Hitting a Nerve

“Why did the other doctor say that?”

I get that question here and there, and it’s always irritating. How should I know?

Generally it’s referring to something they say their family doctor told them: A scan that showed normal pressure hydrocephalus or multiple sclerosis, but when I actually get the neuroradiologist’s report it was normal. Sometimes it’s an alleged side effect from a drug for which I can find nothing in the literature or something that requires urgent surgery in spite of all objective evidence to the contrary.

These appointments are always frustrating. The patient is upset that what they’ve been told (or at least think they’ve been told) is incorrect. They’ve spent a few weeks doing medical research on Google for a condition they don’t have. They’re angry at me for shooting them down. They’re angry at the person who referred them for not being right. They’re angry that they wasted their time coming to me.

And then they ask me why the other doctor said that. I wasn’t there. I don’t know. Medicine is a less-than-perfect science. Maybe they were looking at the wrong report. Maybe they’d gotten an incorrect “wet read” by phone. (How many doctors today even know where the term came from?) Maybe they were having a bad day, were overwhelmed, and misread something.

There’s also the possibility that the other doctor didn’t say it at all. Many people will only hear what they want to hear. Or they’ve already decided what they have and are claiming “the other doctor” told them just to give credence to it, even if it’s not true.

Such visits often end on an ugly note. The patient doesn’t want to be billed because I didn’t say what they wanted me to say. Or pay a copay. Or just get up and leave.

I try, very hard, to be polite when this happens. I don’t know what really went on at the other office – if what’s claimed even happened at all. Even if the patient is telling the truth, all doctors, like all people, make mistakes. It’s not like they were trying to be wrong or deceptive. I don’t fault my colleagues if they make an error, and hope they feel the same way about me.

But it’s still frustrating when it occurs. In many cases I’m left dictating a polite note back to the referring physician, explaining what happened. I chalk it up to a communication error, or experience, or even just a difficult patient. I never really know for sure.

I don’t think any of us are here to willfully deceive patients. We want to do our best for them. It’s frustrating when something happens to lead them to believe otherwise.

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

“Why did the other doctor say that?”

I get that question here and there, and it’s always irritating. How should I know?

Generally it’s referring to something they say their family doctor told them: A scan that showed normal pressure hydrocephalus or multiple sclerosis, but when I actually get the neuroradiologist’s report it was normal. Sometimes it’s an alleged side effect from a drug for which I can find nothing in the literature or something that requires urgent surgery in spite of all objective evidence to the contrary.

These appointments are always frustrating. The patient is upset that what they’ve been told (or at least think they’ve been told) is incorrect. They’ve spent a few weeks doing medical research on Google for a condition they don’t have. They’re angry at me for shooting them down. They’re angry at the person who referred them for not being right. They’re angry that they wasted their time coming to me.

And then they ask me why the other doctor said that. I wasn’t there. I don’t know. Medicine is a less-than-perfect science. Maybe they were looking at the wrong report. Maybe they’d gotten an incorrect “wet read” by phone. (How many doctors today even know where the term came from?) Maybe they were having a bad day, were overwhelmed, and misread something.

There’s also the possibility that the other doctor didn’t say it at all. Many people will only hear what they want to hear. Or they’ve already decided what they have and are claiming “the other doctor” told them just to give credence to it, even if it’s not true.

Such visits often end on an ugly note. The patient doesn’t want to be billed because I didn’t say what they wanted me to say. Or pay a copay. Or just get up and leave.

I try, very hard, to be polite when this happens. I don’t know what really went on at the other office – if what’s claimed even happened at all. Even if the patient is telling the truth, all doctors, like all people, make mistakes. It’s not like they were trying to be wrong or deceptive. I don’t fault my colleagues if they make an error, and hope they feel the same way about me.

But it’s still frustrating when it occurs. In many cases I’m left dictating a polite note back to the referring physician, explaining what happened. I chalk it up to a communication error, or experience, or even just a difficult patient. I never really know for sure.

I don’t think any of us are here to willfully deceive patients. We want to do our best for them. It’s frustrating when something happens to lead them to believe otherwise.

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

“Why did the other doctor say that?”

I get that question here and there, and it’s always irritating. How should I know?

Generally it’s referring to something they say their family doctor told them: A scan that showed normal pressure hydrocephalus or multiple sclerosis, but when I actually get the neuroradiologist’s report it was normal. Sometimes it’s an alleged side effect from a drug for which I can find nothing in the literature or something that requires urgent surgery in spite of all objective evidence to the contrary.

These appointments are always frustrating. The patient is upset that what they’ve been told (or at least think they’ve been told) is incorrect. They’ve spent a few weeks doing medical research on Google for a condition they don’t have. They’re angry at me for shooting them down. They’re angry at the person who referred them for not being right. They’re angry that they wasted their time coming to me.

And then they ask me why the other doctor said that. I wasn’t there. I don’t know. Medicine is a less-than-perfect science. Maybe they were looking at the wrong report. Maybe they’d gotten an incorrect “wet read” by phone. (How many doctors today even know where the term came from?) Maybe they were having a bad day, were overwhelmed, and misread something.

There’s also the possibility that the other doctor didn’t say it at all. Many people will only hear what they want to hear. Or they’ve already decided what they have and are claiming “the other doctor” told them just to give credence to it, even if it’s not true.

Such visits often end on an ugly note. The patient doesn’t want to be billed because I didn’t say what they wanted me to say. Or pay a copay. Or just get up and leave.

I try, very hard, to be polite when this happens. I don’t know what really went on at the other office – if what’s claimed even happened at all. Even if the patient is telling the truth, all doctors, like all people, make mistakes. It’s not like they were trying to be wrong or deceptive. I don’t fault my colleagues if they make an error, and hope they feel the same way about me.

But it’s still frustrating when it occurs. In many cases I’m left dictating a polite note back to the referring physician, explaining what happened. I chalk it up to a communication error, or experience, or even just a difficult patient. I never really know for sure.

I don’t think any of us are here to willfully deceive patients. We want to do our best for them. It’s frustrating when something happens to lead them to believe otherwise.

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

There’s another doctor with whom I’ve referred patients, back and forth, for the last 20 years. I think he’s good at his job and assume he feels the same way about me. We aren’t social friends, but chat briefly when we run into each other at the hospital, or store, or local restaurants.

Last week I was at the hospital to read EEGs, and happened to see him in the doctor’s parking lot. We wished each other a happy new year, talked briefly about a few mutual patients, and then went our separate ways.

As he pulled out, I noticed his car had a bumper sticker for a cause I strongly disagree with. I mean, 180 degrees opposed.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to ever refer to him again. Why should I support him? He’s the enemy.

Why should I help him out by referring patients?

But then I had to stop. Isn’t this 2022? Aren’t we supposed to be in a civilized world? This isn’t my tribe versus your tribe, my cave versus your cave. The closest we’re supposed to come to direct conflict with others is the “us versus them” world of professional and college sports.

I hope.

Aren’t I supposed to be better than this? Isn’t learning to coexist the whole point of the playground as a kid (besides burning off energy and giving the teacher a break)? Isn’t the idea behind civilization to get along with each other, accept our differences as “agreeing to disagree,” and work together? Like Hamilton and Jefferson, or Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill?

Refusing to work with another competent physician because I disagree with their personal, religious, or political beliefs is just plain stupid.

Politicians and pundits try to convince us that people who disagree with us are the enemy, but that’s horse hockey. The truth is that the majority of people out there, regardless of personal beliefs, are decent, hardworking, and just trying to support their families like I am mine.

Later that week I had a patient who clearly needed the other doctor’s expertise, and I gave her his name and phone number. She asked if I’d send my own family to him, and I said, unequivocally, “yes” (actually I have).

Because, at the end of the day, we’re all people, along on the same ride. To not send a patient to him wouldn’t be in their best interest, which is what I’m supposed to be watching out for.

