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‘Empathy fatigue’ in clinicians rises with latest COVID-19 surge
Heidi Erickson, MD, is tired. As a pulmonary and critical care physician at Hennepin Healthcare in Minneapolis, she has been providing care for patients with COVID-19 since the start of the pandemic.
It was exhausting from the beginning, as she and her colleagues scrambled to understand how to deal with this new disease. But lately, she has noticed a different kind of exhaustion arising from the knowledge that with vaccines widely available, the latest surge was preventable.
Her intensive care unit is currently as full as it has ever been with COVID-19 patients, many of them young adults and most of them unvaccinated. After the recent death of one patient, an unvaccinated man with teenage children, she had to face his family’s questions about why ivermectin, an antiparasitic medication that was falsely promoted as a COVID-19 treatment, was not administered.
“I’m fatigued because I’m working more than ever, but more people don’t have to die,” Dr. Erickson said in an interview . “It’s been very hard physically, mentally, emotionally.”
Amid yet another surge in COVID-19 cases around the United States, clinicians are speaking out about their growing frustration with this preventable crisis.
Some are using the terms “empathy fatigue” and “compassion fatigue” – a sense that they are losing empathy for unvaccinated individuals who are fueling the pandemic.
Dr. Erickson says she is frustrated not by individual patients but by a system that has allowed disinformation to proliferate. Experts say these types of feelings fit into a widespread pattern of physician burnout that has taken a new turn at this stage of the pandemic.
Paradoxical choices
Empathy is a cornerstone of what clinicians do, and the ability to understand and share a patient’s feelings is an essential skill for providing effective care, says Kaz Nelson, MD, a psychiatrist at the University of Minnesota, Minneapolis.
Practitioners face paradoxical situations all the time, she notes. These include individuals who break bones and go skydiving again, people who have high cholesterol but continue to eat fried foods, and those with advanced lung cancer who continue to smoke.
To treat patients with compassion, practitioners learn to set aside judgment by acknowledging the complexity of human behavior. They may lament the addictive nature of nicotine and advertising that targets children, for example, while still listening and caring.
Empathy requires high-level brain function, but as stress levels rise, brain function that drives empathy tends to shut down. It’s a survival mechanism, Dr. Nelson says.
When health care workers feel overwhelmed, trapped, or threatened by patients demanding unproven treatments or by ICUs with more patients than ventilators, they may experience a fight-or-flight response that makes them defensive, frustrated, angry, or uncaring, notes Mona Masood, DO, a Philadelphia-area psychiatrist and founder of Physician Support Line, a free mental health hotline for doctors.
Some clinicians have taken to Twitter and other social media platforms to post about these types of experiences.
These feelings, which have been brewing for months, have been exacerbated by the complexity of the current situation. Clinicians see a disconnect between what is and what could be, Dr. Nelson notes.
“Prior to vaccines, there weren’t other options, and so we had toxic stress and we had fatigue, but we could still maintain little bits of empathy by saying, ‘You know, people didn’t choose to get infected, and we are in a pandemic.’ We could kind of hate the virus. Now with access to vaccines, that last connection to empathy is removed for many people,” she says.
Self-preservation vs. empathy
Compassion fatigue or empathy fatigue is just one reaction to feeling completely maxed out and overstressed, Dr. Nelson says. Anger at society, such as what Dr. Erickson experienced, is another response.
Practitioners may also feel as if they are just going through the motions of their job, or they might disassociate, ceasing to feel that their patients are human. Plenty of doctors and nurses have cried in their cars after shifts and have posted tearful videos on social media.
Early in the pandemic, Dr. Masood says, physicians who called the support hotline expressed sadness and grief. Now, she had her colleagues hear frustration and anger, along with guilt and shame for having feelings they believe they shouldn’t be having, especially toward patients. They may feel unprofessional or worse – unworthy of being physicians, she says.
One recent caller to the hotline was a long-time ICU physician who had been told so many times by patients that ivermectin was the only medicine that would cure them that he began to doubt himself, says Dr. Masood. This caller needed to be reassured by another physician that he was doing the right thing.
Another emergency department physician told Dr. Masood about a young child who had arrived at the hospital with COVID-19 symptoms. When asked whether the family had been exposed to anyone with COVID-19, the child’s parent lied so that they could be triaged faster.
The physician, who needed to step away from the situation, reached out to Dr. Masood to express her frustration so that she wouldn’t “let it out” on the patient.
“It’s hard to have empathy for people who, for all intents and purposes, are very self-centered,” Dr. Masood says. “We’re at a place where we’re having to choose between self-preservation and empathy.”
How to cope
To help practitioners cope, Dr. Masood offers words that describe what they’re experiencing. She often hears clinicians say things such as, “This is a type of burnout that I feel to my bones,” or “This makes me want to quit,” or “I feel like I’m at the end of my rope.”
She encourages them to consider the terms “empathy fatigue,” and “moral injury” in order to reconcile how their sense of responsibility to take care of people is compromised by factors outside of their control.
It is not shameful to acknowledge that they experience emotions, including difficult ones such as frustration, anger, sadness, and anxiety, Dr. Masood adds.
Being frustrated with a patient doesn’t make someone a bad doctor, and admitting those emotions is the first step toward dealing with them, she says.
before they cause a sense of callousness or other consequences that become harder to heal from as time goes on.
“We’re trained to just go, go, go and sometimes not pause and check in,” she says. Clinicians who open up are likely to find they are not the only ones feeling tired or frustrated right now, she adds.
“Connect with peers and colleagues, because chances are, they can relate,” Dr. Nelson says.
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.
Heidi Erickson, MD, is tired. As a pulmonary and critical care physician at Hennepin Healthcare in Minneapolis, she has been providing care for patients with COVID-19 since the start of the pandemic.
It was exhausting from the beginning, as she and her colleagues scrambled to understand how to deal with this new disease. But lately, she has noticed a different kind of exhaustion arising from the knowledge that with vaccines widely available, the latest surge was preventable.
Her intensive care unit is currently as full as it has ever been with COVID-19 patients, many of them young adults and most of them unvaccinated. After the recent death of one patient, an unvaccinated man with teenage children, she had to face his family’s questions about why ivermectin, an antiparasitic medication that was falsely promoted as a COVID-19 treatment, was not administered.
“I’m fatigued because I’m working more than ever, but more people don’t have to die,” Dr. Erickson said in an interview . “It’s been very hard physically, mentally, emotionally.”
Amid yet another surge in COVID-19 cases around the United States, clinicians are speaking out about their growing frustration with this preventable crisis.
Some are using the terms “empathy fatigue” and “compassion fatigue” – a sense that they are losing empathy for unvaccinated individuals who are fueling the pandemic.
Dr. Erickson says she is frustrated not by individual patients but by a system that has allowed disinformation to proliferate. Experts say these types of feelings fit into a widespread pattern of physician burnout that has taken a new turn at this stage of the pandemic.
Paradoxical choices
Empathy is a cornerstone of what clinicians do, and the ability to understand and share a patient’s feelings is an essential skill for providing effective care, says Kaz Nelson, MD, a psychiatrist at the University of Minnesota, Minneapolis.
Practitioners face paradoxical situations all the time, she notes. These include individuals who break bones and go skydiving again, people who have high cholesterol but continue to eat fried foods, and those with advanced lung cancer who continue to smoke.
To treat patients with compassion, practitioners learn to set aside judgment by acknowledging the complexity of human behavior. They may lament the addictive nature of nicotine and advertising that targets children, for example, while still listening and caring.
Empathy requires high-level brain function, but as stress levels rise, brain function that drives empathy tends to shut down. It’s a survival mechanism, Dr. Nelson says.
When health care workers feel overwhelmed, trapped, or threatened by patients demanding unproven treatments or by ICUs with more patients than ventilators, they may experience a fight-or-flight response that makes them defensive, frustrated, angry, or uncaring, notes Mona Masood, DO, a Philadelphia-area psychiatrist and founder of Physician Support Line, a free mental health hotline for doctors.
Some clinicians have taken to Twitter and other social media platforms to post about these types of experiences.
These feelings, which have been brewing for months, have been exacerbated by the complexity of the current situation. Clinicians see a disconnect between what is and what could be, Dr. Nelson notes.
“Prior to vaccines, there weren’t other options, and so we had toxic stress and we had fatigue, but we could still maintain little bits of empathy by saying, ‘You know, people didn’t choose to get infected, and we are in a pandemic.’ We could kind of hate the virus. Now with access to vaccines, that last connection to empathy is removed for many people,” she says.
Self-preservation vs. empathy
Compassion fatigue or empathy fatigue is just one reaction to feeling completely maxed out and overstressed, Dr. Nelson says. Anger at society, such as what Dr. Erickson experienced, is another response.
Practitioners may also feel as if they are just going through the motions of their job, or they might disassociate, ceasing to feel that their patients are human. Plenty of doctors and nurses have cried in their cars after shifts and have posted tearful videos on social media.
Early in the pandemic, Dr. Masood says, physicians who called the support hotline expressed sadness and grief. Now, she had her colleagues hear frustration and anger, along with guilt and shame for having feelings they believe they shouldn’t be having, especially toward patients. They may feel unprofessional or worse – unworthy of being physicians, she says.
One recent caller to the hotline was a long-time ICU physician who had been told so many times by patients that ivermectin was the only medicine that would cure them that he began to doubt himself, says Dr. Masood. This caller needed to be reassured by another physician that he was doing the right thing.
Another emergency department physician told Dr. Masood about a young child who had arrived at the hospital with COVID-19 symptoms. When asked whether the family had been exposed to anyone with COVID-19, the child’s parent lied so that they could be triaged faster.
The physician, who needed to step away from the situation, reached out to Dr. Masood to express her frustration so that she wouldn’t “let it out” on the patient.
“It’s hard to have empathy for people who, for all intents and purposes, are very self-centered,” Dr. Masood says. “We’re at a place where we’re having to choose between self-preservation and empathy.”
How to cope
To help practitioners cope, Dr. Masood offers words that describe what they’re experiencing. She often hears clinicians say things such as, “This is a type of burnout that I feel to my bones,” or “This makes me want to quit,” or “I feel like I’m at the end of my rope.”
She encourages them to consider the terms “empathy fatigue,” and “moral injury” in order to reconcile how their sense of responsibility to take care of people is compromised by factors outside of their control.
It is not shameful to acknowledge that they experience emotions, including difficult ones such as frustration, anger, sadness, and anxiety, Dr. Masood adds.
Being frustrated with a patient doesn’t make someone a bad doctor, and admitting those emotions is the first step toward dealing with them, she says.
before they cause a sense of callousness or other consequences that become harder to heal from as time goes on.
“We’re trained to just go, go, go and sometimes not pause and check in,” she says. Clinicians who open up are likely to find they are not the only ones feeling tired or frustrated right now, she adds.
“Connect with peers and colleagues, because chances are, they can relate,” Dr. Nelson says.
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.
Heidi Erickson, MD, is tired. As a pulmonary and critical care physician at Hennepin Healthcare in Minneapolis, she has been providing care for patients with COVID-19 since the start of the pandemic.
It was exhausting from the beginning, as she and her colleagues scrambled to understand how to deal with this new disease. But lately, she has noticed a different kind of exhaustion arising from the knowledge that with vaccines widely available, the latest surge was preventable.
Her intensive care unit is currently as full as it has ever been with COVID-19 patients, many of them young adults and most of them unvaccinated. After the recent death of one patient, an unvaccinated man with teenage children, she had to face his family’s questions about why ivermectin, an antiparasitic medication that was falsely promoted as a COVID-19 treatment, was not administered.
“I’m fatigued because I’m working more than ever, but more people don’t have to die,” Dr. Erickson said in an interview . “It’s been very hard physically, mentally, emotionally.”
Amid yet another surge in COVID-19 cases around the United States, clinicians are speaking out about their growing frustration with this preventable crisis.
Some are using the terms “empathy fatigue” and “compassion fatigue” – a sense that they are losing empathy for unvaccinated individuals who are fueling the pandemic.
Dr. Erickson says she is frustrated not by individual patients but by a system that has allowed disinformation to proliferate. Experts say these types of feelings fit into a widespread pattern of physician burnout that has taken a new turn at this stage of the pandemic.
Paradoxical choices
Empathy is a cornerstone of what clinicians do, and the ability to understand and share a patient’s feelings is an essential skill for providing effective care, says Kaz Nelson, MD, a psychiatrist at the University of Minnesota, Minneapolis.
Practitioners face paradoxical situations all the time, she notes. These include individuals who break bones and go skydiving again, people who have high cholesterol but continue to eat fried foods, and those with advanced lung cancer who continue to smoke.
To treat patients with compassion, practitioners learn to set aside judgment by acknowledging the complexity of human behavior. They may lament the addictive nature of nicotine and advertising that targets children, for example, while still listening and caring.
Empathy requires high-level brain function, but as stress levels rise, brain function that drives empathy tends to shut down. It’s a survival mechanism, Dr. Nelson says.
When health care workers feel overwhelmed, trapped, or threatened by patients demanding unproven treatments or by ICUs with more patients than ventilators, they may experience a fight-or-flight response that makes them defensive, frustrated, angry, or uncaring, notes Mona Masood, DO, a Philadelphia-area psychiatrist and founder of Physician Support Line, a free mental health hotline for doctors.
Some clinicians have taken to Twitter and other social media platforms to post about these types of experiences.
These feelings, which have been brewing for months, have been exacerbated by the complexity of the current situation. Clinicians see a disconnect between what is and what could be, Dr. Nelson notes.
“Prior to vaccines, there weren’t other options, and so we had toxic stress and we had fatigue, but we could still maintain little bits of empathy by saying, ‘You know, people didn’t choose to get infected, and we are in a pandemic.’ We could kind of hate the virus. Now with access to vaccines, that last connection to empathy is removed for many people,” she says.
Self-preservation vs. empathy
Compassion fatigue or empathy fatigue is just one reaction to feeling completely maxed out and overstressed, Dr. Nelson says. Anger at society, such as what Dr. Erickson experienced, is another response.
Practitioners may also feel as if they are just going through the motions of their job, or they might disassociate, ceasing to feel that their patients are human. Plenty of doctors and nurses have cried in their cars after shifts and have posted tearful videos on social media.
Early in the pandemic, Dr. Masood says, physicians who called the support hotline expressed sadness and grief. Now, she had her colleagues hear frustration and anger, along with guilt and shame for having feelings they believe they shouldn’t be having, especially toward patients. They may feel unprofessional or worse – unworthy of being physicians, she says.
One recent caller to the hotline was a long-time ICU physician who had been told so many times by patients that ivermectin was the only medicine that would cure them that he began to doubt himself, says Dr. Masood. This caller needed to be reassured by another physician that he was doing the right thing.
Another emergency department physician told Dr. Masood about a young child who had arrived at the hospital with COVID-19 symptoms. When asked whether the family had been exposed to anyone with COVID-19, the child’s parent lied so that they could be triaged faster.
