Kate Rowland, MD, MS, FAAFP

This is the exciting time of year when we graduate new classes of medical students and residents. Med school graduation brings mixed emotions; the new doctors and I both know residency will bring growth and challenges. Residency graduation is a wistful passage as well. It is so rewarding to welcome the newly board-certified family physicians to family medicine, but we miss them even as we orient a new class.

Every year, a few months (or even a few years) after graduation, I hear from a former resident, sometimes several. They ask to talk and, although it can be hard for them to explain exactly the ennui and disillusionment they’re feeling, their concerns boil down to: Is this all there is?

If what you’re doing isn’t working for you, look for opportunities (big or small) that make it better.

They are not burnt out, exactly, but they were hoping for more from their careers in family medicine.¹ They find their hopes and expectations are not fulfilled by seeing patients in the office 8 hours per day, 4.5 days per week. Even those who report rewarding relationships with patients express less overall enthusiasm for jobs they were excited to start just months or years earlier.

Some of the difficulties I hear the graduates report are expected growing pains. It is a transition to go from supervised practice with attending backup to a setting where you are on your own, typically with a 4-fold increase in volume compared with residency. But the monotony is real for family physicians in full-time outpatient practice.

Research suggests an expanded scope of practice—including hospital medicine, obstetrics, and procedures—is associated with physician well-being.^2,3 A broad scope of practice can bring stress, but it also brings meaning, and that meaning is protective to our well-being. However, a robust scope of practice is not always supported by medical groups or hospital systems, who prefer a more compartmentalized, widgetized physician.⁴ It would be easier for their algorithms if family physicians picked a lane and stayed in it. Alas, the broader our scope of practice, the healthier our population, the more equitable our care,^5,6 and the happier our physicians.

The disconnect and hopelessness experienced by family physicians is more concerning. Many of my graduates report feeling disconnected from their patients, because they begin to feel disillusioned by the demands and requests that practice and patients place on them. The paperwork, “permission slips,” and requests for tests and studies not only feel overwhelming and exhausting but also create distance between physicians and patients.⁷ We want to help our patients, so we do the forms and order the tests. As the quantity of forms, slips, and requests adds up, we begin to feel resentful at what the forms take away: time with our patients, perhaps, or time with our families. We get angry at the forms and the “asks,” and then begin to get angry at the patients simply for having needs. Administrative burden is a hassle, but it is also insidiously destructive.⁸

Family physicians confront hopelessness when, day after day, we diagnose problems that no physician is likely to fix in a single office visit: chronic stress, family dysfunction, violence, unemployment, poverty, racism, loneliness, and the hopelessness of the patients themselves. This is not to say that we ignore these concerns or their impact on health. It is because we see and feel them, and deeply understand their consequences for our patients, that we grow frustrated with the lack of solutions.^9,10

Thankfully, we have strong teams working at the policy level to improve the primary care and public health infrastructure so that we can maintain some hope that it will be better in the future. Sometimes when I counsel a former resident, they decide to join those teams so that they can work on the solutions. Others decide to expand their scope of practice. Others seek out virtual scribes to streamline charting and regain time. Some build better boundaries with their EHR inboxes.

The key is figuring out what we can do and making peace with our limits. When disillusionment hits, what we can do includes seeking connection and social contact and remembering that we are not trapped in our situation, even if we are practicing in a less-than-functional health care system. There are many ways to “be” a family physician—if what you’re doing isn’t working for you, look for opportunities (big or small) that make it better. We can all reach out to coaches, therapists, colleagues, and friends for support to remain steadfast in our purpose as family physicians. This support and the power of change means that from residency to the latter parts of our careers, we will continue to bring the tremendous good of family medicine to the communities we serve.

This is the exciting time of year when we graduate new classes of medical students and residents. Med school graduation brings mixed emotions; the new doctors and I both know residency will bring growth and challenges. Residency graduation is a wistful passage as well. It is so rewarding to welcome the newly board-certified family physicians to family medicine, but we miss them even as we orient a new class.

Every year, a few months (or even a few years) after graduation, I hear from a former resident, sometimes several. They ask to talk and, although it can be hard for them to explain exactly the ennui and disillusionment they’re feeling, their concerns boil down to: Is this all there is?

If what you’re doing isn’t working for you, look for opportunities (big or small) that make it better.

They are not burnt out, exactly, but they were hoping for more from their careers in family medicine.¹ They find their hopes and expectations are not fulfilled by seeing patients in the office 8 hours per day, 4.5 days per week. Even those who report rewarding relationships with patients express less overall enthusiasm for jobs they were excited to start just months or years earlier.

Some of the difficulties I hear the graduates report are expected growing pains. It is a transition to go from supervised practice with attending backup to a setting where you are on your own, typically with a 4-fold increase in volume compared with residency. But the monotony is real for family physicians in full-time outpatient practice.

