Hitting a Nerve

One of the stranger casualties of the COVID pandemic was my inpatient neurology career.

In the mid-90s, as a resident, I gave tissue plasminogen activator (tPA) one night to the first patient my institution registered in the study that got it approved by the Food and Drug Administration. Our director of stroke gave me a bottle of champagne the next day to thank me. That was where my career in acute inpatient neurology began.

Like many docs of my age, my hospital work has been dwindling with time, and was down to just 1-2 weekends a month in a small three-doc rotation. Not much, but it still made for some busy weekends.

The first wave of mass quarantining happened to fall just as our quarterly schedule was ending. In fact, I’d been working on writing it up for the next quarter when things began.

But then, in the course of a few days, one of us decided to retire early, and the other doc and I couldn’t agree on how to handle the rotation with only two people (somewhat naively, I told him the whole COVID thing would be over in 2-3 months; obviously I was WAY wrong).

So I finished up my last scheduled hospital call, figuring I’d be back in a few months.

So far that hasn’t happened. I’m now 17 months out since the last time I rounded on hospital patients.

And I don’t miss it at all.

This surprises me. I mean, we all start out, in medical school and residency, immersed in the hospital. It’s where the action is. Rounding, checking tests results, talking to patients, families, and nurses is ingrained into us. When I started in 1998 I hustled between four hospitals and enjoyed it (the work, not the driving).

Now I realize that my inpatient days are probably behind me, and I’m not bothered by it. That’s not to say I may not go back. Circumstances change, so, as before, I try to keep up on both inpatient and outpatient neurologic care and developments.

But for now, I’m happier without it. My weekends are my own. I don’t dread the Friday afternoon switchover where new consults suddenly start showing up on my cell phone. I don’t have to worry about running in at 2:00 a.m. to decide tPA or not tPA. My wife and I don’t have to take separate cars to go out to dinner, just in case I have to leave.

I’m sure I’ve lost some revenue because of it, but in the overall downturn of the pandemic it’s hard to know how much.

But I do know that I’ve gained time at home. With my wife, my kids, my dogs, and even just myself. My start and stop times on weekdays, and now plans for weekends, are now more predictable.

At some point those things are worth the money lost, and I’m happy to take them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

One of the stranger casualties of the COVID pandemic was my inpatient neurology career.

In the mid-90s, as a resident, I gave tissue plasminogen activator (tPA) one night to the first patient my institution registered in the study that got it approved by the Food and Drug Administration. Our director of stroke gave me a bottle of champagne the next day to thank me. That was where my career in acute inpatient neurology began.

Like many docs of my age, my hospital work has been dwindling with time, and was down to just 1-2 weekends a month in a small three-doc rotation. Not much, but it still made for some busy weekends.

The first wave of mass quarantining happened to fall just as our quarterly schedule was ending. In fact, I’d been working on writing it up for the next quarter when things began.

But then, in the course of a few days, one of us decided to retire early, and the other doc and I couldn’t agree on how to handle the rotation with only two people (somewhat naively, I told him the whole COVID thing would be over in 2-3 months; obviously I was WAY wrong).

So I finished up my last scheduled hospital call, figuring I’d be back in a few months.

So far that hasn’t happened. I’m now 17 months out since the last time I rounded on hospital patients.

And I don’t miss it at all.

This surprises me. I mean, we all start out, in medical school and residency, immersed in the hospital. It’s where the action is. Rounding, checking tests results, talking to patients, families, and nurses is ingrained into us. When I started in 1998 I hustled between four hospitals and enjoyed it (the work, not the driving).

Now I realize that my inpatient days are probably behind me, and I’m not bothered by it. That’s not to say I may not go back. Circumstances change, so, as before, I try to keep up on both inpatient and outpatient neurologic care and developments.

But for now, I’m happier without it. My weekends are my own. I don’t dread the Friday afternoon switchover where new consults suddenly start showing up on my cell phone. I don’t have to worry about running in at 2:00 a.m. to decide tPA or not tPA. My wife and I don’t have to take separate cars to go out to dinner, just in case I have to leave.

I’m sure I’ve lost some revenue because of it, but in the overall downturn of the pandemic it’s hard to know how much.

But I do know that I’ve gained time at home. With my wife, my kids, my dogs, and even just myself. My start and stop times on weekdays, and now plans for weekends, are now more predictable.

At some point those things are worth the money lost, and I’m happy to take them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

One of the stranger casualties of the COVID pandemic was my inpatient neurology career.

In the mid-90s, as a resident, I gave tissue plasminogen activator (tPA) one night to the first patient my institution registered in the study that got it approved by the Food and Drug Administration. Our director of stroke gave me a bottle of champagne the next day to thank me. That was where my career in acute inpatient neurology began.

Like many docs of my age, my hospital work has been dwindling with time, and was down to just 1-2 weekends a month in a small three-doc rotation. Not much, but it still made for some busy weekends.

The first wave of mass quarantining happened to fall just as our quarterly schedule was ending. In fact, I’d been working on writing it up for the next quarter when things began.

But then, in the course of a few days, one of us decided to retire early, and the other doc and I couldn’t agree on how to handle the rotation with only two people (somewhat naively, I told him the whole COVID thing would be over in 2-3 months; obviously I was WAY wrong).

So I finished up my last scheduled hospital call, figuring I’d be back in a few months.

So far that hasn’t happened. I’m now 17 months out since the last time I rounded on hospital patients.

And I don’t miss it at all.

This surprises me. I mean, we all start out, in medical school and residency, immersed in the hospital. It’s where the action is. Rounding, checking tests results, talking to patients, families, and nurses is ingrained into us. When I started in 1998 I hustled between four hospitals and enjoyed it (the work, not the driving).

Now I realize that my inpatient days are probably behind me, and I’m not bothered by it. That’s not to say I may not go back. Circumstances change, so, as before, I try to keep up on both inpatient and outpatient neurologic care and developments.

But for now, I’m happier without it. My weekends are my own. I don’t dread the Friday afternoon switchover where new consults suddenly start showing up on my cell phone. I don’t have to worry about running in at 2:00 a.m. to decide tPA or not tPA. My wife and I don’t have to take separate cars to go out to dinner, just in case I have to leave.

I’m sure I’ve lost some revenue because of it, but in the overall downturn of the pandemic it’s hard to know how much.

But I do know that I’ve gained time at home. With my wife, my kids, my dogs, and even just myself. My start and stop times on weekdays, and now plans for weekends, are now more predictable.

At some point those things are worth the money lost, and I’m happy to take them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

A weekend, for most of us in solo practice, doesn’t really signify time off from work. It just means we’re not seeing patients at the office.

