Hitting a Nerve

Like everyone else’s grandmother, mine gave me all kinds of advice while I was growing up. Some tips I still remember.

One came when I was home for Thanksgiving during my first year of medical school. She was frustrated over her recent visit to an internist. He kept ordering more tests but wouldn’t answer questions about what might be causing her symptoms.

She told me that, if I didn’t know what was going on, to just say so. As a patient, she felt that an honest answer was better than silence.

Today, as a doctor, I agree with her. So, while I may still be doing tests to crack the case, I have no problem, when asked what I think is going on, with saying “I don’t know.”

This approach isn’t perfect for everyone. Some docs (and patients) may see it as a sign of incompetence or weakness, thinking that admitting fallibility is a breach of the relationship or that with some tests the doctor becomes omniscient. Of course, that’s far from the truth.

In my experience, patients prefer the honesty of my saying “I don’t know.” I’m not saying I’ll never know, I’m just saying that, at present, I’m still looking for the answer.

Nobody likes being in the dark about their health, but at the same time they don’t want to feel their doctor is keeping a secret from them. By making it clear that I’m not, I’m hoping to keep a strong therapeutic relationship. I promise them that when I know, they’ll know, and that I’m honest when stumped. If I need to refer elsewhere for an answer, I have no problem doing that. Medicine, and neurology in particular, is a complex field. If every diagnosis were a slam-dunk, we wouldn’t need specialists and subspecialists (and even subsubspecialists).

Most people know and understand that, recognize the inherent uncertainty of this job, and know that I don’t know. I promise them that “I don’t know” doesn’t mean I’m done looking, it just means I’m going to keep trying. That’s the best anyone can do. Right, Granny?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Like everyone else’s grandmother, mine gave me all kinds of advice while I was growing up. Some tips I still remember.

One came when I was home for Thanksgiving during my first year of medical school. She was frustrated over her recent visit to an internist. He kept ordering more tests but wouldn’t answer questions about what might be causing her symptoms.

She told me that, if I didn’t know what was going on, to just say so. As a patient, she felt that an honest answer was better than silence.

Today, as a doctor, I agree with her. So, while I may still be doing tests to crack the case, I have no problem, when asked what I think is going on, with saying “I don’t know.”

This approach isn’t perfect for everyone. Some docs (and patients) may see it as a sign of incompetence or weakness, thinking that admitting fallibility is a breach of the relationship or that with some tests the doctor becomes omniscient. Of course, that’s far from the truth.

In my experience, patients prefer the honesty of my saying “I don’t know.” I’m not saying I’ll never know, I’m just saying that, at present, I’m still looking for the answer.

Nobody likes being in the dark about their health, but at the same time they don’t want to feel their doctor is keeping a secret from them. By making it clear that I’m not, I’m hoping to keep a strong therapeutic relationship. I promise them that when I know, they’ll know, and that I’m honest when stumped. If I need to refer elsewhere for an answer, I have no problem doing that. Medicine, and neurology in particular, is a complex field. If every diagnosis were a slam-dunk, we wouldn’t need specialists and subspecialists (and even subsubspecialists).

Most people know and understand that, recognize the inherent uncertainty of this job, and know that I don’t know. I promise them that “I don’t know” doesn’t mean I’m done looking, it just means I’m going to keep trying. That’s the best anyone can do. Right, Granny?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Like everyone else’s grandmother, mine gave me all kinds of advice while I was growing up. Some tips I still remember.

One came when I was home for Thanksgiving during my first year of medical school. She was frustrated over her recent visit to an internist. He kept ordering more tests but wouldn’t answer questions about what might be causing her symptoms.

She told me that, if I didn’t know what was going on, to just say so. As a patient, she felt that an honest answer was better than silence.

Today, as a doctor, I agree with her. So, while I may still be doing tests to crack the case, I have no problem, when asked what I think is going on, with saying “I don’t know.”

This approach isn’t perfect for everyone. Some docs (and patients) may see it as a sign of incompetence or weakness, thinking that admitting fallibility is a breach of the relationship or that with some tests the doctor becomes omniscient. Of course, that’s far from the truth.

In my experience, patients prefer the honesty of my saying “I don’t know.” I’m not saying I’ll never know, I’m just saying that, at present, I’m still looking for the answer.

Nobody likes being in the dark about their health, but at the same time they don’t want to feel their doctor is keeping a secret from them. By making it clear that I’m not, I’m hoping to keep a strong therapeutic relationship. I promise them that when I know, they’ll know, and that I’m honest when stumped. If I need to refer elsewhere for an answer, I have no problem doing that. Medicine, and neurology in particular, is a complex field. If every diagnosis were a slam-dunk, we wouldn’t need specialists and subspecialists (and even subsubspecialists).

Most people know and understand that, recognize the inherent uncertainty of this job, and know that I don’t know. I promise them that “I don’t know” doesn’t mean I’m done looking, it just means I’m going to keep trying. That’s the best anyone can do. Right, Granny?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

When did some doctors become so wishy-washy?

A large part of what we do is guide people through an often-confusing maze of test results and treatment options. I respect patients’ right to make their own decisions, but it came as a surprise to me to find that some doctors are turning such things over to the patients. After all, doctors are the ones who went through over a decade of training to understand the risks, benefits, and goals of each step for them. Granted, I live in Arizona, where you don’t need a doctor’s order to have labs done. You can research whatever you want on Google, decide what work-up you need, and go get whatever labs you want done.

But back to my original point. Recently, one of my patients was admitted to the hospital, then followed up with me in the office. I looked through his test results and told him what I felt the next step should be, ordered a few things, and wrote an instruction sheet to start daily aspirin. I commented that it surprised me the last hadn’t been done as an inpatient.

His answer? “They said I could if I wanted to, but didn’t make a clear suggestion.” I figured this was a simple miscommunication, so I pulled up the hospital chart on my computer. There I found a note from the attending that said, “The patient was told he may or may not want to take a daily aspirin, and that doing so might or might not be to his benefit.” What on Earth?

I understand there are no guarantees in this job. There’s no crystal ball to know for sure that what we’re doing is right. Any drug can cause serious and unexpected complications. We take calculated risks and hope we come out ahead. But to phrase it like this? Where the patient isn’t given the guidance we’re supposed to provide? What’s the point of even being a doctor?

Since then, I’ve noticed similar phrasing in other charts: “We discussed doing a brain MRI, and she’ll let me know what she decides” and “I told her that starting Lamictal may or may not prevent seizures, and to consider it as something she should or shouldn’t do.”

I’m sure some of it is part of the hurried flight-of-ideas dictations we all do when we’re busy at the hospital. There’s also a component of legalese to make sure that we documented discussing risks with the patient.

But I still don’t get the ambivalence. In similar situations, I provide guidance and advice and tell people what I think they should do. I’m not going to force anyone to do anything they don’t want to. If they disagree, I note it and make whatever suggestions I think will help. In the end, it’s their decision. I get that.

When I take my car to get fixed, I don’t want the mechanic to tell me what may or may not need to be repaired, and I hope patients see me the same way.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

When did some doctors become so wishy-washy?