Not only that, but if I don’t refer just because I disagree with him as a person, then I’ve become the problem and not the solution.

Because I, and everyone else, have to try to be better than that.

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

There’s another doctor with whom I’ve referred patients, back and forth, for the last 20 years. I think he’s good at his job and assume he feels the same way about me. We aren’t social friends, but chat briefly when we run into each other at the hospital, or store, or local restaurants.

Last week I was at the hospital to read EEGs, and happened to see him in the doctor’s parking lot. We wished each other a happy new year, talked briefly about a few mutual patients, and then went our separate ways.

As he pulled out, I noticed his car had a bumper sticker for a cause I strongly disagree with. I mean, 180 degrees opposed.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to ever refer to him again. Why should I support him? He’s the enemy.

Why should I help him out by referring patients?

But then I had to stop. Isn’t this 2022? Aren’t we supposed to be in a civilized world? This isn’t my tribe versus your tribe, my cave versus your cave. The closest we’re supposed to come to direct conflict with others is the “us versus them” world of professional and college sports.

I hope.

Aren’t I supposed to be better than this? Isn’t learning to coexist the whole point of the playground as a kid (besides burning off energy and giving the teacher a break)? Isn’t the idea behind civilization to get along with each other, accept our differences as “agreeing to disagree,” and work together? Like Hamilton and Jefferson, or Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill?

Refusing to work with another competent physician because I disagree with their personal, religious, or political beliefs is just plain stupid.

Politicians and pundits try to convince us that people who disagree with us are the enemy, but that’s horse hockey. The truth is that the majority of people out there, regardless of personal beliefs, are decent, hardworking, and just trying to support their families like I am mine.

Later that week I had a patient who clearly needed the other doctor’s expertise, and I gave her his name and phone number. She asked if I’d send my own family to him, and I said, unequivocally, “yes” (actually I have).

Because, at the end of the day, we’re all people, along on the same ride. To not send a patient to him wouldn’t be in their best interest, which is what I’m supposed to be watching out for.

Not only that, but if I don’t refer just because I disagree with him as a person, then I’ve become the problem and not the solution.

Because I, and everyone else, have to try to be better than that.

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

There’s another doctor with whom I’ve referred patients, back and forth, for the last 20 years. I think he’s good at his job and assume he feels the same way about me. We aren’t social friends, but chat briefly when we run into each other at the hospital, or store, or local restaurants.

Last week I was at the hospital to read EEGs, and happened to see him in the doctor’s parking lot. We wished each other a happy new year, talked briefly about a few mutual patients, and then went our separate ways.

As he pulled out, I noticed his car had a bumper sticker for a cause I strongly disagree with. I mean, 180 degrees opposed.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to ever refer to him again. Why should I support him? He’s the enemy.

Why should I help him out by referring patients?

But then I had to stop. Isn’t this 2022? Aren’t we supposed to be in a civilized world? This isn’t my tribe versus your tribe, my cave versus your cave. The closest we’re supposed to come to direct conflict with others is the “us versus them” world of professional and college sports.

I hope.

Aren’t I supposed to be better than this? Isn’t learning to coexist the whole point of the playground as a kid (besides burning off energy and giving the teacher a break)? Isn’t the idea behind civilization to get along with each other, accept our differences as “agreeing to disagree,” and work together? Like Hamilton and Jefferson, or Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill?

Refusing to work with another competent physician because I disagree with their personal, religious, or political beliefs is just plain stupid.

Politicians and pundits try to convince us that people who disagree with us are the enemy, but that’s horse hockey. The truth is that the majority of people out there, regardless of personal beliefs, are decent, hardworking, and just trying to support their families like I am mine.

Later that week I had a patient who clearly needed the other doctor’s expertise, and I gave her his name and phone number. She asked if I’d send my own family to him, and I said, unequivocally, “yes” (actually I have).

Because, at the end of the day, we’re all people, along on the same ride. To not send a patient to him wouldn’t be in their best interest, which is what I’m supposed to be watching out for.

Not only that, but if I don’t refer just because I disagree with him as a person, then I’ve become the problem and not the solution.

Because I, and everyone else, have to try to be better than that.

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

During my usual 2 weeks off over the holidays I did my usual stuff – taxes, read journals, do CME, review legal cases that have come in, hang out with my family, nap with my dogs.

Somewhere in that stretch of time off. I run out of things to do, and that’s when I have to confront an odd truth: I’ve forgotten how to relax.

In medical school and residency I certainly could enjoy the rare weekend time off. I’d watch sports, go running, do things with friends.

But now it’s a different world. My friends, while still people I enjoy, are on the other end of a computer, far away. My interest in sports and movies waned years ago, and I avoid televisions as part of my aversion to the news. Even the books I used to enjoy, such as the late Clive Cussler’s, don’t hold my attention anymore. If I’m going to read anything it’s going to be humor, because the medical field is serious enough as it is.

The bottom line is that it’s hard for me to relax and “do nothing” anymore. I don’t know if that’s just me, or if it’s part of the personality of being a doctor, or both.

If I’m not at my desk working, I feel like I’m not doing anything. Do other doctors feel that way? Have I become a workaholic in my middle age?

Is this a bad thing?

It probably is, and I should look to the beginning of a new year to make some changes. Maybe I should go back to running (or, at this point in my life, walking) or finding some humor books I enjoy and reading them. The old standby of going on a vacation is kind of limited right now.

I’ve been an attending physician for 24 years now, which is still hard to believe. My retirement isn’t (hopefully) anytime soon, but is coming up faster than it seems. If I don’t relearn to relax by then, when will I?
 

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

During my usual 2 weeks off over the holidays I did my usual stuff – taxes, read journals, do CME, review legal cases that have come in, hang out with my family, nap with my dogs.

Somewhere in that stretch of time off. I run out of things to do, and that’s when I have to confront an odd truth: I’ve forgotten how to relax.

In medical school and residency I certainly could enjoy the rare weekend time off. I’d watch sports, go running, do things with friends.

But now it’s a different world. My friends, while still people I enjoy, are on the other end of a computer, far away. My interest in sports and movies waned years ago, and I avoid televisions as part of my aversion to the news. Even the books I used to enjoy, such as the late Clive Cussler’s, don’t hold my attention anymore. If I’m going to read anything it’s going to be humor, because the medical field is serious enough as it is.

The bottom line is that it’s hard for me to relax and “do nothing” anymore. I don’t know if that’s just me, or if it’s part of the personality of being a doctor, or both.

If I’m not at my desk working, I feel like I’m not doing anything. Do other doctors feel that way? Have I become a workaholic in my middle age?

Is this a bad thing?

It probably is, and I should look to the beginning of a new year to make some changes. Maybe I should go back to running (or, at this point in my life, walking) or finding some humor books I enjoy and reading them. The old standby of going on a vacation is kind of limited right now.

I’ve been an attending physician for 24 years now, which is still hard to believe. My retirement isn’t (hopefully) anytime soon, but is coming up faster than it seems. If I don’t relearn to relax by then, when will I?
 

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

During my usual 2 weeks off over the holidays I did my usual stuff – taxes, read journals, do CME, review legal cases that have come in, hang out with my family, nap with my dogs.

Somewhere in that stretch of time off. I run out of things to do, and that’s when I have to confront an odd truth: I’ve forgotten how to relax.

In medical school and residency I certainly could enjoy the rare weekend time off. I’d watch sports, go running, do things with friends.

But now it’s a different world. My friends, while still people I enjoy, are on the other end of a computer, far away. My interest in sports and movies waned years ago, and I avoid televisions as part of my aversion to the news. Even the books I used to enjoy, such as the late Clive Cussler’s, don’t hold my attention anymore. If I’m going to read anything it’s going to be humor, because the medical field is serious enough as it is.

The bottom line is that it’s hard for me to relax and “do nothing” anymore. I don’t know if that’s just me, or if it’s part of the personality of being a doctor, or both.