Research suggests an expanded scope of practice—including hospital medicine, obstetrics, and procedures—is associated with physician well-being.^2,3 A broad scope of practice can bring stress, but it also brings meaning, and that meaning is protective to our well-being. However, a robust scope of practice is not always supported by medical groups or hospital systems, who prefer a more compartmentalized, widgetized physician.⁴ It would be easier for their algorithms if family physicians picked a lane and stayed in it. Alas, the broader our scope of practice, the healthier our population, the more equitable our care,^5,6 and the happier our physicians.

The disconnect and hopelessness experienced by family physicians is more concerning. Many of my graduates report feeling disconnected from their patients, because they begin to feel disillusioned by the demands and requests that practice and patients place on them. The paperwork, “permission slips,” and requests for tests and studies not only feel overwhelming and exhausting but also create distance between physicians and patients.⁷ We want to help our patients, so we do the forms and order the tests. As the quantity of forms, slips, and requests adds up, we begin to feel resentful at what the forms take away: time with our patients, perhaps, or time with our families. We get angry at the forms and the “asks,” and then begin to get angry at the patients simply for having needs. Administrative burden is a hassle, but it is also insidiously destructive.⁸

Family physicians confront hopelessness when, day after day, we diagnose problems that no physician is likely to fix in a single office visit: chronic stress, family dysfunction, violence, unemployment, poverty, racism, loneliness, and the hopelessness of the patients themselves. This is not to say that we ignore these concerns or their impact on health. It is because we see and feel them, and deeply understand their consequences for our patients, that we grow frustrated with the lack of solutions.^9,10

Thankfully, we have strong teams working at the policy level to improve the primary care and public health infrastructure so that we can maintain some hope that it will be better in the future. Sometimes when I counsel a former resident, they decide to join those teams so that they can work on the solutions. Others decide to expand their scope of practice. Others seek out virtual scribes to streamline charting and regain time. Some build better boundaries with their EHR inboxes.

The key is figuring out what we can do and making peace with our limits. When disillusionment hits, what we can do includes seeking connection and social contact and remembering that we are not trapped in our situation, even if we are practicing in a less-than-functional health care system. There are many ways to “be” a family physician—if what you’re doing isn’t working for you, look for opportunities (big or small) that make it better. We can all reach out to coaches, therapists, colleagues, and friends for support to remain steadfast in our purpose as family physicians. This support and the power of change means that from residency to the latter parts of our careers, we will continue to bring the tremendous good of family medicine to the communities we serve.

This is the exciting time of year when we graduate new classes of medical students and residents. Med school graduation brings mixed emotions; the new doctors and I both know residency will bring growth and challenges. Residency graduation is a wistful passage as well. It is so rewarding to welcome the newly board-certified family physicians to family medicine, but we miss them even as we orient a new class.

Every year, a few months (or even a few years) after graduation, I hear from a former resident, sometimes several. They ask to talk and, although it can be hard for them to explain exactly the ennui and disillusionment they’re feeling, their concerns boil down to: Is this all there is?

If what you’re doing isn’t working for you, look for opportunities (big or small) that make it better.

They are not burnt out, exactly, but they were hoping for more from their careers in family medicine.¹ They find their hopes and expectations are not fulfilled by seeing patients in the office 8 hours per day, 4.5 days per week. Even those who report rewarding relationships with patients express less overall enthusiasm for jobs they were excited to start just months or years earlier.

Some of the difficulties I hear the graduates report are expected growing pains. It is a transition to go from supervised practice with attending backup to a setting where you are on your own, typically with a 4-fold increase in volume compared with residency. But the monotony is real for family physicians in full-time outpatient practice.

Research suggests an expanded scope of practice—including hospital medicine, obstetrics, and procedures—is associated with physician well-being.^2,3 A broad scope of practice can bring stress, but it also brings meaning, and that meaning is protective to our well-being. However, a robust scope of practice is not always supported by medical groups or hospital systems, who prefer a more compartmentalized, widgetized physician.⁴ It would be easier for their algorithms if family physicians picked a lane and stayed in it. Alas, the broader our scope of practice, the healthier our population, the more equitable our care,^5,6 and the happier our physicians.

