Hitting a Nerve

I’m a general neurologist. I consider myself a jack of all (or at least most) trades in my field, and a master of none.

In the April 2023 issue of JAMA Neurology there was an editorial about neurology training, with general neurology being renamed “comprehensive neurology” and a fellowship offered in practicing general neurology.

This seems rather silly to me. If 4 years of residency (1 of internship and 3 of neurology) don’t prepare you to practice general neurology, then what’s the point of residency at all? For that matter, what difference will renaming it do?

Imagine completing a 3-year internal medicine residency, then being told you need to do a fellowship in “comprehensive medicine” in order to practice. Or at least so you can add the word “comprehensive” to your shingle.

The authors bemoan the increasing number of neurology residents wanting to do fellowships and subspecialize, a situation that mirrors the general trend of people away from general medicine toward specialties.

While I agree we do need subspecialists in neurology (and currently there are at least 31 recognized, which is way more than I would have guessed), the fact is that patients, and sometimes their internists, aren’t going to be the best judge of who does or doesn’t need to see one, compared with a general neurologist.

Most of us general people can handle straightforward Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, migraines, etc. Certainly, there are times where the condition is refractory to our care, or there’s something unusual about the case, that leads us to refer them to someone with more expertise. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Like medicine in general, we need more general people than subspecialists.

Honestly, I can’t claim to be any different. Twenty-six years ago, when I finished residency, I did a clinical neurophysiology fellowship. From a practical view it was an epilepsy fellowship at my program. Some of this was an interest at the time in subspecializing, some of it was me putting off joining the “real world” of having to find a job for a year.

When I hung up my own shingle, my business card listed a subspecialty in epilepsy. Looking back years later, this wasn’t the best move. In solo practice I had no access to an epilepsy monitoring unit, vagus nerve stimulation capabilities, or epilepsy surgery at the hospital I rounded at. Not only that, I discovered it put me at a disadvantage, as internists were referring only epilepsy patients to me, and all the other stuff (which is the majority of patients) to the general (or comprehensive) neurologists around me. Which, financially, wasn’t a good thing when you’re young and starting out.

Not only that, but I discovered that I didn’t like only seeing one thing. I found it boring, and not for me.

So after a year or so, I took the word “epilepsy” off my card, left it at “general neurology,” and sent out letters reminding my referral base that I was willing to see the majority of things in my field (rare diseases, even today, I won’t attempt to handle).

So now my days are a mix of things, which I like. Neurology is enough of a specialty for me without going further up the pyramid. Having sub (and even sub-sub) specialists is important to maintain medical excellence, but we still need people willing to do general neurology, and I’m happy there.

Changing my title to “comprehensive” is unnecessary. I’m happy with what I am.

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

I’m a general neurologist. I consider myself a jack of all (or at least most) trades in my field, and a master of none.

In the April 2023 issue of JAMA Neurology there was an editorial about neurology training, with general neurology being renamed “comprehensive neurology” and a fellowship offered in practicing general neurology.

This seems rather silly to me. If 4 years of residency (1 of internship and 3 of neurology) don’t prepare you to practice general neurology, then what’s the point of residency at all? For that matter, what difference will renaming it do?

Imagine completing a 3-year internal medicine residency, then being told you need to do a fellowship in “comprehensive medicine” in order to practice. Or at least so you can add the word “comprehensive” to your shingle.

The authors bemoan the increasing number of neurology residents wanting to do fellowships and subspecialize, a situation that mirrors the general trend of people away from general medicine toward specialties.

While I agree we do need subspecialists in neurology (and currently there are at least 31 recognized, which is way more than I would have guessed), the fact is that patients, and sometimes their internists, aren’t going to be the best judge of who does or doesn’t need to see one, compared with a general neurologist.

Most of us general people can handle straightforward Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, migraines, etc. Certainly, there are times where the condition is refractory to our care, or there’s something unusual about the case, that leads us to refer them to someone with more expertise. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Like medicine in general, we need more general people than subspecialists.

