Residents' Voices

What does a doctor look like? Throughout history, this concept has shifted due to societal norms and increased access to medical education. Today, the idea of a physician has expanded to incorporate a myriad of people; however, stigma still exists in medicine regarding mental illness and disability. I would like to share my personal journey through high school, college, medical school, and now residency, and how my identity and struggles have shaped me into the physician I am today. There are few conversations around disability—especially disability and mental health—in medicine, and through my own advocacy, I have met many students with disability who feel that medical school is unattainable. Additionally, I have met many medical students, residents, and pre-health advisors who are happy for the experience to learn more about a marginalized group in medicine. My hope in sharing my story is to offer a space for conversation about intersectionality within medical communities and how physicians and physicians in training can facilitate that change, regardless of their position or specialty. Additionally, I hope to shed light on the unique mental health needs of patients with disabilities and how mental health clinicians can address those needs.

Perceived weaknesses turned into strengths

“Why do you walk like that?” “What is that brace on your leg?” The early years of my childhood were marked by these questions and others like them. I was the kid with the limp, the kid with a brace on his leg, and the kid who disappeared multiple times a week for doctor’s appointments or physical therapy. I learned to deflect these questions or give nebulous answers about an accident or injury. The reality is that I was born with cerebral palsy (CP). My CP manifested as hemiparesis on the left side of my body. I was in aggressive physical therapy throughout childhood, received Botox injections for muscle spasticity, and underwent corrective surgery on my left leg to straighten my foot. In childhood, the diagnosis meant nothing more than 2 words that sounded like they belonged to superheroes in comic books. Even with supportive parents and family, I kept my disability a secret, much like the powers and abilities of my favorite superheroes.

However, like all great origin stories, what I once thought were weaknesses turned out to be strengths that pushed me through college, medical school, and now psychiatry residency. Living with a disability has shaped how I see the world and relate to my patients. My experience has helped me connect to my patients in ways others might not. These properties are important in any physician but vital in psychiatry, where many patients feel neglected or stigmatized; this is another reason there should be more doctors with disabilities in medicine. Unfortunately, systemic barriers are still in place that disincentivize those with a disability from pursuing careers in medicine. Stories like mine are important to inspire a reexamination of what a physician should be and how medicine, patients, and communities benefit from this change.

My experience through medical school

My path to psychiatry and residency was shaped by my early experience with the medical field and treatment. From the early days of my diagnosis at age 4, I was told that my brain was “wired differently” and that, because of this disruption in circuitry, I would have difficulty with physical activity. I grew to appreciate the intricacies of the brain and pathology to understand my body. With greater understanding came the existential realization that I would live with a disability for the rest of my life. Rather than dream of a future where I would be “normal,” I focused on adapting my life to my normal. An unfortunate reality of this normal was that no doctor would be able to relate to me, and my health care would focus on limitations rather than possibilities.

I focused on school as a distraction and slowly warmed to the idea of pursuing medicine as a career. The seed was planted years prior by the numerous doctors’ visits and procedures, and was cultivated by a desire to understand pathologies and offer treatment to patients from the perspective of a patient. When I applied to medical school, I did not know how to address my CP. Living as a person with CP was a core reason for my decision to pursue medicine, but I was afraid that a disclosure of disability would preclude any admission to medical school. Research into programs offered little guidance because most institutions only listed vague “physical expectations” of each student. There were times I doubted if I would be accepted anywhere. Many programs I reached out to about my situation seemed unenthusiastic about the prospect of a student with CP, and when I brought up my CP in interviews, the reaction was often of surprise and an admission that they had forgotten about “that part” of my application. Fortunately, I was accepted to medical school, but still struggled with the fear that one day I would be found out and not allowed to continue. No one in my class or school was like me, and a meeting with an Americans with Disabilities Act coordinator who asked me to reexamine the physical competencies of the school before advancing to clinical clerkships only further reinforced this fear. I decided to fly under the radar and not say anything about my disability to my attendings. I slowly worked my way through clerkships by making do with adapted ways to perform procedures and exams with additional practice and maneuvering at home. I found myself drawn to psychiatry because of the similarities I saw in the patients and myself. I empathized with how the patients struggled with chronic conditions that left them feeling separated from society and how they felt that their diagnosis was something they needed to hide. When medical school ended and I decided to pursue psychiatry, I wanted to share my story to inspire others with a disability to consider medicine as a career given their unique experiences. My experience thus far has been uplifting as my journey has echoed so many others.

A need for greater representation

Disability representation in medicine is needed more than ever. According to the CDC, >60 million adults in the United States (1 in 4) live with a disability.¹ Although the physical health disparities are often discussed, there is less conversation surrounding mental health for individuals with disabilities. A 2018 study by Cree et al² found that approximately 17.4 million adults with disabilities experienced frequent mental distress, defined as reporting ≥14 mentally unhealthy days in the past 30 days. Furthermore, compared to individuals without a disability, those with a disability are statistically more likely to have suicidal ideation, suicidal planning, and suicide attempts.³ One way to address this disparity is to recruit medical students with disabilities to become physicians with disabilities. Evidence suggests that physicians who are members of groups that are underrepresented in medicine are more likely to deliver care to underrepresented patients.⁴ However, medical schools and institutions have been slow to address the disparity. A 2019 survey found an estimated 4.6% of medical students responded “yes” when asked if they had a disability, with most students reporting a psychological or attention/hyperactive disorder.⁵ Existing barriers include restrictive language surrounding technical standards influenced by long-standing vestiges of what a physician should be.⁶

An opportunity to connect with patients

I now do not see myself as having a secret identity to hide. Although my CP does not give me any superpowers, it has given me the opportunity to connect with my patients and serve as an example of why medical school recruitment and admissions should expand. Psychiatrists have been on the forefront of change in medicine and can shift the perception of a physician. In doing so, we not only enrich our field but also the lives of our patients who may need it most.

What does a doctor look like? Throughout history, this concept has shifted due to societal norms and increased access to medical education. Today, the idea of a physician has expanded to incorporate a myriad of people; however, stigma still exists in medicine regarding mental illness and disability. I would like to share my personal journey through high school, college, medical school, and now residency, and how my identity and struggles have shaped me into the physician I am today. There are few conversations around disability—especially disability and mental health—in medicine, and through my own advocacy, I have met many students with disability who feel that medical school is unattainable. Additionally, I have met many medical students, residents, and pre-health advisors who are happy for the experience to learn more about a marginalized group in medicine. My hope in sharing my story is to offer a space for conversation about intersectionality within medical communities and how physicians and physicians in training can facilitate that change, regardless of their position or specialty. Additionally, I hope to shed light on the unique mental health needs of patients with disabilities and how mental health clinicians can address those needs.

Perceived weaknesses turned into strengths

“Why do you walk like that?” “What is that brace on your leg?” The early years of my childhood were marked by these questions and others like them. I was the kid with the limp, the kid with a brace on his leg, and the kid who disappeared multiple times a week for doctor’s appointments or physical therapy. I learned to deflect these questions or give nebulous answers about an accident or injury. The reality is that I was born with cerebral palsy (CP). My CP manifested as hemiparesis on the left side of my body. I was in aggressive physical therapy throughout childhood, received Botox injections for muscle spasticity, and underwent corrective surgery on my left leg to straighten my foot. In childhood, the diagnosis meant nothing more than 2 words that sounded like they belonged to superheroes in comic books. Even with supportive parents and family, I kept my disability a secret, much like the powers and abilities of my favorite superheroes.

