The Optimized Doctor

My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.

My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.

Kind Regards, 

Pat

I sat down, my desk nearly at eye level now, and felt the paper in my hand. It was white, college ruled paper and a blue ink pen. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had. 

Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”

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

My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.

My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.

Kind Regards, 

Pat

I sat down, my desk nearly at eye level now, and felt the paper in my hand. It was white, college ruled paper and a blue ink pen. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had. 

Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”

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

My desk looks nothing like my grandfather’s. It stands about mid-abdomen high and has a small surface, perhaps just enough for the monitor and a mug. Yes, I can move it up and down (thank you 21st century), but it has no drawers. It is lean and immaculate, but it has no soul.

My grandfather sat at a large oak desk with three drawers on each side. Each was so heavy you had to be at least 6 years old to pull one open for exploring the contents inside. The desk surface was vast and although immobile, it had a greenish leather blotter for writing. Alongside his pile of correspondences was a treasure for those of us tall enough to get it: A heavy brass letter opener. It came, I believe, with a secretary who would open his letters and stack them neatly before placing this sometimes-pirate’s-sword far enough away from the edge for us to not reach it.

Kind Regards, 

Pat

I sat down, my desk nearly at eye level now, and felt the paper in my hand. It was white, college ruled paper and a blue ink pen. She carefully looped her “y’s” and crossed her “t’s.” Not one cross out. She thought about each sentence before transcribing it. The paper once sat on her desk, touched her fingers and the envelope sealed with her saliva. It was not filled with trifling requests or complaints. It was not efficient, but it was more than just communication. She took the time to choose the words to capture her emotion and express her gratitude. It was respectful, dignified, decidedly nondigital. For a brief moment I thought I might write back, but quickly realized that was impractical. I knew I wouldn’t make the time to do so. I wish I had. 

Having no drawers to save it, I held it up with just a corner of the page resting on my desk and scribbled in black ink “Reviewed. Please scan to media file. 12/8/22. JAB”

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

“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am

You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.

So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.

Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.

Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.

I wonder if I can choose Mondays.

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

“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am

You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.

So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.

Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.

Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.

I wonder if I can choose Mondays.

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

“More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” – Ahad Ha’am

You should all be well rested by now. After all, we’ve just come through the festive shutdown of the holiday season where all of your pumpkin/peppermint/marshmallow flavored coffees were sipped while walking around in your jimjams at 10 a.m. It was the time of year for you to take time off to get a proper rest and be energized to get back to work. Yet, I’m not feeling it from you.

So let’s talk about burnout – just kidding, that would only make it worse. “Burned-out’’ is a hackneyed and defective phrase to describe what many of us are feeling. We are not “destroyed, gutted by fire or by overheating.” No, we are, as one of our docs put it to me: “Just tired.” Ah, a much better Old English word! “Tired” captures it. It means to feel “in need of rest.” We are not ruined, we are just depleted. We don’t need discarding. We need some rest.

Ironically, this column, like most of mine, comes to you after my having written it on a Saturday and Sunday. I also just logged on to my EMR and checked results, renewed a few prescriptions, and answered a couple messages. If I didn’t, my Monday’s work would be crushingly heavy.

Maybe I need to be more efficient and finish my work during the week. Or maybe I need to realize that work has not let up since about 600 BCE and taking one day off each week to rest is an obligation to myself, my family and my community.

I wonder if I can choose Mondays.

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

They call me and I go.

– William Carlos Williams

I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.

I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.

In fact, we reached the high water mark for physicians calling out sick from my department this year. That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.

We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.

Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.

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

They call me and I go.

– William Carlos Williams

I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.

I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.

In fact, we reached the high water mark for physicians calling out sick from my department this year. That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.

We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.

Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.

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

They call me and I go.

– William Carlos Williams

I never get sick. I’ve never had the flu. When everyone’s got a cold, I’m somehow immune. The last time I threw up was June 29th, 1980. You see, I work out almost daily, eat vegan, and sleep plenty. I drink gallons of pressed juice and throw down a few high-quality supplements. Yes, I’m that guy: The one who never gets sick. Well, I was anyway.

I am no longer that guy since our little girl became a supersocial little toddler. My undefeated welterweight “never-sick” title has been obliterated by multiple knockouts. One was a wicked adenovirus that broke the no-vomit streak. At one point, I lay on the luxury gray tile bathroom floor hoping to go unconscious to make the nausea stop. I actually called out sick that day. Then with a nasty COVID-despite-vaccine infection. I called out again. Later with a hacking lower respiratory – RSV?! – bug. Called out. All of which our 2-year-old blonde, curly-haired vector transmitted to me with remarkable efficiency.

In fact, we reached the high water mark for physicians calling out sick from my department this year. That’s saying a lot. Our docs, like most, don’t call out sick.

We physicians have legendary stamina. Compared with other professionals, we are no less likely to become ill but a whopping 80% less likely to call out sick.

Presenteeism is our physician version of Omerta, a code of honor to never give in even at the expense of our, or our family’s, health and well-being. Every medical student is regaled with stories of physicians getting an IV before rounds or finishing clinic after their water broke. Why? In part it’s an indoctrination into this thing of ours we call Medicine: An elitist club that admits only those able to pass O-chem and hold diarrhea. But it is also because our medical system is so brittle that the slightest bend causes it to shatter. When I cancel a clinic, patients who have waited weeks for their spot have to be sent home. And for critical cases or those patients who don’t get the message, my already slammed colleagues have to cram the unlucky ones in between already-scheduled appointments. The guilt induced by inconveniencing our colleagues and our patients is more potent than dry heaves. And so we go. Suck it up. Sip ginger ale. Load up on acetaminophen. Carry on. This harms not only us, but also patients whom we put in the path of transmission. We become terrible 2-year-olds.

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

“How did we miss out on that?” “What?” my physician friend replied as we stood in line at the coffee cart. “Root cause. I mean, we invented this idea and now all these naturopaths and functional medicine quacks are gettin’ rich off it.” “Take it easy,” he says. “Just order a coffee.”

It’s hard not to be indignant. I had a morning clinic with three patients insisting I find the “root cause” of their problem. Now, if one had flagellate dermatitis after eating Asian mushroom soup, I’d have said “Root cause? Shiitake mushrooms!” and walked out like Costanza in Seinfeld, “All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”

Alas no. They had perioral dermatitis, alopecia areata, eczema – no satisfying “roots” for walk-off answers.

There is a universal desire to find the proximal cause for problems. Patients often want to know it so that we address the root of their trouble and not just cut off the branches. This is deeply gratifying for those who want not only to know why, but also to have agency in how to control their disease. For example, if they believe the root cause of perioral dermatitis was excess yeast, then eating a “candida diet’’ should do the trick! Food sensitivities, hormones, and heavy metals round out the top suspects that root cause patients want to talk about.

Of course, patients have been asking about this for a long time, but lately, the root cause visit seems to be on trend. Check out any hip primary care start-up such as One Medical or any hot direct-to-consumer virtual offering such as ParsleyHealth and you will see root-cause everywhere. Our patients are expecting us to address it, or it seems they will find someone cooler who will.

Yet, it wasn’t the slick marketing team at ParsleyHeath who invented the “root cause doctor visit.” We did. It’s an idea that started with our Greek physician ancestors. Breaking from the diviners and priests, we were the first “naturalists” positing that there was a natural, not a divine cause for illness. The cardinal concept in the Hippocratic Corpus was that health was an equilibrium and illness an imbalance. They didn’t have dehydroepiandrosterone tests or mercury levels, but did have bodily fluids. Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm, were the root of all root causes. A physician simply had to identify which was in excess or deficient and fix that to cure the disease. Interestingly, the word “diagnosis” appears only once in the Corpus. The word “Diagignoskein” appears occasionally but this describes studying thoroughly, not naming a diagnosis as we understand it.