The disconnect and hopelessness experienced by family physicians is more concerning. Many of my graduates report feeling disconnected from their patients, because they begin to feel disillusioned by the demands and requests that practice and patients place on them. The paperwork, “permission slips,” and requests for tests and studies not only feel overwhelming and exhausting but also create distance between physicians and patients.⁷ We want to help our patients, so we do the forms and order the tests. As the quantity of forms, slips, and requests adds up, we begin to feel resentful at what the forms take away: time with our patients, perhaps, or time with our families. We get angry at the forms and the “asks,” and then begin to get angry at the patients simply for having needs. Administrative burden is a hassle, but it is also insidiously destructive.⁸

Family physicians confront hopelessness when, day after day, we diagnose problems that no physician is likely to fix in a single office visit: chronic stress, family dysfunction, violence, unemployment, poverty, racism, loneliness, and the hopelessness of the patients themselves. This is not to say that we ignore these concerns or their impact on health. It is because we see and feel them, and deeply understand their consequences for our patients, that we grow frustrated with the lack of solutions.^9,10

Thankfully, we have strong teams working at the policy level to improve the primary care and public health infrastructure so that we can maintain some hope that it will be better in the future. Sometimes when I counsel a former resident, they decide to join those teams so that they can work on the solutions. Others decide to expand their scope of practice. Others seek out virtual scribes to streamline charting and regain time. Some build better boundaries with their EHR inboxes.

The key is figuring out what we can do and making peace with our limits. When disillusionment hits, what we can do includes seeking connection and social contact and remembering that we are not trapped in our situation, even if we are practicing in a less-than-functional health care system. There are many ways to “be” a family physician—if what you’re doing isn’t working for you, look for opportunities (big or small) that make it better. We can all reach out to coaches, therapists, colleagues, and friends for support to remain steadfast in our purpose as family physicians. This support and the power of change means that from residency to the latter parts of our careers, we will continue to bring the tremendous good of family medicine to the communities we serve.

I’ve always thought it was interesting that the first cases of COVID-19 were reported to the World Health Organization on December 31, 2019.¹ How close we came to having COVID-20! On January 31, 2020, the US Department of Health and Human Services declared a national public health emergency due to COVID-19, and it’s been in effect ever since.

As COVID and our knowledge about it changed, we rewrote policies dozens of times, and each time the staff retrained in a hurry.

A national public health emergency allows the Department of Health and Human Services to access and designate funds to diagnose, treat, and prevent disease in response to the emergency. The declaration also facilitates the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention response to an infectious disease emergency. There are provisions for modifications to Medicare, Medicaid, and the Children’s Health Insurance Program so clinicians can continue seeing patients and be reimbursed for doing so, even in a situation in which the emergency disrupts usual reporting and documentation requirements. The declaration is essentially a shortcut through the typical bureaucracy that too often gums up the practice of medicine²; it allows for the rapid deployment of funds and personnel to a community affected by an emergency.

Unprecedented change. In the early days, plastic partitions were erected between patients in the hospital, and the scarce supply of N-95 masks was stored in paper bags and baked at low temperatures in ovens overnight.

My hospital enacted its incident command response procedures, just as we did the day our community experienced a mass shooting—except incident command stayed open for months. We had to adapt quickly. My office never closed to in-­person visits; we decided that we took care of too many people who did not have other access to care to make closing practical. My practice partners and I spent a Friday afternoon in March 2020 writing policies. A policy for our residency practice. A policy for how to see patients who might have COVID. A policy for how to cover the residents and faculty when we inevitably got sick. A policy for how to do telehealth visits. By the following Monday, when the office reopened, we had already trained the staff on the new policies, and we were ready to implement them with our patients.

As COVID and our knowledge about it changed, we rewrote those policies dozens of times, and each time the staff retrained in a hurry. We all learned so much so quickly. So as the official public health emergency comes to an end, there are things that I think I will take from it, and things that I wish all of medicine could take from it too.

We adapted as a team. I will never forget the stress of the early days of the emergency, when the patient volume was overwhelming and the death rate was staggering. But shining through those dark times were wonderful moments of connection with the teams with which I worked. I think about the residents whose training shifted suddenly to full-time ­COVID, the nurses who learned new things every weekend for so many months, and everyone who went out on a limb to do the right thing.

We provided care without bureaucracy. I wish medicine could leave the bureaucracy behind along with the emergency. It was so much easier to practice medicine when we knew that the testing and treatment were covered, without “we’ll see” or “it depends on your insurance.” Telehealth is probably here to stay, thanks to widespread uptake by patients and clinicians alike during the pandemic. My wish is that we can make it as easy as possible to use going forward, instead of choosing to return to a more restricted and difficult path.^3,4

Family physicians have much to be proud of. We can look back on the COVID-19 public health emergency as a time when we absorbed a huge amount of rapidly changing information and showed our adaptability to a frightening and uncertain environment. We are not returning to the office, as so many Americans are these days, because we never left the many settings where family physicians practice. We remained at work during the emergency and we took care of our patients.

When the next emergency is declared—whether it be national or local—we will once again be there for our patients.

I’ve always thought it was interesting that the first cases of COVID-19 were reported to the World Health Organization on December 31, 2019.¹ How close we came to having COVID-20! On January 31, 2020, the US Department of Health and Human Services declared a national public health emergency due to COVID-19, and it’s been in effect ever since.

As COVID and our knowledge about it changed, we rewrote policies dozens of times, and each time the staff retrained in a hurry.

