"Nice doctors kill people," the surgeon told me, apropos of a question I'd directed elsewhere.
He explained: when doctors spare their patients pain by skipping tests or aspects of the physical exam that are uncomfortable, they end up harming the very people they'd set out to help. And he has a point: If you don't palpate an abdomen because your patient has belly pain, you could miss a surgical abdomen, and your patient could die (this resembles something that happened recently on the pedi ward, although I don't think that death was preventable; but that was the version of events that happened in the responsible resident's head).
But I wondered: can't you be nice and competent at the same time?
Sometimes I think, yes, of course, the best doctors are those who are nice and who listen and explain things clearly and give an encouraging smile before leaving the room. With something as complex as health, in which the power of the mind is startling and patients' outcomes have more than a little to do with their attitudes, being nice may actually heal.
But, I do understand his point. And the more I work with surgeons, the more I get it: being nice doesn't take you very far if it means you skip more tests or spend less time learning about more effective treatments and procedures or pay less attention to the detailed nature of your daily tasks. There's only so much time for learning and teaching in one day. If you're the average patient, you don't want a doctor who will scream at you, but you really don't want a doctor who doesn't know enough to perform procedures well.
So, while you can always be nice, and there's no justification for flat-out aggression, there probably is some trade-off between niceness and competence.
And it might just be that I've spent the last two weeks walking amongst them, but I'm feeling more like an asshole surgeon every day. What do I need to know before walking into the OR-- the name of the patient, or the name of the procedure? Well, it would be nice to know the patient's name, but as a surgical student, what's more important is the procedure. And I kinda like working with assholes: at least you know where you stand, and you know you can push back and have that be perceived as strong rather than pushy.
This probably has a lot to do with my background of being a nice person with a focus on the more behavioro-psycho-social aspects of medicine. Coming from a place in which surgeon is a dirty word (a figurative place, that is; wouldn't want to implicate of my previous places of learning), I can only be pleasantly surprised by the surgeon's perspective as I learn to adopt it. Competence, after all, is what any patient wants more than anything else that his or her physician might offer.
So, another realization in the road to medical knowledge, and another goal: to find the right balance between competent and nice.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Eulogy for EN
My assignment was to write a reflection on the experience of having, or not having, a longitudinal geriatric patient. I wrote this. It's probably not what my teacher wants.
My patient, EN, was overall a very healthy 81 year-old at our first meeting in April of 2008. She had also recently been diagnosed with SCLC in January of that year, as an incidental finding on CXR taken when she was in the ER for a pulmonary embolism. When I first spoke to her, she seemed to understand what that diagnosis implied, but was resigned to everything her future had in store – especially in light of having been a “heavy smoker” in her youth and middle age. However, she was quite upbeat throughout the interview, joking about family members and friends in the residence in which she and my preceptor lived. I was also able to create a good rapport with her because she was friendly and welcoming, and because we shared a love of travel – hers evident in the world photographs on the walls of her apartment. For a few moments after the H&P was over, we had a chance to talk about Africa, where I had spent two years as a Peace Corps volunteer and a few months as a researcher. She had been to South Africa recently, saying that after Apartheid ended, she “just had to go”. And that people in her generation never thought they would “see a free South Africa”.
EN clearly valued family and spoke fondly of her daughters, but was too independent to follow them to the cities in which they lived. Instead, she spoke of traveling with them. At our third visit, EN told me she and her three children had traveled over the Christmas holiday to the home in which she grew up in Connecticut. It was something she had long hoped to do; I got the sense that having accomplished that visit, EN felt that much closer to a peaceful death.
My visits with EN were not free of awkwardness. Knowing something about the prognosis for SCLC, I never knew exactly how to ask about EN’s plans for how she would maintain her health, which was necessarily unsteady. I said goodbye not knowing if I would be able to greet her again. On our third visit, EN was hooked up to an oxygen tank, which was out of sight in her room as we talked in the living room. The cannula snaked around the coffee table and back through the doorway. I tried to appreciate the freedom that the device allowed, rather than concentrate on the loss of function that it signified.
My preceptor wrote me that EN died a few months after it happened. He told me he’d spoken at her memorial service, and told everyone that she had insisted on following up with the medical students whom she’d begun to see despite its increasing difficulty. I appreciated this, and, strangely, didn’t feel sadness, exactly. I felt the loss of a strong and unique person, and I imagined the photographs being taken down from her apartment by her children and the oxygen tank returned to the hospital or medical supply unit. But it occurred to me that sadness is a syrupy emotion, provoked by displays of pathos. EN, never wishing to be anyone’s victim, never projected that. She resisted portraying herself as weak and incapable, choosing instead to relate to others on the basis of shared interests and ideas. She will be missed, but never whimpered over.