If I’m not at my desk working, I feel like I’m not doing anything. Do other doctors feel that way? Have I become a workaholic in my middle age?

Is this a bad thing?

It probably is, and I should look to the beginning of a new year to make some changes. Maybe I should go back to running (or, at this point in my life, walking) or finding some humor books I enjoy and reading them. The old standby of going on a vacation is kind of limited right now.

I’ve been an attending physician for 24 years now, which is still hard to believe. My retirement isn’t (hopefully) anytime soon, but is coming up faster than it seems. If I don’t relearn to relax by then, when will I?
 

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

“I am capable and ready to begin.”

Sounds trite, doesn’t it? What slush pile did that come from?

Actually, it was the closing sentence of the 1988 “personal statement” I wrote for my medical school applications. (I applied to something like 25 schools, maybe more.) Come to think of it, I suspect my father came up with that line.

Have you read your personal statement since you became an attending? It’s like a letter from an alternate universe, where you weren’t a doctor, weren’t sure you’d ever be one, and were trying very hard to sound confident in the face of an uncertain future.

Mine began in a melodramatic way, emphasizing what I’d seen as an emergency department volunteer. When I wrote it I thought I’d be an ED doc, and never imagined that years later I’d be doing something entirely different – and loving it.

Having the opportunity to go back and talk to our younger selves is a common trope in movies, but in real life reading something like this is as close as it gets. But it’s still neat. It brings back not who you are, but who you were. Reminds you why you wanted to be a doctor, when you were younger, probably more naive, and felt medicine was a calling, not a job.

Do you still feel that way, after years of paperwork, insurance games, a mortgage, a family, defensive medicine, your own health changes, and all the other things life and the often-jaded medical field bring?

I hope the answer is still yes.

On my first day at Creighton Medical School, our dean – the late William L. Pancoe, PhD – gave us a “go get ‘em!” speech. His main theme was that we should “wear sneakers and hit the ground running” on day 1, because otherwise we’d never catch up. But he also told us to remember and hold on to the feeling we had when we got our first medical school acceptance letter. That feeling of relief, joy, the realization that we’d been given a chance to make our dream come true. He told us that feeling might be all that would get us through the long nights of studying, the occasional failures, the self-doubts, and all the other things in the 4 years to come.

Dean Pancoe, you were absolutely right. Today I’m older than you were when you gave us that speech. My only additions would be:

1. Don’t just hold onto that feeling for medical school, but for life.

2. Always keep one copy of your personal statement (even if in your picture you were wearing hideous 1980s-style glasses, like mine). Keep it in your work desk, not in the bottom of a filing cabinet or scrapbook. Read it at least once a year. It’ll take maybe 2 minutes. You have that much time to spare.

Because it’s not just the young who can learn from the wisdom of the old. The older can learn, and be reminded of, many good things from the young. Even if that younger person is you.

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

“I am capable and ready to begin.”

Sounds trite, doesn’t it? What slush pile did that come from?

Actually, it was the closing sentence of the 1988 “personal statement” I wrote for my medical school applications. (I applied to something like 25 schools, maybe more.) Come to think of it, I suspect my father came up with that line.

Have you read your personal statement since you became an attending? It’s like a letter from an alternate universe, where you weren’t a doctor, weren’t sure you’d ever be one, and were trying very hard to sound confident in the face of an uncertain future.

Mine began in a melodramatic way, emphasizing what I’d seen as an emergency department volunteer. When I wrote it I thought I’d be an ED doc, and never imagined that years later I’d be doing something entirely different – and loving it.

Having the opportunity to go back and talk to our younger selves is a common trope in movies, but in real life reading something like this is as close as it gets. But it’s still neat. It brings back not who you are, but who you were. Reminds you why you wanted to be a doctor, when you were younger, probably more naive, and felt medicine was a calling, not a job.

Do you still feel that way, after years of paperwork, insurance games, a mortgage, a family, defensive medicine, your own health changes, and all the other things life and the often-jaded medical field bring?

I hope the answer is still yes.

On my first day at Creighton Medical School, our dean – the late William L. Pancoe, PhD – gave us a “go get ‘em!” speech. His main theme was that we should “wear sneakers and hit the ground running” on day 1, because otherwise we’d never catch up. But he also told us to remember and hold on to the feeling we had when we got our first medical school acceptance letter. That feeling of relief, joy, the realization that we’d been given a chance to make our dream come true. He told us that feeling might be all that would get us through the long nights of studying, the occasional failures, the self-doubts, and all the other things in the 4 years to come.

Dean Pancoe, you were absolutely right. Today I’m older than you were when you gave us that speech. My only additions would be:

1. Don’t just hold onto that feeling for medical school, but for life.

2. Always keep one copy of your personal statement (even if in your picture you were wearing hideous 1980s-style glasses, like mine). Keep it in your work desk, not in the bottom of a filing cabinet or scrapbook. Read it at least once a year. It’ll take maybe 2 minutes. You have that much time to spare.

Because it’s not just the young who can learn from the wisdom of the old. The older can learn, and be reminded of, many good things from the young. Even if that younger person is you.

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

“I am capable and ready to begin.”

Sounds trite, doesn’t it? What slush pile did that come from?

Actually, it was the closing sentence of the 1988 “personal statement” I wrote for my medical school applications. (I applied to something like 25 schools, maybe more.) Come to think of it, I suspect my father came up with that line.

Have you read your personal statement since you became an attending? It’s like a letter from an alternate universe, where you weren’t a doctor, weren’t sure you’d ever be one, and were trying very hard to sound confident in the face of an uncertain future.

Mine began in a melodramatic way, emphasizing what I’d seen as an emergency department volunteer. When I wrote it I thought I’d be an ED doc, and never imagined that years later I’d be doing something entirely different – and loving it.

Having the opportunity to go back and talk to our younger selves is a common trope in movies, but in real life reading something like this is as close as it gets. But it’s still neat. It brings back not who you are, but who you were. Reminds you why you wanted to be a doctor, when you were younger, probably more naive, and felt medicine was a calling, not a job.

Do you still feel that way, after years of paperwork, insurance games, a mortgage, a family, defensive medicine, your own health changes, and all the other things life and the often-jaded medical field bring?

I hope the answer is still yes.

On my first day at Creighton Medical School, our dean – the late William L. Pancoe, PhD – gave us a “go get ‘em!” speech. His main theme was that we should “wear sneakers and hit the ground running” on day 1, because otherwise we’d never catch up. But he also told us to remember and hold on to the feeling we had when we got our first medical school acceptance letter. That feeling of relief, joy, the realization that we’d been given a chance to make our dream come true. He told us that feeling might be all that would get us through the long nights of studying, the occasional failures, the self-doubts, and all the other things in the 4 years to come.

Dean Pancoe, you were absolutely right. Today I’m older than you were when you gave us that speech. My only additions would be:

1. Don’t just hold onto that feeling for medical school, but for life.

2. Always keep one copy of your personal statement (even if in your picture you were wearing hideous 1980s-style glasses, like mine). Keep it in your work desk, not in the bottom of a filing cabinet or scrapbook. Read it at least once a year. It’ll take maybe 2 minutes. You have that much time to spare.

Because it’s not just the young who can learn from the wisdom of the old. The older can learn, and be reminded of, many good things from the young. Even if that younger person is you.

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

Phoenix has only a few months each year to use my hot tub, so winter is when I catch up on a lot of my reading. Recently I was reading the November Lancet, which had some interesting statistics about migraine.

• It’s the second leading cause (behind back pain) of years lived with disability.
• There are 10 million people with migraines in the United Kingdom (population roughly 70 million).
• In the last 5 years, migraine use of emergency rooms has increased 14%.
• According to the U.K. National Health Service, over 16,000 ER visits for migraine could be avoided.

These are compelling statistics, and probably (taking into account population differences) similar to numbers here in the United States or Canada.

Like all neurologists, I see my share of migraine.

