Medicine

“Just keep doing tests. Eventually you are bound to find something.”  She was right, of course. But not in the way she meant.

I find myself a stranger in a strange land, or (more prosaically) a square peg being forced into a round hole.

I was recently told that ‘the problem’ underlying my often strained relationship with the institution where I work is that I am a revolutionary working in an institution committed to incrementalism.

What would you think if you received this message from management: “You can ignore chlamydia…it is not one of the quality goals for this year.” Or if you were told at a meeting to discuss a mandated quality initiative: “All you have to do to get credit for BMI screening is just click the box that says you will talk about it at the next visit.” (These are both true stories.)

The appointment was for his annual physical, and to review his well controlled hypertension and gout. After we had addressed these issues, I asked if there was anything else he was concerned about.

I have a serious problem with the ubiquitous use of 'due' when talking with patients about what their medical options are. This came up recently when I was given a list of my patients who were ‘due’ for certain services, required if my institution is to receive a financial quality incentive. Typically, ‘due’ shows up in EHR alerts (the diabetic patient is 'due' for their A1c or microalbumin) and quality programs (patients are 'due' for a mammogram every 2 years, a DXA at 65, a pneumovax at 65, even well child visits at set intervals).

Treating patients with chronic pain is one of the more challenging tasks in primary care:

Ordering periodic urine drug screens (UDS) on patients being treated with opiates for chronic pain has become so common it is now the de facto standard of care. That doesn’t mean it benefits patients. 

Every year when I brought my chain saw in to be serviced and have the blade sharpened, Reggie tried to get me to buy a set of chaps. They weren’t cheap, and, while I was not the least bit sanguine about the destructive power of the saw, I used it infrequently, only in good conditions, and with care. The chaps were a garish orange, and I always declined.  Reggie always shrugged, looked disgusted, and rang up my bill.

A few years ago, when he made his usual offer and I declined, he looked at me for a very long moment, and then said:

I love taking care of patients and have enjoyed my 37 years (and counting) as a primary care physician.  When I stop, it won’t be because I am rich, bored, or have lost interest. It won’t be because I am tired (though I am). It will be because of friction.