The Optimized Doctor

Over 2.5 million people have fled the ghastly war in Ukraine for safety. But, not everyone is trying to leave. Shockingly, hundreds of thousands are actually flocking toward the danger in Ukraine right now. Many of them are women. 

I was commuting to work when I first heard this story on a podcast. In astonishing numbers, women have chosen to return to or stay in Ukraine because they’re needed to fight and to protect their families. My reaction, like yours, was to be inspired. What amazing courage! Twitter and Instagram will swell with images of their balaclava masked faces standing in the breach once more. Like the women in medicine who armed themselves with surgical masks and face shields and babies on their backs to join the fight against COVID-19. They will be poster girls, blue sleeves rolled up and red polka dotted bandanas covering their hair. 

But that’s not what they want. “We don’t want to be an inspiration,” said one fearless Ukrainian fighter in the story, “we want to be alive.”

At the time of this writing as we celebrate the brilliant accomplishments of women on March 8, International Women’s Day, I wonder if we don’t have it slightly wrong.

Although acknowledgment is appreciated, the women I work alongside don’t need me to be inspired by them. They need me to stand with them, to help them. There has been extensive reporting on the disproportionate burden that women have borne though the pandemic: lost income, lost status, lost jobs. The “she-session” it’s been called, refers to the million women who have not rejoined the workforce since COVID-19. This is especially acute for us in medicine where women are significantly more likely than are men to report not working full time, or not working at all.

The truth is that even in 2022, the burdens of family life are still not borne equally. Bias against mothers in particular can be insidious. Take academia, where there is little sympathy for not publishing on schedule. Perhaps there are unexplained gaps, but where exactly on a CV does one put “recurrent pregnancy loss?” Do you know how many clinics or ORs a woman must cancel to attempt maddeningly unpredictable egg retrievals and embryo transfers? A lot. Not to mention the financial burden of doing so. 

During the pandemic, female physicians were more likely to manage child care, schooling, and household duties, compared to male physicians.

And yet (perhaps even because of that?) women in medicine make less money. How much? About $80,000 less on average in dermatology. Inspired? Indeed. No thanks. Let’s #BreakTheBias rather. 

I’m not a policy expert nor a sociologist. I don’t know what advice might be helpful here. I’d say raising our collective consciousness of the unfairness, highlighting discrepancies, and advocating for equality are good starts. But, International Women’s Day isn’t new. It’s old. Like over a hundred years old (since 1909 to be exact). We don’t just need a better hashtag, we need to do something. Give equity in pay. Offer opportunities for leadership that accommodate the extra duty women might have outside work. Create flexibility in schedules and without the penalty of having to pump at work or leave early to pick up a child. Not to mention all the opportunities we men have to do more of the household work that women currently do. 

The gallant women of Ukraine don’t need our approbation. They need our aid and our prayers. Like the women in my department, at my medical center, in my community, they aren’t posing to be made into posters. There’s work to be done and they are flocking toward it right now. 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Over 2.5 million people have fled the ghastly war in Ukraine for safety. But, not everyone is trying to leave. Shockingly, hundreds of thousands are actually flocking toward the danger in Ukraine right now. Many of them are women. 

I was commuting to work when I first heard this story on a podcast. In astonishing numbers, women have chosen to return to or stay in Ukraine because they’re needed to fight and to protect their families. My reaction, like yours, was to be inspired. What amazing courage! Twitter and Instagram will swell with images of their balaclava masked faces standing in the breach once more. Like the women in medicine who armed themselves with surgical masks and face shields and babies on their backs to join the fight against COVID-19. They will be poster girls, blue sleeves rolled up and red polka dotted bandanas covering their hair. 

But that’s not what they want. “We don’t want to be an inspiration,” said one fearless Ukrainian fighter in the story, “we want to be alive.”

At the time of this writing as we celebrate the brilliant accomplishments of women on March 8, International Women’s Day, I wonder if we don’t have it slightly wrong.

Although acknowledgment is appreciated, the women I work alongside don’t need me to be inspired by them. They need me to stand with them, to help them. There has been extensive reporting on the disproportionate burden that women have borne though the pandemic: lost income, lost status, lost jobs. The “she-session” it’s been called, refers to the million women who have not rejoined the workforce since COVID-19. This is especially acute for us in medicine where women are significantly more likely than are men to report not working full time, or not working at all.

The truth is that even in 2022, the burdens of family life are still not borne equally. Bias against mothers in particular can be insidious. Take academia, where there is little sympathy for not publishing on schedule. Perhaps there are unexplained gaps, but where exactly on a CV does one put “recurrent pregnancy loss?” Do you know how many clinics or ORs a woman must cancel to attempt maddeningly unpredictable egg retrievals and embryo transfers? A lot. Not to mention the financial burden of doing so. 

During the pandemic, female physicians were more likely to manage child care, schooling, and household duties, compared to male physicians.

And yet (perhaps even because of that?) women in medicine make less money. How much? About $80,000 less on average in dermatology. Inspired? Indeed. No thanks. Let’s #BreakTheBias rather. 

I’m not a policy expert nor a sociologist. I don’t know what advice might be helpful here. I’d say raising our collective consciousness of the unfairness, highlighting discrepancies, and advocating for equality are good starts. But, International Women’s Day isn’t new. It’s old. Like over a hundred years old (since 1909 to be exact). We don’t just need a better hashtag, we need to do something. Give equity in pay. Offer opportunities for leadership that accommodate the extra duty women might have outside work. Create flexibility in schedules and without the penalty of having to pump at work or leave early to pick up a child. Not to mention all the opportunities we men have to do more of the household work that women currently do. 

The gallant women of Ukraine don’t need our approbation. They need our aid and our prayers. Like the women in my department, at my medical center, in my community, they aren’t posing to be made into posters. There’s work to be done and they are flocking toward it right now. 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Over 2.5 million people have fled the ghastly war in Ukraine for safety. But, not everyone is trying to leave. Shockingly, hundreds of thousands are actually flocking toward the danger in Ukraine right now. Many of them are women. 

I was commuting to work when I first heard this story on a podcast. In astonishing numbers, women have chosen to return to or stay in Ukraine because they’re needed to fight and to protect their families. My reaction, like yours, was to be inspired. What amazing courage! Twitter and Instagram will swell with images of their balaclava masked faces standing in the breach once more. Like the women in medicine who armed themselves with surgical masks and face shields and babies on their backs to join the fight against COVID-19. They will be poster girls, blue sleeves rolled up and red polka dotted bandanas covering their hair. 

But that’s not what they want. “We don’t want to be an inspiration,” said one fearless Ukrainian fighter in the story, “we want to be alive.”

At the time of this writing as we celebrate the brilliant accomplishments of women on March 8, International Women’s Day, I wonder if we don’t have it slightly wrong.

Although acknowledgment is appreciated, the women I work alongside don’t need me to be inspired by them. They need me to stand with them, to help them. There has been extensive reporting on the disproportionate burden that women have borne though the pandemic: lost income, lost status, lost jobs. The “she-session” it’s been called, refers to the million women who have not rejoined the workforce since COVID-19. This is especially acute for us in medicine where women are significantly more likely than are men to report not working full time, or not working at all.

The truth is that even in 2022, the burdens of family life are still not borne equally. Bias against mothers in particular can be insidious. Take academia, where there is little sympathy for not publishing on schedule. Perhaps there are unexplained gaps, but where exactly on a CV does one put “recurrent pregnancy loss?” Do you know how many clinics or ORs a woman must cancel to attempt maddeningly unpredictable egg retrievals and embryo transfers? A lot. Not to mention the financial burden of doing so. 

During the pandemic, female physicians were more likely to manage child care, schooling, and household duties, compared to male physicians.

And yet (perhaps even because of that?) women in medicine make less money. How much? About $80,000 less on average in dermatology. Inspired? Indeed. No thanks. Let’s #BreakTheBias rather. 

I’m not a policy expert nor a sociologist. I don’t know what advice might be helpful here. I’d say raising our collective consciousness of the unfairness, highlighting discrepancies, and advocating for equality are good starts. But, International Women’s Day isn’t new. It’s old. Like over a hundred years old (since 1909 to be exact). We don’t just need a better hashtag, we need to do something. Give equity in pay. Offer opportunities for leadership that accommodate the extra duty women might have outside work. Create flexibility in schedules and without the penalty of having to pump at work or leave early to pick up a child. Not to mention all the opportunities we men have to do more of the household work that women currently do. 

The gallant women of Ukraine don’t need our approbation. They need our aid and our prayers. Like the women in my department, at my medical center, in my community, they aren’t posing to be made into posters. There’s work to be done and they are flocking toward it right now. 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Motionless, every Olympic skater starts off perfectly. Once the music starts, it’s up to them whether they will continue on perfectly or not. In this way, you’re just like an Olympic skater. Each day, a skating program. The music starts the moment your foot touches the floor in the morning. It’s up to you if the rest of the day will continue on flawlessly or not. To this point, I’ve yet to have a perfect day.

If I’m honest, my “perfect day” streak typically ends once I’ve made coffee. By then, I’ll have spilled a few grains of grounds or clinked mugs together when taking one from the cupboard. (D’oh!) Hardly ever can I make it to backing out of the driveway, let alone through a patient encounter. I’ve had a few procedures that when complete I’ve thought, “well, that looks great.” I can remember encounters that went brilliantly despite a high technical difficulty. I’ve also tagged a 7-iron shot 160 downwind yards to within inches of the cup. But I’ve hardly ever done anything in my life perfectly.

What does it mean to be perfect? Well, there have been 23 perfect baseball games. In 1972, the Miami Dolphins had the only perfect NFL season, 14-0 (although my 2007 Patriots went 18-0 before losing to the – ugh – Giants). Every year, several hundred students score a perfect 1600 on the SAT. In an underground vault somewhere in France is a perfect sphere, a perfectly spherical 1-kg mass of pure silicon. There are at least 51 perfect numbers. And model Bella Hadid’s exactly 1.62-ratioed face is said to be perfectly beautiful. But yet, U.S. skater Nathan Chen’s seemingly flawless 113.97-point short program in Beijing, still imperfect.

Attempting a perfect day or perfect surgery or a perfect pour over coffee is a fun game, but perfectionism has an insidious side. Having perfectionistic concerns significantly increases the risk for burnout, depression, and eating disorders. Some of us feel this way every day: We must do it exactly right, every time. Even an insignificant imperfection or error feels like failure. A 3.90 GPA is a fail. 515 on the MCAT, not nearly good enough. For them, the burden of perfection is crushing. It is hard for some to recognize that even if your performance could not be improved, the outcome can still be flawed. A chip in the ice, a patient showing up late, an interviewer with an agenda, a missed referee call can all flub up an otherwise flawless day. It isn’t necessary to abandon hope, all ye who live in the real world. Although achieving perfection is usually impossible, reward comes from the pursuit of perfection, not from holding it. It is called perfectionistic striving and in contrast to perfectionistic concerns, it is associated with resilience and positive mood. To do so you must combine giving your all with acceptance of whatever the outcome.