Like many neurologists, I also get migraines. Not many, maybe 2-3 per month, effectively treated with a triptan. So I have a decent understanding that they aren’t pleasant.

Fortunately, migraine advances have been impressive, with seven new CGRP drugs in the last 3 years, bringing successful treatment closer for many.

But the problem is far from solved, a point that was driven home yesterday.

I awoke early yesterday morning with a migraine, and took an Imitrex. But instead of feeling better in an hour, it kept worsening until I was literally disabled by it. I took some Excedrin Migraine. The last time I had a migraine this bad was in 1998, during my fellowship, and my attending had to drive me home (thanks, Joe).

It was showing no signs of letting up. I thought about going to emergency department. After all, aren’t we trained for that when we hear “worst headache of my life?” but figured it was more likely just a migraine, and didn’t want to bog down my ED colleagues in the midst of another COVID-19 wave.

I took another Imitrex. I found a sample of Ubrelvy that I’d brought home out of curiosity, and took that, too. I think I have an old, nearly empty, bottle of Norco, somewhere, from a 2014 dental surgery, but was too photophobic to go looking for it (if I still have it at all).

I lay down in bed under the ceiling fan, and somehow fell asleep.

When I woke about 90 minutes later it was gone, like a switch had been flipped. Maybe it was all, or just one of, the meds I’d taken. I’ll never know. I could now resume my regularly scheduled program.

The migraine had cost me 7 hours. Like most small business owners, I’m trying to get all the year-end paperwork wrapped up, in addition to reviewing cases, writing up reports, and spending time with my family. So none of that happened that Saturday morning. If I’d had to see patients that morning there’s no way I could have done it.

Fortunately, as I said, that’s only the second time that’s happened to me, and it’s been 25 years since the last one.

But I’m lucky. There are those who have them far more frequently, limiting their ability to work, raise families, spend time with friends. … Have a life.

Migraine is far from a deadly disease. In neurology we treat far worse conditions. But in sheer numbers migraine affects far more people, and (indirectly) an even larger group of coworkers, parents, friends, and children who have to cover unpredictably when the other person is out with one.

For all of them, improved migraine treatment approaches can’t come soon enough.

Phoenix has only a few months each year to use my hot tub, so winter is when I catch up on a lot of my reading. Recently I was reading the November Lancet, which had some interesting statistics about migraine.

• It’s the second leading cause (behind back pain) of years lived with disability.
• There are 10 million people with migraines in the United Kingdom (population roughly 70 million).
• In the last 5 years, migraine use of emergency rooms has increased 14%.
• According to the U.K. National Health Service, over 16,000 ER visits for migraine could be avoided.

These are compelling statistics, and probably (taking into account population differences) similar to numbers here in the United States or Canada.

Like all neurologists, I see my share of migraine.

Like many neurologists, I also get migraines. Not many, maybe 2-3 per month, effectively treated with a triptan. So I have a decent understanding that they aren’t pleasant.

Fortunately, migraine advances have been impressive, with seven new CGRP drugs in the last 3 years, bringing successful treatment closer for many.

But the problem is far from solved, a point that was driven home yesterday.

I awoke early yesterday morning with a migraine, and took an Imitrex. But instead of feeling better in an hour, it kept worsening until I was literally disabled by it. I took some Excedrin Migraine. The last time I had a migraine this bad was in 1998, during my fellowship, and my attending had to drive me home (thanks, Joe).

It was showing no signs of letting up. I thought about going to emergency department. After all, aren’t we trained for that when we hear “worst headache of my life?” but figured it was more likely just a migraine, and didn’t want to bog down my ED colleagues in the midst of another COVID-19 wave.

I took another Imitrex. I found a sample of Ubrelvy that I’d brought home out of curiosity, and took that, too. I think I have an old, nearly empty, bottle of Norco, somewhere, from a 2014 dental surgery, but was too photophobic to go looking for it (if I still have it at all).

I lay down in bed under the ceiling fan, and somehow fell asleep.

When I woke about 90 minutes later it was gone, like a switch had been flipped. Maybe it was all, or just one of, the meds I’d taken. I’ll never know. I could now resume my regularly scheduled program.

The migraine had cost me 7 hours. Like most small business owners, I’m trying to get all the year-end paperwork wrapped up, in addition to reviewing cases, writing up reports, and spending time with my family. So none of that happened that Saturday morning. If I’d had to see patients that morning there’s no way I could have done it.

Fortunately, as I said, that’s only the second time that’s happened to me, and it’s been 25 years since the last one.

But I’m lucky. There are those who have them far more frequently, limiting their ability to work, raise families, spend time with friends. … Have a life.

Migraine is far from a deadly disease. In neurology we treat far worse conditions. But in sheer numbers migraine affects far more people, and (indirectly) an even larger group of coworkers, parents, friends, and children who have to cover unpredictably when the other person is out with one.

For all of them, improved migraine treatment approaches can’t come soon enough.

Phoenix has only a few months each year to use my hot tub, so winter is when I catch up on a lot of my reading. Recently I was reading the November Lancet, which had some interesting statistics about migraine.

• It’s the second leading cause (behind back pain) of years lived with disability.
• There are 10 million people with migraines in the United Kingdom (population roughly 70 million).
• In the last 5 years, migraine use of emergency rooms has increased 14%.
• According to the U.K. National Health Service, over 16,000 ER visits for migraine could be avoided.

These are compelling statistics, and probably (taking into account population differences) similar to numbers here in the United States or Canada.

Like all neurologists, I see my share of migraine.

Like many neurologists, I also get migraines. Not many, maybe 2-3 per month, effectively treated with a triptan. So I have a decent understanding that they aren’t pleasant.

Fortunately, migraine advances have been impressive, with seven new CGRP drugs in the last 3 years, bringing successful treatment closer for many.

But the problem is far from solved, a point that was driven home yesterday.

I awoke early yesterday morning with a migraine, and took an Imitrex. But instead of feeling better in an hour, it kept worsening until I was literally disabled by it. I took some Excedrin Migraine. The last time I had a migraine this bad was in 1998, during my fellowship, and my attending had to drive me home (thanks, Joe).

It was showing no signs of letting up. I thought about going to emergency department. After all, aren’t we trained for that when we hear “worst headache of my life?” but figured it was more likely just a migraine, and didn’t want to bog down my ED colleagues in the midst of another COVID-19 wave.

I took another Imitrex. I found a sample of Ubrelvy that I’d brought home out of curiosity, and took that, too. I think I have an old, nearly empty, bottle of Norco, somewhere, from a 2014 dental surgery, but was too photophobic to go looking for it (if I still have it at all).

I lay down in bed under the ceiling fan, and somehow fell asleep.

When I woke about 90 minutes later it was gone, like a switch had been flipped. Maybe it was all, or just one of, the meds I’d taken. I’ll never know. I could now resume my regularly scheduled program.

The migraine had cost me 7 hours. Like most small business owners, I’m trying to get all the year-end paperwork wrapped up, in addition to reviewing cases, writing up reports, and spending time with my family. So none of that happened that Saturday morning. If I’d had to see patients that morning there’s no way I could have done it.

Fortunately, as I said, that’s only the second time that’s happened to me, and it’s been 25 years since the last one.

But I’m lucky. There are those who have them far more frequently, limiting their ability to work, raise families, spend time with friends. … Have a life.

Migraine is far from a deadly disease. In neurology we treat far worse conditions. But in sheer numbers migraine affects far more people, and (indirectly) an even larger group of coworkers, parents, friends, and children who have to cover unpredictably when the other person is out with one.

For all of them, improved migraine treatment approaches can’t come soon enough.

I still, on occasion, use Felbatol (felbamate).

Thirty years since its explosive entrance to the market, then even more explosive collapse, it remains, in my opinion, the most effective of the second generation of anti-seizure medications. Arguably, even more effective than any of the third generation, too.

