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How to not miss something
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
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.
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
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.
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
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.
Examining bias
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
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. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
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. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
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. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Audrey Hepburn’s lessons for a COVID clinic
Queues of patients wait to clear security and enter the sterile area at every medical office. Water bottles are allowed, fevers and visitors are not. Those who fail clearance or who are afraid to be seen in person must be treated virtually. In this context, virtually means by telephone or video, yet, aptly, it also means “nearly or almost,” as in we can nearly or almost treat them these ways. We’ve emerged safely, but we’ve lost sensibility. Because of this, what’s important in the doctor-patient relationships will drift a bit. Clinical acumen and technical skill won’t be enough. Successful practices will also have grace.
If your image of grace is Audrey Hepburn gliding along Fifth Avenue in a long black dress and elbow-length gloves, you’re in the right place. Ms. Hepburn embodied elegance and decorum and there are lessons to be drawn from her. Piling your hair high and donning oversized sunglasses along with your face mask would be to miss the point here though. Ms. Hepburn dressed exquisitely, yes, but her grace came from what wearing a difficult-to-walk-in dress meant to us, not to her. Appearance, self-control, and warmth are what made her charismatic.
To appear urbane requires effort; it’s the effort that we appreciate in someone who is graceful. When you’re thoughtful about how you look, you plan ahead, you work to look polished. In effect, you’re saying: “As my patient, you’re important enough for me to be well dressed.” It is a visible signal of all the unobservable work you’ve done to care for them. This is more critical now that our faces are covered and concern for infection means wearing shabby hospital scrubs rather than shirt and tie.
Effort is also required for telephone and video visits. In them, our doctor-patient connection is diminished – no matter how high definition, it’s a virtual affair. Ms. Hepburn would no doubt take the time to ensure she appeared professional, well lit, with a pleasing background. She’d plan for the call to be done in a quiet location and without distraction.
Whether in person or by phone, grace, as Ms. Hepburn demonstrated, is physical awareness and body control. She would often be completely still when someone is speaking, showing a countenance of warmth. She’d pause after the other person completed a thought and before replying. In doing so, she conveyed that she was present and engaged in what was being said. It is that confidence and ease of manner we perceived as grace.
I thought about this the other day during a mixed clinic of telephone and face-to-face visits. I had on my wrinkle-free scrubs (I could do better). I was listening to a patient describe all possible triggers for her hand dermatitis. My urge to interrupt grew with each paragraph of her storytelling. “Be patient,” I thought, “be at ease with her rambling. ... When she stops, thank her as if you were looking her in the eye acknowledging how interesting her observations were.” This is not just good manners, it’s the essence of grace: The art of showing how important others are to you.
Our world needs grace more than ever and what better place to start but with us. In pleasing, assisting, and honoring them, our patients can be reassured that we can and will care for them. Make Ms. Hepburn proud.
“For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.” – Audrey Hepburn
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. He has no disclosures related to this column. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com .
Queues of patients wait to clear security and enter the sterile area at every medical office. Water bottles are allowed, fevers and visitors are not. Those who fail clearance or who are afraid to be seen in person must be treated virtually. In this context, virtually means by telephone or video, yet, aptly, it also means “nearly or almost,” as in we can nearly or almost treat them these ways. We’ve emerged safely, but we’ve lost sensibility. Because of this, what’s important in the doctor-patient relationships will drift a bit. Clinical acumen and technical skill won’t be enough. Successful practices will also have grace.
If your image of grace is Audrey Hepburn gliding along Fifth Avenue in a long black dress and elbow-length gloves, you’re in the right place. Ms. Hepburn embodied elegance and decorum and there are lessons to be drawn from her. Piling your hair high and donning oversized sunglasses along with your face mask would be to miss the point here though. Ms. Hepburn dressed exquisitely, yes, but her grace came from what wearing a difficult-to-walk-in dress meant to us, not to her. Appearance, self-control, and warmth are what made her charismatic.
To appear urbane requires effort; it’s the effort that we appreciate in someone who is graceful. When you’re thoughtful about how you look, you plan ahead, you work to look polished. In effect, you’re saying: “As my patient, you’re important enough for me to be well dressed.” It is a visible signal of all the unobservable work you’ve done to care for them. This is more critical now that our faces are covered and concern for infection means wearing shabby hospital scrubs rather than shirt and tie.
Effort is also required for telephone and video visits. In them, our doctor-patient connection is diminished – no matter how high definition, it’s a virtual affair. Ms. Hepburn would no doubt take the time to ensure she appeared professional, well lit, with a pleasing background. She’d plan for the call to be done in a quiet location and without distraction.
Whether in person or by phone, grace, as Ms. Hepburn demonstrated, is physical awareness and body control. She would often be completely still when someone is speaking, showing a countenance of warmth. She’d pause after the other person completed a thought and before replying. In doing so, she conveyed that she was present and engaged in what was being said. It is that confidence and ease of manner we perceived as grace.
I thought about this the other day during a mixed clinic of telephone and face-to-face visits. I had on my wrinkle-free scrubs (I could do better). I was listening to a patient describe all possible triggers for her hand dermatitis. My urge to interrupt grew with each paragraph of her storytelling. “Be patient,” I thought, “be at ease with her rambling. ... When she stops, thank her as if you were looking her in the eye acknowledging how interesting her observations were.” This is not just good manners, it’s the essence of grace: The art of showing how important others are to you.
Our world needs grace more than ever and what better place to start but with us. In pleasing, assisting, and honoring them, our patients can be reassured that we can and will care for them. Make Ms. Hepburn proud.
“For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.” – Audrey Hepburn
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. He has no disclosures related to this column. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com .
Queues of patients wait to clear security and enter the sterile area at every medical office. Water bottles are allowed, fevers and visitors are not. Those who fail clearance or who are afraid to be seen in person must be treated virtually. In this context, virtually means by telephone or video, yet, aptly, it also means “nearly or almost,” as in we can nearly or almost treat them these ways. We’ve emerged safely, but we’ve lost sensibility. Because of this, what’s important in the doctor-patient relationships will drift a bit. Clinical acumen and technical skill won’t be enough. Successful practices will also have grace.
If your image of grace is Audrey Hepburn gliding along Fifth Avenue in a long black dress and elbow-length gloves, you’re in the right place. Ms. Hepburn embodied elegance and decorum and there are lessons to be drawn from her. Piling your hair high and donning oversized sunglasses along with your face mask would be to miss the point here though. Ms. Hepburn dressed exquisitely, yes, but her grace came from what wearing a difficult-to-walk-in dress meant to us, not to her. Appearance, self-control, and warmth are what made her charismatic.
To appear urbane requires effort; it’s the effort that we appreciate in someone who is graceful. When you’re thoughtful about how you look, you plan ahead, you work to look polished. In effect, you’re saying: “As my patient, you’re important enough for me to be well dressed.” It is a visible signal of all the unobservable work you’ve done to care for them. This is more critical now that our faces are covered and concern for infection means wearing shabby hospital scrubs rather than shirt and tie.
Effort is also required for telephone and video visits. In them, our doctor-patient connection is diminished – no matter how high definition, it’s a virtual affair. Ms. Hepburn would no doubt take the time to ensure she appeared professional, well lit, with a pleasing background. She’d plan for the call to be done in a quiet location and without distraction.
Whether in person or by phone, grace, as Ms. Hepburn demonstrated, is physical awareness and body control. She would often be completely still when someone is speaking, showing a countenance of warmth. She’d pause after the other person completed a thought and before replying. In doing so, she conveyed that she was present and engaged in what was being said. It is that confidence and ease of manner we perceived as grace.
I thought about this the other day during a mixed clinic of telephone and face-to-face visits. I had on my wrinkle-free scrubs (I could do better). I was listening to a patient describe all possible triggers for her hand dermatitis. My urge to interrupt grew with each paragraph of her storytelling. “Be patient,” I thought, “be at ease with her rambling. ... When she stops, thank her as if you were looking her in the eye acknowledging how interesting her observations were.” This is not just good manners, it’s the essence of grace: The art of showing how important others are to you.