A national public health emergency allows the Department of Health and Human Services to access and designate funds to diagnose, treat, and prevent disease in response to the emergency. The declaration also facilitates the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention response to an infectious disease emergency. There are provisions for modifications to Medicare, Medicaid, and the Children’s Health Insurance Program so clinicians can continue seeing patients and be reimbursed for doing so, even in a situation in which the emergency disrupts usual reporting and documentation requirements. The declaration is essentially a shortcut through the typical bureaucracy that too often gums up the practice of medicine²; it allows for the rapid deployment of funds and personnel to a community affected by an emergency.

Unprecedented change. In the early days, plastic partitions were erected between patients in the hospital, and the scarce supply of N-95 masks was stored in paper bags and baked at low temperatures in ovens overnight.

My hospital enacted its incident command response procedures, just as we did the day our community experienced a mass shooting—except incident command stayed open for months. We had to adapt quickly. My office never closed to in-­person visits; we decided that we took care of too many people who did not have other access to care to make closing practical. My practice partners and I spent a Friday afternoon in March 2020 writing policies. A policy for our residency practice. A policy for how to see patients who might have COVID. A policy for how to cover the residents and faculty when we inevitably got sick. A policy for how to do telehealth visits. By the following Monday, when the office reopened, we had already trained the staff on the new policies, and we were ready to implement them with our patients.

As COVID and our knowledge about it changed, we rewrote those policies dozens of times, and each time the staff retrained in a hurry. We all learned so much so quickly. So as the official public health emergency comes to an end, there are things that I think I will take from it, and things that I wish all of medicine could take from it too.

We adapted as a team. I will never forget the stress of the early days of the emergency, when the patient volume was overwhelming and the death rate was staggering. But shining through those dark times were wonderful moments of connection with the teams with which I worked. I think about the residents whose training shifted suddenly to full-time ­COVID, the nurses who learned new things every weekend for so many months, and everyone who went out on a limb to do the right thing.

We provided care without bureaucracy. I wish medicine could leave the bureaucracy behind along with the emergency. It was so much easier to practice medicine when we knew that the testing and treatment were covered, without “we’ll see” or “it depends on your insurance.” Telehealth is probably here to stay, thanks to widespread uptake by patients and clinicians alike during the pandemic. My wish is that we can make it as easy as possible to use going forward, instead of choosing to return to a more restricted and difficult path.^3,4

Family physicians have much to be proud of. We can look back on the COVID-19 public health emergency as a time when we absorbed a huge amount of rapidly changing information and showed our adaptability to a frightening and uncertain environment. We are not returning to the office, as so many Americans are these days, because we never left the many settings where family physicians practice. We remained at work during the emergency and we took care of our patients.

When the next emergency is declared—whether it be national or local—we will once again be there for our patients.

I’ve always thought it was interesting that the first cases of COVID-19 were reported to the World Health Organization on December 31, 2019.¹ How close we came to having COVID-20! On January 31, 2020, the US Department of Health and Human Services declared a national public health emergency due to COVID-19, and it’s been in effect ever since.

As COVID and our knowledge about it changed, we rewrote policies dozens of times, and each time the staff retrained in a hurry.

A national public health emergency allows the Department of Health and Human Services to access and designate funds to diagnose, treat, and prevent disease in response to the emergency. The declaration also facilitates the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention response to an infectious disease emergency. There are provisions for modifications to Medicare, Medicaid, and the Children’s Health Insurance Program so clinicians can continue seeing patients and be reimbursed for doing so, even in a situation in which the emergency disrupts usual reporting and documentation requirements. The declaration is essentially a shortcut through the typical bureaucracy that too often gums up the practice of medicine²; it allows for the rapid deployment of funds and personnel to a community affected by an emergency.

Unprecedented change. In the early days, plastic partitions were erected between patients in the hospital, and the scarce supply of N-95 masks was stored in paper bags and baked at low temperatures in ovens overnight.

My hospital enacted its incident command response procedures, just as we did the day our community experienced a mass shooting—except incident command stayed open for months. We had to adapt quickly. My office never closed to in-­person visits; we decided that we took care of too many people who did not have other access to care to make closing practical. My practice partners and I spent a Friday afternoon in March 2020 writing policies. A policy for our residency practice. A policy for how to see patients who might have COVID. A policy for how to cover the residents and faculty when we inevitably got sick. A policy for how to do telehealth visits. By the following Monday, when the office reopened, we had already trained the staff on the new policies, and we were ready to implement them with our patients.

As COVID and our knowledge about it changed, we rewrote those policies dozens of times, and each time the staff retrained in a hurry. We all learned so much so quickly. So as the official public health emergency comes to an end, there are things that I think I will take from it, and things that I wish all of medicine could take from it too.

