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When burnout is moral injury
Several years have passed since I stood among a cohort of eager medical students wearing regalia that signaled a new beginning. Four years of grueling study culminated in a cacophony of unified voices, each reciting a pledge that I had longed to take since early adolescence. Together we celebrated, triumphant despite innumerable exams and various iterations of the Socratic method – all under the guise of assessing knowledge while in truth seeking to insidiously erode the crowd of prospective physicians. Yet our anxiety and uncertainty melted away as names were called, hands firmly clasped, and tassels transposed. For a moment in time, we stood on the precipice of victory, enthusiastic albeit oblivious of the tremendous obstacles that loomed ahead.
Wistfully I reminisce about the unequivocal joy that abounds within the protective shield of naiveté. Specifically, I think about that time when the edict of medicine and the art of being a physician felt congruent. Yet, reality is fickle and often supersedes expectation. Occasionally my thoughts drift to the early days of residency – a time during which the emotional weight of caring for vulnerable patients while learning to master my chosen specialty felt woefully insurmountable. I recall wading blindly through each rotation attempting to emulate the competent and compassionate care so effortlessly demonstrated by senior physicians as they moved through the health care system with apparent ease. They stepped fluidly, as I watched in awe through rose-tinted glasses.
As months passed into years, my perception cleared. What I initially viewed as graceful patient care belied a complex tapestry of health care workers often pressured into arduous decisions, not necessarily in service of a well-constructed treatment plan. Gradually, formidable barriers emerged, guidelines and restrictions embedded within a confining path that suffocated those who dared to cross it. As a result, a field built on the foundations of autonomy, benevolence, and nonmaleficence was slowly engulfed by a system fraught with contrivances. Amid such stressors, physical and psychological health grows tenuous. Classically, this overwhelming feeling of distress is recognized as burnout. Studies reformulated this malady to that which was first described in Vietnam war veterans, a condition known as “moral injury.”
The impact of burnout
To explain the development – and explore the complexities – of moral injury, we must return to 1975 when the term burnout was initially formulated by Herbert Freudenberger, PhD, a psychologist renowned for his work in substance use disorders, psychoanalysis, and clinical education.1 Dr. Freudenberger’s studies noted incidences of heightened emotional and physical distress in his colleagues working in substance abuse and other clinics. He sought to define these experiences as well as understand his own battle with malaise, apathy, and frustration.1 Ultimately, Dr. Freudenberger described burnout as “Becoming exhausted by making excessive demands on energy, strength, or resources in the workplace.”2 Although it characteristically overlaps with depression and anxiety, burnout is conceptualized as a separate entity specifically forged within a context of perfectionism, integrity, and self-sacrifice.2 Such qualities are integral in health care and, as a result, physicians are particularly vulnerable.
Since Dr. Freudenberger published “Burnout: The High Cost of Achievement” in 1980, immense research has assisted in not only identifying critical factors that contribute to its development but also the detrimental effects it has on physiological health.3 These include exhaustion from poor work conditions and extreme commitment to employee responsibilities that in turn precipitate mood destabilization and impaired work performance.3 Furthermore, research has also demonstrated that burnout triggers alterations in neural circuitry via the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala, structures critical for emotional regulation.4 To combat the ill effects of burnout while maintaining productivity and maximizing profit, several high-profile corporations instituted changes focusing on self-care, wellness, benefits, and incentives. Although these modifications are effective in decreasing the rate of employee turnover, such strategies are not easily transferable to health care. In fact, the rate of physician burnout has steadily increased over the past two decades as the business of medicine shifts towards longer hours, decreased reimbursement rates, and inexhaustible insurance stipulations.2,5 Consequently, occupational dissatisfaction increases the risk of cynicism, frustration with patients, internalization of failure, and likelihood of early retirement.5 Moreover, burnout may also fracture interpersonal relationships as well as precipitate errors, negative patient outcomes, malpractice, and development of severe mental health conditions associated with high morbidity and mortality.5,8
Although the concept of burnout is critical in understanding the side effects of stereotypical workplace culture, critics of the concept bemoan a suggestion of individual blame.6,8 In essence, they argue that burnout is explained as a side effect of toxic workplace conditions, but covertly represents a lack of resilience, motivation, and ambition to thrive in a physically or emotionally taxing occupational setting.6,8 Thus, the responsibility of acclimation lies upon the impacted individuals rather than the employer. For this reason, many strategies to ameliorate burnout are focused on the individual, including meditation, wellness retreats, creating or adjusting self-care regimens, or in some cases psychotherapy and psychopharmacology.6 Whereas burnout may respond (at least partially) to such interventions, without altering the causal factors, it is unlikely to remit. This is especially the case in health care, where systemic constraints lie beyond the control of an individual physician. Rather than promoting or specifically relying upon personal improvement and recovery, amendments are needed on multiple levels to affect meaningful change.
Moral injury
Similar to burnout, moral injury was not initially conceived within the scope of health care. In the 1990s Jonathan Shay, MD, PhD, identified veterans presenting with symptoms mimicking PTSD that failed to respond to standard, well established and efficacious treatments.9-11 With further analysis he determined that veterans who demonstrated minimal improvement reported similar histories of guilt, shame, and disgust following perceived injustices enacted or abetted by immoral leaders.10,11 Ultimately Shay identified three components of moral injury: 1. A betrayal of what is morally right; 2. By someone who holds legitimate priority; 3. In a high stakes situation.10
This definition was further modified in 2007 by Brett Linz, PhD, and colleagues as: “Perpetuating, failing to prevent, or bearing witness to acts that transgress deeply held moral beliefs and expectations.”10,11 By expanding this description to include distress experienced by physicians and health care workers, Wendy Dean and Simon Talbot (in 2018 and 2019 respectively) explored how the health care system leads practitioners to deliver what they identify as substandard treatment.6-8 This results in disillusionment and lays the foundation for ethical and moral dilemmas in clinicians.
Themes of moral injury are repeatedly cited in various surveys and studies as a cause for occupational dissatisfaction. As physicians and other health care professionals reel from the aftermath of COVID-19, the effects of reconfiguring medicine into a business-oriented framework are glaringly conspicuous. Vast hospital nursing shortages, high patient census exacerbated by the political misuse and polarization of science, and insufficient availability of psychiatric beds, have culminated in a deluge of psychological strain in emergency medical physicians. Furthermore, pressure from administrators, mandated patient satisfaction measures, tedious electronic medical record systems, and copious licensing and certification requirements, contribute to physician distress as they attempt to navigate a system that challenges the vows which they swore to uphold.8 Because the cost of pursuing a medical degree frequently necessitates acquisition of loans that, without a physician income, may be difficult to repay,9 many doctors feel trapped within a seemingly endless cycle of misgiving that contributes to emotional exhaustion, pessimism, and low morale.
In my next series of The Myth of the Superdoctor columns, we will explore various factors that potentiate risk of moral injury. From medical school and residency training to corporate infrastructure and insurance obstacles, I will seek to discern and deliberate strategies for repair and rehabilitation. It is my hope that together we will illuminate the myriad complexities within the business of medicine, and become advocates and harbingers of change not only for physicians and health care workers but also for the sake of our patients and their families.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
References
1. King N. When a Psychologist Succumbed to Stress, He Coined The Term Burnout. 2016 Dec 8. NPR: All Things Considered.
2. Maslach C and Leiter MP. World Psychiatry. 2016 Jun;15(2):103-11. doi: 10.1002/wps.20311.
3. InformedHealth.org and Institute for Quality and Efficiency in Health Care. Depression: What is burnout?. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK279286/.
4. Michel A. Burnout and the Brain. Observer. 2016 Jan 29. https://www.psychologicalscience.org/observer/burnout-and-the-brain.
5. Patel RS et al. Behav Sci. 2018;8(11):98. doi:10.3390/bs8110098.
6. Dean W and Talbot S. Physicians aren’t ‘burning out.’ They’re suffering from moral injury. Stat. 2018 Jul 26. https://www.statnews.com/2018/07/26/physicians-not-burning-out-they-are-suffering-moral-injury/.
7. Dean W and Talbot S. Moral injury and burnout in medicine: A year of lessons learned. Stat. 2019 Jul 26. https://www.statnews.com/2019/07/26/moral-injury-burnout-medicine-lessons-learned/.
8. Dean W et al. Reframing Clinician Distress: Moral Injury Not Burnout. Fed Pract. 2019 Sep; 36(9):400-2. https://www.mdedge.com/fedprac/article/207458/mental-health/reframing-clinician-distress-moral-injury-not-burnout.
9. Bailey M. Beyond Burnout: Docs Decry ‘Moral Injury’ From Financial Pressures of Health Care. KHN. 2020 Feb 4. https://khn.org/news/beyond-burnout-docs-decry-moral-injury-from-financial-pressures-of-health-care/.
10. Litz B et al. Clin Psychol Rev. 2009 Dec;29(8):695-706. doi: 10.1016/j.cpr.2009.07.003.
11. Norman S and Maguen S. Moral Injury. PTSD: National Center for PTSD. https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/cooccurring/moral_injury.asp.
Several years have passed since I stood among a cohort of eager medical students wearing regalia that signaled a new beginning. Four years of grueling study culminated in a cacophony of unified voices, each reciting a pledge that I had longed to take since early adolescence. Together we celebrated, triumphant despite innumerable exams and various iterations of the Socratic method – all under the guise of assessing knowledge while in truth seeking to insidiously erode the crowd of prospective physicians. Yet our anxiety and uncertainty melted away as names were called, hands firmly clasped, and tassels transposed. For a moment in time, we stood on the precipice of victory, enthusiastic albeit oblivious of the tremendous obstacles that loomed ahead.
Wistfully I reminisce about the unequivocal joy that abounds within the protective shield of naiveté. Specifically, I think about that time when the edict of medicine and the art of being a physician felt congruent. Yet, reality is fickle and often supersedes expectation. Occasionally my thoughts drift to the early days of residency – a time during which the emotional weight of caring for vulnerable patients while learning to master my chosen specialty felt woefully insurmountable. I recall wading blindly through each rotation attempting to emulate the competent and compassionate care so effortlessly demonstrated by senior physicians as they moved through the health care system with apparent ease. They stepped fluidly, as I watched in awe through rose-tinted glasses.
As months passed into years, my perception cleared. What I initially viewed as graceful patient care belied a complex tapestry of health care workers often pressured into arduous decisions, not necessarily in service of a well-constructed treatment plan. Gradually, formidable barriers emerged, guidelines and restrictions embedded within a confining path that suffocated those who dared to cross it. As a result, a field built on the foundations of autonomy, benevolence, and nonmaleficence was slowly engulfed by a system fraught with contrivances. Amid such stressors, physical and psychological health grows tenuous. Classically, this overwhelming feeling of distress is recognized as burnout. Studies reformulated this malady to that which was first described in Vietnam war veterans, a condition known as “moral injury.”
The impact of burnout
To explain the development – and explore the complexities – of moral injury, we must return to 1975 when the term burnout was initially formulated by Herbert Freudenberger, PhD, a psychologist renowned for his work in substance use disorders, psychoanalysis, and clinical education.1 Dr. Freudenberger’s studies noted incidences of heightened emotional and physical distress in his colleagues working in substance abuse and other clinics. He sought to define these experiences as well as understand his own battle with malaise, apathy, and frustration.1 Ultimately, Dr. Freudenberger described burnout as “Becoming exhausted by making excessive demands on energy, strength, or resources in the workplace.”2 Although it characteristically overlaps with depression and anxiety, burnout is conceptualized as a separate entity specifically forged within a context of perfectionism, integrity, and self-sacrifice.2 Such qualities are integral in health care and, as a result, physicians are particularly vulnerable.
Since Dr. Freudenberger published “Burnout: The High Cost of Achievement” in 1980, immense research has assisted in not only identifying critical factors that contribute to its development but also the detrimental effects it has on physiological health.3 These include exhaustion from poor work conditions and extreme commitment to employee responsibilities that in turn precipitate mood destabilization and impaired work performance.3 Furthermore, research has also demonstrated that burnout triggers alterations in neural circuitry via the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala, structures critical for emotional regulation.4 To combat the ill effects of burnout while maintaining productivity and maximizing profit, several high-profile corporations instituted changes focusing on self-care, wellness, benefits, and incentives. Although these modifications are effective in decreasing the rate of employee turnover, such strategies are not easily transferable to health care. In fact, the rate of physician burnout has steadily increased over the past two decades as the business of medicine shifts towards longer hours, decreased reimbursement rates, and inexhaustible insurance stipulations.2,5 Consequently, occupational dissatisfaction increases the risk of cynicism, frustration with patients, internalization of failure, and likelihood of early retirement.5 Moreover, burnout may also fracture interpersonal relationships as well as precipitate errors, negative patient outcomes, malpractice, and development of severe mental health conditions associated with high morbidity and mortality.5,8
Although the concept of burnout is critical in understanding the side effects of stereotypical workplace culture, critics of the concept bemoan a suggestion of individual blame.6,8 In essence, they argue that burnout is explained as a side effect of toxic workplace conditions, but covertly represents a lack of resilience, motivation, and ambition to thrive in a physically or emotionally taxing occupational setting.6,8 Thus, the responsibility of acclimation lies upon the impacted individuals rather than the employer. For this reason, many strategies to ameliorate burnout are focused on the individual, including meditation, wellness retreats, creating or adjusting self-care regimens, or in some cases psychotherapy and psychopharmacology.6 Whereas burnout may respond (at least partially) to such interventions, without altering the causal factors, it is unlikely to remit. This is especially the case in health care, where systemic constraints lie beyond the control of an individual physician. Rather than promoting or specifically relying upon personal improvement and recovery, amendments are needed on multiple levels to affect meaningful change.
Moral injury
Similar to burnout, moral injury was not initially conceived within the scope of health care. In the 1990s Jonathan Shay, MD, PhD, identified veterans presenting with symptoms mimicking PTSD that failed to respond to standard, well established and efficacious treatments.9-11 With further analysis he determined that veterans who demonstrated minimal improvement reported similar histories of guilt, shame, and disgust following perceived injustices enacted or abetted by immoral leaders.10,11 Ultimately Shay identified three components of moral injury: 1. A betrayal of what is morally right; 2. By someone who holds legitimate priority; 3. In a high stakes situation.10
This definition was further modified in 2007 by Brett Linz, PhD, and colleagues as: “Perpetuating, failing to prevent, or bearing witness to acts that transgress deeply held moral beliefs and expectations.”10,11 By expanding this description to include distress experienced by physicians and health care workers, Wendy Dean and Simon Talbot (in 2018 and 2019 respectively) explored how the health care system leads practitioners to deliver what they identify as substandard treatment.6-8 This results in disillusionment and lays the foundation for ethical and moral dilemmas in clinicians.