However, like all great origin stories, what I once thought were weaknesses turned out to be strengths that pushed me through college, medical school, and now psychiatry residency. Living with a disability has shaped how I see the world and relate to my patients. My experience has helped me connect to my patients in ways others might not. These properties are important in any physician but vital in psychiatry, where many patients feel neglected or stigmatized; this is another reason there should be more doctors with disabilities in medicine. Unfortunately, systemic barriers are still in place that disincentivize those with a disability from pursuing careers in medicine. Stories like mine are important to inspire a reexamination of what a physician should be and how medicine, patients, and communities benefit from this change.

My experience through medical school

My path to psychiatry and residency was shaped by my early experience with the medical field and treatment. From the early days of my diagnosis at age 4, I was told that my brain was “wired differently” and that, because of this disruption in circuitry, I would have difficulty with physical activity. I grew to appreciate the intricacies of the brain and pathology to understand my body. With greater understanding came the existential realization that I would live with a disability for the rest of my life. Rather than dream of a future where I would be “normal,” I focused on adapting my life to my normal. An unfortunate reality of this normal was that no doctor would be able to relate to me, and my health care would focus on limitations rather than possibilities.

I focused on school as a distraction and slowly warmed to the idea of pursuing medicine as a career. The seed was planted years prior by the numerous doctors’ visits and procedures, and was cultivated by a desire to understand pathologies and offer treatment to patients from the perspective of a patient. When I applied to medical school, I did not know how to address my CP. Living as a person with CP was a core reason for my decision to pursue medicine, but I was afraid that a disclosure of disability would preclude any admission to medical school. Research into programs offered little guidance because most institutions only listed vague “physical expectations” of each student. There were times I doubted if I would be accepted anywhere. Many programs I reached out to about my situation seemed unenthusiastic about the prospect of a student with CP, and when I brought up my CP in interviews, the reaction was often of surprise and an admission that they had forgotten about “that part” of my application. Fortunately, I was accepted to medical school, but still struggled with the fear that one day I would be found out and not allowed to continue. No one in my class or school was like me, and a meeting with an Americans with Disabilities Act coordinator who asked me to reexamine the physical competencies of the school before advancing to clinical clerkships only further reinforced this fear. I decided to fly under the radar and not say anything about my disability to my attendings. I slowly worked my way through clerkships by making do with adapted ways to perform procedures and exams with additional practice and maneuvering at home. I found myself drawn to psychiatry because of the similarities I saw in the patients and myself. I empathized with how the patients struggled with chronic conditions that left them feeling separated from society and how they felt that their diagnosis was something they needed to hide. When medical school ended and I decided to pursue psychiatry, I wanted to share my story to inspire others with a disability to consider medicine as a career given their unique experiences. My experience thus far has been uplifting as my journey has echoed so many others.

A need for greater representation

Disability representation in medicine is needed more than ever. According to the CDC, >60 million adults in the United States (1 in 4) live with a disability.¹ Although the physical health disparities are often discussed, there is less conversation surrounding mental health for individuals with disabilities. A 2018 study by Cree et al² found that approximately 17.4 million adults with disabilities experienced frequent mental distress, defined as reporting ≥14 mentally unhealthy days in the past 30 days. Furthermore, compared to individuals without a disability, those with a disability are statistically more likely to have suicidal ideation, suicidal planning, and suicide attempts.³ One way to address this disparity is to recruit medical students with disabilities to become physicians with disabilities. Evidence suggests that physicians who are members of groups that are underrepresented in medicine are more likely to deliver care to underrepresented patients.⁴ However, medical schools and institutions have been slow to address the disparity. A 2019 survey found an estimated 4.6% of medical students responded “yes” when asked if they had a disability, with most students reporting a psychological or attention/hyperactive disorder.⁵ Existing barriers include restrictive language surrounding technical standards influenced by long-standing vestiges of what a physician should be.⁶

An opportunity to connect with patients

I now do not see myself as having a secret identity to hide. Although my CP does not give me any superpowers, it has given me the opportunity to connect with my patients and serve as an example of why medical school recruitment and admissions should expand. Psychiatrists have been on the forefront of change in medicine and can shift the perception of a physician. In doing so, we not only enrich our field but also the lives of our patients who may need it most.

What does a doctor look like? Throughout history, this concept has shifted due to societal norms and increased access to medical education. Today, the idea of a physician has expanded to incorporate a myriad of people; however, stigma still exists in medicine regarding mental illness and disability. I would like to share my personal journey through high school, college, medical school, and now residency, and how my identity and struggles have shaped me into the physician I am today. There are few conversations around disability—especially disability and mental health—in medicine, and through my own advocacy, I have met many students with disability who feel that medical school is unattainable. Additionally, I have met many medical students, residents, and pre-health advisors who are happy for the experience to learn more about a marginalized group in medicine. My hope in sharing my story is to offer a space for conversation about intersectionality within medical communities and how physicians and physicians in training can facilitate that change, regardless of their position or specialty. Additionally, I hope to shed light on the unique mental health needs of patients with disabilities and how mental health clinicians can address those needs.

Perceived weaknesses turned into strengths

“Why do you walk like that?” “What is that brace on your leg?” The early years of my childhood were marked by these questions and others like them. I was the kid with the limp, the kid with a brace on his leg, and the kid who disappeared multiple times a week for doctor’s appointments or physical therapy. I learned to deflect these questions or give nebulous answers about an accident or injury. The reality is that I was born with cerebral palsy (CP). My CP manifested as hemiparesis on the left side of my body. I was in aggressive physical therapy throughout childhood, received Botox injections for muscle spasticity, and underwent corrective surgery on my left leg to straighten my foot. In childhood, the diagnosis meant nothing more than 2 words that sounded like they belonged to superheroes in comic books. Even with supportive parents and family, I kept my disability a secret, much like the powers and abilities of my favorite superheroes.

However, like all great origin stories, what I once thought were weaknesses turned out to be strengths that pushed me through college, medical school, and now psychiatry residency. Living with a disability has shaped how I see the world and relate to my patients. My experience has helped me connect to my patients in ways others might not. These properties are important in any physician but vital in psychiatry, where many patients feel neglected or stigmatized; this is another reason there should be more doctors with disabilities in medicine. Unfortunately, systemic barriers are still in place that disincentivize those with a disability from pursuing careers in medicine. Stories like mine are important to inspire a reexamination of what a physician should be and how medicine, patients, and communities benefit from this change.

My experience through medical school

My path to psychiatry and residency was shaped by my early experience with the medical field and treatment. From the early days of my diagnosis at age 4, I was told that my brain was “wired differently” and that, because of this disruption in circuitry, I would have difficulty with physical activity. I grew to appreciate the intricacies of the brain and pathology to understand my body. With greater understanding came the existential realization that I would live with a disability for the rest of my life. Rather than dream of a future where I would be “normal,” I focused on adapting my life to my normal. An unfortunate reality of this normal was that no doctor would be able to relate to me, and my health care would focus on limitations rather than possibilities.