Advances in chemistry in the 17th century meant physicians could add new theories, and new root causes. Now alkaline or other chemical elixirs were added to cure at the source. Since there was no verifiable evidence to prove causes, theories were adopted to provide some rational direction to treatment. In the 18th century, physicians such as Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the original faculty at the University of Pennsylvania school of medicine, taught that spasms of the arteries were the root cause of illnesses. “Heroic” treatments such as extreme bloodletting were the cure. (Note, those patients who survived us kept coming back to us for more).

Scientific knowledge and diagnostic technologies led to more and more complex and abstruse causes. Yet, as we became more precise and effective, our explanations became less satisfying to our patients. I can diagnose and readily treat perioral dermatitis, yet I’m hard pressed to give an answer to its root cause. “Root cause? Yes. Just apply this pimecrolimus cream for a couple of weeks and it’ll be better! All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”

You’ll have to do better, George.

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

“How did we miss out on that?” “What?” my physician friend replied as we stood in line at the coffee cart. “Root cause. I mean, we invented this idea and now all these naturopaths and functional medicine quacks are gettin’ rich off it.” “Take it easy,” he says. “Just order a coffee.”

It’s hard not to be indignant. I had a morning clinic with three patients insisting I find the “root cause” of their problem. Now, if one had flagellate dermatitis after eating Asian mushroom soup, I’d have said “Root cause? Shiitake mushrooms!” and walked out like Costanza in Seinfeld, “All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”

Alas no. They had perioral dermatitis, alopecia areata, eczema – no satisfying “roots” for walk-off answers.

There is a universal desire to find the proximal cause for problems. Patients often want to know it so that we address the root of their trouble and not just cut off the branches. This is deeply gratifying for those who want not only to know why, but also to have agency in how to control their disease. For example, if they believe the root cause of perioral dermatitis was excess yeast, then eating a “candida diet’’ should do the trick! Food sensitivities, hormones, and heavy metals round out the top suspects that root cause patients want to talk about.

Of course, patients have been asking about this for a long time, but lately, the root cause visit seems to be on trend. Check out any hip primary care start-up such as One Medical or any hot direct-to-consumer virtual offering such as ParsleyHealth and you will see root-cause everywhere. Our patients are expecting us to address it, or it seems they will find someone cooler who will.

Yet, it wasn’t the slick marketing team at ParsleyHeath who invented the “root cause doctor visit.” We did. It’s an idea that started with our Greek physician ancestors. Breaking from the diviners and priests, we were the first “naturalists” positing that there was a natural, not a divine cause for illness. The cardinal concept in the Hippocratic Corpus was that health was an equilibrium and illness an imbalance. They didn’t have dehydroepiandrosterone tests or mercury levels, but did have bodily fluids. Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm, were the root of all root causes. A physician simply had to identify which was in excess or deficient and fix that to cure the disease. Interestingly, the word “diagnosis” appears only once in the Corpus. The word “Diagignoskein” appears occasionally but this describes studying thoroughly, not naming a diagnosis as we understand it.

Advances in chemistry in the 17th century meant physicians could add new theories, and new root causes. Now alkaline or other chemical elixirs were added to cure at the source. Since there was no verifiable evidence to prove causes, theories were adopted to provide some rational direction to treatment. In the 18th century, physicians such as Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the original faculty at the University of Pennsylvania school of medicine, taught that spasms of the arteries were the root cause of illnesses. “Heroic” treatments such as extreme bloodletting were the cure. (Note, those patients who survived us kept coming back to us for more).

Scientific knowledge and diagnostic technologies led to more and more complex and abstruse causes. Yet, as we became more precise and effective, our explanations became less satisfying to our patients. I can diagnose and readily treat perioral dermatitis, yet I’m hard pressed to give an answer to its root cause. “Root cause? Yes. Just apply this pimecrolimus cream for a couple of weeks and it’ll be better! All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”

You’ll have to do better, George.

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

“How did we miss out on that?” “What?” my physician friend replied as we stood in line at the coffee cart. “Root cause. I mean, we invented this idea and now all these naturopaths and functional medicine quacks are gettin’ rich off it.” “Take it easy,” he says. “Just order a coffee.”

It’s hard not to be indignant. I had a morning clinic with three patients insisting I find the “root cause” of their problem. Now, if one had flagellate dermatitis after eating Asian mushroom soup, I’d have said “Root cause? Shiitake mushrooms!” and walked out like Costanza in Seinfeld, “All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”

Alas no. They had perioral dermatitis, alopecia areata, eczema – no satisfying “roots” for walk-off answers.

There is a universal desire to find the proximal cause for problems. Patients often want to know it so that we address the root of their trouble and not just cut off the branches. This is deeply gratifying for those who want not only to know why, but also to have agency in how to control their disease. For example, if they believe the root cause of perioral dermatitis was excess yeast, then eating a “candida diet’’ should do the trick! Food sensitivities, hormones, and heavy metals round out the top suspects that root cause patients want to talk about.

Of course, patients have been asking about this for a long time, but lately, the root cause visit seems to be on trend. Check out any hip primary care start-up such as One Medical or any hot direct-to-consumer virtual offering such as ParsleyHealth and you will see root-cause everywhere. Our patients are expecting us to address it, or it seems they will find someone cooler who will.

Yet, it wasn’t the slick marketing team at ParsleyHeath who invented the “root cause doctor visit.” We did. It’s an idea that started with our Greek physician ancestors. Breaking from the diviners and priests, we were the first “naturalists” positing that there was a natural, not a divine cause for illness. The cardinal concept in the Hippocratic Corpus was that health was an equilibrium and illness an imbalance. They didn’t have dehydroepiandrosterone tests or mercury levels, but did have bodily fluids. Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm, were the root of all root causes. A physician simply had to identify which was in excess or deficient and fix that to cure the disease. Interestingly, the word “diagnosis” appears only once in the Corpus. The word “Diagignoskein” appears occasionally but this describes studying thoroughly, not naming a diagnosis as we understand it.

Advances in chemistry in the 17th century meant physicians could add new theories, and new root causes. Now alkaline or other chemical elixirs were added to cure at the source. Since there was no verifiable evidence to prove causes, theories were adopted to provide some rational direction to treatment. In the 18th century, physicians such as Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the original faculty at the University of Pennsylvania school of medicine, taught that spasms of the arteries were the root cause of illnesses. “Heroic” treatments such as extreme bloodletting were the cure. (Note, those patients who survived us kept coming back to us for more).

Scientific knowledge and diagnostic technologies led to more and more complex and abstruse causes. Yet, as we became more precise and effective, our explanations became less satisfying to our patients. I can diagnose and readily treat perioral dermatitis, yet I’m hard pressed to give an answer to its root cause. “Root cause? Yes. Just apply this pimecrolimus cream for a couple of weeks and it’ll be better! All right, that’s it for me! Be good everybody!”

You’ll have to do better, George.

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

Queen Elizabeth is everywhere. She was even on the last slide of a presentation on COVID, monkeypox, and influenza vaccines given by our physician in charge of quality. This was odd. The presenter wasn’t English. The Queen had nothing to do with vaccines. Nor apparently would she have said even if she did have an opinion about them. But there we were, an audience of physicians and staff pausing for a moment of remembrance of her.

I’m not a Monarchist – except perhaps for the Kennedys. I grew up in New England. I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the British Crown should endure. But I do marvel at the astounding effect Queen Elizabeth’s passing had on so many around the world. Her personal qualities, particularly her steadiness and humane sympathy, might explain why so many are sad hearing the news. But also I think there was something in her role that we all wished for: Not the owning of palaces and sceptres, but rather, the respect that was given to her.

