Doctor I-Don’t-Know

Many, many years ago there was a Thanksgiving when as I was just beginning to earn a reputation in my wife’s family. There were no place cards on the table and the usual hovering and jockeying seats was well underway. From behind me I heard one of my young nieces pipe up: “I want to sit next to Doctor I-don’t-know.”

After a few words of negotiation we were all settled in our places and ready to enjoy our meal. It took only a few seconds of introspection for me to grasp how I had received that moniker, which some physicians might consider disrespectful.

I was the only physician within several generations of that family and, as such, my in-laws thought it only appropriate to ask me medical questions. They courteously seemed to avoid personal questions about their own health and were particularly careful not to roll up their sleeves or unbutton their shirts to show me a lesion or a recently acquired surgical scar. No, my wife’s family members were curious. They wanted answers to deeper questions, the hard science so to speak. “How does aspirin work?” was a typical and painful example. Maybe pharmacologists today have better answers but 40 years ago I’m not so sure; I certainly didn’t know back then and would reply, “I don’t know.” Probably for the third or fourth time that day.

Usually I genuinely didn’t know the answer. However, sometimes my answer was going to be so different from the beliefs and biases of my inquisitor that, in the interest of expediency, “I don’t know” seemed the most appropriate response.

If you were reading Letters from Maine 25 years ago, that scenario might sound familiar. I have chosen to pull it out of the archives as a jumping-off point for a consideration of the unfortunate example some of us set when the COVID pandemic threw a tsunami of unknowns at us. Too many physician-“experts” were afraid to say, “I don’t know.” Instead, and maybe because, they themselves were afraid that the patients couldn’t handle the truth that none of us in the profession knew the correct answers. When so many initial pronouncements proved incorrect, it was too late to undo the damage that had been done to the community’s trust in the rest of us.

It turns out that my in-laws were not the only folks who thought of me as Doctor I-don’t-know. One of the perks of remaining in the same community after one retires is that encounters with former patients and their parents happen frequently. On more than one occasion a parent has thanked me for admitting my ignorance. Some have even claimed that my candid approach was what they remembered most fondly. And, that quality increased their trust when I finally provided an answer.

There is an art to delivering “I don’t know.” Thirty years ago I would excuse myself and tell the family I was going to my office to pull a book off the shelf or call a previous mentor. Now one only needs to ask Dr. Google. No need to leave the room. If appropriate, the provider can swing the computer screen so that the patient can share in the search for the answer.

That strategy only works when the provider merely needs to update or expand his/her knowledge. However, there are those difficult situations when no one could know the answer given the current parameters of the patient’s situation. More lab work might be needed. It may be too early in the trajectory of the patient’s illness for the illnesses signs and symptoms to declare themselves.

In these situations “I don’t know” must be followed by a “but.” It is what comes after that “but” and how it is delivered that can convert the provider’s admission of ignorance into a demonstration of his or her character. Is he/she a caring person trying to understand the patient’s concerns? Willing to enter into a cooperative relationship as together they search for the cause and hopefully for a cure for the patient’s currently mysterious illness?

I recently read about a physician who is encouraging medical educators to incorporate more discussions of “humility” and its role in patient care into the medical school and postgraduate training curricula. He feels, as do I, that if more physicians learned to say “I don’t know” early in their careers, the quality of care we are delivering as a profession will improve, as will the trust bestowed by our patients.

Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Other than a Littman stethoscope he accepted as a first-year medical student in 1966, Dr. Wilkoff reports having nothing to disclose. Email him at [email protected].

Many, many years ago there was a Thanksgiving when as I was just beginning to earn a reputation in my wife’s family. There were no place cards on the table and the usual hovering and jockeying seats was well underway. From behind me I heard one of my young nieces pipe up: “I want to sit next to Doctor I-don’t-know.”

After a few words of negotiation we were all settled in our places and ready to enjoy our meal. It took only a few seconds of introspection for me to grasp how I had received that moniker, which some physicians might consider disrespectful.

I was the only physician within several generations of that family and, as such, my in-laws thought it only appropriate to ask me medical questions. They courteously seemed to avoid personal questions about their own health and were particularly careful not to roll up their sleeves or unbutton their shirts to show me a lesion or a recently acquired surgical scar. No, my wife’s family members were curious. They wanted answers to deeper questions, the hard science so to speak. “How does aspirin work?” was a typical and painful example. Maybe pharmacologists today have better answers but 40 years ago I’m not so sure; I certainly didn’t know back then and would reply, “I don’t know.” Probably for the third or fourth time that day.

Usually I genuinely didn’t know the answer. However, sometimes my answer was going to be so different from the beliefs and biases of my inquisitor that, in the interest of expediency, “I don’t know” seemed the most appropriate response.

If you were reading Letters from Maine 25 years ago, that scenario might sound familiar. I have chosen to pull it out of the archives as a jumping-off point for a consideration of the unfortunate example some of us set when the COVID pandemic threw a tsunami of unknowns at us. Too many physician-“experts” were afraid to say, “I don’t know.” Instead, and maybe because, they themselves were afraid that the patients couldn’t handle the truth that none of us in the profession knew the correct answers. When so many initial pronouncements proved incorrect, it was too late to undo the damage that had been done to the community’s trust in the rest of us.