I focused on school as a distraction and slowly warmed to the idea of pursuing medicine as a career. The seed was planted years prior by the numerous doctors’ visits and procedures, and was cultivated by a desire to understand pathologies and offer treatment to patients from the perspective of a patient. When I applied to medical school, I did not know how to address my CP. Living as a person with CP was a core reason for my decision to pursue medicine, but I was afraid that a disclosure of disability would preclude any admission to medical school. Research into programs offered little guidance because most institutions only listed vague “physical expectations” of each student. There were times I doubted if I would be accepted anywhere. Many programs I reached out to about my situation seemed unenthusiastic about the prospect of a student with CP, and when I brought up my CP in interviews, the reaction was often of surprise and an admission that they had forgotten about “that part” of my application. Fortunately, I was accepted to medical school, but still struggled with the fear that one day I would be found out and not allowed to continue. No one in my class or school was like me, and a meeting with an Americans with Disabilities Act coordinator who asked me to reexamine the physical competencies of the school before advancing to clinical clerkships only further reinforced this fear. I decided to fly under the radar and not say anything about my disability to my attendings. I slowly worked my way through clerkships by making do with adapted ways to perform procedures and exams with additional practice and maneuvering at home. I found myself drawn to psychiatry because of the similarities I saw in the patients and myself. I empathized with how the patients struggled with chronic conditions that left them feeling separated from society and how they felt that their diagnosis was something they needed to hide. When medical school ended and I decided to pursue psychiatry, I wanted to share my story to inspire others with a disability to consider medicine as a career given their unique experiences. My experience thus far has been uplifting as my journey has echoed so many others.

A need for greater representation

Disability representation in medicine is needed more than ever. According to the CDC, >60 million adults in the United States (1 in 4) live with a disability.¹ Although the physical health disparities are often discussed, there is less conversation surrounding mental health for individuals with disabilities. A 2018 study by Cree et al² found that approximately 17.4 million adults with disabilities experienced frequent mental distress, defined as reporting ≥14 mentally unhealthy days in the past 30 days. Furthermore, compared to individuals without a disability, those with a disability are statistically more likely to have suicidal ideation, suicidal planning, and suicide attempts.³ One way to address this disparity is to recruit medical students with disabilities to become physicians with disabilities. Evidence suggests that physicians who are members of groups that are underrepresented in medicine are more likely to deliver care to underrepresented patients.⁴ However, medical schools and institutions have been slow to address the disparity. A 2019 survey found an estimated 4.6% of medical students responded “yes” when asked if they had a disability, with most students reporting a psychological or attention/hyperactive disorder.⁵ Existing barriers include restrictive language surrounding technical standards influenced by long-standing vestiges of what a physician should be.⁶

An opportunity to connect with patients

I now do not see myself as having a secret identity to hide. Although my CP does not give me any superpowers, it has given me the opportunity to connect with my patients and serve as an example of why medical school recruitment and admissions should expand. Psychiatrists have been on the forefront of change in medicine and can shift the perception of a physician. In doing so, we not only enrich our field but also the lives of our patients who may need it most.

What else can I offer this patient?

This thought passed through my mind as the patient’s desperation grew palpable. He had experienced intractable major depressive disorder (MDD) for years and had exhausted multiple classes of antidepressants, trying various combinations without any relief.

The previous resident had arranged for intranasal ketamine treatment, but the patient was unable to receive it due to lack of transportation. As I combed through the list of the dozens of medications the patient previously had been prescribed, I noticed the absence of a certain class of agents: monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs).

My knowledge of MAOIs stemmed from medical school, where the dietary restrictions, potential for hypertensive crisis, and capricious drug-drug interactions were heavily emphasized while their value was minimized. I did not have any practical experience with these medications, and even the attending physician disclosed he had not prescribed an MAOI in more than 30 years. Nonetheless, both the attending physician and patient agreed that the patient would try one.

Following a washout period, the patient began tranylcypromine. After taking tranylcypromine 40 mg/d for 3 months, he reported he felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He felt less irritable and depressed, more energetic, and more hopeful for the future. He also felt that his symptoms were improving for the first time in many years.
 

An older but still potentially helpful class of medications

MDD is one of the leading causes of disability in the United States, affecting millions of people. Its economic burden is estimated to be more than $200 billion, with a large contingent consisting of direct medical cost and suicide-related costs.¹ MDD is often recurrent—60% of patients experience another episode within 5 years.² Most of these patients are classified as having treatment-resistant depression (TRD), which typically is defined as the failure to respond to 2 different medications given at adequate doses for a sufficient duration.³ The Sequenced Treatment Alternatives to Relieve Depression trial suggested that after each medication failure, depression becomes increasingly difficult to treat, with many patients developing TRD.⁴ For some patients with TRD, MAOIs may be a powerful and beneficial option.^5,6 Studies have shown that MAOIs (at adequate doses) can be effective in approximately one-half of patients with TRD. Patients with anxious, endogenous, or atypical depression may also respond to MAOIs.⁷

MAOIs were among the earliest antidepressants on the market, starting in the late 1950s with isocarboxazid, phenelzine, tranylcypromine, and selegiline. The use of MAOIs as a treatment for depression was serendipitously discovered when iproniazid, a tuberculosis drug, was observed to have mood-elevating adverse effects that were explained by its monoamine oxidase (MAO) inhibitory properties.⁸ This sparked the hypothesis that a deficiency in serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine played a central role in depressive disorders. MAOs encompass a class of enzymes that metabolize catecholamines, which include the previously mentioned neurotransmitters and the trace amine tyramine. The MAO isoenzymes also inhabit many tissues, including the central and peripheral nervous system, liver, and intestines.

There are 2 subtypes of MAOs: MAO-A and MAO-B. MAO-A inhibits tyramine, serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. MAO-B is mainly responsible for the degradation of dopamine, which makes MAO-B inhibitors (ie, rasagiline) useful in treating Parkinson disease.⁹

Continue to: For most psychiatrists...

For most psychiatrists, MAOIs have fallen out of favor due to their discomfort with their potential adverse effects and drug-drug interactions, the dietary restrictions patients must face, and the perception that newer medications have fewer adverse effects.¹⁰ Prescribing an MAOI requires the clinician to remain vigilant of any new medication the patient is taking that may potentiate intrasynaptic serotonin, which may include certain antibiotics or analgesics, causing serotonin syndrome. Close monitoring of the patient’s diet also is necessary so the patient avoids foods rich in tyramine that may trigger a hypertensive crisis. This is because excess tyramine can precipitate an increase in catecholamine release, causing a dangerous increase in blood pressure. However, many foods have safe levels of tyramine (<6 mg/serving), although the perception of tyramine levels in modern foods remains overestimated.⁵

Residents need to know how to use MAOIs

Psychiatrists should weigh the risks and benefits prior to prescribing any new medication, and MAOIs should be no exception. A patient’s enduring pain is often overshadowed by the potential for adverse effects, which occasionally is overemphasized. Other treatments for severe psychiatric illnesses (such as lithium and clozapine) are also declining due to these agents’ requirement for cumbersome monitoring and potential for adverse effects despite evidence of their superior efficacy and antisuicidal properties.^11,12

Fortunately, there are many novel therapies available that can be effective for patients with TRD, including transcranial magnetic stimulation, ketamine, and vagal nerve stimulation. However, as psychiatrists, especially during training, our armamentarium should be equipped with all modalities of psychopharmacology. Training and teaching residents to prescribe MAOIs safely and effectively may add a glimmer of hope for an otherwise hopeless patient.

What else can I offer this patient?

This thought passed through my mind as the patient’s desperation grew palpable. He had experienced intractable major depressive disorder (MDD) for years and had exhausted multiple classes of antidepressants, trying various combinations without any relief.

The previous resident had arranged for intranasal ketamine treatment, but the patient was unable to receive it due to lack of transportation. As I combed through the list of the dozens of medications the patient previously had been prescribed, I noticed the absence of a certain class of agents: monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs).

My knowledge of MAOIs stemmed from medical school, where the dietary restrictions, potential for hypertensive crisis, and capricious drug-drug interactions were heavily emphasized while their value was minimized. I did not have any practical experience with these medications, and even the attending physician disclosed he had not prescribed an MAOI in more than 30 years. Nonetheless, both the attending physician and patient agreed that the patient would try one.