Our world needs grace more than ever and what better place to start but with us. In pleasing, assisting, and honoring them, our patients can be reassured that we can and will care for them. Make Ms. Hepburn proud.
“For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.” – Audrey Hepburn
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. He has no disclosures related to this column. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com .
Overcoming COVID-related stress
As a department chief managing during this crisis, everyone greets me sympathetically: “This must be so stressful for you! Are you doing OK?” “Um, I’m great,” I answer contritely. Yes, this is hard, yet I feel fine. But why? Shouldn’t I be fretting the damage done by the COVID cyclone? Our operations are smashed and our staff scrambled, my family and friends are out of work; these are difficult times. But a harmful effect on my health or yours is not inevitable. There are things we can do to inoculate ourselves.
No doubt, exercise (if you can find weights!), eating well, sleeping, and meditating help, but they are secondary. None of these protect much if you still believe stress is killing you. You must first reframe what is happening. Health psychologist Kelly McGonigal, PhD, from Stanford (Calif.) University, is a world expert on this topic. If you’ve not seen her TED talk about stress, then watch it now. She teaches how stress is indeed harmful to your health – but only if you believe it to be so. Many studies have borne this out. One showed that people who reported high stress in the previous year were 43% more likely to die than those who did not. But that risk held only when they believed stress was harmful to them. Those who did not think that stress was harmful not only fared better but also had the lowest likelihood of death, lower even than those who reported little stress! So it wasn’t the stress that mattered, it was the physiologic response to it. And that you can control.
Changing your beliefs is no easy feat. There is work to be done, Dr. McGonigal would argue. You must not only reframe our stress as healthful, but also act in ways to make this true. This is easier for us as physicians. First, we understand better than most that difficulty is a normal part of life. We have countless stories of hardship, tragedy, pain and suffering from the work we do. The pandemic may be extraordinary in breadth, but not in depth. We’ve seen worse happen to patients. Second, we have firsthand experience that suffering ends and often leads to strength and resilience. Even in our own lives, it was by traveling through the extraordinary stress of medical school and residency that we arrived here.
Cortisol increases when we are under duress. So does oxytocin. The former gets most of the press, the latter is more interesting. That oxytocin release during stress conferred survival benefits to us as a species: When a threat arrived, we not only ran, but also grabbed the kids, too! Oxytocin is the “tend and befriend” compliment to cortisol’s “fight or flight.” Focusing on this priming to strengthen social ties, listen, spend (Zoom) time together, and provide emotional support is key to our recovery. Even small acts of giving for our staff, friends, family, and strangers can significantly shift consequences of this stress from harmful to beneficial.
Last year, my uncle died in a tragic accident. My aunt, who is alone, is now also isolated. She’s lost her partner, her guardian, and she is afraid. Rather than succumb to the stress, she imagined something she could do to wrest some control. Last week, she filled her minivan with pink and yellow tulips bunched in bouquets and tied with handwritten notes of encouragement. She then drove up and down the streets in her North Attleboro, Mass., neighborhood and left the flowers on doorsteps until her van was empty. She did so to share with them the bit of joy that spring brings, she says, and to encourage people to stay inside!
This is a difficult time for us, and yet even more difficult for others. Perhaps the best we can do is to find ways to bring a bit of joy or comfort to others.
“In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.” – Viktor Frankl
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. He had no relevant disclosures. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
As a department chief managing during this crisis, everyone greets me sympathetically: “This must be so stressful for you! Are you doing OK?” “Um, I’m great,” I answer contritely. Yes, this is hard, yet I feel fine. But why? Shouldn’t I be fretting the damage done by the COVID cyclone? Our operations are smashed and our staff scrambled, my family and friends are out of work; these are difficult times. But a harmful effect on my health or yours is not inevitable. There are things we can do to inoculate ourselves.
No doubt, exercise (if you can find weights!), eating well, sleeping, and meditating help, but they are secondary. None of these protect much if you still believe stress is killing you. You must first reframe what is happening. Health psychologist Kelly McGonigal, PhD, from Stanford (Calif.) University, is a world expert on this topic. If you’ve not seen her TED talk about stress, then watch it now. She teaches how stress is indeed harmful to your health – but only if you believe it to be so. Many studies have borne this out. One showed that people who reported high stress in the previous year were 43% more likely to die than those who did not. But that risk held only when they believed stress was harmful to them. Those who did not think that stress was harmful not only fared better but also had the lowest likelihood of death, lower even than those who reported little stress! So it wasn’t the stress that mattered, it was the physiologic response to it. And that you can control.
Changing your beliefs is no easy feat. There is work to be done, Dr. McGonigal would argue. You must not only reframe our stress as healthful, but also act in ways to make this true. This is easier for us as physicians. First, we understand better than most that difficulty is a normal part of life. We have countless stories of hardship, tragedy, pain and suffering from the work we do. The pandemic may be extraordinary in breadth, but not in depth. We’ve seen worse happen to patients. Second, we have firsthand experience that suffering ends and often leads to strength and resilience. Even in our own lives, it was by traveling through the extraordinary stress of medical school and residency that we arrived here.
Cortisol increases when we are under duress. So does oxytocin. The former gets most of the press, the latter is more interesting. That oxytocin release during stress conferred survival benefits to us as a species: When a threat arrived, we not only ran, but also grabbed the kids, too! Oxytocin is the “tend and befriend” compliment to cortisol’s “fight or flight.” Focusing on this priming to strengthen social ties, listen, spend (Zoom) time together, and provide emotional support is key to our recovery. Even small acts of giving for our staff, friends, family, and strangers can significantly shift consequences of this stress from harmful to beneficial.
Last year, my uncle died in a tragic accident. My aunt, who is alone, is now also isolated. She’s lost her partner, her guardian, and she is afraid. Rather than succumb to the stress, she imagined something she could do to wrest some control. Last week, she filled her minivan with pink and yellow tulips bunched in bouquets and tied with handwritten notes of encouragement. She then drove up and down the streets in her North Attleboro, Mass., neighborhood and left the flowers on doorsteps until her van was empty. She did so to share with them the bit of joy that spring brings, she says, and to encourage people to stay inside!
This is a difficult time for us, and yet even more difficult for others. Perhaps the best we can do is to find ways to bring a bit of joy or comfort to others.
“In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.” – Viktor Frankl
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. He had no relevant disclosures. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
As a department chief managing during this crisis, everyone greets me sympathetically: “This must be so stressful for you! Are you doing OK?” “Um, I’m great,” I answer contritely. Yes, this is hard, yet I feel fine. But why? Shouldn’t I be fretting the damage done by the COVID cyclone? Our operations are smashed and our staff scrambled, my family and friends are out of work; these are difficult times. But a harmful effect on my health or yours is not inevitable. There are things we can do to inoculate ourselves.
No doubt, exercise (if you can find weights!), eating well, sleeping, and meditating help, but they are secondary. None of these protect much if you still believe stress is killing you. You must first reframe what is happening. Health psychologist Kelly McGonigal, PhD, from Stanford (Calif.) University, is a world expert on this topic. If you’ve not seen her TED talk about stress, then watch it now. She teaches how stress is indeed harmful to your health – but only if you believe it to be so. Many studies have borne this out. One showed that people who reported high stress in the previous year were 43% more likely to die than those who did not. But that risk held only when they believed stress was harmful to them. Those who did not think that stress was harmful not only fared better but also had the lowest likelihood of death, lower even than those who reported little stress! So it wasn’t the stress that mattered, it was the physiologic response to it. And that you can control.
Changing your beliefs is no easy feat. There is work to be done, Dr. McGonigal would argue. You must not only reframe our stress as healthful, but also act in ways to make this true. This is easier for us as physicians. First, we understand better than most that difficulty is a normal part of life. We have countless stories of hardship, tragedy, pain and suffering from the work we do. The pandemic may be extraordinary in breadth, but not in depth. We’ve seen worse happen to patients. Second, we have firsthand experience that suffering ends and often leads to strength and resilience. Even in our own lives, it was by traveling through the extraordinary stress of medical school and residency that we arrived here.