Honestly, I can’t claim to be any different. Twenty-six years ago, when I finished residency, I did a clinical neurophysiology fellowship. From a practical view it was an epilepsy fellowship at my program. Some of this was an interest at the time in subspecializing, some of it was me putting off joining the “real world” of having to find a job for a year.

When I hung up my own shingle, my business card listed a subspecialty in epilepsy. Looking back years later, this wasn’t the best move. In solo practice I had no access to an epilepsy monitoring unit, vagus nerve stimulation capabilities, or epilepsy surgery at the hospital I rounded at. Not only that, I discovered it put me at a disadvantage, as internists were referring only epilepsy patients to me, and all the other stuff (which is the majority of patients) to the general (or comprehensive) neurologists around me. Which, financially, wasn’t a good thing when you’re young and starting out.

Not only that, but I discovered that I didn’t like only seeing one thing. I found it boring, and not for me.

So after a year or so, I took the word “epilepsy” off my card, left it at “general neurology,” and sent out letters reminding my referral base that I was willing to see the majority of things in my field (rare diseases, even today, I won’t attempt to handle).

So now my days are a mix of things, which I like. Neurology is enough of a specialty for me without going further up the pyramid. Having sub (and even sub-sub) specialists is important to maintain medical excellence, but we still need people willing to do general neurology, and I’m happy there.

Changing my title to “comprehensive” is unnecessary. I’m happy with what I am.

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

I’m a general neurologist. I consider myself a jack of all (or at least most) trades in my field, and a master of none.

In the April 2023 issue of JAMA Neurology there was an editorial about neurology training, with general neurology being renamed “comprehensive neurology” and a fellowship offered in practicing general neurology.

This seems rather silly to me. If 4 years of residency (1 of internship and 3 of neurology) don’t prepare you to practice general neurology, then what’s the point of residency at all? For that matter, what difference will renaming it do?

Imagine completing a 3-year internal medicine residency, then being told you need to do a fellowship in “comprehensive medicine” in order to practice. Or at least so you can add the word “comprehensive” to your shingle.

The authors bemoan the increasing number of neurology residents wanting to do fellowships and subspecialize, a situation that mirrors the general trend of people away from general medicine toward specialties.

While I agree we do need subspecialists in neurology (and currently there are at least 31 recognized, which is way more than I would have guessed), the fact is that patients, and sometimes their internists, aren’t going to be the best judge of who does or doesn’t need to see one, compared with a general neurologist.

Most of us general people can handle straightforward Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, migraines, etc. Certainly, there are times where the condition is refractory to our care, or there’s something unusual about the case, that leads us to refer them to someone with more expertise. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Like medicine in general, we need more general people than subspecialists.

Honestly, I can’t claim to be any different. Twenty-six years ago, when I finished residency, I did a clinical neurophysiology fellowship. From a practical view it was an epilepsy fellowship at my program. Some of this was an interest at the time in subspecializing, some of it was me putting off joining the “real world” of having to find a job for a year.

When I hung up my own shingle, my business card listed a subspecialty in epilepsy. Looking back years later, this wasn’t the best move. In solo practice I had no access to an epilepsy monitoring unit, vagus nerve stimulation capabilities, or epilepsy surgery at the hospital I rounded at. Not only that, I discovered it put me at a disadvantage, as internists were referring only epilepsy patients to me, and all the other stuff (which is the majority of patients) to the general (or comprehensive) neurologists around me. Which, financially, wasn’t a good thing when you’re young and starting out.

Not only that, but I discovered that I didn’t like only seeing one thing. I found it boring, and not for me.

So after a year or so, I took the word “epilepsy” off my card, left it at “general neurology,” and sent out letters reminding my referral base that I was willing to see the majority of things in my field (rare diseases, even today, I won’t attempt to handle).

So now my days are a mix of things, which I like. Neurology is enough of a specialty for me without going further up the pyramid. Having sub (and even sub-sub) specialists is important to maintain medical excellence, but we still need people willing to do general neurology, and I’m happy there.

