The fundamental things apply

Dear Colleagues,

Forty years ago, dermatology practice was different. No patient came to the office for a “full-body check,” nor did anyone show up for hair removal or questions about cosmetic procedures or skin care advice.

Needle nippers were around, but no elaborate, molded-plastic contraptions like the sharps containers now in wide use. You sent pathology specimens in plastic cylinders by U.S. mail; then you called the lab 2 weeks later to ask, “Where’s the report on Jane Smith, with the rule out melanoma,” and the lab said, “Jane who?”

Of course, some things about practice have not changed. Patients with atopic dermatitis still ask why eczema comes back and why we can’t give them something to make it go away once and for all. Some referring physicians still treat scaly rashes with ketoconazole cream (and when that fails, oral fluconazole, which doesn’t work either).

Of course the biggest change between then and now, coincident with the rise of computers and technology, is the advent and ubiquity of that great swindle foisted upon the profession and the public – electronic health records – with their unfulfilled promises of cost-savings and efficiency and unconceded consequences: turning healers into harried data-entry drudges too busy clicking mice to make eye contact with humans. Yes, the Emperor has clothes. The Emperor is wearing Depends.

I wrote my first column for this periodical 22 years ago; this will be my last. My wonderful editor, Elizabeth Mechcatie, has agreed to take under advisement a proposal that I go on sending occasional dispatches under the heading “Pruritus Emeritus.” My family used to refer to those in the anomalous state of being emeritus – it means, roughly, “Forgotten, but not gone” – by rhyming emeritus with sinusitis.

There is no way to remember 40 years of patients. Many came just once, others several times. Some moved away, some passed away, changed primary doctors, changed insurances. Some grew too old to visit, sent regretful notes apologizing for finding the drive too long, the parking too hard. Some returned after an absence of a decade or 3, having forgotten that they had once come for the same problem, or come at all.

But there have been other patients who formed a real bond, whose names and faces still come readily to mind, who visited over long periods, sent their spouses, family members, even children and grandchildren. The stories of their lives became part of mine, and sometimes mine part of theirs.

Though hardly an old-movie buff, I know the famous scene in Casablanca in which a radiant Ingrid Bergman (that skin!) asks Dooley Wilson – the piano player, Sam – to play the song Humphrey Bogart does not want to hear:

“You must remember this

A kiss is just a kiss

A sigh is just a sigh

The fundamental things apply

As time goes by.”

Over the last 40 years there have been substantial advances in the way we treat patients, though perhaps not enough to justify the endless noisy hype about imminent breakthroughs and looming disruptions, therapies, and apps that are sure to change practice and civilization as we know them. Altogether too much noise, at least for my taste. But not inside the examining room.

Outside the room rages the din of demographic updates, of online checks of insurance eligibility, referral status, prior authorizations, the blare of marketing and promotion, the cacophony of metrics and algorithms.

Inside the room, however, quiet reigns. A patient presents with a symptom or a sign, or the fear of a symptom or anxiety over the meaning of a sign, filtered through a jumble of ideas – misremembered, half understood, at times mutually contradictory – that amplify fears common to anyone who visits a practitioner, however minor the presenting complaint: pain, debility, decline, isolation, solitude, death.

And the practitioner attends, considers, contextualizes, counsels, consoles, and conveys a response to the patient’s questions, whether in so many words or by body language or tone of voice, offers answers not just to what the patient has asked but the ones the patient meant to ask but did not know how.

“Yes, sir, death waits for all of us in the end, but for you, perhaps, not today.”

“Yes, madam, illness can be a frightening affair, but your case is not as bad as you think it is and won’t move as fast as you imagine. And as to your being limited and alone – well, not yet. There are those you can rely on, people with a bit of knowledge and a little experience, who are committed to doing what can be done to bend the arc of illness in your favor.”

That fundamental role will, it seems to me, always apply as long people practice medicine.