Keith Jarrett is one of the greatest jazz pianists of all time. He is a true perfectionist, precise in his standards and exacting in expectations. In 1975 in Cologne, Germany, he agreed to play at the behest of a teenage girl who arranged to have him perform at the opera house. Except, there was a miscommunication and only a small, broken rehearsal piano was available. As the story goes, she approached him as he waited to be taken back to his hotel, the concert was canceled and she somehow convinced him to play on the nearly unplayable instrument. The result is the Köln Concert, one of the greatest jazz performances in history. It was perfectly imperfect.

Yes, even the 1-kg sphere has femtogram quantities of other elements mixed in – the universal standard for perfect is itself, imperfect. It doesn’t matter. It’s the pursuit of such that makes life worthwhile. There’s always tomorrow. Have your coffee grinders ready.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected]

Motionless, every Olympic skater starts off perfectly. Once the music starts, it’s up to them whether they will continue on perfectly or not. In this way, you’re just like an Olympic skater. Each day, a skating program. The music starts the moment your foot touches the floor in the morning. It’s up to you if the rest of the day will continue on flawlessly or not. To this point, I’ve yet to have a perfect day.

If I’m honest, my “perfect day” streak typically ends once I’ve made coffee. By then, I’ll have spilled a few grains of grounds or clinked mugs together when taking one from the cupboard. (D’oh!) Hardly ever can I make it to backing out of the driveway, let alone through a patient encounter. I’ve had a few procedures that when complete I’ve thought, “well, that looks great.” I can remember encounters that went brilliantly despite a high technical difficulty. I’ve also tagged a 7-iron shot 160 downwind yards to within inches of the cup. But I’ve hardly ever done anything in my life perfectly.

What does it mean to be perfect? Well, there have been 23 perfect baseball games. In 1972, the Miami Dolphins had the only perfect NFL season, 14-0 (although my 2007 Patriots went 18-0 before losing to the – ugh – Giants). Every year, several hundred students score a perfect 1600 on the SAT. In an underground vault somewhere in France is a perfect sphere, a perfectly spherical 1-kg mass of pure silicon. There are at least 51 perfect numbers. And model Bella Hadid’s exactly 1.62-ratioed face is said to be perfectly beautiful. But yet, U.S. skater Nathan Chen’s seemingly flawless 113.97-point short program in Beijing, still imperfect.

Attempting a perfect day or perfect surgery or a perfect pour over coffee is a fun game, but perfectionism has an insidious side. Having perfectionistic concerns significantly increases the risk for burnout, depression, and eating disorders. Some of us feel this way every day: We must do it exactly right, every time. Even an insignificant imperfection or error feels like failure. A 3.90 GPA is a fail. 515 on the MCAT, not nearly good enough. For them, the burden of perfection is crushing. It is hard for some to recognize that even if your performance could not be improved, the outcome can still be flawed. A chip in the ice, a patient showing up late, an interviewer with an agenda, a missed referee call can all flub up an otherwise flawless day. It isn’t necessary to abandon hope, all ye who live in the real world. Although achieving perfection is usually impossible, reward comes from the pursuit of perfection, not from holding it. It is called perfectionistic striving and in contrast to perfectionistic concerns, it is associated with resilience and positive mood. To do so you must combine giving your all with acceptance of whatever the outcome.

Keith Jarrett is one of the greatest jazz pianists of all time. He is a true perfectionist, precise in his standards and exacting in expectations. In 1975 in Cologne, Germany, he agreed to play at the behest of a teenage girl who arranged to have him perform at the opera house. Except, there was a miscommunication and only a small, broken rehearsal piano was available. As the story goes, she approached him as he waited to be taken back to his hotel, the concert was canceled and she somehow convinced him to play on the nearly unplayable instrument. The result is the Köln Concert, one of the greatest jazz performances in history. It was perfectly imperfect.

Yes, even the 1-kg sphere has femtogram quantities of other elements mixed in – the universal standard for perfect is itself, imperfect. It doesn’t matter. It’s the pursuit of such that makes life worthwhile. There’s always tomorrow. Have your coffee grinders ready.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected]

Motionless, every Olympic skater starts off perfectly. Once the music starts, it’s up to them whether they will continue on perfectly or not. In this way, you’re just like an Olympic skater. Each day, a skating program. The music starts the moment your foot touches the floor in the morning. It’s up to you if the rest of the day will continue on flawlessly or not. To this point, I’ve yet to have a perfect day.

If I’m honest, my “perfect day” streak typically ends once I’ve made coffee. By then, I’ll have spilled a few grains of grounds or clinked mugs together when taking one from the cupboard. (D’oh!) Hardly ever can I make it to backing out of the driveway, let alone through a patient encounter. I’ve had a few procedures that when complete I’ve thought, “well, that looks great.” I can remember encounters that went brilliantly despite a high technical difficulty. I’ve also tagged a 7-iron shot 160 downwind yards to within inches of the cup. But I’ve hardly ever done anything in my life perfectly.

What does it mean to be perfect? Well, there have been 23 perfect baseball games. In 1972, the Miami Dolphins had the only perfect NFL season, 14-0 (although my 2007 Patriots went 18-0 before losing to the – ugh – Giants). Every year, several hundred students score a perfect 1600 on the SAT. In an underground vault somewhere in France is a perfect sphere, a perfectly spherical 1-kg mass of pure silicon. There are at least 51 perfect numbers. And model Bella Hadid’s exactly 1.62-ratioed face is said to be perfectly beautiful. But yet, U.S. skater Nathan Chen’s seemingly flawless 113.97-point short program in Beijing, still imperfect.

Attempting a perfect day or perfect surgery or a perfect pour over coffee is a fun game, but perfectionism has an insidious side. Having perfectionistic concerns significantly increases the risk for burnout, depression, and eating disorders. Some of us feel this way every day: We must do it exactly right, every time. Even an insignificant imperfection or error feels like failure. A 3.90 GPA is a fail. 515 on the MCAT, not nearly good enough. For them, the burden of perfection is crushing. It is hard for some to recognize that even if your performance could not be improved, the outcome can still be flawed. A chip in the ice, a patient showing up late, an interviewer with an agenda, a missed referee call can all flub up an otherwise flawless day. It isn’t necessary to abandon hope, all ye who live in the real world. Although achieving perfection is usually impossible, reward comes from the pursuit of perfection, not from holding it. It is called perfectionistic striving and in contrast to perfectionistic concerns, it is associated with resilience and positive mood. To do so you must combine giving your all with acceptance of whatever the outcome.

Keith Jarrett is one of the greatest jazz pianists of all time. He is a true perfectionist, precise in his standards and exacting in expectations. In 1975 in Cologne, Germany, he agreed to play at the behest of a teenage girl who arranged to have him perform at the opera house. Except, there was a miscommunication and only a small, broken rehearsal piano was available. As the story goes, she approached him as he waited to be taken back to his hotel, the concert was canceled and she somehow convinced him to play on the nearly unplayable instrument. The result is the Köln Concert, one of the greatest jazz performances in history. It was perfectly imperfect.

Yes, even the 1-kg sphere has femtogram quantities of other elements mixed in – the universal standard for perfect is itself, imperfect. It doesn’t matter. It’s the pursuit of such that makes life worthwhile. There’s always tomorrow. Have your coffee grinders ready.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected]

A patient swore at me the other day. Not as in “she used a curse word.” As in she spewed fury, spitting out a vulgar, adverbial word before “... terrible doctor” while jabbing her finger toward me. In my 15 years of practice, I’d never had that happen before. Equally surprising, I was not surprised by her outburst. The level of incivility from patients is at an all-time high.

Her anger was misdirected. She wanted me to write a letter to her employer excusing her from getting a vaccine. It was neither indicated nor ethical for me to do so. I did my best to redirect her, but without success. As our chief of service, I often help with service concerns and am happy to see patients who want another opinion or want to speak with the department head (aka, “the manager”). Usually I can help. Lately, it’s become harder.

Not only are such rude incidents more frequent, but they are also more dramatic and inappropriate. For example, I cannot imagine writing a complaint against a doctor stating that she must be a foreign medical grad (as it happens, she’s Ivy League-trained) or demanding money back when a biopsy result turned out to be benign, or threatening to report a doctor to the medical board because he failed to schedule a follow-up appointment (that doctor had been retired for months). Patients have hung up on our staff mid-sentence and slammed a clinic door when they left in a huff. Why are so many previously sensible people throwing childlike tantrums?

It’s the same phenomenon happening to our fellow service agents across all industries. The Federal Aviation Administration’s graph of unruly passenger incidents is a flat line from 1995 to 2019, then it goes straight vertical. A recent survey showed that Americans’ sense of civility is low and worse, that people’s expectations that civility will improve is going down. It’s palpable. Last month, I witnessed a man and woman screaming at each other over Christmas lights in a busy store. An army of aproned walkie-talkie staff surrounded them and escorted them out – their coordination and efficiency clearly indicated they’d done this before. Customers everywhere are mad, frustrated, disenfranchised. Lately, a lot of things just are not working out for them. Supplies are out. Kids are sent home from school. No elective surgery appointments are available. The insta-gratification they’ve grown accustomed to from Amazon and DoorDash is colliding with the reality that not everything works that way.

The word “patient’’ you’ll recall comes from the Latin “patior,” meaning to suffer or bear. With virus variants raging, inflation growing, and call center wait times approaching infinity, many of our patients, it seems, cannot bear any more. I’m confident this situation will improve and our patients will be more reasonable in their expectations, but I am afraid that, in the end, we’ll have lost some decorum and dignity that we may never find again in medicine.

For my potty-mouthed patient, I made an excuse to leave the room to get my dermatoscope and walked out. It gave her time to calm down. I returned in a few minutes to do a skin exam. As I was wrapping up, I advised her that she cannot raise her voice or use offensive language and that she should know that I and everyone in our office cares about her and wants to help. She did apologize for her behavior, but then had to add that, if I really cared, I’d write the letter for her.

I guess the customer is not always right.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected]

A patient swore at me the other day. Not as in “she used a curse word.” As in she spewed fury, spitting out a vulgar, adverbial word before “... terrible doctor” while jabbing her finger toward me. In my 15 years of practice, I’d never had that happen before. Equally surprising, I was not surprised by her outburst. The level of incivility from patients is at an all-time high.

Her anger was misdirected. She wanted me to write a letter to her employer excusing her from getting a vaccine. It was neither indicated nor ethical for me to do so. I did my best to redirect her, but without success. As our chief of service, I often help with service concerns and am happy to see patients who want another opinion or want to speak with the department head (aka, “the manager”). Usually I can help. Lately, it’s become harder.