There’s always business stuff to do like payroll and paying bills, records to review, the never-ending forms for a million things, and all the other stuff there never seems to be enough time to do on weekdays.

This weekend I started attacking the pile after dinner on Friday and found myself done by Saturday afternoon, which is rare. Usually I spend the better part of a weekend at my desk.

And then, unexpectedly faced with an empty desk, I found myself wondering what to do next.

Boredom is one of the odder human conditions. I have no idea if any other animal experiences it. Certainly, at least for us, there are more ways to entertain ourselves now than there ever have been – TV, Netflix, phone games, TikTok, books, just to name a few.

But do we always have to be entertained? Many great scientists have said that world-changing ideas have come to them when they weren’t working, such as while showering or riding to work. Leo Szilard was crossing a London street in 1933 when he suddenly saw how a nuclear chain reaction would be self-sustaining once initiated. Fortunately he wasn’t hit by a car in the process.

But I’m not Szilard. So I rationalized a reason not to exercise and sat on the couch with a book.

The remarkable human brain doesn’t shut down easily. With nothing else to do, most mammals tend do doze off. But not us. Our brains are always on, trying to think of the next goal, the next move, the next whatever.

Having nothing to do sounds like a great idea, until you have nothing to do. It may be fine for a few days, but after a while you realize there’s only so long you can stare at the waves or mountains before your mind turns back to “what’s next.” Many patients tell me how retirement sounded good until they got there and then found themselves volunteering or taking new jobs just to keep busy.

This isn’t a bad thing. Being bored is probably constructive. Without realizing it we use it to form new ideas and start new plans.

Maybe this is why we are where we are. The mind that keeps working is a powerful tool, driving us forward in all walks of life. Perhaps it’s this feature that pushed the development of intelligence further and led us to form civilizations.

It’s how we keep moving forward.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

A weekend, for most of us in solo practice, doesn’t really signify time off from work. It just means we’re not seeing patients at the office.

There’s always business stuff to do like payroll and paying bills, records to review, the never-ending forms for a million things, and all the other stuff there never seems to be enough time to do on weekdays.

This weekend I started attacking the pile after dinner on Friday and found myself done by Saturday afternoon, which is rare. Usually I spend the better part of a weekend at my desk.

And then, unexpectedly faced with an empty desk, I found myself wondering what to do next.

Boredom is one of the odder human conditions. I have no idea if any other animal experiences it. Certainly, at least for us, there are more ways to entertain ourselves now than there ever have been – TV, Netflix, phone games, TikTok, books, just to name a few.

But do we always have to be entertained? Many great scientists have said that world-changing ideas have come to them when they weren’t working, such as while showering or riding to work. Leo Szilard was crossing a London street in 1933 when he suddenly saw how a nuclear chain reaction would be self-sustaining once initiated. Fortunately he wasn’t hit by a car in the process.

But I’m not Szilard. So I rationalized a reason not to exercise and sat on the couch with a book.

The remarkable human brain doesn’t shut down easily. With nothing else to do, most mammals tend do doze off. But not us. Our brains are always on, trying to think of the next goal, the next move, the next whatever.

Having nothing to do sounds like a great idea, until you have nothing to do. It may be fine for a few days, but after a while you realize there’s only so long you can stare at the waves or mountains before your mind turns back to “what’s next.” Many patients tell me how retirement sounded good until they got there and then found themselves volunteering or taking new jobs just to keep busy.

This isn’t a bad thing. Being bored is probably constructive. Without realizing it we use it to form new ideas and start new plans.

Maybe this is why we are where we are. The mind that keeps working is a powerful tool, driving us forward in all walks of life. Perhaps it’s this feature that pushed the development of intelligence further and led us to form civilizations.

It’s how we keep moving forward.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

A weekend, for most of us in solo practice, doesn’t really signify time off from work. It just means we’re not seeing patients at the office.

There’s always business stuff to do like payroll and paying bills, records to review, the never-ending forms for a million things, and all the other stuff there never seems to be enough time to do on weekdays.

This weekend I started attacking the pile after dinner on Friday and found myself done by Saturday afternoon, which is rare. Usually I spend the better part of a weekend at my desk.

And then, unexpectedly faced with an empty desk, I found myself wondering what to do next.

Boredom is one of the odder human conditions. I have no idea if any other animal experiences it. Certainly, at least for us, there are more ways to entertain ourselves now than there ever have been – TV, Netflix, phone games, TikTok, books, just to name a few.

But do we always have to be entertained? Many great scientists have said that world-changing ideas have come to them when they weren’t working, such as while showering or riding to work. Leo Szilard was crossing a London street in 1933 when he suddenly saw how a nuclear chain reaction would be self-sustaining once initiated. Fortunately he wasn’t hit by a car in the process.

But I’m not Szilard. So I rationalized a reason not to exercise and sat on the couch with a book.

The remarkable human brain doesn’t shut down easily. With nothing else to do, most mammals tend do doze off. But not us. Our brains are always on, trying to think of the next goal, the next move, the next whatever.

Having nothing to do sounds like a great idea, until you have nothing to do. It may be fine for a few days, but after a while you realize there’s only so long you can stare at the waves or mountains before your mind turns back to “what’s next.” Many patients tell me how retirement sounded good until they got there and then found themselves volunteering or taking new jobs just to keep busy.

This isn’t a bad thing. Being bored is probably constructive. Without realizing it we use it to form new ideas and start new plans.

Maybe this is why we are where we are. The mind that keeps working is a powerful tool, driving us forward in all walks of life. Perhaps it’s this feature that pushed the development of intelligence further and led us to form civilizations.

It’s how we keep moving forward.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

My office’s storage room has an old bankers box, which has been there since I moved 8 years ago. Before that it was at my other office, behind an old desk. I had no idea what was in it, I always assumed office supplies, surplus drug company pens and sticky notes, who-knows-whats.

Last week I had one of those days where everyone cancels, so I decided to investigate the box.

It was packed with 10 years worth (2000-2010) of my secretary’s MRI scheduling sheets that had somehow escaped occasional shredding purges. So I sat down next to the office shredder to get rid of them.

As I fed the sheets in, the names jumped out at me. Some I have absolutely no recollection of. Others I still see today.

There were names of the long-deceased, bringing them back to me for the first time in years. There were others that I have no idea what happened to – they must have just stopped seeing me at some point, though for the life of me I can’t remember when, or why. Yet, in my mind, there they were, as if I’d just seen them yesterday. A few times I got curious enough to turn back to my computer and look up their charts, trying to remember their stories.