Changing my title to “comprehensive” is unnecessary. I’m happy with what I am.

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

In one of my favorite fall rituals, I fired up my hot tub. In Phoenix the months for relaxing in one are limited, so I try to enjoy it when I can.

It’s a routine I know well. Remove the coverings it’s been hiding under for the 8-month Phoenix summer. Clean out the dust, dead bugs, leaves. Connect the pipes and hoses, tighten the clamps, and begin filling it with water. A pinch of water softener, a dash of chlorine, plug in the motor, and stir.

After a few minutes of running, however, I noticed water starting to come out from under the motor unit. That ain’t good. I checked the fittings to make sure everything was in place and tight. They were. So the problem was somewhere inside the motor.

I unplugged the hot tub and went to my computer. Using the ever-popular Google, I looked at diagrams of motor plumbing and wiring, then watched several DIY videos on YouTube.

After about an hour of this I got some screwdrivers, went back out to the hot tub, stared at it for a few minutes ... then I realized I was out of my league and called a repair service.

Part of life is accepting what you can and can’t do.

I’m a neurologist. I hope I’m a decent one. But I’m not a hot tub mechanic anymore than I am a neurosurgeon. Or, as Bones McCoy would have said, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a spa repairman.” Either way, I was out of my league and I knew it. My taking the motor apart – while certainly feasible – was more likely to make things worse.

Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. Although I spent quite a few years learning to be a neurologist, it’s amazing how many people feel that, after a similar time on Google, they’re qualified to diagnose and treat neurological (or any medical) conditions. They know what they have, what tests need to be done, and which medications should be prescribed. They only need me to rubber stamp their plan, since their insurance won’t take orders from them. (They often won’t take orders from me, either, but that’s another matter).

While occasionally they’re correct, most of the time I have to politely explain why I disagree with them, or why other possibilities have to be considered and treated. No one is forcing them to follow my plan, but if they aren’t happy with it, they’ll have to find another neurologist. I have to go with my education and experience over theirs. I mean, this is my job. I’ve been doing it for more than 25 years.

I’m sure if the hot tub mechanic showed up and I told him where and how to fix the problem he’d wonder what my qualifications were. I may be right, but I may be crazy (or at least wrong).

Unlike medicine, there’s nothing to keep me from trying to fix the hot tub myself, except my own awareness that I have no practical idea how to do so.

I try my best not to practice outside of my field. Google isn’t going to make me a cardiologist any more than it will let me fix hot tubs.

I’m all for knowledge, but it also has its limits. Why some patients think the Internet is a good substitute for 9 years of education and 25 years of ongoing experience, I have no idea.

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

In one of my favorite fall rituals, I fired up my hot tub. In Phoenix the months for relaxing in one are limited, so I try to enjoy it when I can.

It’s a routine I know well. Remove the coverings it’s been hiding under for the 8-month Phoenix summer. Clean out the dust, dead bugs, leaves. Connect the pipes and hoses, tighten the clamps, and begin filling it with water. A pinch of water softener, a dash of chlorine, plug in the motor, and stir.

After a few minutes of running, however, I noticed water starting to come out from under the motor unit. That ain’t good. I checked the fittings to make sure everything was in place and tight. They were. So the problem was somewhere inside the motor.

I unplugged the hot tub and went to my computer. Using the ever-popular Google, I looked at diagrams of motor plumbing and wiring, then watched several DIY videos on YouTube.

After about an hour of this I got some screwdrivers, went back out to the hot tub, stared at it for a few minutes ... then I realized I was out of my league and called a repair service.

Part of life is accepting what you can and can’t do.

I’m a neurologist. I hope I’m a decent one. But I’m not a hot tub mechanic anymore than I am a neurosurgeon. Or, as Bones McCoy would have said, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a spa repairman.” Either way, I was out of my league and I knew it. My taking the motor apart – while certainly feasible – was more likely to make things worse.

Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. Although I spent quite a few years learning to be a neurologist, it’s amazing how many people feel that, after a similar time on Google, they’re qualified to diagnose and treat neurological (or any medical) conditions. They know what they have, what tests need to be done, and which medications should be prescribed. They only need me to rubber stamp their plan, since their insurance won’t take orders from them. (They often won’t take orders from me, either, but that’s another matter).

While occasionally they’re correct, most of the time I have to politely explain why I disagree with them, or why other possibilities have to be considered and treated. No one is forcing them to follow my plan, but if they aren’t happy with it, they’ll have to find another neurologist. I have to go with my education and experience over theirs. I mean, this is my job. I’ve been doing it for more than 25 years.

I’m sure if the hot tub mechanic showed up and I told him where and how to fix the problem he’d wonder what my qualifications were. I may be right, but I may be crazy (or at least wrong).

Unlike medicine, there’s nothing to keep me from trying to fix the hot tub myself, except my own awareness that I have no practical idea how to do so.

I try my best not to practice outside of my field. Google isn’t going to make me a cardiologist any more than it will let me fix hot tubs.

I’m all for knowledge, but it also has its limits. Why some patients think the Internet is a good substitute for 9 years of education and 25 years of ongoing experience, I have no idea.

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

In one of my favorite fall rituals, I fired up my hot tub. In Phoenix the months for relaxing in one are limited, so I try to enjoy it when I can.

It’s a routine I know well. Remove the coverings it’s been hiding under for the 8-month Phoenix summer. Clean out the dust, dead bugs, leaves. Connect the pipes and hoses, tighten the clamps, and begin filling it with water. A pinch of water softener, a dash of chlorine, plug in the motor, and stir.

After a few minutes of running, however, I noticed water starting to come out from under the motor unit. That ain’t good. I checked the fittings to make sure everything was in place and tight. They were. So the problem was somewhere inside the motor.

I unplugged the hot tub and went to my computer. Using the ever-popular Google, I looked at diagrams of motor plumbing and wiring, then watched several DIY videos on YouTube.

After about an hour of this I got some screwdrivers, went back out to the hot tub, stared at it for a few minutes ... then I realized I was out of my league and called a repair service.

Part of life is accepting what you can and can’t do.

I’m a neurologist. I hope I’m a decent one. But I’m not a hot tub mechanic anymore than I am a neurosurgeon. Or, as Bones McCoy would have said, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a spa repairman.” Either way, I was out of my league and I knew it. My taking the motor apart – while certainly feasible – was more likely to make things worse.

Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. Although I spent quite a few years learning to be a neurologist, it’s amazing how many people feel that, after a similar time on Google, they’re qualified to diagnose and treat neurological (or any medical) conditions. They know what they have, what tests need to be done, and which medications should be prescribed. They only need me to rubber stamp their plan, since their insurance won’t take orders from them. (They often won’t take orders from me, either, but that’s another matter).

While occasionally they’re correct, most of the time I have to politely explain why I disagree with them, or why other possibilities have to be considered and treated. No one is forcing them to follow my plan, but if they aren’t happy with it, they’ll have to find another neurologist. I have to go with my education and experience over theirs. I mean, this is my job. I’ve been doing it for more than 25 years.

I’m sure if the hot tub mechanic showed up and I told him where and how to fix the problem he’d wonder what my qualifications were. I may be right, but I may be crazy (or at least wrong).

Unlike medicine, there’s nothing to keep me from trying to fix the hot tub myself, except my own awareness that I have no practical idea how to do so.

I try my best not to practice outside of my field. Google isn’t going to make me a cardiologist any more than it will let me fix hot tubs.

I’m all for knowledge, but it also has its limits. Why some patients think the Internet is a good substitute for 9 years of education and 25 years of ongoing experience, I have no idea.

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

I am not a marketing person. I never will be. I don’t think like one.

A current article on FiercePharma talked about Boehringer Ingelheim’s recent “rebranding,” which involved (among other things) changing the blues in its logo and ads to greens.