A large part of what we do is guide people through an often-confusing maze of test results and treatment options. I respect patients’ right to make their own decisions, but it came as a surprise to me to find that some doctors are turning such things over to the patients. After all, doctors are the ones who went through over a decade of training to understand the risks, benefits, and goals of each step for them. Granted, I live in Arizona, where you don’t need a doctor’s order to have labs done. You can research whatever you want on Google, decide what work-up you need, and go get whatever labs you want done.

But back to my original point. Recently, one of my patients was admitted to the hospital, then followed up with me in the office. I looked through his test results and told him what I felt the next step should be, ordered a few things, and wrote an instruction sheet to start daily aspirin. I commented that it surprised me the last hadn’t been done as an inpatient.

His answer? “They said I could if I wanted to, but didn’t make a clear suggestion.” I figured this was a simple miscommunication, so I pulled up the hospital chart on my computer. There I found a note from the attending that said, “The patient was told he may or may not want to take a daily aspirin, and that doing so might or might not be to his benefit.” What on Earth?

I understand there are no guarantees in this job. There’s no crystal ball to know for sure that what we’re doing is right. Any drug can cause serious and unexpected complications. We take calculated risks and hope we come out ahead. But to phrase it like this? Where the patient isn’t given the guidance we’re supposed to provide? What’s the point of even being a doctor?

Since then, I’ve noticed similar phrasing in other charts: “We discussed doing a brain MRI, and she’ll let me know what she decides” and “I told her that starting Lamictal may or may not prevent seizures, and to consider it as something she should or shouldn’t do.”

I’m sure some of it is part of the hurried flight-of-ideas dictations we all do when we’re busy at the hospital. There’s also a component of legalese to make sure that we documented discussing risks with the patient.

But I still don’t get the ambivalence. In similar situations, I provide guidance and advice and tell people what I think they should do. I’m not going to force anyone to do anything they don’t want to. If they disagree, I note it and make whatever suggestions I think will help. In the end, it’s their decision. I get that.

When I take my car to get fixed, I don’t want the mechanic to tell me what may or may not need to be repaired, and I hope patients see me the same way.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

When did some doctors become so wishy-washy?

A large part of what we do is guide people through an often-confusing maze of test results and treatment options. I respect patients’ right to make their own decisions, but it came as a surprise to me to find that some doctors are turning such things over to the patients. After all, doctors are the ones who went through over a decade of training to understand the risks, benefits, and goals of each step for them. Granted, I live in Arizona, where you don’t need a doctor’s order to have labs done. You can research whatever you want on Google, decide what work-up you need, and go get whatever labs you want done.

But back to my original point. Recently, one of my patients was admitted to the hospital, then followed up with me in the office. I looked through his test results and told him what I felt the next step should be, ordered a few things, and wrote an instruction sheet to start daily aspirin. I commented that it surprised me the last hadn’t been done as an inpatient.

His answer? “They said I could if I wanted to, but didn’t make a clear suggestion.” I figured this was a simple miscommunication, so I pulled up the hospital chart on my computer. There I found a note from the attending that said, “The patient was told he may or may not want to take a daily aspirin, and that doing so might or might not be to his benefit.” What on Earth?

I understand there are no guarantees in this job. There’s no crystal ball to know for sure that what we’re doing is right. Any drug can cause serious and unexpected complications. We take calculated risks and hope we come out ahead. But to phrase it like this? Where the patient isn’t given the guidance we’re supposed to provide? What’s the point of even being a doctor?

Since then, I’ve noticed similar phrasing in other charts: “We discussed doing a brain MRI, and she’ll let me know what she decides” and “I told her that starting Lamictal may or may not prevent seizures, and to consider it as something she should or shouldn’t do.”

I’m sure some of it is part of the hurried flight-of-ideas dictations we all do when we’re busy at the hospital. There’s also a component of legalese to make sure that we documented discussing risks with the patient.

But I still don’t get the ambivalence. In similar situations, I provide guidance and advice and tell people what I think they should do. I’m not going to force anyone to do anything they don’t want to. If they disagree, I note it and make whatever suggestions I think will help. In the end, it’s their decision. I get that.

When I take my car to get fixed, I don’t want the mechanic to tell me what may or may not need to be repaired, and I hope patients see me the same way.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Patients are often impatient. They want answers.

To some extent, I can’t blame them. When it’s your disease, you want to know what’s going on and what you can do about it. So I try to keep on top of results as they come in and have my staff contact people to relay the news.

The problem is that medicine (like life) does not provide immediate gratification. It takes time to get routine labs back, and some (such as send-outs) can even take a few weeks.

Radiology reports usually have a 24-hour turnaround, and radiologists will call me if they find something urgent. Yet, it’s amazing how many people will call for results before they even leave that facility.

Did it always used to be like this? Were people always this demanding of immediate answers and test results from their doctors?

We live in a world that gets faster and faster, and people get used to things happening quickly. It’s an age of instant gratification, and having to wait for test results seems silly to laypeople. After all, don’t TV medical shows have results coming back quickly, gleaming advanced scanners, and the machine that goes “ping”? So why doesn’t that happen when you visit a doctor in real life?

Of course, I could get the results faster. I could order everything STAT and abuse the privilege ... but crying wolf only works a few times, and then you can’t do it when you really need it. I could call the radiologists for verbal MRI reads ... but then I’m taking their time away from more urgent cases, and other patients with more concerning issues are affected. So I don’t do that routinely, either.

Even people in slow-moving lines of work can have trouble grasping that medicine is the same way. I tell them we’ll call them when we get results, and try to stay on top of things. I admit sometimes things may slip through, and they’re right to call and ask.

Most patients understand this, and are, well, patient. I just wish more were. It would save a lot of time, effort, and frustration for all involved, including them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Patients are often impatient. They want answers.

To some extent, I can’t blame them. When it’s your disease, you want to know what’s going on and what you can do about it. So I try to keep on top of results as they come in and have my staff contact people to relay the news.

The problem is that medicine (like life) does not provide immediate gratification. It takes time to get routine labs back, and some (such as send-outs) can even take a few weeks.

Radiology reports usually have a 24-hour turnaround, and radiologists will call me if they find something urgent. Yet, it’s amazing how many people will call for results before they even leave that facility.

Did it always used to be like this? Were people always this demanding of immediate answers and test results from their doctors?

We live in a world that gets faster and faster, and people get used to things happening quickly. It’s an age of instant gratification, and having to wait for test results seems silly to laypeople. After all, don’t TV medical shows have results coming back quickly, gleaming advanced scanners, and the machine that goes “ping”? So why doesn’t that happen when you visit a doctor in real life?

Of course, I could get the results faster. I could order everything STAT and abuse the privilege ... but crying wolf only works a few times, and then you can’t do it when you really need it. I could call the radiologists for verbal MRI reads ... but then I’m taking their time away from more urgent cases, and other patients with more concerning issues are affected. So I don’t do that routinely, either.

Even people in slow-moving lines of work can have trouble grasping that medicine is the same way. I tell them we’ll call them when we get results, and try to stay on top of things. I admit sometimes things may slip through, and they’re right to call and ask.

Most patients understand this, and are, well, patient. I just wish more were. It would save a lot of time, effort, and frustration for all involved, including them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Patients are often impatient. They want answers.