Then there were those I still remember clearly, every single detail of, in spite of the elapsed time. Something about their case or personality had indelibly etched them in my memory. A valuable lesson learned from them that had something or nothing to do with medicine that’s still with me.

Looking back, I’d guess I’ve seen roughly 15,000-20,000 patients over my career. Not nearly as many as my colleagues in general practice, but still quite a few. A decent sized basketball arena full.

The majority don’t stick with you. That’s the way it is in life. We meet a lot of people as we walk down the road, but generally only remember those walking with us for a good part of it.

The ones we didn’t know long – but who are still clearly remembered – are also valuable. In their own way, perhaps unknowingly, they made an impact that hopefully makes us better.

For that I’ll always be grateful to them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

My office’s storage room has an old bankers box, which has been there since I moved 8 years ago. Before that it was at my other office, behind an old desk. I had no idea what was in it, I always assumed office supplies, surplus drug company pens and sticky notes, who-knows-whats.

Last week I had one of those days where everyone cancels, so I decided to investigate the box.

It was packed with 10 years worth (2000-2010) of my secretary’s MRI scheduling sheets that had somehow escaped occasional shredding purges. So I sat down next to the office shredder to get rid of them.

As I fed the sheets in, the names jumped out at me. Some I have absolutely no recollection of. Others I still see today.

There were names of the long-deceased, bringing them back to me for the first time in years. There were others that I have no idea what happened to – they must have just stopped seeing me at some point, though for the life of me I can’t remember when, or why. Yet, in my mind, there they were, as if I’d just seen them yesterday. A few times I got curious enough to turn back to my computer and look up their charts, trying to remember their stories.

Then there were those I still remember clearly, every single detail of, in spite of the elapsed time. Something about their case or personality had indelibly etched them in my memory. A valuable lesson learned from them that had something or nothing to do with medicine that’s still with me.

Looking back, I’d guess I’ve seen roughly 15,000-20,000 patients over my career. Not nearly as many as my colleagues in general practice, but still quite a few. A decent sized basketball arena full.

The majority don’t stick with you. That’s the way it is in life. We meet a lot of people as we walk down the road, but generally only remember those walking with us for a good part of it.

The ones we didn’t know long – but who are still clearly remembered – are also valuable. In their own way, perhaps unknowingly, they made an impact that hopefully makes us better.

For that I’ll always be grateful to them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

My office’s storage room has an old bankers box, which has been there since I moved 8 years ago. Before that it was at my other office, behind an old desk. I had no idea what was in it, I always assumed office supplies, surplus drug company pens and sticky notes, who-knows-whats.

Last week I had one of those days where everyone cancels, so I decided to investigate the box.

It was packed with 10 years worth (2000-2010) of my secretary’s MRI scheduling sheets that had somehow escaped occasional shredding purges. So I sat down next to the office shredder to get rid of them.

As I fed the sheets in, the names jumped out at me. Some I have absolutely no recollection of. Others I still see today.

There were names of the long-deceased, bringing them back to me for the first time in years. There were others that I have no idea what happened to – they must have just stopped seeing me at some point, though for the life of me I can’t remember when, or why. Yet, in my mind, there they were, as if I’d just seen them yesterday. A few times I got curious enough to turn back to my computer and look up their charts, trying to remember their stories.

Then there were those I still remember clearly, every single detail of, in spite of the elapsed time. Something about their case or personality had indelibly etched them in my memory. A valuable lesson learned from them that had something or nothing to do with medicine that’s still with me.

Looking back, I’d guess I’ve seen roughly 15,000-20,000 patients over my career. Not nearly as many as my colleagues in general practice, but still quite a few. A decent sized basketball arena full.

The majority don’t stick with you. That’s the way it is in life. We meet a lot of people as we walk down the road, but generally only remember those walking with us for a good part of it.

The ones we didn’t know long – but who are still clearly remembered – are also valuable. In their own way, perhaps unknowingly, they made an impact that hopefully makes us better.

For that I’ll always be grateful to them.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Mrs. Stevens died last week. She was 87.

That’s nothing new. The nature of medicine is such that you’ll see patients pass on.

But Mrs. Stevens bothers me, because even to the end I’m not sure I ever had an answer.

Her case began with somewhat nebulous, but clearly neurological, symptoms. An initial workup was normal, as was the secondary one.

The third stage of increasingly esoteric tests turned up some clues as to what was going wrong, even as she continued to dwindle. I could at least start working on a differential, even if none of it was good.

I met with her and her husband, and they wanted an answer, good or bad.

I pulled some strings at a local tertiary subspecialty center and got her in. They agreed with my suspicions, though also couldn’t find something definitive. They even repeated the tests, and came to the same conclusions – narrowed down to a few things, but no smoking gun.

Throughout all of this Mrs. Stevens kept spiraling down. After a few hospital admissions and even a biopsy of an abdominal mass we thought would give us the answer, we still didn’t solve the puzzle.

At some point she and her husband grew tired of looking and accepted that it wouldn’t change anything. Her internist called hospice in. They kept her comfortable for her last few weeks.

They didn’t want an autopsy, so the secret stayed with her.

Looking back, I agree with their decision to stop the workup. When looking further won’t change anything, why bother?

But, as a doctor, it’s frustrating. There’s a degree of intellectual curiosity that drives us. We want answers. We want to solve puzzles.

And sometimes we never get that final piece. Even if it’s the right decision for the patient, at the end of the day it’s still an unsolved crime to us. A reminder that, in this day of genetic analysis and high-resolution scanning, we still don’t know it all, or have all the answers.

We probably never will.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Mrs. Stevens died last week. She was 87.

That’s nothing new. The nature of medicine is such that you’ll see patients pass on.

But Mrs. Stevens bothers me, because even to the end I’m not sure I ever had an answer.

Her case began with somewhat nebulous, but clearly neurological, symptoms. An initial workup was normal, as was the secondary one.

The third stage of increasingly esoteric tests turned up some clues as to what was going wrong, even as she continued to dwindle. I could at least start working on a differential, even if none of it was good.

I met with her and her husband, and they wanted an answer, good or bad.

I pulled some strings at a local tertiary subspecialty center and got her in. They agreed with my suspicions, though also couldn’t find something definitive. They even repeated the tests, and came to the same conclusions – narrowed down to a few things, but no smoking gun.

Throughout all of this Mrs. Stevens kept spiraling down. After a few hospital admissions and even a biopsy of an abdominal mass we thought would give us the answer, we still didn’t solve the puzzle.

At some point she and her husband grew tired of looking and accepted that it wouldn’t change anything. Her internist called hospice in. They kept her comfortable for her last few weeks.

They didn’t want an autopsy, so the secret stayed with her.