She was a stateswoman of “unmatched dignity,” the White House wrote. That was true, but it seems being the Queen might have been the last job on earth where such dignity is still possible. Certainly in politics, education, and even health care, there doesn’t seem to be much left lately.

The same day of that presentation I walked into the room of a patient 22 minutes late, she held her arm forth tapping her watch to indicate the time and my tardiness. Unnecessary, if not impertinent. Covering for one of my female physician colleagues, I read an email from a patient which began, “Dear Julie, With all due respect …” Another patient submitted a photo for us to review that was clearly taken from her car while waiting at a stop light. Hardly the consideration a clinical encounter should be given.

Much has been lost for patients. too. There are patients trying to make appointments lately who are told: “There are none. Call back later.” Gone it seems are the days of a two-part office visit, the first part fully clothed in the physician’s office, then the exam. There is no dignified way to remove exam paper stuck to your backside before introducing yourself to the doctor. Maybe that last slide of Her Majesty was in fact for us to have a moment of silence for what we’ve all lost.

Walter Bagehot (pronounce it “Baj-et” if you tell this story to your Harlan wine friends) was a political writer and editor of The Economist in the 1860s. He famously said that the secret to the English government was having two kinds of institutions, the dignified and the efficient. The efficient, Parliament, was responsible for all the work. The dignified, the Crown, gives significance and holds everyone’s respect. If medicine ever once was both dignified and efficient, we aren’t lately. We push to reduce backlogs, offer same-time virtual care, work to reduce costs. We’ve driven medicine to the efficient and left little of the dignity it seems.

The Queen will be remembered for her lifelong dedication to the laborious service of others. Even though each of us in medicine pledges the same, we also mourn this week the loss of dignity that once came with it.

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

Queen Elizabeth is everywhere. She was even on the last slide of a presentation on COVID, monkeypox, and influenza vaccines given by our physician in charge of quality. This was odd. The presenter wasn’t English. The Queen had nothing to do with vaccines. Nor apparently would she have said even if she did have an opinion about them. But there we were, an audience of physicians and staff pausing for a moment of remembrance of her.

I’m not a Monarchist – except perhaps for the Kennedys. I grew up in New England. I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the British Crown should endure. But I do marvel at the astounding effect Queen Elizabeth’s passing had on so many around the world. Her personal qualities, particularly her steadiness and humane sympathy, might explain why so many are sad hearing the news. But also I think there was something in her role that we all wished for: Not the owning of palaces and sceptres, but rather, the respect that was given to her.

She was a stateswoman of “unmatched dignity,” the White House wrote. That was true, but it seems being the Queen might have been the last job on earth where such dignity is still possible. Certainly in politics, education, and even health care, there doesn’t seem to be much left lately.

The same day of that presentation I walked into the room of a patient 22 minutes late, she held her arm forth tapping her watch to indicate the time and my tardiness. Unnecessary, if not impertinent. Covering for one of my female physician colleagues, I read an email from a patient which began, “Dear Julie, With all due respect …” Another patient submitted a photo for us to review that was clearly taken from her car while waiting at a stop light. Hardly the consideration a clinical encounter should be given.

Much has been lost for patients. too. There are patients trying to make appointments lately who are told: “There are none. Call back later.” Gone it seems are the days of a two-part office visit, the first part fully clothed in the physician’s office, then the exam. There is no dignified way to remove exam paper stuck to your backside before introducing yourself to the doctor. Maybe that last slide of Her Majesty was in fact for us to have a moment of silence for what we’ve all lost.

Walter Bagehot (pronounce it “Baj-et” if you tell this story to your Harlan wine friends) was a political writer and editor of The Economist in the 1860s. He famously said that the secret to the English government was having two kinds of institutions, the dignified and the efficient. The efficient, Parliament, was responsible for all the work. The dignified, the Crown, gives significance and holds everyone’s respect. If medicine ever once was both dignified and efficient, we aren’t lately. We push to reduce backlogs, offer same-time virtual care, work to reduce costs. We’ve driven medicine to the efficient and left little of the dignity it seems.

The Queen will be remembered for her lifelong dedication to the laborious service of others. Even though each of us in medicine pledges the same, we also mourn this week the loss of dignity that once came with it.

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

Queen Elizabeth is everywhere. She was even on the last slide of a presentation on COVID, monkeypox, and influenza vaccines given by our physician in charge of quality. This was odd. The presenter wasn’t English. The Queen had nothing to do with vaccines. Nor apparently would she have said even if she did have an opinion about them. But there we were, an audience of physicians and staff pausing for a moment of remembrance of her.

I’m not a Monarchist – except perhaps for the Kennedys. I grew up in New England. I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the British Crown should endure. But I do marvel at the astounding effect Queen Elizabeth’s passing had on so many around the world. Her personal qualities, particularly her steadiness and humane sympathy, might explain why so many are sad hearing the news. But also I think there was something in her role that we all wished for: Not the owning of palaces and sceptres, but rather, the respect that was given to her.

She was a stateswoman of “unmatched dignity,” the White House wrote. That was true, but it seems being the Queen might have been the last job on earth where such dignity is still possible. Certainly in politics, education, and even health care, there doesn’t seem to be much left lately.

The same day of that presentation I walked into the room of a patient 22 minutes late, she held her arm forth tapping her watch to indicate the time and my tardiness. Unnecessary, if not impertinent. Covering for one of my female physician colleagues, I read an email from a patient which began, “Dear Julie, With all due respect …” Another patient submitted a photo for us to review that was clearly taken from her car while waiting at a stop light. Hardly the consideration a clinical encounter should be given.

Much has been lost for patients. too. There are patients trying to make appointments lately who are told: “There are none. Call back later.” Gone it seems are the days of a two-part office visit, the first part fully clothed in the physician’s office, then the exam. There is no dignified way to remove exam paper stuck to your backside before introducing yourself to the doctor. Maybe that last slide of Her Majesty was in fact for us to have a moment of silence for what we’ve all lost.

Walter Bagehot (pronounce it “Baj-et” if you tell this story to your Harlan wine friends) was a political writer and editor of The Economist in the 1860s. He famously said that the secret to the English government was having two kinds of institutions, the dignified and the efficient. The efficient, Parliament, was responsible for all the work. The dignified, the Crown, gives significance and holds everyone’s respect. If medicine ever once was both dignified and efficient, we aren’t lately. We push to reduce backlogs, offer same-time virtual care, work to reduce costs. We’ve driven medicine to the efficient and left little of the dignity it seems.

The Queen will be remembered for her lifelong dedication to the laborious service of others. Even though each of us in medicine pledges the same, we also mourn this week the loss of dignity that once came with it.

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

You can observe a lot by watching. – Yogi Berra

He was a fit man in his 40s. Thick legs. Maybe he was a long-distance walker? The bones of his right arm were more developed than his left – a right-handed thrower. His lower left fibula was fractured from a severely rolled ankle. He carried a walking stick that was glossy in the middle from where he gripped it with his left hand, dragging his bad left foot along. Dental cavities tell the story of his diet: honey, carobs, dates. Carbon 14 dating confirms that he lived during the Chalcolithic period, approximately 6,000 years ago. He was likely a shepherd in the Judean Desert.

Isn’t it amazing how much we can know about another human even across such an enormous chasm of time? If you’d asked me when I was 11 what I wanted to be, I’d have said archaeologist. How cool to study artifacts and recreate stories from eons ago! I sometimes still get to be that kid in my office. Noticing people, their scars, their flaws, knowing there is a story behind each one.

A 64-year-old woman with a 4-cm red, brown shiny plaque on her right calf. She burned it on her boyfriend’s Harley Davidson nearly 40 years ago. She wonders where he is now.

A 58-year-old man with a 3-inch scar on his right wrist. He fell off his 6-year-old’s skimboard. ORIF.