The physician, who needed to step away from the situation, reached out to Dr. Masood to express her frustration so that she wouldn’t “let it out” on the patient.
“It’s hard to have empathy for people who, for all intents and purposes, are very self-centered,” Dr. Masood says. “We’re at a place where we’re having to choose between self-preservation and empathy.”
How to cope
To help practitioners cope, Dr. Masood offers words that describe what they’re experiencing. She often hears clinicians say things such as, “This is a type of burnout that I feel to my bones,” or “This makes me want to quit,” or “I feel like I’m at the end of my rope.”
She encourages them to consider the terms “empathy fatigue,” and “moral injury” in order to reconcile how their sense of responsibility to take care of people is compromised by factors outside of their control.
It is not shameful to acknowledge that they experience emotions, including difficult ones such as frustration, anger, sadness, and anxiety, Dr. Masood adds.
Being frustrated with a patient doesn’t make someone a bad doctor, and admitting those emotions is the first step toward dealing with them, she says.
before they cause a sense of callousness or other consequences that become harder to heal from as time goes on.
“We’re trained to just go, go, go and sometimes not pause and check in,” she says. Clinicians who open up are likely to find they are not the only ones feeling tired or frustrated right now, she adds.
“Connect with peers and colleagues, because chances are, they can relate,” Dr. Nelson says.
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.
Mindfulness benefits kids with ADHD, and their families
Meditation, yoga, breathing exercises, and other mindfulness activities can help children with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, but it’s not just the kids who benefit.
When families of children with ADHD complete a mindfulness program together, a new study suggests, children and parents can profit, with potential boosts to self-control, self-compassion, and psychological symptoms.
The findings do not suggest children should ditch medication in favor of focusing on the present moment. Instead, the study adds to growing evidence that mindfulness can be a helpful tool along with other strategies for children and adults with ADHD, said John Mitchell, PhD, a psychologist at Duke University, Durham, N.C., who was not involved with the new study. Mindfulness might help families ease stress and improve quality of life.
“We talk about ADHD because one person has that diagnosis, but we don’t live in bubbles,” he said. “We’re all interconnected and impact one another. And having treatments that acknowledge that and measuring that in the scientific literature is pretty important.”
Mindfulness training, which has its roots in Eastern traditions, generally aims to teach people how to be present in the moment and let go of judgment. Over the last couple of decades, researchers working on depression and other conditions have gathered evidence that practicing mindfulness can help in a variety of ways, including with the self-regulation of attention and emotions. It didn’t take long for those findings to draw interest from researchers who study ADHD, Dr. Mitchell said.
Research on mindfulness for ADHD started with adults, and results have been encouraging, Dr. Mitchell said. People who complete a mindfulness program tend to show some improvement in focus, impulsivity, and hyperactivity, studies show. In one small pilot study, Dr. Mitchell and colleagues reported improvements in symptoms and executive function in adults with ADHD.
Studies with children have lagged behind, but recent work has been promising. When looking at data from a number of studies, researchers have found small reductions in inattentiveness, hyperactivity, and impulsivity in young people with ADHD. Several randomized, controlled trials have also shown a reduction in symptoms as rated by parents and teachers.
Greater understanding, acceptance
In related research, there was a noticed reduction in stress among parents who get mindfulness training that teaches them to listen with their full attention, accept and develop compassion for themselves and their children, and regulate themselves within the relationship with their kids.
Still, first-line treatment for children with ADHD usually includes a combination of medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, and education, even though those strategies don’t always work well for everyone, says Corina Greven, PhD, a psychologist at Radboud (the Netherlands) University Medical Centre and Karakter Child and Adolescent Psychiatry.
Despite suggestive results, the data on mindfulness remains murky, in part because early studies that looked at mindfulness training for children with ADHD have been small. Few trials of mindfulness treatment for ADHD, Dr. Greven said, have included parents.
To fill in some of the gaps, Dr. Greven and colleagues conducted a trial with 103 families who had a child with ADHD between ages 8 and 16. Half of the families were randomly assigned simply to continue care as usual, which included medication for most.
The other half continued their usual care and also took part in a program called MYMind, which used mindfulness-based cognitive therapy for children and mindful parenting training for parents.
Families attended 90-minute group sessions once a week for 8 weeks, with an extra session 2 months later. The mindfulness group also completed homework every day that took about 30-45 minutes for parents and 15 minutes for children. Homework included workbooks and guided meditations.
In the short term, the team reported, children who received the mindfulness intervention showed small improvements in ADHD symptoms, anxiety, autistic symptoms, and problems falling asleep. One-third children who received mindfulness training improved on measures of self-control, Dr. Greven added, compared with just 1 in 10 who got only their usual care.
Benefits were larger and longer-lasting for parents. Compared with parents who didn’t get mindfulness training, those assigned to the mindfulness group improved in self-control, self-compassion, depression, anxiety, stress, well-being, and their own ADHD symptoms. Given a large genetic component to the disorder, it is common for parents of children with ADHD to have a diagnosis or ADHD symptoms as well. In addition, Dr. Greven said, families who completed the mindfulness-based intervention reported improvements in their relationships as well as acceptance of ADHD.
A new therapy?
The findings suggest new potential treatment options for children with ADHD, and for their parents, Dr. Greven said, as well as a need to study the condition more broadly. “Although parents of children with ADHD often have elevated parenting stress, anxiety, or their own ADHD symptoms, usual interventions for children with ADHD do not typically target parental mental health,” she said. “As researchers, we need to go broader than just looking at whether an intervention reduces symptoms and include additional outcomes that families find important.”
It will take more research to find out who is most likely to benefit from mindfulness training and how long those benefits last, but the new study is a useful starting point, experts say.
“Mindfulness training had potentially short-term and long-term beneficial effects to children with ADHD and their parents,” says Samuel Wong, MD, director of the JC School of Public Health and Primary Care at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. He says mindfulness is more likely to become an add-on than a replacement for other kinds of therapies.
“Clinicians may consider combining or adding family-based mindfulness training with current practice for children with ADHD who have residual symptoms with their current treatment,” he said.
Mindfulness training may help with issues beyond the classic symptoms that come with ADHD, Dr. Mitchell said, helping make family life better overall, even when some features of the disorder don’t budge much.
“With this study in particular, we see that we have some pretty promising effects that there may be something that will be beneficial above and beyond the core 18 DSM symptoms,” he said. “This is an important study, because it’s going to be a basis for the continuing evolution of the scientific research on this topic. It’s something to feel excited about.”
A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.
Meditation, yoga, breathing exercises, and other mindfulness activities can help children with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, but it’s not just the kids who benefit.
When families of children with ADHD complete a mindfulness program together, a new study suggests, children and parents can profit, with potential boosts to self-control, self-compassion, and psychological symptoms.
The findings do not suggest children should ditch medication in favor of focusing on the present moment. Instead, the study adds to growing evidence that mindfulness can be a helpful tool along with other strategies for children and adults with ADHD, said John Mitchell, PhD, a psychologist at Duke University, Durham, N.C., who was not involved with the new study. Mindfulness might help families ease stress and improve quality of life.
“We talk about ADHD because one person has that diagnosis, but we don’t live in bubbles,” he said. “We’re all interconnected and impact one another. And having treatments that acknowledge that and measuring that in the scientific literature is pretty important.”
Mindfulness training, which has its roots in Eastern traditions, generally aims to teach people how to be present in the moment and let go of judgment. Over the last couple of decades, researchers working on depression and other conditions have gathered evidence that practicing mindfulness can help in a variety of ways, including with the self-regulation of attention and emotions. It didn’t take long for those findings to draw interest from researchers who study ADHD, Dr. Mitchell said.
Research on mindfulness for ADHD started with adults, and results have been encouraging, Dr. Mitchell said. People who complete a mindfulness program tend to show some improvement in focus, impulsivity, and hyperactivity, studies show. In one small pilot study, Dr. Mitchell and colleagues reported improvements in symptoms and executive function in adults with ADHD.
Studies with children have lagged behind, but recent work has been promising. When looking at data from a number of studies, researchers have found small reductions in inattentiveness, hyperactivity, and impulsivity in young people with ADHD. Several randomized, controlled trials have also shown a reduction in symptoms as rated by parents and teachers.
Greater understanding, acceptance
In related research, there was a noticed reduction in stress among parents who get mindfulness training that teaches them to listen with their full attention, accept and develop compassion for themselves and their children, and regulate themselves within the relationship with their kids.
Still, first-line treatment for children with ADHD usually includes a combination of medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, and education, even though those strategies don’t always work well for everyone, says Corina Greven, PhD, a psychologist at Radboud (the Netherlands) University Medical Centre and Karakter Child and Adolescent Psychiatry.
Despite suggestive results, the data on mindfulness remains murky, in part because early studies that looked at mindfulness training for children with ADHD have been small. Few trials of mindfulness treatment for ADHD, Dr. Greven said, have included parents.
To fill in some of the gaps, Dr. Greven and colleagues conducted a trial with 103 families who had a child with ADHD between ages 8 and 16. Half of the families were randomly assigned simply to continue care as usual, which included medication for most.
The other half continued their usual care and also took part in a program called MYMind, which used mindfulness-based cognitive therapy for children and mindful parenting training for parents.
Families attended 90-minute group sessions once a week for 8 weeks, with an extra session 2 months later. The mindfulness group also completed homework every day that took about 30-45 minutes for parents and 15 minutes for children. Homework included workbooks and guided meditations.
In the short term, the team reported, children who received the mindfulness intervention showed small improvements in ADHD symptoms, anxiety, autistic symptoms, and problems falling asleep. One-third children who received mindfulness training improved on measures of self-control, Dr. Greven added, compared with just 1 in 10 who got only their usual care.
Benefits were larger and longer-lasting for parents. Compared with parents who didn’t get mindfulness training, those assigned to the mindfulness group improved in self-control, self-compassion, depression, anxiety, stress, well-being, and their own ADHD symptoms. Given a large genetic component to the disorder, it is common for parents of children with ADHD to have a diagnosis or ADHD symptoms as well. In addition, Dr. Greven said, families who completed the mindfulness-based intervention reported improvements in their relationships as well as acceptance of ADHD.
A new therapy?
The findings suggest new potential treatment options for children with ADHD, and for their parents, Dr. Greven said, as well as a need to study the condition more broadly. “Although parents of children with ADHD often have elevated parenting stress, anxiety, or their own ADHD symptoms, usual interventions for children with ADHD do not typically target parental mental health,” she said. “As researchers, we need to go broader than just looking at whether an intervention reduces symptoms and include additional outcomes that families find important.”
It will take more research to find out who is most likely to benefit from mindfulness training and how long those benefits last, but the new study is a useful starting point, experts say.
“Mindfulness training had potentially short-term and long-term beneficial effects to children with ADHD and their parents,” says Samuel Wong, MD, director of the JC School of Public Health and Primary Care at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. He says mindfulness is more likely to become an add-on than a replacement for other kinds of therapies.
“Clinicians may consider combining or adding family-based mindfulness training with current practice for children with ADHD who have residual symptoms with their current treatment,” he said.
Mindfulness training may help with issues beyond the classic symptoms that come with ADHD, Dr. Mitchell said, helping make family life better overall, even when some features of the disorder don’t budge much.
“With this study in particular, we see that we have some pretty promising effects that there may be something that will be beneficial above and beyond the core 18 DSM symptoms,” he said. “This is an important study, because it’s going to be a basis for the continuing evolution of the scientific research on this topic. It’s something to feel excited about.”
A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.
Meditation, yoga, breathing exercises, and other mindfulness activities can help children with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, but it’s not just the kids who benefit.
When families of children with ADHD complete a mindfulness program together, a new study suggests, children and parents can profit, with potential boosts to self-control, self-compassion, and psychological symptoms.
The findings do not suggest children should ditch medication in favor of focusing on the present moment. Instead, the study adds to growing evidence that mindfulness can be a helpful tool along with other strategies for children and adults with ADHD, said John Mitchell, PhD, a psychologist at Duke University, Durham, N.C., who was not involved with the new study. Mindfulness might help families ease stress and improve quality of life.
“We talk about ADHD because one person has that diagnosis, but we don’t live in bubbles,” he said. “We’re all interconnected and impact one another. And having treatments that acknowledge that and measuring that in the scientific literature is pretty important.”
Mindfulness training, which has its roots in Eastern traditions, generally aims to teach people how to be present in the moment and let go of judgment. Over the last couple of decades, researchers working on depression and other conditions have gathered evidence that practicing mindfulness can help in a variety of ways, including with the self-regulation of attention and emotions. It didn’t take long for those findings to draw interest from researchers who study ADHD, Dr. Mitchell said.
Research on mindfulness for ADHD started with adults, and results have been encouraging, Dr. Mitchell said. People who complete a mindfulness program tend to show some improvement in focus, impulsivity, and hyperactivity, studies show. In one small pilot study, Dr. Mitchell and colleagues reported improvements in symptoms and executive function in adults with ADHD.
Studies with children have lagged behind, but recent work has been promising. When looking at data from a number of studies, researchers have found small reductions in inattentiveness, hyperactivity, and impulsivity in young people with ADHD. Several randomized, controlled trials have also shown a reduction in symptoms as rated by parents and teachers.
Greater understanding, acceptance
In related research, there was a noticed reduction in stress among parents who get mindfulness training that teaches them to listen with their full attention, accept and develop compassion for themselves and their children, and regulate themselves within the relationship with their kids.
Still, first-line treatment for children with ADHD usually includes a combination of medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, and education, even though those strategies don’t always work well for everyone, says Corina Greven, PhD, a psychologist at Radboud (the Netherlands) University Medical Centre and Karakter Child and Adolescent Psychiatry.
Despite suggestive results, the data on mindfulness remains murky, in part because early studies that looked at mindfulness training for children with ADHD have been small. Few trials of mindfulness treatment for ADHD, Dr. Greven said, have included parents.
To fill in some of the gaps, Dr. Greven and colleagues conducted a trial with 103 families who had a child with ADHD between ages 8 and 16. Half of the families were randomly assigned simply to continue care as usual, which included medication for most.
The other half continued their usual care and also took part in a program called MYMind, which used mindfulness-based cognitive therapy for children and mindful parenting training for parents.
Families attended 90-minute group sessions once a week for 8 weeks, with an extra session 2 months later. The mindfulness group also completed homework every day that took about 30-45 minutes for parents and 15 minutes for children. Homework included workbooks and guided meditations.
In the short term, the team reported, children who received the mindfulness intervention showed small improvements in ADHD symptoms, anxiety, autistic symptoms, and problems falling asleep. One-third children who received mindfulness training improved on measures of self-control, Dr. Greven added, compared with just 1 in 10 who got only their usual care.