That’s not to say I use a lot of it. I don’t. It’s like handling unstable dynamite. Tremendous power, but also an above-average degree of risk. Even after things hit the fan with it in the mid-90s, I remember one of my epilepsy clinic attendings telling me, “This is a home-run drug. In refractory patients you might see some benefit by adding another agent, but with this one, you could stop their seizures and hit it out of the park.”

Like most neurologists, I use other epilepsy options first and second line. But sometimes you get the patient who’s failed the usual ones. Then I start to think about Felbatol. I explain the situation to the patients and their families and let them make the final decision. I worry and watch labs very closely for a while. I probably have no more than three to five patients on it in the practice. But when it works, it’s amazing stuff.

Now, let’s jump ahead to 2021. The year of Aduhelm (and several similar agents racing up behind it).

None of these drugs are even close to hitting home runs. For that matter, I’m not convinced they’re even able to get a man on base. To stretch my baseball analogy a bit, imagine watching a game by looking only at the RBI and ERA stats changing. The numbers change slightly, but you have no evidence that either team is winning. Which is, after all, the whole point.

And, to some extent, that’s the basis of Aduhelm’s approval, and likely the same standards its competitors will be held to.

Although they treat different conditions, and are chemically unrelated, the similarities between Felbatol and the currently advancing bunch of monoclonal antibody (MAB) agents for Alzheimer’s disease make an interesting contrast.

Unlike Felbatol’s proven efficacy for epilepsy, the current MABs offer minimal statistically significant clinical benefit for Alzheimer’s disease. At the same time the risk of amyloid-related imaging abnormalities (ARIA) and its complications with them is significantly higher than that of either of Felbatol’s known, potentially lethal, idiosyncratic effects.

With those odds, I’m far more willing (as are my patients) to take chances with Felbatol for epilepsy than the current MAB bunch for Alzheimer’s disease. In medicine, every day is an exercise in working through the risks and benefits of each patient’s individual situation.

As I’ve stated before, I’m not in the grandstand rooting for these Alzheimer’s drugs to fail. I’ve lost a few family members, and certainly my share of patients, to dementia. I’d be thrilled, and more than willing to prescribe it, if something truly effective came along for it.

Nor do I take any kind of pleasure in the recent news that, because of Aduhelm’s failings, around 1,000 Biogen employees will lose their jobs. I feel terrible for them, as most had nothing to do with the decision to forge ahead with the product. More may soon follow at other companies working with similar agents.

Here we are, though, going into 2022. I’m still, albeit rarely, writing for Felbatol 30 years after it came to market for one reason: It works. But it seems pretty unlikely that future neurologists in 2052 will say the same about the current crops of MABs for Alzheimer’s disease.
 

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

I still, on occasion, use Felbatol (felbamate).

Thirty years since its explosive entrance to the market, then even more explosive collapse, it remains, in my opinion, the most effective of the second generation of anti-seizure medications. Arguably, even more effective than any of the third generation, too.

That’s not to say I use a lot of it. I don’t. It’s like handling unstable dynamite. Tremendous power, but also an above-average degree of risk. Even after things hit the fan with it in the mid-90s, I remember one of my epilepsy clinic attendings telling me, “This is a home-run drug. In refractory patients you might see some benefit by adding another agent, but with this one, you could stop their seizures and hit it out of the park.”

Like most neurologists, I use other epilepsy options first and second line. But sometimes you get the patient who’s failed the usual ones. Then I start to think about Felbatol. I explain the situation to the patients and their families and let them make the final decision. I worry and watch labs very closely for a while. I probably have no more than three to five patients on it in the practice. But when it works, it’s amazing stuff.

Now, let’s jump ahead to 2021. The year of Aduhelm (and several similar agents racing up behind it).

None of these drugs are even close to hitting home runs. For that matter, I’m not convinced they’re even able to get a man on base. To stretch my baseball analogy a bit, imagine watching a game by looking only at the RBI and ERA stats changing. The numbers change slightly, but you have no evidence that either team is winning. Which is, after all, the whole point.

And, to some extent, that’s the basis of Aduhelm’s approval, and likely the same standards its competitors will be held to.

Although they treat different conditions, and are chemically unrelated, the similarities between Felbatol and the currently advancing bunch of monoclonal antibody (MAB) agents for Alzheimer’s disease make an interesting contrast.

Unlike Felbatol’s proven efficacy for epilepsy, the current MABs offer minimal statistically significant clinical benefit for Alzheimer’s disease. At the same time the risk of amyloid-related imaging abnormalities (ARIA) and its complications with them is significantly higher than that of either of Felbatol’s known, potentially lethal, idiosyncratic effects.

With those odds, I’m far more willing (as are my patients) to take chances with Felbatol for epilepsy than the current MAB bunch for Alzheimer’s disease. In medicine, every day is an exercise in working through the risks and benefits of each patient’s individual situation.

As I’ve stated before, I’m not in the grandstand rooting for these Alzheimer’s drugs to fail. I’ve lost a few family members, and certainly my share of patients, to dementia. I’d be thrilled, and more than willing to prescribe it, if something truly effective came along for it.

Nor do I take any kind of pleasure in the recent news that, because of Aduhelm’s failings, around 1,000 Biogen employees will lose their jobs. I feel terrible for them, as most had nothing to do with the decision to forge ahead with the product. More may soon follow at other companies working with similar agents.

Here we are, though, going into 2022. I’m still, albeit rarely, writing for Felbatol 30 years after it came to market for one reason: It works. But it seems pretty unlikely that future neurologists in 2052 will say the same about the current crops of MABs for Alzheimer’s disease.
 

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

I still, on occasion, use Felbatol (felbamate).

Thirty years since its explosive entrance to the market, then even more explosive collapse, it remains, in my opinion, the most effective of the second generation of anti-seizure medications. Arguably, even more effective than any of the third generation, too.

That’s not to say I use a lot of it. I don’t. It’s like handling unstable dynamite. Tremendous power, but also an above-average degree of risk. Even after things hit the fan with it in the mid-90s, I remember one of my epilepsy clinic attendings telling me, “This is a home-run drug. In refractory patients you might see some benefit by adding another agent, but with this one, you could stop their seizures and hit it out of the park.”

Like most neurologists, I use other epilepsy options first and second line. But sometimes you get the patient who’s failed the usual ones. Then I start to think about Felbatol. I explain the situation to the patients and their families and let them make the final decision. I worry and watch labs very closely for a while. I probably have no more than three to five patients on it in the practice. But when it works, it’s amazing stuff.

Now, let’s jump ahead to 2021. The year of Aduhelm (and several similar agents racing up behind it).

None of these drugs are even close to hitting home runs. For that matter, I’m not convinced they’re even able to get a man on base. To stretch my baseball analogy a bit, imagine watching a game by looking only at the RBI and ERA stats changing. The numbers change slightly, but you have no evidence that either team is winning. Which is, after all, the whole point.

And, to some extent, that’s the basis of Aduhelm’s approval, and likely the same standards its competitors will be held to.

Although they treat different conditions, and are chemically unrelated, the similarities between Felbatol and the currently advancing bunch of monoclonal antibody (MAB) agents for Alzheimer’s disease make an interesting contrast.

Unlike Felbatol’s proven efficacy for epilepsy, the current MABs offer minimal statistically significant clinical benefit for Alzheimer’s disease. At the same time the risk of amyloid-related imaging abnormalities (ARIA) and its complications with them is significantly higher than that of either of Felbatol’s known, potentially lethal, idiosyncratic effects.

With those odds, I’m far more willing (as are my patients) to take chances with Felbatol for epilepsy than the current MAB bunch for Alzheimer’s disease. In medicine, every day is an exercise in working through the risks and benefits of each patient’s individual situation.

As I’ve stated before, I’m not in the grandstand rooting for these Alzheimer’s drugs to fail. I’ve lost a few family members, and certainly my share of patients, to dementia. I’d be thrilled, and more than willing to prescribe it, if something truly effective came along for it.