Themes of moral injury are repeatedly cited in various surveys and studies as a cause for occupational dissatisfaction. As physicians and other health care professionals reel from the aftermath of COVID-19, the effects of reconfiguring medicine into a business-oriented framework are glaringly conspicuous. Vast hospital nursing shortages, high patient census exacerbated by the political misuse and polarization of science, and insufficient availability of psychiatric beds, have culminated in a deluge of psychological strain in emergency medical physicians. Furthermore, pressure from administrators, mandated patient satisfaction measures, tedious electronic medical record systems, and copious licensing and certification requirements, contribute to physician distress as they attempt to navigate a system that challenges the vows which they swore to uphold.8 Because the cost of pursuing a medical degree frequently necessitates acquisition of loans that, without a physician income, may be difficult to repay,9 many doctors feel trapped within a seemingly endless cycle of misgiving that contributes to emotional exhaustion, pessimism, and low morale.
In my next series of The Myth of the Superdoctor columns, we will explore various factors that potentiate risk of moral injury. From medical school and residency training to corporate infrastructure and insurance obstacles, I will seek to discern and deliberate strategies for repair and rehabilitation. It is my hope that together we will illuminate the myriad complexities within the business of medicine, and become advocates and harbingers of change not only for physicians and health care workers but also for the sake of our patients and their families.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
References
1. King N. When a Psychologist Succumbed to Stress, He Coined The Term Burnout. 2016 Dec 8. NPR: All Things Considered.
2. Maslach C and Leiter MP. World Psychiatry. 2016 Jun;15(2):103-11. doi: 10.1002/wps.20311.
3. InformedHealth.org and Institute for Quality and Efficiency in Health Care. Depression: What is burnout?. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK279286/.
4. Michel A. Burnout and the Brain. Observer. 2016 Jan 29. https://www.psychologicalscience.org/observer/burnout-and-the-brain.
5. Patel RS et al. Behav Sci. 2018;8(11):98. doi:10.3390/bs8110098.
6. Dean W and Talbot S. Physicians aren’t ‘burning out.’ They’re suffering from moral injury. Stat. 2018 Jul 26. https://www.statnews.com/2018/07/26/physicians-not-burning-out-they-are-suffering-moral-injury/.
7. Dean W and Talbot S. Moral injury and burnout in medicine: A year of lessons learned. Stat. 2019 Jul 26. https://www.statnews.com/2019/07/26/moral-injury-burnout-medicine-lessons-learned/.
8. Dean W et al. Reframing Clinician Distress: Moral Injury Not Burnout. Fed Pract. 2019 Sep; 36(9):400-2. https://www.mdedge.com/fedprac/article/207458/mental-health/reframing-clinician-distress-moral-injury-not-burnout.
9. Bailey M. Beyond Burnout: Docs Decry ‘Moral Injury’ From Financial Pressures of Health Care. KHN. 2020 Feb 4. https://khn.org/news/beyond-burnout-docs-decry-moral-injury-from-financial-pressures-of-health-care/.
10. Litz B et al. Clin Psychol Rev. 2009 Dec;29(8):695-706. doi: 10.1016/j.cpr.2009.07.003.
11. Norman S and Maguen S. Moral Injury. PTSD: National Center for PTSD. https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/cooccurring/moral_injury.asp.
Several years have passed since I stood among a cohort of eager medical students wearing regalia that signaled a new beginning. Four years of grueling study culminated in a cacophony of unified voices, each reciting a pledge that I had longed to take since early adolescence. Together we celebrated, triumphant despite innumerable exams and various iterations of the Socratic method – all under the guise of assessing knowledge while in truth seeking to insidiously erode the crowd of prospective physicians. Yet our anxiety and uncertainty melted away as names were called, hands firmly clasped, and tassels transposed. For a moment in time, we stood on the precipice of victory, enthusiastic albeit oblivious of the tremendous obstacles that loomed ahead.
Wistfully I reminisce about the unequivocal joy that abounds within the protective shield of naiveté. Specifically, I think about that time when the edict of medicine and the art of being a physician felt congruent. Yet, reality is fickle and often supersedes expectation. Occasionally my thoughts drift to the early days of residency – a time during which the emotional weight of caring for vulnerable patients while learning to master my chosen specialty felt woefully insurmountable. I recall wading blindly through each rotation attempting to emulate the competent and compassionate care so effortlessly demonstrated by senior physicians as they moved through the health care system with apparent ease. They stepped fluidly, as I watched in awe through rose-tinted glasses.
As months passed into years, my perception cleared. What I initially viewed as graceful patient care belied a complex tapestry of health care workers often pressured into arduous decisions, not necessarily in service of a well-constructed treatment plan. Gradually, formidable barriers emerged, guidelines and restrictions embedded within a confining path that suffocated those who dared to cross it. As a result, a field built on the foundations of autonomy, benevolence, and nonmaleficence was slowly engulfed by a system fraught with contrivances. Amid such stressors, physical and psychological health grows tenuous. Classically, this overwhelming feeling of distress is recognized as burnout. Studies reformulated this malady to that which was first described in Vietnam war veterans, a condition known as “moral injury.”
The impact of burnout
To explain the development – and explore the complexities – of moral injury, we must return to 1975 when the term burnout was initially formulated by Herbert Freudenberger, PhD, a psychologist renowned for his work in substance use disorders, psychoanalysis, and clinical education.1 Dr. Freudenberger’s studies noted incidences of heightened emotional and physical distress in his colleagues working in substance abuse and other clinics. He sought to define these experiences as well as understand his own battle with malaise, apathy, and frustration.1 Ultimately, Dr. Freudenberger described burnout as “Becoming exhausted by making excessive demands on energy, strength, or resources in the workplace.”2 Although it characteristically overlaps with depression and anxiety, burnout is conceptualized as a separate entity specifically forged within a context of perfectionism, integrity, and self-sacrifice.2 Such qualities are integral in health care and, as a result, physicians are particularly vulnerable.
Since Dr. Freudenberger published “Burnout: The High Cost of Achievement” in 1980, immense research has assisted in not only identifying critical factors that contribute to its development but also the detrimental effects it has on physiological health.3 These include exhaustion from poor work conditions and extreme commitment to employee responsibilities that in turn precipitate mood destabilization and impaired work performance.3 Furthermore, research has also demonstrated that burnout triggers alterations in neural circuitry via the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala, structures critical for emotional regulation.4 To combat the ill effects of burnout while maintaining productivity and maximizing profit, several high-profile corporations instituted changes focusing on self-care, wellness, benefits, and incentives. Although these modifications are effective in decreasing the rate of employee turnover, such strategies are not easily transferable to health care. In fact, the rate of physician burnout has steadily increased over the past two decades as the business of medicine shifts towards longer hours, decreased reimbursement rates, and inexhaustible insurance stipulations.2,5 Consequently, occupational dissatisfaction increases the risk of cynicism, frustration with patients, internalization of failure, and likelihood of early retirement.5 Moreover, burnout may also fracture interpersonal relationships as well as precipitate errors, negative patient outcomes, malpractice, and development of severe mental health conditions associated with high morbidity and mortality.5,8
Although the concept of burnout is critical in understanding the side effects of stereotypical workplace culture, critics of the concept bemoan a suggestion of individual blame.6,8 In essence, they argue that burnout is explained as a side effect of toxic workplace conditions, but covertly represents a lack of resilience, motivation, and ambition to thrive in a physically or emotionally taxing occupational setting.6,8 Thus, the responsibility of acclimation lies upon the impacted individuals rather than the employer. For this reason, many strategies to ameliorate burnout are focused on the individual, including meditation, wellness retreats, creating or adjusting self-care regimens, or in some cases psychotherapy and psychopharmacology.6 Whereas burnout may respond (at least partially) to such interventions, without altering the causal factors, it is unlikely to remit. This is especially the case in health care, where systemic constraints lie beyond the control of an individual physician. Rather than promoting or specifically relying upon personal improvement and recovery, amendments are needed on multiple levels to affect meaningful change.
Moral injury
Similar to burnout, moral injury was not initially conceived within the scope of health care. In the 1990s Jonathan Shay, MD, PhD, identified veterans presenting with symptoms mimicking PTSD that failed to respond to standard, well established and efficacious treatments.9-11 With further analysis he determined that veterans who demonstrated minimal improvement reported similar histories of guilt, shame, and disgust following perceived injustices enacted or abetted by immoral leaders.10,11 Ultimately Shay identified three components of moral injury: 1. A betrayal of what is morally right; 2. By someone who holds legitimate priority; 3. In a high stakes situation.10
This definition was further modified in 2007 by Brett Linz, PhD, and colleagues as: “Perpetuating, failing to prevent, or bearing witness to acts that transgress deeply held moral beliefs and expectations.”10,11 By expanding this description to include distress experienced by physicians and health care workers, Wendy Dean and Simon Talbot (in 2018 and 2019 respectively) explored how the health care system leads practitioners to deliver what they identify as substandard treatment.6-8 This results in disillusionment and lays the foundation for ethical and moral dilemmas in clinicians.
Themes of moral injury are repeatedly cited in various surveys and studies as a cause for occupational dissatisfaction. As physicians and other health care professionals reel from the aftermath of COVID-19, the effects of reconfiguring medicine into a business-oriented framework are glaringly conspicuous. Vast hospital nursing shortages, high patient census exacerbated by the political misuse and polarization of science, and insufficient availability of psychiatric beds, have culminated in a deluge of psychological strain in emergency medical physicians. Furthermore, pressure from administrators, mandated patient satisfaction measures, tedious electronic medical record systems, and copious licensing and certification requirements, contribute to physician distress as they attempt to navigate a system that challenges the vows which they swore to uphold.8 Because the cost of pursuing a medical degree frequently necessitates acquisition of loans that, without a physician income, may be difficult to repay,9 many doctors feel trapped within a seemingly endless cycle of misgiving that contributes to emotional exhaustion, pessimism, and low morale.
In my next series of The Myth of the Superdoctor columns, we will explore various factors that potentiate risk of moral injury. From medical school and residency training to corporate infrastructure and insurance obstacles, I will seek to discern and deliberate strategies for repair and rehabilitation. It is my hope that together we will illuminate the myriad complexities within the business of medicine, and become advocates and harbingers of change not only for physicians and health care workers but also for the sake of our patients and their families.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
References
1. King N. When a Psychologist Succumbed to Stress, He Coined The Term Burnout. 2016 Dec 8. NPR: All Things Considered.
2. Maslach C and Leiter MP. World Psychiatry. 2016 Jun;15(2):103-11. doi: 10.1002/wps.20311.
3. InformedHealth.org and Institute for Quality and Efficiency in Health Care. Depression: What is burnout?. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK279286/.
4. Michel A. Burnout and the Brain. Observer. 2016 Jan 29. https://www.psychologicalscience.org/observer/burnout-and-the-brain.
5. Patel RS et al. Behav Sci. 2018;8(11):98. doi:10.3390/bs8110098.
6. Dean W and Talbot S. Physicians aren’t ‘burning out.’ They’re suffering from moral injury. Stat. 2018 Jul 26. https://www.statnews.com/2018/07/26/physicians-not-burning-out-they-are-suffering-moral-injury/.
7. Dean W and Talbot S. Moral injury and burnout in medicine: A year of lessons learned. Stat. 2019 Jul 26. https://www.statnews.com/2019/07/26/moral-injury-burnout-medicine-lessons-learned/.
8. Dean W et al. Reframing Clinician Distress: Moral Injury Not Burnout. Fed Pract. 2019 Sep; 36(9):400-2. https://www.mdedge.com/fedprac/article/207458/mental-health/reframing-clinician-distress-moral-injury-not-burnout.
9. Bailey M. Beyond Burnout: Docs Decry ‘Moral Injury’ From Financial Pressures of Health Care. KHN. 2020 Feb 4. https://khn.org/news/beyond-burnout-docs-decry-moral-injury-from-financial-pressures-of-health-care/.
10. Litz B et al. Clin Psychol Rev. 2009 Dec;29(8):695-706. doi: 10.1016/j.cpr.2009.07.003.
11. Norman S and Maguen S. Moral Injury. PTSD: National Center for PTSD. https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/cooccurring/moral_injury.asp.
COVID-19 and the immunocompromised physician
Working feverishly to complete the myriad patient notes accumulated throughout a hectic day, my phone vibrated – alerting me to a number that, over the past several years, has wrought uncertainty, grief, and overwhelming relief. Answering hesitantly, I listened to my physician’s pharmacist inform me of unexpected and alarming news.
Since COVID-19 was first identified more than 1 year ago, more than 770,000 people have died in the United States. In the wake of those losses, countless grieve while attempting to navigate a future without their loved ones. Meanwhile, scientists worked feverishly to combat a pandemic relentless in contagion. As health care professionals, we work tirelessly against the sharpened scythe of death, toiling day after day without an identifiable end. All the while, advocacy has prevailed as the need for personal protective equipment, improved ventilation systems, sanitization measures, and other mitigation measures, such as mask wearing and social distancing, echoed swiftly across the nation and around the world.
But, as the months have progressed, and life has seemingly transitioned toward a parallel version of reality, subsections of communities have grown restless. Several nontherapeutic, ineffective, and falsely touted regimens have been promoted. Amid the chaos of misinformation, most medical professionals have sought support from respected journals and infectious disease experts to filter out jargon and piece together scientifically sound protocols. Although many lives have prevailed by way of those advancements, mixed messages about interventions have emerged – and in many quarters across the country, anger, resistance, and outright refusal have prevailed.
Yet, we – the medical community – have forged ever onward as the cases continued and the death toll steadily climbed. In many cases, physicians who are years removed from critical care training have been thrust into COVID units, while residents have shifted toward working outside of their chosen specialty. Outpatient offices have closed, salaries have been cut, and furloughs have loomed as days fade into months. Beset with exhaustion and uncertainty, sacrifice has become a common thread that intrinsically united us against an unrelenting foe.
Most people continued navigating the many changes and made concerted efforts to mimic our prepandemic lives. Working from home in makeshift offices, dusting off math skills to assist children through the doldrums of distance learning, and mastering various audiovisual platforms, we reinforced social bonds and forged new connections echoing the hallmark resilience reminiscent of our shared distant ancestry.
As of this writing, thanks to our work – and that of scientists and policy makers – about 69% of Americans have received at least one dose of vaccine, and vaccines are widely available to children 5 and older. But it has been disheartening to watch misinformation about vaccine research and development propagated by political figures, social media, and lay people.