A 40-year-old woman with bilateral mastectomy scars.

A 66-year-old with a lichenified nodule on his left forearm. When I shaved it off, a quarter inch spicule of glass came out. It was from a car accident in his first car, a Chevy Impala. He saved the piece of glass as a souvenir.

A fit 50-year-old with extensive scars on his feet and ankles. “Yeah, I went ‘whistling-in’ on a training jump,” he said. He was a retired Navy Seal and raconteur with quite a tale about the day his parachute malfunctioned. Some well placed live oak trees is why he’s around for his skin screening.

A classic, rope-like open-heart scar on the chest of a thin, young, healthy, flaxen-haired woman. Dissected aorta.

A 30-something woman dressed in a pants suit with razor-thin parallel scars on her volar forearms and proximal thighs. She asks if any laser could remove them.

A rotund, hard-living, bearded man with chest and upper-arm tattoos of flames and nudie girls now mixed with the striking face of an old woman and three little kids: His mom and grandkids. He shows me where the fourth grandkid will go and gives me a bear hug to thank me for the care when he leaves.

Attending to these details shifts us from autopilot to present. It keeps us involved, holding our attention even if it’s the 20th skin screening or diabetic foot exam of the day. And what a gift to share in the intimate details of another’s life.

Like examining the minute details of an ancient bone, dig for the history with curiosity, pity, humility. The perfect moment for asking might be when you stand with your #15 blade ready to introduce a new scar and become part of this human’s story forever.

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

You can observe a lot by watching. – Yogi Berra

He was a fit man in his 40s. Thick legs. Maybe he was a long-distance walker? The bones of his right arm were more developed than his left – a right-handed thrower. His lower left fibula was fractured from a severely rolled ankle. He carried a walking stick that was glossy in the middle from where he gripped it with his left hand, dragging his bad left foot along. Dental cavities tell the story of his diet: honey, carobs, dates. Carbon 14 dating confirms that he lived during the Chalcolithic period, approximately 6,000 years ago. He was likely a shepherd in the Judean Desert.

Isn’t it amazing how much we can know about another human even across such an enormous chasm of time? If you’d asked me when I was 11 what I wanted to be, I’d have said archaeologist. How cool to study artifacts and recreate stories from eons ago! I sometimes still get to be that kid in my office. Noticing people, their scars, their flaws, knowing there is a story behind each one.

A 64-year-old woman with a 4-cm red, brown shiny plaque on her right calf. She burned it on her boyfriend’s Harley Davidson nearly 40 years ago. She wonders where he is now.

A 58-year-old man with a 3-inch scar on his right wrist. He fell off his 6-year-old’s skimboard. ORIF.

A 40-year-old woman with bilateral mastectomy scars.

A 66-year-old with a lichenified nodule on his left forearm. When I shaved it off, a quarter inch spicule of glass came out. It was from a car accident in his first car, a Chevy Impala. He saved the piece of glass as a souvenir.

A fit 50-year-old with extensive scars on his feet and ankles. “Yeah, I went ‘whistling-in’ on a training jump,” he said. He was a retired Navy Seal and raconteur with quite a tale about the day his parachute malfunctioned. Some well placed live oak trees is why he’s around for his skin screening.

A classic, rope-like open-heart scar on the chest of a thin, young, healthy, flaxen-haired woman. Dissected aorta.

A 30-something woman dressed in a pants suit with razor-thin parallel scars on her volar forearms and proximal thighs. She asks if any laser could remove them.

A rotund, hard-living, bearded man with chest and upper-arm tattoos of flames and nudie girls now mixed with the striking face of an old woman and three little kids: His mom and grandkids. He shows me where the fourth grandkid will go and gives me a bear hug to thank me for the care when he leaves.

Attending to these details shifts us from autopilot to present. It keeps us involved, holding our attention even if it’s the 20th skin screening or diabetic foot exam of the day. And what a gift to share in the intimate details of another’s life.

Like examining the minute details of an ancient bone, dig for the history with curiosity, pity, humility. The perfect moment for asking might be when you stand with your #15 blade ready to introduce a new scar and become part of this human’s story forever.

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

You can observe a lot by watching. – Yogi Berra

He was a fit man in his 40s. Thick legs. Maybe he was a long-distance walker? The bones of his right arm were more developed than his left – a right-handed thrower. His lower left fibula was fractured from a severely rolled ankle. He carried a walking stick that was glossy in the middle from where he gripped it with his left hand, dragging his bad left foot along. Dental cavities tell the story of his diet: honey, carobs, dates. Carbon 14 dating confirms that he lived during the Chalcolithic period, approximately 6,000 years ago. He was likely a shepherd in the Judean Desert.

Isn’t it amazing how much we can know about another human even across such an enormous chasm of time? If you’d asked me when I was 11 what I wanted to be, I’d have said archaeologist. How cool to study artifacts and recreate stories from eons ago! I sometimes still get to be that kid in my office. Noticing people, their scars, their flaws, knowing there is a story behind each one.

A 64-year-old woman with a 4-cm red, brown shiny plaque on her right calf. She burned it on her boyfriend’s Harley Davidson nearly 40 years ago. She wonders where he is now.

A 58-year-old man with a 3-inch scar on his right wrist. He fell off his 6-year-old’s skimboard. ORIF.

A 40-year-old woman with bilateral mastectomy scars.

A 66-year-old with a lichenified nodule on his left forearm. When I shaved it off, a quarter inch spicule of glass came out. It was from a car accident in his first car, a Chevy Impala. He saved the piece of glass as a souvenir.

A fit 50-year-old with extensive scars on his feet and ankles. “Yeah, I went ‘whistling-in’ on a training jump,” he said. He was a retired Navy Seal and raconteur with quite a tale about the day his parachute malfunctioned. Some well placed live oak trees is why he’s around for his skin screening.

A classic, rope-like open-heart scar on the chest of a thin, young, healthy, flaxen-haired woman. Dissected aorta.

A 30-something woman dressed in a pants suit with razor-thin parallel scars on her volar forearms and proximal thighs. She asks if any laser could remove them.

A rotund, hard-living, bearded man with chest and upper-arm tattoos of flames and nudie girls now mixed with the striking face of an old woman and three little kids: His mom and grandkids. He shows me where the fourth grandkid will go and gives me a bear hug to thank me for the care when he leaves.

Attending to these details shifts us from autopilot to present. It keeps us involved, holding our attention even if it’s the 20th skin screening or diabetic foot exam of the day. And what a gift to share in the intimate details of another’s life.

Like examining the minute details of an ancient bone, dig for the history with curiosity, pity, humility. The perfect moment for asking might be when you stand with your #15 blade ready to introduce a new scar and become part of this human’s story forever.

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

I was quite sure I had multiple sclerosis when I was a medical student. I first noticed symptoms during my neurology rotation. All the signs were there: Fatigue that was getting worse in the North Carolina heat (Uhthoff sign!). A tingle running down my neck (Lhermitte sign!). Blurry vision late at night while studying pathways in Lange Neurology. “Didn’t cousin Amy have MS?” I asked my Mom. I started researching which medical specialties didn’t require dexterity. My left eyelid began twitching and didn’t stop until I rotated to ob.gyn.

Fortunately, it was not multiple sclerosis I had, but rather nosophobia, also known as Medical Student’s Disease. The combination of intense study of symptoms, spotty knowledge of diagnoses, and grade anxiety makes nosophobia common in med students. Despite its name, it doesn’t afflict only doctors. Patients often come to us convinced they have a disease but without reason. So unshakable is their belief that multiple visits are often required to disabuse them of their self-diagnosis. I sometimes have to remind myself to appear concerned even when a “melanoma” is a freckle so small I can barely see it with a dermatoscope. Or a “genital wart” is a hair follicle that looks exactly like the hundreds on the patient’s scrotum. Tougher though, are the treatment-avoiders: patients whose imagined side effects lead them to stop or refuse treatment.