Looking back, I agree with their decision to stop the workup. When looking further won’t change anything, why bother?

But, as a doctor, it’s frustrating. There’s a degree of intellectual curiosity that drives us. We want answers. We want to solve puzzles.

And sometimes we never get that final piece. Even if it’s the right decision for the patient, at the end of the day it’s still an unsolved crime to us. A reminder that, in this day of genetic analysis and high-resolution scanning, we still don’t know it all, or have all the answers.

We probably never will.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Mrs. Stevens died last week. She was 87.

That’s nothing new. The nature of medicine is such that you’ll see patients pass on.

But Mrs. Stevens bothers me, because even to the end I’m not sure I ever had an answer.

Her case began with somewhat nebulous, but clearly neurological, symptoms. An initial workup was normal, as was the secondary one.

The third stage of increasingly esoteric tests turned up some clues as to what was going wrong, even as she continued to dwindle. I could at least start working on a differential, even if none of it was good.

I met with her and her husband, and they wanted an answer, good or bad.

I pulled some strings at a local tertiary subspecialty center and got her in. They agreed with my suspicions, though also couldn’t find something definitive. They even repeated the tests, and came to the same conclusions – narrowed down to a few things, but no smoking gun.

Throughout all of this Mrs. Stevens kept spiraling down. After a few hospital admissions and even a biopsy of an abdominal mass we thought would give us the answer, we still didn’t solve the puzzle.

At some point she and her husband grew tired of looking and accepted that it wouldn’t change anything. Her internist called hospice in. They kept her comfortable for her last few weeks.

They didn’t want an autopsy, so the secret stayed with her.

Looking back, I agree with their decision to stop the workup. When looking further won’t change anything, why bother?

But, as a doctor, it’s frustrating. There’s a degree of intellectual curiosity that drives us. We want answers. We want to solve puzzles.

And sometimes we never get that final piece. Even if it’s the right decision for the patient, at the end of the day it’s still an unsolved crime to us. A reminder that, in this day of genetic analysis and high-resolution scanning, we still don’t know it all, or have all the answers.

We probably never will.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Someday I plan to retire.

Hopefully it’s not coming up anytime soon, but I’m sure it’s sooner than I realize. I’ve been in practice for 23 years, so I’m well past the halfway point of an average medical career.

I will miss a lot. There will be many things I won’t miss, but the job has far more good than bad, even today.

I’ve spent a lot of time at this huge desk, which my dad bought for his solo law practice in 1967. Although I won’t miss the lack of sleep, I will miss the silence of getting to the office before first light, making tea, and getting started for the day. It’s a peaceful daily start in a less-then-predictable job.

I’ll miss my patients. Not all of them, but most. The majority are decent people, and it’s an honor to be able to help them. Doing that has been the driving force that started me on this path a long time ago and still keeps me moving forward.

In some respects I’ll feel bad about retiring and leaving them. Some have been with me since residency. It will bother me that they’ll have to start over with a new neurologist. Hopefully that person will give them care as good, if not better, than I have.

I’ll really miss my staff. I’ve been lucky. They’re awesome, and have stayed with me for this crazy ride. My MA has been here since 1999, my secretary since 2004. At work they’re my family. Away from work they’re a part of my family. The three of us have survived my hospital call, good economic times, bad economic times, moving the office, my MA moving to the boondocks, the antics and events of our kids, and, as of now, a pandemic. They make the day fun. I’ll feel bad that they’ll need to change jobs if they’re still working then.

What I won’t miss are more concrete things – the endless forms, time spent on the phone and online to get medications and tests approved, the difficult (personality wise) patients who think being nasty and mean is going to get them better care, and having to practice CYA defensive medicine.

Medicine is a far from perfect job. But, in the overall balance of my life, it continues to be what I enjoy getting up and doing every day. It’s good to look back after 23 years, and still have, overall, no regrets about choosing this ride.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Someday I plan to retire.

Hopefully it’s not coming up anytime soon, but I’m sure it’s sooner than I realize. I’ve been in practice for 23 years, so I’m well past the halfway point of an average medical career.

I will miss a lot. There will be many things I won’t miss, but the job has far more good than bad, even today.

I’ve spent a lot of time at this huge desk, which my dad bought for his solo law practice in 1967. Although I won’t miss the lack of sleep, I will miss the silence of getting to the office before first light, making tea, and getting started for the day. It’s a peaceful daily start in a less-then-predictable job.

I’ll miss my patients. Not all of them, but most. The majority are decent people, and it’s an honor to be able to help them. Doing that has been the driving force that started me on this path a long time ago and still keeps me moving forward.

In some respects I’ll feel bad about retiring and leaving them. Some have been with me since residency. It will bother me that they’ll have to start over with a new neurologist. Hopefully that person will give them care as good, if not better, than I have.

I’ll really miss my staff. I’ve been lucky. They’re awesome, and have stayed with me for this crazy ride. My MA has been here since 1999, my secretary since 2004. At work they’re my family. Away from work they’re a part of my family. The three of us have survived my hospital call, good economic times, bad economic times, moving the office, my MA moving to the boondocks, the antics and events of our kids, and, as of now, a pandemic. They make the day fun. I’ll feel bad that they’ll need to change jobs if they’re still working then.

What I won’t miss are more concrete things – the endless forms, time spent on the phone and online to get medications and tests approved, the difficult (personality wise) patients who think being nasty and mean is going to get them better care, and having to practice CYA defensive medicine.

Medicine is a far from perfect job. But, in the overall balance of my life, it continues to be what I enjoy getting up and doing every day. It’s good to look back after 23 years, and still have, overall, no regrets about choosing this ride.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Someday I plan to retire.

Hopefully it’s not coming up anytime soon, but I’m sure it’s sooner than I realize. I’ve been in practice for 23 years, so I’m well past the halfway point of an average medical career.

I will miss a lot. There will be many things I won’t miss, but the job has far more good than bad, even today.

I’ve spent a lot of time at this huge desk, which my dad bought for his solo law practice in 1967. Although I won’t miss the lack of sleep, I will miss the silence of getting to the office before first light, making tea, and getting started for the day. It’s a peaceful daily start in a less-then-predictable job.

I’ll miss my patients. Not all of them, but most. The majority are decent people, and it’s an honor to be able to help them. Doing that has been the driving force that started me on this path a long time ago and still keeps me moving forward.

In some respects I’ll feel bad about retiring and leaving them. Some have been with me since residency. It will bother me that they’ll have to start over with a new neurologist. Hopefully that person will give them care as good, if not better, than I have.