Maybe someone else out there would notice that change, but I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t read about it. Nor am I sure what affect it would have on me, if any. But I’m sure they paid psychologists and marketing teams quite a bit to make sure it was a good idea.

Likewise, when AbbVie repackaged Ubrelvy from 10 to a package to 16, the company felt the need to change the design of the sample boxes (which are also now green). I’m pretty sure none of my patients noticed. The only reason I did is because I’m the one who stocks my sample shelf here.

Abbvie and Boehringer aren’t alone in this, of course. Pharmaceutical marketing is big business. I understand the companies want doctors and patients to know about their products. In that respect they’re no different from General Motors or Kellogg’s.

But pharmaceuticals fall into a different area. Kellogg’s products don’t require a middleman handing you a script allowing you to buy corn flakes, so although the products are sold to the public, they also have to be sold to a person who isn’t buying them – the prescriber.

Not all these ads are bad, of course. At best they raise public awareness of different health conditions and the options to treat them. At worst ... well, currently there are several movies out there about the results of marketing done by the Sackler family and Purdue.

To me, most pharmaceutical ads look the same. They show happy people going about their lives, with the impression being that they couldn’t have done this without the benefit of the drug being marketed.

To a large extent I can’t knock that. Pharmaceuticals are amazing things. They’ve contributed dramatically to human health, life quality, and longevity.

But would I, or most people, notice if the lettering in the ads were blue, green, or yellow? Probably not. Someone with a background in the psychology of marketing would be able to show me data on how different colors affect our perceptions, but I still look at this and wonder if the money could have been better spent.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in marketing. I tend to be on the practical side. The idea of hiring a celebrity to endorse a migraine (or pretty much any) medication would never have occurred to me. I have no idea how much Pfizer paid Lady Gaga to sell Nurtec, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more than I’ll earn this year. Probably ever.

Like most neurologists I’m hopelessly left-brained. But I still wonder how much things like this really make a difference.

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

I am not a marketing person. I never will be. I don’t think like one.

A current article on FiercePharma talked about Boehringer Ingelheim’s recent “rebranding,” which involved (among other things) changing the blues in its logo and ads to greens.

Maybe someone else out there would notice that change, but I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t read about it. Nor am I sure what affect it would have on me, if any. But I’m sure they paid psychologists and marketing teams quite a bit to make sure it was a good idea.

Likewise, when AbbVie repackaged Ubrelvy from 10 to a package to 16, the company felt the need to change the design of the sample boxes (which are also now green). I’m pretty sure none of my patients noticed. The only reason I did is because I’m the one who stocks my sample shelf here.

Abbvie and Boehringer aren’t alone in this, of course. Pharmaceutical marketing is big business. I understand the companies want doctors and patients to know about their products. In that respect they’re no different from General Motors or Kellogg’s.

But pharmaceuticals fall into a different area. Kellogg’s products don’t require a middleman handing you a script allowing you to buy corn flakes, so although the products are sold to the public, they also have to be sold to a person who isn’t buying them – the prescriber.

Not all these ads are bad, of course. At best they raise public awareness of different health conditions and the options to treat them. At worst ... well, currently there are several movies out there about the results of marketing done by the Sackler family and Purdue.

To me, most pharmaceutical ads look the same. They show happy people going about their lives, with the impression being that they couldn’t have done this without the benefit of the drug being marketed.

To a large extent I can’t knock that. Pharmaceuticals are amazing things. They’ve contributed dramatically to human health, life quality, and longevity.

But would I, or most people, notice if the lettering in the ads were blue, green, or yellow? Probably not. Someone with a background in the psychology of marketing would be able to show me data on how different colors affect our perceptions, but I still look at this and wonder if the money could have been better spent.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in marketing. I tend to be on the practical side. The idea of hiring a celebrity to endorse a migraine (or pretty much any) medication would never have occurred to me. I have no idea how much Pfizer paid Lady Gaga to sell Nurtec, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more than I’ll earn this year. Probably ever.