I recently saw a middle-aged man with erythroderma so severe he looked like a ghillie suit of scale. He had a lifelong history of atopic dermatitis and a 2-year history of avoiding treatments. At some point, he tried all the usual remedies: cyclosporine, methotrexate, azathioprine, light therapy, boxes of topicals. The last treatment had been dupilumab, which he tried for a few weeks. “Why did you stop that one?” I asked. The injections were making him go blind, he explained. “Not blurry? Blind?” I asked. Yes, he could not see at all after each injection. Perhaps he might have dry eyes or keratitis? Sure. But blindness? It seemed an unreasonable concern. Further discussion revealed that intolerance to medication side effects was why he had stopped all his other treatments.

Nocebo, from the Latin “I shall harm,” is the dark counterpart to the placebo. Patients experience imagined, or even real, adverse effects because they believe the treatment is causing them harm. This is true even though that treatment might not be having any unwanted physiologic effect. Statins are a good example. Studies have shown that most patient-reported side effects of statins are in fact nocebo effects rather than a result of pharmacologic causes.

Yet, many patients on statins report muscle pain or other concerns as unbearable. As a consequence, some patients who might have benefited from statins might be missing out on the protective gains. Nocebo effects are exacerbated by a common bias that causes deeper regret when bad outcomes result from an action taken as compared with bad outcomes that occurred from not taking action. It’s frustrating when there’s a standard of care treatment, but our patient can’t get past their fear of harm to try it.

Despite my recommendations, my eczema patient insisted on continuing his nontreatment rather than take any risks with treatments for now. There are ways I might help, but I expect it will require additional visits to build trust. Today, the best I can do is to understand and respect him. At least he doesn’t think he has a genital wart – I’m not sure how I’d treat it if he did.

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

I was quite sure I had multiple sclerosis when I was a medical student. I first noticed symptoms during my neurology rotation. All the signs were there: Fatigue that was getting worse in the North Carolina heat (Uhthoff sign!). A tingle running down my neck (Lhermitte sign!). Blurry vision late at night while studying pathways in Lange Neurology. “Didn’t cousin Amy have MS?” I asked my Mom. I started researching which medical specialties didn’t require dexterity. My left eyelid began twitching and didn’t stop until I rotated to ob.gyn.

Fortunately, it was not multiple sclerosis I had, but rather nosophobia, also known as Medical Student’s Disease. The combination of intense study of symptoms, spotty knowledge of diagnoses, and grade anxiety makes nosophobia common in med students. Despite its name, it doesn’t afflict only doctors. Patients often come to us convinced they have a disease but without reason. So unshakable is their belief that multiple visits are often required to disabuse them of their self-diagnosis. I sometimes have to remind myself to appear concerned even when a “melanoma” is a freckle so small I can barely see it with a dermatoscope. Or a “genital wart” is a hair follicle that looks exactly like the hundreds on the patient’s scrotum. Tougher though, are the treatment-avoiders: patients whose imagined side effects lead them to stop or refuse treatment.

I recently saw a middle-aged man with erythroderma so severe he looked like a ghillie suit of scale. He had a lifelong history of atopic dermatitis and a 2-year history of avoiding treatments. At some point, he tried all the usual remedies: cyclosporine, methotrexate, azathioprine, light therapy, boxes of topicals. The last treatment had been dupilumab, which he tried for a few weeks. “Why did you stop that one?” I asked. The injections were making him go blind, he explained. “Not blurry? Blind?” I asked. Yes, he could not see at all after each injection. Perhaps he might have dry eyes or keratitis? Sure. But blindness? It seemed an unreasonable concern. Further discussion revealed that intolerance to medication side effects was why he had stopped all his other treatments.

Nocebo, from the Latin “I shall harm,” is the dark counterpart to the placebo. Patients experience imagined, or even real, adverse effects because they believe the treatment is causing them harm. This is true even though that treatment might not be having any unwanted physiologic effect. Statins are a good example. Studies have shown that most patient-reported side effects of statins are in fact nocebo effects rather than a result of pharmacologic causes.

Yet, many patients on statins report muscle pain or other concerns as unbearable. As a consequence, some patients who might have benefited from statins might be missing out on the protective gains. Nocebo effects are exacerbated by a common bias that causes deeper regret when bad outcomes result from an action taken as compared with bad outcomes that occurred from not taking action. It’s frustrating when there’s a standard of care treatment, but our patient can’t get past their fear of harm to try it.

Despite my recommendations, my eczema patient insisted on continuing his nontreatment rather than take any risks with treatments for now. There are ways I might help, but I expect it will require additional visits to build trust. Today, the best I can do is to understand and respect him. At least he doesn’t think he has a genital wart – I’m not sure how I’d treat it if he did.

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

I was quite sure I had multiple sclerosis when I was a medical student. I first noticed symptoms during my neurology rotation. All the signs were there: Fatigue that was getting worse in the North Carolina heat (Uhthoff sign!). A tingle running down my neck (Lhermitte sign!). Blurry vision late at night while studying pathways in Lange Neurology. “Didn’t cousin Amy have MS?” I asked my Mom. I started researching which medical specialties didn’t require dexterity. My left eyelid began twitching and didn’t stop until I rotated to ob.gyn.

Fortunately, it was not multiple sclerosis I had, but rather nosophobia, also known as Medical Student’s Disease. The combination of intense study of symptoms, spotty knowledge of diagnoses, and grade anxiety makes nosophobia common in med students. Despite its name, it doesn’t afflict only doctors. Patients often come to us convinced they have a disease but without reason. So unshakable is their belief that multiple visits are often required to disabuse them of their self-diagnosis. I sometimes have to remind myself to appear concerned even when a “melanoma” is a freckle so small I can barely see it with a dermatoscope. Or a “genital wart” is a hair follicle that looks exactly like the hundreds on the patient’s scrotum. Tougher though, are the treatment-avoiders: patients whose imagined side effects lead them to stop or refuse treatment.

I recently saw a middle-aged man with erythroderma so severe he looked like a ghillie suit of scale. He had a lifelong history of atopic dermatitis and a 2-year history of avoiding treatments. At some point, he tried all the usual remedies: cyclosporine, methotrexate, azathioprine, light therapy, boxes of topicals. The last treatment had been dupilumab, which he tried for a few weeks. “Why did you stop that one?” I asked. The injections were making him go blind, he explained. “Not blurry? Blind?” I asked. Yes, he could not see at all after each injection. Perhaps he might have dry eyes or keratitis? Sure. But blindness? It seemed an unreasonable concern. Further discussion revealed that intolerance to medication side effects was why he had stopped all his other treatments.

Nocebo, from the Latin “I shall harm,” is the dark counterpart to the placebo. Patients experience imagined, or even real, adverse effects because they believe the treatment is causing them harm. This is true even though that treatment might not be having any unwanted physiologic effect. Statins are a good example. Studies have shown that most patient-reported side effects of statins are in fact nocebo effects rather than a result of pharmacologic causes.

Yet, many patients on statins report muscle pain or other concerns as unbearable. As a consequence, some patients who might have benefited from statins might be missing out on the protective gains. Nocebo effects are exacerbated by a common bias that causes deeper regret when bad outcomes result from an action taken as compared with bad outcomes that occurred from not taking action. It’s frustrating when there’s a standard of care treatment, but our patient can’t get past their fear of harm to try it.

Despite my recommendations, my eczema patient insisted on continuing his nontreatment rather than take any risks with treatments for now. There are ways I might help, but I expect it will require additional visits to build trust. Today, the best I can do is to understand and respect him. At least he doesn’t think he has a genital wart – I’m not sure how I’d treat it if he did.