Nor do I take any kind of pleasure in the recent news that, because of Aduhelm’s failings, around 1,000 Biogen employees will lose their jobs. I feel terrible for them, as most had nothing to do with the decision to forge ahead with the product. More may soon follow at other companies working with similar agents.

Here we are, though, going into 2022. I’m still, albeit rarely, writing for Felbatol 30 years after it came to market for one reason: It works. But it seems pretty unlikely that future neurologists in 2052 will say the same about the current crops of MABs for Alzheimer’s disease.
 

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

In mid-July my son strained his neck working out at the gym.

It was an obvious generic muscle pull. I told him to take some ibuprofen and use a heating pad. My wife, a nurse, told him the same thing.

Regrettably, while my medical training (hopefully) counts for something with my patients, it doesn’t mean much to my kids. The unqualified opinions of their friends and Google are far more worthwhile, convincing him he had any number of serious injuries.

As a result, while we were at work he went to the emergency department to get checked out. He was evaluated by one of my colleagues who did x-rays and a cervical spine CT. (I figure the last one was because my son kept reminding them I was a doctor). After all the results were in, the ED physician told him he had a muscle strain, and to take ibuprofen and use a heating pad.

Big surprise, huh? I’m sure he was shocked to find out that his old man knew what he was doing. Of course, I didn’t order any tests so the ED doc tops me for that in my son’s mind.

But kids not believing their parents is nothing new, and I can’t claim innocence either from what I remember of being a teenager.

Fast-forward to today. From what I can see, the total bills for his little adventure in modern medicine were around $4,000-$5,000. Granted, I’m well aware that what gets charged has no relationship to what’s actually going to be collected but I’m not going to write about modern medical charges or collections or even defensive medicine. I understand all those, and certainly don’t fault my ED colleague for how he handled it.

Reassurance isn’t cheap, though. When it’s all over, our out-of-pocket share will be roughly $1,000, which we certainly hadn’t planned for in the usually money-tight months of December and January.

That’s a lot of money for ibuprofen and a heating pad (we had both at home, and they’re around $20 total at Target, anyway).

There’s certainly no shortage of research on unnecessary ED visits for minor things, but to me this is a classic example of it. Beyond just the financial cost (which, admittedly, I’m pretty irritated with him about) he tied up a bed and ED staff that someone in more dire circumstances may have needed.

His injury could have been handled at an urgent care, or, even better, just by staying home, listening to us, and using ibuprofen and a heating pad.

We need to emphasize to kids – and the general population – that the emergency department is for emergencies, and clarify what constitutes an emergency in the first place. There’s no shortage of urgent cares and other walk-in clinics that are there specifically to handle such things during daylight hours, if they need to be seen at all.

Of course, I can’t change the results of Google searches, or the age-old teenage belief that parents are morons.

But he is going to learn about what constitutes an emergency, and what else that $1,000 could have been used for.

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

In mid-July my son strained his neck working out at the gym.

It was an obvious generic muscle pull. I told him to take some ibuprofen and use a heating pad. My wife, a nurse, told him the same thing.

Regrettably, while my medical training (hopefully) counts for something with my patients, it doesn’t mean much to my kids. The unqualified opinions of their friends and Google are far more worthwhile, convincing him he had any number of serious injuries.

As a result, while we were at work he went to the emergency department to get checked out. He was evaluated by one of my colleagues who did x-rays and a cervical spine CT. (I figure the last one was because my son kept reminding them I was a doctor). After all the results were in, the ED physician told him he had a muscle strain, and to take ibuprofen and use a heating pad.

Big surprise, huh? I’m sure he was shocked to find out that his old man knew what he was doing. Of course, I didn’t order any tests so the ED doc tops me for that in my son’s mind.

But kids not believing their parents is nothing new, and I can’t claim innocence either from what I remember of being a teenager.

Fast-forward to today. From what I can see, the total bills for his little adventure in modern medicine were around $4,000-$5,000. Granted, I’m well aware that what gets charged has no relationship to what’s actually going to be collected but I’m not going to write about modern medical charges or collections or even defensive medicine. I understand all those, and certainly don’t fault my ED colleague for how he handled it.

Reassurance isn’t cheap, though. When it’s all over, our out-of-pocket share will be roughly $1,000, which we certainly hadn’t planned for in the usually money-tight months of December and January.

That’s a lot of money for ibuprofen and a heating pad (we had both at home, and they’re around $20 total at Target, anyway).

There’s certainly no shortage of research on unnecessary ED visits for minor things, but to me this is a classic example of it. Beyond just the financial cost (which, admittedly, I’m pretty irritated with him about) he tied up a bed and ED staff that someone in more dire circumstances may have needed.

His injury could have been handled at an urgent care, or, even better, just by staying home, listening to us, and using ibuprofen and a heating pad.

We need to emphasize to kids – and the general population – that the emergency department is for emergencies, and clarify what constitutes an emergency in the first place. There’s no shortage of urgent cares and other walk-in clinics that are there specifically to handle such things during daylight hours, if they need to be seen at all.

Of course, I can’t change the results of Google searches, or the age-old teenage belief that parents are morons.

But he is going to learn about what constitutes an emergency, and what else that $1,000 could have been used for.

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

In mid-July my son strained his neck working out at the gym.

It was an obvious generic muscle pull. I told him to take some ibuprofen and use a heating pad. My wife, a nurse, told him the same thing.

Regrettably, while my medical training (hopefully) counts for something with my patients, it doesn’t mean much to my kids. The unqualified opinions of their friends and Google are far more worthwhile, convincing him he had any number of serious injuries.

As a result, while we were at work he went to the emergency department to get checked out. He was evaluated by one of my colleagues who did x-rays and a cervical spine CT. (I figure the last one was because my son kept reminding them I was a doctor). After all the results were in, the ED physician told him he had a muscle strain, and to take ibuprofen and use a heating pad.

Big surprise, huh? I’m sure he was shocked to find out that his old man knew what he was doing. Of course, I didn’t order any tests so the ED doc tops me for that in my son’s mind.

But kids not believing their parents is nothing new, and I can’t claim innocence either from what I remember of being a teenager.

Fast-forward to today. From what I can see, the total bills for his little adventure in modern medicine were around $4,000-$5,000. Granted, I’m well aware that what gets charged has no relationship to what’s actually going to be collected but I’m not going to write about modern medical charges or collections or even defensive medicine. I understand all those, and certainly don’t fault my ED colleague for how he handled it.

Reassurance isn’t cheap, though. When it’s all over, our out-of-pocket share will be roughly $1,000, which we certainly hadn’t planned for in the usually money-tight months of December and January.

That’s a lot of money for ibuprofen and a heating pad (we had both at home, and they’re around $20 total at Target, anyway).

There’s certainly no shortage of research on unnecessary ED visits for minor things, but to me this is a classic example of it. Beyond just the financial cost (which, admittedly, I’m pretty irritated with him about) he tied up a bed and ED staff that someone in more dire circumstances may have needed.

His injury could have been handled at an urgent care, or, even better, just by staying home, listening to us, and using ibuprofen and a heating pad.

We need to emphasize to kids – and the general population – that the emergency department is for emergencies, and clarify what constitutes an emergency in the first place. There’s no shortage of urgent cares and other walk-in clinics that are there specifically to handle such things during daylight hours, if they need to be seen at all.

Of course, I can’t change the results of Google searches, or the age-old teenage belief that parents are morons.

But he is going to learn about what constitutes an emergency, and what else that $1,000 could have been used for.

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

The 1992 presidential election fell during my last year of medical school. I remember watching the three-way debates over at a friend’s apartment.

After each one they’d cut to representatives of each candidate, and for the first time I heard the phrase “spin” or “spin doctors” referring to those who put a very selective angle on their candidates performance, no matter how bad it may have been, to make it sound like something amazingly awesome. This trend, driven now by the Internet and the 24/7 news cycle, has only accelerated over time.

