hugged me yesterday, the second one in a week. I am not a hugging doctor. And if I were, sure, I wouldn’t be hugging now while we pass through the eye of the COVID-19 storm. But in both cases, my patients opened their arms wide and leaned in before I had a chance to defend myself.
The first, a carrot-coiffed 80-year-old who stood only as tall as my shoulders, asked if she could hug me just as she put her arms around me, closing any window of opportunity for me to foil her attempt. The second was more of a modified hug. She also was an elderly woman and she too walked in close, then started to put her arm around my back. I dodged, awkwardly so it was more shoulder-to-shoulder than a full on embrace. Best buds. She too acknowledged we shouldn’t be hugging in the time of COVID-19, but felt she just had to. She couldn’t resist the urge.
Hugs may be dangerous, but they’re special. They are how we thank family and close friends, how we say I love you, I missed you, or I got you. Hugging transfers a feeling of gratitude in a richer manner than just words. Both of these hugs given to me were done to thank me and show appreciation. They were also likely part of what they wanted from me in their visit.
Abraham Verghese, MD, the Stanford University professor of medicine and TED speaker, says indeed, the most important innovation in medicine is the human hand. Yet, because of the risks of infectious diseases and risk of harm caused by inappropriate or unwanted touch, we avert it more often than not these days. Or we use it with surgical precision to mitigate risks or chances of any misadventure.
Still, touch is powerful. It releases oxytocin, lowers blood pressure and cortisol, and boosts immune responses. To be held is a basic human need. And in this time of COVID-19, many of our patients are being deprived of it.
Psychologists have a name for this condition: “skin hunger.” Skin hunger describes our universal need to be touched and, like true hunger, the health consequences of being starved of it. The first thing we do to a newborn is plop her or him, skin to skin, right on mom’s chest. From the start, touch is life giving and is hardwired into our brains as a requirement for survival.
As the pandemic rolls on, it feels we’re losing the power of this most important innovation. Through our masks and face shields, sitting 6 feet away are some patients who might more than anything else need us to touch them. With safety superseding the desire to sate physical contact craving, touch has now become one of the more difficult tasks for us as physicians. We must iterate on this innovation of the human hand. Perhaps through deeper eye contact, by spending an extra minute or two to inquire about a patient’s family or favorite TV shows. It might be a few elbow bumps, perhaps lingering for just a second to transfer your energy and comfort to them. Or using the gloved auscultation exam as an opportunity to rest your hand gently on a patient’s back.
The dangers of COVID-19 won’t be with us forever, but perhaps we can use this extraordinary time to improve upon one of our most valuable tools, the touch that comforts and heals.
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
A patient hugged me yesterday, the second one in a week. I am not a hugging doctor. And if I were, sure, I wouldn’t be hugging now while we pass through the eye of the COVID-19 storm. But in both cases, my patients opened their arms wide and leaned in before I had a chance to defend myself.
The first, a carrot-coiffed 80-year-old who stood only as tall as my shoulders, asked if she could hug me just as she put her arms around me, closing any window of opportunity for me to foil her attempt. The second was more of a modified hug. She also was an elderly woman and she too walked in close, then started to put her arm around my back. I dodged, awkwardly so it was more shoulder-to-shoulder than a full on embrace. Best buds. She too acknowledged we shouldn’t be hugging in the time of COVID-19, but felt she just had to. She couldn’t resist the urge.
Hugs may be dangerous, but they’re special. They are how we thank family and close friends, how we say I love you, I missed you, or I got you. Hugging transfers a feeling of gratitude in a richer manner than just words. Both of these hugs given to me were done to thank me and show appreciation. They were also likely part of what they wanted from me in their visit.
Abraham Verghese, MD, the Stanford University professor of medicine and TED speaker, says indeed, the most important innovation in medicine is the human hand. Yet, because of the risks of infectious diseases and risk of harm caused by inappropriate or unwanted touch, we avert it more often than not these days. Or we use it with surgical precision to mitigate risks or chances of any misadventure.
Still, touch is powerful. It releases oxytocin, lowers blood pressure and cortisol, and boosts immune responses. To be held is a basic human need. And in this time of COVID-19, many of our patients are being deprived of it.
Psychologists have a name for this condition: “skin hunger.” Skin hunger describes our universal need to be touched and, like true hunger, the health consequences of being starved of it. The first thing we do to a newborn is plop her or him, skin to skin, right on mom’s chest. From the start, touch is life giving and is hardwired into our brains as a requirement for survival.
As the pandemic rolls on, it feels we’re losing the power of this most important innovation. Through our masks and face shields, sitting 6 feet away are some patients who might more than anything else need us to touch them. With safety superseding the desire to sate physical contact craving, touch has now become one of the more difficult tasks for us as physicians. We must iterate on this innovation of the human hand. Perhaps through deeper eye contact, by spending an extra minute or two to inquire about a patient’s family or favorite TV shows. It might be a few elbow bumps, perhaps lingering for just a second to transfer your energy and comfort to them. Or using the gloved auscultation exam as an opportunity to rest your hand gently on a patient’s back.
The dangers of COVID-19 won’t be with us forever, but perhaps we can use this extraordinary time to improve upon one of our most valuable tools, the touch that comforts and heals.
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
How to not miss something
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
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.
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
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.
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
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.