I’ll really miss my staff. I’ve been lucky. They’re awesome, and have stayed with me for this crazy ride. My MA has been here since 1999, my secretary since 2004. At work they’re my family. Away from work they’re a part of my family. The three of us have survived my hospital call, good economic times, bad economic times, moving the office, my MA moving to the boondocks, the antics and events of our kids, and, as of now, a pandemic. They make the day fun. I’ll feel bad that they’ll need to change jobs if they’re still working then.

What I won’t miss are more concrete things – the endless forms, time spent on the phone and online to get medications and tests approved, the difficult (personality wise) patients who think being nasty and mean is going to get them better care, and having to practice CYA defensive medicine.

Medicine is a far from perfect job. But, in the overall balance of my life, it continues to be what I enjoy getting up and doing every day. It’s good to look back after 23 years, and still have, overall, no regrets about choosing this ride.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In the fall of 1980, my parents made me take a high school class that I was REALLY angry over. It was a waste of time. It was beneath my dignity. It was something I never was going to use. It was embarrassing.

It was ... typing.

And I was completely wrong.

Looking back from 2021, I have to say that, of all the things I learned in high school, it’s probably the skill I depend on the most every day. It’s probably been at least 25 years since I had a day when I didn’t type something.

Some of it is the rise of the Internet and computers, but a lot of it is also the way I run my practice. My schedule isn’t as busy as those of my colleagues in general practice, and I don’t use one of those new-fangled EMRs (my charts are on computer, but not in a specialized program per se).

I’ve always been my own transcriptionist. I type roughly 40 words a minute; certainly not blazing speed, but enough to get the job done. For a few years I used voice dictation, but the only speech program I really liked folded up years ago (yes, ViaVoice, I still miss you).

So now I just type, and proofread, all my own notes. Old-school maybe, certainly not efficient as far as time goes, but it works for me. My thoughts go through my fingers directly into the chart, occasionally pausing to think something through before I put it in or hitting backspace if I think of a better way to phrase it. Typing my own notes lets me turn the case over as I’m hitting the keys, working my way through the differential and what needs to be done.

Writing the notes myself allows me to tell the patient’s story, and think about it in the process. It allows me to work through it again the next time I open the chart, months, or even years, later. Hopefully it shows my thought process and why I did things the way I did for myself, the colleague I’m sending the note to, and any physicians down the line.

I could probably save time with a system that lets me just check boxes or circle pertinent positives and negatives in a template, but that’s not how my thought process works. I feel like I’d be missing something if I did.

And, 41 years later, it’s still a reminder of how much of my parents’ advice was correct. Because at the time, I was pretty sure they were wrong.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In the fall of 1980, my parents made me take a high school class that I was REALLY angry over. It was a waste of time. It was beneath my dignity. It was something I never was going to use. It was embarrassing.

It was ... typing.

And I was completely wrong.

Looking back from 2021, I have to say that, of all the things I learned in high school, it’s probably the skill I depend on the most every day. It’s probably been at least 25 years since I had a day when I didn’t type something.

Some of it is the rise of the Internet and computers, but a lot of it is also the way I run my practice. My schedule isn’t as busy as those of my colleagues in general practice, and I don’t use one of those new-fangled EMRs (my charts are on computer, but not in a specialized program per se).

I’ve always been my own transcriptionist. I type roughly 40 words a minute; certainly not blazing speed, but enough to get the job done. For a few years I used voice dictation, but the only speech program I really liked folded up years ago (yes, ViaVoice, I still miss you).

So now I just type, and proofread, all my own notes. Old-school maybe, certainly not efficient as far as time goes, but it works for me. My thoughts go through my fingers directly into the chart, occasionally pausing to think something through before I put it in or hitting backspace if I think of a better way to phrase it. Typing my own notes lets me turn the case over as I’m hitting the keys, working my way through the differential and what needs to be done.

Writing the notes myself allows me to tell the patient’s story, and think about it in the process. It allows me to work through it again the next time I open the chart, months, or even years, later. Hopefully it shows my thought process and why I did things the way I did for myself, the colleague I’m sending the note to, and any physicians down the line.

I could probably save time with a system that lets me just check boxes or circle pertinent positives and negatives in a template, but that’s not how my thought process works. I feel like I’d be missing something if I did.

And, 41 years later, it’s still a reminder of how much of my parents’ advice was correct. Because at the time, I was pretty sure they were wrong.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In the fall of 1980, my parents made me take a high school class that I was REALLY angry over. It was a waste of time. It was beneath my dignity. It was something I never was going to use. It was embarrassing.

It was ... typing.

And I was completely wrong.

Looking back from 2021, I have to say that, of all the things I learned in high school, it’s probably the skill I depend on the most every day. It’s probably been at least 25 years since I had a day when I didn’t type something.

Some of it is the rise of the Internet and computers, but a lot of it is also the way I run my practice. My schedule isn’t as busy as those of my colleagues in general practice, and I don’t use one of those new-fangled EMRs (my charts are on computer, but not in a specialized program per se).

I’ve always been my own transcriptionist. I type roughly 40 words a minute; certainly not blazing speed, but enough to get the job done. For a few years I used voice dictation, but the only speech program I really liked folded up years ago (yes, ViaVoice, I still miss you).

So now I just type, and proofread, all my own notes. Old-school maybe, certainly not efficient as far as time goes, but it works for me. My thoughts go through my fingers directly into the chart, occasionally pausing to think something through before I put it in or hitting backspace if I think of a better way to phrase it. Typing my own notes lets me turn the case over as I’m hitting the keys, working my way through the differential and what needs to be done.

Writing the notes myself allows me to tell the patient’s story, and think about it in the process. It allows me to work through it again the next time I open the chart, months, or even years, later. Hopefully it shows my thought process and why I did things the way I did for myself, the colleague I’m sending the note to, and any physicians down the line.

I could probably save time with a system that lets me just check boxes or circle pertinent positives and negatives in a template, but that’s not how my thought process works. I feel like I’d be missing something if I did.

And, 41 years later, it’s still a reminder of how much of my parents’ advice was correct. Because at the time, I was pretty sure they were wrong.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Soccer is the most popular sport on Earth.

A recent JAMA Neurology article noted the incidence of neurodegenerative disease in retired professional soccer players. It found that, not surprisingly, the frequency of such was higher than in the general population, highest amongst defenders and lowest in goalkeepers (presumably because the latter can use their hands).

The point here shouldn’t surprise anyone: Repeatedly hitting your head on solid objects is a bad idea.