Benefits were larger and longer-lasting for parents. Compared with parents who didn’t get mindfulness training, those assigned to the mindfulness group improved in self-control, self-compassion, depression, anxiety, stress, well-being, and their own ADHD symptoms. Given a large genetic component to the disorder, it is common for parents of children with ADHD to have a diagnosis or ADHD symptoms as well. In addition, Dr. Greven said, families who completed the mindfulness-based intervention reported improvements in their relationships as well as acceptance of ADHD.
A new therapy?
The findings suggest new potential treatment options for children with ADHD, and for their parents, Dr. Greven said, as well as a need to study the condition more broadly. “Although parents of children with ADHD often have elevated parenting stress, anxiety, or their own ADHD symptoms, usual interventions for children with ADHD do not typically target parental mental health,” she said. “As researchers, we need to go broader than just looking at whether an intervention reduces symptoms and include additional outcomes that families find important.”
It will take more research to find out who is most likely to benefit from mindfulness training and how long those benefits last, but the new study is a useful starting point, experts say.
“Mindfulness training had potentially short-term and long-term beneficial effects to children with ADHD and their parents,” says Samuel Wong, MD, director of the JC School of Public Health and Primary Care at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. He says mindfulness is more likely to become an add-on than a replacement for other kinds of therapies.
“Clinicians may consider combining or adding family-based mindfulness training with current practice for children with ADHD who have residual symptoms with their current treatment,” he said.
Mindfulness training may help with issues beyond the classic symptoms that come with ADHD, Dr. Mitchell said, helping make family life better overall, even when some features of the disorder don’t budge much.
“With this study in particular, we see that we have some pretty promising effects that there may be something that will be beneficial above and beyond the core 18 DSM symptoms,” he said. “This is an important study, because it’s going to be a basis for the continuing evolution of the scientific research on this topic. It’s something to feel excited about.”
A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.
What brought me back from the brink of suicide: A physician’s story
William Lynes, MD, had a flourishing medical practice and a fulfilling family life with three children when he first attempted suicide in 1999 at age 45. By 2003, depression and two more suicide attempts led to his early retirement.
In a session at the recent virtual American Psychiatric Association (APA) 2021 annual meeting, Dr. Lynes talked about the challenges of dealing with depression while managing the stresses of a career in medicine. The session in which he spoke was called, “The Suicidal Physician: Narratives From a Physician Who Survived and the Physician Widow of One Who Did Not.”
By writing and speaking about his experiences, he says, he has been able to retain his identity as a physician and avoid obsessive thoughts about suicide. He hopes conversations like these help other physicians feel less alone and enable them to push past stigmas to get the help they need. He suspects they do. More than 600 people joined the APA session, and Dr. Lynes received dozens of thankful messages afterward.
“I love medicine, but intrinsically, the practice of medicine is stressful, and you can’t get away,” said Dr. Lynes, a retired urologist in Temecula, Calif. “As far as feedback, it made me feel like it’s something I should continue to do.”
A way to heal
For Dr. Lynes, his “downward spiral into darkness” began with a series of catastrophic medical events starting in 1998, when he came home from a family vacation in Mexico feeling unwell. He didn’t bother to do anything about it – typical of a physician, he says. Then one night he woke up shaking with chills and fever. Soon he was in the hospital with respiratory failure from septic shock.
Dr. Lynes spent 6 weeks in the intensive care unit, including 4 weeks on a ventilator. He underwent a tracheostomy. He lost 40 pounds and experienced ICU-related delirium. It was a terrifying time, he said. When he tried to return to work 10 months later, he didn’t feel as though he could function normally.
Having once been a driven doctor who worked long hours, he now doubted himself and dreaded giving patients bad news. Spontaneously, he tried to take his own life.
Afterward, he concealed what had happened from everyone except his wife and managed to resume his practice. However, he was unable to regain the enthusiasm he had once had for his work. Although he had experienced depression before, this time it was unrelenting.
He sought help from a psychiatrist, received a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and began taking medication. Still, he struggled to fulfill his responsibilities. Then in April 2002, he had a snowboarding accident that caused multiple facial fractures and required five operations. When he returned to work this time, he felt like a failure but resisted asking colleagues for help.
A few months later, Dr. Lynes again attempted suicide, which led to another stay in the ICU and more time on a ventilator. Doctors told his family they didn’t think he would survive. When he recovered, he spent time as an inpatient in a psychiatric ward, where he received the first of a series of electroconvulsive therapy sessions. Compounding his anxiety and depression was the inability to come to terms with his life if he were not able to practice medicine.
The next fall, in September 2003, his third suicide attempt took place in his office on a weekend when no one was around. After locking the door, he looked at his reflection in the frame of his medical school diploma. The glass was cracked. “It was dark, it was black, it was cold,” he said. “I can remember seeing my reflection and thinking how disgusted I was.”
For years after that, Dr. Lynes struggled with his sense of self-worth. He hid from the medical system and dreaded doctors’ appointments. Finally in 2016, he found new meaning at a writing conference, where he met a fellow physician whose story was similar to his. She encouraged him to write about his experience. His essay was published in Annals of Internal Medicine that year. “Then I started speaking, and I feel like I’m a physician again,” he said. “That has really healed me quite a bit.”
Why physicians die by suicide
Working in health care can be extremely stressful, even in the best of times, said Michael Myers, MD, a psychiatrist at State University of New York, Brooklyn, and author of the book, “Why Physicians Die By Suicide: Lessons Learned From Their Families and Others Who Cared.”
Years of school and training culminate in a career in which demands are relentless. Societal expectations are high. Many doctors are perfectionists by nature, and physicians tend to feel intense pressure to compete for coveted positions.
Stress starts early in a medical career. A 2016 systematic review and meta-analysis of 183 studies from 43 countries showed that nearly 30% of medical students experienced symptoms of depression and that 11% reported suicidal thoughts, but only 15% sought help.
A 2015 review of 31 studies that involved residents showed that rates of depression remained close to 30% and that about three-quarters of trainees meet criteria for burnout, a type of emotional exhaustion and sense of inadequacy that can result from chronic stress at work.
The stress of medical training appears to be a direct cause of mental health struggles. Rates of depression are higher among those working to become physicians than among their peers of the same age, research shows. In addition, symptoms become more prevalent as people progress through their training.
The COVID-19 pandemic has added stress to an already stressful job. Of more than 2,300 physicians surveyed in August 2020 by the Physicians Foundation, a physicians advocacy organization, 50% indicated that they experienced excessive anger, tearfulness, or anxiety because of the way the pandemic affected their work; 30% felt hopeless or lacking purpose; and 8% had thoughts of self-harm related to the pandemic. Rates of burnout had risen from 40% in 2018 to 58%.
Those problems might be even more acute in places experiencing other types of crises. A 2020 study of 154 emergency department (ED) physicians in Libya, which is in the midst of a civil war, found that 65% were experiencing anxiety, 73% were showing signs of depression, and 68% felt emotionally exhausted.
Every story is different
It is unclear how common suicide is among physicians. One often-repeated estimate is that 300-400 physicians die by suicide each year, but no one is certain how that number was determined, said Dr. Myers, who organized the APA panel.
Studies on suicide are inconsistent, and trends are hard to pinpoint. Anecdotally, he has received just as many calls about physician suicides in the past year as he did before the pandemic started.
Every person is different, and so is every death. Sometimes, career problems have nothing to do with a physician’s suicide, Dr. Myers said. When job stress does play a role, factors are often varied and complex.
After a 35-year career as a double board certified ED physician, Matthew Seaman, MD, retired in January 2017. The same month, a patient filed a complaint against him with the Washington State medical board, which led to an investigation and a lawsuit.
The case was hard on Dr. Seaman, who had continued to work night shifts throughout his career and had won a Hero Award from the American Board of Emergency Medicine, said his wife, Linda Seaman, MD, a family practitioner in Yakima, Wash., who also spoke on the APA panel.
Dr. Seaman said that 2 years after the investigation started, her husband was growing increasingly depressed. In 2019, he testified in a deposition. She said the plaintiff’s attorney “tried every way he could to shame Matt, humiliate Matt, make him believe he was a very bad doctor.” Three days later, he died by suicide at age 62.
Looking back at the year leading up to her husband’s death, Dr. Seaman recognizes multiple obstacles that interfered with her husband’s ability to get help, including frustrating interactions with psychiatrists and the couple’s insurance company.
His identity and experience as a physician also played a role. A couple of months before he died, she tried unsuccessfully to reach his psychiatrist, whose office suggested he go to the ED. However, because he worked as an ED doctor in their small town, he wouldn’t go. Dr. Seaman suspects he was wary of the stigma.
Burnout likely set him up to cave in after decades of work on the front lines, she added. Working in the ED exposes providers to horrific, traumatic cases every day, she said. Physicians learn to suppress their own emotions to deal with what they encounter. Stuffing their feelings can lead to posttraumatic stress. “You just perform,” she said. “You learn to do that.”
A real gift
Whenever Dr. Myers hears stories about doctors who died by suicide or who have written about their mental health struggles to help others, he contacts them. One goal of his own writing and of the conference sessions he organizes is to make it easier for others to share their own stories.
“I tell them, first of all, their courage and honesty is a real gift, and they’re saving lives,” he said. “There are so many suffering doctors out there who think that they’re the only one.”
Public conversations such as those that occurred in the APA session also offer opportunities to share advice, including Dr. Myers’ recommendation that doctors be sure they have a primary care physician of their own.
Many don’t, he says, because they say they are too busy, they can treat their own symptoms, or they can self-refer to specialists when needed. But physicians don’t always recognize symptoms of depression in themselves, and when mental health problems arise, they may not seek help or treat themselves appropriately.
A primary care physician can be the first person to recognize a mental health problem and refer a patient for mental health care, said Dr. Myers, whose latest book, “Becoming a Doctors’ Doctor: A Memoir,” explores his experiences treating doctors with burnout and other mental health problems.
Whether they have a primary care doctor or not, he suggests that physicians talk to anyone they trust – a social worker, a religious leader, or a family member who can then help them find the right sort of care.
In the United States, around-the-clock help is available through the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. A psychiatrist-run hotline specifically for physicians is available at 888-409-0141. “Reach out and get some help,” Dr. Myers said. “Just don’t do it alone.”
Dr. Lynes advocates setting boundaries between life and work. He has also benefited from writing about his experiences. A blog or a diary can help physicians process their feelings, he said. His 2016 essay marked a major turning point in his life, giving his life meaning in helping others.
“Since I wrote that article, I can’t tell you how much better I am,” he said. “Now, I’m not embarrassed to be around physicians. I actually consider myself a physician. I didn’t for many, many years. So, I’m doing pretty well.”
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.
William Lynes, MD, had a flourishing medical practice and a fulfilling family life with three children when he first attempted suicide in 1999 at age 45. By 2003, depression and two more suicide attempts led to his early retirement.
In a session at the recent virtual American Psychiatric Association (APA) 2021 annual meeting, Dr. Lynes talked about the challenges of dealing with depression while managing the stresses of a career in medicine. The session in which he spoke was called, “The Suicidal Physician: Narratives From a Physician Who Survived and the Physician Widow of One Who Did Not.”
By writing and speaking about his experiences, he says, he has been able to retain his identity as a physician and avoid obsessive thoughts about suicide. He hopes conversations like these help other physicians feel less alone and enable them to push past stigmas to get the help they need. He suspects they do. More than 600 people joined the APA session, and Dr. Lynes received dozens of thankful messages afterward.
“I love medicine, but intrinsically, the practice of medicine is stressful, and you can’t get away,” said Dr. Lynes, a retired urologist in Temecula, Calif. “As far as feedback, it made me feel like it’s something I should continue to do.”
A way to heal
For Dr. Lynes, his “downward spiral into darkness” began with a series of catastrophic medical events starting in 1998, when he came home from a family vacation in Mexico feeling unwell. He didn’t bother to do anything about it – typical of a physician, he says. Then one night he woke up shaking with chills and fever. Soon he was in the hospital with respiratory failure from septic shock.
Dr. Lynes spent 6 weeks in the intensive care unit, including 4 weeks on a ventilator. He underwent a tracheostomy. He lost 40 pounds and experienced ICU-related delirium. It was a terrifying time, he said. When he tried to return to work 10 months later, he didn’t feel as though he could function normally.
Having once been a driven doctor who worked long hours, he now doubted himself and dreaded giving patients bad news. Spontaneously, he tried to take his own life.
Afterward, he concealed what had happened from everyone except his wife and managed to resume his practice. However, he was unable to regain the enthusiasm he had once had for his work. Although he had experienced depression before, this time it was unrelenting.
He sought help from a psychiatrist, received a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and began taking medication. Still, he struggled to fulfill his responsibilities. Then in April 2002, he had a snowboarding accident that caused multiple facial fractures and required five operations. When he returned to work this time, he felt like a failure but resisted asking colleagues for help.
A few months later, Dr. Lynes again attempted suicide, which led to another stay in the ICU and more time on a ventilator. Doctors told his family they didn’t think he would survive. When he recovered, he spent time as an inpatient in a psychiatric ward, where he received the first of a series of electroconvulsive therapy sessions. Compounding his anxiety and depression was the inability to come to terms with his life if he were not able to practice medicine.
The next fall, in September 2003, his third suicide attempt took place in his office on a weekend when no one was around. After locking the door, he looked at his reflection in the frame of his medical school diploma. The glass was cracked. “It was dark, it was black, it was cold,” he said. “I can remember seeing my reflection and thinking how disgusted I was.”
For years after that, Dr. Lynes struggled with his sense of self-worth. He hid from the medical system and dreaded doctors’ appointments. Finally in 2016, he found new meaning at a writing conference, where he met a fellow physician whose story was similar to his. She encouraged him to write about his experience. His essay was published in Annals of Internal Medicine that year. “Then I started speaking, and I feel like I’m a physician again,” he said. “That has really healed me quite a bit.”
Why physicians die by suicide
Working in health care can be extremely stressful, even in the best of times, said Michael Myers, MD, a psychiatrist at State University of New York, Brooklyn, and author of the book, “Why Physicians Die By Suicide: Lessons Learned From Their Families and Others Who Cared.”
Years of school and training culminate in a career in which demands are relentless. Societal expectations are high. Many doctors are perfectionists by nature, and physicians tend to feel intense pressure to compete for coveted positions.
Stress starts early in a medical career. A 2016 systematic review and meta-analysis of 183 studies from 43 countries showed that nearly 30% of medical students experienced symptoms of depression and that 11% reported suicidal thoughts, but only 15% sought help.
A 2015 review of 31 studies that involved residents showed that rates of depression remained close to 30% and that about three-quarters of trainees meet criteria for burnout, a type of emotional exhaustion and sense of inadequacy that can result from chronic stress at work.
The stress of medical training appears to be a direct cause of mental health struggles. Rates of depression are higher among those working to become physicians than among their peers of the same age, research shows. In addition, symptoms become more prevalent as people progress through their training.