Processing the phone call
While listening to my physician’s pharmacist, I slowed my breaths in an effort to find calm. Years of navigating the American health care industry had left me both equipped and ill-prepared for the unexpected. I listened intently to the pharmacist’s words while staring blankly at a computer screen – uncertain of what had felt so assured not 10 minutes earlier.
That’s when I got the news. The intravenous medication that aided in my stabilization had suffered a critical shortage because of its successful use in the treatment of patients with COVID-19 pneumonia – patients who, in a majority of cases, had likely refused the vaccines. As result, the medication that had enabled my return to work, active engagement in nonwork pursuits, and most importantly, equipped my body to thrive despite the damage it had suffered, suddenly vanished.
Gently placing my phone on the desk, my heart beat rapidly as tears steadily streamed down my face. Staring blankly ahead, my hands gradually balled into fists as I let out a sound of fear, agony, and uncertainty. Screaming at everything and nothing, nausea swelled as panic flooded my body. In that moment, I ruminated on the conversation with the pharmacist. There had been no discussion, no option for me to maintain accessibility to this valuable medicine. Consequently, I felt helpless. Although the same medication, albeit a different mechanism of delivery, was promptly chosen as an adequate substitute, there was no guarantee of it bestowing the same degree of efficacy. So I was terrified, envisioning the progress made over several years as plummeting into an abyss of pain and despair. What are those of us who have chosen medicine as our profession but are immunocompromised expected to make of this?
Over the next several weeks, I diligently adhered to the new regimen and focused on positive mentation. Nevertheless, day by day, the symptoms worsened; eventually, I became bed ridden. I tried to gather what little composure remained to reschedule patients and justify the resounding guilt of perceived failure. I remember the sweet and gentle look of my child as I once again could not summon the strength to play pretend. This felt overwhelming. Would I ever go back to work? Would I see my child grow? No amount of pleading or screaming would change the fact that a medical system chose to roll the dice on my health. In a haze of discomfort and betrayal, I wondered how a physician or medical facility could justify removing medication from someone reliant upon it. How do we choose the appropriate allocation of resources when the consequences are potentially catastrophic?
Searching for context
When a country is founded on the mission of rising as a leading world power built upon the concepts of freedom, basic human rights, and individuality while supporting an infrastructure of capitalism, power, and control, crises – particularly those related to public health – can fan deep divisions. Here in the United States, we have seen misinterpretation, misunderstanding, and bitter indignation fuel the flames of provocation as protests of mask mandates, distance learning, and social distancing were touted as violating the very core upon which the country was established. Frustration, palpable among health care professionals, grew ever greater as the importance of vaccination in quelling virus mutations and decreasing morbidity and mortality were openly disparaged and ignored.
Not only have we watched people refuse the vaccines, but some are ignoring other mitigation measures. So the question becomes: How are we, as health care professionals trying to maintain a therapeutic alliance with those who reject lifesaving practices, expected to process this? Sitting in appointments and attempting interventions without judgment feels impractical and nearly impossible – particularly when the behaviors of these patients have the potential of violating our own health and well-being. How do we remain altruistic in our endeavors when those who seek our care seem callously indifferent to our lives – and to those of our families?
Measuring the value of life
Within the fevered haze of this past year, many stories highlighting grim realities have captured the media spotlight. From individuals unable to have emergency evaluations because of facilities being inundated by COVID-19 patients to individuals prematurely discharged, hospital bed shortages, and financial pressures from insurance companies. In reciting the phrase “Primum non noncere,” we physicians are committing to providing fair and competent medical treatment. At times, urgent decisions are necessary but are always made in the best interest of the patient(s). Ultimately, I am left debating how these agonizing weeks served any meaningful purpose. Moreover, when choosing the many over the few, what are the determinant factors? I am left asking: What is the value of a life?
Philosophically, this ethical dilemma is captured succinctly via the “trolley problem,” formulated in 1967 by Philippa Foot, MD. This is how Dr. Foot’s formulation unfolds: Close your eyes, and imagine you are inside a trolley careening unhindered down the rumbling tracks. Straight ahead you see five people bound to the tracks in imminent danger of being struck, and on the other side, one person is tied to the tracks. Do you continue the same course – thereby condemning five innocent people to death – or do you make the active decision to switch tracks, therefore consigning the one to their fate? Envision the people what do they look like? How old are they? If the one were a small child or a close friend, would that alter your decision? How does one make such a harrowing choice knowing the irreversible consequences? Depending on your action, this quandary falls within two primary schools of thought: Utilitarianism, which posits that the best action is the greatest good for the greatest number of people, and deontologicalism, which suggests that action is inherently right or wrong regardless of the consequences. Therefore, the decision to save the five is not favored.
However simplistic those scenarios may read, such principles when viewed through different lenses, they form the basis of medical ethics. In effect, every acute decision, every aspect of treatment is predicated upon the principles of nonmaleficence, beneficence, utility, distributive justice, and autonomy. Yet, the manner in which they are applied is highly contingent upon myriad variables. For example, sociopolitical factors, including population size (rural versus urban), economics (impoverished versus wealthy), as well as demographic factors (age, ethnicity, gender, sexuality) can highly influence and sometimes unknowingly influence interpretation and allocation of health care resources. This dilemma does not yield easily applicable and universal solutions. Nevertheless, it is paramount to evaluate policies effectively and tediously, particularly those with detrimental ramifications. Likewise, remaining flexible in our willingness to explore alternative solutions and encourage open discord among those with opposing viewpoints is key to instituting individual or institutional change that values the one as it values the many.
After several weeks of acute illness and a variety of short-acting interventions, I received approval to resume intravenous therapy. While the saga has ultimately reached a satisfactory conclusion, I am left with stupefied disbelief toward the people who took a gamble on my health. I am facing a battle between understanding the obligation of medicine to provide ethical and reasonable care without hesitation or judgment versus embittered resentment when faced with those who openly campaign against lifesaving interventions, such as the COVID-19 vaccine. For me, each day and the one that follows is riddled with complicated emotion. Every time I prematurely cease activity out of discomfort and weariness, I worry about my increasingly foreboding workload. In those moments, in that place of questions without answers, I remember that someone somewhere ultimately decided to switch the trolley’s track.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
Working feverishly to complete the myriad patient notes accumulated throughout a hectic day, my phone vibrated – alerting me to a number that, over the past several years, has wrought uncertainty, grief, and overwhelming relief. Answering hesitantly, I listened to my physician’s pharmacist inform me of unexpected and alarming news.
Since COVID-19 was first identified more than 1 year ago, more than 770,000 people have died in the United States. In the wake of those losses, countless grieve while attempting to navigate a future without their loved ones. Meanwhile, scientists worked feverishly to combat a pandemic relentless in contagion. As health care professionals, we work tirelessly against the sharpened scythe of death, toiling day after day without an identifiable end. All the while, advocacy has prevailed as the need for personal protective equipment, improved ventilation systems, sanitization measures, and other mitigation measures, such as mask wearing and social distancing, echoed swiftly across the nation and around the world.
But, as the months have progressed, and life has seemingly transitioned toward a parallel version of reality, subsections of communities have grown restless. Several nontherapeutic, ineffective, and falsely touted regimens have been promoted. Amid the chaos of misinformation, most medical professionals have sought support from respected journals and infectious disease experts to filter out jargon and piece together scientifically sound protocols. Although many lives have prevailed by way of those advancements, mixed messages about interventions have emerged – and in many quarters across the country, anger, resistance, and outright refusal have prevailed.
Yet, we – the medical community – have forged ever onward as the cases continued and the death toll steadily climbed. In many cases, physicians who are years removed from critical care training have been thrust into COVID units, while residents have shifted toward working outside of their chosen specialty. Outpatient offices have closed, salaries have been cut, and furloughs have loomed as days fade into months. Beset with exhaustion and uncertainty, sacrifice has become a common thread that intrinsically united us against an unrelenting foe.
Most people continued navigating the many changes and made concerted efforts to mimic our prepandemic lives. Working from home in makeshift offices, dusting off math skills to assist children through the doldrums of distance learning, and mastering various audiovisual platforms, we reinforced social bonds and forged new connections echoing the hallmark resilience reminiscent of our shared distant ancestry.
As of this writing, thanks to our work – and that of scientists and policy makers – about 69% of Americans have received at least one dose of vaccine, and vaccines are widely available to children 5 and older. But it has been disheartening to watch misinformation about vaccine research and development propagated by political figures, social media, and lay people.
Processing the phone call
While listening to my physician’s pharmacist, I slowed my breaths in an effort to find calm. Years of navigating the American health care industry had left me both equipped and ill-prepared for the unexpected. I listened intently to the pharmacist’s words while staring blankly at a computer screen – uncertain of what had felt so assured not 10 minutes earlier.
That’s when I got the news. The intravenous medication that aided in my stabilization had suffered a critical shortage because of its successful use in the treatment of patients with COVID-19 pneumonia – patients who, in a majority of cases, had likely refused the vaccines. As result, the medication that had enabled my return to work, active engagement in nonwork pursuits, and most importantly, equipped my body to thrive despite the damage it had suffered, suddenly vanished.
Gently placing my phone on the desk, my heart beat rapidly as tears steadily streamed down my face. Staring blankly ahead, my hands gradually balled into fists as I let out a sound of fear, agony, and uncertainty. Screaming at everything and nothing, nausea swelled as panic flooded my body. In that moment, I ruminated on the conversation with the pharmacist. There had been no discussion, no option for me to maintain accessibility to this valuable medicine. Consequently, I felt helpless. Although the same medication, albeit a different mechanism of delivery, was promptly chosen as an adequate substitute, there was no guarantee of it bestowing the same degree of efficacy. So I was terrified, envisioning the progress made over several years as plummeting into an abyss of pain and despair. What are those of us who have chosen medicine as our profession but are immunocompromised expected to make of this?
Over the next several weeks, I diligently adhered to the new regimen and focused on positive mentation. Nevertheless, day by day, the symptoms worsened; eventually, I became bed ridden. I tried to gather what little composure remained to reschedule patients and justify the resounding guilt of perceived failure. I remember the sweet and gentle look of my child as I once again could not summon the strength to play pretend. This felt overwhelming. Would I ever go back to work? Would I see my child grow? No amount of pleading or screaming would change the fact that a medical system chose to roll the dice on my health. In a haze of discomfort and betrayal, I wondered how a physician or medical facility could justify removing medication from someone reliant upon it. How do we choose the appropriate allocation of resources when the consequences are potentially catastrophic?
Searching for context
When a country is founded on the mission of rising as a leading world power built upon the concepts of freedom, basic human rights, and individuality while supporting an infrastructure of capitalism, power, and control, crises – particularly those related to public health – can fan deep divisions. Here in the United States, we have seen misinterpretation, misunderstanding, and bitter indignation fuel the flames of provocation as protests of mask mandates, distance learning, and social distancing were touted as violating the very core upon which the country was established. Frustration, palpable among health care professionals, grew ever greater as the importance of vaccination in quelling virus mutations and decreasing morbidity and mortality were openly disparaged and ignored.
Not only have we watched people refuse the vaccines, but some are ignoring other mitigation measures. So the question becomes: How are we, as health care professionals trying to maintain a therapeutic alliance with those who reject lifesaving practices, expected to process this? Sitting in appointments and attempting interventions without judgment feels impractical and nearly impossible – particularly when the behaviors of these patients have the potential of violating our own health and well-being. How do we remain altruistic in our endeavors when those who seek our care seem callously indifferent to our lives – and to those of our families?
Measuring the value of life
Within the fevered haze of this past year, many stories highlighting grim realities have captured the media spotlight. From individuals unable to have emergency evaluations because of facilities being inundated by COVID-19 patients to individuals prematurely discharged, hospital bed shortages, and financial pressures from insurance companies. In reciting the phrase “Primum non noncere,” we physicians are committing to providing fair and competent medical treatment. At times, urgent decisions are necessary but are always made in the best interest of the patient(s). Ultimately, I am left debating how these agonizing weeks served any meaningful purpose. Moreover, when choosing the many over the few, what are the determinant factors? I am left asking: What is the value of a life?
Philosophically, this ethical dilemma is captured succinctly via the “trolley problem,” formulated in 1967 by Philippa Foot, MD. This is how Dr. Foot’s formulation unfolds: Close your eyes, and imagine you are inside a trolley careening unhindered down the rumbling tracks. Straight ahead you see five people bound to the tracks in imminent danger of being struck, and on the other side, one person is tied to the tracks. Do you continue the same course – thereby condemning five innocent people to death – or do you make the active decision to switch tracks, therefore consigning the one to their fate? Envision the people what do they look like? How old are they? If the one were a small child or a close friend, would that alter your decision? How does one make such a harrowing choice knowing the irreversible consequences? Depending on your action, this quandary falls within two primary schools of thought: Utilitarianism, which posits that the best action is the greatest good for the greatest number of people, and deontologicalism, which suggests that action is inherently right or wrong regardless of the consequences. Therefore, the decision to save the five is not favored.
However simplistic those scenarios may read, such principles when viewed through different lenses, they form the basis of medical ethics. In effect, every acute decision, every aspect of treatment is predicated upon the principles of nonmaleficence, beneficence, utility, distributive justice, and autonomy. Yet, the manner in which they are applied is highly contingent upon myriad variables. For example, sociopolitical factors, including population size (rural versus urban), economics (impoverished versus wealthy), as well as demographic factors (age, ethnicity, gender, sexuality) can highly influence and sometimes unknowingly influence interpretation and allocation of health care resources. This dilemma does not yield easily applicable and universal solutions. Nevertheless, it is paramount to evaluate policies effectively and tediously, particularly those with detrimental ramifications. Likewise, remaining flexible in our willingness to explore alternative solutions and encourage open discord among those with opposing viewpoints is key to instituting individual or institutional change that values the one as it values the many.
After several weeks of acute illness and a variety of short-acting interventions, I received approval to resume intravenous therapy. While the saga has ultimately reached a satisfactory conclusion, I am left with stupefied disbelief toward the people who took a gamble on my health. I am facing a battle between understanding the obligation of medicine to provide ethical and reasonable care without hesitation or judgment versus embittered resentment when faced with those who openly campaign against lifesaving interventions, such as the COVID-19 vaccine. For me, each day and the one that follows is riddled with complicated emotion. Every time I prematurely cease activity out of discomfort and weariness, I worry about my increasingly foreboding workload. In those moments, in that place of questions without answers, I remember that someone somewhere ultimately decided to switch the trolley’s track.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
Working feverishly to complete the myriad patient notes accumulated throughout a hectic day, my phone vibrated – alerting me to a number that, over the past several years, has wrought uncertainty, grief, and overwhelming relief. Answering hesitantly, I listened to my physician’s pharmacist inform me of unexpected and alarming news.