Somewhere, a long time ago, early vertebrates developed a bony case to protect their centralized nervous system. Its success is shown by the fact that skulls and spinal cords among vertebrates have more similarities than differences: They work. It’s true that some ungulates use their heads to fight, but their skulls are adapted for such, being thicker and having horns and antlers to lessen the impacts.

But humans? Nope. The skull can support up to nine tons of (slowly-applied) weight (don’t try this at home) but repeated impacts aren’t good for its contents.

There is no degree of external protection that will prevent this, either. We talk about helmets, but the reality is that, while they definitely reduce exterior injuries, they do very little to prevent the effects of rapid acceleration/deceleration on the brain inside. This is what results in concussions, coup & contra-coup injuries, and the shearing effects of diffuse axonal injury.

I’m not saying we should ban soccer, or football, or any of the other activities that clearly have a high risk of repeated head trauma. They’re ingrained into the cultures of our societies.

At this point it’s pretty much impossible for participants and their family members to not be aware of the risks posed by these sports. The popular press has covered it in great detail.

At some point there’s only so much you can warn people about. Like tobacco smoking or riding without a helmet, you accept the risks, fully aware of the serious potential consequences. For those who wish to participate, it’s their decision.

But it’s also time to stop blinding ourselves to the simple facts. Repeated head injuries can have serious repercussions. Minimizing them, pointing out their delayed onset, and turning a blind eye won’t change that.

If we’re going to continue enjoying contact sports, we have to accept that someone is going to pay the price for it, even if they’ve been forewarned. And no amount of protective gear, at today’s technology, is going to change that.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Soccer is the most popular sport on Earth.

A recent JAMA Neurology article noted the incidence of neurodegenerative disease in retired professional soccer players. It found that, not surprisingly, the frequency of such was higher than in the general population, highest amongst defenders and lowest in goalkeepers (presumably because the latter can use their hands).

The point here shouldn’t surprise anyone: Repeatedly hitting your head on solid objects is a bad idea.

Somewhere, a long time ago, early vertebrates developed a bony case to protect their centralized nervous system. Its success is shown by the fact that skulls and spinal cords among vertebrates have more similarities than differences: They work. It’s true that some ungulates use their heads to fight, but their skulls are adapted for such, being thicker and having horns and antlers to lessen the impacts.

But humans? Nope. The skull can support up to nine tons of (slowly-applied) weight (don’t try this at home) but repeated impacts aren’t good for its contents.

There is no degree of external protection that will prevent this, either. We talk about helmets, but the reality is that, while they definitely reduce exterior injuries, they do very little to prevent the effects of rapid acceleration/deceleration on the brain inside. This is what results in concussions, coup & contra-coup injuries, and the shearing effects of diffuse axonal injury.

I’m not saying we should ban soccer, or football, or any of the other activities that clearly have a high risk of repeated head trauma. They’re ingrained into the cultures of our societies.

At this point it’s pretty much impossible for participants and their family members to not be aware of the risks posed by these sports. The popular press has covered it in great detail.

At some point there’s only so much you can warn people about. Like tobacco smoking or riding without a helmet, you accept the risks, fully aware of the serious potential consequences. For those who wish to participate, it’s their decision.

But it’s also time to stop blinding ourselves to the simple facts. Repeated head injuries can have serious repercussions. Minimizing them, pointing out their delayed onset, and turning a blind eye won’t change that.

If we’re going to continue enjoying contact sports, we have to accept that someone is going to pay the price for it, even if they’ve been forewarned. And no amount of protective gear, at today’s technology, is going to change that.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Soccer is the most popular sport on Earth.

A recent JAMA Neurology article noted the incidence of neurodegenerative disease in retired professional soccer players. It found that, not surprisingly, the frequency of such was higher than in the general population, highest amongst defenders and lowest in goalkeepers (presumably because the latter can use their hands).

The point here shouldn’t surprise anyone: Repeatedly hitting your head on solid objects is a bad idea.

Somewhere, a long time ago, early vertebrates developed a bony case to protect their centralized nervous system. Its success is shown by the fact that skulls and spinal cords among vertebrates have more similarities than differences: They work. It’s true that some ungulates use their heads to fight, but their skulls are adapted for such, being thicker and having horns and antlers to lessen the impacts.

But humans? Nope. The skull can support up to nine tons of (slowly-applied) weight (don’t try this at home) but repeated impacts aren’t good for its contents.

There is no degree of external protection that will prevent this, either. We talk about helmets, but the reality is that, while they definitely reduce exterior injuries, they do very little to prevent the effects of rapid acceleration/deceleration on the brain inside. This is what results in concussions, coup & contra-coup injuries, and the shearing effects of diffuse axonal injury.

I’m not saying we should ban soccer, or football, or any of the other activities that clearly have a high risk of repeated head trauma. They’re ingrained into the cultures of our societies.

At this point it’s pretty much impossible for participants and their family members to not be aware of the risks posed by these sports. The popular press has covered it in great detail.

At some point there’s only so much you can warn people about. Like tobacco smoking or riding without a helmet, you accept the risks, fully aware of the serious potential consequences. For those who wish to participate, it’s their decision.

But it’s also time to stop blinding ourselves to the simple facts. Repeated head injuries can have serious repercussions. Minimizing them, pointing out their delayed onset, and turning a blind eye won’t change that.

If we’re going to continue enjoying contact sports, we have to accept that someone is going to pay the price for it, even if they’ve been forewarned. And no amount of protective gear, at today’s technology, is going to change that.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In July, 2021, JAMA published a study about physicians’ sartorial habits, basically saying that people prefer doctors to dress “professionally.” Even today the white coat still carries some weight.

And I still don’t care.

Today, like every workday since June 2006, I put on my standard patient-seeing attire: shorts, sneakers, and a Hawaiian shirt. The only significant change has been the addition of a face mask since March 2020.

I have no plans to change anytime between now and retirement. I live in Phoenix, the hottest major city in the U.S., and have no desire to be uncomfortable because someone doesn’t think I look professional. It’s even become, albeit unintentionally, a trademark of sorts.

Now, as always, I let my patients be the judge. If someone isn’t happy with my appearance, or feels it makes me less competent, they certainly have the right to feel that way. There are plenty of other neurologists here who dress to higher standards (though jackets and ties, outside of the Mayo Clinic down the road, are getting pretty hard to find).

This is one of the things I like about having a small solo practice. I can be who I am, not who some administrator or dress code specialist says I have to be.

I do my best for my patients, and those who know me are aware that my complete lack of fashion sense doesn’t represent (I hope) an equal lack of medical care. Most of them seem to come back, so I guess I’m doing something right.

But it brings up the question of what should a doctor look like? In a world of changing demographics the stereotype of a neatly-dressed middle-aged white male certainly isn’t it anymore. With increasing numbers of women and people of color entering the field, the fact is that there isn’t a stereotypical doctor anymore.