Not only are such rude incidents more frequent, but they are also more dramatic and inappropriate. For example, I cannot imagine writing a complaint against a doctor stating that she must be a foreign medical grad (as it happens, she’s Ivy League-trained) or demanding money back when a biopsy result turned out to be benign, or threatening to report a doctor to the medical board because he failed to schedule a follow-up appointment (that doctor had been retired for months). Patients have hung up on our staff mid-sentence and slammed a clinic door when they left in a huff. Why are so many previously sensible people throwing childlike tantrums?

It’s the same phenomenon happening to our fellow service agents across all industries. The Federal Aviation Administration’s graph of unruly passenger incidents is a flat line from 1995 to 2019, then it goes straight vertical. A recent survey showed that Americans’ sense of civility is low and worse, that people’s expectations that civility will improve is going down. It’s palpable. Last month, I witnessed a man and woman screaming at each other over Christmas lights in a busy store. An army of aproned walkie-talkie staff surrounded them and escorted them out – their coordination and efficiency clearly indicated they’d done this before. Customers everywhere are mad, frustrated, disenfranchised. Lately, a lot of things just are not working out for them. Supplies are out. Kids are sent home from school. No elective surgery appointments are available. The insta-gratification they’ve grown accustomed to from Amazon and DoorDash is colliding with the reality that not everything works that way.

The word “patient’’ you’ll recall comes from the Latin “patior,” meaning to suffer or bear. With virus variants raging, inflation growing, and call center wait times approaching infinity, many of our patients, it seems, cannot bear any more. I’m confident this situation will improve and our patients will be more reasonable in their expectations, but I am afraid that, in the end, we’ll have lost some decorum and dignity that we may never find again in medicine.

For my potty-mouthed patient, I made an excuse to leave the room to get my dermatoscope and walked out. It gave her time to calm down. I returned in a few minutes to do a skin exam. As I was wrapping up, I advised her that she cannot raise her voice or use offensive language and that she should know that I and everyone in our office cares about her and wants to help. She did apologize for her behavior, but then had to add that, if I really cared, I’d write the letter for her.

I guess the customer is not always right.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected]

A patient swore at me the other day. Not as in “she used a curse word.” As in she spewed fury, spitting out a vulgar, adverbial word before “... terrible doctor” while jabbing her finger toward me. In my 15 years of practice, I’d never had that happen before. Equally surprising, I was not surprised by her outburst. The level of incivility from patients is at an all-time high.

Her anger was misdirected. She wanted me to write a letter to her employer excusing her from getting a vaccine. It was neither indicated nor ethical for me to do so. I did my best to redirect her, but without success. As our chief of service, I often help with service concerns and am happy to see patients who want another opinion or want to speak with the department head (aka, “the manager”). Usually I can help. Lately, it’s become harder.

Not only are such rude incidents more frequent, but they are also more dramatic and inappropriate. For example, I cannot imagine writing a complaint against a doctor stating that she must be a foreign medical grad (as it happens, she’s Ivy League-trained) or demanding money back when a biopsy result turned out to be benign, or threatening to report a doctor to the medical board because he failed to schedule a follow-up appointment (that doctor had been retired for months). Patients have hung up on our staff mid-sentence and slammed a clinic door when they left in a huff. Why are so many previously sensible people throwing childlike tantrums?

It’s the same phenomenon happening to our fellow service agents across all industries. The Federal Aviation Administration’s graph of unruly passenger incidents is a flat line from 1995 to 2019, then it goes straight vertical. A recent survey showed that Americans’ sense of civility is low and worse, that people’s expectations that civility will improve is going down. It’s palpable. Last month, I witnessed a man and woman screaming at each other over Christmas lights in a busy store. An army of aproned walkie-talkie staff surrounded them and escorted them out – their coordination and efficiency clearly indicated they’d done this before. Customers everywhere are mad, frustrated, disenfranchised. Lately, a lot of things just are not working out for them. Supplies are out. Kids are sent home from school. No elective surgery appointments are available. The insta-gratification they’ve grown accustomed to from Amazon and DoorDash is colliding with the reality that not everything works that way.

The word “patient’’ you’ll recall comes from the Latin “patior,” meaning to suffer or bear. With virus variants raging, inflation growing, and call center wait times approaching infinity, many of our patients, it seems, cannot bear any more. I’m confident this situation will improve and our patients will be more reasonable in their expectations, but I am afraid that, in the end, we’ll have lost some decorum and dignity that we may never find again in medicine.

For my potty-mouthed patient, I made an excuse to leave the room to get my dermatoscope and walked out. It gave her time to calm down. I returned in a few minutes to do a skin exam. As I was wrapping up, I advised her that she cannot raise her voice or use offensive language and that she should know that I and everyone in our office cares about her and wants to help. She did apologize for her behavior, but then had to add that, if I really cared, I’d write the letter for her.

I guess the customer is not always right.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected]

It is possible to talk to a patient for a brief moment and just know if he or she is a satisficer or a maximizer. A “satisficer” when presented with treatment options will invariably say: “I’ll do whatever you say, Doctor.” A “maximizer,” in contrast, would like a printed copy of treatment choices, then would seek a second opinion before ultimately buying an UpToDate subscription to research treatments for him or herself.

Which is more like you? Which should you be if you want to be happy? I’m mostly a satisficer and would like to present an argument for why this way is best.

This notion that we have tendencies toward maximizing or satisficing is thanks to Nobel Memorial Prize winner and all-around smart guy, Herbert A. Simon, PhD. Dr. Simon recognized that, although each person might be expected to make optimal decisions to benefit himself or herself, this is practically impossible. To do so would require an infinite amount of time and energy. He found therefore that we actually exhibit “bounded rationality;” that is, we make the best decision given the limits of time, the price of acquiring information, and even our cognitive abilities. The amount of effort we give to make a decision also depends on the situation: You might be very invested in choosing the right spouse, but not at all invested in choosing soup or salad. (Although, we all have friends who are: “Um, is there any thyme in the soup?”)

You’ll certainly recognize that people have different set points on the spectrum between being a satisficer, one who will take the first option that meets a standard, and a maximizer, one who will seek and accept only the best, even if choosing is at great cost. There are risks and benefits of each. In getting the best job, maximizers might be more successful, but satisficers seem to be happier.

How much this extends into other spheres of life is unclear. It is clear, though, that the work of choosing can come at a cost.

The psychologist Barry Schwartz, PhD, believes that, in general, having more choices leads to more anxiety, not more contentment. For example, which Christmas tree lot would you rather visit: One with hundreds of trees of half a dozen varieties? Or one with just a few trees each of Balsam and Douglas Firs? Dr. Schwartz would argue that you might waste an entire afternoon in the first lot only to bring it home and have remorse when you realize it’s a little lopsided. Or let’s say your child applied to all the Ivy League and Public Ivy schools and also threw in all the top liberal arts colleges. The anxiety of selecting the best and the terror that the “best one” might not choose him or her could be overwhelming. A key lesson is that more in life is by chance than we realize, including how straight your tree is and who gets into Princeton this year. Yet, our expectation that things will work out perfectly if only we maximize is ubiquitous. That confidence in our ability to choose correctly is, however, unwarranted. Better to do your best and know that your tree will be festive and there are many colleges which would lead to a happy life than to fret in choosing and then suffer from dashed expectations. Sometimes good enough is good enough.

Being a satisficer or maximizer is probably somewhat fixed, a personality trait, like being extroverted or conscientious. Yet, having insight can be helpful. If choosing a restaurant in Manhattan becomes an actual project for you with spreadsheets and your own statistical analysis, then go for it! Just know that if that process causes you angst and apprehension, then there is another way. Go to Eleven Madison Park, just because I say so. You might have the best dinner of your life or maybe not. At least by not choosing you’ll have the gift of time to spend picking out a tree instead.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

It is possible to talk to a patient for a brief moment and just know if he or she is a satisficer or a maximizer. A “satisficer” when presented with treatment options will invariably say: “I’ll do whatever you say, Doctor.” A “maximizer,” in contrast, would like a printed copy of treatment choices, then would seek a second opinion before ultimately buying an UpToDate subscription to research treatments for him or herself.

Which is more like you? Which should you be if you want to be happy? I’m mostly a satisficer and would like to present an argument for why this way is best.

This notion that we have tendencies toward maximizing or satisficing is thanks to Nobel Memorial Prize winner and all-around smart guy, Herbert A. Simon, PhD. Dr. Simon recognized that, although each person might be expected to make optimal decisions to benefit himself or herself, this is practically impossible. To do so would require an infinite amount of time and energy. He found therefore that we actually exhibit “bounded rationality;” that is, we make the best decision given the limits of time, the price of acquiring information, and even our cognitive abilities. The amount of effort we give to make a decision also depends on the situation: You might be very invested in choosing the right spouse, but not at all invested in choosing soup or salad. (Although, we all have friends who are: “Um, is there any thyme in the soup?”)

You’ll certainly recognize that people have different set points on the spectrum between being a satisficer, one who will take the first option that meets a standard, and a maximizer, one who will seek and accept only the best, even if choosing is at great cost. There are risks and benefits of each. In getting the best job, maximizers might be more successful, but satisficers seem to be happier.

How much this extends into other spheres of life is unclear. It is clear, though, that the work of choosing can come at a cost.

The psychologist Barry Schwartz, PhD, believes that, in general, having more choices leads to more anxiety, not more contentment. For example, which Christmas tree lot would you rather visit: One with hundreds of trees of half a dozen varieties? Or one with just a few trees each of Balsam and Douglas Firs? Dr. Schwartz would argue that you might waste an entire afternoon in the first lot only to bring it home and have remorse when you realize it’s a little lopsided. Or let’s say your child applied to all the Ivy League and Public Ivy schools and also threw in all the top liberal arts colleges. The anxiety of selecting the best and the terror that the “best one” might not choose him or her could be overwhelming. A key lesson is that more in life is by chance than we realize, including how straight your tree is and who gets into Princeton this year. Yet, our expectation that things will work out perfectly if only we maximize is ubiquitous. That confidence in our ability to choose correctly is, however, unwarranted. Better to do your best and know that your tree will be festive and there are many colleges which would lead to a happy life than to fret in choosing and then suffer from dashed expectations. Sometimes good enough is good enough.

Being a satisficer or maximizer is probably somewhat fixed, a personality trait, like being extroverted or conscientious. Yet, having insight can be helpful. If choosing a restaurant in Manhattan becomes an actual project for you with spreadsheets and your own statistical analysis, then go for it! Just know that if that process causes you angst and apprehension, then there is another way. Go to Eleven Madison Park, just because I say so. You might have the best dinner of your life or maybe not. At least by not choosing you’ll have the gift of time to spend picking out a tree instead.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

It is possible to talk to a patient for a brief moment and just know if he or she is a satisficer or a maximizer. A “satisficer” when presented with treatment options will invariably say: “I’ll do whatever you say, Doctor.” A “maximizer,” in contrast, would like a printed copy of treatment choices, then would seek a second opinion before ultimately buying an UpToDate subscription to research treatments for him or herself.