To some extent, I can’t blame them. When it’s your disease, you want to know what’s going on and what you can do about it. So I try to keep on top of results as they come in and have my staff contact people to relay the news.

The problem is that medicine (like life) does not provide immediate gratification. It takes time to get routine labs back, and some (such as send-outs) can even take a few weeks.

Radiology reports usually have a 24-hour turnaround, and radiologists will call me if they find something urgent. Yet, it’s amazing how many people will call for results before they even leave that facility.

Did it always used to be like this? Were people always this demanding of immediate answers and test results from their doctors?

We live in a world that gets faster and faster, and people get used to things happening quickly. It’s an age of instant gratification, and having to wait for test results seems silly to laypeople. After all, don’t TV medical shows have results coming back quickly, gleaming advanced scanners, and the machine that goes “ping”? So why doesn’t that happen when you visit a doctor in real life?

Of course, I could get the results faster. I could order everything STAT and abuse the privilege ... but crying wolf only works a few times, and then you can’t do it when you really need it. I could call the radiologists for verbal MRI reads ... but then I’m taking their time away from more urgent cases, and other patients with more concerning issues are affected. So I don’t do that routinely, either.

Even people in slow-moving lines of work can have trouble grasping that medicine is the same way. I tell them we’ll call them when we get results, and try to stay on top of things. I admit sometimes things may slip through, and they’re right to call and ask.

Most patients understand this, and are, well, patient. I just wish more were. It would save a lot of time, effort, and frustration for all involved, including them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

How often do you encounter phantom appointments?

What are phantom appointments? They’re patient visits that are nowhere on your schedule.

I’m not talking about someone who shows up on the wrong day or time. That’s at least partially understandable. I’m talking about people who you have no record of but say they have an appointment.

The first impression is to assume they’re scheduled with someone else in the building or another neurologist in my area, but they’ll often pull out a crumpled sheet of paper with my name and address on it, and a time circled.

Where on Earth do these people come from? I have no clue. When asked who made the appointment, it’s always “They made it for me,” or “They told me to be here.” It’s never clear who “they” are. These folks almost never can give you the name of their referring doctor, or who they spoke to. I’m a pretty small office here, just me and my secretary, so there aren’t many people here to talk to.

These aren’t common, maybe a handful per year, but generally unpleasant when they occur. If they happen to show up when I’ve got a gap in the schedule, I’ll try to see them, but the majority end up being turned away. We always offer to make an appointment for them, but most leave, usually angry.

I suspect some were referred for cognitive issues, which partially explains the confusion. Others may be doing it intentionally, hoping that they’ll be seen. (I suspect these are the minority.) Misinterpreted information from other offices likely plays a big part. Perhaps they were given my name and info by another office and told to make an appointment. Somehow, a time for something else got mixed in on the same sheet … and they show up here.

Although they are a minor annoyance on the scale of daily office goings-on, these patients are still a problem. Most are angry and frustrated, as they want to see me. Some are willing to schedule an appointment, but most aren’t. The awkward situation interrupts the routine flow of check-ins and phone calls, and it certainly isn’t something anyone waiting in the lobby wants to overhear. Oftentimes, I have to go up front to handle it, taking me away from a patient. In cases when the patient was referred by another doctor, they might call that office to complain.

It’s a losing situation for all involved. I wish there was some way to prevent them, but their uncertain nature makes it impossible.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

How often do you encounter phantom appointments?

What are phantom appointments? They’re patient visits that are nowhere on your schedule.

I’m not talking about someone who shows up on the wrong day or time. That’s at least partially understandable. I’m talking about people who you have no record of but say they have an appointment.

The first impression is to assume they’re scheduled with someone else in the building or another neurologist in my area, but they’ll often pull out a crumpled sheet of paper with my name and address on it, and a time circled.

Where on Earth do these people come from? I have no clue. When asked who made the appointment, it’s always “They made it for me,” or “They told me to be here.” It’s never clear who “they” are. These folks almost never can give you the name of their referring doctor, or who they spoke to. I’m a pretty small office here, just me and my secretary, so there aren’t many people here to talk to.

These aren’t common, maybe a handful per year, but generally unpleasant when they occur. If they happen to show up when I’ve got a gap in the schedule, I’ll try to see them, but the majority end up being turned away. We always offer to make an appointment for them, but most leave, usually angry.

I suspect some were referred for cognitive issues, which partially explains the confusion. Others may be doing it intentionally, hoping that they’ll be seen. (I suspect these are the minority.) Misinterpreted information from other offices likely plays a big part. Perhaps they were given my name and info by another office and told to make an appointment. Somehow, a time for something else got mixed in on the same sheet … and they show up here.

Although they are a minor annoyance on the scale of daily office goings-on, these patients are still a problem. Most are angry and frustrated, as they want to see me. Some are willing to schedule an appointment, but most aren’t. The awkward situation interrupts the routine flow of check-ins and phone calls, and it certainly isn’t something anyone waiting in the lobby wants to overhear. Oftentimes, I have to go up front to handle it, taking me away from a patient. In cases when the patient was referred by another doctor, they might call that office to complain.

It’s a losing situation for all involved. I wish there was some way to prevent them, but their uncertain nature makes it impossible.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

How often do you encounter phantom appointments?

What are phantom appointments? They’re patient visits that are nowhere on your schedule.

I’m not talking about someone who shows up on the wrong day or time. That’s at least partially understandable. I’m talking about people who you have no record of but say they have an appointment.

The first impression is to assume they’re scheduled with someone else in the building or another neurologist in my area, but they’ll often pull out a crumpled sheet of paper with my name and address on it, and a time circled.

Where on Earth do these people come from? I have no clue. When asked who made the appointment, it’s always “They made it for me,” or “They told me to be here.” It’s never clear who “they” are. These folks almost never can give you the name of their referring doctor, or who they spoke to. I’m a pretty small office here, just me and my secretary, so there aren’t many people here to talk to.

These aren’t common, maybe a handful per year, but generally unpleasant when they occur. If they happen to show up when I’ve got a gap in the schedule, I’ll try to see them, but the majority end up being turned away. We always offer to make an appointment for them, but most leave, usually angry.

I suspect some were referred for cognitive issues, which partially explains the confusion. Others may be doing it intentionally, hoping that they’ll be seen. (I suspect these are the minority.) Misinterpreted information from other offices likely plays a big part. Perhaps they were given my name and info by another office and told to make an appointment. Somehow, a time for something else got mixed in on the same sheet … and they show up here.

Although they are a minor annoyance on the scale of daily office goings-on, these patients are still a problem. Most are angry and frustrated, as they want to see me. Some are willing to schedule an appointment, but most aren’t. The awkward situation interrupts the routine flow of check-ins and phone calls, and it certainly isn’t something anyone waiting in the lobby wants to overhear. Oftentimes, I have to go up front to handle it, taking me away from a patient. In cases when the patient was referred by another doctor, they might call that office to complain.

It’s a losing situation for all involved. I wish there was some way to prevent them, but their uncertain nature makes it impossible.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am, apparently, not a very good doctor. At least, that’s what some mailings I get from insurance companies make me think.