Like most neurologists I’m hopelessly left-brained. But I still wonder how much things like this really make a difference.

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

I am not a marketing person. I never will be. I don’t think like one.

A current article on FiercePharma talked about Boehringer Ingelheim’s recent “rebranding,” which involved (among other things) changing the blues in its logo and ads to greens.

Maybe someone else out there would notice that change, but I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t read about it. Nor am I sure what affect it would have on me, if any. But I’m sure they paid psychologists and marketing teams quite a bit to make sure it was a good idea.

Likewise, when AbbVie repackaged Ubrelvy from 10 to a package to 16, the company felt the need to change the design of the sample boxes (which are also now green). I’m pretty sure none of my patients noticed. The only reason I did is because I’m the one who stocks my sample shelf here.

Abbvie and Boehringer aren’t alone in this, of course. Pharmaceutical marketing is big business. I understand the companies want doctors and patients to know about their products. In that respect they’re no different from General Motors or Kellogg’s.

But pharmaceuticals fall into a different area. Kellogg’s products don’t require a middleman handing you a script allowing you to buy corn flakes, so although the products are sold to the public, they also have to be sold to a person who isn’t buying them – the prescriber.

Not all these ads are bad, of course. At best they raise public awareness of different health conditions and the options to treat them. At worst ... well, currently there are several movies out there about the results of marketing done by the Sackler family and Purdue.

To me, most pharmaceutical ads look the same. They show happy people going about their lives, with the impression being that they couldn’t have done this without the benefit of the drug being marketed.

To a large extent I can’t knock that. Pharmaceuticals are amazing things. They’ve contributed dramatically to human health, life quality, and longevity.

But would I, or most people, notice if the lettering in the ads were blue, green, or yellow? Probably not. Someone with a background in the psychology of marketing would be able to show me data on how different colors affect our perceptions, but I still look at this and wonder if the money could have been better spent.

Maybe that’s why I’m not in marketing. I tend to be on the practical side. The idea of hiring a celebrity to endorse a migraine (or pretty much any) medication would never have occurred to me. I have no idea how much Pfizer paid Lady Gaga to sell Nurtec, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more than I’ll earn this year. Probably ever.

Like most neurologists I’m hopelessly left-brained. But I still wonder how much things like this really make a difference.

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

As I noted in my last column, I recently had a generic cold.

One of the more irritating aspects is that I usually get a cough that lasts a few weeks afterwards, and, like most people, I try to do something about it. So I load up on various over-the-counter remedies.

I have no idea if they work, or if I’m shelling out for a placebo. I’m not alone in buying these, or they wouldn’t be on the market, or making money, at all.

But the placebo effect is pretty strong. Phenylephrine has been around since 1938. It’s sold on its own and is an ingredient in almost every anti-cough/cold combination medication out there (NyQuil, DayQuil, Robitussin Multi-Symptom, and their many generic store brands). Millions of people use it every year.

Yet, after sifting through piles of accumulated data, the Food and Drug Administration announced earlier this year that phenylephrine ... doesn’t do anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. When compared with a placebo in controlled trials, you couldn’t tell the difference between them. So now the use of it is being questioned. CVS has started pulling it off their shelves, and I suspect other pharmacies will follow.

But back to my cough. A time-honored tradition in American childhood is having to cram down Robitussin and gagging from its nasty taste (the cherry and orange flavoring don’t make a difference, it tastes terrible no matter what you do). So that gets ingrained into us, and to this day I, and most adults, reach for a bottle of dextromethorphan when they have a cough.

But the evidence for that is spotty, too. Several studies have shown equivocal, if any, evidence to suggest it helps with coughs, though others have shown some. Nothing really amazing though.

But we still buy it by the gallon when we’re sick, because we want something, anything, that will make us better. Even if we’re doing so more from hope than conviction.

There’s also the old standby of cough drops, which have been used for more than 3,000 years. Ingredients vary, but menthol is probably the most common one. I go through those, too. I keep a bag in my desk at work. In medical school, during cold season, it was in my backpack. I remember sitting in the Creighton library to study, quietly sucking on a lozenge to keep my cough from disturbing other students.

