Can private practice survive?

I ran into Peter the other day. We weren’t close back in high school 50 years ago – Peter was a jock and I wasn’t – but both of us ended up in medicine.

"How’s the radiology business?" I asked him.

"Two more years," he said. "I should be able to hang on."

"That bad?"

"We were taken over by the academic department of a big teaching hospital," Peter said.

"What’s the problem? They want you to publish papers?" I asked.

"They’re not crazy," he said. "They know what kind of papers we’d write. They just want to measure things."

"Measure what?"

"Anything they can," he said. "Productivity, quality. They micromanage everything. We’re not a private practice anymore. We don’t call our own shots."

You hear a lot of talk these days about whether private practice can survive. Judging by anecdotal chats with colleagues in other specialties, I’d say prospects are iffy. A lot of the future is already here.

"I’m going crazy," a local community rheumatologist told me. "There was just one other guy in town. The local hospital knocked on his door and said, ‘Either sell out and work for us on our terms, or you’ll never get another referral.’ So he just closed up and moved out of state."

"How about you?" I asked him. "Have they made you an offer you can’t refuse?"

"Not yet," he said.

Then I met an oncologist from my wife’s family. He is a couple of years younger than I am. "I never thought I’d be working harder than I ever did at my age," he said. "And earning less.

"But we just sold our practice. No choice, really. Reimbursements don’t cover the cost of chemo drugs, so we lose money on every patient we give them to. The hospital that’s buying us can bill for drugs at a higher rate. So I’ll work for them for 5 years, then I’m out."

Then I heard about a neurologist, whose practice his hospital covets. He orders scans and other diagnostic procedures that generate hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, but that of course he can’t bill for. The hospital can. I don’t get how that works, but obviously the hospital does.

The trend toward consolidation proceeds. Doctors become salaried employees of large organizations. Maybe the main reason we dermatologists aren’t being swallowed yet by the big fish is that we’re just not tasty enough. We don’t generate admissions or enough costly procedures to make gulping us down worthwhile.

Switching from being an independent practitioner to a salaried employee means more than a change of location or even lower income; it signals a loss of status. I got a glimpse of how that plays out when I met another friend, an internist who used to be out on his own, but who now works for a big health care organization. "Have you got a quota of patients you have to meet?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said. "They just set that up recently."

"How did you find out?" I asked him.

"They sent out a memo," he said.

In other words, management notified doctors of productivity guidelines the same way that they would tell clerks or auxiliary personnel by which quality metrics their performance and salary would be judged.

"What if you don’t meet your quota because patients cancel or don’t keep their appointments?" I asked him. "You have no control over how patients are booked or reminded to come?"

"They blame the doctors anyway," he said. "Anyway, I’m not full time anymore. I’ll be retiring soon."

To say that hanging around colleagues who talk this way is dispiriting would be an understatement.

Peter the radiologist spoke in similar downbeat tones. "I’m adapting to the new reality fairly well," he said, "because I see the end in sight. But my younger colleagues are having a harder time. They thought they were joining a private practice, and none of them would have signed on for what they’re getting now: harder work, longer hours, no autonomy. They show up every morning cranky, muttering under their breath."

"I can see why," I said. "Whom do they take it out on?"

"Not the administrators," said Peter. "They don’t care. And certainly not the patients. They take it out on their families, I guess."

We agreed that seemed the best strategy.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass., and is a longtime contributor to Skin & Allergy News. He serves on the clinical faculty at Tufts University, Boston, and has taught senior medical students and other trainees for 30 years.

I ran into Peter the other day. We weren’t close back in high school 50 years ago – Peter was a jock and I wasn’t – but both of us ended up in medicine.

"How’s the radiology business?" I asked him.

"Two more years," he said. "I should be able to hang on."

"That bad?"

"We were taken over by the academic department of a big teaching hospital," Peter said.

"What’s the problem? They want you to publish papers?" I asked.

"They’re not crazy," he said. "They know what kind of papers we’d write. They just want to measure things."

"Measure what?"

"Anything they can," he said. "Productivity, quality. They micromanage everything. We’re not a private practice anymore. We don’t call our own shots."

You hear a lot of talk these days about whether private practice can survive. Judging by anecdotal chats with colleagues in other specialties, I’d say prospects are iffy. A lot of the future is already here.

"I’m going crazy," a local community rheumatologist told me. "There was just one other guy in town. The local hospital knocked on his door and said, ‘Either sell out and work for us on our terms, or you’ll never get another referral.’ So he just closed up and moved out of state."

"How about you?" I asked him. "Have they made you an offer you can’t refuse?"

"Not yet," he said.

Then I met an oncologist from my wife’s family. He is a couple of years younger than I am. "I never thought I’d be working harder than I ever did at my age," he said. "And earning less.

"But we just sold our practice. No choice, really. Reimbursements don’t cover the cost of chemo drugs, so we lose money on every patient we give them to. The hospital that’s buying us can bill for drugs at a higher rate. So I’ll work for them for 5 years, then I’m out."

Then I heard about a neurologist, whose practice his hospital covets. He orders scans and other diagnostic procedures that generate hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, but that of course he can’t bill for. The hospital can. I don’t get how that works, but obviously the hospital does.