Which is more like you? Which should you be if you want to be happy? I’m mostly a satisficer and would like to present an argument for why this way is best.

This notion that we have tendencies toward maximizing or satisficing is thanks to Nobel Memorial Prize winner and all-around smart guy, Herbert A. Simon, PhD. Dr. Simon recognized that, although each person might be expected to make optimal decisions to benefit himself or herself, this is practically impossible. To do so would require an infinite amount of time and energy. He found therefore that we actually exhibit “bounded rationality;” that is, we make the best decision given the limits of time, the price of acquiring information, and even our cognitive abilities. The amount of effort we give to make a decision also depends on the situation: You might be very invested in choosing the right spouse, but not at all invested in choosing soup or salad. (Although, we all have friends who are: “Um, is there any thyme in the soup?”)

You’ll certainly recognize that people have different set points on the spectrum between being a satisficer, one who will take the first option that meets a standard, and a maximizer, one who will seek and accept only the best, even if choosing is at great cost. There are risks and benefits of each. In getting the best job, maximizers might be more successful, but satisficers seem to be happier.

How much this extends into other spheres of life is unclear. It is clear, though, that the work of choosing can come at a cost.

The psychologist Barry Schwartz, PhD, believes that, in general, having more choices leads to more anxiety, not more contentment. For example, which Christmas tree lot would you rather visit: One with hundreds of trees of half a dozen varieties? Or one with just a few trees each of Balsam and Douglas Firs? Dr. Schwartz would argue that you might waste an entire afternoon in the first lot only to bring it home and have remorse when you realize it’s a little lopsided. Or let’s say your child applied to all the Ivy League and Public Ivy schools and also threw in all the top liberal arts colleges. The anxiety of selecting the best and the terror that the “best one” might not choose him or her could be overwhelming. A key lesson is that more in life is by chance than we realize, including how straight your tree is and who gets into Princeton this year. Yet, our expectation that things will work out perfectly if only we maximize is ubiquitous. That confidence in our ability to choose correctly is, however, unwarranted. Better to do your best and know that your tree will be festive and there are many colleges which would lead to a happy life than to fret in choosing and then suffer from dashed expectations. Sometimes good enough is good enough.

Being a satisficer or maximizer is probably somewhat fixed, a personality trait, like being extroverted or conscientious. Yet, having insight can be helpful. If choosing a restaurant in Manhattan becomes an actual project for you with spreadsheets and your own statistical analysis, then go for it! Just know that if that process causes you angst and apprehension, then there is another way. Go to Eleven Madison Park, just because I say so. You might have the best dinner of your life or maybe not. At least by not choosing you’ll have the gift of time to spend picking out a tree instead.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

“When 900-years-old you reach, look as good you will not.” –Yoda

I’ve been on a roll lately: 100, 94, 90, 97, 94. These aren’t grades or even what I scratched on my scorecard for 18 holes (that’s more like 112), but rather patients I’ve seen.

Our oldest-old have been in COVID-19 protection for the last couple of years and only now feel safe to come out again. Many have skin cancers. Some of them have many. I’m grateful that for all their health problems, basal cell carcinomas at least I can cure. And while I treat them, I get the benefit of hearing directly from our elders. I love asking them for general life advice. Here are a few things I learned.

From a 94-year-old woman who was just discharged from the hospital for sepsis: First, sepsis can sneak up from behind and jump you when you’re 94. She was sitting in a waiting room for a routine exam when she passed out and woke up in the ICU. She made it home and is back on her feet, literally. When I asked her how she made it though, she was very matter of fact. Trust that the doctors know what’s right. Trust that someone will tell you what to do next. Trust that you know your own body and what you can and cannot do. Ask for help, then simply trust it will all work out. It usually does.

From a 97-year-old fighter pilot who fought in the Korean War: Let regrets drop away and live to fight another day. He’s had multiple marriages, built and lost companies, been fired and fired at, and made some doozy mistakes, some that caused considerable pain and collateral damage. But each day is new and requires your best. He has lived long enough to love dozens of grandkids and give away more than what most people ever make. His bottom line, if you worry and fret and regret, you’ll make even more mistakes ahead. Look ahead, the ground never comes up from behind you.

From a 94-year-old whose son was killed in a car accident nearly 60 years ago: You can be both happy and sad. When she retold the story of how the police knocked on her door with the news that her son was dead, she started to cry. Even 60 years isn’t long enough to blunt such pain. She still thinks of him often and to this day sometimes finds it difficult to believe he’s gone. Such pain never leaves you. But she is still a happy person with countless joys and is still having such fun. If you live long enough, both will likely be true.

From a 90-year old who still played tennis: “Just one and one.” That is, one beer and one shot, every day. No more. No less. I daren’t say I recommend this one; however, it might also be the social aspect of drinking that matters. He also advised to be free with friendships. You’ll have many people come in and out of your life; be open to new ones all the time. Also sometimes let your friends win.

From a 100-year-old, I asked how he managed to get through the Great Depression, WWII, civil unrest of the 1950s, and the Vietnam War. His reply? “To be honest, I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”

When there’s time, consider asking for advice from those elders who happen to have an appointment with you. Bring you wisdom, they will.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

“When 900-years-old you reach, look as good you will not.” –Yoda

I’ve been on a roll lately: 100, 94, 90, 97, 94. These aren’t grades or even what I scratched on my scorecard for 18 holes (that’s more like 112), but rather patients I’ve seen.

Our oldest-old have been in COVID-19 protection for the last couple of years and only now feel safe to come out again. Many have skin cancers. Some of them have many. I’m grateful that for all their health problems, basal cell carcinomas at least I can cure. And while I treat them, I get the benefit of hearing directly from our elders. I love asking them for general life advice. Here are a few things I learned.

From a 94-year-old woman who was just discharged from the hospital for sepsis: First, sepsis can sneak up from behind and jump you when you’re 94. She was sitting in a waiting room for a routine exam when she passed out and woke up in the ICU. She made it home and is back on her feet, literally. When I asked her how she made it though, she was very matter of fact. Trust that the doctors know what’s right. Trust that someone will tell you what to do next. Trust that you know your own body and what you can and cannot do. Ask for help, then simply trust it will all work out. It usually does.

From a 97-year-old fighter pilot who fought in the Korean War: Let regrets drop away and live to fight another day. He’s had multiple marriages, built and lost companies, been fired and fired at, and made some doozy mistakes, some that caused considerable pain and collateral damage. But each day is new and requires your best. He has lived long enough to love dozens of grandkids and give away more than what most people ever make. His bottom line, if you worry and fret and regret, you’ll make even more mistakes ahead. Look ahead, the ground never comes up from behind you.

From a 94-year-old whose son was killed in a car accident nearly 60 years ago: You can be both happy and sad. When she retold the story of how the police knocked on her door with the news that her son was dead, she started to cry. Even 60 years isn’t long enough to blunt such pain. She still thinks of him often and to this day sometimes finds it difficult to believe he’s gone. Such pain never leaves you. But she is still a happy person with countless joys and is still having such fun. If you live long enough, both will likely be true.

From a 90-year old who still played tennis: “Just one and one.” That is, one beer and one shot, every day. No more. No less. I daren’t say I recommend this one; however, it might also be the social aspect of drinking that matters. He also advised to be free with friendships. You’ll have many people come in and out of your life; be open to new ones all the time. Also sometimes let your friends win.

From a 100-year-old, I asked how he managed to get through the Great Depression, WWII, civil unrest of the 1950s, and the Vietnam War. His reply? “To be honest, I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”

When there’s time, consider asking for advice from those elders who happen to have an appointment with you. Bring you wisdom, they will.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

“When 900-years-old you reach, look as good you will not.” –Yoda

I’ve been on a roll lately: 100, 94, 90, 97, 94. These aren’t grades or even what I scratched on my scorecard for 18 holes (that’s more like 112), but rather patients I’ve seen.

Our oldest-old have been in COVID-19 protection for the last couple of years and only now feel safe to come out again. Many have skin cancers. Some of them have many. I’m grateful that for all their health problems, basal cell carcinomas at least I can cure. And while I treat them, I get the benefit of hearing directly from our elders. I love asking them for general life advice. Here are a few things I learned.

From a 94-year-old woman who was just discharged from the hospital for sepsis: First, sepsis can sneak up from behind and jump you when you’re 94. She was sitting in a waiting room for a routine exam when she passed out and woke up in the ICU. She made it home and is back on her feet, literally. When I asked her how she made it though, she was very matter of fact. Trust that the doctors know what’s right. Trust that someone will tell you what to do next. Trust that you know your own body and what you can and cannot do. Ask for help, then simply trust it will all work out. It usually does.

From a 97-year-old fighter pilot who fought in the Korean War: Let regrets drop away and live to fight another day. He’s had multiple marriages, built and lost companies, been fired and fired at, and made some doozy mistakes, some that caused considerable pain and collateral damage. But each day is new and requires your best. He has lived long enough to love dozens of grandkids and give away more than what most people ever make. His bottom line, if you worry and fret and regret, you’ll make even more mistakes ahead. Look ahead, the ground never comes up from behind you.

From a 94-year-old whose son was killed in a car accident nearly 60 years ago: You can be both happy and sad. When she retold the story of how the police knocked on her door with the news that her son was dead, she started to cry. Even 60 years isn’t long enough to blunt such pain. She still thinks of him often and to this day sometimes finds it difficult to believe he’s gone. Such pain never leaves you. But she is still a happy person with countless joys and is still having such fun. If you live long enough, both will likely be true.

From a 90-year old who still played tennis: “Just one and one.” That is, one beer and one shot, every day. No more. No less. I daren’t say I recommend this one; however, it might also be the social aspect of drinking that matters. He also advised to be free with friendships. You’ll have many people come in and out of your life; be open to new ones all the time. Also sometimes let your friends win.

From a 100-year-old, I asked how he managed to get through the Great Depression, WWII, civil unrest of the 1950s, and the Vietnam War. His reply? “To be honest, I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”

When there’s time, consider asking for advice from those elders who happen to have an appointment with you. Bring you wisdom, they will.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Let me tell you a story. In 5 billion years the sun will run out of hydrogen, the fuel it is currently burning to power my solar panels amongst other things. At that time, the sun will no longer be able to keep its core contracted and will expand into a fiery, red giant, engulfing earth and obliterating any sign that we ever existed. No buildings. No blog posts. No mausoleums. No stories. Nothing of us will remain.

Well, here for a moment anyway, I’ve gotten you to think about something other than COVID. You’re welcome.