But even then, the evidence is iffy as to whether they do anything. In fact, one interesting (though small) study in 2018 suggested they may actually prolong coughs.

The fact is that we are all susceptible to the placebo effect, regardless of how much we know about illness and medication. Maybe these things work, maybe they don’t, but it’s a valid question. How often do we let wishful thinking beat objective data?

Probably more often than we want to admit.

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

As I noted in my last column, I recently had a generic cold.

One of the more irritating aspects is that I usually get a cough that lasts a few weeks afterwards, and, like most people, I try to do something about it. So I load up on various over-the-counter remedies.

I have no idea if they work, or if I’m shelling out for a placebo. I’m not alone in buying these, or they wouldn’t be on the market, or making money, at all.

But the placebo effect is pretty strong. Phenylephrine has been around since 1938. It’s sold on its own and is an ingredient in almost every anti-cough/cold combination medication out there (NyQuil, DayQuil, Robitussin Multi-Symptom, and their many generic store brands). Millions of people use it every year.

Yet, after sifting through piles of accumulated data, the Food and Drug Administration announced earlier this year that phenylephrine ... doesn’t do anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. When compared with a placebo in controlled trials, you couldn’t tell the difference between them. So now the use of it is being questioned. CVS has started pulling it off their shelves, and I suspect other pharmacies will follow.

But back to my cough. A time-honored tradition in American childhood is having to cram down Robitussin and gagging from its nasty taste (the cherry and orange flavoring don’t make a difference, it tastes terrible no matter what you do). So that gets ingrained into us, and to this day I, and most adults, reach for a bottle of dextromethorphan when they have a cough.

But the evidence for that is spotty, too. Several studies have shown equivocal, if any, evidence to suggest it helps with coughs, though others have shown some. Nothing really amazing though.

But we still buy it by the gallon when we’re sick, because we want something, anything, that will make us better. Even if we’re doing so more from hope than conviction.

There’s also the old standby of cough drops, which have been used for more than 3,000 years. Ingredients vary, but menthol is probably the most common one. I go through those, too. I keep a bag in my desk at work. In medical school, during cold season, it was in my backpack. I remember sitting in the Creighton library to study, quietly sucking on a lozenge to keep my cough from disturbing other students.

But even then, the evidence is iffy as to whether they do anything. In fact, one interesting (though small) study in 2018 suggested they may actually prolong coughs.

The fact is that we are all susceptible to the placebo effect, regardless of how much we know about illness and medication. Maybe these things work, maybe they don’t, but it’s a valid question. How often do we let wishful thinking beat objective data?

Probably more often than we want to admit.

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

As I noted in my last column, I recently had a generic cold.

One of the more irritating aspects is that I usually get a cough that lasts a few weeks afterwards, and, like most people, I try to do something about it. So I load up on various over-the-counter remedies.

I have no idea if they work, or if I’m shelling out for a placebo. I’m not alone in buying these, or they wouldn’t be on the market, or making money, at all.

But the placebo effect is pretty strong. Phenylephrine has been around since 1938. It’s sold on its own and is an ingredient in almost every anti-cough/cold combination medication out there (NyQuil, DayQuil, Robitussin Multi-Symptom, and their many generic store brands). Millions of people use it every year.

Yet, after sifting through piles of accumulated data, the Food and Drug Administration announced earlier this year that phenylephrine ... doesn’t do anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. When compared with a placebo in controlled trials, you couldn’t tell the difference between them. So now the use of it is being questioned. CVS has started pulling it off their shelves, and I suspect other pharmacies will follow.

But back to my cough. A time-honored tradition in American childhood is having to cram down Robitussin and gagging from its nasty taste (the cherry and orange flavoring don’t make a difference, it tastes terrible no matter what you do). So that gets ingrained into us, and to this day I, and most adults, reach for a bottle of dextromethorphan when they have a cough.