You probably get the same ones. They tell me what guidelines I’m not following or drug interactions I’m not mindful of. I suppose I should be grateful for their efforts to protect patients.

Letters I’ve gotten in the last week have reminded me that:

• Patients with elevated fasting blood sugars should be started on metformin.

• A lady on Eliquis (apixaban) after developing a deep-vein thrombosis should be considered for a less costly alternative, such as warfarin, to help her save money.

• An antihypertensive agent is recommended for a young man with persistently elevated blood pressures.

• An older gentleman’s lipid-lowering agent may interfere with his diabetes medication.

What do these have to do with anything that I, as a neurologist, am doing for the patient? Nothing.

Why are they being sent to me, as opposed to an internist or cardiologist? I have no idea. Of course, for all I know, the other docs might be getting recommendations on how to manage Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis.

The insurance companies pay the bills. They obviously know which doctors are seeing who and prescribing what. Their billing systems track who practices what specialty. If I were to try submitting a claim for pulmonary evaluation, I’m sure they’d immediately notice and deny it.

So why can’t they get this straight? It seems like a big waste of time, paper, and postage all around.

On rare occasions, they actually get it right … sort of. About a month ago, I received a letter about a migraine patient, telling me that, for those with frequent migraines, a preventive medication should be considered. It even listed her current prescriptions to help me understand.

I absolutely agree with the letter, but it completely ignored that her medication list already included topiramate and nortriptyline, both commonly used for migraine prophylaxis. Since she has no other reason to be on either, I have no idea why they thought I’d use them. These kinds of notes all end with some generic comment that these are just suggestions, and only I and my patient can make the correct decisions about treatment, etc. etc.

That letter may be well intentioned, perhaps, but it is also inaccurate, unnecessary, and – to me – even a little demeaning. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, then why are you sending patients to me? Maybe the software you’re using to screen charts and send these letters should open its own practice instead.

If the real goal of these letters is to save money (and we all know it is), then why is the company wasting it on redundant and inaccurate letters, usually not even sent to the correct doctor?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am, apparently, not a very good doctor. At least, that’s what some mailings I get from insurance companies make me think.

You probably get the same ones. They tell me what guidelines I’m not following or drug interactions I’m not mindful of. I suppose I should be grateful for their efforts to protect patients.

Letters I’ve gotten in the last week have reminded me that:

• Patients with elevated fasting blood sugars should be started on metformin.

• A lady on Eliquis (apixaban) after developing a deep-vein thrombosis should be considered for a less costly alternative, such as warfarin, to help her save money.

• An antihypertensive agent is recommended for a young man with persistently elevated blood pressures.

• An older gentleman’s lipid-lowering agent may interfere with his diabetes medication.

What do these have to do with anything that I, as a neurologist, am doing for the patient? Nothing.

Why are they being sent to me, as opposed to an internist or cardiologist? I have no idea. Of course, for all I know, the other docs might be getting recommendations on how to manage Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis.

The insurance companies pay the bills. They obviously know which doctors are seeing who and prescribing what. Their billing systems track who practices what specialty. If I were to try submitting a claim for pulmonary evaluation, I’m sure they’d immediately notice and deny it.

So why can’t they get this straight? It seems like a big waste of time, paper, and postage all around.

On rare occasions, they actually get it right … sort of. About a month ago, I received a letter about a migraine patient, telling me that, for those with frequent migraines, a preventive medication should be considered. It even listed her current prescriptions to help me understand.

I absolutely agree with the letter, but it completely ignored that her medication list already included topiramate and nortriptyline, both commonly used for migraine prophylaxis. Since she has no other reason to be on either, I have no idea why they thought I’d use them. These kinds of notes all end with some generic comment that these are just suggestions, and only I and my patient can make the correct decisions about treatment, etc. etc.

That letter may be well intentioned, perhaps, but it is also inaccurate, unnecessary, and – to me – even a little demeaning. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, then why are you sending patients to me? Maybe the software you’re using to screen charts and send these letters should open its own practice instead.

If the real goal of these letters is to save money (and we all know it is), then why is the company wasting it on redundant and inaccurate letters, usually not even sent to the correct doctor?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am, apparently, not a very good doctor. At least, that’s what some mailings I get from insurance companies make me think.

You probably get the same ones. They tell me what guidelines I’m not following or drug interactions I’m not mindful of. I suppose I should be grateful for their efforts to protect patients.

Letters I’ve gotten in the last week have reminded me that:

• Patients with elevated fasting blood sugars should be started on metformin.

• A lady on Eliquis (apixaban) after developing a deep-vein thrombosis should be considered for a less costly alternative, such as warfarin, to help her save money.

• An antihypertensive agent is recommended for a young man with persistently elevated blood pressures.

• An older gentleman’s lipid-lowering agent may interfere with his diabetes medication.

What do these have to do with anything that I, as a neurologist, am doing for the patient? Nothing.

Why are they being sent to me, as opposed to an internist or cardiologist? I have no idea. Of course, for all I know, the other docs might be getting recommendations on how to manage Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis.

The insurance companies pay the bills. They obviously know which doctors are seeing who and prescribing what. Their billing systems track who practices what specialty. If I were to try submitting a claim for pulmonary evaluation, I’m sure they’d immediately notice and deny it.

So why can’t they get this straight? It seems like a big waste of time, paper, and postage all around.

On rare occasions, they actually get it right … sort of. About a month ago, I received a letter about a migraine patient, telling me that, for those with frequent migraines, a preventive medication should be considered. It even listed her current prescriptions to help me understand.

I absolutely agree with the letter, but it completely ignored that her medication list already included topiramate and nortriptyline, both commonly used for migraine prophylaxis. Since she has no other reason to be on either, I have no idea why they thought I’d use them. These kinds of notes all end with some generic comment that these are just suggestions, and only I and my patient can make the correct decisions about treatment, etc. etc.

That letter may be well intentioned, perhaps, but it is also inaccurate, unnecessary, and – to me – even a little demeaning. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, then why are you sending patients to me? Maybe the software you’re using to screen charts and send these letters should open its own practice instead.

If the real goal of these letters is to save money (and we all know it is), then why is the company wasting it on redundant and inaccurate letters, usually not even sent to the correct doctor?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am, apparently, not a very good doctor. At least, that’s what some mailings I get from insurance companies make me think.

You probably get the same ones. They tell me what guidelines I’m not following or drug interactions I’m not mindful of. I suppose I should be grateful for their efforts to protect patients.

Letters I’ve gotten in the last week have reminded me that:

• Patients with elevated fasting blood sugars should be started on metformin.

• A lady on Eliquis (apixaban) after developing a deep-vein thrombosis should be considered for a less costly alternative, such as warfarin, to help her save money.

• An antihypertensive agent is recommended for a young man with persistently elevated blood pressures.

• An older gentleman’s lipid-lowering agent may interfere with his diabetes medication.

What do these have to do with anything that I, as a neurologist, am doing for the patient? Nothing.

Why are they being sent to me, as opposed to an internist or cardiologist? I have no idea. Of course, for all I know, the other docs might be getting recommendations on how to manage Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis.

The insurance companies pay the bills. They obviously know which doctors are seeing who and prescribing what. Their billing systems track who practices what specialty. If I were to try submitting a claim for pulmonary evaluation, I’m sure they’d immediately notice and deny it.