Following a washout period, the patient began tranylcypromine. After taking tranylcypromine 40 mg/d for 3 months, he reported he felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He felt less irritable and depressed, more energetic, and more hopeful for the future. He also felt that his symptoms were improving for the first time in many years.
 

An older but still potentially helpful class of medications

MDD is one of the leading causes of disability in the United States, affecting millions of people. Its economic burden is estimated to be more than $200 billion, with a large contingent consisting of direct medical cost and suicide-related costs.¹ MDD is often recurrent—60% of patients experience another episode within 5 years.² Most of these patients are classified as having treatment-resistant depression (TRD), which typically is defined as the failure to respond to 2 different medications given at adequate doses for a sufficient duration.³ The Sequenced Treatment Alternatives to Relieve Depression trial suggested that after each medication failure, depression becomes increasingly difficult to treat, with many patients developing TRD.⁴ For some patients with TRD, MAOIs may be a powerful and beneficial option.^5,6 Studies have shown that MAOIs (at adequate doses) can be effective in approximately one-half of patients with TRD. Patients with anxious, endogenous, or atypical depression may also respond to MAOIs.⁷

MAOIs were among the earliest antidepressants on the market, starting in the late 1950s with isocarboxazid, phenelzine, tranylcypromine, and selegiline. The use of MAOIs as a treatment for depression was serendipitously discovered when iproniazid, a tuberculosis drug, was observed to have mood-elevating adverse effects that were explained by its monoamine oxidase (MAO) inhibitory properties.⁸ This sparked the hypothesis that a deficiency in serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine played a central role in depressive disorders. MAOs encompass a class of enzymes that metabolize catecholamines, which include the previously mentioned neurotransmitters and the trace amine tyramine. The MAO isoenzymes also inhabit many tissues, including the central and peripheral nervous system, liver, and intestines.

There are 2 subtypes of MAOs: MAO-A and MAO-B. MAO-A inhibits tyramine, serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. MAO-B is mainly responsible for the degradation of dopamine, which makes MAO-B inhibitors (ie, rasagiline) useful in treating Parkinson disease.⁹

Continue to: For most psychiatrists...

For most psychiatrists, MAOIs have fallen out of favor due to their discomfort with their potential adverse effects and drug-drug interactions, the dietary restrictions patients must face, and the perception that newer medications have fewer adverse effects.¹⁰ Prescribing an MAOI requires the clinician to remain vigilant of any new medication the patient is taking that may potentiate intrasynaptic serotonin, which may include certain antibiotics or analgesics, causing serotonin syndrome. Close monitoring of the patient’s diet also is necessary so the patient avoids foods rich in tyramine that may trigger a hypertensive crisis. This is because excess tyramine can precipitate an increase in catecholamine release, causing a dangerous increase in blood pressure. However, many foods have safe levels of tyramine (<6 mg/serving), although the perception of tyramine levels in modern foods remains overestimated.⁵

Residents need to know how to use MAOIs

Psychiatrists should weigh the risks and benefits prior to prescribing any new medication, and MAOIs should be no exception. A patient’s enduring pain is often overshadowed by the potential for adverse effects, which occasionally is overemphasized. Other treatments for severe psychiatric illnesses (such as lithium and clozapine) are also declining due to these agents’ requirement for cumbersome monitoring and potential for adverse effects despite evidence of their superior efficacy and antisuicidal properties.^11,12

Fortunately, there are many novel therapies available that can be effective for patients with TRD, including transcranial magnetic stimulation, ketamine, and vagal nerve stimulation. However, as psychiatrists, especially during training, our armamentarium should be equipped with all modalities of psychopharmacology. Training and teaching residents to prescribe MAOIs safely and effectively may add a glimmer of hope for an otherwise hopeless patient.

What else can I offer this patient?

This thought passed through my mind as the patient’s desperation grew palpable. He had experienced intractable major depressive disorder (MDD) for years and had exhausted multiple classes of antidepressants, trying various combinations without any relief.

The previous resident had arranged for intranasal ketamine treatment, but the patient was unable to receive it due to lack of transportation. As I combed through the list of the dozens of medications the patient previously had been prescribed, I noticed the absence of a certain class of agents: monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs).

My knowledge of MAOIs stemmed from medical school, where the dietary restrictions, potential for hypertensive crisis, and capricious drug-drug interactions were heavily emphasized while their value was minimized. I did not have any practical experience with these medications, and even the attending physician disclosed he had not prescribed an MAOI in more than 30 years. Nonetheless, both the attending physician and patient agreed that the patient would try one.

Following a washout period, the patient began tranylcypromine. After taking tranylcypromine 40 mg/d for 3 months, he reported he felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He felt less irritable and depressed, more energetic, and more hopeful for the future. He also felt that his symptoms were improving for the first time in many years.
 

An older but still potentially helpful class of medications

MDD is one of the leading causes of disability in the United States, affecting millions of people. Its economic burden is estimated to be more than $200 billion, with a large contingent consisting of direct medical cost and suicide-related costs.¹ MDD is often recurrent—60% of patients experience another episode within 5 years.² Most of these patients are classified as having treatment-resistant depression (TRD), which typically is defined as the failure to respond to 2 different medications given at adequate doses for a sufficient duration.³ The Sequenced Treatment Alternatives to Relieve Depression trial suggested that after each medication failure, depression becomes increasingly difficult to treat, with many patients developing TRD.⁴ For some patients with TRD, MAOIs may be a powerful and beneficial option.^5,6 Studies have shown that MAOIs (at adequate doses) can be effective in approximately one-half of patients with TRD. Patients with anxious, endogenous, or atypical depression may also respond to MAOIs.⁷

MAOIs were among the earliest antidepressants on the market, starting in the late 1950s with isocarboxazid, phenelzine, tranylcypromine, and selegiline. The use of MAOIs as a treatment for depression was serendipitously discovered when iproniazid, a tuberculosis drug, was observed to have mood-elevating adverse effects that were explained by its monoamine oxidase (MAO) inhibitory properties.⁸ This sparked the hypothesis that a deficiency in serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine played a central role in depressive disorders. MAOs encompass a class of enzymes that metabolize catecholamines, which include the previously mentioned neurotransmitters and the trace amine tyramine. The MAO isoenzymes also inhabit many tissues, including the central and peripheral nervous system, liver, and intestines.

There are 2 subtypes of MAOs: MAO-A and MAO-B. MAO-A inhibits tyramine, serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. MAO-B is mainly responsible for the degradation of dopamine, which makes MAO-B inhibitors (ie, rasagiline) useful in treating Parkinson disease.⁹

Continue to: For most psychiatrists...

For most psychiatrists, MAOIs have fallen out of favor due to their discomfort with their potential adverse effects and drug-drug interactions, the dietary restrictions patients must face, and the perception that newer medications have fewer adverse effects.¹⁰ Prescribing an MAOI requires the clinician to remain vigilant of any new medication the patient is taking that may potentiate intrasynaptic serotonin, which may include certain antibiotics or analgesics, causing serotonin syndrome. Close monitoring of the patient’s diet also is necessary so the patient avoids foods rich in tyramine that may trigger a hypertensive crisis. This is because excess tyramine can precipitate an increase in catecholamine release, causing a dangerous increase in blood pressure. However, many foods have safe levels of tyramine (<6 mg/serving), although the perception of tyramine levels in modern foods remains overestimated.⁵

Residents need to know how to use MAOIs

Psychiatrists should weigh the risks and benefits prior to prescribing any new medication, and MAOIs should be no exception. A patient’s enduring pain is often overshadowed by the potential for adverse effects, which occasionally is overemphasized. Other treatments for severe psychiatric illnesses (such as lithium and clozapine) are also declining due to these agents’ requirement for cumbersome monitoring and potential for adverse effects despite evidence of their superior efficacy and antisuicidal properties.^11,12

Fortunately, there are many novel therapies available that can be effective for patients with TRD, including transcranial magnetic stimulation, ketamine, and vagal nerve stimulation. However, as psychiatrists, especially during training, our armamentarium should be equipped with all modalities of psychopharmacology. Training and teaching residents to prescribe MAOIs safely and effectively may add a glimmer of hope for an otherwise hopeless patient.