The COVID-19 pandemic has added stress to an already stressful job. Of more than 2,300 physicians surveyed in August 2020 by the Physicians Foundation, a physicians advocacy organization, 50% indicated that they experienced excessive anger, tearfulness, or anxiety because of the way the pandemic affected their work; 30% felt hopeless or lacking purpose; and 8% had thoughts of self-harm related to the pandemic. Rates of burnout had risen from 40% in 2018 to 58%.
Those problems might be even more acute in places experiencing other types of crises. A 2020 study of 154 emergency department (ED) physicians in Libya, which is in the midst of a civil war, found that 65% were experiencing anxiety, 73% were showing signs of depression, and 68% felt emotionally exhausted.
Every story is different
It is unclear how common suicide is among physicians. One often-repeated estimate is that 300-400 physicians die by suicide each year, but no one is certain how that number was determined, said Dr. Myers, who organized the APA panel.
Studies on suicide are inconsistent, and trends are hard to pinpoint. Anecdotally, he has received just as many calls about physician suicides in the past year as he did before the pandemic started.
Every person is different, and so is every death. Sometimes, career problems have nothing to do with a physician’s suicide, Dr. Myers said. When job stress does play a role, factors are often varied and complex.
After a 35-year career as a double board certified ED physician, Matthew Seaman, MD, retired in January 2017. The same month, a patient filed a complaint against him with the Washington State medical board, which led to an investigation and a lawsuit.
The case was hard on Dr. Seaman, who had continued to work night shifts throughout his career and had won a Hero Award from the American Board of Emergency Medicine, said his wife, Linda Seaman, MD, a family practitioner in Yakima, Wash., who also spoke on the APA panel.
Dr. Seaman said that 2 years after the investigation started, her husband was growing increasingly depressed. In 2019, he testified in a deposition. She said the plaintiff’s attorney “tried every way he could to shame Matt, humiliate Matt, make him believe he was a very bad doctor.” Three days later, he died by suicide at age 62.
Looking back at the year leading up to her husband’s death, Dr. Seaman recognizes multiple obstacles that interfered with her husband’s ability to get help, including frustrating interactions with psychiatrists and the couple’s insurance company.
His identity and experience as a physician also played a role. A couple of months before he died, she tried unsuccessfully to reach his psychiatrist, whose office suggested he go to the ED. However, because he worked as an ED doctor in their small town, he wouldn’t go. Dr. Seaman suspects he was wary of the stigma.
Burnout likely set him up to cave in after decades of work on the front lines, she added. Working in the ED exposes providers to horrific, traumatic cases every day, she said. Physicians learn to suppress their own emotions to deal with what they encounter. Stuffing their feelings can lead to posttraumatic stress. “You just perform,” she said. “You learn to do that.”
A real gift
Whenever Dr. Myers hears stories about doctors who died by suicide or who have written about their mental health struggles to help others, he contacts them. One goal of his own writing and of the conference sessions he organizes is to make it easier for others to share their own stories.
“I tell them, first of all, their courage and honesty is a real gift, and they’re saving lives,” he said. “There are so many suffering doctors out there who think that they’re the only one.”
Public conversations such as those that occurred in the APA session also offer opportunities to share advice, including Dr. Myers’ recommendation that doctors be sure they have a primary care physician of their own.
Many don’t, he says, because they say they are too busy, they can treat their own symptoms, or they can self-refer to specialists when needed. But physicians don’t always recognize symptoms of depression in themselves, and when mental health problems arise, they may not seek help or treat themselves appropriately.
A primary care physician can be the first person to recognize a mental health problem and refer a patient for mental health care, said Dr. Myers, whose latest book, “Becoming a Doctors’ Doctor: A Memoir,” explores his experiences treating doctors with burnout and other mental health problems.
Whether they have a primary care doctor or not, he suggests that physicians talk to anyone they trust – a social worker, a religious leader, or a family member who can then help them find the right sort of care.
In the United States, around-the-clock help is available through the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. A psychiatrist-run hotline specifically for physicians is available at 888-409-0141. “Reach out and get some help,” Dr. Myers said. “Just don’t do it alone.”
Dr. Lynes advocates setting boundaries between life and work. He has also benefited from writing about his experiences. A blog or a diary can help physicians process their feelings, he said. His 2016 essay marked a major turning point in his life, giving his life meaning in helping others.
“Since I wrote that article, I can’t tell you how much better I am,” he said. “Now, I’m not embarrassed to be around physicians. I actually consider myself a physician. I didn’t for many, many years. So, I’m doing pretty well.”
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.
William Lynes, MD, had a flourishing medical practice and a fulfilling family life with three children when he first attempted suicide in 1999 at age 45. By 2003, depression and two more suicide attempts led to his early retirement.
In a session at the recent virtual American Psychiatric Association (APA) 2021 annual meeting, Dr. Lynes talked about the challenges of dealing with depression while managing the stresses of a career in medicine. The session in which he spoke was called, “The Suicidal Physician: Narratives From a Physician Who Survived and the Physician Widow of One Who Did Not.”
By writing and speaking about his experiences, he says, he has been able to retain his identity as a physician and avoid obsessive thoughts about suicide. He hopes conversations like these help other physicians feel less alone and enable them to push past stigmas to get the help they need. He suspects they do. More than 600 people joined the APA session, and Dr. Lynes received dozens of thankful messages afterward.
“I love medicine, but intrinsically, the practice of medicine is stressful, and you can’t get away,” said Dr. Lynes, a retired urologist in Temecula, Calif. “As far as feedback, it made me feel like it’s something I should continue to do.”
A way to heal
For Dr. Lynes, his “downward spiral into darkness” began with a series of catastrophic medical events starting in 1998, when he came home from a family vacation in Mexico feeling unwell. He didn’t bother to do anything about it – typical of a physician, he says. Then one night he woke up shaking with chills and fever. Soon he was in the hospital with respiratory failure from septic shock.
Dr. Lynes spent 6 weeks in the intensive care unit, including 4 weeks on a ventilator. He underwent a tracheostomy. He lost 40 pounds and experienced ICU-related delirium. It was a terrifying time, he said. When he tried to return to work 10 months later, he didn’t feel as though he could function normally.
Having once been a driven doctor who worked long hours, he now doubted himself and dreaded giving patients bad news. Spontaneously, he tried to take his own life.
Afterward, he concealed what had happened from everyone except his wife and managed to resume his practice. However, he was unable to regain the enthusiasm he had once had for his work. Although he had experienced depression before, this time it was unrelenting.
He sought help from a psychiatrist, received a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and began taking medication. Still, he struggled to fulfill his responsibilities. Then in April 2002, he had a snowboarding accident that caused multiple facial fractures and required five operations. When he returned to work this time, he felt like a failure but resisted asking colleagues for help.
A few months later, Dr. Lynes again attempted suicide, which led to another stay in the ICU and more time on a ventilator. Doctors told his family they didn’t think he would survive. When he recovered, he spent time as an inpatient in a psychiatric ward, where he received the first of a series of electroconvulsive therapy sessions. Compounding his anxiety and depression was the inability to come to terms with his life if he were not able to practice medicine.
The next fall, in September 2003, his third suicide attempt took place in his office on a weekend when no one was around. After locking the door, he looked at his reflection in the frame of his medical school diploma. The glass was cracked. “It was dark, it was black, it was cold,” he said. “I can remember seeing my reflection and thinking how disgusted I was.”
For years after that, Dr. Lynes struggled with his sense of self-worth. He hid from the medical system and dreaded doctors’ appointments. Finally in 2016, he found new meaning at a writing conference, where he met a fellow physician whose story was similar to his. She encouraged him to write about his experience. His essay was published in Annals of Internal Medicine that year. “Then I started speaking, and I feel like I’m a physician again,” he said. “That has really healed me quite a bit.”
Why physicians die by suicide
Working in health care can be extremely stressful, even in the best of times, said Michael Myers, MD, a psychiatrist at State University of New York, Brooklyn, and author of the book, “Why Physicians Die By Suicide: Lessons Learned From Their Families and Others Who Cared.”
Years of school and training culminate in a career in which demands are relentless. Societal expectations are high. Many doctors are perfectionists by nature, and physicians tend to feel intense pressure to compete for coveted positions.
Stress starts early in a medical career. A 2016 systematic review and meta-analysis of 183 studies from 43 countries showed that nearly 30% of medical students experienced symptoms of depression and that 11% reported suicidal thoughts, but only 15% sought help.
A 2015 review of 31 studies that involved residents showed that rates of depression remained close to 30% and that about three-quarters of trainees meet criteria for burnout, a type of emotional exhaustion and sense of inadequacy that can result from chronic stress at work.
The stress of medical training appears to be a direct cause of mental health struggles. Rates of depression are higher among those working to become physicians than among their peers of the same age, research shows. In addition, symptoms become more prevalent as people progress through their training.
The COVID-19 pandemic has added stress to an already stressful job. Of more than 2,300 physicians surveyed in August 2020 by the Physicians Foundation, a physicians advocacy organization, 50% indicated that they experienced excessive anger, tearfulness, or anxiety because of the way the pandemic affected their work; 30% felt hopeless or lacking purpose; and 8% had thoughts of self-harm related to the pandemic. Rates of burnout had risen from 40% in 2018 to 58%.
Those problems might be even more acute in places experiencing other types of crises. A 2020 study of 154 emergency department (ED) physicians in Libya, which is in the midst of a civil war, found that 65% were experiencing anxiety, 73% were showing signs of depression, and 68% felt emotionally exhausted.
Every story is different
It is unclear how common suicide is among physicians. One often-repeated estimate is that 300-400 physicians die by suicide each year, but no one is certain how that number was determined, said Dr. Myers, who organized the APA panel.
Studies on suicide are inconsistent, and trends are hard to pinpoint. Anecdotally, he has received just as many calls about physician suicides in the past year as he did before the pandemic started.
Every person is different, and so is every death. Sometimes, career problems have nothing to do with a physician’s suicide, Dr. Myers said. When job stress does play a role, factors are often varied and complex.
After a 35-year career as a double board certified ED physician, Matthew Seaman, MD, retired in January 2017. The same month, a patient filed a complaint against him with the Washington State medical board, which led to an investigation and a lawsuit.
The case was hard on Dr. Seaman, who had continued to work night shifts throughout his career and had won a Hero Award from the American Board of Emergency Medicine, said his wife, Linda Seaman, MD, a family practitioner in Yakima, Wash., who also spoke on the APA panel.
Dr. Seaman said that 2 years after the investigation started, her husband was growing increasingly depressed. In 2019, he testified in a deposition. She said the plaintiff’s attorney “tried every way he could to shame Matt, humiliate Matt, make him believe he was a very bad doctor.” Three days later, he died by suicide at age 62.
Looking back at the year leading up to her husband’s death, Dr. Seaman recognizes multiple obstacles that interfered with her husband’s ability to get help, including frustrating interactions with psychiatrists and the couple’s insurance company.
His identity and experience as a physician also played a role. A couple of months before he died, she tried unsuccessfully to reach his psychiatrist, whose office suggested he go to the ED. However, because he worked as an ED doctor in their small town, he wouldn’t go. Dr. Seaman suspects he was wary of the stigma.
Burnout likely set him up to cave in after decades of work on the front lines, she added. Working in the ED exposes providers to horrific, traumatic cases every day, she said. Physicians learn to suppress their own emotions to deal with what they encounter. Stuffing their feelings can lead to posttraumatic stress. “You just perform,” she said. “You learn to do that.”
A real gift
Whenever Dr. Myers hears stories about doctors who died by suicide or who have written about their mental health struggles to help others, he contacts them. One goal of his own writing and of the conference sessions he organizes is to make it easier for others to share their own stories.
“I tell them, first of all, their courage and honesty is a real gift, and they’re saving lives,” he said. “There are so many suffering doctors out there who think that they’re the only one.”
Public conversations such as those that occurred in the APA session also offer opportunities to share advice, including Dr. Myers’ recommendation that doctors be sure they have a primary care physician of their own.
Many don’t, he says, because they say they are too busy, they can treat their own symptoms, or they can self-refer to specialists when needed. But physicians don’t always recognize symptoms of depression in themselves, and when mental health problems arise, they may not seek help or treat themselves appropriately.
A primary care physician can be the first person to recognize a mental health problem and refer a patient for mental health care, said Dr. Myers, whose latest book, “Becoming a Doctors’ Doctor: A Memoir,” explores his experiences treating doctors with burnout and other mental health problems.
Whether they have a primary care doctor or not, he suggests that physicians talk to anyone they trust – a social worker, a religious leader, or a family member who can then help them find the right sort of care.
In the United States, around-the-clock help is available through the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. A psychiatrist-run hotline specifically for physicians is available at 888-409-0141. “Reach out and get some help,” Dr. Myers said. “Just don’t do it alone.”
Dr. Lynes advocates setting boundaries between life and work. He has also benefited from writing about his experiences. A blog or a diary can help physicians process their feelings, he said. His 2016 essay marked a major turning point in his life, giving his life meaning in helping others.
“Since I wrote that article, I can’t tell you how much better I am,” he said. “Now, I’m not embarrassed to be around physicians. I actually consider myself a physician. I didn’t for many, many years. So, I’m doing pretty well.”
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.
COVID and med ed cost: Are future docs paying more for less?
Like most medical students, Kaitlyn Thomas’s education was abruptly interrupted by the pandemic. Her school, an osteopathic medicine institution in the Midwest, followed guidelines issued by the American Association of Medical Colleges in March, shifting lectures online and suspending activities in which students interacted with patients. But even as Ms. Thomas’s learning opportunities dwindled for the sake of safety, the costs kept piling up.
Instead of going home to live with her family, she stayed in her apartment near school – and kept paying rent – so she could be nearby for the two licensing exams she was scheduled to take 3 months later. Both tests were canceled 9 days before she was scheduled to take them, one without any notification. This meant she had to travel to two different testing sites in two different states. All told, she said, the whole thing cost her around $2,000.
Ms. Thomas’s experience isn’t rare. Across the country, medical students find themselves paying substantial costs for a medical education now greatly altered by the pandemic. Despite restrictions on time spent in hospitals, hands-on learning, social events, and access to libraries, gyms, study spaces, and instructors, the price of tuition hasn’t dropped but has remained the same or has even risen.
In response, students have become vocal about the return on their pricey investment. “Am I just going to end up doing most of my year online, and what does that look like for my future patients?” Ms. Thomas asked. “It really doesn’t feel like a time to be limiting education.”
Medical schools and administrators are scrambling to find creative solutions for safely educating students. No matter what those solutions may be, experts say, the pandemic has drawn fresh attention to enduring questions about how the cost of medical education compares to its value. Although many are frustrated, some see the potential for COVID to open new opportunities for lasting innovation. At the very least, the pandemic has sparked conversations about what matters most in terms of producing qualified physicians.