Nor should there be. Medicine should be open to all with the drive, brains, and talent who want to follow to path of Hippocrates. Maybe I’m naive, but I still see this as a calling more than a job. Judging someone’s medical competence solely on their sex, race, appearance, or fashion sense is foolhardy.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In July, 2021, JAMA published a study about physicians’ sartorial habits, basically saying that people prefer doctors to dress “professionally.” Even today the white coat still carries some weight.

And I still don’t care.

Today, like every workday since June 2006, I put on my standard patient-seeing attire: shorts, sneakers, and a Hawaiian shirt. The only significant change has been the addition of a face mask since March 2020.

I have no plans to change anytime between now and retirement. I live in Phoenix, the hottest major city in the U.S., and have no desire to be uncomfortable because someone doesn’t think I look professional. It’s even become, albeit unintentionally, a trademark of sorts.

Now, as always, I let my patients be the judge. If someone isn’t happy with my appearance, or feels it makes me less competent, they certainly have the right to feel that way. There are plenty of other neurologists here who dress to higher standards (though jackets and ties, outside of the Mayo Clinic down the road, are getting pretty hard to find).

This is one of the things I like about having a small solo practice. I can be who I am, not who some administrator or dress code specialist says I have to be.

I do my best for my patients, and those who know me are aware that my complete lack of fashion sense doesn’t represent (I hope) an equal lack of medical care. Most of them seem to come back, so I guess I’m doing something right.

But it brings up the question of what should a doctor look like? In a world of changing demographics the stereotype of a neatly-dressed middle-aged white male certainly isn’t it anymore. With increasing numbers of women and people of color entering the field, the fact is that there isn’t a stereotypical doctor anymore.

Nor should there be. Medicine should be open to all with the drive, brains, and talent who want to follow to path of Hippocrates. Maybe I’m naive, but I still see this as a calling more than a job. Judging someone’s medical competence solely on their sex, race, appearance, or fashion sense is foolhardy.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

In July, 2021, JAMA published a study about physicians’ sartorial habits, basically saying that people prefer doctors to dress “professionally.” Even today the white coat still carries some weight.

And I still don’t care.

Today, like every workday since June 2006, I put on my standard patient-seeing attire: shorts, sneakers, and a Hawaiian shirt. The only significant change has been the addition of a face mask since March 2020.

I have no plans to change anytime between now and retirement. I live in Phoenix, the hottest major city in the U.S., and have no desire to be uncomfortable because someone doesn’t think I look professional. It’s even become, albeit unintentionally, a trademark of sorts.

Now, as always, I let my patients be the judge. If someone isn’t happy with my appearance, or feels it makes me less competent, they certainly have the right to feel that way. There are plenty of other neurologists here who dress to higher standards (though jackets and ties, outside of the Mayo Clinic down the road, are getting pretty hard to find).

This is one of the things I like about having a small solo practice. I can be who I am, not who some administrator or dress code specialist says I have to be.

I do my best for my patients, and those who know me are aware that my complete lack of fashion sense doesn’t represent (I hope) an equal lack of medical care. Most of them seem to come back, so I guess I’m doing something right.

But it brings up the question of what should a doctor look like? In a world of changing demographics the stereotype of a neatly-dressed middle-aged white male certainly isn’t it anymore. With increasing numbers of women and people of color entering the field, the fact is that there isn’t a stereotypical doctor anymore.

Nor should there be. Medicine should be open to all with the drive, brains, and talent who want to follow to path of Hippocrates. Maybe I’m naive, but I still see this as a calling more than a job. Judging someone’s medical competence solely on their sex, race, appearance, or fashion sense is foolhardy.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Objectivity is tough, but essential: a critical part of patient care, allowing you to make appropriate decisions based on facts and circumstances, not emotions. We’re supposed to be compassionate Vulcans – able to logically weigh possibilities and treatment options under pressure, and at the same time exhibit empathy and sensitivity.

For the most part, all of us become very good at this juggling act. But we’re only human, and once the ability to do that with a given person is lost, it’s gone for good.

Have you ever lost objectivity with a patient? I have. Generally it involves the patient being so difficult, unpleasant, or dislikable that it exceeds my ability to remain impartial and pragmatic in their care.

I don’t know any physician it hasn’t happened to. And when it does, ending the doctor-patient relationship is the only effective answer.

It’s never easy sending that letter, telling someone that they need to seek care elsewhere, and often the specific reason is harder to define. In patients who are overtly rude or noncompliant it’s easy. But often a loss in objectivity is from something less tangible, such as the vagaries of personal chemistry.

I try to get along with all my patients. I really do. That’s part of the job. But sometimes, for whatever reason, it’s just an impossible task. Too many conflicts and differences of opinion over treatments, tests, diagnosis, what they read on Facebook … whatever. When these differences reach a point where they’re an impediment to good patient care … it’s time for both of us to move on.

Regardless of cause, professionalism requires that it be the end of the road. If I can’t objectively weigh a patient’s symptoms and treatment options, then I’m not going to be able to do my very best for them. And my very best is what every patient deserves.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Objectivity is tough, but essential: a critical part of patient care, allowing you to make appropriate decisions based on facts and circumstances, not emotions. We’re supposed to be compassionate Vulcans – able to logically weigh possibilities and treatment options under pressure, and at the same time exhibit empathy and sensitivity.

For the most part, all of us become very good at this juggling act. But we’re only human, and once the ability to do that with a given person is lost, it’s gone for good.

Have you ever lost objectivity with a patient? I have. Generally it involves the patient being so difficult, unpleasant, or dislikable that it exceeds my ability to remain impartial and pragmatic in their care.

I don’t know any physician it hasn’t happened to. And when it does, ending the doctor-patient relationship is the only effective answer.

It’s never easy sending that letter, telling someone that they need to seek care elsewhere, and often the specific reason is harder to define. In patients who are overtly rude or noncompliant it’s easy. But often a loss in objectivity is from something less tangible, such as the vagaries of personal chemistry.

I try to get along with all my patients. I really do. That’s part of the job. But sometimes, for whatever reason, it’s just an impossible task. Too many conflicts and differences of opinion over treatments, tests, diagnosis, what they read on Facebook … whatever. When these differences reach a point where they’re an impediment to good patient care … it’s time for both of us to move on.