It turns out that my in-laws were not the only folks who thought of me as Doctor I-don’t-know. One of the perks of remaining in the same community after one retires is that encounters with former patients and their parents happen frequently. On more than one occasion a parent has thanked me for admitting my ignorance. Some have even claimed that my candid approach was what they remembered most fondly. And, that quality increased their trust when I finally provided an answer.

There is an art to delivering “I don’t know.” Thirty years ago I would excuse myself and tell the family I was going to my office to pull a book off the shelf or call a previous mentor. Now one only needs to ask Dr. Google. No need to leave the room. If appropriate, the provider can swing the computer screen so that the patient can share in the search for the answer.

That strategy only works when the provider merely needs to update or expand his/her knowledge. However, there are those difficult situations when no one could know the answer given the current parameters of the patient’s situation. More lab work might be needed. It may be too early in the trajectory of the patient’s illness for the illnesses signs and symptoms to declare themselves.

In these situations “I don’t know” must be followed by a “but.” It is what comes after that “but” and how it is delivered that can convert the provider’s admission of ignorance into a demonstration of his or her character. Is he/she a caring person trying to understand the patient’s concerns? Willing to enter into a cooperative relationship as together they search for the cause and hopefully for a cure for the patient’s currently mysterious illness?

I recently read about a physician who is encouraging medical educators to incorporate more discussions of “humility” and its role in patient care into the medical school and postgraduate training curricula. He feels, as do I, that if more physicians learned to say “I don’t know” early in their careers, the quality of care we are delivering as a profession will improve, as will the trust bestowed by our patients.

Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Other than a Littman stethoscope he accepted as a first-year medical student in 1966, Dr. Wilkoff reports having nothing to disclose. Email him at [email protected].

Many, many years ago there was a Thanksgiving when as I was just beginning to earn a reputation in my wife’s family. There were no place cards on the table and the usual hovering and jockeying seats was well underway. From behind me I heard one of my young nieces pipe up: “I want to sit next to Doctor I-don’t-know.”

After a few words of negotiation we were all settled in our places and ready to enjoy our meal. It took only a few seconds of introspection for me to grasp how I had received that moniker, which some physicians might consider disrespectful.

I was the only physician within several generations of that family and, as such, my in-laws thought it only appropriate to ask me medical questions. They courteously seemed to avoid personal questions about their own health and were particularly careful not to roll up their sleeves or unbutton their shirts to show me a lesion or a recently acquired surgical scar. No, my wife’s family members were curious. They wanted answers to deeper questions, the hard science so to speak. “How does aspirin work?” was a typical and painful example. Maybe pharmacologists today have better answers but 40 years ago I’m not so sure; I certainly didn’t know back then and would reply, “I don’t know.” Probably for the third or fourth time that day.

Usually I genuinely didn’t know the answer. However, sometimes my answer was going to be so different from the beliefs and biases of my inquisitor that, in the interest of expediency, “I don’t know” seemed the most appropriate response.

If you were reading Letters from Maine 25 years ago, that scenario might sound familiar. I have chosen to pull it out of the archives as a jumping-off point for a consideration of the unfortunate example some of us set when the COVID pandemic threw a tsunami of unknowns at us. Too many physician-“experts” were afraid to say, “I don’t know.” Instead, and maybe because, they themselves were afraid that the patients couldn’t handle the truth that none of us in the profession knew the correct answers. When so many initial pronouncements proved incorrect, it was too late to undo the damage that had been done to the community’s trust in the rest of us.

It turns out that my in-laws were not the only folks who thought of me as Doctor I-don’t-know. One of the perks of remaining in the same community after one retires is that encounters with former patients and their parents happen frequently. On more than one occasion a parent has thanked me for admitting my ignorance. Some have even claimed that my candid approach was what they remembered most fondly. And, that quality increased their trust when I finally provided an answer.

There is an art to delivering “I don’t know.” Thirty years ago I would excuse myself and tell the family I was going to my office to pull a book off the shelf or call a previous mentor. Now one only needs to ask Dr. Google. No need to leave the room. If appropriate, the provider can swing the computer screen so that the patient can share in the search for the answer.

That strategy only works when the provider merely needs to update or expand his/her knowledge. However, there are those difficult situations when no one could know the answer given the current parameters of the patient’s situation. More lab work might be needed. It may be too early in the trajectory of the patient’s illness for the illnesses signs and symptoms to declare themselves.

In these situations “I don’t know” must be followed by a “but.” It is what comes after that “but” and how it is delivered that can convert the provider’s admission of ignorance into a demonstration of his or her character. Is he/she a caring person trying to understand the patient’s concerns? Willing to enter into a cooperative relationship as together they search for the cause and hopefully for a cure for the patient’s currently mysterious illness?

I recently read about a physician who is encouraging medical educators to incorporate more discussions of “humility” and its role in patient care into the medical school and postgraduate training curricula. He feels, as do I, that if more physicians learned to say “I don’t know” early in their careers, the quality of care we are delivering as a profession will improve, as will the trust bestowed by our patients.

Dr. Wilkoff practiced primary care pediatrics in Brunswick, Maine, for nearly 40 years. He has authored several books on behavioral pediatrics, including “How to Say No to Your Toddler.” Other than a Littman stethoscope he accepted as a first-year medical student in 1966, Dr. Wilkoff reports having nothing to disclose. Email him at [email protected].