Throughout my training, a common refrain from more senior colleagues was that training “goes by quickly.” At the risk of sounding cliché, and even after a 7-year journey spanning psychiatry and preventive medicine residencies as well as a consultation-liaison psychiatry fellowship, I agree without reservations that it does indeed go quickly. In the waning days of my training, reflection and nostalgia have become commonplace, as one might expect after such a meaningful pursuit. In sharing my reflections, I hope others progressing through training will also reflect on elements that added meaning to their experience and how they might improve the journey for future trainees.

Residency is a team sport

One realization that quickly struck me was that residency is a team sport, and finding supportive communities is essential to survival. Other residents, colleagues, and mentors played integral roles in making my experience rewarding. Training might be considered a shared traumatic experience, but having peers to commiserate with at each step has been among its greatest rewards. Residency automatically provided a cohort of colleagues who shared and validated my experiences. Additionally, having mentors who have been through it themselves and find ways to improve the training experience made mine superlative. Mentors assisted me in tailoring my training and developing interests that I could integrate into my future practice. The interpersonal connections I made were critical in helping me survive and thrive during training.

See one, do one, teach one

Residency and fellowship programs might be considered “see one, do one, teach one”¹ at large scale. Since their inception, these programs—designed to develop junior physicians—have been inherently educational in nature. The structure is elegant, allowing trainees to continue learning while incrementally gaining more autonomy and teaching responsibility.² Naively, I did not understand that implicit within my education was an expectation to become an educator and hone my teaching skills. Initially, being a newly minted resident receiving brand-new 3rd-year medical students charged me with apprehension. Thoughts I internalized, such as “these students probably know more than me” or “how can I be responsible for patients and students simultaneously,” may have resulted from a paucity of instruction about teaching available during medical school.^3,4 I quickly found, though, that teaching was among the most rewarding facets of training. Helping other learners grow became one of my passions and added to my experience.

Iron sharpens iron

Although my experience was enjoyable, I would be remiss without also considering accompanying trials and tribulations. Seemingly interminable night shifts, sleep deprivation, lack of autonomy, and system inefficiencies frustrated me. Eventually, these frustrations seemed less bothersome. These challenges likely had not vanished with time, but perhaps my capacity to tolerate distress improved—likely corresponding with increasing skill and confidence. These challenges allowed me to hone my clinical decision-making abilities while under duress. My struggles and frustrations were not unique but perhaps lessons themselves.

Residency is not meant to be easy. The crucible of residency taught me that I had resilience to draw upon during challenging times. “Iron sharpens iron,” as the adage goes, and I believe adversity ultimately helped me become a better psychiatrist.

Self-reflection is part of completing training

Reminders that my journey is at an end are everywhere. Seeing notes written by past residents or fellows reminds me that soon I too will merely be a name in the chart to future trainees. Perhaps this line of thought is unfair, reducing my training experience to notes I signed—whereas my training experience was defined by connections made with colleagues and mentors, opportunities to teach junior learners, and confidence gained by overcoming adversity.

While becoming an attending psychiatrist fills me with trepidation, fear need not be an inherent aspect of new beginnings. Reflection has been a powerful practice, allowing me to realize what made my experience so meaningful, and that training is meant to be process-oriented rather than outcome-oriented. My reflection has underscored the realization that challenges are inherent in training, although not without purpose. I believe these struggles were meant to allow me to build meaningful relationships with colleagues, discover joy in teaching, and build resiliency.

The purpose of residencies and fellowships should be to produce clinically excellent psychiatrists, but I feel the journey was as important as the destination. Psychiatrists likely understand this better than most, as we were trained to thoughtfully approach the process of termination with patients.⁵ While the conclusion of our training journeys may seem unceremonious or anticlimactic, the termination process should include self-reflection on meaningful facets of training. For me, this reflection has itself been invaluable, while also making me hopeful to contribute value to the training journeys of future psychiatrists.

Throughout my training, a common refrain from more senior colleagues was that training “goes by quickly.” At the risk of sounding cliché, and even after a 7-year journey spanning psychiatry and preventive medicine residencies as well as a consultation-liaison psychiatry fellowship, I agree without reservations that it does indeed go quickly. In the waning days of my training, reflection and nostalgia have become commonplace, as one might expect after such a meaningful pursuit. In sharing my reflections, I hope others progressing through training will also reflect on elements that added meaning to their experience and how they might improve the journey for future trainees.

Residency is a team sport

One realization that quickly struck me was that residency is a team sport, and finding supportive communities is essential to survival. Other residents, colleagues, and mentors played integral roles in making my experience rewarding. Training might be considered a shared traumatic experience, but having peers to commiserate with at each step has been among its greatest rewards. Residency automatically provided a cohort of colleagues who shared and validated my experiences. Additionally, having mentors who have been through it themselves and find ways to improve the training experience made mine superlative. Mentors assisted me in tailoring my training and developing interests that I could integrate into my future practice. The interpersonal connections I made were critical in helping me survive and thrive during training.

See one, do one, teach one

Residency and fellowship programs might be considered “see one, do one, teach one”¹ at large scale. Since their inception, these programs—designed to develop junior physicians—have been inherently educational in nature. The structure is elegant, allowing trainees to continue learning while incrementally gaining more autonomy and teaching responsibility.² Naively, I did not understand that implicit within my education was an expectation to become an educator and hone my teaching skills. Initially, being a newly minted resident receiving brand-new 3rd-year medical students charged me with apprehension. Thoughts I internalized, such as “these students probably know more than me” or “how can I be responsible for patients and students simultaneously,” may have resulted from a paucity of instruction about teaching available during medical school.^3,4 I quickly found, though, that teaching was among the most rewarding facets of training. Helping other learners grow became one of my passions and added to my experience.

Iron sharpens iron

Although my experience was enjoyable, I would be remiss without also considering accompanying trials and tribulations. Seemingly interminable night shifts, sleep deprivation, lack of autonomy, and system inefficiencies frustrated me. Eventually, these frustrations seemed less bothersome. These challenges likely had not vanished with time, but perhaps my capacity to tolerate distress improved—likely corresponding with increasing skill and confidence. These challenges allowed me to hone my clinical decision-making abilities while under duress. My struggles and frustrations were not unique but perhaps lessons themselves.

Residency is not meant to be easy. The crucible of residency taught me that I had resilience to draw upon during challenging times. “Iron sharpens iron,” as the adage goes, and I believe adversity ultimately helped me become a better psychiatrist.

Self-reflection is part of completing training

Reminders that my journey is at an end are everywhere. Seeing notes written by past residents or fellows reminds me that soon I too will merely be a name in the chart to future trainees. Perhaps this line of thought is unfair, reducing my training experience to notes I signed—whereas my training experience was defined by connections made with colleagues and mentors, opportunities to teach junior learners, and confidence gained by overcoming adversity.