Fascinatingly, the image in your mind’s eye right now of a barren scorched landscape was put there by me. Simply by placing a few words together I have caused new thoughts in your head. You might even share this story with someone else – I would have actually changed your behavior through the power of language. This miraculous phenomenon seems to be unique to us humans; we are the only ones who can create whole worlds in another individual’s head just by making a few sounds. We in medicine have the privilege of experiencing this miracle every day.

Last week, a 97-year-old pale, frail, white man saw me for a basal cell carcinoma on his cheek. While performing a simple electrodesiccation and curettage, I asked if he remembers getting a lot of sunburns when he was young. He certainly remembered one. On a blustery sunny day, he fell asleep for hours on the deck of the USS West Virginia while in the Philippines. As a radio man, he was exhausted from days of conflict and he recalled how warm breezes lulled him asleep. He was so sunburned that for days he forgot how afraid he was of the Japanese.

After listening to his story, I had an image in my mind of palm trees swaying in the tropical winds while hundreds of hulking gray castles sat hidden in the vast surrounding oceans awaiting one of the greatest naval conflicts in history. I got to hear it from surely one of the last remaining people in existence to be able to tell that story. Listening to a patient’s tales is one of the benefits of being a physician. Not only do they help bond us with our patients, but also help lessen our burden of having to make diagnosis after diagnosis and write note after note for hours on end. Somehow performing yet another biopsy that day is made just a bit easier if I’m also learning about what it was like at the Battle of Leyte Gulf.

Encouraging patients to talk more can be risky. No physician, not even allergists, can afford to be waylaid by a retiree with nothing else to do today. But meaningful encounters can not only be a vaccine against burnout, they also lead to better patient adherence and satisfaction. Sometimes, there is simply not time. But often there is a little window during a procedure or when you’re reasonably caught up and don’t expect delays ahead. When patients say that a doctor really listened to me, it is often not their medical history, but their life story they mean. And like every story, they literally transform us, the listener. In a true physical sense, their stories live on in me, and now that I’ve shared this one in writing, also with you for perpetuity. That is at least for the next 5 billion years when it, too, will be swallowed by the sun, leaving only a crispy, smoking rock where we once existed.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Let me tell you a story. In 5 billion years the sun will run out of hydrogen, the fuel it is currently burning to power my solar panels amongst other things. At that time, the sun will no longer be able to keep its core contracted and will expand into a fiery, red giant, engulfing earth and obliterating any sign that we ever existed. No buildings. No blog posts. No mausoleums. No stories. Nothing of us will remain.

Well, here for a moment anyway, I’ve gotten you to think about something other than COVID. You’re welcome.

Fascinatingly, the image in your mind’s eye right now of a barren scorched landscape was put there by me. Simply by placing a few words together I have caused new thoughts in your head. You might even share this story with someone else – I would have actually changed your behavior through the power of language. This miraculous phenomenon seems to be unique to us humans; we are the only ones who can create whole worlds in another individual’s head just by making a few sounds. We in medicine have the privilege of experiencing this miracle every day.

Last week, a 97-year-old pale, frail, white man saw me for a basal cell carcinoma on his cheek. While performing a simple electrodesiccation and curettage, I asked if he remembers getting a lot of sunburns when he was young. He certainly remembered one. On a blustery sunny day, he fell asleep for hours on the deck of the USS West Virginia while in the Philippines. As a radio man, he was exhausted from days of conflict and he recalled how warm breezes lulled him asleep. He was so sunburned that for days he forgot how afraid he was of the Japanese.

After listening to his story, I had an image in my mind of palm trees swaying in the tropical winds while hundreds of hulking gray castles sat hidden in the vast surrounding oceans awaiting one of the greatest naval conflicts in history. I got to hear it from surely one of the last remaining people in existence to be able to tell that story. Listening to a patient’s tales is one of the benefits of being a physician. Not only do they help bond us with our patients, but also help lessen our burden of having to make diagnosis after diagnosis and write note after note for hours on end. Somehow performing yet another biopsy that day is made just a bit easier if I’m also learning about what it was like at the Battle of Leyte Gulf.

Encouraging patients to talk more can be risky. No physician, not even allergists, can afford to be waylaid by a retiree with nothing else to do today. But meaningful encounters can not only be a vaccine against burnout, they also lead to better patient adherence and satisfaction. Sometimes, there is simply not time. But often there is a little window during a procedure or when you’re reasonably caught up and don’t expect delays ahead. When patients say that a doctor really listened to me, it is often not their medical history, but their life story they mean. And like every story, they literally transform us, the listener. In a true physical sense, their stories live on in me, and now that I’ve shared this one in writing, also with you for perpetuity. That is at least for the next 5 billion years when it, too, will be swallowed by the sun, leaving only a crispy, smoking rock where we once existed.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Let me tell you a story. In 5 billion years the sun will run out of hydrogen, the fuel it is currently burning to power my solar panels amongst other things. At that time, the sun will no longer be able to keep its core contracted and will expand into a fiery, red giant, engulfing earth and obliterating any sign that we ever existed. No buildings. No blog posts. No mausoleums. No stories. Nothing of us will remain.

Well, here for a moment anyway, I’ve gotten you to think about something other than COVID. You’re welcome.

Fascinatingly, the image in your mind’s eye right now of a barren scorched landscape was put there by me. Simply by placing a few words together I have caused new thoughts in your head. You might even share this story with someone else – I would have actually changed your behavior through the power of language. This miraculous phenomenon seems to be unique to us humans; we are the only ones who can create whole worlds in another individual’s head just by making a few sounds. We in medicine have the privilege of experiencing this miracle every day.

Last week, a 97-year-old pale, frail, white man saw me for a basal cell carcinoma on his cheek. While performing a simple electrodesiccation and curettage, I asked if he remembers getting a lot of sunburns when he was young. He certainly remembered one. On a blustery sunny day, he fell asleep for hours on the deck of the USS West Virginia while in the Philippines. As a radio man, he was exhausted from days of conflict and he recalled how warm breezes lulled him asleep. He was so sunburned that for days he forgot how afraid he was of the Japanese.

After listening to his story, I had an image in my mind of palm trees swaying in the tropical winds while hundreds of hulking gray castles sat hidden in the vast surrounding oceans awaiting one of the greatest naval conflicts in history. I got to hear it from surely one of the last remaining people in existence to be able to tell that story. Listening to a patient’s tales is one of the benefits of being a physician. Not only do they help bond us with our patients, but also help lessen our burden of having to make diagnosis after diagnosis and write note after note for hours on end. Somehow performing yet another biopsy that day is made just a bit easier if I’m also learning about what it was like at the Battle of Leyte Gulf.

Encouraging patients to talk more can be risky. No physician, not even allergists, can afford to be waylaid by a retiree with nothing else to do today. But meaningful encounters can not only be a vaccine against burnout, they also lead to better patient adherence and satisfaction. Sometimes, there is simply not time. But often there is a little window during a procedure or when you’re reasonably caught up and don’t expect delays ahead. When patients say that a doctor really listened to me, it is often not their medical history, but their life story they mean. And like every story, they literally transform us, the listener. In a true physical sense, their stories live on in me, and now that I’ve shared this one in writing, also with you for perpetuity. That is at least for the next 5 billion years when it, too, will be swallowed by the sun, leaving only a crispy, smoking rock where we once existed.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

A 26-year-old woman who reports a history of acyclovir-resistant herpes complains of a recurring, stinging rash around her mouth. Topical tacrolimus made it worse, she said. On exam, she has somewhat grouped pustules on her cutaneous lip. I mentioned her to colleagues, saying: “I’ve a patient with acyclovir-resistant herpes who isn’t improving on high-dose Valtrex.” They proffered a few alternative diagnoses and treatment recommendations. I tried several to no avail.

This case illustrates a common problem in medicine: Noise, the chance variability in judgments that should all be identical (it is after all only one condition). Nobel Prize–winning economist Daniel Kahneman, PhD, with two other authors, has written a brilliant book about this cognitive unreliability called “Noise: A Flaw in Human Judgment” (New York: Hachette Book Group, 2021).

Both bias and noise create trouble for us. Although biases get more attention, noise is both more prevalent and insidious. In a 2016 article, Dr. Kahneman and coauthors use a bathroom scale as an analogy to explain the difference. “We would say that the scale is biased if its readings are generally either too high or too low. A scale that consistently underestimates true weight by exactly 4 pounds is seriously biased but free of noise. A scale that gives two different readings when you step on it twice is noisy.” In the case presented, “measurements” by me and my colleagues were returning different “readings.” There is one true diagnosis and best treatment, yet because of noise, we waste time and resources by not getting it right the first time.

There is also evidence of bias in this case. For example, there’s probably some confirmation bias: The patient said she has a history of antiviral-resistant herpes; therefore, her rash might appear to be herpes. Also there might be salience bias: it’s easy to see how prominent pustules might be herpes simplex virus. Noise is an issue in many misdiagnoses, but trickier to see. In most instances, we don’t have the opportunity to get multiple assessments of the same case. When examined though, interrater reliability in medicine is often found to be shockingly low, an indication of how much noise there is in our clinical judgments. This leads to waste, frustration – and can even be dangerous when we’re trying to diagnose cancers such as melanoma, lung, or breast cancer.

Dr. Kahneman and colleagues have excellent recommendations on how to reduce noise, such as tips for good decision hygiene (e.g., using differential diagnoses) and using algorithms (e.g., calculating Apgar or LACE scores). I also liked their strategy of aggregating expert opinions. Fascinatingly, averaging multiple independent assessments is mathematically guaranteed to reduce noise. (God, I love economists). This is true of measurements and opinions: If you use 100 judgments for a case, you reduce noise by 90% (the noise is divided by the square root of the number of judgments averaged). So 20 colleagues’ opinions would reduce noise by almost 80%. However, those 20 opinions must be independent to avoid spurious agreement. (Again, math for the win.)

I showed photos of my patient to a few other dermatologists. They independently returned the same result: perioral dermatitis. This was the correct diagnosis and reminded me why grand rounds and tumor boards are such a great help. Multiple, independent assessments are more likely to get it right than just one opinion because we are canceling out the noise. But remember, grand rounds has to be old-school style – no looking at your coresident answers before giving yours!

Our patient cleared after restarting her topical tacrolimus and a bit of doxycycline. Credit the wisdom of the crowd. Reassuringly though, Dr. Kahneman also shows that expertise does matter in minimizing error. So that fellowship you did was still a great idea.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. He reports having no conflicts of interest. Write to him at [email protected].

A 26-year-old woman who reports a history of acyclovir-resistant herpes complains of a recurring, stinging rash around her mouth. Topical tacrolimus made it worse, she said. On exam, she has somewhat grouped pustules on her cutaneous lip. I mentioned her to colleagues, saying: “I’ve a patient with acyclovir-resistant herpes who isn’t improving on high-dose Valtrex.” They proffered a few alternative diagnoses and treatment recommendations. I tried several to no avail.