So why can’t they get this straight? It seems like a big waste of time, paper, and postage all around.

On rare occasions, they actually get it right … sort of. About a month ago, I received a letter about a migraine patient, telling me that, for those with frequent migraines, a preventive medication should be considered. It even listed her current prescriptions to help me understand.

I absolutely agree with the letter, but it completely ignored that her medication list already included topiramate and nortriptyline, both commonly used for migraine prophylaxis. Since she has no other reason to be on either, I have no idea why they thought I’d use them. These kinds of notes all end with some generic comment that these are just suggestions, and only I and my patient can make the correct decisions about treatment, etc. etc.

That letter may be well intentioned, perhaps, but it is also inaccurate, unnecessary, and – to me – even a little demeaning. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, then why are you sending patients to me? Maybe the software you’re using to screen charts and send these letters should open its own practice instead.

If the real goal of these letters is to save money (and we all know it is), then why is the company wasting it on redundant and inaccurate letters, usually not even sent to the correct doctor?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am, apparently, not a very good doctor. At least, that’s what some mailings I get from insurance companies make me think.

You probably get the same ones. They tell me what guidelines I’m not following or drug interactions I’m not mindful of. I suppose I should be grateful for their efforts to protect patients.

Letters I’ve gotten in the last week have reminded me that:

• Patients with elevated fasting blood sugars should be started on metformin.

• A lady on Eliquis (apixaban) after developing a deep-vein thrombosis should be considered for a less costly alternative, such as warfarin, to help her save money.

• An antihypertensive agent is recommended for a young man with persistently elevated blood pressures.

• An older gentleman’s lipid-lowering agent may interfere with his diabetes medication.

What do these have to do with anything that I, as a neurologist, am doing for the patient? Nothing.

Why are they being sent to me, as opposed to an internist or cardiologist? I have no idea. Of course, for all I know, the other docs might be getting recommendations on how to manage Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis.

The insurance companies pay the bills. They obviously know which doctors are seeing who and prescribing what. Their billing systems track who practices what specialty. If I were to try submitting a claim for pulmonary evaluation, I’m sure they’d immediately notice and deny it.

So why can’t they get this straight? It seems like a big waste of time, paper, and postage all around.

On rare occasions, they actually get it right … sort of. About a month ago, I received a letter about a migraine patient, telling me that, for those with frequent migraines, a preventive medication should be considered. It even listed her current prescriptions to help me understand.

I absolutely agree with the letter, but it completely ignored that her medication list already included topiramate and nortriptyline, both commonly used for migraine prophylaxis. Since she has no other reason to be on either, I have no idea why they thought I’d use them. These kinds of notes all end with some generic comment that these are just suggestions, and only I and my patient can make the correct decisions about treatment, etc. etc.

That letter may be well intentioned, perhaps, but it is also inaccurate, unnecessary, and – to me – even a little demeaning. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, then why are you sending patients to me? Maybe the software you’re using to screen charts and send these letters should open its own practice instead.

If the real goal of these letters is to save money (and we all know it is), then why is the company wasting it on redundant and inaccurate letters, usually not even sent to the correct doctor?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I am, apparently, not a very good doctor. At least, that’s what some mailings I get from insurance companies make me think.

You probably get the same ones. They tell me what guidelines I’m not following or drug interactions I’m not mindful of. I suppose I should be grateful for their efforts to protect patients.

Letters I’ve gotten in the last week have reminded me that:

• Patients with elevated fasting blood sugars should be started on metformin.

• A lady on Eliquis (apixaban) after developing a deep-vein thrombosis should be considered for a less costly alternative, such as warfarin, to help her save money.

• An antihypertensive agent is recommended for a young man with persistently elevated blood pressures.

• An older gentleman’s lipid-lowering agent may interfere with his diabetes medication.

What do these have to do with anything that I, as a neurologist, am doing for the patient? Nothing.

Why are they being sent to me, as opposed to an internist or cardiologist? I have no idea. Of course, for all I know, the other docs might be getting recommendations on how to manage Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis.

The insurance companies pay the bills. They obviously know which doctors are seeing who and prescribing what. Their billing systems track who practices what specialty. If I were to try submitting a claim for pulmonary evaluation, I’m sure they’d immediately notice and deny it.

So why can’t they get this straight? It seems like a big waste of time, paper, and postage all around.

On rare occasions, they actually get it right … sort of. About a month ago, I received a letter about a migraine patient, telling me that, for those with frequent migraines, a preventive medication should be considered. It even listed her current prescriptions to help me understand.

I absolutely agree with the letter, but it completely ignored that her medication list already included topiramate and nortriptyline, both commonly used for migraine prophylaxis. Since she has no other reason to be on either, I have no idea why they thought I’d use them. These kinds of notes all end with some generic comment that these are just suggestions, and only I and my patient can make the correct decisions about treatment, etc. etc.

That letter may be well intentioned, perhaps, but it is also inaccurate, unnecessary, and – to me – even a little demeaning. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, then why are you sending patients to me? Maybe the software you’re using to screen charts and send these letters should open its own practice instead.

If the real goal of these letters is to save money (and we all know it is), then why is the company wasting it on redundant and inaccurate letters, usually not even sent to the correct doctor?

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

The photo you see below is a reasonably thick pile of paper, roughly 2 inches high. It’s certainly not as bad as some charts I’ve seen, especially at the VA, but still a lot of pages.

What is it?

This is, believe it or not, the stacked copies of charts we had to print in the last 30 days to fax to insurance companies for billing audits. Yeah – just the last 30 days.

Courtesy Dr. Block

Mind you, to date I don’t have any sort of actual complaints or charges against me for fraudulent billing. If anything, I tend to underbill for fear of risking the ire of insurance companies.

On one level, I understand it. The news is replete with stories of physicians who made fraudulent insurance claims, and the insurance companies want to make sure others are playing fair. Just like security cameras and magnetic tags at retailers, they’re doing what they can to avoid losses. I get that.

On the other hand, this irritates me, and it is a pain in the butt. Someone here has to print up the requested notes, organize them, fill out the accompanying forms, and fax them back. I also have to sign each note in the pile. For the number of charts they typically want, this process takes about 30-45 minutes. Then we fax them, and a 100-plus-page document ties up your office fax for a while. Incoming and outgoing faxes, such as medication refills, get put on hold. Overall, it takes maybe an hour of staff time to do this, not to mention the cost of paper and ink used.

About 25% of the time the company calls us after a few days to say they never got them (even though we have a confirmation). For this reason, we always hold onto the print-out for a month so we don’t have to start over again. Then it all has to be shredded.

In a large practice, I’m sure there are dedicated medical records staff members for this. But in my small solo world it means that someone has to let phones go to voicemail, dictations get delayed, and other work piles up, just so the insurance red tape gets done. Then we have to catch up on the more routine issues of patient care.

I can’t really refuse to send them, either. Doing so, in the insurance company’s mind, would be an admission of guilt that I never saw the patient and my claim is bogus. Then they’ll withhold payment, or ask for a refund.

This is, regrettably, a case where a few bad apples – docs filing bogus claims – have spoiled the entire barrel. Now we’re all guilty of fraud until proven innocent by sending these records. Isn’t that the reverse of the American justice system’s ideal?