“While this is a challenging time, we will get through it, and we will continue to educate doctors, and we will get them through to practice,” says Robert Cain, president and CEO of the American Association of Colleges of Osteopathic Medicine. Many in the midst of training still have one lingering question: Is the price future doctors are now paying still worth it?
COVID’s “hidden costs” for students
Tom is a third-year student at an allopathic medicine institution in the Caribbean. He asked not to be fully identified here, owing to concern about possible backlash. In March, Tom was doing clinical rotations in New York City when his training was put on hold. He returned home to Connecticut and resumed working 60-80 hours a week as a paramedic. As much as 75% of that income went to pay for the New York City apartment he was no longer living in – an apartment that cost more than $2,000 a month – and for student loans that suddenly came due when his enrollment status changed.
Tom has been able to take some online courses through his school. But he still doesn’t know whether state licensing boards will accept them, how residency programs will view them, or whether he will eventually have to retake those online classes in person. At the end of September, he was allowed to return to the hospital but was relocated to Chicago and was forced to move on short notice.
Like many students, Tom has worried that the pandemic may prevent him from acquiring crucial elements for his residency applications, things like letters of recommendation or key experiences. That could delay his next stage of training, which would mean lost future income, increasing student loan interest, and lost work experience. “This could also mean the difference between getting a residency and being able to practice medicine and not being able to practice my intended specialty,” he said. “This is the real hidden cost we may have to deal with.”
International medical students hoping to practice in the United States face additional costs. Michelle Warncke earned her bachelor’s degree in America but went to the United Kingdom for her master’s and her medical degree, which she completed in 2019. She then moved to North Carolina with her husband and saved money to take the exams she needed for residency in the states. But her scheduled Step 2 CS exam was canceled because of the pandemic. Now, like hundreds or even thousands of other students, she said she is unable to apply for residency, even as her student loans collect interest. An active Facebook group of international medical graduates includes about 1,500 people with comparable dilemmas.
The path to becoming a physician carries a well-known price tag, one that is already quite high. Now, for many, that price is substantially increasing. “The only way I can actually keep my medical credentials up to date and passable, to be able to ever get a shot at a residency in the following years,” she said, “is to move to another country and work for less pay, pay for a visa, pay for my exams, pay for my language test, and wait and hope that I might be able to as an older graduate then be able to apply for residency.”
Scaling back the price of med school?
Questions about the economics of medical education aren’t new, says David Asch, MD, MBA, an internal medicine physician and executive director of the Center for Health Care Innovation at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. But the changes forced by COVID could lead to innovations that may finally better balance the financial scales.
Such innovations are necessary, many say, given how medical education costs have skyrocketed over the past half century. In the 1960s, 4 years of medical school cost about $40,000 in today’s dollars, Dr. Asch and colleagues wrote in a 2020 analysis, which they conducted before the pandemic began. By 2018, the price of a medical education in the United States had ballooned to about $300,000. About 75% of students were taking out loans. Upon graduating, the average debt was $200,000.
Medical school is expensive for many tangible reasons, Dr. Asch said. Schools must pay for curriculum, faculty, technology, textbooks, lab materials, facilities, administrators, and more. But policy changes could decrease those costs.
He says one idea would be for medical schools to join forces and give students access to the same basic lectures in the early years, delivered online by top-notch instructors. Students could then participate in on-campus programs that might only require 3 years to complete instead of 4. By demonstrating what can be done via online platforms, he said, the pandemic might pave the way to permanent changes that could reduce costs.
“I’m not trying to pick on biochemistry professors and medical schools, but how many do we need in the country?” Dr. Asch asked. “We’re all watching the same episode of Seinfeld. Why can’t we all watch the same episode of the Krebs cycle?” If all 190 or so medical schools in the United States shared such preclinical courses, he says, each would require a fraction of the current cost to produce. “We could save 99.5% of the cost. So why don’t we do that?”
Pandemic as opportunity
Although the price of medical education has yet to decrease, schools are working to leverage the pandemic to provide increased educational value.
This generation of physicians will not only have to cope with the fallout of this pandemic, they will be the ones responsible for confronting the next pandemic as well, says Donald Brady, MD, senior associate dean for health sciences education at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tenn. “They will be the leaders in the future who will better be able to know how to handle it [a pandemic] because they were able to watch it and be part of it safely in the current circumstance.”
As much as possible, Vanderbilt is using the pandemic as an opportunity. As soon as it became clear that students couldn’t be involved in certain hands-on training, instructors developed a course about pandemics that included lectures on ethics, global health, systemic racism, and other topics. It also included experiential components of pandemic management, such as opportunities to work with patients through telehealth.
Students say they feel that they are getting less for their money and that they are paying for experiences that are no longer available, such as hands-on patient contact and community events. However, Dr. Brady said, schools have had to account for new expenses, including various now-required technologies and transitioning to courses online.
Some challenges can’t be solved with money alone. Medical schools across the country are working together to ensure that they are still adequately preparing students. Vanderbilt participates in an AAMC group that meets regularly and is also one of 37 institutions involved in an American Medical Association Consortium (AACOM). These groups discuss challenges, strategies, and opportunities for optimizing medical education during the pandemic.
Some institutions have come up with creative solutions. Ohio University’s Heritage College of Osteopathic Medicine, in Athens, Ohio, in collaboration with the Ohio Department of Health, launched a 4-week rotation for third-year students that focuses on public health. Harvard Medical School, Boston, was one of several schools that allowed students to graduate early in the spring. “We’re constantly talking to our colleagues and friends,” Dr. Brady said. “We learn from each other. There’s a lot of sharing going on.”
Other organizations are also working to make sure students ultimately get what they are paying for: a high-quality education. As soon as the pandemic began, the AACOM organized four working groups to address how schools could better use technology to deliver curricula and how students could participate in public health efforts, among other topics. “For the students, the part they don’t see and can’t really be aware of is all the things that happen behind the scenes,” Mr. Cain said. “People were working really hard to make sure that their education was still delivered, and delivered in a way that was going to assure a good product at the end.”
Ultimately, that product will be held to a rigid standard, said Geoffrey Young, the AAMC’s senior director for student affairs and programs. Medical schools must still meet standards of competency set by the liaison committee on medical education. Mr. Young says that even now those standards remain rigorous enough to ensure that medical students are learning what they need to know. “The core elements for competency may be slightly altered to address the realities that we’re experiencing because of COVID, but the core tenants of competencies will not change,” he said.
Even as conversations continue about what a medical education is worth, the pandemic is drawing new attention to the profession. No signs suggest that the value of tuition or a shift to more virtual offerings are scaring students away. Applications for medical schools were up 17% for the fall of 2021.
Brady expects the surge in interest to continue. “The increased focus and emphasis on public health, the increased focus and emphasis on health equity, the increased focus on the need for a more diverse physician workforce, the interest in basic science research around viruses, the interest in COVID itself – there are a lot of different elements that are setting us up for a potential boom in applications to medical school,” he said.
Beyond increasing interest, the pandemic may also finally force a reckoning on the disconnection between how schools think about costs and how students think about value, Dr. Asch said. “When students say: ‘I’m not getting as much from this,’ they’re saying, ‘you should price this according to its lower value.’ And when the medical schools are saying: ‘Oh, but it’s costing us so much more,’ they’re talking about pricing according to the cost. It’s like one group is speaking Latin and the other group is speaking Greek.” Perhaps, he said, COVID-related changes will finally get them speaking the same language.
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
Like most medical students, Kaitlyn Thomas’s education was abruptly interrupted by the pandemic. Her school, an osteopathic medicine institution in the Midwest, followed guidelines issued by the American Association of Medical Colleges in March, shifting lectures online and suspending activities in which students interacted with patients. But even as Ms. Thomas’s learning opportunities dwindled for the sake of safety, the costs kept piling up.
Instead of going home to live with her family, she stayed in her apartment near school – and kept paying rent – so she could be nearby for the two licensing exams she was scheduled to take 3 months later. Both tests were canceled 9 days before she was scheduled to take them, one without any notification. This meant she had to travel to two different testing sites in two different states. All told, she said, the whole thing cost her around $2,000.
Ms. Thomas’s experience isn’t rare. Across the country, medical students find themselves paying substantial costs for a medical education now greatly altered by the pandemic. Despite restrictions on time spent in hospitals, hands-on learning, social events, and access to libraries, gyms, study spaces, and instructors, the price of tuition hasn’t dropped but has remained the same or has even risen.
In response, students have become vocal about the return on their pricey investment. “Am I just going to end up doing most of my year online, and what does that look like for my future patients?” Ms. Thomas asked. “It really doesn’t feel like a time to be limiting education.”
Medical schools and administrators are scrambling to find creative solutions for safely educating students. No matter what those solutions may be, experts say, the pandemic has drawn fresh attention to enduring questions about how the cost of medical education compares to its value. Although many are frustrated, some see the potential for COVID to open new opportunities for lasting innovation. At the very least, the pandemic has sparked conversations about what matters most in terms of producing qualified physicians.
“While this is a challenging time, we will get through it, and we will continue to educate doctors, and we will get them through to practice,” says Robert Cain, president and CEO of the American Association of Colleges of Osteopathic Medicine. Many in the midst of training still have one lingering question: Is the price future doctors are now paying still worth it?
COVID’s “hidden costs” for students
Tom is a third-year student at an allopathic medicine institution in the Caribbean. He asked not to be fully identified here, owing to concern about possible backlash. In March, Tom was doing clinical rotations in New York City when his training was put on hold. He returned home to Connecticut and resumed working 60-80 hours a week as a paramedic. As much as 75% of that income went to pay for the New York City apartment he was no longer living in – an apartment that cost more than $2,000 a month – and for student loans that suddenly came due when his enrollment status changed.
Tom has been able to take some online courses through his school. But he still doesn’t know whether state licensing boards will accept them, how residency programs will view them, or whether he will eventually have to retake those online classes in person. At the end of September, he was allowed to return to the hospital but was relocated to Chicago and was forced to move on short notice.
Like many students, Tom has worried that the pandemic may prevent him from acquiring crucial elements for his residency applications, things like letters of recommendation or key experiences. That could delay his next stage of training, which would mean lost future income, increasing student loan interest, and lost work experience. “This could also mean the difference between getting a residency and being able to practice medicine and not being able to practice my intended specialty,” he said. “This is the real hidden cost we may have to deal with.”
International medical students hoping to practice in the United States face additional costs. Michelle Warncke earned her bachelor’s degree in America but went to the United Kingdom for her master’s and her medical degree, which she completed in 2019. She then moved to North Carolina with her husband and saved money to take the exams she needed for residency in the states. But her scheduled Step 2 CS exam was canceled because of the pandemic. Now, like hundreds or even thousands of other students, she said she is unable to apply for residency, even as her student loans collect interest. An active Facebook group of international medical graduates includes about 1,500 people with comparable dilemmas.
The path to becoming a physician carries a well-known price tag, one that is already quite high. Now, for many, that price is substantially increasing. “The only way I can actually keep my medical credentials up to date and passable, to be able to ever get a shot at a residency in the following years,” she said, “is to move to another country and work for less pay, pay for a visa, pay for my exams, pay for my language test, and wait and hope that I might be able to as an older graduate then be able to apply for residency.”
Scaling back the price of med school?
Questions about the economics of medical education aren’t new, says David Asch, MD, MBA, an internal medicine physician and executive director of the Center for Health Care Innovation at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. But the changes forced by COVID could lead to innovations that may finally better balance the financial scales.
Such innovations are necessary, many say, given how medical education costs have skyrocketed over the past half century. In the 1960s, 4 years of medical school cost about $40,000 in today’s dollars, Dr. Asch and colleagues wrote in a 2020 analysis, which they conducted before the pandemic began. By 2018, the price of a medical education in the United States had ballooned to about $300,000. About 75% of students were taking out loans. Upon graduating, the average debt was $200,000.
Medical school is expensive for many tangible reasons, Dr. Asch said. Schools must pay for curriculum, faculty, technology, textbooks, lab materials, facilities, administrators, and more. But policy changes could decrease those costs.
He says one idea would be for medical schools to join forces and give students access to the same basic lectures in the early years, delivered online by top-notch instructors. Students could then participate in on-campus programs that might only require 3 years to complete instead of 4. By demonstrating what can be done via online platforms, he said, the pandemic might pave the way to permanent changes that could reduce costs.
“I’m not trying to pick on biochemistry professors and medical schools, but how many do we need in the country?” Dr. Asch asked. “We’re all watching the same episode of Seinfeld. Why can’t we all watch the same episode of the Krebs cycle?” If all 190 or so medical schools in the United States shared such preclinical courses, he says, each would require a fraction of the current cost to produce. “We could save 99.5% of the cost. So why don’t we do that?”
Pandemic as opportunity
Although the price of medical education has yet to decrease, schools are working to leverage the pandemic to provide increased educational value.
This generation of physicians will not only have to cope with the fallout of this pandemic, they will be the ones responsible for confronting the next pandemic as well, says Donald Brady, MD, senior associate dean for health sciences education at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tenn. “They will be the leaders in the future who will better be able to know how to handle it [a pandemic] because they were able to watch it and be part of it safely in the current circumstance.”
As much as possible, Vanderbilt is using the pandemic as an opportunity. As soon as it became clear that students couldn’t be involved in certain hands-on training, instructors developed a course about pandemics that included lectures on ethics, global health, systemic racism, and other topics. It also included experiential components of pandemic management, such as opportunities to work with patients through telehealth.
Students say they feel that they are getting less for their money and that they are paying for experiences that are no longer available, such as hands-on patient contact and community events. However, Dr. Brady said, schools have had to account for new expenses, including various now-required technologies and transitioning to courses online.
Some challenges can’t be solved with money alone. Medical schools across the country are working together to ensure that they are still adequately preparing students. Vanderbilt participates in an AAMC group that meets regularly and is also one of 37 institutions involved in an American Medical Association Consortium (AACOM). These groups discuss challenges, strategies, and opportunities for optimizing medical education during the pandemic.
Some institutions have come up with creative solutions. Ohio University’s Heritage College of Osteopathic Medicine, in Athens, Ohio, in collaboration with the Ohio Department of Health, launched a 4-week rotation for third-year students that focuses on public health. Harvard Medical School, Boston, was one of several schools that allowed students to graduate early in the spring. “We’re constantly talking to our colleagues and friends,” Dr. Brady said. “We learn from each other. There’s a lot of sharing going on.”
Other organizations are also working to make sure students ultimately get what they are paying for: a high-quality education. As soon as the pandemic began, the AACOM organized four working groups to address how schools could better use technology to deliver curricula and how students could participate in public health efforts, among other topics. “For the students, the part they don’t see and can’t really be aware of is all the things that happen behind the scenes,” Mr. Cain said. “People were working really hard to make sure that their education was still delivered, and delivered in a way that was going to assure a good product at the end.”