This case illustrates a common problem in medicine: Noise, the chance variability in judgments that should all be identical (it is after all only one condition). Nobel Prize–winning economist Daniel Kahneman, PhD, with two other authors, has written a brilliant book about this cognitive unreliability called “Noise: A Flaw in Human Judgment” (New York: Hachette Book Group, 2021).

Both bias and noise create trouble for us. Although biases get more attention, noise is both more prevalent and insidious. In a 2016 article, Dr. Kahneman and coauthors use a bathroom scale as an analogy to explain the difference. “We would say that the scale is biased if its readings are generally either too high or too low. A scale that consistently underestimates true weight by exactly 4 pounds is seriously biased but free of noise. A scale that gives two different readings when you step on it twice is noisy.” In the case presented, “measurements” by me and my colleagues were returning different “readings.” There is one true diagnosis and best treatment, yet because of noise, we waste time and resources by not getting it right the first time.

There is also evidence of bias in this case. For example, there’s probably some confirmation bias: The patient said she has a history of antiviral-resistant herpes; therefore, her rash might appear to be herpes. Also there might be salience bias: it’s easy to see how prominent pustules might be herpes simplex virus. Noise is an issue in many misdiagnoses, but trickier to see. In most instances, we don’t have the opportunity to get multiple assessments of the same case. When examined though, interrater reliability in medicine is often found to be shockingly low, an indication of how much noise there is in our clinical judgments. This leads to waste, frustration – and can even be dangerous when we’re trying to diagnose cancers such as melanoma, lung, or breast cancer.

Dr. Kahneman and colleagues have excellent recommendations on how to reduce noise, such as tips for good decision hygiene (e.g., using differential diagnoses) and using algorithms (e.g., calculating Apgar or LACE scores). I also liked their strategy of aggregating expert opinions. Fascinatingly, averaging multiple independent assessments is mathematically guaranteed to reduce noise. (God, I love economists). This is true of measurements and opinions: If you use 100 judgments for a case, you reduce noise by 90% (the noise is divided by the square root of the number of judgments averaged). So 20 colleagues’ opinions would reduce noise by almost 80%. However, those 20 opinions must be independent to avoid spurious agreement. (Again, math for the win.)

I showed photos of my patient to a few other dermatologists. They independently returned the same result: perioral dermatitis. This was the correct diagnosis and reminded me why grand rounds and tumor boards are such a great help. Multiple, independent assessments are more likely to get it right than just one opinion because we are canceling out the noise. But remember, grand rounds has to be old-school style – no looking at your coresident answers before giving yours!

Our patient cleared after restarting her topical tacrolimus and a bit of doxycycline. Credit the wisdom of the crowd. Reassuringly though, Dr. Kahneman also shows that expertise does matter in minimizing error. So that fellowship you did was still a great idea.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. He reports having no conflicts of interest. Write to him at [email protected].

A 26-year-old woman who reports a history of acyclovir-resistant herpes complains of a recurring, stinging rash around her mouth. Topical tacrolimus made it worse, she said. On exam, she has somewhat grouped pustules on her cutaneous lip. I mentioned her to colleagues, saying: “I’ve a patient with acyclovir-resistant herpes who isn’t improving on high-dose Valtrex.” They proffered a few alternative diagnoses and treatment recommendations. I tried several to no avail.

This case illustrates a common problem in medicine: Noise, the chance variability in judgments that should all be identical (it is after all only one condition). Nobel Prize–winning economist Daniel Kahneman, PhD, with two other authors, has written a brilliant book about this cognitive unreliability called “Noise: A Flaw in Human Judgment” (New York: Hachette Book Group, 2021).

Both bias and noise create trouble for us. Although biases get more attention, noise is both more prevalent and insidious. In a 2016 article, Dr. Kahneman and coauthors use a bathroom scale as an analogy to explain the difference. “We would say that the scale is biased if its readings are generally either too high or too low. A scale that consistently underestimates true weight by exactly 4 pounds is seriously biased but free of noise. A scale that gives two different readings when you step on it twice is noisy.” In the case presented, “measurements” by me and my colleagues were returning different “readings.” There is one true diagnosis and best treatment, yet because of noise, we waste time and resources by not getting it right the first time.

There is also evidence of bias in this case. For example, there’s probably some confirmation bias: The patient said she has a history of antiviral-resistant herpes; therefore, her rash might appear to be herpes. Also there might be salience bias: it’s easy to see how prominent pustules might be herpes simplex virus. Noise is an issue in many misdiagnoses, but trickier to see. In most instances, we don’t have the opportunity to get multiple assessments of the same case. When examined though, interrater reliability in medicine is often found to be shockingly low, an indication of how much noise there is in our clinical judgments. This leads to waste, frustration – and can even be dangerous when we’re trying to diagnose cancers such as melanoma, lung, or breast cancer.

Dr. Kahneman and colleagues have excellent recommendations on how to reduce noise, such as tips for good decision hygiene (e.g., using differential diagnoses) and using algorithms (e.g., calculating Apgar or LACE scores). I also liked their strategy of aggregating expert opinions. Fascinatingly, averaging multiple independent assessments is mathematically guaranteed to reduce noise. (God, I love economists). This is true of measurements and opinions: If you use 100 judgments for a case, you reduce noise by 90% (the noise is divided by the square root of the number of judgments averaged). So 20 colleagues’ opinions would reduce noise by almost 80%. However, those 20 opinions must be independent to avoid spurious agreement. (Again, math for the win.)

I showed photos of my patient to a few other dermatologists. They independently returned the same result: perioral dermatitis. This was the correct diagnosis and reminded me why grand rounds and tumor boards are such a great help. Multiple, independent assessments are more likely to get it right than just one opinion because we are canceling out the noise. But remember, grand rounds has to be old-school style – no looking at your coresident answers before giving yours!

Our patient cleared after restarting her topical tacrolimus and a bit of doxycycline. Credit the wisdom of the crowd. Reassuringly though, Dr. Kahneman also shows that expertise does matter in minimizing error. So that fellowship you did was still a great idea.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. He reports having no conflicts of interest. Write to him at [email protected].

A 64-year-old White woman with very few medical problems complains of bug bites. She had seen no bugs and had no visible bites. There is no rash. “So what bit me?” she asked, pulling her mask down for emphasis. How should I know? I thought, but didn’t say. She and I have been through this many times.

Before I could respond, she filled the pause with her usual complaints including how hard it is to get an appointment with me and how every appointment with me is a waste of her time. Ignoring the contradistinction of her charges, I took some satisfaction realizing she has just given me a topic to write about: The hateful patient.

Hateful patients are not diagnostic dilemmas, they are the patients whose name on your schedule evokes fury. They are frustrating, troublesome, rude, sometimes racist, misogynistic, depressing, hopeless, and disheartening. They call you, email you, and come to see you just to annoy you (so it seems). And they’re everywhere. According to one study, nearly one in six are “difficult patients.” It feels like more lately because the vaccine has brought haters back into clinic, just to get us.

But hateful patients aren’t new. In 1978, James E. Groves, MD, a Harvard psychiatrist, wrote a now-classic New England Journal of Medicine article about them called: Taking Care of the Hateful Patient. Even Osler, back in 1889, covered these patients in his lecture to University of Pennsylvania students, advising us to “deal gently with this deliciously credulous old human nature in which we work ... restrain your indignation.” But like much of Osler’s advice, it is easier said than done.

Dr. Groves is more helpful, and presents a model to understand them. Difficult patients, as we’d now call them, fall into four stereotypes: dependent clingers, entitled demanders, manipulative help-rejectors, and self-destructive deniers. It’s Dr. Groves’s bottom line I found insightful. He says that, when patients create negative feelings in us, we’re more likely to make errors. He then gives sound advice: Set firm boundaries and learn to counter the countertransference these patients provoke. Don’t disavow or discharge, Dr. Groves advises, redirect these emotions to motivate you to dig deeper. There you’ll find clinical data that will facilitate understanding and enable better patient management. Yes, easier said.

In addition to Dr. Groves’s analysis of how we harm these patients, I’d add that these disagreeable, malingering patients also harm us doctors. The hangover from a difficult patient encounter can linger for several appointments later or, worse, carryover to home. And now with patient emails proliferating, demanding patients behave as if we have an inexhaustible ability to engage them. We don’t. Many physicians are struggling to care at all; their low empathy battery warnings are blinking red, less than 1% remaining.

What is toxic to us doctors is the maelstrom of cognitive dissonance these patients create in us. Have you ever felt relief to learn a difficult patient has “finally” died? How could we think such a thing?! Didn’t we choose medicine instead of Wall Street because we care about people? But manipulative patients can make us care less. We even use secret language with each other to protect ourselves from them, those GOMERs (get out of my emergency room), bouncebacks, patients with status dramaticus, and those ornery FTDs (failure to die). Save yourself, we say to each other, this patient will kill you.

Caring for my somatizing 64-year-old patient has been difficult, but writing this has helped me reframe our interaction. Unsurprisingly, at the end of her failed visit she asked when she could see me again. “I need to schedule now because I have to find a neighbor to watch my dogs. It takes two buses to come here and I can’t take them with me.” Ah, there’s the clinical data Dr. Groves said I’d find – she’s not here to hurt me, she’s here because I’m all she’s got. At least for this difficult patient, I have a plan. At the bottom of my note I type “RTC 3 mo.”

Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

A 64-year-old White woman with very few medical problems complains of bug bites. She had seen no bugs and had no visible bites. There is no rash. “So what bit me?” she asked, pulling her mask down for emphasis. How should I know? I thought, but didn’t say. She and I have been through this many times.

Before I could respond, she filled the pause with her usual complaints including how hard it is to get an appointment with me and how every appointment with me is a waste of her time. Ignoring the contradistinction of her charges, I took some satisfaction realizing she has just given me a topic to write about: The hateful patient.

Hateful patients are not diagnostic dilemmas, they are the patients whose name on your schedule evokes fury. They are frustrating, troublesome, rude, sometimes racist, misogynistic, depressing, hopeless, and disheartening. They call you, email you, and come to see you just to annoy you (so it seems). And they’re everywhere. According to one study, nearly one in six are “difficult patients.” It feels like more lately because the vaccine has brought haters back into clinic, just to get us.

But hateful patients aren’t new. In 1978, James E. Groves, MD, a Harvard psychiatrist, wrote a now-classic New England Journal of Medicine article about them called: Taking Care of the Hateful Patient. Even Osler, back in 1889, covered these patients in his lecture to University of Pennsylvania students, advising us to “deal gently with this deliciously credulous old human nature in which we work ... restrain your indignation.” But like much of Osler’s advice, it is easier said than done.