Regardless of cause, professionalism requires that it be the end of the road. If I can’t objectively weigh a patient’s symptoms and treatment options, then I’m not going to be able to do my very best for them. And my very best is what every patient deserves.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

Objectivity is tough, but essential: a critical part of patient care, allowing you to make appropriate decisions based on facts and circumstances, not emotions. We’re supposed to be compassionate Vulcans – able to logically weigh possibilities and treatment options under pressure, and at the same time exhibit empathy and sensitivity.

For the most part, all of us become very good at this juggling act. But we’re only human, and once the ability to do that with a given person is lost, it’s gone for good.

Have you ever lost objectivity with a patient? I have. Generally it involves the patient being so difficult, unpleasant, or dislikable that it exceeds my ability to remain impartial and pragmatic in their care.

I don’t know any physician it hasn’t happened to. And when it does, ending the doctor-patient relationship is the only effective answer.

It’s never easy sending that letter, telling someone that they need to seek care elsewhere, and often the specific reason is harder to define. In patients who are overtly rude or noncompliant it’s easy. But often a loss in objectivity is from something less tangible, such as the vagaries of personal chemistry.

I try to get along with all my patients. I really do. That’s part of the job. But sometimes, for whatever reason, it’s just an impossible task. Too many conflicts and differences of opinion over treatments, tests, diagnosis, what they read on Facebook … whatever. When these differences reach a point where they’re an impediment to good patient care … it’s time for both of us to move on.

Regardless of cause, professionalism requires that it be the end of the road. If I can’t objectively weigh a patient’s symptoms and treatment options, then I’m not going to be able to do my very best for them. And my very best is what every patient deserves.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

My first hospital consult was also on my first day of practice, in July, 1998.

I was in a small room, subleased from an oncology group. My schedule, as first day schedules are, was sparse.

Around noon one of the oncology docs asked me to come to his exam room, so I went across the hall. There he had a lady in her late 50s, with known metastatic cancer. He’d brought her in for a few days of worsening headaches and diplopia, and my 10-second neurological exam showed dysconjugate gaze and dysarthria. He said he was admitting her to the hospital, and asked if I’d consult on her.

I hung out in the hospital’s MRI control room later that day, waiting for her images to come up. I was nervous, maybe even a little scared. In spite of having survived medical school, residency, and fellowship, I was worried I’d screwed up the case, somehow. If the MRI was normal, I’d look like an idiot. My career would be over, on day one. No one would ever consult me again.

Of course, the MRI showed a brainstem metastasis (in addition to other places), and my initial differential was correct. Good for me, terrible for the patient. I ordered Decadron, called the oncologist, spoke to the patient and her family, and went home. I followed her for maybe a another few days, mainly because I didn’t know what the protocol was for signing off.

Self-doubt is common in all fields, especially when starting out, but probably strongest in medicine. A lot depends on us getting the right answer – quickly – in cases like that one. In my case this was compounded by its being my first day of practice. There was no attending I could call for help. I was working without a net.

But the years of training paid off, I got the case right, and moved on. Twenty-three years later it seems silly that I was so worried. Nowadays I order the MRI, move to the next patient, and try not to think about it until the results come back or a nurse calls with a status change. If my initial impression is wrong, I move down the differential list.

But questioning ourselves, then or now, is still critical. It helps us think of other possibilities, avoid mistakes, and do what’s right for our patients.

It’s what makes us better doctors.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

My first hospital consult was also on my first day of practice, in July, 1998.

I was in a small room, subleased from an oncology group. My schedule, as first day schedules are, was sparse.

Around noon one of the oncology docs asked me to come to his exam room, so I went across the hall. There he had a lady in her late 50s, with known metastatic cancer. He’d brought her in for a few days of worsening headaches and diplopia, and my 10-second neurological exam showed dysconjugate gaze and dysarthria. He said he was admitting her to the hospital, and asked if I’d consult on her.

I hung out in the hospital’s MRI control room later that day, waiting for her images to come up. I was nervous, maybe even a little scared. In spite of having survived medical school, residency, and fellowship, I was worried I’d screwed up the case, somehow. If the MRI was normal, I’d look like an idiot. My career would be over, on day one. No one would ever consult me again.

Of course, the MRI showed a brainstem metastasis (in addition to other places), and my initial differential was correct. Good for me, terrible for the patient. I ordered Decadron, called the oncologist, spoke to the patient and her family, and went home. I followed her for maybe a another few days, mainly because I didn’t know what the protocol was for signing off.

Self-doubt is common in all fields, especially when starting out, but probably strongest in medicine. A lot depends on us getting the right answer – quickly – in cases like that one. In my case this was compounded by its being my first day of practice. There was no attending I could call for help. I was working without a net.

But the years of training paid off, I got the case right, and moved on. Twenty-three years later it seems silly that I was so worried. Nowadays I order the MRI, move to the next patient, and try not to think about it until the results come back or a nurse calls with a status change. If my initial impression is wrong, I move down the differential list.

But questioning ourselves, then or now, is still critical. It helps us think of other possibilities, avoid mistakes, and do what’s right for our patients.

It’s what makes us better doctors.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.

My first hospital consult was also on my first day of practice, in July, 1998.

I was in a small room, subleased from an oncology group. My schedule, as first day schedules are, was sparse.

Around noon one of the oncology docs asked me to come to his exam room, so I went across the hall. There he had a lady in her late 50s, with known metastatic cancer. He’d brought her in for a few days of worsening headaches and diplopia, and my 10-second neurological exam showed dysconjugate gaze and dysarthria. He said he was admitting her to the hospital, and asked if I’d consult on her.

I hung out in the hospital’s MRI control room later that day, waiting for her images to come up. I was nervous, maybe even a little scared. In spite of having survived medical school, residency, and fellowship, I was worried I’d screwed up the case, somehow. If the MRI was normal, I’d look like an idiot. My career would be over, on day one. No one would ever consult me again.

Of course, the MRI showed a brainstem metastasis (in addition to other places), and my initial differential was correct. Good for me, terrible for the patient. I ordered Decadron, called the oncologist, spoke to the patient and her family, and went home. I followed her for maybe a another few days, mainly because I didn’t know what the protocol was for signing off.

Self-doubt is common in all fields, especially when starting out, but probably strongest in medicine. A lot depends on us getting the right answer – quickly – in cases like that one. In my case this was compounded by its being my first day of practice. There was no attending I could call for help. I was working without a net.

But the years of training paid off, I got the case right, and moved on. Twenty-three years later it seems silly that I was so worried. Nowadays I order the MRI, move to the next patient, and try not to think about it until the results come back or a nurse calls with a status change. If my initial impression is wrong, I move down the differential list.

But questioning ourselves, then or now, is still critical. It helps us think of other possibilities, avoid mistakes, and do what’s right for our patients.

It’s what makes us better doctors.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.