Cortisol increases when we are under duress. So does oxytocin. The former gets most of the press, the latter is more interesting. That oxytocin release during stress conferred survival benefits to us as a species: When a threat arrived, we not only ran, but also grabbed the kids, too! Oxytocin is the “tend and befriend” compliment to cortisol’s “fight or flight.” Focusing on this priming to strengthen social ties, listen, spend (Zoom) time together, and provide emotional support is key to our recovery. Even small acts of giving for our staff, friends, family, and strangers can significantly shift consequences of this stress from harmful to beneficial.
Last year, my uncle died in a tragic accident. My aunt, who is alone, is now also isolated. She’s lost her partner, her guardian, and she is afraid. Rather than succumb to the stress, she imagined something she could do to wrest some control. Last week, she filled her minivan with pink and yellow tulips bunched in bouquets and tied with handwritten notes of encouragement. She then drove up and down the streets in her North Attleboro, Mass., neighborhood and left the flowers on doorsteps until her van was empty. She did so to share with them the bit of joy that spring brings, she says, and to encourage people to stay inside!
This is a difficult time for us, and yet even more difficult for others. Perhaps the best we can do is to find ways to bring a bit of joy or comfort to others.
“In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.” – Viktor Frankl
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. He had no relevant disclosures. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
Give me an occupation, Miss Dashwood
“I’ve been watching YouTube videos on how to set a ventilator,” said one of our dermatologists. The absurdity, levity, and gravity of that statement captures in a single sentence where we are today.
None of us alive have experience with such a crisis. It is as if our planet passed through a wormhole and we’ve been transported to the late medieval period: We doctors fighting the Black Death donned in beaked masks filled with juniper berries, mint, and clove to protect us from the miasma. Now, though, we spray store-bought lavender disinfectant on surgical masks.
“A crisis shows you a person’s soul,” said New York Governor Andrew Cuomo, adding: “It shows you what they’re made of, the weaknesses explode and the strengths ... emboldened.” Most of us have traveled through life with no experience of peril. Such mortal danger explodes and emboldens us, dividing us in two, the fearful or the phlegmatic.
When President Trump proclaimed that plaquenil was a promising treatment for the virus, prescriptions for the drug soared so quickly that four of eight manufacturers reported being in shortage by the end of the day. Many of those prescriptions were written by physicians for themselves and their families. Private Facebook physician groups shared insider tips for how to get around constraints and find the drug – as hoardable as toilet paper. As a department chief and fellow human being, I understand why some of us might behave this way. We didn’t sign up to be dermatologists or nephrologists or surgeons or pulmonologists agreeing that, to do so, we might die. We are all afraid.
The track of this epic storm became clear last week and now, terrifyingly, it appears it will be a direct hit. I braced for an onslaught of anxiety from our doctors and staff. But as the forecast became more grim, the courage began to well up and creativity climbed. Doctors went to local stores and bought all the masks and shields on their own. Rolls of toilet paper and diapers began magically appearing in our mom-doctors’ offices, delivered by angels in scrubs. I’ve practically had to install a velvet rope at my door to organize the queue of people wanting to talk to me about their ideas to help – keep 6 feet apart please! Stories like this abound. Even at the EvergreenHealth hospital in Washington they’ve not had shortages of staff. Rather than calling out sick, they called in: “If you need me, I’m available.”
Doctors are afraid and frustrated. Some of the things we will do in the coming weeks will first do no good, perhaps even harm. But I believe it’s because we’ve yet to embolden our strengths. It’s our job as leaders, attendings, administrators to inform and enable them.
When Marianne fell deathly ill in “Sense and Sensibility,” Colonel Branden wrung his hands and paced the floor. “Give me an occupation, Miss Dashwood, or I shall run mad.” Doctors are running, mad. And, just in case, some dermatologists are relearning how to intubate, waiting for that occupation to be given.
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. He has no relevant conflicts of interest related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“I’ve been watching YouTube videos on how to set a ventilator,” said one of our dermatologists. The absurdity, levity, and gravity of that statement captures in a single sentence where we are today.
None of us alive have experience with such a crisis. It is as if our planet passed through a wormhole and we’ve been transported to the late medieval period: We doctors fighting the Black Death donned in beaked masks filled with juniper berries, mint, and clove to protect us from the miasma. Now, though, we spray store-bought lavender disinfectant on surgical masks.
“A crisis shows you a person’s soul,” said New York Governor Andrew Cuomo, adding: “It shows you what they’re made of, the weaknesses explode and the strengths ... emboldened.” Most of us have traveled through life with no experience of peril. Such mortal danger explodes and emboldens us, dividing us in two, the fearful or the phlegmatic.
When President Trump proclaimed that plaquenil was a promising treatment for the virus, prescriptions for the drug soared so quickly that four of eight manufacturers reported being in shortage by the end of the day. Many of those prescriptions were written by physicians for themselves and their families. Private Facebook physician groups shared insider tips for how to get around constraints and find the drug – as hoardable as toilet paper. As a department chief and fellow human being, I understand why some of us might behave this way. We didn’t sign up to be dermatologists or nephrologists or surgeons or pulmonologists agreeing that, to do so, we might die. We are all afraid.
The track of this epic storm became clear last week and now, terrifyingly, it appears it will be a direct hit. I braced for an onslaught of anxiety from our doctors and staff. But as the forecast became more grim, the courage began to well up and creativity climbed. Doctors went to local stores and bought all the masks and shields on their own. Rolls of toilet paper and diapers began magically appearing in our mom-doctors’ offices, delivered by angels in scrubs. I’ve practically had to install a velvet rope at my door to organize the queue of people wanting to talk to me about their ideas to help – keep 6 feet apart please! Stories like this abound. Even at the EvergreenHealth hospital in Washington they’ve not had shortages of staff. Rather than calling out sick, they called in: “If you need me, I’m available.”
Doctors are afraid and frustrated. Some of the things we will do in the coming weeks will first do no good, perhaps even harm. But I believe it’s because we’ve yet to embolden our strengths. It’s our job as leaders, attendings, administrators to inform and enable them.
When Marianne fell deathly ill in “Sense and Sensibility,” Colonel Branden wrung his hands and paced the floor. “Give me an occupation, Miss Dashwood, or I shall run mad.” Doctors are running, mad. And, just in case, some dermatologists are relearning how to intubate, waiting for that occupation to be given.
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. He has no relevant conflicts of interest related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
“I’ve been watching YouTube videos on how to set a ventilator,” said one of our dermatologists. The absurdity, levity, and gravity of that statement captures in a single sentence where we are today.
None of us alive have experience with such a crisis. It is as if our planet passed through a wormhole and we’ve been transported to the late medieval period: We doctors fighting the Black Death donned in beaked masks filled with juniper berries, mint, and clove to protect us from the miasma. Now, though, we spray store-bought lavender disinfectant on surgical masks.
“A crisis shows you a person’s soul,” said New York Governor Andrew Cuomo, adding: “It shows you what they’re made of, the weaknesses explode and the strengths ... emboldened.” Most of us have traveled through life with no experience of peril. Such mortal danger explodes and emboldens us, dividing us in two, the fearful or the phlegmatic.
When President Trump proclaimed that plaquenil was a promising treatment for the virus, prescriptions for the drug soared so quickly that four of eight manufacturers reported being in shortage by the end of the day. Many of those prescriptions were written by physicians for themselves and their families. Private Facebook physician groups shared insider tips for how to get around constraints and find the drug – as hoardable as toilet paper. As a department chief and fellow human being, I understand why some of us might behave this way. We didn’t sign up to be dermatologists or nephrologists or surgeons or pulmonologists agreeing that, to do so, we might die. We are all afraid.
The track of this epic storm became clear last week and now, terrifyingly, it appears it will be a direct hit. I braced for an onslaught of anxiety from our doctors and staff. But as the forecast became more grim, the courage began to well up and creativity climbed. Doctors went to local stores and bought all the masks and shields on their own. Rolls of toilet paper and diapers began magically appearing in our mom-doctors’ offices, delivered by angels in scrubs. I’ve practically had to install a velvet rope at my door to organize the queue of people wanting to talk to me about their ideas to help – keep 6 feet apart please! Stories like this abound. Even at the EvergreenHealth hospital in Washington they’ve not had shortages of staff. Rather than calling out sick, they called in: “If you need me, I’m available.”