Since COVID-19 was first identified more than 1 year ago, more than 770,000 people have died in the United States. In the wake of those losses, countless grieve while attempting to navigate a future without their loved ones. Meanwhile, scientists worked feverishly to combat a pandemic relentless in contagion. As health care professionals, we work tirelessly against the sharpened scythe of death, toiling day after day without an identifiable end. All the while, advocacy has prevailed as the need for personal protective equipment, improved ventilation systems, sanitization measures, and other mitigation measures, such as mask wearing and social distancing, echoed swiftly across the nation and around the world.
But, as the months have progressed, and life has seemingly transitioned toward a parallel version of reality, subsections of communities have grown restless. Several nontherapeutic, ineffective, and falsely touted regimens have been promoted. Amid the chaos of misinformation, most medical professionals have sought support from respected journals and infectious disease experts to filter out jargon and piece together scientifically sound protocols. Although many lives have prevailed by way of those advancements, mixed messages about interventions have emerged – and in many quarters across the country, anger, resistance, and outright refusal have prevailed.
Yet, we – the medical community – have forged ever onward as the cases continued and the death toll steadily climbed. In many cases, physicians who are years removed from critical care training have been thrust into COVID units, while residents have shifted toward working outside of their chosen specialty. Outpatient offices have closed, salaries have been cut, and furloughs have loomed as days fade into months. Beset with exhaustion and uncertainty, sacrifice has become a common thread that intrinsically united us against an unrelenting foe.
Most people continued navigating the many changes and made concerted efforts to mimic our prepandemic lives. Working from home in makeshift offices, dusting off math skills to assist children through the doldrums of distance learning, and mastering various audiovisual platforms, we reinforced social bonds and forged new connections echoing the hallmark resilience reminiscent of our shared distant ancestry.
As of this writing, thanks to our work – and that of scientists and policy makers – about 69% of Americans have received at least one dose of vaccine, and vaccines are widely available to children 5 and older. But it has been disheartening to watch misinformation about vaccine research and development propagated by political figures, social media, and lay people.
Processing the phone call
While listening to my physician’s pharmacist, I slowed my breaths in an effort to find calm. Years of navigating the American health care industry had left me both equipped and ill-prepared for the unexpected. I listened intently to the pharmacist’s words while staring blankly at a computer screen – uncertain of what had felt so assured not 10 minutes earlier.
That’s when I got the news. The intravenous medication that aided in my stabilization had suffered a critical shortage because of its successful use in the treatment of patients with COVID-19 pneumonia – patients who, in a majority of cases, had likely refused the vaccines. As result, the medication that had enabled my return to work, active engagement in nonwork pursuits, and most importantly, equipped my body to thrive despite the damage it had suffered, suddenly vanished.
Gently placing my phone on the desk, my heart beat rapidly as tears steadily streamed down my face. Staring blankly ahead, my hands gradually balled into fists as I let out a sound of fear, agony, and uncertainty. Screaming at everything and nothing, nausea swelled as panic flooded my body. In that moment, I ruminated on the conversation with the pharmacist. There had been no discussion, no option for me to maintain accessibility to this valuable medicine. Consequently, I felt helpless. Although the same medication, albeit a different mechanism of delivery, was promptly chosen as an adequate substitute, there was no guarantee of it bestowing the same degree of efficacy. So I was terrified, envisioning the progress made over several years as plummeting into an abyss of pain and despair. What are those of us who have chosen medicine as our profession but are immunocompromised expected to make of this?
Over the next several weeks, I diligently adhered to the new regimen and focused on positive mentation. Nevertheless, day by day, the symptoms worsened; eventually, I became bed ridden. I tried to gather what little composure remained to reschedule patients and justify the resounding guilt of perceived failure. I remember the sweet and gentle look of my child as I once again could not summon the strength to play pretend. This felt overwhelming. Would I ever go back to work? Would I see my child grow? No amount of pleading or screaming would change the fact that a medical system chose to roll the dice on my health. In a haze of discomfort and betrayal, I wondered how a physician or medical facility could justify removing medication from someone reliant upon it. How do we choose the appropriate allocation of resources when the consequences are potentially catastrophic?
Searching for context
When a country is founded on the mission of rising as a leading world power built upon the concepts of freedom, basic human rights, and individuality while supporting an infrastructure of capitalism, power, and control, crises – particularly those related to public health – can fan deep divisions. Here in the United States, we have seen misinterpretation, misunderstanding, and bitter indignation fuel the flames of provocation as protests of mask mandates, distance learning, and social distancing were touted as violating the very core upon which the country was established. Frustration, palpable among health care professionals, grew ever greater as the importance of vaccination in quelling virus mutations and decreasing morbidity and mortality were openly disparaged and ignored.
Not only have we watched people refuse the vaccines, but some are ignoring other mitigation measures. So the question becomes: How are we, as health care professionals trying to maintain a therapeutic alliance with those who reject lifesaving practices, expected to process this? Sitting in appointments and attempting interventions without judgment feels impractical and nearly impossible – particularly when the behaviors of these patients have the potential of violating our own health and well-being. How do we remain altruistic in our endeavors when those who seek our care seem callously indifferent to our lives – and to those of our families?
Measuring the value of life
Within the fevered haze of this past year, many stories highlighting grim realities have captured the media spotlight. From individuals unable to have emergency evaluations because of facilities being inundated by COVID-19 patients to individuals prematurely discharged, hospital bed shortages, and financial pressures from insurance companies. In reciting the phrase “Primum non noncere,” we physicians are committing to providing fair and competent medical treatment. At times, urgent decisions are necessary but are always made in the best interest of the patient(s). Ultimately, I am left debating how these agonizing weeks served any meaningful purpose. Moreover, when choosing the many over the few, what are the determinant factors? I am left asking: What is the value of a life?
Philosophically, this ethical dilemma is captured succinctly via the “trolley problem,” formulated in 1967 by Philippa Foot, MD. This is how Dr. Foot’s formulation unfolds: Close your eyes, and imagine you are inside a trolley careening unhindered down the rumbling tracks. Straight ahead you see five people bound to the tracks in imminent danger of being struck, and on the other side, one person is tied to the tracks. Do you continue the same course – thereby condemning five innocent people to death – or do you make the active decision to switch tracks, therefore consigning the one to their fate? Envision the people what do they look like? How old are they? If the one were a small child or a close friend, would that alter your decision? How does one make such a harrowing choice knowing the irreversible consequences? Depending on your action, this quandary falls within two primary schools of thought: Utilitarianism, which posits that the best action is the greatest good for the greatest number of people, and deontologicalism, which suggests that action is inherently right or wrong regardless of the consequences. Therefore, the decision to save the five is not favored.
However simplistic those scenarios may read, such principles when viewed through different lenses, they form the basis of medical ethics. In effect, every acute decision, every aspect of treatment is predicated upon the principles of nonmaleficence, beneficence, utility, distributive justice, and autonomy. Yet, the manner in which they are applied is highly contingent upon myriad variables. For example, sociopolitical factors, including population size (rural versus urban), economics (impoverished versus wealthy), as well as demographic factors (age, ethnicity, gender, sexuality) can highly influence and sometimes unknowingly influence interpretation and allocation of health care resources. This dilemma does not yield easily applicable and universal solutions. Nevertheless, it is paramount to evaluate policies effectively and tediously, particularly those with detrimental ramifications. Likewise, remaining flexible in our willingness to explore alternative solutions and encourage open discord among those with opposing viewpoints is key to instituting individual or institutional change that values the one as it values the many.
After several weeks of acute illness and a variety of short-acting interventions, I received approval to resume intravenous therapy. While the saga has ultimately reached a satisfactory conclusion, I am left with stupefied disbelief toward the people who took a gamble on my health. I am facing a battle between understanding the obligation of medicine to provide ethical and reasonable care without hesitation or judgment versus embittered resentment when faced with those who openly campaign against lifesaving interventions, such as the COVID-19 vaccine. For me, each day and the one that follows is riddled with complicated emotion. Every time I prematurely cease activity out of discomfort and weariness, I worry about my increasingly foreboding workload. In those moments, in that place of questions without answers, I remember that someone somewhere ultimately decided to switch the trolley’s track.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
Shedding the super-doctor myth requires an honest look at systemic racism
An overwhelmingly loud and high-pitched screech rattles against your hip. You startle and groan into the pillow as your thoughts settle into conscious awareness. It is 3 a.m. You are a 2nd-year resident trudging through the night shift, alerted to the presence of a new patient awaiting an emergency assessment. You are the only in-house physician. Walking steadfastly toward the emergency unit, you enter and greet the patient. Immediately, you observe a look of surprise followed immediately by a scowl.
You extend a hand, but your greeting is abruptly cut short with: “I want to see a doctor!” You pace your breaths to quell annoyance and resume your introduction, asserting that you are a doctor and indeed the only doctor on duty. After moments of deep sighs and questions regarding your credentials, you persuade the patient to start the interview.
It is now 8 a.m. The frustration of the night starts to ease as you prepare to leave. While gathering your things, a visitor is overheard inquiring the whereabouts of a hospital unit. Volunteering as a guide, you walk the person toward the opposite end of the hospital. Bleary eyed, muscle laxed, and bone weary, you point out the entrance, then turn to leave. The steady rhythm of your steps suddenly halts as you hear from behind: “Thank you! You speak English really well!” Blankly, you stare. Your voice remains mute while your brain screams: “What is that supposed to mean?” But you do not utter a sound, because intuitively, you know the answer.
While reading this scenario, what did you feel? Pride in knowing that the physician was able to successfully navigate a busy night? Relief in the physician’s ability to maintain a professional demeanor despite belittling microaggressions? Are you angry? Would you replay those moments like reruns of a bad TV show? Can you imagine entering your home and collapsing onto the bed as your tears of fury pool over your rumpled sheets?
The emotional release of that morning is seared into my memory. Over the years, I questioned my reactions. Was I too passive? Should I have schooled them on their ignorance? Had I done so, would I have incurred reprimands? Would standing up for myself cause years of hard work to fall away? Moreover, had I defended myself, would I forever have been viewed as “The Angry Black Woman?”
This story is more than a vignette. For me, it is another reminder that, despite how far we have come, we have much further to go. As a Black woman in a professional sphere, I stand upon the shoulders of those who sacrificed for a dream, a greater purpose. My foremothers and forefathers fought bravely and tirelessly so that we could attain levels of success that were only once but a dream. Despite this progress, a grimace, carelessly spoken words, or a mindless gesture remind me that, no matter how much I toil and what levels of success I achieve, when I meet someone for the first time or encounter someone from my past, I find myself wondering whether I am remembered for me or because I am “The Black One.”
Honest look at medicine is imperative
It is important to consider multiple facets of the super-doctor myth. We are dedicated, fearless, authoritative, ambitious individuals. We do not yield to sickness, family obligations, or fatigue. Medicine is a calling, and the patient deserves the utmost respect and professional behavior. Impervious to ethnicity, race, nationality, or creed, we are unbiased and always in service of the greater good. Often, however, I wonder how the expectations of patient-focused, patient-centered care can prevail without an honest look at the vicissitudes facing medicine.
We find ourselves amid a tumultuous year overshadowed by a devastating pandemic that skews heavily toward Black and Brown communities, in addition to political turmoil and racial reckoning that sprang forth from fear, anger, and determination ignited by the murders of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd – communities united in outrage lamenting the cries of Black Lives Matter.
I remember the tears briskly falling upon my blouse as I watched Mr. Floyd’s life violently ripped from this Earth. Shortly thereafter, I remember the phone calls, emails, and texts from close friends, acquaintances, and colleagues offering support, listening ears, pledging to learn and endeavoring to understand the struggle for recognition and the fight for human rights. Even so, the deafening support was clouded by the preternatural silence of some medical organizations. Within the Black physician community, outrage was palpable. We reflected upon years of sacrifice and perseverance despite the challenge of bigotry, ignorance, and racism – not only from patients and their families – but also colleagues and administrators. Yet, in our time of horror and need, in those moments of vulnerability ... silence. Eventually, lengthy proclamations of support were expressed through various media. However, it felt too safe, too corporate, and too generic and inauthentic. As a result, an exodus of Black physicians from leadership positions and academic medicine took hold as the blatant continuation of rhetoric – coupled with ineffective outreach and support – finally took its toll.
Frequently, I question how the obstacles of medical school, residency, and beyond are expected to be traversed while living in a world that consistently affords additional challenges to those who look, act, or speak in a manner that varies from the perceived standard. In a culture where the myth of the super doctor reigns, how do we reconcile attainment of a false and detrimental narrative while the overarching pressure acutely felt by Black physicians magnifies in the setting of stereotypes, sociopolitical turbulence, bigotry, and racism? How can one sacrifice for an entity that is unwilling to acknowledge the psychological implications of that sacrifice?
For instance, while in medical school, I transitioned my hair to its natural state but was counseled against doing so because of the risk of losing residency opportunities as a direct result of my “unprofessional” appearance. Throughout residency, multiple incidents come to mind, including frequent demands to see my hospital badge despite the same not being of asked of my White cohorts; denial of entry into physician entrance within the residency building because, despite my professional attire, I was presumed to be a member of the custodial staff; and patients being confused and asking for a doctor despite my long white coat and clear introductions.
Furthermore, the fluency of my speech and the absence of regional dialect or vernacular are quite often lauded by patients. Inquiries to touch my hair as well as hypotheses regarding my nationality or degree of “blackness” with respect to the shape of my nose, eyes, and lips are openly questioned. Unfortunately, those uncomfortable incidents have not been limited to patient encounters.
In one instance, while presenting a patient in the presence of my attending and a 3rd-year medical student, I was sternly admonished for disclosing the race of the patient. I sat still and resolute as this doctor spoke on increased risk of bias in diagnosis and treatment when race is identified. Outwardly, I projected patience but inside, I seethed. In that moment, I realized that I would never have the luxury of ignorance or denial. Although I desire to be valued for my prowess in medicine, the mythical status was not created with my skin color in mind. For is avoidance not but a reflection of denial?
In these chaotic and uncertain times, how can we continue to promote a pathological ideal when the roads traveled are so fundamentally skewed? If a White physician faces a belligerent and argumentative patient, there is opportunity for debriefing both individually and among a larger cohort via classes, conferences, and supervisions. Conversely, when a Black physician is derided with racist sentiment, will they have the same opportunity for reflection and support? Despite identical expectations of professionalism and growth, how can one be successful in a system that either directly or indirectly encourages the opposite?