Ultimately, that product will be held to a rigid standard, said Geoffrey Young, the AAMC’s senior director for student affairs and programs. Medical schools must still meet standards of competency set by the liaison committee on medical education. Mr. Young says that even now those standards remain rigorous enough to ensure that medical students are learning what they need to know. “The core elements for competency may be slightly altered to address the realities that we’re experiencing because of COVID, but the core tenants of competencies will not change,” he said.
Even as conversations continue about what a medical education is worth, the pandemic is drawing new attention to the profession. No signs suggest that the value of tuition or a shift to more virtual offerings are scaring students away. Applications for medical schools were up 17% for the fall of 2021.
Brady expects the surge in interest to continue. “The increased focus and emphasis on public health, the increased focus and emphasis on health equity, the increased focus on the need for a more diverse physician workforce, the interest in basic science research around viruses, the interest in COVID itself – there are a lot of different elements that are setting us up for a potential boom in applications to medical school,” he said.
Beyond increasing interest, the pandemic may also finally force a reckoning on the disconnection between how schools think about costs and how students think about value, Dr. Asch said. “When students say: ‘I’m not getting as much from this,’ they’re saying, ‘you should price this according to its lower value.’ And when the medical schools are saying: ‘Oh, but it’s costing us so much more,’ they’re talking about pricing according to the cost. It’s like one group is speaking Latin and the other group is speaking Greek.” Perhaps, he said, COVID-related changes will finally get them speaking the same language.
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
Like most medical students, Kaitlyn Thomas’s education was abruptly interrupted by the pandemic. Her school, an osteopathic medicine institution in the Midwest, followed guidelines issued by the American Association of Medical Colleges in March, shifting lectures online and suspending activities in which students interacted with patients. But even as Ms. Thomas’s learning opportunities dwindled for the sake of safety, the costs kept piling up.
Instead of going home to live with her family, she stayed in her apartment near school – and kept paying rent – so she could be nearby for the two licensing exams she was scheduled to take 3 months later. Both tests were canceled 9 days before she was scheduled to take them, one without any notification. This meant she had to travel to two different testing sites in two different states. All told, she said, the whole thing cost her around $2,000.
Ms. Thomas’s experience isn’t rare. Across the country, medical students find themselves paying substantial costs for a medical education now greatly altered by the pandemic. Despite restrictions on time spent in hospitals, hands-on learning, social events, and access to libraries, gyms, study spaces, and instructors, the price of tuition hasn’t dropped but has remained the same or has even risen.
In response, students have become vocal about the return on their pricey investment. “Am I just going to end up doing most of my year online, and what does that look like for my future patients?” Ms. Thomas asked. “It really doesn’t feel like a time to be limiting education.”
Medical schools and administrators are scrambling to find creative solutions for safely educating students. No matter what those solutions may be, experts say, the pandemic has drawn fresh attention to enduring questions about how the cost of medical education compares to its value. Although many are frustrated, some see the potential for COVID to open new opportunities for lasting innovation. At the very least, the pandemic has sparked conversations about what matters most in terms of producing qualified physicians.
“While this is a challenging time, we will get through it, and we will continue to educate doctors, and we will get them through to practice,” says Robert Cain, president and CEO of the American Association of Colleges of Osteopathic Medicine. Many in the midst of training still have one lingering question: Is the price future doctors are now paying still worth it?
COVID’s “hidden costs” for students
Tom is a third-year student at an allopathic medicine institution in the Caribbean. He asked not to be fully identified here, owing to concern about possible backlash. In March, Tom was doing clinical rotations in New York City when his training was put on hold. He returned home to Connecticut and resumed working 60-80 hours a week as a paramedic. As much as 75% of that income went to pay for the New York City apartment he was no longer living in – an apartment that cost more than $2,000 a month – and for student loans that suddenly came due when his enrollment status changed.
Tom has been able to take some online courses through his school. But he still doesn’t know whether state licensing boards will accept them, how residency programs will view them, or whether he will eventually have to retake those online classes in person. At the end of September, he was allowed to return to the hospital but was relocated to Chicago and was forced to move on short notice.
Like many students, Tom has worried that the pandemic may prevent him from acquiring crucial elements for his residency applications, things like letters of recommendation or key experiences. That could delay his next stage of training, which would mean lost future income, increasing student loan interest, and lost work experience. “This could also mean the difference between getting a residency and being able to practice medicine and not being able to practice my intended specialty,” he said. “This is the real hidden cost we may have to deal with.”
International medical students hoping to practice in the United States face additional costs. Michelle Warncke earned her bachelor’s degree in America but went to the United Kingdom for her master’s and her medical degree, which she completed in 2019. She then moved to North Carolina with her husband and saved money to take the exams she needed for residency in the states. But her scheduled Step 2 CS exam was canceled because of the pandemic. Now, like hundreds or even thousands of other students, she said she is unable to apply for residency, even as her student loans collect interest. An active Facebook group of international medical graduates includes about 1,500 people with comparable dilemmas.
The path to becoming a physician carries a well-known price tag, one that is already quite high. Now, for many, that price is substantially increasing. “The only way I can actually keep my medical credentials up to date and passable, to be able to ever get a shot at a residency in the following years,” she said, “is to move to another country and work for less pay, pay for a visa, pay for my exams, pay for my language test, and wait and hope that I might be able to as an older graduate then be able to apply for residency.”
Scaling back the price of med school?
Questions about the economics of medical education aren’t new, says David Asch, MD, MBA, an internal medicine physician and executive director of the Center for Health Care Innovation at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. But the changes forced by COVID could lead to innovations that may finally better balance the financial scales.
Such innovations are necessary, many say, given how medical education costs have skyrocketed over the past half century. In the 1960s, 4 years of medical school cost about $40,000 in today’s dollars, Dr. Asch and colleagues wrote in a 2020 analysis, which they conducted before the pandemic began. By 2018, the price of a medical education in the United States had ballooned to about $300,000. About 75% of students were taking out loans. Upon graduating, the average debt was $200,000.
Medical school is expensive for many tangible reasons, Dr. Asch said. Schools must pay for curriculum, faculty, technology, textbooks, lab materials, facilities, administrators, and more. But policy changes could decrease those costs.
He says one idea would be for medical schools to join forces and give students access to the same basic lectures in the early years, delivered online by top-notch instructors. Students could then participate in on-campus programs that might only require 3 years to complete instead of 4. By demonstrating what can be done via online platforms, he said, the pandemic might pave the way to permanent changes that could reduce costs.
“I’m not trying to pick on biochemistry professors and medical schools, but how many do we need in the country?” Dr. Asch asked. “We’re all watching the same episode of Seinfeld. Why can’t we all watch the same episode of the Krebs cycle?” If all 190 or so medical schools in the United States shared such preclinical courses, he says, each would require a fraction of the current cost to produce. “We could save 99.5% of the cost. So why don’t we do that?”
Pandemic as opportunity
Although the price of medical education has yet to decrease, schools are working to leverage the pandemic to provide increased educational value.
This generation of physicians will not only have to cope with the fallout of this pandemic, they will be the ones responsible for confronting the next pandemic as well, says Donald Brady, MD, senior associate dean for health sciences education at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tenn. “They will be the leaders in the future who will better be able to know how to handle it [a pandemic] because they were able to watch it and be part of it safely in the current circumstance.”
As much as possible, Vanderbilt is using the pandemic as an opportunity. As soon as it became clear that students couldn’t be involved in certain hands-on training, instructors developed a course about pandemics that included lectures on ethics, global health, systemic racism, and other topics. It also included experiential components of pandemic management, such as opportunities to work with patients through telehealth.
Students say they feel that they are getting less for their money and that they are paying for experiences that are no longer available, such as hands-on patient contact and community events. However, Dr. Brady said, schools have had to account for new expenses, including various now-required technologies and transitioning to courses online.
Some challenges can’t be solved with money alone. Medical schools across the country are working together to ensure that they are still adequately preparing students. Vanderbilt participates in an AAMC group that meets regularly and is also one of 37 institutions involved in an American Medical Association Consortium (AACOM). These groups discuss challenges, strategies, and opportunities for optimizing medical education during the pandemic.
Some institutions have come up with creative solutions. Ohio University’s Heritage College of Osteopathic Medicine, in Athens, Ohio, in collaboration with the Ohio Department of Health, launched a 4-week rotation for third-year students that focuses on public health. Harvard Medical School, Boston, was one of several schools that allowed students to graduate early in the spring. “We’re constantly talking to our colleagues and friends,” Dr. Brady said. “We learn from each other. There’s a lot of sharing going on.”
Other organizations are also working to make sure students ultimately get what they are paying for: a high-quality education. As soon as the pandemic began, the AACOM organized four working groups to address how schools could better use technology to deliver curricula and how students could participate in public health efforts, among other topics. “For the students, the part they don’t see and can’t really be aware of is all the things that happen behind the scenes,” Mr. Cain said. “People were working really hard to make sure that their education was still delivered, and delivered in a way that was going to assure a good product at the end.”
Ultimately, that product will be held to a rigid standard, said Geoffrey Young, the AAMC’s senior director for student affairs and programs. Medical schools must still meet standards of competency set by the liaison committee on medical education. Mr. Young says that even now those standards remain rigorous enough to ensure that medical students are learning what they need to know. “The core elements for competency may be slightly altered to address the realities that we’re experiencing because of COVID, but the core tenants of competencies will not change,” he said.
Even as conversations continue about what a medical education is worth, the pandemic is drawing new attention to the profession. No signs suggest that the value of tuition or a shift to more virtual offerings are scaring students away. Applications for medical schools were up 17% for the fall of 2021.
Brady expects the surge in interest to continue. “The increased focus and emphasis on public health, the increased focus and emphasis on health equity, the increased focus on the need for a more diverse physician workforce, the interest in basic science research around viruses, the interest in COVID itself – there are a lot of different elements that are setting us up for a potential boom in applications to medical school,” he said.
Beyond increasing interest, the pandemic may also finally force a reckoning on the disconnection between how schools think about costs and how students think about value, Dr. Asch said. “When students say: ‘I’m not getting as much from this,’ they’re saying, ‘you should price this according to its lower value.’ And when the medical schools are saying: ‘Oh, but it’s costing us so much more,’ they’re talking about pricing according to the cost. It’s like one group is speaking Latin and the other group is speaking Greek.” Perhaps, he said, COVID-related changes will finally get them speaking the same language.
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
Facebook $52M settlement flags need to screen for vicarious trauma
The images are graphic, disturbing, and endless, said a former Facebook employee. Her job as a content moderator required that she review and remove disturbing posts. That work, she claimed in a lawsuit, caused her to suffer serious psychological trauma.
In September 2018, she filed a complaint with the Superior Court of California.
“Every day, Facebook users post millions of videos, images, and livestream broadcasts of child sexual abuse, rape, torture, bestiality, beheadings, suicide, and murder,” reads the complaint. “By requiring its content moderators to work in dangerous conditions that cause debilitating physical and psychological harm, Facebook violates California law.”
In May, Facebook settled the case, agreeing to pay $52 million to content moderators to compensate them for the consequences their work had on their mental health. The settlement was the first to officially recognize the psychological toll of exposure to disturbing material resulting from online moderator jobs. It also highlights an emerging understanding of vicarious trauma.
Also known as secondary trauma, vicarious trauma can result from exposure to images, stories, or accounts that someone does not directly experience, said Françoise Mathieu, MEd, CCC, RP, a compassion fatigue specialist and executive director of TEND, a company in Kingston, Ont., that offers resources and training for people who work in high-stress, trauma-exposed workplaces.
Secondary trauma can affect people much as any other kind of intensely stressful experience. “What I can tell you as a specialist is that trauma is trauma,” Mathieu said. “Our brain doesn’t necessarily know the difference.”
The potential for vicarious trauma has long been recognized as a risk for journalists, health care providers, and anyone who watches television coverage of a disaster. Only recently, Mathieu said, have researchers started to investigate the psychological impact of jobs that require people to look at extreme, graphic, or disturbing images.
Physical fallout
In a 2017 study of digital forensic examiners, researchers found that examiners who worked on cases involving sexual crimes against children were at elevated risk of developing secondary trauma.
However, the exploratory study did not quantify the risks, and the study investigators concluded that more research is needed to understand how best to help people deal with PTSD resulting from working in the criminal justice system.
Content moderation requires sifting through upsetting images, and people can react in different ways to the task, says Anthony Ng, MD, a psychiatrist at Hartford (Conn.) Healthcare in Mansfield Center.
Dr. Ng says some individuals may become emotionally numb in order to protect themselves. Others might relate to what they are seeing, either because of their own life circumstances or because of experiences they have had in the past. For example, individuals might think: “I could see that kid being my son, I could see that woman who was assaulted as my wife who got beaten up”
that ramps up activity in an area of the brain called the locus coeruleus, Dr. Ng said.
Heart rate rises. Breathing rate goes up. Muscles become tense. If a threat occurs once and then dissipates, the body can often recover a state of calm. However, when that threat is part of the daily workday, it can cause chronic harm to mental and physical health. Unlike with direct, or primary, trauma, he adds, secondary trauma can take a while to become symptomatic.
“Your heart is not designed to be constantly pumping at a high rate,” Dr. Ng says. “We just can’t sustain that for long periods of time without starting to develop stress reactions.”
Under the radar
Some types of work appear to confer greater risk for trauma than others. Overall, estimates show that up to 8% of the U.S. population will develop PTSD at some point in their lives, Ms. Mathieu said.
For police officers, the rate is 15%. According to reporting by The Verge, lawyers in the Facebook lawsuit cited vicarious trauma rates of up to 50% among content moderators.
There are multiple reasons why content moderators suffer such high rates of mental health problems, Ms. Mathieu said. Content moderation is a low-paying, thankless, and solo job that can seem never-ending, she said.
Furthermore, content moderators are generally uninformed about the psychological risks associated with their occupation. They aren’t given the time to process what they are exposed to and generally don’t feel recognized or appreciated for the work they do.
That makes their jobs different from those of people such as law enforcement officers who investigate Internet crimes. For people pursuing justice, a sense of unity can counterbalance the exposure to tough imagery and information.
Going forward, Ms. Mathieu said, the only way to make content moderation safer is to institute changes such as better pay, more flexible schedules to allow breaks from exposure, and access to mental health professionals who can help employees process what they have seen.
Climate of fear
“This can’t be a climate of fear where people are afraid to ask for help,” Ms. Mathieu said. “They are really important jobs, but people need to feel that they are safe in expressing when it’s impacting them so that they’re not worried that they’re actually going to lose their work.”
It would help if content moderators received evidence-based guidance to help process their experiences, Ms. Mathieu added. However, to avoid doing more harm than good, debriefing has to be administered correctly.
For example, a method called “critical incident stress debriefing,” a longstanding approach that research has shown can do more harm than good, is still widely used in law enforcement agencies. The technique requires individuals to talk about their traumatic experience immediately after it happens, which can cause retraumatization.