While becoming an attending psychiatrist fills me with trepidation, fear need not be an inherent aspect of new beginnings. Reflection has been a powerful practice, allowing me to realize what made my experience so meaningful, and that training is meant to be process-oriented rather than outcome-oriented. My reflection has underscored the realization that challenges are inherent in training, although not without purpose. I believe these struggles were meant to allow me to build meaningful relationships with colleagues, discover joy in teaching, and build resiliency.

The purpose of residencies and fellowships should be to produce clinically excellent psychiatrists, but I feel the journey was as important as the destination. Psychiatrists likely understand this better than most, as we were trained to thoughtfully approach the process of termination with patients.⁵ While the conclusion of our training journeys may seem unceremonious or anticlimactic, the termination process should include self-reflection on meaningful facets of training. For me, this reflection has itself been invaluable, while also making me hopeful to contribute value to the training journeys of future psychiatrists.

Throughout my training, a common refrain from more senior colleagues was that training “goes by quickly.” At the risk of sounding cliché, and even after a 7-year journey spanning psychiatry and preventive medicine residencies as well as a consultation-liaison psychiatry fellowship, I agree without reservations that it does indeed go quickly. In the waning days of my training, reflection and nostalgia have become commonplace, as one might expect after such a meaningful pursuit. In sharing my reflections, I hope others progressing through training will also reflect on elements that added meaning to their experience and how they might improve the journey for future trainees.

Residency is a team sport

One realization that quickly struck me was that residency is a team sport, and finding supportive communities is essential to survival. Other residents, colleagues, and mentors played integral roles in making my experience rewarding. Training might be considered a shared traumatic experience, but having peers to commiserate with at each step has been among its greatest rewards. Residency automatically provided a cohort of colleagues who shared and validated my experiences. Additionally, having mentors who have been through it themselves and find ways to improve the training experience made mine superlative. Mentors assisted me in tailoring my training and developing interests that I could integrate into my future practice. The interpersonal connections I made were critical in helping me survive and thrive during training.

See one, do one, teach one

Residency and fellowship programs might be considered “see one, do one, teach one”¹ at large scale. Since their inception, these programs—designed to develop junior physicians—have been inherently educational in nature. The structure is elegant, allowing trainees to continue learning while incrementally gaining more autonomy and teaching responsibility.² Naively, I did not understand that implicit within my education was an expectation to become an educator and hone my teaching skills. Initially, being a newly minted resident receiving brand-new 3rd-year medical students charged me with apprehension. Thoughts I internalized, such as “these students probably know more than me” or “how can I be responsible for patients and students simultaneously,” may have resulted from a paucity of instruction about teaching available during medical school.^3,4 I quickly found, though, that teaching was among the most rewarding facets of training. Helping other learners grow became one of my passions and added to my experience.

Iron sharpens iron

Although my experience was enjoyable, I would be remiss without also considering accompanying trials and tribulations. Seemingly interminable night shifts, sleep deprivation, lack of autonomy, and system inefficiencies frustrated me. Eventually, these frustrations seemed less bothersome. These challenges likely had not vanished with time, but perhaps my capacity to tolerate distress improved—likely corresponding with increasing skill and confidence. These challenges allowed me to hone my clinical decision-making abilities while under duress. My struggles and frustrations were not unique but perhaps lessons themselves.

Residency is not meant to be easy. The crucible of residency taught me that I had resilience to draw upon during challenging times. “Iron sharpens iron,” as the adage goes, and I believe adversity ultimately helped me become a better psychiatrist.

Self-reflection is part of completing training

Reminders that my journey is at an end are everywhere. Seeing notes written by past residents or fellows reminds me that soon I too will merely be a name in the chart to future trainees. Perhaps this line of thought is unfair, reducing my training experience to notes I signed—whereas my training experience was defined by connections made with colleagues and mentors, opportunities to teach junior learners, and confidence gained by overcoming adversity.

While becoming an attending psychiatrist fills me with trepidation, fear need not be an inherent aspect of new beginnings. Reflection has been a powerful practice, allowing me to realize what made my experience so meaningful, and that training is meant to be process-oriented rather than outcome-oriented. My reflection has underscored the realization that challenges are inherent in training, although not without purpose. I believe these struggles were meant to allow me to build meaningful relationships with colleagues, discover joy in teaching, and build resiliency.

The purpose of residencies and fellowships should be to produce clinically excellent psychiatrists, but I feel the journey was as important as the destination. Psychiatrists likely understand this better than most, as we were trained to thoughtfully approach the process of termination with patients.⁵ While the conclusion of our training journeys may seem unceremonious or anticlimactic, the termination process should include self-reflection on meaningful facets of training. For me, this reflection has itself been invaluable, while also making me hopeful to contribute value to the training journeys of future psychiatrists.

I had the opportunity to experience first-hand acute postoperative pain management in both the United States and Saudi Arabia. In this article, I discuss some of the differences in how postop pain is managed in each location, potential reasons for these differences, how they may impact patients over time, and the psychiatrist’s role in raising awareness about the hazards of overprescribing analgesic medications.

Vast differences in postop opioid prescribing

From personal observation and literature review, I was appalled by the amount of oxycodone tablets patients are typically discharged home with after a surgical procedure in the United States. Depending on the extent of the surgical procedure, opioid-naïve patients were routinely discharged with 40 to 120 tablets of oxycodone 5 mg. A ventral hernia repair or laparotomy was on the high end of how much oxycodone was provided, and a laparoscopic cholecystectomy or inguinal hernia repair was on the low end. At least one study has supported this observation, finding a wide variation and excessive doses of opioids prescribed postop.¹ Notably, among opioids obtained by postsurgical patients, 42% to 71% of all tablets went unused.² Nevertheless, prescribing in this manner became the standard for postop pain management—possibly in an effort to maximize patient satisfaction on surveys. Additionally, marketing and promotion by the pharmaceutical industry appears to have considerably amplified the prescription, sales, and availability of opioids.³

Signing those prescriptions always left a bad taste in my mouth out of concern for the potential for initiating chronic opioid use.⁴ Personally, I would prescribe the lowest reasonable number of narcotic tablets for my patients, along with acetaminophen and ibuprofen, knowing that nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are sufficient for treating postop pain and will decrease opioid requirements, therefore minimizing opiate-induced adverse events.⁵ Overtreatment of pain with narcotics as first-line therapy is particularly problematic when treating postop pain in children after minor procedures, such as an umbilical hernia repair.Allowing children to resort to a narcotic analgesic agent as a first-line therapy had the potential to develop into an opioid use disorder (OUD) later in life if environmental factors tipped the scales.⁶

In the hospital in Saudi Arabia where I initially trained, surgery residents were not permitted to prescribe narcotics. The standard of care was to discharge patients with acetaminophen and ibuprofen. In cases where there was an indication for pain treatment with narcotics, stringent regulations were in place. For example, in my experience, which is corroborated by one study,⁶ special “narcotic forms” are required in the Middle East. In most of these countries, access to these forms is restricted.⁷ Moreover, pharmacists would only accept this special form when attested to by the surgery consultant (the equivalent of an attending physician in the United States). These consultants would typically write a prescription for 9 to 15 oxycodone 5 mg tablets. Patients receiving such medications were closely watched and followed up in the surgery clinic 3 to 5 days after discharge. Patients were also required to fill out a form detailing their contact information, including their home address and national ID number, to be able to pick up their prescription. Furthermore, apart from 2 Middle East countries, opioids were only available from hospital pharmacies, which were independent of the general hospital pharmacy in location and staff training.⁸

The psychiatrist’s role

Adapting similar stringent practices for prescribing narcotics in the United States might reduce 1 risk factor for OUD in postop patients. Surgeons attempt to provide the best care by maximizing analgesia, but psychiatrists see firsthand the consequences of overprescribing, and play a direct role in managing patients’ OUDs. As psychiatrists, we have a duty to continue to raise awareness and alert other clinicians about the hazards of overprescribing narcotic analgesic agents.