I also wonder if there’s an intentional drudgery factor here. By making me do something that’s irritatingly time-wasting, is an insurance plan hoping I’ll drop them because I’m sick of this process? Does having fewer contracted neurologists work out to their benefit? It certainly isn’t to the patient’s advantage.

I don’t have an easy answer. I don’t like the wrench these requests throw into the office routine, but I also know that fraud surveillance is a necessary evil. I just wish there was a less time-consuming way of doing it.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

The photo you see below is a reasonably thick pile of paper, roughly 2 inches high. It’s certainly not as bad as some charts I’ve seen, especially at the VA, but still a lot of pages.

What is it?

This is, believe it or not, the stacked copies of charts we had to print in the last 30 days to fax to insurance companies for billing audits. Yeah – just the last 30 days.

Courtesy Dr. Block

Mind you, to date I don’t have any sort of actual complaints or charges against me for fraudulent billing. If anything, I tend to underbill for fear of risking the ire of insurance companies.

On one level, I understand it. The news is replete with stories of physicians who made fraudulent insurance claims, and the insurance companies want to make sure others are playing fair. Just like security cameras and magnetic tags at retailers, they’re doing what they can to avoid losses. I get that.

On the other hand, this irritates me, and it is a pain in the butt. Someone here has to print up the requested notes, organize them, fill out the accompanying forms, and fax them back. I also have to sign each note in the pile. For the number of charts they typically want, this process takes about 30-45 minutes. Then we fax them, and a 100-plus-page document ties up your office fax for a while. Incoming and outgoing faxes, such as medication refills, get put on hold. Overall, it takes maybe an hour of staff time to do this, not to mention the cost of paper and ink used.

About 25% of the time the company calls us after a few days to say they never got them (even though we have a confirmation). For this reason, we always hold onto the print-out for a month so we don’t have to start over again. Then it all has to be shredded.

In a large practice, I’m sure there are dedicated medical records staff members for this. But in my small solo world it means that someone has to let phones go to voicemail, dictations get delayed, and other work piles up, just so the insurance red tape gets done. Then we have to catch up on the more routine issues of patient care.

I can’t really refuse to send them, either. Doing so, in the insurance company’s mind, would be an admission of guilt that I never saw the patient and my claim is bogus. Then they’ll withhold payment, or ask for a refund.

This is, regrettably, a case where a few bad apples – docs filing bogus claims – have spoiled the entire barrel. Now we’re all guilty of fraud until proven innocent by sending these records. Isn’t that the reverse of the American justice system’s ideal?

I also wonder if there’s an intentional drudgery factor here. By making me do something that’s irritatingly time-wasting, is an insurance plan hoping I’ll drop them because I’m sick of this process? Does having fewer contracted neurologists work out to their benefit? It certainly isn’t to the patient’s advantage.

I don’t have an easy answer. I don’t like the wrench these requests throw into the office routine, but I also know that fraud surveillance is a necessary evil. I just wish there was a less time-consuming way of doing it.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

The photo you see below is a reasonably thick pile of paper, roughly 2 inches high. It’s certainly not as bad as some charts I’ve seen, especially at the VA, but still a lot of pages.

What is it?

This is, believe it or not, the stacked copies of charts we had to print in the last 30 days to fax to insurance companies for billing audits. Yeah – just the last 30 days.

Courtesy Dr. Block

Mind you, to date I don’t have any sort of actual complaints or charges against me for fraudulent billing. If anything, I tend to underbill for fear of risking the ire of insurance companies.

On one level, I understand it. The news is replete with stories of physicians who made fraudulent insurance claims, and the insurance companies want to make sure others are playing fair. Just like security cameras and magnetic tags at retailers, they’re doing what they can to avoid losses. I get that.

On the other hand, this irritates me, and it is a pain in the butt. Someone here has to print up the requested notes, organize them, fill out the accompanying forms, and fax them back. I also have to sign each note in the pile. For the number of charts they typically want, this process takes about 30-45 minutes. Then we fax them, and a 100-plus-page document ties up your office fax for a while. Incoming and outgoing faxes, such as medication refills, get put on hold. Overall, it takes maybe an hour of staff time to do this, not to mention the cost of paper and ink used.

About 25% of the time the company calls us after a few days to say they never got them (even though we have a confirmation). For this reason, we always hold onto the print-out for a month so we don’t have to start over again. Then it all has to be shredded.

In a large practice, I’m sure there are dedicated medical records staff members for this. But in my small solo world it means that someone has to let phones go to voicemail, dictations get delayed, and other work piles up, just so the insurance red tape gets done. Then we have to catch up on the more routine issues of patient care.

I can’t really refuse to send them, either. Doing so, in the insurance company’s mind, would be an admission of guilt that I never saw the patient and my claim is bogus. Then they’ll withhold payment, or ask for a refund.

This is, regrettably, a case where a few bad apples – docs filing bogus claims – have spoiled the entire barrel. Now we’re all guilty of fraud until proven innocent by sending these records. Isn’t that the reverse of the American justice system’s ideal?

I also wonder if there’s an intentional drudgery factor here. By making me do something that’s irritatingly time-wasting, is an insurance plan hoping I’ll drop them because I’m sick of this process? Does having fewer contracted neurologists work out to their benefit? It certainly isn’t to the patient’s advantage.

I don’t have an easy answer. I don’t like the wrench these requests throw into the office routine, but I also know that fraud surveillance is a necessary evil. I just wish there was a less time-consuming way of doing it.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Registered letters are a pain in the butt.

In the grand scheme of things, they’re a minor nuisance, albeit necessary. Documentation is everything is this job.

So here and there, I stop by the post office on the way home. It’s almost $7 a letter now, so maybe $28 a month, $336 a year. Not a huge sum.

But it’s annoying. It’s money that could be used for other expenses, and 80% of the time, the reason I have to do it is someone isn’t returning a call.

I suspect the scenario is similar in your practice. Patients are due for a follow-up MRI, MR angiography, labs, or whatever. So your staff calls them a few times. If they don’t return the call, you mail them letters. If they don’t respond, you send them registered letters. That way, even if they never respond, you can document that someone at that address got the letter.

Patients have several chances to answer the phone or call my office to schedule or refuse the test before I resort to the letter. But, for whatever reasons, sometimes they ignore them, leaving me with a trip to the post office and $7 down.

About one-third of the time we still never hear back, which is fine if that’s what they want. As long as I get the signed card, I don’t mind. Another third of the time they call to schedule, often wondering why I had to resort to a registered letter. “I got your call and other letter, so why did you send that?” And the others? They call us, usually to say they don’t want the test, or just angry that we sent them a registered letter, or (my favorite) to accuse us of harassing them. Because, you know, I enjoy making the extra trip and cost just to do that.

Unfortunately, the consequences of not doing this are (potentially) worse. In most cases, nothing would happen. But, sooner or later you risk having a medical disaster possibly occur because of whatever you were following. And then, correctly or not, they may blame you and call a lawyer. While it’s not guaranteed protection, it’s helpful to be able to prove, with a signed card, that they got your letter and chose to ignore it.