Dr. Groves is more helpful, and presents a model to understand them. Difficult patients, as we’d now call them, fall into four stereotypes: dependent clingers, entitled demanders, manipulative help-rejectors, and self-destructive deniers. It’s Dr. Groves’s bottom line I found insightful. He says that, when patients create negative feelings in us, we’re more likely to make errors. He then gives sound advice: Set firm boundaries and learn to counter the countertransference these patients provoke. Don’t disavow or discharge, Dr. Groves advises, redirect these emotions to motivate you to dig deeper. There you’ll find clinical data that will facilitate understanding and enable better patient management. Yes, easier said.

In addition to Dr. Groves’s analysis of how we harm these patients, I’d add that these disagreeable, malingering patients also harm us doctors. The hangover from a difficult patient encounter can linger for several appointments later or, worse, carryover to home. And now with patient emails proliferating, demanding patients behave as if we have an inexhaustible ability to engage them. We don’t. Many physicians are struggling to care at all; their low empathy battery warnings are blinking red, less than 1% remaining.

What is toxic to us doctors is the maelstrom of cognitive dissonance these patients create in us. Have you ever felt relief to learn a difficult patient has “finally” died? How could we think such a thing?! Didn’t we choose medicine instead of Wall Street because we care about people? But manipulative patients can make us care less. We even use secret language with each other to protect ourselves from them, those GOMERs (get out of my emergency room), bouncebacks, patients with status dramaticus, and those ornery FTDs (failure to die). Save yourself, we say to each other, this patient will kill you.

Caring for my somatizing 64-year-old patient has been difficult, but writing this has helped me reframe our interaction. Unsurprisingly, at the end of her failed visit she asked when she could see me again. “I need to schedule now because I have to find a neighbor to watch my dogs. It takes two buses to come here and I can’t take them with me.” Ah, there’s the clinical data Dr. Groves said I’d find – she’s not here to hurt me, she’s here because I’m all she’s got. At least for this difficult patient, I have a plan. At the bottom of my note I type “RTC 3 mo.”

Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

A 64-year-old White woman with very few medical problems complains of bug bites. She had seen no bugs and had no visible bites. There is no rash. “So what bit me?” she asked, pulling her mask down for emphasis. How should I know? I thought, but didn’t say. She and I have been through this many times.

Before I could respond, she filled the pause with her usual complaints including how hard it is to get an appointment with me and how every appointment with me is a waste of her time. Ignoring the contradistinction of her charges, I took some satisfaction realizing she has just given me a topic to write about: The hateful patient.

Hateful patients are not diagnostic dilemmas, they are the patients whose name on your schedule evokes fury. They are frustrating, troublesome, rude, sometimes racist, misogynistic, depressing, hopeless, and disheartening. They call you, email you, and come to see you just to annoy you (so it seems). And they’re everywhere. According to one study, nearly one in six are “difficult patients.” It feels like more lately because the vaccine has brought haters back into clinic, just to get us.

But hateful patients aren’t new. In 1978, James E. Groves, MD, a Harvard psychiatrist, wrote a now-classic New England Journal of Medicine article about them called: Taking Care of the Hateful Patient. Even Osler, back in 1889, covered these patients in his lecture to University of Pennsylvania students, advising us to “deal gently with this deliciously credulous old human nature in which we work ... restrain your indignation.” But like much of Osler’s advice, it is easier said than done.

Dr. Groves is more helpful, and presents a model to understand them. Difficult patients, as we’d now call them, fall into four stereotypes: dependent clingers, entitled demanders, manipulative help-rejectors, and self-destructive deniers. It’s Dr. Groves’s bottom line I found insightful. He says that, when patients create negative feelings in us, we’re more likely to make errors. He then gives sound advice: Set firm boundaries and learn to counter the countertransference these patients provoke. Don’t disavow or discharge, Dr. Groves advises, redirect these emotions to motivate you to dig deeper. There you’ll find clinical data that will facilitate understanding and enable better patient management. Yes, easier said.

In addition to Dr. Groves’s analysis of how we harm these patients, I’d add that these disagreeable, malingering patients also harm us doctors. The hangover from a difficult patient encounter can linger for several appointments later or, worse, carryover to home. And now with patient emails proliferating, demanding patients behave as if we have an inexhaustible ability to engage them. We don’t. Many physicians are struggling to care at all; their low empathy battery warnings are blinking red, less than 1% remaining.

What is toxic to us doctors is the maelstrom of cognitive dissonance these patients create in us. Have you ever felt relief to learn a difficult patient has “finally” died? How could we think such a thing?! Didn’t we choose medicine instead of Wall Street because we care about people? But manipulative patients can make us care less. We even use secret language with each other to protect ourselves from them, those GOMERs (get out of my emergency room), bouncebacks, patients with status dramaticus, and those ornery FTDs (failure to die). Save yourself, we say to each other, this patient will kill you.

Caring for my somatizing 64-year-old patient has been difficult, but writing this has helped me reframe our interaction. Unsurprisingly, at the end of her failed visit she asked when she could see me again. “I need to schedule now because I have to find a neighbor to watch my dogs. It takes two buses to come here and I can’t take them with me.” Ah, there’s the clinical data Dr. Groves said I’d find – she’s not here to hurt me, she’s here because I’m all she’s got. At least for this difficult patient, I have a plan. At the bottom of my note I type “RTC 3 mo.”

Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Dear big-tech AI company,

Perhaps artificial intelligence is “the most profound technology that humanity will ever develop and work on,” as Google CEO Sundar Pichai recently said. If that’s true, can you please find a way to help us physicians?

I do understand, the benefits of artificial intelligence today are already profound and protean. Thanks to AI, I can translate Italian to English in real time in the same voice as an Italian speaker. I can be driven home autonomously by our Tesla. AI helps keep me safe by predicting crimes, on time by predicting traffic, and healthy by designing plant proteins that taste just like beef. I can even use AI to build a sprinkler to keep people off my new lawn.

In medicine, the AI news is so good that a frisson of excitement spreads vertically and horizontally across all health care. AI can detect pulmonary nodules, identify melanomas, develop new drugs – speed vaccine discovery! – and detect malignant cells on a biopsy slide. It can help predict who is going to crash in the ICU and recognize when someone is about to fall out of bed in the surgical unit. Even just this sampling of benefits proves how significant and impactful AI is in improving quality of life for patients and populations.

However, much of what I do every day in medicine cannot be solved with a neat quantitative analysis. The vast majority of my patients do not have a melanoma to be diagnosed or diabetic retinopathy to be scanned. What they want and need is time spent with me, their doctor. Although the schedule says I have 15 minutes (insufficient to begin with), patients are running late and are double booked, and I’ve loads of notes to type, medications to review, and messages to answer. Most days, I have only a fraction of 15 minutes to spend face to face with each patient.

Can AI please help us? How about reviewing the reams of data from my patient’s chart and presenting it to me succinctly? Rather than my tediously clicking through pathology reports, just summarize what skin cancers my patient has had and when. Rather than learning that my patient already failed Protopic a year ago, let me know that before I sign the order and promise: “Now, this ointment will work.” Even better, suggest alternative treatments that I might not be thinking of and which might do just the trick. Oh, and given my EMR has all the data required to determine billing codes, can you just drop that in for me when I’m done? Lastly, if the patient’s insurance is going to reject this claim or that medication, can AI please complete the authorization/paperwork/signed notary document/letter from U.S. senator that will be needed for it to be accepted?

I know this is possible. If we can blast a 70-year-old businessman into space on a private jet, surely you can invent an AI that gives us more time to spend with patients. Proposals postmarked by Dec. 31, 2021, please.


I’m sincerely yours,

Jeff Benabio, MD, MBA
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Dear big-tech AI company,

Perhaps artificial intelligence is “the most profound technology that humanity will ever develop and work on,” as Google CEO Sundar Pichai recently said. If that’s true, can you please find a way to help us physicians?

I do understand, the benefits of artificial intelligence today are already profound and protean. Thanks to AI, I can translate Italian to English in real time in the same voice as an Italian speaker. I can be driven home autonomously by our Tesla. AI helps keep me safe by predicting crimes, on time by predicting traffic, and healthy by designing plant proteins that taste just like beef. I can even use AI to build a sprinkler to keep people off my new lawn.

In medicine, the AI news is so good that a frisson of excitement spreads vertically and horizontally across all health care. AI can detect pulmonary nodules, identify melanomas, develop new drugs – speed vaccine discovery! – and detect malignant cells on a biopsy slide. It can help predict who is going to crash in the ICU and recognize when someone is about to fall out of bed in the surgical unit. Even just this sampling of benefits proves how significant and impactful AI is in improving quality of life for patients and populations.

However, much of what I do every day in medicine cannot be solved with a neat quantitative analysis. The vast majority of my patients do not have a melanoma to be diagnosed or diabetic retinopathy to be scanned. What they want and need is time spent with me, their doctor. Although the schedule says I have 15 minutes (insufficient to begin with), patients are running late and are double booked, and I’ve loads of notes to type, medications to review, and messages to answer. Most days, I have only a fraction of 15 minutes to spend face to face with each patient.

Can AI please help us? How about reviewing the reams of data from my patient’s chart and presenting it to me succinctly? Rather than my tediously clicking through pathology reports, just summarize what skin cancers my patient has had and when. Rather than learning that my patient already failed Protopic a year ago, let me know that before I sign the order and promise: “Now, this ointment will work.” Even better, suggest alternative treatments that I might not be thinking of and which might do just the trick. Oh, and given my EMR has all the data required to determine billing codes, can you just drop that in for me when I’m done? Lastly, if the patient’s insurance is going to reject this claim or that medication, can AI please complete the authorization/paperwork/signed notary document/letter from U.S. senator that will be needed for it to be accepted?

I know this is possible. If we can blast a 70-year-old businessman into space on a private jet, surely you can invent an AI that gives us more time to spend with patients. Proposals postmarked by Dec. 31, 2021, please.


I’m sincerely yours,

Jeff Benabio, MD, MBA
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

Dear big-tech AI company,

Perhaps artificial intelligence is “the most profound technology that humanity will ever develop and work on,” as Google CEO Sundar Pichai recently said. If that’s true, can you please find a way to help us physicians?

I do understand, the benefits of artificial intelligence today are already profound and protean. Thanks to AI, I can translate Italian to English in real time in the same voice as an Italian speaker. I can be driven home autonomously by our Tesla. AI helps keep me safe by predicting crimes, on time by predicting traffic, and healthy by designing plant proteins that taste just like beef. I can even use AI to build a sprinkler to keep people off my new lawn.

In medicine, the AI news is so good that a frisson of excitement spreads vertically and horizontally across all health care. AI can detect pulmonary nodules, identify melanomas, develop new drugs – speed vaccine discovery! – and detect malignant cells on a biopsy slide. It can help predict who is going to crash in the ICU and recognize when someone is about to fall out of bed in the surgical unit. Even just this sampling of benefits proves how significant and impactful AI is in improving quality of life for patients and populations.