Instead, Dr. Ng recommended a more self-aware approach called low-impact debriefing. The method involves strategies such as giving fair warning, asking for consent from listeners, and being selective about the details shared.
Employees should also be taught to recognize and report early signs and symptoms so that they can seek help before psychological distress becomes overwhelming, Dr. Ng says.
Plenty of moderators do not develop PTSD, he said, despite their exposure to upsetting imagery. This suggests an important avenue for research – understanding what makes some people resilient, even in the face of graphic and disturbing stressors.
A version of this story originally appeared on Medscape.com.
The images are graphic, disturbing, and endless, said a former Facebook employee. Her job as a content moderator required that she review and remove disturbing posts. That work, she claimed in a lawsuit, caused her to suffer serious psychological trauma.
In September 2018, she filed a complaint with the Superior Court of California.
“Every day, Facebook users post millions of videos, images, and livestream broadcasts of child sexual abuse, rape, torture, bestiality, beheadings, suicide, and murder,” reads the complaint. “By requiring its content moderators to work in dangerous conditions that cause debilitating physical and psychological harm, Facebook violates California law.”
In May, Facebook settled the case, agreeing to pay $52 million to content moderators to compensate them for the consequences their work had on their mental health. The settlement was the first to officially recognize the psychological toll of exposure to disturbing material resulting from online moderator jobs. It also highlights an emerging understanding of vicarious trauma.
Also known as secondary trauma, vicarious trauma can result from exposure to images, stories, or accounts that someone does not directly experience, said Françoise Mathieu, MEd, CCC, RP, a compassion fatigue specialist and executive director of TEND, a company in Kingston, Ont., that offers resources and training for people who work in high-stress, trauma-exposed workplaces.
Secondary trauma can affect people much as any other kind of intensely stressful experience. “What I can tell you as a specialist is that trauma is trauma,” Mathieu said. “Our brain doesn’t necessarily know the difference.”
The potential for vicarious trauma has long been recognized as a risk for journalists, health care providers, and anyone who watches television coverage of a disaster. Only recently, Mathieu said, have researchers started to investigate the psychological impact of jobs that require people to look at extreme, graphic, or disturbing images.
Physical fallout
In a 2017 study of digital forensic examiners, researchers found that examiners who worked on cases involving sexual crimes against children were at elevated risk of developing secondary trauma.
However, the exploratory study did not quantify the risks, and the study investigators concluded that more research is needed to understand how best to help people deal with PTSD resulting from working in the criminal justice system.
Content moderation requires sifting through upsetting images, and people can react in different ways to the task, says Anthony Ng, MD, a psychiatrist at Hartford (Conn.) Healthcare in Mansfield Center.
Dr. Ng says some individuals may become emotionally numb in order to protect themselves. Others might relate to what they are seeing, either because of their own life circumstances or because of experiences they have had in the past. For example, individuals might think: “I could see that kid being my son, I could see that woman who was assaulted as my wife who got beaten up”
that ramps up activity in an area of the brain called the locus coeruleus, Dr. Ng said.
Heart rate rises. Breathing rate goes up. Muscles become tense. If a threat occurs once and then dissipates, the body can often recover a state of calm. However, when that threat is part of the daily workday, it can cause chronic harm to mental and physical health. Unlike with direct, or primary, trauma, he adds, secondary trauma can take a while to become symptomatic.
“Your heart is not designed to be constantly pumping at a high rate,” Dr. Ng says. “We just can’t sustain that for long periods of time without starting to develop stress reactions.”
Under the radar
Some types of work appear to confer greater risk for trauma than others. Overall, estimates show that up to 8% of the U.S. population will develop PTSD at some point in their lives, Ms. Mathieu said.
For police officers, the rate is 15%. According to reporting by The Verge, lawyers in the Facebook lawsuit cited vicarious trauma rates of up to 50% among content moderators.
There are multiple reasons why content moderators suffer such high rates of mental health problems, Ms. Mathieu said. Content moderation is a low-paying, thankless, and solo job that can seem never-ending, she said.
Furthermore, content moderators are generally uninformed about the psychological risks associated with their occupation. They aren’t given the time to process what they are exposed to and generally don’t feel recognized or appreciated for the work they do.
That makes their jobs different from those of people such as law enforcement officers who investigate Internet crimes. For people pursuing justice, a sense of unity can counterbalance the exposure to tough imagery and information.
Going forward, Ms. Mathieu said, the only way to make content moderation safer is to institute changes such as better pay, more flexible schedules to allow breaks from exposure, and access to mental health professionals who can help employees process what they have seen.
Climate of fear
“This can’t be a climate of fear where people are afraid to ask for help,” Ms. Mathieu said. “They are really important jobs, but people need to feel that they are safe in expressing when it’s impacting them so that they’re not worried that they’re actually going to lose their work.”
It would help if content moderators received evidence-based guidance to help process their experiences, Ms. Mathieu added. However, to avoid doing more harm than good, debriefing has to be administered correctly.
For example, a method called “critical incident stress debriefing,” a longstanding approach that research has shown can do more harm than good, is still widely used in law enforcement agencies. The technique requires individuals to talk about their traumatic experience immediately after it happens, which can cause retraumatization.
Instead, Dr. Ng recommended a more self-aware approach called low-impact debriefing. The method involves strategies such as giving fair warning, asking for consent from listeners, and being selective about the details shared.
Employees should also be taught to recognize and report early signs and symptoms so that they can seek help before psychological distress becomes overwhelming, Dr. Ng says.
Plenty of moderators do not develop PTSD, he said, despite their exposure to upsetting imagery. This suggests an important avenue for research – understanding what makes some people resilient, even in the face of graphic and disturbing stressors.
A version of this story originally appeared on Medscape.com.
The images are graphic, disturbing, and endless, said a former Facebook employee. Her job as a content moderator required that she review and remove disturbing posts. That work, she claimed in a lawsuit, caused her to suffer serious psychological trauma.
In September 2018, she filed a complaint with the Superior Court of California.
“Every day, Facebook users post millions of videos, images, and livestream broadcasts of child sexual abuse, rape, torture, bestiality, beheadings, suicide, and murder,” reads the complaint. “By requiring its content moderators to work in dangerous conditions that cause debilitating physical and psychological harm, Facebook violates California law.”
In May, Facebook settled the case, agreeing to pay $52 million to content moderators to compensate them for the consequences their work had on their mental health. The settlement was the first to officially recognize the psychological toll of exposure to disturbing material resulting from online moderator jobs. It also highlights an emerging understanding of vicarious trauma.
Also known as secondary trauma, vicarious trauma can result from exposure to images, stories, or accounts that someone does not directly experience, said Françoise Mathieu, MEd, CCC, RP, a compassion fatigue specialist and executive director of TEND, a company in Kingston, Ont., that offers resources and training for people who work in high-stress, trauma-exposed workplaces.
Secondary trauma can affect people much as any other kind of intensely stressful experience. “What I can tell you as a specialist is that trauma is trauma,” Mathieu said. “Our brain doesn’t necessarily know the difference.”
The potential for vicarious trauma has long been recognized as a risk for journalists, health care providers, and anyone who watches television coverage of a disaster. Only recently, Mathieu said, have researchers started to investigate the psychological impact of jobs that require people to look at extreme, graphic, or disturbing images.
Physical fallout
In a 2017 study of digital forensic examiners, researchers found that examiners who worked on cases involving sexual crimes against children were at elevated risk of developing secondary trauma.
However, the exploratory study did not quantify the risks, and the study investigators concluded that more research is needed to understand how best to help people deal with PTSD resulting from working in the criminal justice system.
Content moderation requires sifting through upsetting images, and people can react in different ways to the task, says Anthony Ng, MD, a psychiatrist at Hartford (Conn.) Healthcare in Mansfield Center.
Dr. Ng says some individuals may become emotionally numb in order to protect themselves. Others might relate to what they are seeing, either because of their own life circumstances or because of experiences they have had in the past. For example, individuals might think: “I could see that kid being my son, I could see that woman who was assaulted as my wife who got beaten up”
that ramps up activity in an area of the brain called the locus coeruleus, Dr. Ng said.
Heart rate rises. Breathing rate goes up. Muscles become tense. If a threat occurs once and then dissipates, the body can often recover a state of calm. However, when that threat is part of the daily workday, it can cause chronic harm to mental and physical health. Unlike with direct, or primary, trauma, he adds, secondary trauma can take a while to become symptomatic.
“Your heart is not designed to be constantly pumping at a high rate,” Dr. Ng says. “We just can’t sustain that for long periods of time without starting to develop stress reactions.”
Under the radar
Some types of work appear to confer greater risk for trauma than others. Overall, estimates show that up to 8% of the U.S. population will develop PTSD at some point in their lives, Ms. Mathieu said.
For police officers, the rate is 15%. According to reporting by The Verge, lawyers in the Facebook lawsuit cited vicarious trauma rates of up to 50% among content moderators.
There are multiple reasons why content moderators suffer such high rates of mental health problems, Ms. Mathieu said. Content moderation is a low-paying, thankless, and solo job that can seem never-ending, she said.
Furthermore, content moderators are generally uninformed about the psychological risks associated with their occupation. They aren’t given the time to process what they are exposed to and generally don’t feel recognized or appreciated for the work they do.
That makes their jobs different from those of people such as law enforcement officers who investigate Internet crimes. For people pursuing justice, a sense of unity can counterbalance the exposure to tough imagery and information.
Going forward, Ms. Mathieu said, the only way to make content moderation safer is to institute changes such as better pay, more flexible schedules to allow breaks from exposure, and access to mental health professionals who can help employees process what they have seen.
Climate of fear
“This can’t be a climate of fear where people are afraid to ask for help,” Ms. Mathieu said. “They are really important jobs, but people need to feel that they are safe in expressing when it’s impacting them so that they’re not worried that they’re actually going to lose their work.”
It would help if content moderators received evidence-based guidance to help process their experiences, Ms. Mathieu added. However, to avoid doing more harm than good, debriefing has to be administered correctly.
For example, a method called “critical incident stress debriefing,” a longstanding approach that research has shown can do more harm than good, is still widely used in law enforcement agencies. The technique requires individuals to talk about their traumatic experience immediately after it happens, which can cause retraumatization.
Instead, Dr. Ng recommended a more self-aware approach called low-impact debriefing. The method involves strategies such as giving fair warning, asking for consent from listeners, and being selective about the details shared.
Employees should also be taught to recognize and report early signs and symptoms so that they can seek help before psychological distress becomes overwhelming, Dr. Ng says.
Plenty of moderators do not develop PTSD, he said, despite their exposure to upsetting imagery. This suggests an important avenue for research – understanding what makes some people resilient, even in the face of graphic and disturbing stressors.
A version of this story originally appeared on Medscape.com.
DIY masks: Worth the risk? Researchers are conflicted
In the midst of the rapidly spreading COVID-19 pandemic, hospitals and clinics are running out of masks. Health care workers are going online to beg for more, the hashtags #GetMePPE and #WeNeedPPE are trending on Twitter, and some hospitals have even put out public calls for mask donations. Health providers are working scared: They know that the moment the masks run out, they’re at increased risk for disease. So instead of waiting for mask shipments that may be weeks off, some people are making their own.
Using a simple template, they cut green surgical sheeting into half-moons, which they pin and sew before attaching elastic straps. Deaconess Health System in Evansville, Indiana, has posted instructions for fabric masks on their website and asked the public to step up and sew.
Elsewhere, health care workers have turned to diapers, maxi pads and other products to create masks. Social media channels are full of tips and sewing patterns. It’s an innovative strategy that is also contentious. Limited evidence suggests that homemade masks can offer some protection. But the DIY approach has also drawn criticism for providing a false sense of security, potentially putting wearers at risk.
The conflict points to an immediate need for more protective equipment, says Christopher Friese, PhD, RN, professor of nursing and public health at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Also needed, he says, are new ideas for reducing strain on limited supplies, like adopting gear from other industries and finding innovative ways to provide care so that less protective gear is needed.
“We don’t want clinicians inventing and ‘MacGyvering’ their own device because we don’t want to put them at risk if we can avoid it,” says Friese, referring to the TV character who could build and assemble a vast array of tools/devices. “We have options that have been tested, and we have experience, maybe not in health care, but in other settings. We want to try that first before that frontline doctor, nurse, respiratory therapist decides to take matters into their own hands.
Increasingly, though, health care workers are finding they have no other choice — something even the CDC has acknowledged. In new guidelines, the agency recommends a bandanna, scarf, or other type of covering in cases where face masks are not available.
N95 respirators or surgical masks?
There are two main types of masks generally used in health care. N95 respirators filter out 95% of airborne particles, including bacteria and viruses. The lighter surgical or medical face masks are made to prevent spit and mucous from getting on patients or equipment.
Both types reduce rates of infection among health care workers, though comparisons (at least for influenza) have yet to show that one is superior to the other. One 2020 review by Chinese researchers, for example, analyzed six randomly controlled trials that included more than 9000 participants and found no added benefits of N95 masks over ordinary surgical masks for health care providers treating patients with the flu.
But COVID-19 is not influenza, and evidence suggests it may require more intensive protection, says Friese, who coauthored a blog post for JAMA about the country’s unpreparedness for protecting health care workers during a pandemic. The virus can linger in the air for hours, suggesting that N95 respirators are health care providers’ best option when treating infected patients.
The problem is there’s not enough to go around — of either mask type. In a March 5 survey, National Nurses United reported that just 30% of more than 6500 US respondents said their organizations had enough PPE to respond to a surge in patients. Another 38% did not know if their organizations were prepared. In a tweet, Friese estimated that 12% of nurses and other providers are at risk from reusing equipment or using equipment that is not backed by evidence.
Physicians and providers around the world have been sharing strategies online for how to make their own masks. Techniques vary, as do materials and plans for how to use the homemade equipment. At Phoebe Putney Health, DIY masks are intended to be worn over N95 respirators and then disposed of so that the respirators can be reused more safely, says Amanda Clements, the hospital’s public relations coordinator. Providers might also wear them to greet people at the front door.
Some evidence suggests that homemade masks can help in a pinch, at least for some illnesses. For a 2013 study by researchers in the UK, volunteers made surgical masks from cotton T-shirts, then put them on and coughed into a chamber that measured how much bacterial content got through. The team also assessed the aerosol-filtering ability of a variety of household materials, including scarfs, antimicrobial pillowcases, vacuum-cleaner bags, and tea towels. They tested each material with an aerosol containing two types of bacteria similar in size to influenza.
Commercial surgical masks performed three times better than homemade ones in the filtration test. Surgical masks worked twice as well at blocking droplets on the cough test. But all the makeshift materials — which also included silk, linen, and regular pillowcases — blocked some microbes. Vacuum-cleaner bags blocked the most bacteria, but their stiffness and thickness made them unsuitable for use as masks, the researchers reported. Tea towels showed a similar pattern. But pillowcases and cotton T-shirts were stretchy enough to fit well, thereby reducing the particles that could get through or around them.