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

“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” – Psalm 6

Lament is making a comeback. A once-common word in the 1800s, it fell steeply in popularity in the 20th century. Lately, I see it everywhere. It’s a beautiful word, capturing not only sorrow, but also weariness. It is also audacious, facing injustice and acknowledging that it ought not be this way, and communal, bearing witness to the shared hardship of being human. The Hebrew scriptures captured the experience of lament in the form of psalms, from the Greek, psalmoi or “words to accompany the music.” A few thousand years later, the words still resonate, especially in times of grief. “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.”

“Hair loss” is not the chief complaint you want to see when running behind in clinic – it’s never a 15-minute visit. A woman in her late 30s with wavy, light-brown hair that grew to her waistline was seated on the exam chair. When I sat across from her, I couldn’t see her scalp. No erythema or scale. No frontal band of hair loss. Just a bit thin everywhere. Perhaps another post-COVID telogen? This might be easy. I blew right by her mother, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Her black and white horizontal striped shirt seemed to match her gray and white hair. She looked worried.

Having perused my patient’s labs and done an exam, I announced that the diagnosis was telogen effluvium. “There are many possible causes, stress is a common one. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” (The answer is always yes, thus providing a good foothold to climb out of a hair-loss visit). “Yes. My 1-year-old daughter died last year. She had choked on a cashew from a granola bar given by her sister.” I gasped and turned from her green eyes to her mom’s. Without saying a word, mom pleaded with me to help. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” Neither replied.

On the commute home that day I listened to a live recording of the U2 song, “40.” I had recently read about it in a touching essay about lament by Enuma Okoro of the Financial Times. I thought about my patient’s suffering and the brutal injustice of fate. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. Reporting from the events in Ukraine, Buffalo, Uvalde, Tulsa has put agonized faces like hers in the public square for us all to gape at and quietly mourn.

Even from a secular lens, it can be seen that a beauty of psalms is how they move from despair to hope. Prayers will be answered. Things will get better. Turn up the volume and feel the urgency and pathos Bono injects into your soul as he sings the refrain; “How long, how long? How long to sing this song?” In the live version we the audience take over for him. The words accompanying the music swell over the crowd. How much longer? How much more suffering? My patient’s hair will grow back. It will take years. All we can do is lament with her.

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

“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” – Psalm 6

Lament is making a comeback. A once-common word in the 1800s, it fell steeply in popularity in the 20th century. Lately, I see it everywhere. It’s a beautiful word, capturing not only sorrow, but also weariness. It is also audacious, facing injustice and acknowledging that it ought not be this way, and communal, bearing witness to the shared hardship of being human. The Hebrew scriptures captured the experience of lament in the form of psalms, from the Greek, psalmoi or “words to accompany the music.” A few thousand years later, the words still resonate, especially in times of grief. “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.”

“Hair loss” is not the chief complaint you want to see when running behind in clinic – it’s never a 15-minute visit. A woman in her late 30s with wavy, light-brown hair that grew to her waistline was seated on the exam chair. When I sat across from her, I couldn’t see her scalp. No erythema or scale. No frontal band of hair loss. Just a bit thin everywhere. Perhaps another post-COVID telogen? This might be easy. I blew right by her mother, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Her black and white horizontal striped shirt seemed to match her gray and white hair. She looked worried.

Having perused my patient’s labs and done an exam, I announced that the diagnosis was telogen effluvium. “There are many possible causes, stress is a common one. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” (The answer is always yes, thus providing a good foothold to climb out of a hair-loss visit). “Yes. My 1-year-old daughter died last year. She had choked on a cashew from a granola bar given by her sister.” I gasped and turned from her green eyes to her mom’s. Without saying a word, mom pleaded with me to help. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” Neither replied.

On the commute home that day I listened to a live recording of the U2 song, “40.” I had recently read about it in a touching essay about lament by Enuma Okoro of the Financial Times. I thought about my patient’s suffering and the brutal injustice of fate. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. Reporting from the events in Ukraine, Buffalo, Uvalde, Tulsa has put agonized faces like hers in the public square for us all to gape at and quietly mourn.

Even from a secular lens, it can be seen that a beauty of psalms is how they move from despair to hope. Prayers will be answered. Things will get better. Turn up the volume and feel the urgency and pathos Bono injects into your soul as he sings the refrain; “How long, how long? How long to sing this song?” In the live version we the audience take over for him. The words accompanying the music swell over the crowd. How much longer? How much more suffering? My patient’s hair will grow back. It will take years. All we can do is lament with her.

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

“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” – Psalm 6

Lament is making a comeback. A once-common word in the 1800s, it fell steeply in popularity in the 20th century. Lately, I see it everywhere. It’s a beautiful word, capturing not only sorrow, but also weariness. It is also audacious, facing injustice and acknowledging that it ought not be this way, and communal, bearing witness to the shared hardship of being human. The Hebrew scriptures captured the experience of lament in the form of psalms, from the Greek, psalmoi or “words to accompany the music.” A few thousand years later, the words still resonate, especially in times of grief. “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.”

“Hair loss” is not the chief complaint you want to see when running behind in clinic – it’s never a 15-minute visit. A woman in her late 30s with wavy, light-brown hair that grew to her waistline was seated on the exam chair. When I sat across from her, I couldn’t see her scalp. No erythema or scale. No frontal band of hair loss. Just a bit thin everywhere. Perhaps another post-COVID telogen? This might be easy. I blew right by her mother, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Her black and white horizontal striped shirt seemed to match her gray and white hair. She looked worried.

Having perused my patient’s labs and done an exam, I announced that the diagnosis was telogen effluvium. “There are many possible causes, stress is a common one. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” (The answer is always yes, thus providing a good foothold to climb out of a hair-loss visit). “Yes. My 1-year-old daughter died last year. She had choked on a cashew from a granola bar given by her sister.” I gasped and turned from her green eyes to her mom’s. Without saying a word, mom pleaded with me to help. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” Neither replied.

On the commute home that day I listened to a live recording of the U2 song, “40.” I had recently read about it in a touching essay about lament by Enuma Okoro of the Financial Times. I thought about my patient’s suffering and the brutal injustice of fate. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. Reporting from the events in Ukraine, Buffalo, Uvalde, Tulsa has put agonized faces like hers in the public square for us all to gape at and quietly mourn.

Even from a secular lens, it can be seen that a beauty of psalms is how they move from despair to hope. Prayers will be answered. Things will get better. Turn up the volume and feel the urgency and pathos Bono injects into your soul as he sings the refrain; “How long, how long? How long to sing this song?” In the live version we the audience take over for him. The words accompanying the music swell over the crowd. How much longer? How much more suffering? My patient’s hair will grow back. It will take years. All we can do is lament with her.

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

“Here and now is what counts. So, let’s go to work!” –Walter Orthmann, 100 years old
 

How long before you retire? If you know the answer in exact years, months, and days, you aren’t alone. For many good reasons, we doctors are more likely to be counting down the years until we retire rather than counting up the years since we started working. For me, if I’m to break the Guinness World Record, I have 69 more years, 3 months and 6 days left to go. That would surpass the current achievement for the longest career at one company, Mr. Walter Orthmann, who has been sitting at the same desk for 84 years. At 100 years old, Mr. Orthmann still shows up every Monday morning, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as a young squirrel. I’ll be 119 when I break his streak, which would also put me past Anthony Mancinelli, a New York barber who at 107 years of age was still brushing off his chair for the next customer. Unbelievable, I know! I wonder, what’s the one weird trick these guys are doing that keeps them going?