Doctors are afraid and frustrated. Some of the things we will do in the coming weeks will first do no good, perhaps even harm. But I believe it’s because we’ve yet to embolden our strengths. It’s our job as leaders, attendings, administrators to inform and enable them.
When Marianne fell deathly ill in “Sense and Sensibility,” Colonel Branden wrung his hands and paced the floor. “Give me an occupation, Miss Dashwood, or I shall run mad.” Doctors are running, mad. And, just in case, some dermatologists are relearning how to intubate, waiting for that occupation to be given.
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. He has no relevant conflicts of interest related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.
My inspiration
Kobe Bryant knew me. Not personally, of course. I never received an autograph or shook his hand. But once in a while if I was up early enough, I’d run into Kobe at the gym in Newport Beach where he and I both worked out. As he did for all his fans at the gym, he’d make eye contact with me and nod hello. He was always focused on his workout – working with a trainer, never with headphones on. In person, he appeared enormous. Unlike most retired professional athletes, he still was in great shape. No doubt he could have suited up in purple and gold, and played against the Clippers that night if needed.
Being from New England, I never was a Laker fan. But I thought, if Kobe can head to the gym after midnight and take a 1,000 shots to prepare for a game, then I could set my alarm for 4 a.m. and take a few dozen more questions from my First Aid books. Head down, “Kryptonite” cranked on my iPod, I wasn’t going to let anyone in that test room outwork me. Neither did he. I put in the time and, like Kobe in the 2002 conference finals against Sacramento, I crushed it.*
When we moved to California, I followed Kobe and the Lakers until he retired. To be clear, I didn’t aspire to be like him, firstly because I’m slightly shorter than Michael Bloomberg, but also because although accomplished, Kobe made some poor choices at times. Indeed, it seems he might have been kinder and more considerate when he was at the top. But in his retirement he looked to be toiling to make reparations, refocusing his prodigious energy and talent for the benefit of others rather than for just for scoring 81 points. His Rolls Royce was there before mine at the gym, and I was there early. He was still getting up early and now preparing to be a great venture capitalist, podcaster, author, and father to his girls.
Watching him carry kettle bells across the floor one morning, I wondered, do people like Kobe Bryant look to others for inspiration? Or are they are born with an endless supply of it? For me, I seemed to push harder and faster when watching idols pass by. Whether it was Kobe or Clayton Christensen (author of “The Innovator’s Dilemma”), Joe Jorizzo, or Barack Obama, I found I could do just a bit more if I had them in mind.
On game days, Kobe spoke of arriving at the arena early, long before anyone. He would use the silent, solo time to reflect on what he needed to do perform that night. I tried this last week, arriving at our clinic early, before any patients or staff. I turned the lights on and took a few minutes to think about what we needed to accomplish that day. I previewed patients on my schedule, searched Up to Date for the latest recommendations on a difficult case. I didn’t know Kobe, but I felt like I did.
When I received the text that Kobe Bryant had died, I was actually working on this column. So I decided to change the topic to write about people who inspire me, ironically inspired by him again. May he rest in peace.
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.
*This article was updated 2/19/2020.
Kobe Bryant knew me. Not personally, of course. I never received an autograph or shook his hand. But once in a while if I was up early enough, I’d run into Kobe at the gym in Newport Beach where he and I both worked out. As he did for all his fans at the gym, he’d make eye contact with me and nod hello. He was always focused on his workout – working with a trainer, never with headphones on. In person, he appeared enormous. Unlike most retired professional athletes, he still was in great shape. No doubt he could have suited up in purple and gold, and played against the Clippers that night if needed.
Being from New England, I never was a Laker fan. But I thought, if Kobe can head to the gym after midnight and take a 1,000 shots to prepare for a game, then I could set my alarm for 4 a.m. and take a few dozen more questions from my First Aid books. Head down, “Kryptonite” cranked on my iPod, I wasn’t going to let anyone in that test room outwork me. Neither did he. I put in the time and, like Kobe in the 2002 conference finals against Sacramento, I crushed it.*
When we moved to California, I followed Kobe and the Lakers until he retired. To be clear, I didn’t aspire to be like him, firstly because I’m slightly shorter than Michael Bloomberg, but also because although accomplished, Kobe made some poor choices at times. Indeed, it seems he might have been kinder and more considerate when he was at the top. But in his retirement he looked to be toiling to make reparations, refocusing his prodigious energy and talent for the benefit of others rather than for just for scoring 81 points. His Rolls Royce was there before mine at the gym, and I was there early. He was still getting up early and now preparing to be a great venture capitalist, podcaster, author, and father to his girls.
Watching him carry kettle bells across the floor one morning, I wondered, do people like Kobe Bryant look to others for inspiration? Or are they are born with an endless supply of it? For me, I seemed to push harder and faster when watching idols pass by. Whether it was Kobe or Clayton Christensen (author of “The Innovator’s Dilemma”), Joe Jorizzo, or Barack Obama, I found I could do just a bit more if I had them in mind.
On game days, Kobe spoke of arriving at the arena early, long before anyone. He would use the silent, solo time to reflect on what he needed to do perform that night. I tried this last week, arriving at our clinic early, before any patients or staff. I turned the lights on and took a few minutes to think about what we needed to accomplish that day. I previewed patients on my schedule, searched Up to Date for the latest recommendations on a difficult case. I didn’t know Kobe, but I felt like I did.
When I received the text that Kobe Bryant had died, I was actually working on this column. So I decided to change the topic to write about people who inspire me, ironically inspired by him again. May he rest in peace.
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.
*This article was updated 2/19/2020.
Kobe Bryant knew me. Not personally, of course. I never received an autograph or shook his hand. But once in a while if I was up early enough, I’d run into Kobe at the gym in Newport Beach where he and I both worked out. As he did for all his fans at the gym, he’d make eye contact with me and nod hello. He was always focused on his workout – working with a trainer, never with headphones on. In person, he appeared enormous. Unlike most retired professional athletes, he still was in great shape. No doubt he could have suited up in purple and gold, and played against the Clippers that night if needed.
Being from New England, I never was a Laker fan. But I thought, if Kobe can head to the gym after midnight and take a 1,000 shots to prepare for a game, then I could set my alarm for 4 a.m. and take a few dozen more questions from my First Aid books. Head down, “Kryptonite” cranked on my iPod, I wasn’t going to let anyone in that test room outwork me. Neither did he. I put in the time and, like Kobe in the 2002 conference finals against Sacramento, I crushed it.*
When we moved to California, I followed Kobe and the Lakers until he retired. To be clear, I didn’t aspire to be like him, firstly because I’m slightly shorter than Michael Bloomberg, but also because although accomplished, Kobe made some poor choices at times. Indeed, it seems he might have been kinder and more considerate when he was at the top. But in his retirement he looked to be toiling to make reparations, refocusing his prodigious energy and talent for the benefit of others rather than for just for scoring 81 points. His Rolls Royce was there before mine at the gym, and I was there early. He was still getting up early and now preparing to be a great venture capitalist, podcaster, author, and father to his girls.
Watching him carry kettle bells across the floor one morning, I wondered, do people like Kobe Bryant look to others for inspiration? Or are they are born with an endless supply of it? For me, I seemed to push harder and faster when watching idols pass by. Whether it was Kobe or Clayton Christensen (author of “The Innovator’s Dilemma”), Joe Jorizzo, or Barack Obama, I found I could do just a bit more if I had them in mind.
On game days, Kobe spoke of arriving at the arena early, long before anyone. He would use the silent, solo time to reflect on what he needed to do perform that night. I tried this last week, arriving at our clinic early, before any patients or staff. I turned the lights on and took a few minutes to think about what we needed to accomplish that day. I previewed patients on my schedule, searched Up to Date for the latest recommendations on a difficult case. I didn’t know Kobe, but I felt like I did.