However, much of what I do every day in medicine cannot be solved with a neat quantitative analysis. The vast majority of my patients do not have a melanoma to be diagnosed or diabetic retinopathy to be scanned. What they want and need is time spent with me, their doctor. Although the schedule says I have 15 minutes (insufficient to begin with), patients are running late and are double booked, and I’ve loads of notes to type, medications to review, and messages to answer. Most days, I have only a fraction of 15 minutes to spend face to face with each patient.

Can AI please help us? How about reviewing the reams of data from my patient’s chart and presenting it to me succinctly? Rather than my tediously clicking through pathology reports, just summarize what skin cancers my patient has had and when. Rather than learning that my patient already failed Protopic a year ago, let me know that before I sign the order and promise: “Now, this ointment will work.” Even better, suggest alternative treatments that I might not be thinking of and which might do just the trick. Oh, and given my EMR has all the data required to determine billing codes, can you just drop that in for me when I’m done? Lastly, if the patient’s insurance is going to reject this claim or that medication, can AI please complete the authorization/paperwork/signed notary document/letter from U.S. senator that will be needed for it to be accepted?

I know this is possible. If we can blast a 70-year-old businessman into space on a private jet, surely you can invent an AI that gives us more time to spend with patients. Proposals postmarked by Dec. 31, 2021, please.


I’m sincerely yours,

Jeff Benabio, MD, MBA
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

“It’s good to be in something from the ground floor. I came too late for that. ... But lately, I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.” –Tony Soprano

If you could choose, would you rather be transported to live 25 years ago in the past or 25 years from now in the future? For me, I’m unsure. Sometimes it feels like our best days are behind us. When I was a kid, we explored life in pond water, watching water fleas and hydra swim under our Child World toy microscopes. Today, kids learn to eat Tide Pods from TikTok. Back when I was young, a doctor’s appointment was a special occasion! My brothers and I had a bath and got dressed in our Sunday best for our appointment with Dr. Bellin, a genteel, gray-haired pediatrician who worked out of his Victorian office with wooden floors and crystal door handles. Contrast that with the appointment I had with a patient the other day, done by telephone while she was in line ordering at Starbucks. I waited patiently for her to give her order.

This ache I feel for the past is called nostalgia. At one time, it was a diagnosable condition. It was first used by Dr. Johannes Hofer in the 17th century to describe Swiss soldiers fighting in foreign lands. From the Greek, it means “homecoming pain.” Although over time nostalgia has lost its clinical meaning, the feeling of yearning for the past has dramatically gained in prevalence. The word “nostalgia” appears more in print now than at any point since 1800. We are most nostalgic during times of duress, it seems. This, no doubt, is because it’s comforting to think we’d be better off back in pastoral, idyll times, back when work ended at 5 p.m. and cotton balls were soaked in alcohol and office visits ended with a lollipop on a loop.

Of course, the good old days weren’t really better. We have a selective view of history – as many things were contemptible or bad then as now. Yes, Dr. Bellin was the consummate professional, but thank goodness, I didn’t have acute lymphocytic leukemia or Haemophilus influenzae type B or even suffocate under a pile of blankets while sleeping on my stomach. Without doubt, clinically we’re much better today. Also back then, there was hardly a consideration for atrocious racial disparities in care. We’ve not come far, but we are at least better off today than a few decades ago. And what about medicine as a profession? Although he had loads of autonomy and respect, Dr. Bellin also started every day of his 50-year career at 6 a.m. rounding in the newborn nursery before seeing patients in the office 6 days a week. Not many of us would trade our practice for his.

Yet, there’s reasons to be nostalgic. Chart notes might have been barely legible, but at least they served a purpose. The problem-oriented medical record was intended to logically capture and organize data. SOAP notes were invented to help us think better, to get diagnoses correct, to succinctly see progress. Today, notes are written for administrators and payers and patients. As a result, they’re often useless to us.

And although it may have been inconvenient to sit in the waiting room reading Highlights magazine, I’m unsure it was a worse user experience, compared with a chain pharmacy “virtual” doctor visit. (Particularly because you could always drop pennies down the large hot-air iron floor grate in the corner).

The thrumming undercurrent of progress promises artificial intelligence and genomics and wearable diagnostics in our future. But the assumption is the new things will be better suited to our needs than the old. Sometimes, they are not. Sometimes technology diminishes us instead of enhancing us.

I cannot count how many times I’ve hit my head or whacked my shin because our Tesla Model X doors open by magic and of their own accord. Back when I was young, we opened car doors by pulling on the door handle. I sometimes miss those days.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

“It’s good to be in something from the ground floor. I came too late for that. ... But lately, I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.” –Tony Soprano

If you could choose, would you rather be transported to live 25 years ago in the past or 25 years from now in the future? For me, I’m unsure. Sometimes it feels like our best days are behind us. When I was a kid, we explored life in pond water, watching water fleas and hydra swim under our Child World toy microscopes. Today, kids learn to eat Tide Pods from TikTok. Back when I was young, a doctor’s appointment was a special occasion! My brothers and I had a bath and got dressed in our Sunday best for our appointment with Dr. Bellin, a genteel, gray-haired pediatrician who worked out of his Victorian office with wooden floors and crystal door handles. Contrast that with the appointment I had with a patient the other day, done by telephone while she was in line ordering at Starbucks. I waited patiently for her to give her order.

This ache I feel for the past is called nostalgia. At one time, it was a diagnosable condition. It was first used by Dr. Johannes Hofer in the 17th century to describe Swiss soldiers fighting in foreign lands. From the Greek, it means “homecoming pain.” Although over time nostalgia has lost its clinical meaning, the feeling of yearning for the past has dramatically gained in prevalence. The word “nostalgia” appears more in print now than at any point since 1800. We are most nostalgic during times of duress, it seems. This, no doubt, is because it’s comforting to think we’d be better off back in pastoral, idyll times, back when work ended at 5 p.m. and cotton balls were soaked in alcohol and office visits ended with a lollipop on a loop.

Of course, the good old days weren’t really better. We have a selective view of history – as many things were contemptible or bad then as now. Yes, Dr. Bellin was the consummate professional, but thank goodness, I didn’t have acute lymphocytic leukemia or Haemophilus influenzae type B or even suffocate under a pile of blankets while sleeping on my stomach. Without doubt, clinically we’re much better today. Also back then, there was hardly a consideration for atrocious racial disparities in care. We’ve not come far, but we are at least better off today than a few decades ago. And what about medicine as a profession? Although he had loads of autonomy and respect, Dr. Bellin also started every day of his 50-year career at 6 a.m. rounding in the newborn nursery before seeing patients in the office 6 days a week. Not many of us would trade our practice for his.

Yet, there’s reasons to be nostalgic. Chart notes might have been barely legible, but at least they served a purpose. The problem-oriented medical record was intended to logically capture and organize data. SOAP notes were invented to help us think better, to get diagnoses correct, to succinctly see progress. Today, notes are written for administrators and payers and patients. As a result, they’re often useless to us.

And although it may have been inconvenient to sit in the waiting room reading Highlights magazine, I’m unsure it was a worse user experience, compared with a chain pharmacy “virtual” doctor visit. (Particularly because you could always drop pennies down the large hot-air iron floor grate in the corner).

The thrumming undercurrent of progress promises artificial intelligence and genomics and wearable diagnostics in our future. But the assumption is the new things will be better suited to our needs than the old. Sometimes, they are not. Sometimes technology diminishes us instead of enhancing us.

I cannot count how many times I’ve hit my head or whacked my shin because our Tesla Model X doors open by magic and of their own accord. Back when I was young, we opened car doors by pulling on the door handle. I sometimes miss those days.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].

“It’s good to be in something from the ground floor. I came too late for that. ... But lately, I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.” –Tony Soprano

If you could choose, would you rather be transported to live 25 years ago in the past or 25 years from now in the future? For me, I’m unsure. Sometimes it feels like our best days are behind us. When I was a kid, we explored life in pond water, watching water fleas and hydra swim under our Child World toy microscopes. Today, kids learn to eat Tide Pods from TikTok. Back when I was young, a doctor’s appointment was a special occasion! My brothers and I had a bath and got dressed in our Sunday best for our appointment with Dr. Bellin, a genteel, gray-haired pediatrician who worked out of his Victorian office with wooden floors and crystal door handles. Contrast that with the appointment I had with a patient the other day, done by telephone while she was in line ordering at Starbucks. I waited patiently for her to give her order.

This ache I feel for the past is called nostalgia. At one time, it was a diagnosable condition. It was first used by Dr. Johannes Hofer in the 17th century to describe Swiss soldiers fighting in foreign lands. From the Greek, it means “homecoming pain.” Although over time nostalgia has lost its clinical meaning, the feeling of yearning for the past has dramatically gained in prevalence. The word “nostalgia” appears more in print now than at any point since 1800. We are most nostalgic during times of duress, it seems. This, no doubt, is because it’s comforting to think we’d be better off back in pastoral, idyll times, back when work ended at 5 p.m. and cotton balls were soaked in alcohol and office visits ended with a lollipop on a loop.

Of course, the good old days weren’t really better. We have a selective view of history – as many things were contemptible or bad then as now. Yes, Dr. Bellin was the consummate professional, but thank goodness, I didn’t have acute lymphocytic leukemia or Haemophilus influenzae type B or even suffocate under a pile of blankets while sleeping on my stomach. Without doubt, clinically we’re much better today. Also back then, there was hardly a consideration for atrocious racial disparities in care. We’ve not come far, but we are at least better off today than a few decades ago. And what about medicine as a profession? Although he had loads of autonomy and respect, Dr. Bellin also started every day of his 50-year career at 6 a.m. rounding in the newborn nursery before seeing patients in the office 6 days a week. Not many of us would trade our practice for his.

Yet, there’s reasons to be nostalgic. Chart notes might have been barely legible, but at least they served a purpose. The problem-oriented medical record was intended to logically capture and organize data. SOAP notes were invented to help us think better, to get diagnoses correct, to succinctly see progress. Today, notes are written for administrators and payers and patients. As a result, they’re often useless to us.

And although it may have been inconvenient to sit in the waiting room reading Highlights magazine, I’m unsure it was a worse user experience, compared with a chain pharmacy “virtual” doctor visit. (Particularly because you could always drop pennies down the large hot-air iron floor grate in the corner).

The thrumming undercurrent of progress promises artificial intelligence and genomics and wearable diagnostics in our future. But the assumption is the new things will be better suited to our needs than the old. Sometimes, they are not. Sometimes technology diminishes us instead of enhancing us.

I cannot count how many times I’ve hit my head or whacked my shin because our Tesla Model X doors open by magic and of their own accord. Back when I was young, we opened car doors by pulling on the door handle. I sometimes miss those days.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].