We adapted as a team. I will never forget the stress of the early days of the emergency, when the patient volume was overwhelming and the death rate was staggering. But shining through those dark times were wonderful moments of connection with the teams with which I worked. I think about the residents whose training shifted suddenly to full-time ­COVID, the nurses who learned new things every weekend for so many months, and everyone who went out on a limb to do the right thing.

We provided care without bureaucracy. I wish medicine could leave the bureaucracy behind along with the emergency. It was so much easier to practice medicine when we knew that the testing and treatment were covered, without “we’ll see” or “it depends on your insurance.” Telehealth is probably here to stay, thanks to widespread uptake by patients and clinicians alike during the pandemic. My wish is that we can make it as easy as possible to use going forward, instead of choosing to return to a more restricted and difficult path.^3,4

Family physicians have much to be proud of. We can look back on the COVID-19 public health emergency as a time when we absorbed a huge amount of rapidly changing information and showed our adaptability to a frightening and uncertain environment. We are not returning to the office, as so many Americans are these days, because we never left the many settings where family physicians practice. We remained at work during the emergency and we took care of our patients.

When the next emergency is declared—whether it be national or local—we will once again be there for our patients.

I offer screening mammograms to my patients starting at age 40. I have developed a little script to explain that I recommend them routinely by age 50, but at younger ages, individual decision-making is required because the science to support breast cancer screening has more tradeoffs in younger patients.¹ Some patients have questions; many immediately know their preferences.

“Well, do it, don’t do it, but I recommend it,” the radiologist said. The conversation was over.

For me, personally, I felt comfortable waiting until sometime after age 40 to start screening. I have a reassuring family history; my mother has 5 sisters, without any breast or ovarian cancer among them. When, in my mid-40s, I told a doctor that I preferred to wait until I was closer to age 50 to get a mammogram, she urged me to begin screening immediately. Even as a physician, the drive to be a “good patient” was strong. I made the mammogram appointment.

Like many patients, my first mammogram was not normal.^2,3 After a second round of tests, and then a third, the radiologist gave me the results: Everything is fine. It is just normal breast tissue. To be on the safe side, you should do a follow-up mammogram and ultrasound in 6 months.

I asked why I needed to do follow-up imaging if the only thing that multiple diagnostic tests had shown was normal tissue—not a cyst, nor a fibroadenoma or any other abnormality.

“Well, do it, don’t do it, but I recommend it,” the radiologist said. The conversation was over.

My experience as a patient came to mind when I read this month’s article on shared decision-making by Mackwood et al.⁴ The authors discuss principles and techniques for shared decision-making in practice, which include enlisting the patient as the expert in their own values, and putting forth the health care professional as a source of reliable information when the evidence supports more than one reasonable strategy in a health care decision.

Aligning values, science, and action can be challenging, to be sure. It can be made easier through long-term relationships, such as the ones that family physicians have with their patients. One of the benefits of longitudinal practice is coming to know what our patients prefer instead of having to start from scratch with each visit. The belief that our values will be mutually respected is part of what builds trust in a doctor–patient relationship. We can use tools to support information delivery at the patient’s health literacy level to make the science more understandable. This in turn makes it easier for patients to integrate the science into their own value system.

Continue to: One of the most critical...

One of the most critical aspects of shared decision-making is also one of the hardest. As physicians, we need to be comfortable with a patient making a choice that we might not make ourselves. Perhaps we would choose to observe an otitis media in our own afebrile 6-year-old, or maybe we would not opt for semaglutide to treat our own obesity. Patients can have a different set of values and experiences driving their decision-making. The principles of shared decision-making teach us that our training and experience are not the priority in every situation.

In my case, the radiologist may have assumed that because I had gone through all of the testing, I believed that screening did far more good than harm and that I would be back in 6 months. From my point of view, I saw the screening as more of a mixed bag; it was possibly doing good, but at the risk of doing harm with false-positives and the possibility of overdiagnosis. She also may have been pressed for time and not had any available point-of-care tools to help explain her decision-making process. I left without understanding what the evidence was for close-interval follow-up, let alone having a chance to share in the decision-making process.

Shared decision-making and evidence-based medicine are closely connected concepts; the decision rests on the evidence, and the evidence cannot be applied to patients without asking their perspectives.⁵ Mackwood et al⁴ point out that shared decision-making can be implemented with little to no increase in the time we spend with patients, and at no substantial increase in costs of care.

Shared decision-making is a skill. Like any skill, the more we practice, the more capable we will become with it. And frankly, it doesn’t hurt to remember how we’ve felt when we’ve been the patient wearing that ­paper gown.

I offer screening mammograms to my patients starting at age 40. I have developed a little script to explain that I recommend them routinely by age 50, but at younger ages, individual decision-making is required because the science to support breast cancer screening has more tradeoffs in younger patients.¹ Some patients have questions; many immediately know their preferences.

“Well, do it, don’t do it, but I recommend it,” the radiologist said. The conversation was over.