My patient, EN, was overall a very healthy 81 year-old at our first meeting in April of 2008. She had also recently been diagnosed with SCLC in January of that year, as an incidental finding on CXR taken when she was in the ER for a pulmonary embolism. When I first spoke to her, she seemed to understand what that diagnosis implied, but was resigned to everything her future had in store – especially in light of having been a “heavy smoker” in her youth and middle age. However, she was quite upbeat throughout the interview, joking about family members and friends in the residence in which she and my preceptor lived. I was also able to create a good rapport with her because she was friendly and welcoming, and because we shared a love of travel – hers evident in the world photographs on the walls of her apartment. For a few moments after the H&P was over, we had a chance to talk about Africa, where I had spent two years as a Peace Corps volunteer and a few months as a researcher. She had been to South Africa recently, saying that after Apartheid ended, she “just had to go”. And that people in her generation never thought they would “see a free South Africa”.
EN clearly valued family and spoke fondly of her daughters, but was too independent to follow them to the cities in which they lived. Instead, she spoke of traveling with them. At our third visit, EN told me she and her three children had traveled over the Christmas holiday to the home in which she grew up in Connecticut. It was something she had long hoped to do; I got the sense that having accomplished that visit, EN felt that much closer to a peaceful death.
My visits with EN were not free of awkwardness. Knowing something about the prognosis for SCLC, I never knew exactly how to ask about EN’s plans for how she would maintain her health, which was necessarily unsteady. I said goodbye not knowing if I would be able to greet her again. On our third visit, EN was hooked up to an oxygen tank, which was out of sight in her room as we talked in the living room. The cannula snaked around the coffee table and back through the doorway. I tried to appreciate the freedom that the device allowed, rather than concentrate on the loss of function that it signified.
My preceptor wrote me that EN died a few months after it happened. He told me he’d spoken at her memorial service, and told everyone that she had insisted on following up with the medical students whom she’d begun to see despite its increasing difficulty. I appreciated this, and, strangely, didn’t feel sadness, exactly. I felt the loss of a strong and unique person, and I imagined the photographs being taken down from her apartment by her children and the oxygen tank returned to the hospital or medical supply unit. But it occurred to me that sadness is a syrupy emotion, provoked by displays of pathos. EN, never wishing to be anyone’s victim, never projected that. She resisted portraying herself as weak and incapable, choosing instead to relate to others on the basis of shared interests and ideas. She will be missed, but never whimpered over.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Sympathy for the factitious patient
I went to the student health center last week for my annual exam. I showed up a few minutes late, and so rushed to fill out the paperwork while in the waiting room, expecting to be frowned at and told I should have arrived on time.
Instead, I was met with smiling faces, as the nurse ushered me in to an examining room, allowing me to drop my bag and jacket, before guiding me to a seat in the hall from where to take my blood pressure and temperature.
"Well, isn't that nice," I thought. "Like having a personal aide who tells you where to be and administers personalized services." Right then, I understood -- well, to some extent -- Munchausen Syndrome patients.
Patients with this disorder manufacture symptoms in themselves, usually through ingestion of toxic substances or inappropriate medications, in order to receive attention from healthcare professionals. While I don't really think I'd ever be capable of that -- Munchausen patients generally have personality disorders or history of abuse, so there's more going on than just a desire for some attention.
But in a very impersonal world, in which you can get through a day, or maybe a week, or maybe more, without any real meaningful human contact, especially if you're perhaps a little introverted or perhaps have a small-feeling job in a cubicle, this kind of attention feels really nice. It's attention not to how much work your team has produced or when you have entered and exited the building, but to you and your well-being. For a few moments, the efforts and thoughts of several professionals are focused just on you, and nowhere else. I don't have a small-feeling cubicle job, and am a student in what is maybe the most attention-intensive medical program in the country. But I can most definitely understand the desire to prolong those moments in the clinic.
Instead, I was met with smiling faces, as the nurse ushered me in to an examining room, allowing me to drop my bag and jacket, before guiding me to a seat in the hall from where to take my blood pressure and temperature.
"Well, isn't that nice," I thought. "Like having a personal aide who tells you where to be and administers personalized services." Right then, I understood -- well, to some extent -- Munchausen Syndrome patients.
Patients with this disorder manufacture symptoms in themselves, usually through ingestion of toxic substances or inappropriate medications, in order to receive attention from healthcare professionals. While I don't really think I'd ever be capable of that -- Munchausen patients generally have personality disorders or history of abuse, so there's more going on than just a desire for some attention.
But in a very impersonal world, in which you can get through a day, or maybe a week, or maybe more, without any real meaningful human contact, especially if you're perhaps a little introverted or perhaps have a small-feeling job in a cubicle, this kind of attention feels really nice. It's attention not to how much work your team has produced or when you have entered and exited the building, but to you and your well-being. For a few moments, the efforts and thoughts of several professionals are focused just on you, and nowhere else. I don't have a small-feeling cubicle job, and am a student in what is maybe the most attention-intensive medical program in the country. But I can most definitely understand the desire to prolong those moments in the clinic.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
It comes from all sides
Me: "Do you have any advice for me as a medical student?"