As we try to shed the super-doctor myth, we must recognize that this unattainable and detrimental persona hinders progress. This myth undermines our ability to understand our fragility, the limitations of our capabilities, and the strength of our vulnerability. We must take an honest look at the manner in which our individual biases and the deeply ingrained (and potentially unconscious) systemic biases are counterintuitive to the success and support of physicians of color.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
An overwhelmingly loud and high-pitched screech rattles against your hip. You startle and groan into the pillow as your thoughts settle into conscious awareness. It is 3 a.m. You are a 2nd-year resident trudging through the night shift, alerted to the presence of a new patient awaiting an emergency assessment. You are the only in-house physician. Walking steadfastly toward the emergency unit, you enter and greet the patient. Immediately, you observe a look of surprise followed immediately by a scowl.
You extend a hand, but your greeting is abruptly cut short with: “I want to see a doctor!” You pace your breaths to quell annoyance and resume your introduction, asserting that you are a doctor and indeed the only doctor on duty. After moments of deep sighs and questions regarding your credentials, you persuade the patient to start the interview.
It is now 8 a.m. The frustration of the night starts to ease as you prepare to leave. While gathering your things, a visitor is overheard inquiring the whereabouts of a hospital unit. Volunteering as a guide, you walk the person toward the opposite end of the hospital. Bleary eyed, muscle laxed, and bone weary, you point out the entrance, then turn to leave. The steady rhythm of your steps suddenly halts as you hear from behind: “Thank you! You speak English really well!” Blankly, you stare. Your voice remains mute while your brain screams: “What is that supposed to mean?” But you do not utter a sound, because intuitively, you know the answer.
While reading this scenario, what did you feel? Pride in knowing that the physician was able to successfully navigate a busy night? Relief in the physician’s ability to maintain a professional demeanor despite belittling microaggressions? Are you angry? Would you replay those moments like reruns of a bad TV show? Can you imagine entering your home and collapsing onto the bed as your tears of fury pool over your rumpled sheets?
The emotional release of that morning is seared into my memory. Over the years, I questioned my reactions. Was I too passive? Should I have schooled them on their ignorance? Had I done so, would I have incurred reprimands? Would standing up for myself cause years of hard work to fall away? Moreover, had I defended myself, would I forever have been viewed as “The Angry Black Woman?”
This story is more than a vignette. For me, it is another reminder that, despite how far we have come, we have much further to go. As a Black woman in a professional sphere, I stand upon the shoulders of those who sacrificed for a dream, a greater purpose. My foremothers and forefathers fought bravely and tirelessly so that we could attain levels of success that were only once but a dream. Despite this progress, a grimace, carelessly spoken words, or a mindless gesture remind me that, no matter how much I toil and what levels of success I achieve, when I meet someone for the first time or encounter someone from my past, I find myself wondering whether I am remembered for me or because I am “The Black One.”
Honest look at medicine is imperative
It is important to consider multiple facets of the super-doctor myth. We are dedicated, fearless, authoritative, ambitious individuals. We do not yield to sickness, family obligations, or fatigue. Medicine is a calling, and the patient deserves the utmost respect and professional behavior. Impervious to ethnicity, race, nationality, or creed, we are unbiased and always in service of the greater good. Often, however, I wonder how the expectations of patient-focused, patient-centered care can prevail without an honest look at the vicissitudes facing medicine.
We find ourselves amid a tumultuous year overshadowed by a devastating pandemic that skews heavily toward Black and Brown communities, in addition to political turmoil and racial reckoning that sprang forth from fear, anger, and determination ignited by the murders of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd – communities united in outrage lamenting the cries of Black Lives Matter.
I remember the tears briskly falling upon my blouse as I watched Mr. Floyd’s life violently ripped from this Earth. Shortly thereafter, I remember the phone calls, emails, and texts from close friends, acquaintances, and colleagues offering support, listening ears, pledging to learn and endeavoring to understand the struggle for recognition and the fight for human rights. Even so, the deafening support was clouded by the preternatural silence of some medical organizations. Within the Black physician community, outrage was palpable. We reflected upon years of sacrifice and perseverance despite the challenge of bigotry, ignorance, and racism – not only from patients and their families – but also colleagues and administrators. Yet, in our time of horror and need, in those moments of vulnerability ... silence. Eventually, lengthy proclamations of support were expressed through various media. However, it felt too safe, too corporate, and too generic and inauthentic. As a result, an exodus of Black physicians from leadership positions and academic medicine took hold as the blatant continuation of rhetoric – coupled with ineffective outreach and support – finally took its toll.
Frequently, I question how the obstacles of medical school, residency, and beyond are expected to be traversed while living in a world that consistently affords additional challenges to those who look, act, or speak in a manner that varies from the perceived standard. In a culture where the myth of the super doctor reigns, how do we reconcile attainment of a false and detrimental narrative while the overarching pressure acutely felt by Black physicians magnifies in the setting of stereotypes, sociopolitical turbulence, bigotry, and racism? How can one sacrifice for an entity that is unwilling to acknowledge the psychological implications of that sacrifice?
For instance, while in medical school, I transitioned my hair to its natural state but was counseled against doing so because of the risk of losing residency opportunities as a direct result of my “unprofessional” appearance. Throughout residency, multiple incidents come to mind, including frequent demands to see my hospital badge despite the same not being of asked of my White cohorts; denial of entry into physician entrance within the residency building because, despite my professional attire, I was presumed to be a member of the custodial staff; and patients being confused and asking for a doctor despite my long white coat and clear introductions.
Furthermore, the fluency of my speech and the absence of regional dialect or vernacular are quite often lauded by patients. Inquiries to touch my hair as well as hypotheses regarding my nationality or degree of “blackness” with respect to the shape of my nose, eyes, and lips are openly questioned. Unfortunately, those uncomfortable incidents have not been limited to patient encounters.
In one instance, while presenting a patient in the presence of my attending and a 3rd-year medical student, I was sternly admonished for disclosing the race of the patient. I sat still and resolute as this doctor spoke on increased risk of bias in diagnosis and treatment when race is identified. Outwardly, I projected patience but inside, I seethed. In that moment, I realized that I would never have the luxury of ignorance or denial. Although I desire to be valued for my prowess in medicine, the mythical status was not created with my skin color in mind. For is avoidance not but a reflection of denial?
In these chaotic and uncertain times, how can we continue to promote a pathological ideal when the roads traveled are so fundamentally skewed? If a White physician faces a belligerent and argumentative patient, there is opportunity for debriefing both individually and among a larger cohort via classes, conferences, and supervisions. Conversely, when a Black physician is derided with racist sentiment, will they have the same opportunity for reflection and support? Despite identical expectations of professionalism and growth, how can one be successful in a system that either directly or indirectly encourages the opposite?
As we try to shed the super-doctor myth, we must recognize that this unattainable and detrimental persona hinders progress. This myth undermines our ability to understand our fragility, the limitations of our capabilities, and the strength of our vulnerability. We must take an honest look at the manner in which our individual biases and the deeply ingrained (and potentially unconscious) systemic biases are counterintuitive to the success and support of physicians of color.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
An overwhelmingly loud and high-pitched screech rattles against your hip. You startle and groan into the pillow as your thoughts settle into conscious awareness. It is 3 a.m. You are a 2nd-year resident trudging through the night shift, alerted to the presence of a new patient awaiting an emergency assessment. You are the only in-house physician. Walking steadfastly toward the emergency unit, you enter and greet the patient. Immediately, you observe a look of surprise followed immediately by a scowl.
You extend a hand, but your greeting is abruptly cut short with: “I want to see a doctor!” You pace your breaths to quell annoyance and resume your introduction, asserting that you are a doctor and indeed the only doctor on duty. After moments of deep sighs and questions regarding your credentials, you persuade the patient to start the interview.
It is now 8 a.m. The frustration of the night starts to ease as you prepare to leave. While gathering your things, a visitor is overheard inquiring the whereabouts of a hospital unit. Volunteering as a guide, you walk the person toward the opposite end of the hospital. Bleary eyed, muscle laxed, and bone weary, you point out the entrance, then turn to leave. The steady rhythm of your steps suddenly halts as you hear from behind: “Thank you! You speak English really well!” Blankly, you stare. Your voice remains mute while your brain screams: “What is that supposed to mean?” But you do not utter a sound, because intuitively, you know the answer.
While reading this scenario, what did you feel? Pride in knowing that the physician was able to successfully navigate a busy night? Relief in the physician’s ability to maintain a professional demeanor despite belittling microaggressions? Are you angry? Would you replay those moments like reruns of a bad TV show? Can you imagine entering your home and collapsing onto the bed as your tears of fury pool over your rumpled sheets?
The emotional release of that morning is seared into my memory. Over the years, I questioned my reactions. Was I too passive? Should I have schooled them on their ignorance? Had I done so, would I have incurred reprimands? Would standing up for myself cause years of hard work to fall away? Moreover, had I defended myself, would I forever have been viewed as “The Angry Black Woman?”
This story is more than a vignette. For me, it is another reminder that, despite how far we have come, we have much further to go. As a Black woman in a professional sphere, I stand upon the shoulders of those who sacrificed for a dream, a greater purpose. My foremothers and forefathers fought bravely and tirelessly so that we could attain levels of success that were only once but a dream. Despite this progress, a grimace, carelessly spoken words, or a mindless gesture remind me that, no matter how much I toil and what levels of success I achieve, when I meet someone for the first time or encounter someone from my past, I find myself wondering whether I am remembered for me or because I am “The Black One.”
Honest look at medicine is imperative
It is important to consider multiple facets of the super-doctor myth. We are dedicated, fearless, authoritative, ambitious individuals. We do not yield to sickness, family obligations, or fatigue. Medicine is a calling, and the patient deserves the utmost respect and professional behavior. Impervious to ethnicity, race, nationality, or creed, we are unbiased and always in service of the greater good. Often, however, I wonder how the expectations of patient-focused, patient-centered care can prevail without an honest look at the vicissitudes facing medicine.
We find ourselves amid a tumultuous year overshadowed by a devastating pandemic that skews heavily toward Black and Brown communities, in addition to political turmoil and racial reckoning that sprang forth from fear, anger, and determination ignited by the murders of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd – communities united in outrage lamenting the cries of Black Lives Matter.
I remember the tears briskly falling upon my blouse as I watched Mr. Floyd’s life violently ripped from this Earth. Shortly thereafter, I remember the phone calls, emails, and texts from close friends, acquaintances, and colleagues offering support, listening ears, pledging to learn and endeavoring to understand the struggle for recognition and the fight for human rights. Even so, the deafening support was clouded by the preternatural silence of some medical organizations. Within the Black physician community, outrage was palpable. We reflected upon years of sacrifice and perseverance despite the challenge of bigotry, ignorance, and racism – not only from patients and their families – but also colleagues and administrators. Yet, in our time of horror and need, in those moments of vulnerability ... silence. Eventually, lengthy proclamations of support were expressed through various media. However, it felt too safe, too corporate, and too generic and inauthentic. As a result, an exodus of Black physicians from leadership positions and academic medicine took hold as the blatant continuation of rhetoric – coupled with ineffective outreach and support – finally took its toll.
Frequently, I question how the obstacles of medical school, residency, and beyond are expected to be traversed while living in a world that consistently affords additional challenges to those who look, act, or speak in a manner that varies from the perceived standard. In a culture where the myth of the super doctor reigns, how do we reconcile attainment of a false and detrimental narrative while the overarching pressure acutely felt by Black physicians magnifies in the setting of stereotypes, sociopolitical turbulence, bigotry, and racism? How can one sacrifice for an entity that is unwilling to acknowledge the psychological implications of that sacrifice?
For instance, while in medical school, I transitioned my hair to its natural state but was counseled against doing so because of the risk of losing residency opportunities as a direct result of my “unprofessional” appearance. Throughout residency, multiple incidents come to mind, including frequent demands to see my hospital badge despite the same not being of asked of my White cohorts; denial of entry into physician entrance within the residency building because, despite my professional attire, I was presumed to be a member of the custodial staff; and patients being confused and asking for a doctor despite my long white coat and clear introductions.
Furthermore, the fluency of my speech and the absence of regional dialect or vernacular are quite often lauded by patients. Inquiries to touch my hair as well as hypotheses regarding my nationality or degree of “blackness” with respect to the shape of my nose, eyes, and lips are openly questioned. Unfortunately, those uncomfortable incidents have not been limited to patient encounters.
In one instance, while presenting a patient in the presence of my attending and a 3rd-year medical student, I was sternly admonished for disclosing the race of the patient. I sat still and resolute as this doctor spoke on increased risk of bias in diagnosis and treatment when race is identified. Outwardly, I projected patience but inside, I seethed. In that moment, I realized that I would never have the luxury of ignorance or denial. Although I desire to be valued for my prowess in medicine, the mythical status was not created with my skin color in mind. For is avoidance not but a reflection of denial?
In these chaotic and uncertain times, how can we continue to promote a pathological ideal when the roads traveled are so fundamentally skewed? If a White physician faces a belligerent and argumentative patient, there is opportunity for debriefing both individually and among a larger cohort via classes, conferences, and supervisions. Conversely, when a Black physician is derided with racist sentiment, will they have the same opportunity for reflection and support? Despite identical expectations of professionalism and growth, how can one be successful in a system that either directly or indirectly encourages the opposite?
As we try to shed the super-doctor myth, we must recognize that this unattainable and detrimental persona hinders progress. This myth undermines our ability to understand our fragility, the limitations of our capabilities, and the strength of our vulnerability. We must take an honest look at the manner in which our individual biases and the deeply ingrained (and potentially unconscious) systemic biases are counterintuitive to the success and support of physicians of color.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
Incorporating self-care, wellness into routines can prevent doctors’ burnout
Gradually, we are emerging from the chaos, isolation, and anxiety of COVID-19. As the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention adjusts its recommendations and vaccinations become more widely available, our communities are beginning to return to normalcy. We are encouraged to put aside our masks if vaccinated and rejoin society, to venture out with less hesitancy and anxiety. As family and friends reunite, memories of confusion, frustration, and fear are beginning to fade to black. Despite the prevailing belief that we should move on, look forward, and remember the past to safeguard our future, remnants of the pandemic remain.
Unvaccinated individuals, notably children under the age of 12, are quite significant in number. The use of telehealth is now standard practice.