For me, personally, I felt comfortable waiting until sometime after age 40 to start screening. I have a reassuring family history; my mother has 5 sisters, without any breast or ovarian cancer among them. When, in my mid-40s, I told a doctor that I preferred to wait until I was closer to age 50 to get a mammogram, she urged me to begin screening immediately. Even as a physician, the drive to be a “good patient” was strong. I made the mammogram appointment.

Like many patients, my first mammogram was not normal.^2,3 After a second round of tests, and then a third, the radiologist gave me the results: Everything is fine. It is just normal breast tissue. To be on the safe side, you should do a follow-up mammogram and ultrasound in 6 months.

I asked why I needed to do follow-up imaging if the only thing that multiple diagnostic tests had shown was normal tissue—not a cyst, nor a fibroadenoma or any other abnormality.

“Well, do it, don’t do it, but I recommend it,” the radiologist said. The conversation was over.

My experience as a patient came to mind when I read this month’s article on shared decision-making by Mackwood et al.⁴ The authors discuss principles and techniques for shared decision-making in practice, which include enlisting the patient as the expert in their own values, and putting forth the health care professional as a source of reliable information when the evidence supports more than one reasonable strategy in a health care decision.

Aligning values, science, and action can be challenging, to be sure. It can be made easier through long-term relationships, such as the ones that family physicians have with their patients. One of the benefits of longitudinal practice is coming to know what our patients prefer instead of having to start from scratch with each visit. The belief that our values will be mutually respected is part of what builds trust in a doctor–patient relationship. We can use tools to support information delivery at the patient’s health literacy level to make the science more understandable. This in turn makes it easier for patients to integrate the science into their own value system.

Continue to: One of the most critical...

One of the most critical aspects of shared decision-making is also one of the hardest. As physicians, we need to be comfortable with a patient making a choice that we might not make ourselves. Perhaps we would choose to observe an otitis media in our own afebrile 6-year-old, or maybe we would not opt for semaglutide to treat our own obesity. Patients can have a different set of values and experiences driving their decision-making. The principles of shared decision-making teach us that our training and experience are not the priority in every situation.

In my case, the radiologist may have assumed that because I had gone through all of the testing, I believed that screening did far more good than harm and that I would be back in 6 months. From my point of view, I saw the screening as more of a mixed bag; it was possibly doing good, but at the risk of doing harm with false-positives and the possibility of overdiagnosis. She also may have been pressed for time and not had any available point-of-care tools to help explain her decision-making process. I left without understanding what the evidence was for close-interval follow-up, let alone having a chance to share in the decision-making process.

Shared decision-making and evidence-based medicine are closely connected concepts; the decision rests on the evidence, and the evidence cannot be applied to patients without asking their perspectives.⁵ Mackwood et al⁴ point out that shared decision-making can be implemented with little to no increase in the time we spend with patients, and at no substantial increase in costs of care.

Shared decision-making is a skill. Like any skill, the more we practice, the more capable we will become with it. And frankly, it doesn’t hurt to remember how we’ve felt when we’ve been the patient wearing that ­paper gown.

I offer screening mammograms to my patients starting at age 40. I have developed a little script to explain that I recommend them routinely by age 50, but at younger ages, individual decision-making is required because the science to support breast cancer screening has more tradeoffs in younger patients.¹ Some patients have questions; many immediately know their preferences.

“Well, do it, don’t do it, but I recommend it,” the radiologist said. The conversation was over.

For me, personally, I felt comfortable waiting until sometime after age 40 to start screening. I have a reassuring family history; my mother has 5 sisters, without any breast or ovarian cancer among them. When, in my mid-40s, I told a doctor that I preferred to wait until I was closer to age 50 to get a mammogram, she urged me to begin screening immediately. Even as a physician, the drive to be a “good patient” was strong. I made the mammogram appointment.

Like many patients, my first mammogram was not normal.^2,3 After a second round of tests, and then a third, the radiologist gave me the results: Everything is fine. It is just normal breast tissue. To be on the safe side, you should do a follow-up mammogram and ultrasound in 6 months.

I asked why I needed to do follow-up imaging if the only thing that multiple diagnostic tests had shown was normal tissue—not a cyst, nor a fibroadenoma or any other abnormality.

“Well, do it, don’t do it, but I recommend it,” the radiologist said. The conversation was over.

My experience as a patient came to mind when I read this month’s article on shared decision-making by Mackwood et al.⁴ The authors discuss principles and techniques for shared decision-making in practice, which include enlisting the patient as the expert in their own values, and putting forth the health care professional as a source of reliable information when the evidence supports more than one reasonable strategy in a health care decision.

Aligning values, science, and action can be challenging, to be sure. It can be made easier through long-term relationships, such as the ones that family physicians have with their patients. One of the benefits of longitudinal practice is coming to know what our patients prefer instead of having to start from scratch with each visit. The belief that our values will be mutually respected is part of what builds trust in a doctor–patient relationship. We can use tools to support information delivery at the patient’s health literacy level to make the science more understandable. This in turn makes it easier for patients to integrate the science into their own value system.