With all good wishes for personal happiness and professional success,

Alan Rockoff
 

Dear Colleagues,

Forty years ago, dermatology practice was different. No patient came to the office for a “full-body check,” nor did anyone show up for hair removal or questions about cosmetic procedures or skin care advice.

Needle nippers were around, but no elaborate, molded-plastic contraptions like the sharps containers now in wide use. You sent pathology specimens in plastic cylinders by U.S. mail; then you called the lab 2 weeks later to ask, “Where’s the report on Jane Smith, with the rule out melanoma,” and the lab said, “Jane who?”

Of course, some things about practice have not changed. Patients with atopic dermatitis still ask why eczema comes back and why we can’t give them something to make it go away once and for all. Some referring physicians still treat scaly rashes with ketoconazole cream (and when that fails, oral fluconazole, which doesn’t work either).

Of course the biggest change between then and now, coincident with the rise of computers and technology, is the advent and ubiquity of that great swindle foisted upon the profession and the public – electronic health records – with their unfulfilled promises of cost-savings and efficiency and unconceded consequences: turning healers into harried data-entry drudges too busy clicking mice to make eye contact with humans. Yes, the Emperor has clothes. The Emperor is wearing Depends.

I wrote my first column for this periodical 22 years ago; this will be my last. My wonderful editor, Elizabeth Mechcatie, has agreed to take under advisement a proposal that I go on sending occasional dispatches under the heading “Pruritus Emeritus.” My family used to refer to those in the anomalous state of being emeritus – it means, roughly, “Forgotten, but not gone” – by rhyming emeritus with sinusitis.

There is no way to remember 40 years of patients. Many came just once, others several times. Some moved away, some passed away, changed primary doctors, changed insurances. Some grew too old to visit, sent regretful notes apologizing for finding the drive too long, the parking too hard. Some returned after an absence of a decade or 3, having forgotten that they had once come for the same problem, or come at all.

But there have been other patients who formed a real bond, whose names and faces still come readily to mind, who visited over long periods, sent their spouses, family members, even children and grandchildren. The stories of their lives became part of mine, and sometimes mine part of theirs.

Though hardly an old-movie buff, I know the famous scene in Casablanca in which a radiant Ingrid Bergman (that skin!) asks Dooley Wilson – the piano player, Sam – to play the song Humphrey Bogart does not want to hear:

“You must remember this

A kiss is just a kiss

A sigh is just a sigh

The fundamental things apply

As time goes by.”

Over the last 40 years there have been substantial advances in the way we treat patients, though perhaps not enough to justify the endless noisy hype about imminent breakthroughs and looming disruptions, therapies, and apps that are sure to change practice and civilization as we know them. Altogether too much noise, at least for my taste. But not inside the examining room.

Outside the room rages the din of demographic updates, of online checks of insurance eligibility, referral status, prior authorizations, the blare of marketing and promotion, the cacophony of metrics and algorithms.

Inside the room, however, quiet reigns. A patient presents with a symptom or a sign, or the fear of a symptom or anxiety over the meaning of a sign, filtered through a jumble of ideas – misremembered, half understood, at times mutually contradictory – that amplify fears common to anyone who visits a practitioner, however minor the presenting complaint: pain, debility, decline, isolation, solitude, death.

And the practitioner attends, considers, contextualizes, counsels, consoles, and conveys a response to the patient’s questions, whether in so many words or by body language or tone of voice, offers answers not just to what the patient has asked but the ones the patient meant to ask but did not know how.

“Yes, sir, death waits for all of us in the end, but for you, perhaps, not today.”

“Yes, madam, illness can be a frightening affair, but your case is not as bad as you think it is and won’t move as fast as you imagine. And as to your being limited and alone – well, not yet. There are those you can rely on, people with a bit of knowledge and a little experience, who are committed to doing what can be done to bend the arc of illness in your favor.”

That fundamental role will, it seems to me, always apply as long people practice medicine.