When I received the text that Kobe Bryant had died, I was actually working on this column. So I decided to change the topic to write about people who inspire me, ironically inspired by him again. May he rest in peace.
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.
*This article was updated 2/19/2020.
New year, old you
This column should arrive just in time. By this time in February, eighty percent of us will abort what we resolved to do this year. If this was you, it could be considered a catastrophic failure because not only is it a new year, it is a new decade. That’s right, the opportunity to fix the 10-year-imperfect you won’t come again until 2030!
I’m among you. I intended to read fiction daily (starting with “The Great Gatsby,” not “Moby Dick” – I thought I would give myself a fighting chance, but alas ...), to workout at least 5 days every week (I tore my left triangular fibrocartilage complex, so there’s that), to write at least 500 words daily (I’m typing this one-handed: I’m lucky to get 500 letters a day). So I’m out.
If you resolved to do something this year, chances are it was to make a better you: a self-improvement goal such as losing weight, saving more money, or exercising more. According to a Marist Poll, these were the most popular resolutions for 2020. At the bottom of the most-likely-resolutions list were things like “worry less” or “be kinder to others.” These are important goals we’d agree, but we don’t deem them resolution-worthy. Why?
And why do we have New Year’s resolutions in the first place? When I looked into this further, I was surprised by some of the history I discovered.
As far back as the Babylonians, once a year, we’ve tried our best to get better. At the feast of Akitu, the Babylonian new year festival (about March on our modern calendar), people resolved to do a better job of paying debts and returning favors – spin had not been invented, and yoga hadn’t caught on in the Middle East yet. This fundamental desire to be a better human seems hardwired, and long before Bullet Journals we seem to have loved “fresh start” days on the calendar. Yet, we’re doomed to fail, over and over, at least for the last 5,000 or so attempts.
We know so much more now. Put your Nike Renue Fusion shoes next to your bed so you get up and run first thing. Set SMART goals. Sign up for automatic retirement contribution and for automatic, plant-based meal delivery from Blue Apron. (I’ve no conflict of interest in these products).
Good ideas all, but I’m suggesting a different approach: Resolve to do something else this year.
Rather than try the same things we’ve attempted, how about selecting something from the bottom of the Marist Poll list – such as resolving to be more humble. Admit when you don’t know something or don’t understand what’s being discussed. Recognize and acknowledge when you’ve screwed up. Or resolve to be more selfless. Add on someone else’s patient, an extra call without expecting a favor in return, or do what you can to help a curbside consult, even if there is no reward or even a small risk to you. Repay the debt you owe your friends, family, colleagues, staff, and patients.
These things are a little trickier to track, but you can find a way to keep yourself accountable. Add a box to your weekly planner that says “Be humble and kind” and check it off for the next 42 weeks. Good news, March 1 falls on a Sunday this year – let’s call it the feast of Akitu.
Happy New Year! And good luck!
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.
This column should arrive just in time. By this time in February, eighty percent of us will abort what we resolved to do this year. If this was you, it could be considered a catastrophic failure because not only is it a new year, it is a new decade. That’s right, the opportunity to fix the 10-year-imperfect you won’t come again until 2030!
I’m among you. I intended to read fiction daily (starting with “The Great Gatsby,” not “Moby Dick” – I thought I would give myself a fighting chance, but alas ...), to workout at least 5 days every week (I tore my left triangular fibrocartilage complex, so there’s that), to write at least 500 words daily (I’m typing this one-handed: I’m lucky to get 500 letters a day). So I’m out.
If you resolved to do something this year, chances are it was to make a better you: a self-improvement goal such as losing weight, saving more money, or exercising more. According to a Marist Poll, these were the most popular resolutions for 2020. At the bottom of the most-likely-resolutions list were things like “worry less” or “be kinder to others.” These are important goals we’d agree, but we don’t deem them resolution-worthy. Why?
And why do we have New Year’s resolutions in the first place? When I looked into this further, I was surprised by some of the history I discovered.
As far back as the Babylonians, once a year, we’ve tried our best to get better. At the feast of Akitu, the Babylonian new year festival (about March on our modern calendar), people resolved to do a better job of paying debts and returning favors – spin had not been invented, and yoga hadn’t caught on in the Middle East yet. This fundamental desire to be a better human seems hardwired, and long before Bullet Journals we seem to have loved “fresh start” days on the calendar. Yet, we’re doomed to fail, over and over, at least for the last 5,000 or so attempts.
We know so much more now. Put your Nike Renue Fusion shoes next to your bed so you get up and run first thing. Set SMART goals. Sign up for automatic retirement contribution and for automatic, plant-based meal delivery from Blue Apron. (I’ve no conflict of interest in these products).
Good ideas all, but I’m suggesting a different approach: Resolve to do something else this year.
Rather than try the same things we’ve attempted, how about selecting something from the bottom of the Marist Poll list – such as resolving to be more humble. Admit when you don’t know something or don’t understand what’s being discussed. Recognize and acknowledge when you’ve screwed up. Or resolve to be more selfless. Add on someone else’s patient, an extra call without expecting a favor in return, or do what you can to help a curbside consult, even if there is no reward or even a small risk to you. Repay the debt you owe your friends, family, colleagues, staff, and patients.
These things are a little trickier to track, but you can find a way to keep yourself accountable. Add a box to your weekly planner that says “Be humble and kind” and check it off for the next 42 weeks. Good news, March 1 falls on a Sunday this year – let’s call it the feast of Akitu.
Happy New Year! And good luck!
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.
This column should arrive just in time. By this time in February, eighty percent of us will abort what we resolved to do this year. If this was you, it could be considered a catastrophic failure because not only is it a new year, it is a new decade. That’s right, the opportunity to fix the 10-year-imperfect you won’t come again until 2030!
I’m among you. I intended to read fiction daily (starting with “The Great Gatsby,” not “Moby Dick” – I thought I would give myself a fighting chance, but alas ...), to workout at least 5 days every week (I tore my left triangular fibrocartilage complex, so there’s that), to write at least 500 words daily (I’m typing this one-handed: I’m lucky to get 500 letters a day). So I’m out.
If you resolved to do something this year, chances are it was to make a better you: a self-improvement goal such as losing weight, saving more money, or exercising more. According to a Marist Poll, these were the most popular resolutions for 2020. At the bottom of the most-likely-resolutions list were things like “worry less” or “be kinder to others.” These are important goals we’d agree, but we don’t deem them resolution-worthy. Why?
And why do we have New Year’s resolutions in the first place? When I looked into this further, I was surprised by some of the history I discovered.
As far back as the Babylonians, once a year, we’ve tried our best to get better. At the feast of Akitu, the Babylonian new year festival (about March on our modern calendar), people resolved to do a better job of paying debts and returning favors – spin had not been invented, and yoga hadn’t caught on in the Middle East yet. This fundamental desire to be a better human seems hardwired, and long before Bullet Journals we seem to have loved “fresh start” days on the calendar. Yet, we’re doomed to fail, over and over, at least for the last 5,000 or so attempts.
We know so much more now. Put your Nike Renue Fusion shoes next to your bed so you get up and run first thing. Set SMART goals. Sign up for automatic retirement contribution and for automatic, plant-based meal delivery from Blue Apron. (I’ve no conflict of interest in these products).
Good ideas all, but I’m suggesting a different approach: Resolve to do something else this year.
Rather than try the same things we’ve attempted, how about selecting something from the bottom of the Marist Poll list – such as resolving to be more humble. Admit when you don’t know something or don’t understand what’s being discussed. Recognize and acknowledge when you’ve screwed up. Or resolve to be more selfless. Add on someone else’s patient, an extra call without expecting a favor in return, or do what you can to help a curbside consult, even if there is no reward or even a small risk to you. Repay the debt you owe your friends, family, colleagues, staff, and patients.
These things are a little trickier to track, but you can find a way to keep yourself accountable. Add a box to your weekly planner that says “Be humble and kind” and check it off for the next 42 weeks. Good news, March 1 falls on a Sunday this year – let’s call it the feast of Akitu.