Continue to: One of the most critical...

One of the most critical aspects of shared decision-making is also one of the hardest. As physicians, we need to be comfortable with a patient making a choice that we might not make ourselves. Perhaps we would choose to observe an otitis media in our own afebrile 6-year-old, or maybe we would not opt for semaglutide to treat our own obesity. Patients can have a different set of values and experiences driving their decision-making. The principles of shared decision-making teach us that our training and experience are not the priority in every situation.

In my case, the radiologist may have assumed that because I had gone through all of the testing, I believed that screening did far more good than harm and that I would be back in 6 months. From my point of view, I saw the screening as more of a mixed bag; it was possibly doing good, but at the risk of doing harm with false-positives and the possibility of overdiagnosis. She also may have been pressed for time and not had any available point-of-care tools to help explain her decision-making process. I left without understanding what the evidence was for close-interval follow-up, let alone having a chance to share in the decision-making process.

Shared decision-making and evidence-based medicine are closely connected concepts; the decision rests on the evidence, and the evidence cannot be applied to patients without asking their perspectives.⁵ Mackwood et al⁴ point out that shared decision-making can be implemented with little to no increase in the time we spend with patients, and at no substantial increase in costs of care.

Shared decision-making is a skill. Like any skill, the more we practice, the more capable we will become with it. And frankly, it doesn’t hurt to remember how we’ve felt when we’ve been the patient wearing that ­paper gown.

I work with medical students nearly every day that I see patients. I recently mentioned to a student that I have a limited working knowledge of the brand names of diabetes medications released in the past 10 years. Just like the M3s, I need the full generic name to know whether a medication is a GLP-1 inhibitor or a ­DPP-4 inhibitor, because I know that “flozins” are SGLT-2 inhibitors and ­“glutides” are GLP-1 agonists. The combined efforts of an ambulatory care pharmacist and some flashcards have helped me to better understand how they work and which ones to prescribe when. Meanwhile, the residents are capably counseling on the adverse effects of the latest diabetes agent, while I am googling its generic name.

The premise of science is continuous discovery. In the first 10 months of 2022, the US Food & Drug Administration approved more than 2 dozen new medications, almost 100 new generics, and new indications for dozens more.^1,2 The US Preventive Services Task Force (USPSTF) issued 13 new or reaffirmed recommendations in the first 10 months of 2022, and it is just one of dozens of bodies that issue guidelines relevant to primary care.³ PubMed indexes more than a million new articles each year. Learning new information and changing practice are crucial to being an effective clinician.

In this edition of JFP, Covey and Cagle⁴ write about updates to the USPSTF’s lung cancer screening guidelines. The authors reference changing evidence that led to the revised recommendations. When the original guideline was released in 2013, it drew on the best available evidence at the time.⁵ The National Lung Screening Trial, which looked at CT scanning compared with chest x-rays as screening tests for lung cancer, was groundbreaking in its methods and results.⁶ However, it was not without its flaws. It enrolled < 5% Black patients, and so the recommendations for age cutoffs and pack-year cutoffs were made based on the majority White population from the trial.

Not adopting the new lung cancer screening recommendations would exclude patients most at risk of lung cancer and allow disparities to grow.

Black patients experience a higher mortality from lung cancer and are diagnosed at an earlier age and a lower cumulative pack-year exposure than White patients.⁷ Other studies have explored the social and political factors that lead to these disparities, which range from access to care to racial segregation of neighborhoods and tobacco marketing practices.⁷ When the USPSTF performed its periodic update of the guideline, it had access to additional research. The updates reflect the new information.

Every physician has a responsibility to find a way to adapt to important new information in medicine. Not using ­SGLT-2 inhibitors in the management of diabetes would be substandard care, and my patients would suffer for it. Not adopting the new lung cancer screening recommendations would exclude patients most at risk of lung cancer and allow disparities in lung cancer morbidity and mortality to grow.^7,8Understanding the evidence behind the recommendations also reminds me that the guidelines will change again. These recommendations are no more static than the first guidelines were. I’ll be ready when the next update comes, and I’ll have the medical students and residents to keep me sharp.

I work with medical students nearly every day that I see patients. I recently mentioned to a student that I have a limited working knowledge of the brand names of diabetes medications released in the past 10 years. Just like the M3s, I need the full generic name to know whether a medication is a GLP-1 inhibitor or a ­DPP-4 inhibitor, because I know that “flozins” are SGLT-2 inhibitors and ­“glutides” are GLP-1 agonists. The combined efforts of an ambulatory care pharmacist and some flashcards have helped me to better understand how they work and which ones to prescribe when. Meanwhile, the residents are capably counseling on the adverse effects of the latest diabetes agent, while I am googling its generic name.