Recently, I’ve been reading slides, press releases, and preliminary reports for the many agents that are seeking to cure Alzheimer’s disease. A desperately needed effort if ever there was one.

Yet, I get the same feeling I did in 1992. It seems like a lot of the statements are more selective than real: a carefully worded attempt to emphasize the good points and minimize the bad. Granted that’s the nature of many things, but here, in a world of a few percentage points, it seems more conspicuous than usual.

After all, even a non–statistically significant improvement of 1%-2% can look really good if you use the right graph style or comparison scale.

When I read such articles now, I find myself wondering if the drug really works or if the spin doctors have gotten so good at making even the most minuscule numbers look impressive that I can’t tell the difference. In theory many of these drugs should work, but, in Alzheimer’s disease “should” and “does” haven’t matched up particularly well to date.

To be clear, I’m not cheering for these drugs to fail. On the contrary, if one showed overwhelming evidence of benefit (as opposed to having to be spun to look good), I’d be thrilled. Along with the patients and their support circles, it’s their doctors who watch the sad downhill slide of dementia, with the patients dying long before their bodies do. I would be thrilled to be able to offer them something that had clearly meaningful benefit with a decent safety profile.

But, barring more solid data, I’m worried that many treatments in development for Alzheimer’s disease are more spin than substance.

I hope I’m wrong.

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

The 1992 presidential election fell during my last year of medical school. I remember watching the three-way debates over at a friend’s apartment.

After each one they’d cut to representatives of each candidate, and for the first time I heard the phrase “spin” or “spin doctors” referring to those who put a very selective angle on their candidates performance, no matter how bad it may have been, to make it sound like something amazingly awesome. This trend, driven now by the Internet and the 24/7 news cycle, has only accelerated over time.

Recently, I’ve been reading slides, press releases, and preliminary reports for the many agents that are seeking to cure Alzheimer’s disease. A desperately needed effort if ever there was one.

Yet, I get the same feeling I did in 1992. It seems like a lot of the statements are more selective than real: a carefully worded attempt to emphasize the good points and minimize the bad. Granted that’s the nature of many things, but here, in a world of a few percentage points, it seems more conspicuous than usual.

After all, even a non–statistically significant improvement of 1%-2% can look really good if you use the right graph style or comparison scale.

When I read such articles now, I find myself wondering if the drug really works or if the spin doctors have gotten so good at making even the most minuscule numbers look impressive that I can’t tell the difference. In theory many of these drugs should work, but, in Alzheimer’s disease “should” and “does” haven’t matched up particularly well to date.

To be clear, I’m not cheering for these drugs to fail. On the contrary, if one showed overwhelming evidence of benefit (as opposed to having to be spun to look good), I’d be thrilled. Along with the patients and their support circles, it’s their doctors who watch the sad downhill slide of dementia, with the patients dying long before their bodies do. I would be thrilled to be able to offer them something that had clearly meaningful benefit with a decent safety profile.

But, barring more solid data, I’m worried that many treatments in development for Alzheimer’s disease are more spin than substance.

I hope I’m wrong.

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

The 1992 presidential election fell during my last year of medical school. I remember watching the three-way debates over at a friend’s apartment.

After each one they’d cut to representatives of each candidate, and for the first time I heard the phrase “spin” or “spin doctors” referring to those who put a very selective angle on their candidates performance, no matter how bad it may have been, to make it sound like something amazingly awesome. This trend, driven now by the Internet and the 24/7 news cycle, has only accelerated over time.

Recently, I’ve been reading slides, press releases, and preliminary reports for the many agents that are seeking to cure Alzheimer’s disease. A desperately needed effort if ever there was one.

Yet, I get the same feeling I did in 1992. It seems like a lot of the statements are more selective than real: a carefully worded attempt to emphasize the good points and minimize the bad. Granted that’s the nature of many things, but here, in a world of a few percentage points, it seems more conspicuous than usual.

After all, even a non–statistically significant improvement of 1%-2% can look really good if you use the right graph style or comparison scale.

When I read such articles now, I find myself wondering if the drug really works or if the spin doctors have gotten so good at making even the most minuscule numbers look impressive that I can’t tell the difference. In theory many of these drugs should work, but, in Alzheimer’s disease “should” and “does” haven’t matched up particularly well to date.

To be clear, I’m not cheering for these drugs to fail. On the contrary, if one showed overwhelming evidence of benefit (as opposed to having to be spun to look good), I’d be thrilled. Along with the patients and their support circles, it’s their doctors who watch the sad downhill slide of dementia, with the patients dying long before their bodies do. I would be thrilled to be able to offer them something that had clearly meaningful benefit with a decent safety profile.

But, barring more solid data, I’m worried that many treatments in development for Alzheimer’s disease are more spin than substance.

I hope I’m wrong.

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

Now we’re in the final sprint.

Thanksgiving week is the first pause. I’m lucky. I have more things to be grateful for than I can count. I try to keep that in mind and instill it in my kids.

The second pause comes in December. I always close my office for the last 2 weeks of the year, since most patients are too busy during that time to see me. That means, in a little less than a month from now, my 2021 will be (from a practice point of view) pretty much over.

Of course, it’s really not. Just because the office is closed doesn’t mean there isn’t stuff to do. Patients will call in with pressing issues; refills have to be sent; test results come in and need to be handled correctly.

And that’s just the clinical part. The business part is there, too. It’s time to start wrapping up the corporate year, doing quarterly 941 forms, and preparing stuff for my accountant to file my taxes in the new year. Sifting through receipts, bills, and Quickbooks to get things ready.

But it’s still a relaxing time. My kids will all be home. We’ll have family dinners again for a few weeks. My hot tub will (hopefully) be up and running. I’ll have more time for walks, or talks, or naps (the last one usually with a dog sprawled out on the bed). For 2 weeks I can sleep in.

It also brings reflection. As I close out the paperwork on 2021, I can’t help but think about what went well, what didn’t, and what I can do to make 2022 better. The same applies to personal thoughts: What can I do in the coming year to be a better person and a better doctor?

Two weeks off never seems like long enough, but it’s a good time to pause and think about my little world, and what I can change to make it better for all involved.

That kind of perspective should always be kept in mind, but in the day-to-day hectic world, often it isn’t. It’s important to put it back in place when I can.

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

Now we’re in the final sprint.

Thanksgiving week is the first pause. I’m lucky. I have more things to be grateful for than I can count. I try to keep that in mind and instill it in my kids.

The second pause comes in December. I always close my office for the last 2 weeks of the year, since most patients are too busy during that time to see me. That means, in a little less than a month from now, my 2021 will be (from a practice point of view) pretty much over.

Of course, it’s really not. Just because the office is closed doesn’t mean there isn’t stuff to do. Patients will call in with pressing issues; refills have to be sent; test results come in and need to be handled correctly.

And that’s just the clinical part. The business part is there, too. It’s time to start wrapping up the corporate year, doing quarterly 941 forms, and preparing stuff for my accountant to file my taxes in the new year. Sifting through receipts, bills, and Quickbooks to get things ready.

But it’s still a relaxing time. My kids will all be home. We’ll have family dinners again for a few weeks. My hot tub will (hopefully) be up and running. I’ll have more time for walks, or talks, or naps (the last one usually with a dog sprawled out on the bed). For 2 weeks I can sleep in.

It also brings reflection. As I close out the paperwork on 2021, I can’t help but think about what went well, what didn’t, and what I can do to make 2022 better. The same applies to personal thoughts: What can I do in the coming year to be a better person and a better doctor?

Two weeks off never seems like long enough, but it’s a good time to pause and think about my little world, and what I can change to make it better for all involved.

That kind of perspective should always be kept in mind, but in the day-to-day hectic world, often it isn’t. It’s important to put it back in place when I can.

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

Now we’re in the final sprint.

Thanksgiving week is the first pause. I’m lucky. I have more things to be grateful for than I can count. I try to keep that in mind and instill it in my kids.