For several years, we were warned about the looming “mental health crisis.” The past year has demonstrated that a crisis no longer looms – it has arrived. Our patients can reveal the vulnerability COVID-19 has wrought – from the devastation of lives lost, supply shortages, loss of employment and financial stability – to a lack of access to computers and thereby, the risk of educational decline. Those factors, coupled with isolation and uncertainty about the future, have led to an influx of individuals with anxiety, depression, and other mood disorders seeking mental health treatment.
Doctors, others suffering
As result of a medical culture guided by the sacred oath to which care, compassion, and dedication held as true in ancient Greece as it does today, the focus centers on those around us – while signs of our own weariness are waved away as “a bad day.” Even though several support groups are readily available to offer a listening ear and mental health physicians who focus on the treatment of health care professionals are becoming more ubiquitous, the vestiges of past doctrine remain.
In this modern age of medical training, there is often as much sacrifice as there is attainment of knowledge. This philosophy is so ingrained that throughout training and practice one may come across colleagues experiencing an abundance of guilt when leave is needed for personal reasons. We are quick to recommend such steps for our patients, family, and friends, but hesitant to consider such for ourselves. Yet, of all the lessons this past year has wrought, the importance of mental health and self-care cannot be overstated. This raises the question:
It is vital to accept our humanity as something not to repair, treat, or overcome but to understand. There is strength and power in vulnerability. If we do not perceive and validate this process within ourselves, how can we do so for others? In other words, the oxygen mask must be placed on us first before we can place it on anyone else – patients or otherwise.
Chiefly and above all else, the importance of identifying individual signs of stress is essential. Where do you hold tension? Are you prone to GI distress or headaches when taxed? Do you tend toward irritability, apathy, or exhaustion?
Once this is determined, it is important to assess your stress on a numerical scale, such as those used for pain. Are you a 5 or an 8? Finally, are there identifiable triggers or reliable alleviators? Is there a time of day or day of the week that is most difficult to manage? Can you anticipate potential stressors? Understanding your triggers, listening to your body, and practicing the language of self is the first step toward wellness.
Following introspection and observation, the next step is inventory. Take stock of your reserves. What replenishes? What depletes? What brings joy? What brings dread? Are there certain activities that mitigate stress? If so, how much time do they entail? Identify your number on a scale and associate that number with specific strategies or techniques. Remember that decompression for a 6 might be excessive for a 4. Furthermore, what is the duration of these feelings? Chronic stressors may incur gradual change verses sudden impact if acute. Through identifying personal signs, devising and using a scale, as well as escalating or de-escalating factors, individuals become more in tune with their bodies and therefore, more likely to intervene before burnout takes hold.
With this process well integrated, one can now consider stylized approaches for stress management. For example, those inclined toward mindfulness practices may find yoga, meditation, and relaxation exercises beneficial. Others may thrive on positive affirmations, gratitude, and thankfulness. While some might find relief in physical activity, be it strenuous or casual, the creative arts might appeal to those who find joy in painting, writing, or doing crafts. In addition, baking, reading, dancing, and/or listening to music might help lift stress.
Along with those discoveries, or in some cases, rediscoveries, basic needs such as dietary habits and nutrition, hydration, and sleep are vital toward emotional regulation, physiological homeostasis, and stress modulation. Remember HALT: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired, Too hot, Too cold, Sad or Stressed. Those strategies are meant to guide self-care and highlight the importance of allowing time for self-awareness. Imagine yourself as if you are meeting a new patient. Establish rapport, identify symptoms, and explore options for treatment. When we give time to ourselves, we can give time more freely to others. With this in mind, try following the 5-minute wellness check that I formulated:
1. How am I feeling? What am I feeling?
2. Assess HALTS.
3. Identify the number on your scale.
4. Methods of quick de-escalation:
- Designate and schedule personal time.
- Write down daily goals.
- Repeat positive affirmations or write down words of gratitude.
- Use deep breathing exercises.
- Stretch or take a brief walk.
- Engage in mindfulness practices, such as meditation.
Once we develop a habit of monitoring, assessing, and practicing self-care, the process becomes more efficient and effective. Think of the way a seasoned attending can manage workflow with ease, compared with an intern. Recognizing signs and using these strategies routinely can become a quick daily measure of well-being.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
Gradually, we are emerging from the chaos, isolation, and anxiety of COVID-19. As the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention adjusts its recommendations and vaccinations become more widely available, our communities are beginning to return to normalcy. We are encouraged to put aside our masks if vaccinated and rejoin society, to venture out with less hesitancy and anxiety. As family and friends reunite, memories of confusion, frustration, and fear are beginning to fade to black. Despite the prevailing belief that we should move on, look forward, and remember the past to safeguard our future, remnants of the pandemic remain.
Unvaccinated individuals, notably children under the age of 12, are quite significant in number. The use of telehealth is now standard practice.
For several years, we were warned about the looming “mental health crisis.” The past year has demonstrated that a crisis no longer looms – it has arrived. Our patients can reveal the vulnerability COVID-19 has wrought – from the devastation of lives lost, supply shortages, loss of employment and financial stability – to a lack of access to computers and thereby, the risk of educational decline. Those factors, coupled with isolation and uncertainty about the future, have led to an influx of individuals with anxiety, depression, and other mood disorders seeking mental health treatment.
Doctors, others suffering
As result of a medical culture guided by the sacred oath to which care, compassion, and dedication held as true in ancient Greece as it does today, the focus centers on those around us – while signs of our own weariness are waved away as “a bad day.” Even though several support groups are readily available to offer a listening ear and mental health physicians who focus on the treatment of health care professionals are becoming more ubiquitous, the vestiges of past doctrine remain.
In this modern age of medical training, there is often as much sacrifice as there is attainment of knowledge. This philosophy is so ingrained that throughout training and practice one may come across colleagues experiencing an abundance of guilt when leave is needed for personal reasons. We are quick to recommend such steps for our patients, family, and friends, but hesitant to consider such for ourselves. Yet, of all the lessons this past year has wrought, the importance of mental health and self-care cannot be overstated. This raises the question:
It is vital to accept our humanity as something not to repair, treat, or overcome but to understand. There is strength and power in vulnerability. If we do not perceive and validate this process within ourselves, how can we do so for others? In other words, the oxygen mask must be placed on us first before we can place it on anyone else – patients or otherwise.
Chiefly and above all else, the importance of identifying individual signs of stress is essential. Where do you hold tension? Are you prone to GI distress or headaches when taxed? Do you tend toward irritability, apathy, or exhaustion?
Once this is determined, it is important to assess your stress on a numerical scale, such as those used for pain. Are you a 5 or an 8? Finally, are there identifiable triggers or reliable alleviators? Is there a time of day or day of the week that is most difficult to manage? Can you anticipate potential stressors? Understanding your triggers, listening to your body, and practicing the language of self is the first step toward wellness.
Following introspection and observation, the next step is inventory. Take stock of your reserves. What replenishes? What depletes? What brings joy? What brings dread? Are there certain activities that mitigate stress? If so, how much time do they entail? Identify your number on a scale and associate that number with specific strategies or techniques. Remember that decompression for a 6 might be excessive for a 4. Furthermore, what is the duration of these feelings? Chronic stressors may incur gradual change verses sudden impact if acute. Through identifying personal signs, devising and using a scale, as well as escalating or de-escalating factors, individuals become more in tune with their bodies and therefore, more likely to intervene before burnout takes hold.
With this process well integrated, one can now consider stylized approaches for stress management. For example, those inclined toward mindfulness practices may find yoga, meditation, and relaxation exercises beneficial. Others may thrive on positive affirmations, gratitude, and thankfulness. While some might find relief in physical activity, be it strenuous or casual, the creative arts might appeal to those who find joy in painting, writing, or doing crafts. In addition, baking, reading, dancing, and/or listening to music might help lift stress.
Along with those discoveries, or in some cases, rediscoveries, basic needs such as dietary habits and nutrition, hydration, and sleep are vital toward emotional regulation, physiological homeostasis, and stress modulation. Remember HALT: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired, Too hot, Too cold, Sad or Stressed. Those strategies are meant to guide self-care and highlight the importance of allowing time for self-awareness. Imagine yourself as if you are meeting a new patient. Establish rapport, identify symptoms, and explore options for treatment. When we give time to ourselves, we can give time more freely to others. With this in mind, try following the 5-minute wellness check that I formulated:
1. How am I feeling? What am I feeling?
2. Assess HALTS.
3. Identify the number on your scale.
4. Methods of quick de-escalation:
- Designate and schedule personal time.
- Write down daily goals.
- Repeat positive affirmations or write down words of gratitude.
- Use deep breathing exercises.
- Stretch or take a brief walk.
- Engage in mindfulness practices, such as meditation.
Once we develop a habit of monitoring, assessing, and practicing self-care, the process becomes more efficient and effective. Think of the way a seasoned attending can manage workflow with ease, compared with an intern. Recognizing signs and using these strategies routinely can become a quick daily measure of well-being.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
Gradually, we are emerging from the chaos, isolation, and anxiety of COVID-19. As the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention adjusts its recommendations and vaccinations become more widely available, our communities are beginning to return to normalcy. We are encouraged to put aside our masks if vaccinated and rejoin society, to venture out with less hesitancy and anxiety. As family and friends reunite, memories of confusion, frustration, and fear are beginning to fade to black. Despite the prevailing belief that we should move on, look forward, and remember the past to safeguard our future, remnants of the pandemic remain.
Unvaccinated individuals, notably children under the age of 12, are quite significant in number. The use of telehealth is now standard practice.
For several years, we were warned about the looming “mental health crisis.” The past year has demonstrated that a crisis no longer looms – it has arrived. Our patients can reveal the vulnerability COVID-19 has wrought – from the devastation of lives lost, supply shortages, loss of employment and financial stability – to a lack of access to computers and thereby, the risk of educational decline. Those factors, coupled with isolation and uncertainty about the future, have led to an influx of individuals with anxiety, depression, and other mood disorders seeking mental health treatment.
Doctors, others suffering
As result of a medical culture guided by the sacred oath to which care, compassion, and dedication held as true in ancient Greece as it does today, the focus centers on those around us – while signs of our own weariness are waved away as “a bad day.” Even though several support groups are readily available to offer a listening ear and mental health physicians who focus on the treatment of health care professionals are becoming more ubiquitous, the vestiges of past doctrine remain.
In this modern age of medical training, there is often as much sacrifice as there is attainment of knowledge. This philosophy is so ingrained that throughout training and practice one may come across colleagues experiencing an abundance of guilt when leave is needed for personal reasons. We are quick to recommend such steps for our patients, family, and friends, but hesitant to consider such for ourselves. Yet, of all the lessons this past year has wrought, the importance of mental health and self-care cannot be overstated. This raises the question:
It is vital to accept our humanity as something not to repair, treat, or overcome but to understand. There is strength and power in vulnerability. If we do not perceive and validate this process within ourselves, how can we do so for others? In other words, the oxygen mask must be placed on us first before we can place it on anyone else – patients or otherwise.
Chiefly and above all else, the importance of identifying individual signs of stress is essential. Where do you hold tension? Are you prone to GI distress or headaches when taxed? Do you tend toward irritability, apathy, or exhaustion?
Once this is determined, it is important to assess your stress on a numerical scale, such as those used for pain. Are you a 5 or an 8? Finally, are there identifiable triggers or reliable alleviators? Is there a time of day or day of the week that is most difficult to manage? Can you anticipate potential stressors? Understanding your triggers, listening to your body, and practicing the language of self is the first step toward wellness.
Following introspection and observation, the next step is inventory. Take stock of your reserves. What replenishes? What depletes? What brings joy? What brings dread? Are there certain activities that mitigate stress? If so, how much time do they entail? Identify your number on a scale and associate that number with specific strategies or techniques. Remember that decompression for a 6 might be excessive for a 4. Furthermore, what is the duration of these feelings? Chronic stressors may incur gradual change verses sudden impact if acute. Through identifying personal signs, devising and using a scale, as well as escalating or de-escalating factors, individuals become more in tune with their bodies and therefore, more likely to intervene before burnout takes hold.
With this process well integrated, one can now consider stylized approaches for stress management. For example, those inclined toward mindfulness practices may find yoga, meditation, and relaxation exercises beneficial. Others may thrive on positive affirmations, gratitude, and thankfulness. While some might find relief in physical activity, be it strenuous or casual, the creative arts might appeal to those who find joy in painting, writing, or doing crafts. In addition, baking, reading, dancing, and/or listening to music might help lift stress.
Along with those discoveries, or in some cases, rediscoveries, basic needs such as dietary habits and nutrition, hydration, and sleep are vital toward emotional regulation, physiological homeostasis, and stress modulation. Remember HALT: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired, Too hot, Too cold, Sad or Stressed. Those strategies are meant to guide self-care and highlight the importance of allowing time for self-awareness. Imagine yourself as if you are meeting a new patient. Establish rapport, identify symptoms, and explore options for treatment. When we give time to ourselves, we can give time more freely to others. With this in mind, try following the 5-minute wellness check that I formulated:
1. How am I feeling? What am I feeling?
2. Assess HALTS.
3. Identify the number on your scale.
4. Methods of quick de-escalation:
- Designate and schedule personal time.
- Write down daily goals.
- Repeat positive affirmations or write down words of gratitude.
- Use deep breathing exercises.
- Stretch or take a brief walk.
- Engage in mindfulness practices, such as meditation.
Once we develop a habit of monitoring, assessing, and practicing self-care, the process becomes more efficient and effective. Think of the way a seasoned attending can manage workflow with ease, compared with an intern. Recognizing signs and using these strategies routinely can become a quick daily measure of well-being.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with interests in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. Dr. Thomas has no conflicts of interest.
Shedding the super doctor myth
It’s been more than a year since we came face to face with an unprecedented, unrelenting pandemic. Determined to overcome, determined to forge ahead, we worked tirelessly.
Hours upon hours, days upon days, months upon months. Hoping for recovery while facing the devastation of death. We were praised, and lauded as heroes as we pleaded for essential protective gear and urged our communities to think critically, act responsibly, and distance safely. From the cities to small towns, we answered the call. Leaving long-practiced specialties, reassigned from our practices and training, we worked together uncertain of the future, but committed to safeguarding our present. Through sacrifice we toiled, leaving our families to protect against contagion, wading through halls of the sick and fighting against the threat of death.
As days swept into months, the impact of isolation and economic deceleration yielded cracks on the surface. Pay cuts loomed, furloughs abounded, and distance-learning infiltrated the medical community. Yet, COVID-19 reigned, and with it came frustration, exhaustion, and emotional defeat. Despite racial reckonings, political turmoil, and massive protests, we worked tirelessly. We persevered.