Is that worth the $7 and extra stop? Absolutely. But still, I wish people would be kind enough to just answer the phone or return a call. If they don’t want to do the study, I’m not offended. I just don’t like wasting time and money because someone won’t pick up a phone.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Registered letters are a pain in the butt.

In the grand scheme of things, they’re a minor nuisance, albeit necessary. Documentation is everything is this job.

So here and there, I stop by the post office on the way home. It’s almost $7 a letter now, so maybe $28 a month, $336 a year. Not a huge sum.

But it’s annoying. It’s money that could be used for other expenses, and 80% of the time, the reason I have to do it is someone isn’t returning a call.

I suspect the scenario is similar in your practice. Patients are due for a follow-up MRI, MR angiography, labs, or whatever. So your staff calls them a few times. If they don’t return the call, you mail them letters. If they don’t respond, you send them registered letters. That way, even if they never respond, you can document that someone at that address got the letter.

Patients have several chances to answer the phone or call my office to schedule or refuse the test before I resort to the letter. But, for whatever reasons, sometimes they ignore them, leaving me with a trip to the post office and $7 down.

About one-third of the time we still never hear back, which is fine if that’s what they want. As long as I get the signed card, I don’t mind. Another third of the time they call to schedule, often wondering why I had to resort to a registered letter. “I got your call and other letter, so why did you send that?” And the others? They call us, usually to say they don’t want the test, or just angry that we sent them a registered letter, or (my favorite) to accuse us of harassing them. Because, you know, I enjoy making the extra trip and cost just to do that.

Unfortunately, the consequences of not doing this are (potentially) worse. In most cases, nothing would happen. But, sooner or later you risk having a medical disaster possibly occur because of whatever you were following. And then, correctly or not, they may blame you and call a lawyer. While it’s not guaranteed protection, it’s helpful to be able to prove, with a signed card, that they got your letter and chose to ignore it.

Is that worth the $7 and extra stop? Absolutely. But still, I wish people would be kind enough to just answer the phone or return a call. If they don’t want to do the study, I’m not offended. I just don’t like wasting time and money because someone won’t pick up a phone.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Registered letters are a pain in the butt.

In the grand scheme of things, they’re a minor nuisance, albeit necessary. Documentation is everything is this job.

So here and there, I stop by the post office on the way home. It’s almost $7 a letter now, so maybe $28 a month, $336 a year. Not a huge sum.

But it’s annoying. It’s money that could be used for other expenses, and 80% of the time, the reason I have to do it is someone isn’t returning a call.

I suspect the scenario is similar in your practice. Patients are due for a follow-up MRI, MR angiography, labs, or whatever. So your staff calls them a few times. If they don’t return the call, you mail them letters. If they don’t respond, you send them registered letters. That way, even if they never respond, you can document that someone at that address got the letter.

Patients have several chances to answer the phone or call my office to schedule or refuse the test before I resort to the letter. But, for whatever reasons, sometimes they ignore them, leaving me with a trip to the post office and $7 down.

About one-third of the time we still never hear back, which is fine if that’s what they want. As long as I get the signed card, I don’t mind. Another third of the time they call to schedule, often wondering why I had to resort to a registered letter. “I got your call and other letter, so why did you send that?” And the others? They call us, usually to say they don’t want the test, or just angry that we sent them a registered letter, or (my favorite) to accuse us of harassing them. Because, you know, I enjoy making the extra trip and cost just to do that.

Unfortunately, the consequences of not doing this are (potentially) worse. In most cases, nothing would happen. But, sooner or later you risk having a medical disaster possibly occur because of whatever you were following. And then, correctly or not, they may blame you and call a lawyer. While it’s not guaranteed protection, it’s helpful to be able to prove, with a signed card, that they got your letter and chose to ignore it.

Is that worth the $7 and extra stop? Absolutely. But still, I wish people would be kind enough to just answer the phone or return a call. If they don’t want to do the study, I’m not offended. I just don’t like wasting time and money because someone won’t pick up a phone.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

This summer my daughter spent a week at Astrocamp. She wasn’t allowed to have her phone, so we went a week wondering what she was up to.

Each night the camp staff would upload 200-300 pictures of that day’s activities, so every morning I’d go to their website and scan through them. I’d see her launching rockets, blowing things up, and doing blacksmithing. (I’m not sure how the last got in there, but she came home with a big piece of metal she calls “the brother poker.”)

It took me maybe 5 minutes to go click through all the shots. A few were of just one person, but most were of a group working on something.

While doing so I became fascinated with the brain’s ability to almost instantaneously sort faces into those that were familiar and those that weren’t, picking my daughter out quickly. We all read about these things in training, and see them in practice all the time, but it’s still a marvel when you realize how fast and precise the system is. Even when she was in the background I quickly identified her (although her habitual hat and jacket helped). After seeing other faces just one or two times I quickly recognized them in later pictures, too.

After she got back, we went on a cruise. I’m not prone to seasickness, and it’s impressive how quickly the vestibular system adjusts to the constant motion. The complex four-way rocking as the ship pushes through water quickly fades into the background. The semicircular canals and their input centers in the brain rapidly adjust to the moving world around you.

And when I return to land … the world keeps moving. For 3-4 weeks after a cruise, I continue to have a constant, mild rocking sensation. In my case, the “mal de débarquement” is more interesting than bothersome. Perhaps even a bit relaxing. My brain and vestibular apparatus, after syncing themselves to the constant motion of the ship, have trouble returning to the everyday stability of land. So my home and office slowly roll and pitch around me, gradually decreasing with each passing day.

Even as a doctor who specializes in the brain, its abilities still strike me as something to be marveled at. We take its 2-3 pounds of highly specialized nerve tissue for granted, not noticing its functioning as it guides our every activity (such as writing and reading this article). Yet, some innocuous events of this past summer again reminded me what an amazing thing it is.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

This summer my daughter spent a week at Astrocamp. She wasn’t allowed to have her phone, so we went a week wondering what she was up to.

Each night the camp staff would upload 200-300 pictures of that day’s activities, so every morning I’d go to their website and scan through them. I’d see her launching rockets, blowing things up, and doing blacksmithing. (I’m not sure how the last got in there, but she came home with a big piece of metal she calls “the brother poker.”)

It took me maybe 5 minutes to go click through all the shots. A few were of just one person, but most were of a group working on something.

While doing so I became fascinated with the brain’s ability to almost instantaneously sort faces into those that were familiar and those that weren’t, picking my daughter out quickly. We all read about these things in training, and see them in practice all the time, but it’s still a marvel when you realize how fast and precise the system is. Even when she was in the background I quickly identified her (although her habitual hat and jacket helped). After seeing other faces just one or two times I quickly recognized them in later pictures, too.

After she got back, we went on a cruise. I’m not prone to seasickness, and it’s impressive how quickly the vestibular system adjusts to the constant motion. The complex four-way rocking as the ship pushes through water quickly fades into the background. The semicircular canals and their input centers in the brain rapidly adjust to the moving world around you.

And when I return to land … the world keeps moving. For 3-4 weeks after a cruise, I continue to have a constant, mild rocking sensation. In my case, the “mal de débarquement” is more interesting than bothersome. Perhaps even a bit relaxing. My brain and vestibular apparatus, after syncing themselves to the constant motion of the ship, have trouble returning to the everyday stability of land. So my home and office slowly roll and pitch around me, gradually decreasing with each passing day.