Guinness World Records

Of course, the job itself matters. Some jobs, like being a police officer, aren’t suitable for old people. Or are they? Officer L.C. “Buckshot” Smith was still keeping streets safe from his patrol car at 91 years old. After a bit of searching, I found pretty much any job you can think of has a very long-lasting Energizer Bunny story: A female surgeon who was operating at 90 years old, a 100-year-old rheumatologist who was still teaching at University of California, San Francisco, and a 105-year-old Japanese physician who was still seeing patients. There are plenty of geriatric lawyers, nurses, land surveyors, accountants, judges, you name it. So it seems it’s not the work, but the worker that matters. Why do some older workers recharge daily and carry on while many younger ones say the daily grind is burning them out? What makes the Greatest Generation so great?

We all know colleagues who hung up their white coats early. In my medical group, it’s often financially feasible to retire at 58 and many have chosen that option. Yet, we have loads of Partner Emeritus docs in their 70’s who still log on to EPIC and pitch in everyday.

“So, how do you keep going?” I asked my 105-year-old patient who still walks and manages his affairs. “Just stay healthy,” he advised. A circular argument, yet he’s right. You must both be lucky and also choose to be active mentally and physically. Mr. Mancinelli, who was barbering full time at 107 years old, had no aches and pains and all his teeth. He pruned his own bushes. The data are crystal clear that physical activity adds not only years of life, but also improves cognitive capabilities during those years.

As for beating burnout, it seems the one trick that these ultraworkers do is to focus only on the present. Mr. Orthmann’s pithy advice as quoted by NPR is, “You need to get busy with the present, not the past or the future.” These centenarian employees also frame their work not as stressful but rather as their daily series of problems to be solved.

When I asked my super-geriatric patient how he sleeps so well, he said, “I never worry when I get into bed, I just shut my eyes and sleep. I’ll think about tomorrow when I wake up.” Now if I can do that about 25,000 more times, I’ll have the record.

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

“Here and now is what counts. So, let’s go to work!” –Walter Orthmann, 100 years old
 

How long before you retire? If you know the answer in exact years, months, and days, you aren’t alone. For many good reasons, we doctors are more likely to be counting down the years until we retire rather than counting up the years since we started working. For me, if I’m to break the Guinness World Record, I have 69 more years, 3 months and 6 days left to go. That would surpass the current achievement for the longest career at one company, Mr. Walter Orthmann, who has been sitting at the same desk for 84 years. At 100 years old, Mr. Orthmann still shows up every Monday morning, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as a young squirrel. I’ll be 119 when I break his streak, which would also put me past Anthony Mancinelli, a New York barber who at 107 years of age was still brushing off his chair for the next customer. Unbelievable, I know! I wonder, what’s the one weird trick these guys are doing that keeps them going?

Guinness World Records

Of course, the job itself matters. Some jobs, like being a police officer, aren’t suitable for old people. Or are they? Officer L.C. “Buckshot” Smith was still keeping streets safe from his patrol car at 91 years old. After a bit of searching, I found pretty much any job you can think of has a very long-lasting Energizer Bunny story: A female surgeon who was operating at 90 years old, a 100-year-old rheumatologist who was still teaching at University of California, San Francisco, and a 105-year-old Japanese physician who was still seeing patients. There are plenty of geriatric lawyers, nurses, land surveyors, accountants, judges, you name it. So it seems it’s not the work, but the worker that matters. Why do some older workers recharge daily and carry on while many younger ones say the daily grind is burning them out? What makes the Greatest Generation so great?

We all know colleagues who hung up their white coats early. In my medical group, it’s often financially feasible to retire at 58 and many have chosen that option. Yet, we have loads of Partner Emeritus docs in their 70’s who still log on to EPIC and pitch in everyday.

“So, how do you keep going?” I asked my 105-year-old patient who still walks and manages his affairs. “Just stay healthy,” he advised. A circular argument, yet he’s right. You must both be lucky and also choose to be active mentally and physically. Mr. Mancinelli, who was barbering full time at 107 years old, had no aches and pains and all his teeth. He pruned his own bushes. The data are crystal clear that physical activity adds not only years of life, but also improves cognitive capabilities during those years.

As for beating burnout, it seems the one trick that these ultraworkers do is to focus only on the present. Mr. Orthmann’s pithy advice as quoted by NPR is, “You need to get busy with the present, not the past or the future.” These centenarian employees also frame their work not as stressful but rather as their daily series of problems to be solved.

When I asked my super-geriatric patient how he sleeps so well, he said, “I never worry when I get into bed, I just shut my eyes and sleep. I’ll think about tomorrow when I wake up.” Now if I can do that about 25,000 more times, I’ll have the record.

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

“Here and now is what counts. So, let’s go to work!” –Walter Orthmann, 100 years old
 

How long before you retire? If you know the answer in exact years, months, and days, you aren’t alone. For many good reasons, we doctors are more likely to be counting down the years until we retire rather than counting up the years since we started working. For me, if I’m to break the Guinness World Record, I have 69 more years, 3 months and 6 days left to go. That would surpass the current achievement for the longest career at one company, Mr. Walter Orthmann, who has been sitting at the same desk for 84 years. At 100 years old, Mr. Orthmann still shows up every Monday morning, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as a young squirrel. I’ll be 119 when I break his streak, which would also put me past Anthony Mancinelli, a New York barber who at 107 years of age was still brushing off his chair for the next customer. Unbelievable, I know! I wonder, what’s the one weird trick these guys are doing that keeps them going?

Guinness World Records

Of course, the job itself matters. Some jobs, like being a police officer, aren’t suitable for old people. Or are they? Officer L.C. “Buckshot” Smith was still keeping streets safe from his patrol car at 91 years old. After a bit of searching, I found pretty much any job you can think of has a very long-lasting Energizer Bunny story: A female surgeon who was operating at 90 years old, a 100-year-old rheumatologist who was still teaching at University of California, San Francisco, and a 105-year-old Japanese physician who was still seeing patients. There are plenty of geriatric lawyers, nurses, land surveyors, accountants, judges, you name it. So it seems it’s not the work, but the worker that matters. Why do some older workers recharge daily and carry on while many younger ones say the daily grind is burning them out? What makes the Greatest Generation so great?

We all know colleagues who hung up their white coats early. In my medical group, it’s often financially feasible to retire at 58 and many have chosen that option. Yet, we have loads of Partner Emeritus docs in their 70’s who still log on to EPIC and pitch in everyday.

“So, how do you keep going?” I asked my 105-year-old patient who still walks and manages his affairs. “Just stay healthy,” he advised. A circular argument, yet he’s right. You must both be lucky and also choose to be active mentally and physically. Mr. Mancinelli, who was barbering full time at 107 years old, had no aches and pains and all his teeth. He pruned his own bushes. The data are crystal clear that physical activity adds not only years of life, but also improves cognitive capabilities during those years.

As for beating burnout, it seems the one trick that these ultraworkers do is to focus only on the present. Mr. Orthmann’s pithy advice as quoted by NPR is, “You need to get busy with the present, not the past or the future.” These centenarian employees also frame their work not as stressful but rather as their daily series of problems to be solved.

When I asked my super-geriatric patient how he sleeps so well, he said, “I never worry when I get into bed, I just shut my eyes and sleep. I’ll think about tomorrow when I wake up.” Now if I can do that about 25,000 more times, I’ll have the record.

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

Across the country, taxes unite us. Not that we all share the same, rather that we all have to do them. It was recently tax weekend in our house: The Saturday and Sunday that cap off weeks of hunting and gathering faded receipts and sorting through reams of credit card bills to find all the dollars we spent on work. The task is more tedious than all the Wednesdays of taking out trash bins combined, and equally as exciting. But wait, that’s not all.