Happy New Year! And good luck!
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.
Wellness vacations
It’s best practice to not set an alarm when on vacation. The point of vacation, after all, is to escape the rock-hard constraints of the daily grind. But the melody pulling me from slumber wasn’t coming from my phone. It was the ethereal chant of Fajr, morning prayer rising from surrounding mosques. I was in the medina of Marrakesh sleeping in a hotel that was once a home, called a riad. Some parts of the building date from the medieval period. Fajr occurs at dawn, before morning light. Getting from the bed to the toilet was treacherous – you must traverse cold, uneven steps to get there. Yet I had to get dressed: Morning yoga on our riad rooftop would start with sunrise. I guess even my vacations have agendas: I was in Morocco not only to holiday, but also to improve mind, body, and spirit.
For those who can afford them, your travel is fully arranged and activities such as yoga, cooking classes, hikes, and meditation are scheduled. This was my first wellness trip and it was transformative. Many times have I tried to disconnect from the distractions of life, but there is nothing so purifying as having no phone or Internet access. When I made peace with the reality that I couldn’t access EPIC or email, it was like a ringing in the ears had lifted: I could hear silence again.
This trip took us to three locations: Marrakesh, the Atlas Mountains, and the edge of the Sahara Desert. Yoga was prescribed twice a day. Morning practice was 90 minutes of shedding layers as the sun rose and our bodies warmed to increasingly difficult sequences. This was followed by Moroccan breakfast with fellow travelers from around the world. All were professionals and I wasn’t surprised to learn that burnout is common to many. I was surprised to realize that sharing stories with strangers about the vicissitudes of life was deeply bonding. (Or perhaps it was doing yoga inversions together.)
Also surprising was how easy it is to get lost in the maze that is Marrakesh. And yet, it was rewarding. Finding our way back through the mass of people, donkeys, and motorbikes along dark, unmarked alleys – without Waze – was intensely clarifying. Few things help you be present “in the moment” as being adrift and disoriented in a foreign city.
There was relaxation too. We made Khobz, traditional Moroccan bread by mixing just the right amounts of flour, yeast, sugar, oil, water, and salt. Knead, add, knead, add, and stop when done. We then walked a half mile to give our doughy creations to a baker who, with blackened calloused hands, worked an ancient communal oven. Then we waited patiently for the sardines ahead of us to finish baking first. I’ve no idea how long it all took – I had nowhere else to be.
The next day we hiked to a village in the Ourika Valley. There we had lunch at the home of a local Berber family. They served us their best tea, vegetable couscous, and lamb tagine while their chickens and donkeys watched us curiously. It was Thanksgiving (not on the Berber calendar of course) and sharing a meal prepared by a faraway stranger who doesn’t speak English makes you feel thankful in a refreshing way. Way more alike than different we are, I learned.
We finished our trip with a little desert “glamping.” The vast expanse of desert, interrupted by swirling winds and camel bellows quiets your mind, opens you to the immensity of life. That night we sat close to a bonfire and watched the Milky Way drift across the true black sky. I woke the next morning to the best night’s sleep I’ve had all year. My last wellness activity was unplanned, but meaningful nonetheless. As it happens, there’s no hot water in the desert and a bracingly cold shower marked the end of my treatment/vacation.
If the opposite of burned out is repleted, then I am. Also grateful to have such a transformative experience, for friends new and old who love me, and for hot water. Prescribe yourself one if you can.
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.
It’s best practice to not set an alarm when on vacation. The point of vacation, after all, is to escape the rock-hard constraints of the daily grind. But the melody pulling me from slumber wasn’t coming from my phone. It was the ethereal chant of Fajr, morning prayer rising from surrounding mosques. I was in the medina of Marrakesh sleeping in a hotel that was once a home, called a riad. Some parts of the building date from the medieval period. Fajr occurs at dawn, before morning light. Getting from the bed to the toilet was treacherous – you must traverse cold, uneven steps to get there. Yet I had to get dressed: Morning yoga on our riad rooftop would start with sunrise. I guess even my vacations have agendas: I was in Morocco not only to holiday, but also to improve mind, body, and spirit.
For those who can afford them, your travel is fully arranged and activities such as yoga, cooking classes, hikes, and meditation are scheduled. This was my first wellness trip and it was transformative. Many times have I tried to disconnect from the distractions of life, but there is nothing so purifying as having no phone or Internet access. When I made peace with the reality that I couldn’t access EPIC or email, it was like a ringing in the ears had lifted: I could hear silence again.
This trip took us to three locations: Marrakesh, the Atlas Mountains, and the edge of the Sahara Desert. Yoga was prescribed twice a day. Morning practice was 90 minutes of shedding layers as the sun rose and our bodies warmed to increasingly difficult sequences. This was followed by Moroccan breakfast with fellow travelers from around the world. All were professionals and I wasn’t surprised to learn that burnout is common to many. I was surprised to realize that sharing stories with strangers about the vicissitudes of life was deeply bonding. (Or perhaps it was doing yoga inversions together.)
Also surprising was how easy it is to get lost in the maze that is Marrakesh. And yet, it was rewarding. Finding our way back through the mass of people, donkeys, and motorbikes along dark, unmarked alleys – without Waze – was intensely clarifying. Few things help you be present “in the moment” as being adrift and disoriented in a foreign city.
There was relaxation too. We made Khobz, traditional Moroccan bread by mixing just the right amounts of flour, yeast, sugar, oil, water, and salt. Knead, add, knead, add, and stop when done. We then walked a half mile to give our doughy creations to a baker who, with blackened calloused hands, worked an ancient communal oven. Then we waited patiently for the sardines ahead of us to finish baking first. I’ve no idea how long it all took – I had nowhere else to be.
The next day we hiked to a village in the Ourika Valley. There we had lunch at the home of a local Berber family. They served us their best tea, vegetable couscous, and lamb tagine while their chickens and donkeys watched us curiously. It was Thanksgiving (not on the Berber calendar of course) and sharing a meal prepared by a faraway stranger who doesn’t speak English makes you feel thankful in a refreshing way. Way more alike than different we are, I learned.
We finished our trip with a little desert “glamping.” The vast expanse of desert, interrupted by swirling winds and camel bellows quiets your mind, opens you to the immensity of life. That night we sat close to a bonfire and watched the Milky Way drift across the true black sky. I woke the next morning to the best night’s sleep I’ve had all year. My last wellness activity was unplanned, but meaningful nonetheless. As it happens, there’s no hot water in the desert and a bracingly cold shower marked the end of my treatment/vacation.
If the opposite of burned out is repleted, then I am. Also grateful to have such a transformative experience, for friends new and old who love me, and for hot water. Prescribe yourself one if you can.
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.
It’s best practice to not set an alarm when on vacation. The point of vacation, after all, is to escape the rock-hard constraints of the daily grind. But the melody pulling me from slumber wasn’t coming from my phone. It was the ethereal chant of Fajr, morning prayer rising from surrounding mosques. I was in the medina of Marrakesh sleeping in a hotel that was once a home, called a riad. Some parts of the building date from the medieval period. Fajr occurs at dawn, before morning light. Getting from the bed to the toilet was treacherous – you must traverse cold, uneven steps to get there. Yet I had to get dressed: Morning yoga on our riad rooftop would start with sunrise. I guess even my vacations have agendas: I was in Morocco not only to holiday, but also to improve mind, body, and spirit.
For those who can afford them, your travel is fully arranged and activities such as yoga, cooking classes, hikes, and meditation are scheduled. This was my first wellness trip and it was transformative. Many times have I tried to disconnect from the distractions of life, but there is nothing so purifying as having no phone or Internet access. When I made peace with the reality that I couldn’t access EPIC or email, it was like a ringing in the ears had lifted: I could hear silence again.