I had the opportunity to experience first-hand acute postoperative pain management in both the United States and Saudi Arabia. In this article, I discuss some of the differences in how postop pain is managed in each location, potential reasons for these differences, how they may impact patients over time, and the psychiatrist’s role in raising awareness about the hazards of overprescribing analgesic medications.

Vast differences in postop opioid prescribing

From personal observation and literature review, I was appalled by the amount of oxycodone tablets patients are typically discharged home with after a surgical procedure in the United States. Depending on the extent of the surgical procedure, opioid-naïve patients were routinely discharged with 40 to 120 tablets of oxycodone 5 mg. A ventral hernia repair or laparotomy was on the high end of how much oxycodone was provided, and a laparoscopic cholecystectomy or inguinal hernia repair was on the low end. At least one study has supported this observation, finding a wide variation and excessive doses of opioids prescribed postop.¹ Notably, among opioids obtained by postsurgical patients, 42% to 71% of all tablets went unused.² Nevertheless, prescribing in this manner became the standard for postop pain management—possibly in an effort to maximize patient satisfaction on surveys. Additionally, marketing and promotion by the pharmaceutical industry appears to have considerably amplified the prescription, sales, and availability of opioids.³

Signing those prescriptions always left a bad taste in my mouth out of concern for the potential for initiating chronic opioid use.⁴ Personally, I would prescribe the lowest reasonable number of narcotic tablets for my patients, along with acetaminophen and ibuprofen, knowing that nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are sufficient for treating postop pain and will decrease opioid requirements, therefore minimizing opiate-induced adverse events.⁵ Overtreatment of pain with narcotics as first-line therapy is particularly problematic when treating postop pain in children after minor procedures, such as an umbilical hernia repair.Allowing children to resort to a narcotic analgesic agent as a first-line therapy had the potential to develop into an opioid use disorder (OUD) later in life if environmental factors tipped the scales.⁶

In the hospital in Saudi Arabia where I initially trained, surgery residents were not permitted to prescribe narcotics. The standard of care was to discharge patients with acetaminophen and ibuprofen. In cases where there was an indication for pain treatment with narcotics, stringent regulations were in place. For example, in my experience, which is corroborated by one study,⁶ special “narcotic forms” are required in the Middle East. In most of these countries, access to these forms is restricted.⁷ Moreover, pharmacists would only accept this special form when attested to by the surgery consultant (the equivalent of an attending physician in the United States). These consultants would typically write a prescription for 9 to 15 oxycodone 5 mg tablets. Patients receiving such medications were closely watched and followed up in the surgery clinic 3 to 5 days after discharge. Patients were also required to fill out a form detailing their contact information, including their home address and national ID number, to be able to pick up their prescription. Furthermore, apart from 2 Middle East countries, opioids were only available from hospital pharmacies, which were independent of the general hospital pharmacy in location and staff training.⁸

The psychiatrist’s role

Adapting similar stringent practices for prescribing narcotics in the United States might reduce 1 risk factor for OUD in postop patients. Surgeons attempt to provide the best care by maximizing analgesia, but psychiatrists see firsthand the consequences of overprescribing, and play a direct role in managing patients’ OUDs. As psychiatrists, we have a duty to continue to raise awareness and alert other clinicians about the hazards of overprescribing narcotic analgesic agents.

I had the opportunity to experience first-hand acute postoperative pain management in both the United States and Saudi Arabia. In this article, I discuss some of the differences in how postop pain is managed in each location, potential reasons for these differences, how they may impact patients over time, and the psychiatrist’s role in raising awareness about the hazards of overprescribing analgesic medications.

Vast differences in postop opioid prescribing

From personal observation and literature review, I was appalled by the amount of oxycodone tablets patients are typically discharged home with after a surgical procedure in the United States. Depending on the extent of the surgical procedure, opioid-naïve patients were routinely discharged with 40 to 120 tablets of oxycodone 5 mg. A ventral hernia repair or laparotomy was on the high end of how much oxycodone was provided, and a laparoscopic cholecystectomy or inguinal hernia repair was on the low end. At least one study has supported this observation, finding a wide variation and excessive doses of opioids prescribed postop.¹ Notably, among opioids obtained by postsurgical patients, 42% to 71% of all tablets went unused.² Nevertheless, prescribing in this manner became the standard for postop pain management—possibly in an effort to maximize patient satisfaction on surveys. Additionally, marketing and promotion by the pharmaceutical industry appears to have considerably amplified the prescription, sales, and availability of opioids.³

Signing those prescriptions always left a bad taste in my mouth out of concern for the potential for initiating chronic opioid use.⁴ Personally, I would prescribe the lowest reasonable number of narcotic tablets for my patients, along with acetaminophen and ibuprofen, knowing that nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are sufficient for treating postop pain and will decrease opioid requirements, therefore minimizing opiate-induced adverse events.⁵ Overtreatment of pain with narcotics as first-line therapy is particularly problematic when treating postop pain in children after minor procedures, such as an umbilical hernia repair.Allowing children to resort to a narcotic analgesic agent as a first-line therapy had the potential to develop into an opioid use disorder (OUD) later in life if environmental factors tipped the scales.⁶

In the hospital in Saudi Arabia where I initially trained, surgery residents were not permitted to prescribe narcotics. The standard of care was to discharge patients with acetaminophen and ibuprofen. In cases where there was an indication for pain treatment with narcotics, stringent regulations were in place. For example, in my experience, which is corroborated by one study,⁶ special “narcotic forms” are required in the Middle East. In most of these countries, access to these forms is restricted.⁷ Moreover, pharmacists would only accept this special form when attested to by the surgery consultant (the equivalent of an attending physician in the United States). These consultants would typically write a prescription for 9 to 15 oxycodone 5 mg tablets. Patients receiving such medications were closely watched and followed up in the surgery clinic 3 to 5 days after discharge. Patients were also required to fill out a form detailing their contact information, including their home address and national ID number, to be able to pick up their prescription. Furthermore, apart from 2 Middle East countries, opioids were only available from hospital pharmacies, which were independent of the general hospital pharmacy in location and staff training.⁸

The psychiatrist’s role

Adapting similar stringent practices for prescribing narcotics in the United States might reduce 1 risk factor for OUD in postop patients. Surgeons attempt to provide the best care by maximizing analgesia, but psychiatrists see firsthand the consequences of overprescribing, and play a direct role in managing patients’ OUDs. As psychiatrists, we have a duty to continue to raise awareness and alert other clinicians about the hazards of overprescribing narcotic analgesic agents.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is typically a severe, chronic illness in which patients have recurrent, unwanted thoughts, urges, and compulsions.¹ It causes significant morbidity and lost potential over time, and is the world’s 10th-most disabling disorder in terms of lost income and decreased quality of life, and the fifth-most disabling mental health condition.² Patients with OCD (and their clinicians) are often desperate for an efficacious treatment, but we must ensure that those who are not helped by traditional psychotherapeutic and/or pharmacologic treatments are appropriate for safe neurosurgical intervention.