With all good wishes for personal happiness and professional success,

Alan Rockoff
 

Dear Colleagues,

Forty years ago, dermatology practice was different. No patient came to the office for a “full-body check,” nor did anyone show up for hair removal or questions about cosmetic procedures or skin care advice.

Needle nippers were around, but no elaborate, molded-plastic contraptions like the sharps containers now in wide use. You sent pathology specimens in plastic cylinders by U.S. mail; then you called the lab 2 weeks later to ask, “Where’s the report on Jane Smith, with the rule out melanoma,” and the lab said, “Jane who?”

Of course, some things about practice have not changed. Patients with atopic dermatitis still ask why eczema comes back and why we can’t give them something to make it go away once and for all. Some referring physicians still treat scaly rashes with ketoconazole cream (and when that fails, oral fluconazole, which doesn’t work either).

Of course the biggest change between then and now, coincident with the rise of computers and technology, is the advent and ubiquity of that great swindle foisted upon the profession and the public – electronic health records – with their unfulfilled promises of cost-savings and efficiency and unconceded consequences: turning healers into harried data-entry drudges too busy clicking mice to make eye contact with humans. Yes, the Emperor has clothes. The Emperor is wearing Depends.

I wrote my first column for this periodical 22 years ago; this will be my last. My wonderful editor, Elizabeth Mechcatie, has agreed to take under advisement a proposal that I go on sending occasional dispatches under the heading “Pruritus Emeritus.” My family used to refer to those in the anomalous state of being emeritus – it means, roughly, “Forgotten, but not gone” – by rhyming emeritus with sinusitis.

There is no way to remember 40 years of patients. Many came just once, others several times. Some moved away, some passed away, changed primary doctors, changed insurances. Some grew too old to visit, sent regretful notes apologizing for finding the drive too long, the parking too hard. Some returned after an absence of a decade or 3, having forgotten that they had once come for the same problem, or come at all.

But there have been other patients who formed a real bond, whose names and faces still come readily to mind, who visited over long periods, sent their spouses, family members, even children and grandchildren. The stories of their lives became part of mine, and sometimes mine part of theirs.

Though hardly an old-movie buff, I know the famous scene in Casablanca in which a radiant Ingrid Bergman (that skin!) asks Dooley Wilson – the piano player, Sam – to play the song Humphrey Bogart does not want to hear:

“You must remember this

A kiss is just a kiss

A sigh is just a sigh

The fundamental things apply

As time goes by.”

Over the last 40 years there have been substantial advances in the way we treat patients, though perhaps not enough to justify the endless noisy hype about imminent breakthroughs and looming disruptions, therapies, and apps that are sure to change practice and civilization as we know them. Altogether too much noise, at least for my taste. But not inside the examining room.

Outside the room rages the din of demographic updates, of online checks of insurance eligibility, referral status, prior authorizations, the blare of marketing and promotion, the cacophony of metrics and algorithms.

Inside the room, however, quiet reigns. A patient presents with a symptom or a sign, or the fear of a symptom or anxiety over the meaning of a sign, filtered through a jumble of ideas – misremembered, half understood, at times mutually contradictory – that amplify fears common to anyone who visits a practitioner, however minor the presenting complaint: pain, debility, decline, isolation, solitude, death.

And the practitioner attends, considers, contextualizes, counsels, consoles, and conveys a response to the patient’s questions, whether in so many words or by body language or tone of voice, offers answers not just to what the patient has asked but the ones the patient meant to ask but did not know how.

“Yes, sir, death waits for all of us in the end, but for you, perhaps, not today.”

“Yes, madam, illness can be a frightening affair, but your case is not as bad as you think it is and won’t move as fast as you imagine. And as to your being limited and alone – well, not yet. There are those you can rely on, people with a bit of knowledge and a little experience, who are committed to doing what can be done to bend the arc of illness in your favor.”

That fundamental role will, it seems to me, always apply as long people practice medicine.

With all good wishes for personal happiness and professional success,

Alan Rockoff