Even as a doctor who specializes in the brain, its abilities still strike me as something to be marveled at. We take its 2-3 pounds of highly specialized nerve tissue for granted, not noticing its functioning as it guides our every activity (such as writing and reading this article). Yet, some innocuous events of this past summer again reminded me what an amazing thing it is.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

This summer my daughter spent a week at Astrocamp. She wasn’t allowed to have her phone, so we went a week wondering what she was up to.

Each night the camp staff would upload 200-300 pictures of that day’s activities, so every morning I’d go to their website and scan through them. I’d see her launching rockets, blowing things up, and doing blacksmithing. (I’m not sure how the last got in there, but she came home with a big piece of metal she calls “the brother poker.”)

It took me maybe 5 minutes to go click through all the shots. A few were of just one person, but most were of a group working on something.

While doing so I became fascinated with the brain’s ability to almost instantaneously sort faces into those that were familiar and those that weren’t, picking my daughter out quickly. We all read about these things in training, and see them in practice all the time, but it’s still a marvel when you realize how fast and precise the system is. Even when she was in the background I quickly identified her (although her habitual hat and jacket helped). After seeing other faces just one or two times I quickly recognized them in later pictures, too.

After she got back, we went on a cruise. I’m not prone to seasickness, and it’s impressive how quickly the vestibular system adjusts to the constant motion. The complex four-way rocking as the ship pushes through water quickly fades into the background. The semicircular canals and their input centers in the brain rapidly adjust to the moving world around you.

And when I return to land … the world keeps moving. For 3-4 weeks after a cruise, I continue to have a constant, mild rocking sensation. In my case, the “mal de débarquement” is more interesting than bothersome. Perhaps even a bit relaxing. My brain and vestibular apparatus, after syncing themselves to the constant motion of the ship, have trouble returning to the everyday stability of land. So my home and office slowly roll and pitch around me, gradually decreasing with each passing day.

Even as a doctor who specializes in the brain, its abilities still strike me as something to be marveled at. We take its 2-3 pounds of highly specialized nerve tissue for granted, not noticing its functioning as it guides our every activity (such as writing and reading this article). Yet, some innocuous events of this past summer again reminded me what an amazing thing it is.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I’m rich. Aren’t you?

In reality, you’re probably not (depending on what your definition of rich is), and I’m not either.

The problem, unfortunately, is the public perception that all doctors are rich. They see raw numbers, hear about well-publicized cases of criminal medical fraud, read about some world-famous brain surgeon and his 5-million-square-foot house, and immediately figure we’re all rolling in dough.

For most of us, though, that’s far from the norm. We struggle with declining reimbursements and increasing overheads: rent, staff salaries, office supplies, etc. By the time you take the myriad expenses out, there often isn’t much left for us. And, like everyone else, we have mortgages, families to take care of, student loans, and grocery bills. While most of us can still support families and a moderate lifestyle, we sure aren’t rich. When you take time into account (60-70 hours per week), my hourly salary isn’t that high.

Yet, the majority of people don’t see it that way. Granted, we may be in a better financial position than some of our patients, but it still amazes me when they ask me to waive copays or other visit costs. I always say no, and some argue, “But you’re a doctor! You can afford it.” Whether I can or can’t is immaterial. I pay my family’s medical bills in full and on time and would never dream of asking for a discount or freebie for any reason. You let one person skip, then another, then another ... and it starts to add up quickly.

I have several patients who are quite wealthy. I wouldn’t ask them to pay an extra copay “because you can afford it,” but that’s no different from others asking me to waive theirs for the same reason.

I just wish patients would see, or the lay press would show, the reality of finances for a modern-day average doctor. I, personally, am sick of people who still affiliate us with Porsches, two homes, and Wednesday-afternoon golfing. A few of those docs may still be around, but they are a rare exception, not the rule. And I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I’m rich. Aren’t you?

In reality, you’re probably not (depending on what your definition of rich is), and I’m not either.

The problem, unfortunately, is the public perception that all doctors are rich. They see raw numbers, hear about well-publicized cases of criminal medical fraud, read about some world-famous brain surgeon and his 5-million-square-foot house, and immediately figure we’re all rolling in dough.

For most of us, though, that’s far from the norm. We struggle with declining reimbursements and increasing overheads: rent, staff salaries, office supplies, etc. By the time you take the myriad expenses out, there often isn’t much left for us. And, like everyone else, we have mortgages, families to take care of, student loans, and grocery bills. While most of us can still support families and a moderate lifestyle, we sure aren’t rich. When you take time into account (60-70 hours per week), my hourly salary isn’t that high.

Yet, the majority of people don’t see it that way. Granted, we may be in a better financial position than some of our patients, but it still amazes me when they ask me to waive copays or other visit costs. I always say no, and some argue, “But you’re a doctor! You can afford it.” Whether I can or can’t is immaterial. I pay my family’s medical bills in full and on time and would never dream of asking for a discount or freebie for any reason. You let one person skip, then another, then another ... and it starts to add up quickly.

I have several patients who are quite wealthy. I wouldn’t ask them to pay an extra copay “because you can afford it,” but that’s no different from others asking me to waive theirs for the same reason.

I just wish patients would see, or the lay press would show, the reality of finances for a modern-day average doctor. I, personally, am sick of people who still affiliate us with Porsches, two homes, and Wednesday-afternoon golfing. A few of those docs may still be around, but they are a rare exception, not the rule. And I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

I’m rich. Aren’t you?

In reality, you’re probably not (depending on what your definition of rich is), and I’m not either.

The problem, unfortunately, is the public perception that all doctors are rich. They see raw numbers, hear about well-publicized cases of criminal medical fraud, read about some world-famous brain surgeon and his 5-million-square-foot house, and immediately figure we’re all rolling in dough.

For most of us, though, that’s far from the norm. We struggle with declining reimbursements and increasing overheads: rent, staff salaries, office supplies, etc. By the time you take the myriad expenses out, there often isn’t much left for us. And, like everyone else, we have mortgages, families to take care of, student loans, and grocery bills. While most of us can still support families and a moderate lifestyle, we sure aren’t rich. When you take time into account (60-70 hours per week), my hourly salary isn’t that high.

Yet, the majority of people don’t see it that way. Granted, we may be in a better financial position than some of our patients, but it still amazes me when they ask me to waive copays or other visit costs. I always say no, and some argue, “But you’re a doctor! You can afford it.” Whether I can or can’t is immaterial. I pay my family’s medical bills in full and on time and would never dream of asking for a discount or freebie for any reason. You let one person skip, then another, then another ... and it starts to add up quickly.

I have several patients who are quite wealthy. I wouldn’t ask them to pay an extra copay “because you can afford it,” but that’s no different from others asking me to waive theirs for the same reason.

I just wish patients would see, or the lay press would show, the reality of finances for a modern-day average doctor. I, personally, am sick of people who still affiliate us with Porsches, two homes, and Wednesday-afternoon golfing. A few of those docs may still be around, but they are a rare exception, not the rule. And I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.