This weekend I’ve been chatting with bots from a solar company trying to solve our drop in energy production and sat on terminal hold with apparently one person who answers the phone for Amazon. There’s also an homeowner’s association meeting to prepare for and research to be done on ceiling fans.

“Life admin” is a crisp phrase coined by Elizabeth Emens, JD, PhD, that captures the never-ending to-do list that comes with running a household. An accomplished law professor at Columbia University, New York, Dr. Emens noticed the negative impact this life admin has on our quality of life. Reading her book, “Life Admin: How I Learned to Do Less, Do Better, and Live More” (New York: HarperOne, 2019), your eyes widen as she magically makes salient all this hidden work that is stealing our time. Life admin, kidmin, mom and dadmin, just rattling them off feels like donning x-ray glasses allowing us to see how much work we do outside of our work. As doctors, I would add “family house calls,” as a contributing factor: Random family and friends who want to talk for a minute about their knee replacement or what drug the ICU should give Uncle Larry who is fighting COVID. (I only know ivermectin, but it would only help if he just had scabies).

By all accounts, the amount of life admin is growing insidiously, worsened by the great pandemic. There are events to plan and reply to, more DIY customer service to fix your own problems, more work to find a VRBO for a weekend getaway at the beach. (There are none on the entire coast of California this summer, so I just saved you time there. You’re welcome.)

There is no good time to do this work and combined with the heavy burden of our responsibilities as physicians, it can feel like fuel feeding the burnout fire.

Dr. Emens has some top tips to help. First up, know your admin type. Are you a super doer, reluctant doer, admin denier, or admin avoider? I’m mostly in the avoider quadrant, dropping into reluctant doer when consequences loom. Next, choose strategies that fit you. Instead of avoiding, there are some things I might deflect. For example, When your aunt in Peoria asks where she can get a COVID test, you can use LMGTFY.com to generate a link that will show them how to use Google to help with their question. Dr. Emens is joking, but the point rang true. We can lighten the load a bit if we delegate or push back the excessive or undue requests. For some tasks, we’d be better off paying someone to take it over. Last tip here, try doing life admin with a partner, be it spouse, friend, or colleague. This is particularly useful when your partner is a super doer, as mine is. Not only can they make the work lighter, but also less dreary.

We physicians are focused on fixing physician burnout. Maybe we should also be looking at what happens in the “second shift” at home. Tax season is over, but will be back soon.

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

Across the country, taxes unite us. Not that we all share the same, rather that we all have to do them. It was recently tax weekend in our house: The Saturday and Sunday that cap off weeks of hunting and gathering faded receipts and sorting through reams of credit card bills to find all the dollars we spent on work. The task is more tedious than all the Wednesdays of taking out trash bins combined, and equally as exciting. But wait, that’s not all.

This weekend I’ve been chatting with bots from a solar company trying to solve our drop in energy production and sat on terminal hold with apparently one person who answers the phone for Amazon. There’s also an homeowner’s association meeting to prepare for and research to be done on ceiling fans.

“Life admin” is a crisp phrase coined by Elizabeth Emens, JD, PhD, that captures the never-ending to-do list that comes with running a household. An accomplished law professor at Columbia University, New York, Dr. Emens noticed the negative impact this life admin has on our quality of life. Reading her book, “Life Admin: How I Learned to Do Less, Do Better, and Live More” (New York: HarperOne, 2019), your eyes widen as she magically makes salient all this hidden work that is stealing our time. Life admin, kidmin, mom and dadmin, just rattling them off feels like donning x-ray glasses allowing us to see how much work we do outside of our work. As doctors, I would add “family house calls,” as a contributing factor: Random family and friends who want to talk for a minute about their knee replacement or what drug the ICU should give Uncle Larry who is fighting COVID. (I only know ivermectin, but it would only help if he just had scabies).

By all accounts, the amount of life admin is growing insidiously, worsened by the great pandemic. There are events to plan and reply to, more DIY customer service to fix your own problems, more work to find a VRBO for a weekend getaway at the beach. (There are none on the entire coast of California this summer, so I just saved you time there. You’re welcome.)

There is no good time to do this work and combined with the heavy burden of our responsibilities as physicians, it can feel like fuel feeding the burnout fire.

Dr. Emens has some top tips to help. First up, know your admin type. Are you a super doer, reluctant doer, admin denier, or admin avoider? I’m mostly in the avoider quadrant, dropping into reluctant doer when consequences loom. Next, choose strategies that fit you. Instead of avoiding, there are some things I might deflect. For example, When your aunt in Peoria asks where she can get a COVID test, you can use LMGTFY.com to generate a link that will show them how to use Google to help with their question. Dr. Emens is joking, but the point rang true. We can lighten the load a bit if we delegate or push back the excessive or undue requests. For some tasks, we’d be better off paying someone to take it over. Last tip here, try doing life admin with a partner, be it spouse, friend, or colleague. This is particularly useful when your partner is a super doer, as mine is. Not only can they make the work lighter, but also less dreary.

We physicians are focused on fixing physician burnout. Maybe we should also be looking at what happens in the “second shift” at home. Tax season is over, but will be back soon.

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

Across the country, taxes unite us. Not that we all share the same, rather that we all have to do them. It was recently tax weekend in our house: The Saturday and Sunday that cap off weeks of hunting and gathering faded receipts and sorting through reams of credit card bills to find all the dollars we spent on work. The task is more tedious than all the Wednesdays of taking out trash bins combined, and equally as exciting. But wait, that’s not all.

This weekend I’ve been chatting with bots from a solar company trying to solve our drop in energy production and sat on terminal hold with apparently one person who answers the phone for Amazon. There’s also an homeowner’s association meeting to prepare for and research to be done on ceiling fans.

“Life admin” is a crisp phrase coined by Elizabeth Emens, JD, PhD, that captures the never-ending to-do list that comes with running a household. An accomplished law professor at Columbia University, New York, Dr. Emens noticed the negative impact this life admin has on our quality of life. Reading her book, “Life Admin: How I Learned to Do Less, Do Better, and Live More” (New York: HarperOne, 2019), your eyes widen as she magically makes salient all this hidden work that is stealing our time. Life admin, kidmin, mom and dadmin, just rattling them off feels like donning x-ray glasses allowing us to see how much work we do outside of our work. As doctors, I would add “family house calls,” as a contributing factor: Random family and friends who want to talk for a minute about their knee replacement or what drug the ICU should give Uncle Larry who is fighting COVID. (I only know ivermectin, but it would only help if he just had scabies).

By all accounts, the amount of life admin is growing insidiously, worsened by the great pandemic. There are events to plan and reply to, more DIY customer service to fix your own problems, more work to find a VRBO for a weekend getaway at the beach. (There are none on the entire coast of California this summer, so I just saved you time there. You’re welcome.)

There is no good time to do this work and combined with the heavy burden of our responsibilities as physicians, it can feel like fuel feeding the burnout fire.

Dr. Emens has some top tips to help. First up, know your admin type. Are you a super doer, reluctant doer, admin denier, or admin avoider? I’m mostly in the avoider quadrant, dropping into reluctant doer when consequences loom. Next, choose strategies that fit you. Instead of avoiding, there are some things I might deflect. For example, When your aunt in Peoria asks where she can get a COVID test, you can use LMGTFY.com to generate a link that will show them how to use Google to help with their question. Dr. Emens is joking, but the point rang true. We can lighten the load a bit if we delegate or push back the excessive or undue requests. For some tasks, we’d be better off paying someone to take it over. Last tip here, try doing life admin with a partner, be it spouse, friend, or colleague. This is particularly useful when your partner is a super doer, as mine is. Not only can they make the work lighter, but also less dreary.

We physicians are focused on fixing physician burnout. Maybe we should also be looking at what happens in the “second shift” at home. Tax season is over, but will be back soon.

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