Homemade masks should be used only as a last resort if commercial masks become unavailable, the researchers concluded. “Probably something is better than nothing for trained health care workers — for droplet contact avoidance, if nothing else,” says Anna Davies, BSc, a research facilitator at the University of Cambridge, UK, who is a former public health microbiologist and one of the study’s authors.
She recommends that members of the general public donate any stockpiles they have to health care workers, and make their own if they want masks for personal use. She is working with collaborators in the US to develop guidance for how best to do it.
“If people are quarantined and looking for something worthwhile to do, it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing to apply themselves to,” she wrote by email. “My suggestion would be for something soft and cotton, ideally with a bit of stretch (although it’s a pain to sew), and in two layers, marked ‘inside’ and ‘outside.’ ”
The idea that something is better than nothing was also the conclusion of a 2008 study by researchers in the Netherlands and the US. The study enlisted 28 healthy individuals who performed a variety of tasks while wearing N95 masks, surgical masks, or homemade masks sewn from teacloths. Effectiveness varied among individuals, but over a 90-second period, N95 masks worked best, with 25 times more protection than surgical masks and about 50 times more protection than homemade ones. Surgical masks were twice as effective as homemade masks. But the homemade masks offered at least some protection against large droplets.
Researchers emphasize that it’s not yet clear whether those findings are applicable to aerosolized COVID-19. In an influenza pandemic, at least, the authors posit that homemade masks could reduce transmission for the general public enough for some immunity to build. “It is important not to focus on a single intervention in case of a pandemic,” the researchers write, “but to integrate all effective interventions for optimal protection.”
For health care workers on the frontlines of COVID-19, Friese says, homemade masks might do more than nothing but they also might not work. Instead, he would rather see providers using construction or nuclear-engineering masks. And his best suggestion is something many providers are already doing: reducing physical contact with patients through telemedicine and other creative solutions, which is cutting down the overwhelming need for PPE.
Homemade mask production emphasizes the urgent need for more supplies, Friese adds.
“The government needs to step up and do a variety of things to increase production, and that needs to happen now, immediately,” he says. “We don’t we don’t want our clinicians to have to come up with these decisions.”
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
In the midst of the rapidly spreading COVID-19 pandemic, hospitals and clinics are running out of masks. Health care workers are going online to beg for more, the hashtags #GetMePPE and #WeNeedPPE are trending on Twitter, and some hospitals have even put out public calls for mask donations. Health providers are working scared: They know that the moment the masks run out, they’re at increased risk for disease. So instead of waiting for mask shipments that may be weeks off, some people are making their own.
Using a simple template, they cut green surgical sheeting into half-moons, which they pin and sew before attaching elastic straps. Deaconess Health System in Evansville, Indiana, has posted instructions for fabric masks on their website and asked the public to step up and sew.
Elsewhere, health care workers have turned to diapers, maxi pads and other products to create masks. Social media channels are full of tips and sewing patterns. It’s an innovative strategy that is also contentious. Limited evidence suggests that homemade masks can offer some protection. But the DIY approach has also drawn criticism for providing a false sense of security, potentially putting wearers at risk.
The conflict points to an immediate need for more protective equipment, says Christopher Friese, PhD, RN, professor of nursing and public health at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Also needed, he says, are new ideas for reducing strain on limited supplies, like adopting gear from other industries and finding innovative ways to provide care so that less protective gear is needed.
“We don’t want clinicians inventing and ‘MacGyvering’ their own device because we don’t want to put them at risk if we can avoid it,” says Friese, referring to the TV character who could build and assemble a vast array of tools/devices. “We have options that have been tested, and we have experience, maybe not in health care, but in other settings. We want to try that first before that frontline doctor, nurse, respiratory therapist decides to take matters into their own hands.
Increasingly, though, health care workers are finding they have no other choice — something even the CDC has acknowledged. In new guidelines, the agency recommends a bandanna, scarf, or other type of covering in cases where face masks are not available.
N95 respirators or surgical masks?
There are two main types of masks generally used in health care. N95 respirators filter out 95% of airborne particles, including bacteria and viruses. The lighter surgical or medical face masks are made to prevent spit and mucous from getting on patients or equipment.
Both types reduce rates of infection among health care workers, though comparisons (at least for influenza) have yet to show that one is superior to the other. One 2020 review by Chinese researchers, for example, analyzed six randomly controlled trials that included more than 9000 participants and found no added benefits of N95 masks over ordinary surgical masks for health care providers treating patients with the flu.
But COVID-19 is not influenza, and evidence suggests it may require more intensive protection, says Friese, who coauthored a blog post for JAMA about the country’s unpreparedness for protecting health care workers during a pandemic. The virus can linger in the air for hours, suggesting that N95 respirators are health care providers’ best option when treating infected patients.
The problem is there’s not enough to go around — of either mask type. In a March 5 survey, National Nurses United reported that just 30% of more than 6500 US respondents said their organizations had enough PPE to respond to a surge in patients. Another 38% did not know if their organizations were prepared. In a tweet, Friese estimated that 12% of nurses and other providers are at risk from reusing equipment or using equipment that is not backed by evidence.
Physicians and providers around the world have been sharing strategies online for how to make their own masks. Techniques vary, as do materials and plans for how to use the homemade equipment. At Phoebe Putney Health, DIY masks are intended to be worn over N95 respirators and then disposed of so that the respirators can be reused more safely, says Amanda Clements, the hospital’s public relations coordinator. Providers might also wear them to greet people at the front door.
Some evidence suggests that homemade masks can help in a pinch, at least for some illnesses. For a 2013 study by researchers in the UK, volunteers made surgical masks from cotton T-shirts, then put them on and coughed into a chamber that measured how much bacterial content got through. The team also assessed the aerosol-filtering ability of a variety of household materials, including scarfs, antimicrobial pillowcases, vacuum-cleaner bags, and tea towels. They tested each material with an aerosol containing two types of bacteria similar in size to influenza.
Commercial surgical masks performed three times better than homemade ones in the filtration test. Surgical masks worked twice as well at blocking droplets on the cough test. But all the makeshift materials — which also included silk, linen, and regular pillowcases — blocked some microbes. Vacuum-cleaner bags blocked the most bacteria, but their stiffness and thickness made them unsuitable for use as masks, the researchers reported. Tea towels showed a similar pattern. But pillowcases and cotton T-shirts were stretchy enough to fit well, thereby reducing the particles that could get through or around them.
Homemade masks should be used only as a last resort if commercial masks become unavailable, the researchers concluded. “Probably something is better than nothing for trained health care workers — for droplet contact avoidance, if nothing else,” says Anna Davies, BSc, a research facilitator at the University of Cambridge, UK, who is a former public health microbiologist and one of the study’s authors.
She recommends that members of the general public donate any stockpiles they have to health care workers, and make their own if they want masks for personal use. She is working with collaborators in the US to develop guidance for how best to do it.
“If people are quarantined and looking for something worthwhile to do, it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing to apply themselves to,” she wrote by email. “My suggestion would be for something soft and cotton, ideally with a bit of stretch (although it’s a pain to sew), and in two layers, marked ‘inside’ and ‘outside.’ ”
The idea that something is better than nothing was also the conclusion of a 2008 study by researchers in the Netherlands and the US. The study enlisted 28 healthy individuals who performed a variety of tasks while wearing N95 masks, surgical masks, or homemade masks sewn from teacloths. Effectiveness varied among individuals, but over a 90-second period, N95 masks worked best, with 25 times more protection than surgical masks and about 50 times more protection than homemade ones. Surgical masks were twice as effective as homemade masks. But the homemade masks offered at least some protection against large droplets.
Researchers emphasize that it’s not yet clear whether those findings are applicable to aerosolized COVID-19. In an influenza pandemic, at least, the authors posit that homemade masks could reduce transmission for the general public enough for some immunity to build. “It is important not to focus on a single intervention in case of a pandemic,” the researchers write, “but to integrate all effective interventions for optimal protection.”
For health care workers on the frontlines of COVID-19, Friese says, homemade masks might do more than nothing but they also might not work. Instead, he would rather see providers using construction or nuclear-engineering masks. And his best suggestion is something many providers are already doing: reducing physical contact with patients through telemedicine and other creative solutions, which is cutting down the overwhelming need for PPE.
Homemade mask production emphasizes the urgent need for more supplies, Friese adds.
“The government needs to step up and do a variety of things to increase production, and that needs to happen now, immediately,” he says. “We don’t we don’t want our clinicians to have to come up with these decisions.”
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
In the midst of the rapidly spreading COVID-19 pandemic, hospitals and clinics are running out of masks. Health care workers are going online to beg for more, the hashtags #GetMePPE and #WeNeedPPE are trending on Twitter, and some hospitals have even put out public calls for mask donations. Health providers are working scared: They know that the moment the masks run out, they’re at increased risk for disease. So instead of waiting for mask shipments that may be weeks off, some people are making their own.
Using a simple template, they cut green surgical sheeting into half-moons, which they pin and sew before attaching elastic straps. Deaconess Health System in Evansville, Indiana, has posted instructions for fabric masks on their website and asked the public to step up and sew.
Elsewhere, health care workers have turned to diapers, maxi pads and other products to create masks. Social media channels are full of tips and sewing patterns. It’s an innovative strategy that is also contentious. Limited evidence suggests that homemade masks can offer some protection. But the DIY approach has also drawn criticism for providing a false sense of security, potentially putting wearers at risk.
The conflict points to an immediate need for more protective equipment, says Christopher Friese, PhD, RN, professor of nursing and public health at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Also needed, he says, are new ideas for reducing strain on limited supplies, like adopting gear from other industries and finding innovative ways to provide care so that less protective gear is needed.
“We don’t want clinicians inventing and ‘MacGyvering’ their own device because we don’t want to put them at risk if we can avoid it,” says Friese, referring to the TV character who could build and assemble a vast array of tools/devices. “We have options that have been tested, and we have experience, maybe not in health care, but in other settings. We want to try that first before that frontline doctor, nurse, respiratory therapist decides to take matters into their own hands.
Increasingly, though, health care workers are finding they have no other choice — something even the CDC has acknowledged. In new guidelines, the agency recommends a bandanna, scarf, or other type of covering in cases where face masks are not available.
N95 respirators or surgical masks?
There are two main types of masks generally used in health care. N95 respirators filter out 95% of airborne particles, including bacteria and viruses. The lighter surgical or medical face masks are made to prevent spit and mucous from getting on patients or equipment.
Both types reduce rates of infection among health care workers, though comparisons (at least for influenza) have yet to show that one is superior to the other. One 2020 review by Chinese researchers, for example, analyzed six randomly controlled trials that included more than 9000 participants and found no added benefits of N95 masks over ordinary surgical masks for health care providers treating patients with the flu.
But COVID-19 is not influenza, and evidence suggests it may require more intensive protection, says Friese, who coauthored a blog post for JAMA about the country’s unpreparedness for protecting health care workers during a pandemic. The virus can linger in the air for hours, suggesting that N95 respirators are health care providers’ best option when treating infected patients.
The problem is there’s not enough to go around — of either mask type. In a March 5 survey, National Nurses United reported that just 30% of more than 6500 US respondents said their organizations had enough PPE to respond to a surge in patients. Another 38% did not know if their organizations were prepared. In a tweet, Friese estimated that 12% of nurses and other providers are at risk from reusing equipment or using equipment that is not backed by evidence.
Physicians and providers around the world have been sharing strategies online for how to make their own masks. Techniques vary, as do materials and plans for how to use the homemade equipment. At Phoebe Putney Health, DIY masks are intended to be worn over N95 respirators and then disposed of so that the respirators can be reused more safely, says Amanda Clements, the hospital’s public relations coordinator. Providers might also wear them to greet people at the front door.
Some evidence suggests that homemade masks can help in a pinch, at least for some illnesses. For a 2013 study by researchers in the UK, volunteers made surgical masks from cotton T-shirts, then put them on and coughed into a chamber that measured how much bacterial content got through. The team also assessed the aerosol-filtering ability of a variety of household materials, including scarfs, antimicrobial pillowcases, vacuum-cleaner bags, and tea towels. They tested each material with an aerosol containing two types of bacteria similar in size to influenza.
Commercial surgical masks performed three times better than homemade ones in the filtration test. Surgical masks worked twice as well at blocking droplets on the cough test. But all the makeshift materials — which also included silk, linen, and regular pillowcases — blocked some microbes. Vacuum-cleaner bags blocked the most bacteria, but their stiffness and thickness made them unsuitable for use as masks, the researchers reported. Tea towels showed a similar pattern. But pillowcases and cotton T-shirts were stretchy enough to fit well, thereby reducing the particles that could get through or around them.
Homemade masks should be used only as a last resort if commercial masks become unavailable, the researchers concluded. “Probably something is better than nothing for trained health care workers — for droplet contact avoidance, if nothing else,” says Anna Davies, BSc, a research facilitator at the University of Cambridge, UK, who is a former public health microbiologist and one of the study’s authors.
She recommends that members of the general public donate any stockpiles they have to health care workers, and make their own if they want masks for personal use. She is working with collaborators in the US to develop guidance for how best to do it.
“If people are quarantined and looking for something worthwhile to do, it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing to apply themselves to,” she wrote by email. “My suggestion would be for something soft and cotton, ideally with a bit of stretch (although it’s a pain to sew), and in two layers, marked ‘inside’ and ‘outside.’ ”
The idea that something is better than nothing was also the conclusion of a 2008 study by researchers in the Netherlands and the US. The study enlisted 28 healthy individuals who performed a variety of tasks while wearing N95 masks, surgical masks, or homemade masks sewn from teacloths. Effectiveness varied among individuals, but over a 90-second period, N95 masks worked best, with 25 times more protection than surgical masks and about 50 times more protection than homemade ones. Surgical masks were twice as effective as homemade masks. But the homemade masks offered at least some protection against large droplets.
Researchers emphasize that it’s not yet clear whether those findings are applicable to aerosolized COVID-19. In an influenza pandemic, at least, the authors posit that homemade masks could reduce transmission for the general public enough for some immunity to build. “It is important not to focus on a single intervention in case of a pandemic,” the researchers write, “but to integrate all effective interventions for optimal protection.”
For health care workers on the frontlines of COVID-19, Friese says, homemade masks might do more than nothing but they also might not work. Instead, he would rather see providers using construction or nuclear-engineering masks. And his best suggestion is something many providers are already doing: reducing physical contact with patients through telemedicine and other creative solutions, which is cutting down the overwhelming need for PPE.
Homemade mask production emphasizes the urgent need for more supplies, Friese adds.
“The government needs to step up and do a variety of things to increase production, and that needs to happen now, immediately,” he says. “We don’t we don’t want our clinicians to have to come up with these decisions.”
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.