The second pause comes in December. I always close my office for the last 2 weeks of the year, since most patients are too busy during that time to see me. That means, in a little less than a month from now, my 2021 will be (from a practice point of view) pretty much over.

Of course, it’s really not. Just because the office is closed doesn’t mean there isn’t stuff to do. Patients will call in with pressing issues; refills have to be sent; test results come in and need to be handled correctly.

And that’s just the clinical part. The business part is there, too. It’s time to start wrapping up the corporate year, doing quarterly 941 forms, and preparing stuff for my accountant to file my taxes in the new year. Sifting through receipts, bills, and Quickbooks to get things ready.

But it’s still a relaxing time. My kids will all be home. We’ll have family dinners again for a few weeks. My hot tub will (hopefully) be up and running. I’ll have more time for walks, or talks, or naps (the last one usually with a dog sprawled out on the bed). For 2 weeks I can sleep in.

It also brings reflection. As I close out the paperwork on 2021, I can’t help but think about what went well, what didn’t, and what I can do to make 2022 better. The same applies to personal thoughts: What can I do in the coming year to be a better person and a better doctor?

Two weeks off never seems like long enough, but it’s a good time to pause and think about my little world, and what I can change to make it better for all involved.

That kind of perspective should always be kept in mind, but in the day-to-day hectic world, often it isn’t. It’s important to put it back in place when I can.

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

One of the stranger casualties of the COVID pandemic was my inpatient neurology career.

In the mid-90s, as a resident, I gave tissue plasminogen activator (tPA) one night to the first patient my institution registered in the study that got it approved by the Food and Drug Administration. Our director of stroke gave me a bottle of champagne the next day to thank me. That was where my career in acute inpatient neurology began.

Like many docs of my age, my hospital work has been dwindling with time, and was down to just 1-2 weekends a month in a small three-doc rotation. Not much, but it still made for some busy weekends.

The first wave of mass quarantining happened to fall just as our quarterly schedule was ending. In fact, I’d been working on writing it up for the next quarter when things began.

But then, in the course of a few days, one of us decided to retire early, and the other doc and I couldn’t agree on how to handle the rotation with only two people (somewhat naively, I told him the whole COVID thing would be over in 2-3 months; obviously I was WAY wrong).

So I finished up my last scheduled hospital call, figuring I’d be back in a few months.

So far that hasn’t happened. I’m now 17 months out since the last time I rounded on hospital patients.

And I don’t miss it at all.

This surprises me. I mean, we all start out, in medical school and residency, immersed in the hospital. It’s where the action is. Rounding, checking tests results, talking to patients, families, and nurses is ingrained into us. When I started in 1998 I hustled between four hospitals and enjoyed it (the work, not the driving).

Now I realize that my inpatient days are probably behind me, and I’m not bothered by it. That’s not to say I may not go back. Circumstances change, so, as before, I try to keep up on both inpatient and outpatient neurologic care and developments.

But for now, I’m happier without it. My weekends are my own. I don’t dread the Friday afternoon switchover where new consults suddenly start showing up on my cell phone. I don’t have to worry about running in at 2:00 a.m. to decide tPA or not tPA. My wife and I don’t have to take separate cars to go out to dinner, just in case I have to leave.

I’m sure I’ve lost some revenue because of it, but in the overall downturn of the pandemic it’s hard to know how much.

But I do know that I’ve gained time at home. With my wife, my kids, my dogs, and even just myself. My start and stop times on weekdays, and now plans for weekends, are now more predictable.

At some point those things are worth the money lost, and I’m happy to take them.

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

One of the stranger casualties of the COVID pandemic was my inpatient neurology career.

In the mid-90s, as a resident, I gave tissue plasminogen activator (tPA) one night to the first patient my institution registered in the study that got it approved by the Food and Drug Administration. Our director of stroke gave me a bottle of champagne the next day to thank me. That was where my career in acute inpatient neurology began.

Like many docs of my age, my hospital work has been dwindling with time, and was down to just 1-2 weekends a month in a small three-doc rotation. Not much, but it still made for some busy weekends.

The first wave of mass quarantining happened to fall just as our quarterly schedule was ending. In fact, I’d been working on writing it up for the next quarter when things began.

But then, in the course of a few days, one of us decided to retire early, and the other doc and I couldn’t agree on how to handle the rotation with only two people (somewhat naively, I told him the whole COVID thing would be over in 2-3 months; obviously I was WAY wrong).

So I finished up my last scheduled hospital call, figuring I’d be back in a few months.

So far that hasn’t happened. I’m now 17 months out since the last time I rounded on hospital patients.

And I don’t miss it at all.

This surprises me. I mean, we all start out, in medical school and residency, immersed in the hospital. It’s where the action is. Rounding, checking tests results, talking to patients, families, and nurses is ingrained into us. When I started in 1998 I hustled between four hospitals and enjoyed it (the work, not the driving).

Now I realize that my inpatient days are probably behind me, and I’m not bothered by it. That’s not to say I may not go back. Circumstances change, so, as before, I try to keep up on both inpatient and outpatient neurologic care and developments.

But for now, I’m happier without it. My weekends are my own. I don’t dread the Friday afternoon switchover where new consults suddenly start showing up on my cell phone. I don’t have to worry about running in at 2:00 a.m. to decide tPA or not tPA. My wife and I don’t have to take separate cars to go out to dinner, just in case I have to leave.

I’m sure I’ve lost some revenue because of it, but in the overall downturn of the pandemic it’s hard to know how much.

But I do know that I’ve gained time at home. With my wife, my kids, my dogs, and even just myself. My start and stop times on weekdays, and now plans for weekends, are now more predictable.

At some point those things are worth the money lost, and I’m happy to take them.

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

One of the stranger casualties of the COVID pandemic was my inpatient neurology career.

In the mid-90s, as a resident, I gave tissue plasminogen activator (tPA) one night to the first patient my institution registered in the study that got it approved by the Food and Drug Administration. Our director of stroke gave me a bottle of champagne the next day to thank me. That was where my career in acute inpatient neurology began.

Like many docs of my age, my hospital work has been dwindling with time, and was down to just 1-2 weekends a month in a small three-doc rotation. Not much, but it still made for some busy weekends.

The first wave of mass quarantining happened to fall just as our quarterly schedule was ending. In fact, I’d been working on writing it up for the next quarter when things began.

But then, in the course of a few days, one of us decided to retire early, and the other doc and I couldn’t agree on how to handle the rotation with only two people (somewhat naively, I told him the whole COVID thing would be over in 2-3 months; obviously I was WAY wrong).

So I finished up my last scheduled hospital call, figuring I’d be back in a few months.

So far that hasn’t happened. I’m now 17 months out since the last time I rounded on hospital patients.

And I don’t miss it at all.

This surprises me. I mean, we all start out, in medical school and residency, immersed in the hospital. It’s where the action is. Rounding, checking tests results, talking to patients, families, and nurses is ingrained into us. When I started in 1998 I hustled between four hospitals and enjoyed it (the work, not the driving).

Now I realize that my inpatient days are probably behind me, and I’m not bothered by it. That’s not to say I may not go back. Circumstances change, so, as before, I try to keep up on both inpatient and outpatient neurologic care and developments.

But for now, I’m happier without it. My weekends are my own. I don’t dread the Friday afternoon switchover where new consults suddenly start showing up on my cell phone. I don’t have to worry about running in at 2:00 a.m. to decide tPA or not tPA. My wife and I don’t have to take separate cars to go out to dinner, just in case I have to leave.

I’m sure I’ve lost some revenue because of it, but in the overall downturn of the pandemic it’s hard to know how much.

But I do know that I’ve gained time at home. With my wife, my kids, my dogs, and even just myself. My start and stop times on weekdays, and now plans for weekends, are now more predictable.

At some point those things are worth the money lost, and I’m happy to take them.

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