Pros and cons of neurosurgical therapies

Most patients with OCD are effectively treated with cognitive-behavioral therapy and pharmacotherapy in the form of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, clomipramine, or second-generation antipsychotics. However, up to 5% of individuals with OCD will have symptoms refractory to these traditional therapies.³ These cases require more aggressive forms of therapy, including radiofrequency ablation surgeries and deep brain stimulation (DBS). The efficacy of both therapies is similar at 40% to 60%.^4,5 While these treatments can be life-changing for patients fortunate to receive them, they are not without issue.

Only a limited number of institutions offer these neurosurgical techniques, and for many patients, those locations may be inaccessible. Patients may not experience relief simply due to where they live, difficult logistics, and the high cost requisite to receive care. If fortunate enough to live near a participating institution or have the means to travel to one, the patient and clinician must then choose the best option based on the nuances of the patient’s situation.

Ablation techniques, such as gamma knife or magnetic resonance–guided ultrasound, are simpler and more cost-effective. A drawback of this approach, however, is that it is irreversible. Lesioned structures are irreparable, as are the adverse effects of the surgery, which, while rare, may include a persistent minimally conscious state or necrotic cysts.⁴ A benefit of this approach is that there is no need for lengthy follow-up as seen with DBS.

DBS is more complicated. In addition to having to undergo an open neurosurgical procedure, these patients require long-term follow-up and monitoring. A positive aspect is the device can be turned off or removed. However, the amount of follow-up and adjustments is significant. These patients need access to clinicians skilled in DBS device management.

Finally, we must consider the chronically ill patient’s perspective after successful treatment. While the patient’s symptoms may improve, their lives and identities likely developed around their symptoms. Bosanac et al⁶ describe this reality well in a case study in which a patient with OCD was “burdened with normality” after successful DBS treatment. He was finally able to work, build meaningful relationships, and approach previously unattainable social milestones. This was an overwhelming experience for him, and he and his family needed guidance into the world in which most of us find comfort.

As ablation techniques, DBS, and other cutting-edge therapies for OCD come to the forefront of modern care, clinicians must remember to keep patient safety first. Verify follow-up care before committing patients to invasive and irreversible treatments. While general access is currently poor, participating institutions should consider advertising and communicating that there is an accessible network available for these chronically ill individuals.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is typically a severe, chronic illness in which patients have recurrent, unwanted thoughts, urges, and compulsions.¹ It causes significant morbidity and lost potential over time, and is the world’s 10th-most disabling disorder in terms of lost income and decreased quality of life, and the fifth-most disabling mental health condition.² Patients with OCD (and their clinicians) are often desperate for an efficacious treatment, but we must ensure that those who are not helped by traditional psychotherapeutic and/or pharmacologic treatments are appropriate for safe neurosurgical intervention.

Pros and cons of neurosurgical therapies

Most patients with OCD are effectively treated with cognitive-behavioral therapy and pharmacotherapy in the form of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, clomipramine, or second-generation antipsychotics. However, up to 5% of individuals with OCD will have symptoms refractory to these traditional therapies.³ These cases require more aggressive forms of therapy, including radiofrequency ablation surgeries and deep brain stimulation (DBS). The efficacy of both therapies is similar at 40% to 60%.^4,5 While these treatments can be life-changing for patients fortunate to receive them, they are not without issue.

Only a limited number of institutions offer these neurosurgical techniques, and for many patients, those locations may be inaccessible. Patients may not experience relief simply due to where they live, difficult logistics, and the high cost requisite to receive care. If fortunate enough to live near a participating institution or have the means to travel to one, the patient and clinician must then choose the best option based on the nuances of the patient’s situation.

Ablation techniques, such as gamma knife or magnetic resonance–guided ultrasound, are simpler and more cost-effective. A drawback of this approach, however, is that it is irreversible. Lesioned structures are irreparable, as are the adverse effects of the surgery, which, while rare, may include a persistent minimally conscious state or necrotic cysts.⁴ A benefit of this approach is that there is no need for lengthy follow-up as seen with DBS.

DBS is more complicated. In addition to having to undergo an open neurosurgical procedure, these patients require long-term follow-up and monitoring. A positive aspect is the device can be turned off or removed. However, the amount of follow-up and adjustments is significant. These patients need access to clinicians skilled in DBS device management.

Finally, we must consider the chronically ill patient’s perspective after successful treatment. While the patient’s symptoms may improve, their lives and identities likely developed around their symptoms. Bosanac et al⁶ describe this reality well in a case study in which a patient with OCD was “burdened with normality” after successful DBS treatment. He was finally able to work, build meaningful relationships, and approach previously unattainable social milestones. This was an overwhelming experience for him, and he and his family needed guidance into the world in which most of us find comfort.

As ablation techniques, DBS, and other cutting-edge therapies for OCD come to the forefront of modern care, clinicians must remember to keep patient safety first. Verify follow-up care before committing patients to invasive and irreversible treatments. While general access is currently poor, participating institutions should consider advertising and communicating that there is an accessible network available for these chronically ill individuals.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is typically a severe, chronic illness in which patients have recurrent, unwanted thoughts, urges, and compulsions.¹ It causes significant morbidity and lost potential over time, and is the world’s 10th-most disabling disorder in terms of lost income and decreased quality of life, and the fifth-most disabling mental health condition.² Patients with OCD (and their clinicians) are often desperate for an efficacious treatment, but we must ensure that those who are not helped by traditional psychotherapeutic and/or pharmacologic treatments are appropriate for safe neurosurgical intervention.

Pros and cons of neurosurgical therapies

Most patients with OCD are effectively treated with cognitive-behavioral therapy and pharmacotherapy in the form of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, clomipramine, or second-generation antipsychotics. However, up to 5% of individuals with OCD will have symptoms refractory to these traditional therapies.³ These cases require more aggressive forms of therapy, including radiofrequency ablation surgeries and deep brain stimulation (DBS). The efficacy of both therapies is similar at 40% to 60%.^4,5 While these treatments can be life-changing for patients fortunate to receive them, they are not without issue.

Only a limited number of institutions offer these neurosurgical techniques, and for many patients, those locations may be inaccessible. Patients may not experience relief simply due to where they live, difficult logistics, and the high cost requisite to receive care. If fortunate enough to live near a participating institution or have the means to travel to one, the patient and clinician must then choose the best option based on the nuances of the patient’s situation.

Ablation techniques, such as gamma knife or magnetic resonance–guided ultrasound, are simpler and more cost-effective. A drawback of this approach, however, is that it is irreversible. Lesioned structures are irreparable, as are the adverse effects of the surgery, which, while rare, may include a persistent minimally conscious state or necrotic cysts.⁴ A benefit of this approach is that there is no need for lengthy follow-up as seen with DBS.

DBS is more complicated. In addition to having to undergo an open neurosurgical procedure, these patients require long-term follow-up and monitoring. A positive aspect is the device can be turned off or removed. However, the amount of follow-up and adjustments is significant. These patients need access to clinicians skilled in DBS device management.

Finally, we must consider the chronically ill patient’s perspective after successful treatment. While the patient’s symptoms may improve, their lives and identities likely developed around their symptoms. Bosanac et al⁶ describe this reality well in a case study in which a patient with OCD was “burdened with normality” after successful DBS treatment. He was finally able to work, build meaningful relationships, and approach previously unattainable social milestones. This was an overwhelming experience for him, and he and his family needed guidance into the world in which most of us find comfort.

As ablation techniques, DBS, and other cutting-edge therapies for OCD come to the forefront of modern care, clinicians must remember to keep patient safety first. Verify follow-up care before committing patients to invasive and irreversible treatments. While general access is currently poor, participating institutions should consider advertising and communicating that there is an accessible network available for these chronically ill individuals.