The trend toward consolidation proceeds. Doctors become salaried employees of large organizations. Maybe the main reason we dermatologists aren’t being swallowed yet by the big fish is that we’re just not tasty enough. We don’t generate admissions or enough costly procedures to make gulping us down worthwhile.

Switching from being an independent practitioner to a salaried employee means more than a change of location or even lower income; it signals a loss of status. I got a glimpse of how that plays out when I met another friend, an internist who used to be out on his own, but who now works for a big health care organization. "Have you got a quota of patients you have to meet?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said. "They just set that up recently."

"How did you find out?" I asked him.

"They sent out a memo," he said.

In other words, management notified doctors of productivity guidelines the same way that they would tell clerks or auxiliary personnel by which quality metrics their performance and salary would be judged.

"What if you don’t meet your quota because patients cancel or don’t keep their appointments?" I asked him. "You have no control over how patients are booked or reminded to come?"

"They blame the doctors anyway," he said. "Anyway, I’m not full time anymore. I’ll be retiring soon."

To say that hanging around colleagues who talk this way is dispiriting would be an understatement.

Peter the radiologist spoke in similar downbeat tones. "I’m adapting to the new reality fairly well," he said, "because I see the end in sight. But my younger colleagues are having a harder time. They thought they were joining a private practice, and none of them would have signed on for what they’re getting now: harder work, longer hours, no autonomy. They show up every morning cranky, muttering under their breath."

"I can see why," I said. "Whom do they take it out on?"

"Not the administrators," said Peter. "They don’t care. And certainly not the patients. They take it out on their families, I guess."

We agreed that seemed the best strategy.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass., and is a longtime contributor to Skin & Allergy News. He serves on the clinical faculty at Tufts University, Boston, and has taught senior medical students and other trainees for 30 years.

I ran into Peter the other day. We weren’t close back in high school 50 years ago – Peter was a jock and I wasn’t – but both of us ended up in medicine.

"How’s the radiology business?" I asked him.

"Two more years," he said. "I should be able to hang on."

"That bad?"

"We were taken over by the academic department of a big teaching hospital," Peter said.

"What’s the problem? They want you to publish papers?" I asked.

"They’re not crazy," he said. "They know what kind of papers we’d write. They just want to measure things."

"Measure what?"

"Anything they can," he said. "Productivity, quality. They micromanage everything. We’re not a private practice anymore. We don’t call our own shots."

You hear a lot of talk these days about whether private practice can survive. Judging by anecdotal chats with colleagues in other specialties, I’d say prospects are iffy. A lot of the future is already here.

"I’m going crazy," a local community rheumatologist told me. "There was just one other guy in town. The local hospital knocked on his door and said, ‘Either sell out and work for us on our terms, or you’ll never get another referral.’ So he just closed up and moved out of state."

"How about you?" I asked him. "Have they made you an offer you can’t refuse?"

"Not yet," he said.

Then I met an oncologist from my wife’s family. He is a couple of years younger than I am. "I never thought I’d be working harder than I ever did at my age," he said. "And earning less.

"But we just sold our practice. No choice, really. Reimbursements don’t cover the cost of chemo drugs, so we lose money on every patient we give them to. The hospital that’s buying us can bill for drugs at a higher rate. So I’ll work for them for 5 years, then I’m out."

Then I heard about a neurologist, whose practice his hospital covets. He orders scans and other diagnostic procedures that generate hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, but that of course he can’t bill for. The hospital can. I don’t get how that works, but obviously the hospital does.

The trend toward consolidation proceeds. Doctors become salaried employees of large organizations. Maybe the main reason we dermatologists aren’t being swallowed yet by the big fish is that we’re just not tasty enough. We don’t generate admissions or enough costly procedures to make gulping us down worthwhile.

Switching from being an independent practitioner to a salaried employee means more than a change of location or even lower income; it signals a loss of status. I got a glimpse of how that plays out when I met another friend, an internist who used to be out on his own, but who now works for a big health care organization. "Have you got a quota of patients you have to meet?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said. "They just set that up recently."

"How did you find out?" I asked him.

"They sent out a memo," he said.

In other words, management notified doctors of productivity guidelines the same way that they would tell clerks or auxiliary personnel by which quality metrics their performance and salary would be judged.

"What if you don’t meet your quota because patients cancel or don’t keep their appointments?" I asked him. "You have no control over how patients are booked or reminded to come?"

"They blame the doctors anyway," he said. "Anyway, I’m not full time anymore. I’ll be retiring soon."

To say that hanging around colleagues who talk this way is dispiriting would be an understatement.

Peter the radiologist spoke in similar downbeat tones. "I’m adapting to the new reality fairly well," he said, "because I see the end in sight. But my younger colleagues are having a harder time. They thought they were joining a private practice, and none of them would have signed on for what they’re getting now: harder work, longer hours, no autonomy. They show up every morning cranky, muttering under their breath."

"I can see why," I said. "Whom do they take it out on?"

"Not the administrators," said Peter. "They don’t care. And certainly not the patients. They take it out on their families, I guess."

We agreed that seemed the best strategy.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass., and is a longtime contributor to Skin & Allergy News. He serves on the clinical faculty at Tufts University, Boston, and has taught senior medical students and other trainees for 30 years.