This trip took us to three locations: Marrakesh, the Atlas Mountains, and the edge of the Sahara Desert. Yoga was prescribed twice a day. Morning practice was 90 minutes of shedding layers as the sun rose and our bodies warmed to increasingly difficult sequences. This was followed by Moroccan breakfast with fellow travelers from around the world. All were professionals and I wasn’t surprised to learn that burnout is common to many. I was surprised to realize that sharing stories with strangers about the vicissitudes of life was deeply bonding. (Or perhaps it was doing yoga inversions together.)
Also surprising was how easy it is to get lost in the maze that is Marrakesh. And yet, it was rewarding. Finding our way back through the mass of people, donkeys, and motorbikes along dark, unmarked alleys – without Waze – was intensely clarifying. Few things help you be present “in the moment” as being adrift and disoriented in a foreign city.
There was relaxation too. We made Khobz, traditional Moroccan bread by mixing just the right amounts of flour, yeast, sugar, oil, water, and salt. Knead, add, knead, add, and stop when done. We then walked a half mile to give our doughy creations to a baker who, with blackened calloused hands, worked an ancient communal oven. Then we waited patiently for the sardines ahead of us to finish baking first. I’ve no idea how long it all took – I had nowhere else to be.
The next day we hiked to a village in the Ourika Valley. There we had lunch at the home of a local Berber family. They served us their best tea, vegetable couscous, and lamb tagine while their chickens and donkeys watched us curiously. It was Thanksgiving (not on the Berber calendar of course) and sharing a meal prepared by a faraway stranger who doesn’t speak English makes you feel thankful in a refreshing way. Way more alike than different we are, I learned.
We finished our trip with a little desert “glamping.” The vast expanse of desert, interrupted by swirling winds and camel bellows quiets your mind, opens you to the immensity of life. That night we sat close to a bonfire and watched the Milky Way drift across the true black sky. I woke the next morning to the best night’s sleep I’ve had all year. My last wellness activity was unplanned, but meaningful nonetheless. As it happens, there’s no hot water in the desert and a bracingly cold shower marked the end of my treatment/vacation.
If the opposite of burned out is repleted, then I am. Also grateful to have such a transformative experience, for friends new and old who love me, and for hot water. Prescribe yourself one if you can.
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.
‘Tis the season to reflect and take stock
‘Tis the season to reflect and take stock: Maybe you had a baby, or learned a new procedure, or bought a Tesla? Of course, you made (loads of?) money and treated many patients. Imagine if I asked you this in person, what would you reply? And what made you most proud? I’d tell you this story.
Last week I saw a 50-something-year-old woman for her annual skin screening. She asked if I remembered her mother, who was also my patient. Squinting through my dermatoscope at the nevi on her back, I tried to recall. “Yes, I think so.” (Actually, I was unsure.)
“Well she passed away last week from breast cancer,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.
She added: “Yes, yet she lived much longer than we thought. I want you to know we believe it was in large part because of you.”
I stopped and wheeled around to face her. How could that possibly be true? I had only treated her for a simple skin cancer. She explained that I had seen her mom about a year ago and cut out a skin cancer on her face. Her mom was afraid of needles and of surgery. Apparently when she asked me if it would hurt, I replied: “Well, most patients, yes, but not you.” Pausing, I added: “Because you’re a tough old bird.” She laughed. Apparently that warmth I conveyed and display of confidence in her was just what she needed at that moment. She didn’t flinch.
Not long after, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. When given the news with her children present, she replied, “well, I’ll just fight it. I’m a tough old bird.” It was just what they needed in that moment. “I’m a tough old bird” became their rally cry. Apparently with each stage, surgery, radiation, chemo, they fell back on it. Her son had “Tough Old Bird” made into a magnet and prominently posted on the refrigerator door where she would see it every day.
Sadly, she ultimately succumbed to her disease, but did so later than had been expected and having fought all the way. My patient teared up and asked if she could give me a hug on behalf of her mom. “Thank you, Dr. Benabio. We won’t forget what you did for her.”
I did recall her now, remembering even what exam room she was in when I said it. Yet, I had no idea what I had done. I wonder how many others there were. Of the many things you accomplished this year, try to recall these achievements. Not the psoriasis cleared, or tumor extirpated, or new homes bought. But the comfort and care you brought to the mother with worry, the father with anguish, the daughter with anxieties, or the son with misdeeds.
It is a beautiful, hard, and joyous life we have as physicians, for our “happiness lies in the absorption in some vocation which satisfies the soul; that we are here to add what we can to, not get what we can from life.”* How fortunate are we. Take stock.
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
Reference
*William Osler, “Doctor and Nurse.” Address given at Training School for Nurses at Johns Hopkins Hospital, June 4, 1891
‘Tis the season to reflect and take stock: Maybe you had a baby, or learned a new procedure, or bought a Tesla? Of course, you made (loads of?) money and treated many patients. Imagine if I asked you this in person, what would you reply? And what made you most proud? I’d tell you this story.
Last week I saw a 50-something-year-old woman for her annual skin screening. She asked if I remembered her mother, who was also my patient. Squinting through my dermatoscope at the nevi on her back, I tried to recall. “Yes, I think so.” (Actually, I was unsure.)
“Well she passed away last week from breast cancer,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.
She added: “Yes, yet she lived much longer than we thought. I want you to know we believe it was in large part because of you.”
I stopped and wheeled around to face her. How could that possibly be true? I had only treated her for a simple skin cancer. She explained that I had seen her mom about a year ago and cut out a skin cancer on her face. Her mom was afraid of needles and of surgery. Apparently when she asked me if it would hurt, I replied: “Well, most patients, yes, but not you.” Pausing, I added: “Because you’re a tough old bird.” She laughed. Apparently that warmth I conveyed and display of confidence in her was just what she needed at that moment. She didn’t flinch.
Not long after, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. When given the news with her children present, she replied, “well, I’ll just fight it. I’m a tough old bird.” It was just what they needed in that moment. “I’m a tough old bird” became their rally cry. Apparently with each stage, surgery, radiation, chemo, they fell back on it. Her son had “Tough Old Bird” made into a magnet and prominently posted on the refrigerator door where she would see it every day.
Sadly, she ultimately succumbed to her disease, but did so later than had been expected and having fought all the way. My patient teared up and asked if she could give me a hug on behalf of her mom. “Thank you, Dr. Benabio. We won’t forget what you did for her.”
I did recall her now, remembering even what exam room she was in when I said it. Yet, I had no idea what I had done. I wonder how many others there were. Of the many things you accomplished this year, try to recall these achievements. Not the psoriasis cleared, or tumor extirpated, or new homes bought. But the comfort and care you brought to the mother with worry, the father with anguish, the daughter with anxieties, or the son with misdeeds.
It is a beautiful, hard, and joyous life we have as physicians, for our “happiness lies in the absorption in some vocation which satisfies the soul; that we are here to add what we can to, not get what we can from life.”* How fortunate are we. Take stock.
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
Reference
*William Osler, “Doctor and Nurse.” Address given at Training School for Nurses at Johns Hopkins Hospital, June 4, 1891
‘Tis the season to reflect and take stock: Maybe you had a baby, or learned a new procedure, or bought a Tesla? Of course, you made (loads of?) money and treated many patients. Imagine if I asked you this in person, what would you reply? And what made you most proud? I’d tell you this story.
Last week I saw a 50-something-year-old woman for her annual skin screening. She asked if I remembered her mother, who was also my patient. Squinting through my dermatoscope at the nevi on her back, I tried to recall. “Yes, I think so.” (Actually, I was unsure.)
“Well she passed away last week from breast cancer,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.
She added: “Yes, yet she lived much longer than we thought. I want you to know we believe it was in large part because of you.”
I stopped and wheeled around to face her. How could that possibly be true? I had only treated her for a simple skin cancer. She explained that I had seen her mom about a year ago and cut out a skin cancer on her face. Her mom was afraid of needles and of surgery. Apparently when she asked me if it would hurt, I replied: “Well, most patients, yes, but not you.” Pausing, I added: “Because you’re a tough old bird.” She laughed. Apparently that warmth I conveyed and display of confidence in her was just what she needed at that moment. She didn’t flinch.