Patient: "Study incessantly."
Patient: "Study incessantly."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Jumping off the hedonistic treadmill
I really like this entry from Slate's Happiness Project. In it, the author talks about how, after getting a case of conjunctivitis, she had to stop wearing contact lenses. And it was only through this experience that she realized how happy she was to have the convenience of contact lenses -- which, without this deprivation, she took for granted and even sometimes complained about, given how much of a pain it was to put them in and take them out.
The problem is that becoming accustomed to all of our conveniences and privileges creates a "hedonistic treadmill", in which we continue on at a steady pace without appreciating what we have.
Having a fluctuating hearing loss is often frustrating, bothersome, and difficult, but there's this thing: when it bounces back up from its low dips, I get insanely happy. Having five senses that work! Being able to meet new and interesting people! The world is my oyster. Somehow, having this hearing loss has allowed me to jump off the hedonistic treadmill.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Only in Berkeley event of the day
I participated in a 12-minute die-in for health care reform today on Sproul Plaza. We had to move a little down the path because of a huge display of bloody fetuses by an anti-abortion group, and the counter-protest by a pro-choice group. As I left, a student was stepping up to a microphone and welcoming everyone to a celebration of Filipino Awareness Month.
Just another Tuesday in Berkeley.
Just another Tuesday in Berkeley.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Narratives
I heard a talk from Rachel Remen last week, whom I found extremely charming and inspiring, even though the talk was projected from a DVD. Apparently some people's charisma comes through even in virutal presence. Anyway, she offered the following anecdote:
Three stonecutters are sitting at their work stations cutting stone. The first is asked, "what are you doing here?" He answers, "I just sit and do the same thing every day, putting the stone through the cutter. It's terribly boring and mindless and I can hardly stay awake."
The second stonecutter is asked the same question and answers, "I am making money to support my family. Because of me my children are growing up healthy and learning about the world, and my whole family is happy."
The third stonecutter is asked, and responds like this: "I am helping to build a cathedral -- the most beautiful, most monumental building and a wonderful accomplishment of human cooperation and ingenuity."
The story tells us about the importance of the narrative. Each stonecutter is doing the exact same thing, but each bestows his own meaning to it. This is, of course, a lesson we can personally all take home as we try to bestow meaning to our own lives.
It's also relevant to my learning as a physician. A patient has his or her own narrative that will always affect the clinical encounter and the outcome of the case. In psychiatry, which I am just beginning to learn about and which for some reason makes me often think of the Jennifer Lopez movie The Cell, how the patient constructs his narrative is everything.
I asked my teacher, "But the idea of 'early life stresses'... doesn't it get blown out of proportion, and lead to blaming everything on the parents?"
But, and as her answer hinted, I don't think this is the right way to think of things. A medical model would tell you, well, stress here (and maybe a genetic predisposition) leads somewhere along the line to illness. But in psychiatry, we're not diagnosing that way. We're listening to what's going on in the patient's inner world, trying to understand how she conceives of her health, thoughts, and relationships to other people and things. It's not so much about what "really happened" but about how the patient has experienced those things.
The approach becomes not, "what is the stonecutter actually doing?" but rather, "How does the stonecutter construct his narrative about what he's doing?"
Three stonecutters are sitting at their work stations cutting stone. The first is asked, "what are you doing here?" He answers, "I just sit and do the same thing every day, putting the stone through the cutter. It's terribly boring and mindless and I can hardly stay awake."
The second stonecutter is asked the same question and answers, "I am making money to support my family. Because of me my children are growing up healthy and learning about the world, and my whole family is happy."
The third stonecutter is asked, and responds like this: "I am helping to build a cathedral -- the most beautiful, most monumental building and a wonderful accomplishment of human cooperation and ingenuity."
The story tells us about the importance of the narrative. Each stonecutter is doing the exact same thing, but each bestows his own meaning to it. This is, of course, a lesson we can personally all take home as we try to bestow meaning to our own lives.
It's also relevant to my learning as a physician. A patient has his or her own narrative that will always affect the clinical encounter and the outcome of the case. In psychiatry, which I am just beginning to learn about and which for some reason makes me often think of the Jennifer Lopez movie The Cell, how the patient constructs his narrative is everything.
I asked my teacher, "But the idea of 'early life stresses'... doesn't it get blown out of proportion, and lead to blaming everything on the parents?"
But, and as her answer hinted, I don't think this is the right way to think of things. A medical model would tell you, well, stress here (and maybe a genetic predisposition) leads somewhere along the line to illness. But in psychiatry, we're not diagnosing that way. We're listening to what's going on in the patient's inner world, trying to understand how she conceives of her health, thoughts, and relationships to other people and things. It's not so much about what "really happened" but about how the patient has experienced those things.
The approach becomes not, "what is the stonecutter actually doing?" but rather, "How does the stonecutter construct his narrative about what he's doing?"
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