Throughout 2020, the praise of “Health Care Heroes” rang out around the world. We saw images of medical professionals diligently working through the unthinkable with grace and humility, truly sacrificing for the greater good without complaint. Day after day, hour after hour, month after month. All the while, cracks were surfacing, expanding wider, and penetrating deeper. We were weary.
During a recent appointment with my primary care physician, she looked at me, her eyes brimming with earnest compassion, and said, “If you have suicidal thoughts, please let me know. That is my biggest worry with doctors.” I knowingly looked at her, keen in understanding as I recalled the stories. Doctors overwhelmed and uncertain, released by the abrupt completion of suicide.
Although broader government agencies may regulate and enforce, it is up to us to facilitate and comply. The pressure is immense, but our calling is strong – an unspoken agreement that begins with an oath.
As a psychiatrist, I am acutely aware of the warning signs associated with suicidality. Reading through the stories of loss and seeing the bewilderment and despair of the bereft, I once again wonder whether the pressure of medicine is worth the cost. How can we be “Health Care Heroes” if we fail to recognize the fragility that resides within ourselves? Moreover, how do we see beyond the illusion of invulnerability and accept that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness but a hallmark of strength and empathy? These are some of the issues I will be exploring in this new column, Myth of the Super Doctor.
Beginning at the beginning
Addressing these issues starts with training. As a new cohort of eager students enters medical/osteopathic school, the focus should lie not only on foundations of medicine and brute memorization of copious information but also on self-care, wellness checks, and group morale. The same emphasis placed upon patient care and advocacy must also be extended toward ensuring that the next generation of physicians will understand the importance of caring for themselves as much as they care for others.
In the same manner, past stereotypes of ruthless, cut-throat, competition must also evolve. Although the spirit of hard work and perseverance is essential, the manner it propagates is just as important. Aggressive questioning, myriad testing, rigid hierarchies, blind obedience, and ego inflation may separate the pack, but it also reinforces individualism and isolation. Students may shield their internal turmoil behind a mask. The mask of the Super Doctor.
However, as the pandemic has shown, even the most durable of masks will eventually fail. So how do we recognize and accept that help is needed? How do we access support? First, it is vital to acknowledge that there is no shame in asking for help. It is both surprising and reassuring that many of us have been there, an unspoken band of brothers and sisters. Second, remember the acronym for depressive symptoms SIGECAPS (sleep, interest, guilt, energy, concentration, appetite, psychomotor, suicide). Remember that these symptoms may develop gradually or feel sudden and overwhelming. Know that mood lability, tearfulness, and isolation may also be present but confused and disregarded as normal consequences of school, residency, or life as a physician. Third, recognize common behavioral changes associated with anxiety, such as irritability, avoidance, and physical symptoms, including headache, muscle aches, joint pain, GI discomfort, palpitations, and insomnia. Last, reach out to colleagues who have suddenly or gradually withdrawn. Schedule frequent check-ins for one another and do not be afraid to admit that you are human. There is no shame in vulnerability but there is bravery and strength.
If you are in school or residency training, reach out to health centers, training directors, supervisors, family and/or friends. Whether you are an early career physician or amid a decades-long career, connect with your peers, reach out to junior members, offer and accept support. Anonymous hotlines, listservs, email groups, virtual meetings, texts, and phone calls also provide opportunities for wellness checks, pep talks, or venting sessions. All are important. In the case where more specialized help is needed, contact your primary care physician, reach out to colleagues in mental health, contact the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800 273-8255. Know there is help; you are not alone.
In these unprecedented and uncertain times, remember the African proverb “It takes a village.” To ask for help reveals strength and fortitude. The more we advocate for ourselves and one another, the more we will prevail and shed the myth of infallibility.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
It’s been more than a year since we came face to face with an unprecedented, unrelenting pandemic. Determined to overcome, determined to forge ahead, we worked tirelessly.
Hours upon hours, days upon days, months upon months. Hoping for recovery while facing the devastation of death. We were praised, and lauded as heroes as we pleaded for essential protective gear and urged our communities to think critically, act responsibly, and distance safely. From the cities to small towns, we answered the call. Leaving long-practiced specialties, reassigned from our practices and training, we worked together uncertain of the future, but committed to safeguarding our present. Through sacrifice we toiled, leaving our families to protect against contagion, wading through halls of the sick and fighting against the threat of death.
As days swept into months, the impact of isolation and economic deceleration yielded cracks on the surface. Pay cuts loomed, furloughs abounded, and distance-learning infiltrated the medical community. Yet, COVID-19 reigned, and with it came frustration, exhaustion, and emotional defeat. Despite racial reckonings, political turmoil, and massive protests, we worked tirelessly. We persevered.
Throughout 2020, the praise of “Health Care Heroes” rang out around the world. We saw images of medical professionals diligently working through the unthinkable with grace and humility, truly sacrificing for the greater good without complaint. Day after day, hour after hour, month after month. All the while, cracks were surfacing, expanding wider, and penetrating deeper. We were weary.
During a recent appointment with my primary care physician, she looked at me, her eyes brimming with earnest compassion, and said, “If you have suicidal thoughts, please let me know. That is my biggest worry with doctors.” I knowingly looked at her, keen in understanding as I recalled the stories. Doctors overwhelmed and uncertain, released by the abrupt completion of suicide.
Although broader government agencies may regulate and enforce, it is up to us to facilitate and comply. The pressure is immense, but our calling is strong – an unspoken agreement that begins with an oath.
As a psychiatrist, I am acutely aware of the warning signs associated with suicidality. Reading through the stories of loss and seeing the bewilderment and despair of the bereft, I once again wonder whether the pressure of medicine is worth the cost. How can we be “Health Care Heroes” if we fail to recognize the fragility that resides within ourselves? Moreover, how do we see beyond the illusion of invulnerability and accept that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness but a hallmark of strength and empathy? These are some of the issues I will be exploring in this new column, Myth of the Super Doctor.
Beginning at the beginning
Addressing these issues starts with training. As a new cohort of eager students enters medical/osteopathic school, the focus should lie not only on foundations of medicine and brute memorization of copious information but also on self-care, wellness checks, and group morale. The same emphasis placed upon patient care and advocacy must also be extended toward ensuring that the next generation of physicians will understand the importance of caring for themselves as much as they care for others.
In the same manner, past stereotypes of ruthless, cut-throat, competition must also evolve. Although the spirit of hard work and perseverance is essential, the manner it propagates is just as important. Aggressive questioning, myriad testing, rigid hierarchies, blind obedience, and ego inflation may separate the pack, but it also reinforces individualism and isolation. Students may shield their internal turmoil behind a mask. The mask of the Super Doctor.
However, as the pandemic has shown, even the most durable of masks will eventually fail. So how do we recognize and accept that help is needed? How do we access support? First, it is vital to acknowledge that there is no shame in asking for help. It is both surprising and reassuring that many of us have been there, an unspoken band of brothers and sisters. Second, remember the acronym for depressive symptoms SIGECAPS (sleep, interest, guilt, energy, concentration, appetite, psychomotor, suicide). Remember that these symptoms may develop gradually or feel sudden and overwhelming. Know that mood lability, tearfulness, and isolation may also be present but confused and disregarded as normal consequences of school, residency, or life as a physician. Third, recognize common behavioral changes associated with anxiety, such as irritability, avoidance, and physical symptoms, including headache, muscle aches, joint pain, GI discomfort, palpitations, and insomnia. Last, reach out to colleagues who have suddenly or gradually withdrawn. Schedule frequent check-ins for one another and do not be afraid to admit that you are human. There is no shame in vulnerability but there is bravery and strength.
If you are in school or residency training, reach out to health centers, training directors, supervisors, family and/or friends. Whether you are an early career physician or amid a decades-long career, connect with your peers, reach out to junior members, offer and accept support. Anonymous hotlines, listservs, email groups, virtual meetings, texts, and phone calls also provide opportunities for wellness checks, pep talks, or venting sessions. All are important. In the case where more specialized help is needed, contact your primary care physician, reach out to colleagues in mental health, contact the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800 273-8255. Know there is help; you are not alone.
In these unprecedented and uncertain times, remember the African proverb “It takes a village.” To ask for help reveals strength and fortitude. The more we advocate for ourselves and one another, the more we will prevail and shed the myth of infallibility.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
It’s been more than a year since we came face to face with an unprecedented, unrelenting pandemic. Determined to overcome, determined to forge ahead, we worked tirelessly.
Hours upon hours, days upon days, months upon months. Hoping for recovery while facing the devastation of death. We were praised, and lauded as heroes as we pleaded for essential protective gear and urged our communities to think critically, act responsibly, and distance safely. From the cities to small towns, we answered the call. Leaving long-practiced specialties, reassigned from our practices and training, we worked together uncertain of the future, but committed to safeguarding our present. Through sacrifice we toiled, leaving our families to protect against contagion, wading through halls of the sick and fighting against the threat of death.
As days swept into months, the impact of isolation and economic deceleration yielded cracks on the surface. Pay cuts loomed, furloughs abounded, and distance-learning infiltrated the medical community. Yet, COVID-19 reigned, and with it came frustration, exhaustion, and emotional defeat. Despite racial reckonings, political turmoil, and massive protests, we worked tirelessly. We persevered.
Throughout 2020, the praise of “Health Care Heroes” rang out around the world. We saw images of medical professionals diligently working through the unthinkable with grace and humility, truly sacrificing for the greater good without complaint. Day after day, hour after hour, month after month. All the while, cracks were surfacing, expanding wider, and penetrating deeper. We were weary.
During a recent appointment with my primary care physician, she looked at me, her eyes brimming with earnest compassion, and said, “If you have suicidal thoughts, please let me know. That is my biggest worry with doctors.” I knowingly looked at her, keen in understanding as I recalled the stories. Doctors overwhelmed and uncertain, released by the abrupt completion of suicide.
Although broader government agencies may regulate and enforce, it is up to us to facilitate and comply. The pressure is immense, but our calling is strong – an unspoken agreement that begins with an oath.
As a psychiatrist, I am acutely aware of the warning signs associated with suicidality. Reading through the stories of loss and seeing the bewilderment and despair of the bereft, I once again wonder whether the pressure of medicine is worth the cost. How can we be “Health Care Heroes” if we fail to recognize the fragility that resides within ourselves? Moreover, how do we see beyond the illusion of invulnerability and accept that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness but a hallmark of strength and empathy? These are some of the issues I will be exploring in this new column, Myth of the Super Doctor.
Beginning at the beginning
Addressing these issues starts with training. As a new cohort of eager students enters medical/osteopathic school, the focus should lie not only on foundations of medicine and brute memorization of copious information but also on self-care, wellness checks, and group morale. The same emphasis placed upon patient care and advocacy must also be extended toward ensuring that the next generation of physicians will understand the importance of caring for themselves as much as they care for others.
In the same manner, past stereotypes of ruthless, cut-throat, competition must also evolve. Although the spirit of hard work and perseverance is essential, the manner it propagates is just as important. Aggressive questioning, myriad testing, rigid hierarchies, blind obedience, and ego inflation may separate the pack, but it also reinforces individualism and isolation. Students may shield their internal turmoil behind a mask. The mask of the Super Doctor.
However, as the pandemic has shown, even the most durable of masks will eventually fail. So how do we recognize and accept that help is needed? How do we access support? First, it is vital to acknowledge that there is no shame in asking for help. It is both surprising and reassuring that many of us have been there, an unspoken band of brothers and sisters. Second, remember the acronym for depressive symptoms SIGECAPS (sleep, interest, guilt, energy, concentration, appetite, psychomotor, suicide). Remember that these symptoms may develop gradually or feel sudden and overwhelming. Know that mood lability, tearfulness, and isolation may also be present but confused and disregarded as normal consequences of school, residency, or life as a physician. Third, recognize common behavioral changes associated with anxiety, such as irritability, avoidance, and physical symptoms, including headache, muscle aches, joint pain, GI discomfort, palpitations, and insomnia. Last, reach out to colleagues who have suddenly or gradually withdrawn. Schedule frequent check-ins for one another and do not be afraid to admit that you are human. There is no shame in vulnerability but there is bravery and strength.
If you are in school or residency training, reach out to health centers, training directors, supervisors, family and/or friends. Whether you are an early career physician or amid a decades-long career, connect with your peers, reach out to junior members, offer and accept support. Anonymous hotlines, listservs, email groups, virtual meetings, texts, and phone calls also provide opportunities for wellness checks, pep talks, or venting sessions. All are important. In the case where more specialized help is needed, contact your primary care physician, reach out to colleagues in mental health, contact the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800 273-8255. Know there is help; you are not alone.
In these unprecedented and uncertain times, remember the African proverb “It takes a village.” To ask for help reveals strength and fortitude. The more we advocate for ourselves and one another, the more we will prevail and shed the myth of infallibility.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
COVID-19 and the myth of the super doctor
Let us begin with a thought exercise. Close your eyes and picture the word, “hero.” What comes to mind? A relative, a teacher, a fictional character wielding a hammer or flying gracefully through the air?
Several months ago, our country was introduced to a foe that brought us to our knees. Before that time, the idea of a hero had fluctuated with circumstance and had been guided by aging and maturity; however, since the moment COVID-19 struck, a new image has emerged. Not all heroes wear capes, but some wield stethoscopes.
Over these past months the phrase, “Health Care Heroes” has spread throughout our collective consciousness, highlighted everywhere from talk shows and news media to billboards and journals. Doctors, nurses, and other health care professionals are lauded for their strength, dedication, resilience, and compassion. Citizens line up to clap, honk horns, and shower praise in recognition of those who have risked their health, sacrificed their personal lives, and committed themselves to the greater good. Yet, what does it mean to be a hero, and what is the cost of hero worship?
The focus of medical training has gradually shifted to include the physical as well as mental well-being of future physicians, but the remnants of traditional doctrine linger. Hours of focused training through study and direct clinical interaction reinforce dedication to patient care. Rewards are given for time spent and compassion lent, and research is lauded, but family time is rarely applauded. We are encouraged to do our greatest, work our hardest, be the best, rise and defeat every test. Failure (or the perception thereof) is not an option.
According to Rikinkumar S. Patel, MD, MPH, and associates, physicians have nearly twice the burnout rate of other professionals (Behav Sci. [Basel]. 2018 Nov;8[11]:98). The dedication to our craft propels excellence as well as sacrifice. When COVID-19 entered our lives, many of my colleagues did not hesitate to heed to the call for action. They immersed themselves in the ICU, led triage units, and extended work hours in the service of the sick and dying. Several were years removed from emergency/intensive care, while others were allocated from their chosen residency programs and voluntarily thrust into an environment they had never before traversed.