Not long after, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. When given the news with her children present, she replied, “well, I’ll just fight it. I’m a tough old bird.” It was just what they needed in that moment. “I’m a tough old bird” became their rally cry. Apparently with each stage, surgery, radiation, chemo, they fell back on it. Her son had “Tough Old Bird” made into a magnet and prominently posted on the refrigerator door where she would see it every day.
Sadly, she ultimately succumbed to her disease, but did so later than had been expected and having fought all the way. My patient teared up and asked if she could give me a hug on behalf of her mom. “Thank you, Dr. Benabio. We won’t forget what you did for her.”
I did recall her now, remembering even what exam room she was in when I said it. Yet, I had no idea what I had done. I wonder how many others there were. Of the many things you accomplished this year, try to recall these achievements. Not the psoriasis cleared, or tumor extirpated, or new homes bought. But the comfort and care you brought to the mother with worry, the father with anguish, the daughter with anxieties, or the son with misdeeds.
It is a beautiful, hard, and joyous life we have as physicians, for our “happiness lies in the absorption in some vocation which satisfies the soul; that we are here to add what we can to, not get what we can from life.”* How fortunate are we. Take stock.
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
Reference
*William Osler, “Doctor and Nurse.” Address given at Training School for Nurses at Johns Hopkins Hospital, June 4, 1891
Yoga life lessons
I love empty storefronts. The realtor headshot in the window is a sign of hope. What was here is no more. What is coming will be better.
I’ve waited a year for one such sign to come down and scaffolding to go up. Just one block from my condo, my curiosity has been slaked: a yoga studio! At first, disappointment; so many potentials unrealized: a coffee shop, cleaners, speakeasy! Yet, I decided to make the best of it. I bought Rainbow sandals, a Lululemon mat, and a pack of 10 classes. As it turns out, yoga can transform your life.
I didn’t realize how beautifully yoga combines physical exertion, meditation, and spirituality. It is both a model for understanding and a ritualistic training for life. Take resting pigeon for example. (Yogis reading this will forgive my imperfect explanation.) This moderately difficult pose opens your hip and stretches your glutes. Imagine doing a split but with your front knee bent and your forehead and arms resting on the floor in front of you. Done correctly, it puts a stretch deep into the hip of the forward leg. It is uncomfortable. Holding it for a minute or 2 is hard. But rather than just focusing on releasing, with each breath you find yourself deepening the stretch. Sweat streams down your arms and the discomfort builds as you hold. All you can think about is your breath. Then, it’s over. You feel freer, lighter than you were before. The deeper the discomfort, the deeper the delight that arises afterward. You are wise, yogis would say, to have chosen “the good over the pleasant.”
We have many opportunities for resting pigeon in everyday life. The patient to be added to your Monday morning clinic – which already had added patients. The Friday afternoon Mohs case that went to periosteum and still needs a flap to close. The “yet another” GI bleed patient that needs to be scoped tonight. These are all deep stretches, uncomfortable hip openings. Rather, when you must be uncomfortable, breathe and lean into it. Choosing the good sometimes means choosing suffering, but it isn’t the pain that makes it hard to bear. It is a lack of significance for that difficulty. By choosing what is good, you answer the question: “Who am I?” I am the one able and willing to endure inconvenience or disquiet to help others. This is my job, what I’m here to do. The pose, the call, the case will be over quickly. The freedom you feel after, along with the satisfaction you have served your purpose, will sustain you.
There are many poses and endless lessons from yoga. In fact, doing yoga is called “practicing.” Each time you learn and try. Each time you are imperfect and uncomfortable and reemerge sweaty and satisfied, just a little better human than you were before.
Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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 love empty storefronts. The realtor headshot in the window is a sign of hope. What was here is no more. What is coming will be better.
I’ve waited a year for one such sign to come down and scaffolding to go up. Just one block from my condo, my curiosity has been slaked: a yoga studio! At first, disappointment; so many potentials unrealized: a coffee shop, cleaners, speakeasy! Yet, I decided to make the best of it. I bought Rainbow sandals, a Lululemon mat, and a pack of 10 classes. As it turns out, yoga can transform your life.
I didn’t realize how beautifully yoga combines physical exertion, meditation, and spirituality. It is both a model for understanding and a ritualistic training for life. Take resting pigeon for example. (Yogis reading this will forgive my imperfect explanation.) This moderately difficult pose opens your hip and stretches your glutes. Imagine doing a split but with your front knee bent and your forehead and arms resting on the floor in front of you. Done correctly, it puts a stretch deep into the hip of the forward leg. It is uncomfortable. Holding it for a minute or 2 is hard. But rather than just focusing on releasing, with each breath you find yourself deepening the stretch. Sweat streams down your arms and the discomfort builds as you hold. All you can think about is your breath. Then, it’s over. You feel freer, lighter than you were before. The deeper the discomfort, the deeper the delight that arises afterward. You are wise, yogis would say, to have chosen “the good over the pleasant.”
We have many opportunities for resting pigeon in everyday life. The patient to be added to your Monday morning clinic – which already had added patients. The Friday afternoon Mohs case that went to periosteum and still needs a flap to close. The “yet another” GI bleed patient that needs to be scoped tonight. These are all deep stretches, uncomfortable hip openings. Rather, when you must be uncomfortable, breathe and lean into it. Choosing the good sometimes means choosing suffering, but it isn’t the pain that makes it hard to bear. It is a lack of significance for that difficulty. By choosing what is good, you answer the question: “Who am I?” I am the one able and willing to endure inconvenience or disquiet to help others. This is my job, what I’m here to do. The pose, the call, the case will be over quickly. The freedom you feel after, along with the satisfaction you have served your purpose, will sustain you.
There are many poses and endless lessons from yoga. In fact, doing yoga is called “practicing.” Each time you learn and try. Each time you are imperfect and uncomfortable and reemerge sweaty and satisfied, just a little better human than you were before.
Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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 love empty storefronts. The realtor headshot in the window is a sign of hope. What was here is no more. What is coming will be better.
I’ve waited a year for one such sign to come down and scaffolding to go up. Just one block from my condo, my curiosity has been slaked: a yoga studio! At first, disappointment; so many potentials unrealized: a coffee shop, cleaners, speakeasy! Yet, I decided to make the best of it. I bought Rainbow sandals, a Lululemon mat, and a pack of 10 classes. As it turns out, yoga can transform your life.
I didn’t realize how beautifully yoga combines physical exertion, meditation, and spirituality. It is both a model for understanding and a ritualistic training for life. Take resting pigeon for example. (Yogis reading this will forgive my imperfect explanation.) This moderately difficult pose opens your hip and stretches your glutes. Imagine doing a split but with your front knee bent and your forehead and arms resting on the floor in front of you. Done correctly, it puts a stretch deep into the hip of the forward leg. It is uncomfortable. Holding it for a minute or 2 is hard. But rather than just focusing on releasing, with each breath you find yourself deepening the stretch. Sweat streams down your arms and the discomfort builds as you hold. All you can think about is your breath. Then, it’s over. You feel freer, lighter than you were before. The deeper the discomfort, the deeper the delight that arises afterward. You are wise, yogis would say, to have chosen “the good over the pleasant.”
We have many opportunities for resting pigeon in everyday life. The patient to be added to your Monday morning clinic – which already had added patients. The Friday afternoon Mohs case that went to periosteum and still needs a flap to close. The “yet another” GI bleed patient that needs to be scoped tonight. These are all deep stretches, uncomfortable hip openings. Rather, when you must be uncomfortable, breathe and lean into it. Choosing the good sometimes means choosing suffering, but it isn’t the pain that makes it hard to bear. It is a lack of significance for that difficulty. By choosing what is good, you answer the question: “Who am I?” I am the one able and willing to endure inconvenience or disquiet to help others. This is my job, what I’m here to do. The pose, the call, the case will be over quickly. The freedom you feel after, along with the satisfaction you have served your purpose, will sustain you.
There are many poses and endless lessons from yoga. In fact, doing yoga is called “practicing.” Each time you learn and try. Each time you are imperfect and uncomfortable and reemerge sweaty and satisfied, just a little better human than you were before.
Dr. Benabio is director of health care 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.