The premise of science is continuous discovery. In the first 10 months of 2022, the US Food & Drug Administration approved more than 2 dozen new medications, almost 100 new generics, and new indications for dozens more.^1,2 The US Preventive Services Task Force (USPSTF) issued 13 new or reaffirmed recommendations in the first 10 months of 2022, and it is just one of dozens of bodies that issue guidelines relevant to primary care.³ PubMed indexes more than a million new articles each year. Learning new information and changing practice are crucial to being an effective clinician.

In this edition of JFP, Covey and Cagle⁴ write about updates to the USPSTF’s lung cancer screening guidelines. The authors reference changing evidence that led to the revised recommendations. When the original guideline was released in 2013, it drew on the best available evidence at the time.⁵ The National Lung Screening Trial, which looked at CT scanning compared with chest x-rays as screening tests for lung cancer, was groundbreaking in its methods and results.⁶ However, it was not without its flaws. It enrolled < 5% Black patients, and so the recommendations for age cutoffs and pack-year cutoffs were made based on the majority White population from the trial.

Not adopting the new lung cancer screening recommendations would exclude patients most at risk of lung cancer and allow disparities to grow.

Black patients experience a higher mortality from lung cancer and are diagnosed at an earlier age and a lower cumulative pack-year exposure than White patients.⁷ Other studies have explored the social and political factors that lead to these disparities, which range from access to care to racial segregation of neighborhoods and tobacco marketing practices.⁷ When the USPSTF performed its periodic update of the guideline, it had access to additional research. The updates reflect the new information.

Every physician has a responsibility to find a way to adapt to important new information in medicine. Not using ­SGLT-2 inhibitors in the management of diabetes would be substandard care, and my patients would suffer for it. Not adopting the new lung cancer screening recommendations would exclude patients most at risk of lung cancer and allow disparities in lung cancer morbidity and mortality to grow.^7,8Understanding the evidence behind the recommendations also reminds me that the guidelines will change again. These recommendations are no more static than the first guidelines were. I’ll be ready when the next update comes, and I’ll have the medical students and residents to keep me sharp.

I work with medical students nearly every day that I see patients. I recently mentioned to a student that I have a limited working knowledge of the brand names of diabetes medications released in the past 10 years. Just like the M3s, I need the full generic name to know whether a medication is a GLP-1 inhibitor or a ­DPP-4 inhibitor, because I know that “flozins” are SGLT-2 inhibitors and ­“glutides” are GLP-1 agonists. The combined efforts of an ambulatory care pharmacist and some flashcards have helped me to better understand how they work and which ones to prescribe when. Meanwhile, the residents are capably counseling on the adverse effects of the latest diabetes agent, while I am googling its generic name.

The premise of science is continuous discovery. In the first 10 months of 2022, the US Food & Drug Administration approved more than 2 dozen new medications, almost 100 new generics, and new indications for dozens more.^1,2 The US Preventive Services Task Force (USPSTF) issued 13 new or reaffirmed recommendations in the first 10 months of 2022, and it is just one of dozens of bodies that issue guidelines relevant to primary care.³ PubMed indexes more than a million new articles each year. Learning new information and changing practice are crucial to being an effective clinician.

In this edition of JFP, Covey and Cagle⁴ write about updates to the USPSTF’s lung cancer screening guidelines. The authors reference changing evidence that led to the revised recommendations. When the original guideline was released in 2013, it drew on the best available evidence at the time.⁵ The National Lung Screening Trial, which looked at CT scanning compared with chest x-rays as screening tests for lung cancer, was groundbreaking in its methods and results.⁶ However, it was not without its flaws. It enrolled < 5% Black patients, and so the recommendations for age cutoffs and pack-year cutoffs were made based on the majority White population from the trial.

Not adopting the new lung cancer screening recommendations would exclude patients most at risk of lung cancer and allow disparities to grow.

Black patients experience a higher mortality from lung cancer and are diagnosed at an earlier age and a lower cumulative pack-year exposure than White patients.⁷ Other studies have explored the social and political factors that lead to these disparities, which range from access to care to racial segregation of neighborhoods and tobacco marketing practices.⁷ When the USPSTF performed its periodic update of the guideline, it had access to additional research. The updates reflect the new information.

Every physician has a responsibility to find a way to adapt to important new information in medicine. Not using ­SGLT-2 inhibitors in the management of diabetes would be substandard care, and my patients would suffer for it. Not adopting the new lung cancer screening recommendations would exclude patients most at risk of lung cancer and allow disparities in lung cancer morbidity and mortality to grow.^7,8Understanding the evidence behind the recommendations also reminds me that the guidelines will change again. These recommendations are no more static than the first guidelines were. I’ll be ready when the next update comes, and I’ll have the medical students and residents to keep me sharp.