These individuals are praised as “brave,” “dedicated,” “selfless.” A few even provided insight into their experiences through various publications highlighting their appreciation and gratitude toward such a treacherous, albeit, tremendous experience. Even though their words are an honest perspective of life through one of the worst health care crises in 100 years, in effect, they perpetuate the noble hero; the myth of the super doctor.
In a profession that has borne witness to multiple suicides over the past few months, why do we not encourage open dialogue of our victories as well as our defeats? Our wins as much as our losses? Why does an esteemed veteran physician feel guilt over declining to provide emergency services to patients whom they have long forgotten how to manage? What drives the guilt and the self-doubt? Are we ashamed of what others will think? Is it that the fear of not living up to our cherished medical oath outweighs our own boundaries and acknowledgment of our limitations?
A hero is an entity, a person encompassing a state of being, yet health care professionals are bestowed this title and this burden on a near-daily basis. We are perfectly imperfect. The more in tune we are to vulnerability, the more honest we can become with ourselves and one another.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
Let us begin with a thought exercise. Close your eyes and picture the word, “hero.” What comes to mind? A relative, a teacher, a fictional character wielding a hammer or flying gracefully through the air?
Several months ago, our country was introduced to a foe that brought us to our knees. Before that time, the idea of a hero had fluctuated with circumstance and had been guided by aging and maturity; however, since the moment COVID-19 struck, a new image has emerged. Not all heroes wear capes, but some wield stethoscopes.
Over these past months the phrase, “Health Care Heroes” has spread throughout our collective consciousness, highlighted everywhere from talk shows and news media to billboards and journals. Doctors, nurses, and other health care professionals are lauded for their strength, dedication, resilience, and compassion. Citizens line up to clap, honk horns, and shower praise in recognition of those who have risked their health, sacrificed their personal lives, and committed themselves to the greater good. Yet, what does it mean to be a hero, and what is the cost of hero worship?
The focus of medical training has gradually shifted to include the physical as well as mental well-being of future physicians, but the remnants of traditional doctrine linger. Hours of focused training through study and direct clinical interaction reinforce dedication to patient care. Rewards are given for time spent and compassion lent, and research is lauded, but family time is rarely applauded. We are encouraged to do our greatest, work our hardest, be the best, rise and defeat every test. Failure (or the perception thereof) is not an option.
According to Rikinkumar S. Patel, MD, MPH, and associates, physicians have nearly twice the burnout rate of other professionals (Behav Sci. [Basel]. 2018 Nov;8[11]:98). The dedication to our craft propels excellence as well as sacrifice. When COVID-19 entered our lives, many of my colleagues did not hesitate to heed to the call for action. They immersed themselves in the ICU, led triage units, and extended work hours in the service of the sick and dying. Several were years removed from emergency/intensive care, while others were allocated from their chosen residency programs and voluntarily thrust into an environment they had never before traversed.
These individuals are praised as “brave,” “dedicated,” “selfless.” A few even provided insight into their experiences through various publications highlighting their appreciation and gratitude toward such a treacherous, albeit, tremendous experience. Even though their words are an honest perspective of life through one of the worst health care crises in 100 years, in effect, they perpetuate the noble hero; the myth of the super doctor.
In a profession that has borne witness to multiple suicides over the past few months, why do we not encourage open dialogue of our victories as well as our defeats? Our wins as much as our losses? Why does an esteemed veteran physician feel guilt over declining to provide emergency services to patients whom they have long forgotten how to manage? What drives the guilt and the self-doubt? Are we ashamed of what others will think? Is it that the fear of not living up to our cherished medical oath outweighs our own boundaries and acknowledgment of our limitations?
A hero is an entity, a person encompassing a state of being, yet health care professionals are bestowed this title and this burden on a near-daily basis. We are perfectly imperfect. The more in tune we are to vulnerability, the more honest we can become with ourselves and one another.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
Let us begin with a thought exercise. Close your eyes and picture the word, “hero.” What comes to mind? A relative, a teacher, a fictional character wielding a hammer or flying gracefully through the air?
Several months ago, our country was introduced to a foe that brought us to our knees. Before that time, the idea of a hero had fluctuated with circumstance and had been guided by aging and maturity; however, since the moment COVID-19 struck, a new image has emerged. Not all heroes wear capes, but some wield stethoscopes.
Over these past months the phrase, “Health Care Heroes” has spread throughout our collective consciousness, highlighted everywhere from talk shows and news media to billboards and journals. Doctors, nurses, and other health care professionals are lauded for their strength, dedication, resilience, and compassion. Citizens line up to clap, honk horns, and shower praise in recognition of those who have risked their health, sacrificed their personal lives, and committed themselves to the greater good. Yet, what does it mean to be a hero, and what is the cost of hero worship?
The focus of medical training has gradually shifted to include the physical as well as mental well-being of future physicians, but the remnants of traditional doctrine linger. Hours of focused training through study and direct clinical interaction reinforce dedication to patient care. Rewards are given for time spent and compassion lent, and research is lauded, but family time is rarely applauded. We are encouraged to do our greatest, work our hardest, be the best, rise and defeat every test. Failure (or the perception thereof) is not an option.
According to Rikinkumar S. Patel, MD, MPH, and associates, physicians have nearly twice the burnout rate of other professionals (Behav Sci. [Basel]. 2018 Nov;8[11]:98). The dedication to our craft propels excellence as well as sacrifice. When COVID-19 entered our lives, many of my colleagues did not hesitate to heed to the call for action. They immersed themselves in the ICU, led triage units, and extended work hours in the service of the sick and dying. Several were years removed from emergency/intensive care, while others were allocated from their chosen residency programs and voluntarily thrust into an environment they had never before traversed.
These individuals are praised as “brave,” “dedicated,” “selfless.” A few even provided insight into their experiences through various publications highlighting their appreciation and gratitude toward such a treacherous, albeit, tremendous experience. Even though their words are an honest perspective of life through one of the worst health care crises in 100 years, in effect, they perpetuate the noble hero; the myth of the super doctor.
In a profession that has borne witness to multiple suicides over the past few months, why do we not encourage open dialogue of our victories as well as our defeats? Our wins as much as our losses? Why does an esteemed veteran physician feel guilt over declining to provide emergency services to patients whom they have long forgotten how to manage? What drives the guilt and the self-doubt? Are we ashamed of what others will think? Is it that the fear of not living up to our cherished medical oath outweighs our own boundaries and acknowledgment of our limitations?
A hero is an entity, a person encompassing a state of being, yet health care professionals are bestowed this title and this burden on a near-daily basis. We are perfectly imperfect. The more in tune we are to vulnerability, the more honest we can become with ourselves and one another.
Dr. Thomas is a board-certified adult psychiatrist with an interest in chronic illness, women’s behavioral health, and minority mental health. She currently practices in North Kingstown and East Providence, R.I. She has no conflicts of interest.
Fighting the myth of the superdoctor
I remember waking up with my left hand swollen, red, in excruciating pain, and difficult to move. For several months prior, I had been exhausted, achy, and stiff. As a relatively new mother attempting to manage the age-old balance of family life with the rigors of fellowship training, I attributed those physical changes to personal and professional circumstances.
Yet, that morning, faced with a new rather troubling symptom, I did what my husband had suggested numerous times before and finally visited a doctor. After an emergency evaluation and referral to a rheumatologist, my diagnosis was clear: I had mixed connective tissue disease.
I became frantic – not because of the pain I was experiencing but because I would miss an important Grand Rounds that all of the fellows were expected to attend. I had struggled to decide if I should see the doctor or deal with it and head to Grand Rounds. In retrospect, the decision should not have been that agonizing. Most people would not have hesitated about making a choice between risking their health or pleasing their superiors. However, I am not most people; I am a doctor, and we do not get sick.
This is the message heard throughout medical school and training. Often, the message is not overt but communicated in a manner that no trainee could question: Take care of yourself, but do not take time off. It is fine to be sick but not so sick that you are unable to work.
For example, many programs have systems in place in which in case of illness or emergency, a trainee can call and another trainee can take her place – no questions asked. Yet, almost as quickly as this policy is described, it is followed with the disclaimer: “No one ever uses it.”
Why does this happen? Trainees are not immune to illness, but the expectation is that work supersedes personal concerns.
Despite receiving much support during my own training, my experience was often tainted by the need to push through. How could I be comfortable assuming the role of patient when at work I would hear my colleagues say things like, “I went to rounds at the hospital while I had pneumonia,” and, “I had conjunctivitis, put a patch on my eye, and went to work,” and, “she worked while getting chemo several times a week.”
For us, it seems that to be sick and to continue working is a badge of honor.
The U.S. health care system is under stress like never before. Newly insured people are coming into the system by the millions amid a shortage of physicians in primary care (Healthcare 2013;1:8-11) and across many specialties, including my own of psychiatry.
Against this backdrop are the expectations for physicians to be superheroes. It seems as if our profession is unlike any other. We are supposed to be healers of others but not ourselves.
After I became sick, I checked the literature in an effort to find support and insight into how medicine supports its own. But I found that discussions about these kinds of issues don’t seem to be available.
It’s time to discuss why support seems to be limited in residency programs, and why physicians feel a need to hide their illnesses for fear of losing employment. Why do the cultural expectations of our profession make us feel like we are less of a physician because of our illnesses?
Medicine needs to change so that we are treated not as flawless perfectionists but as humans who dedicated ourselves to healing and saving lives.
Dr. Thomas is a psychiatrist living in Warwick, R.I.
I remember waking up with my left hand swollen, red, in excruciating pain, and difficult to move. For several months prior, I had been exhausted, achy, and stiff. As a relatively new mother attempting to manage the age-old balance of family life with the rigors of fellowship training, I attributed those physical changes to personal and professional circumstances.
Yet, that morning, faced with a new rather troubling symptom, I did what my husband had suggested numerous times before and finally visited a doctor. After an emergency evaluation and referral to a rheumatologist, my diagnosis was clear: I had mixed connective tissue disease.
I became frantic – not because of the pain I was experiencing but because I would miss an important Grand Rounds that all of the fellows were expected to attend. I had struggled to decide if I should see the doctor or deal with it and head to Grand Rounds. In retrospect, the decision should not have been that agonizing. Most people would not have hesitated about making a choice between risking their health or pleasing their superiors. However, I am not most people; I am a doctor, and we do not get sick.
This is the message heard throughout medical school and training. Often, the message is not overt but communicated in a manner that no trainee could question: Take care of yourself, but do not take time off. It is fine to be sick but not so sick that you are unable to work.
For example, many programs have systems in place in which in case of illness or emergency, a trainee can call and another trainee can take her place – no questions asked. Yet, almost as quickly as this policy is described, it is followed with the disclaimer: “No one ever uses it.”
Why does this happen? Trainees are not immune to illness, but the expectation is that work supersedes personal concerns.
Despite receiving much support during my own training, my experience was often tainted by the need to push through. How could I be comfortable assuming the role of patient when at work I would hear my colleagues say things like, “I went to rounds at the hospital while I had pneumonia,” and, “I had conjunctivitis, put a patch on my eye, and went to work,” and, “she worked while getting chemo several times a week.”
For us, it seems that to be sick and to continue working is a badge of honor.
The U.S. health care system is under stress like never before. Newly insured people are coming into the system by the millions amid a shortage of physicians in primary care (Healthcare 2013;1:8-11) and across many specialties, including my own of psychiatry.
Against this backdrop are the expectations for physicians to be superheroes. It seems as if our profession is unlike any other. We are supposed to be healers of others but not ourselves.
After I became sick, I checked the literature in an effort to find support and insight into how medicine supports its own. But I found that discussions about these kinds of issues don’t seem to be available.
It’s time to discuss why support seems to be limited in residency programs, and why physicians feel a need to hide their illnesses for fear of losing employment. Why do the cultural expectations of our profession make us feel like we are less of a physician because of our illnesses?
Medicine needs to change so that we are treated not as flawless perfectionists but as humans who dedicated ourselves to healing and saving lives.
Dr. Thomas is a psychiatrist living in Warwick, R.I.
I remember waking up with my left hand swollen, red, in excruciating pain, and difficult to move. For several months prior, I had been exhausted, achy, and stiff. As a relatively new mother attempting to manage the age-old balance of family life with the rigors of fellowship training, I attributed those physical changes to personal and professional circumstances.
Yet, that morning, faced with a new rather troubling symptom, I did what my husband had suggested numerous times before and finally visited a doctor. After an emergency evaluation and referral to a rheumatologist, my diagnosis was clear: I had mixed connective tissue disease.
I became frantic – not because of the pain I was experiencing but because I would miss an important Grand Rounds that all of the fellows were expected to attend. I had struggled to decide if I should see the doctor or deal with it and head to Grand Rounds. In retrospect, the decision should not have been that agonizing. Most people would not have hesitated about making a choice between risking their health or pleasing their superiors. However, I am not most people; I am a doctor, and we do not get sick.
This is the message heard throughout medical school and training. Often, the message is not overt but communicated in a manner that no trainee could question: Take care of yourself, but do not take time off. It is fine to be sick but not so sick that you are unable to work.
For example, many programs have systems in place in which in case of illness or emergency, a trainee can call and another trainee can take her place – no questions asked. Yet, almost as quickly as this policy is described, it is followed with the disclaimer: “No one ever uses it.”
Why does this happen? Trainees are not immune to illness, but the expectation is that work supersedes personal concerns.
Despite receiving much support during my own training, my experience was often tainted by the need to push through. How could I be comfortable assuming the role of patient when at work I would hear my colleagues say things like, “I went to rounds at the hospital while I had pneumonia,” and, “I had conjunctivitis, put a patch on my eye, and went to work,” and, “she worked while getting chemo several times a week.”
For us, it seems that to be sick and to continue working is a badge of honor.
The U.S. health care system is under stress like never before. Newly insured people are coming into the system by the millions amid a shortage of physicians in primary care (Healthcare 2013;1:8-11) and across many specialties, including my own of psychiatry.
Against this backdrop are the expectations for physicians to be superheroes. It seems as if our profession is unlike any other. We are supposed to be healers of others but not ourselves.
After I became sick, I checked the literature in an effort to find support and insight into how medicine supports its own. But I found that discussions about these kinds of issues don’t seem to be available.
It’s time to discuss why support seems to be limited in residency programs, and why physicians feel a need to hide their illnesses for fear of losing employment. Why do the cultural expectations of our profession make us feel like we are less of a physician because of our illnesses?
Medicine needs to change so that we are treated not as flawless perfectionists but as humans who dedicated ourselves to healing and saving lives.
Dr. Thomas is a psychiatrist living in Warwick, R.I.