But the evidence for that is spotty, too. Several studies have shown equivocal, if any, evidence to suggest it helps with coughs, though others have shown some. Nothing really amazing though.

But we still buy it by the gallon when we’re sick, because we want something, anything, that will make us better. Even if we’re doing so more from hope than conviction.

There’s also the old standby of cough drops, which have been used for more than 3,000 years. Ingredients vary, but menthol is probably the most common one. I go through those, too. I keep a bag in my desk at work. In medical school, during cold season, it was in my backpack. I remember sitting in the Creighton library to study, quietly sucking on a lozenge to keep my cough from disturbing other students.

But even then, the evidence is iffy as to whether they do anything. In fact, one interesting (though small) study in 2018 suggested they may actually prolong coughs.

The fact is that we are all susceptible to the placebo effect, regardless of how much we know about illness and medication. Maybe these things work, maybe they don’t, but it’s a valid question. How often do we let wishful thinking beat objective data?

Probably more often than we want to admit.

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

I have a cold.

This is nothing new. Like most of us, I’ve probably gotten two or three a year for most of my life. I load up on Tylenol, Sudafed, cough syrup, and ginger ale (I’m not a chicken soup person), and I power through.

I may be sick, but there are patients to see. For better or worse, the idea of calling in sick never seems to apply to the health care profession. So I put on a mask to protect my patients and go ahead with my day.

But, as I blow my nose and accept my fate for the next week, I realize that I haven’t been sick with anything since 2019. Really.

Somewhere, with the masks, extra hand washing, Purell, and some good luck, I’d managed to dodge the rhinoviruses for 4 years.

I have no idea how many times in the last week I’ve told someone “I’d forgotten how much I hated being sick.” Certainly there are far worse things to have (colds are high on the “annoying” but low on the “serious” scales), but it’s odd to find myself back in the familiar pattern of coughing, sneezing, and low-grade fever that used to be a semi-annual occurrence.

So I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if the masks were that bad an idea? Certainly I have my share of patients, usually with immune diseases, who still wear them, and I see people at the store doing the same. There are countries where it was common to have them on even before the pandemic, though that was more for pollution.

I’m still pretty careful about hand washing, but that’s the nature of my job, anyway.

I keep coming back to the mask, though. Obviously, nothing is 100% successful, but certainly it puts a respiratory filter of sorts between us and the world (and vice versa). We use them in surgery and isolation rooms. It’s probably not the only reason I went 4 years without a cold, but it likely helped.

On the other hand, it has its drawbacks. A lot of my patients have hearing issues, and the mask doesn’t improve that. It also limits communication by facial expression, which is always important. It fogs up my classes (during the pandemic it became quite clear that any mask that claimed to be fog-free was lying).

I’m not saying everyone should wear them. This is up to me, that’s up to them.

But, for myself, it’s something to think about.

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

I have a cold.

This is nothing new. Like most of us, I’ve probably gotten two or three a year for most of my life. I load up on Tylenol, Sudafed, cough syrup, and ginger ale (I’m not a chicken soup person), and I power through.

I may be sick, but there are patients to see. For better or worse, the idea of calling in sick never seems to apply to the health care profession. So I put on a mask to protect my patients and go ahead with my day.

But, as I blow my nose and accept my fate for the next week, I realize that I haven’t been sick with anything since 2019. Really.

Somewhere, with the masks, extra hand washing, Purell, and some good luck, I’d managed to dodge the rhinoviruses for 4 years.

I have no idea how many times in the last week I’ve told someone “I’d forgotten how much I hated being sick.” Certainly there are far worse things to have (colds are high on the “annoying” but low on the “serious” scales), but it’s odd to find myself back in the familiar pattern of coughing, sneezing, and low-grade fever that used to be a semi-annual occurrence.

So I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if the masks were that bad an idea? Certainly I have my share of patients, usually with immune diseases, who still wear them, and I see people at the store doing the same. There are countries where it was common to have them on even before the pandemic, though that was more for pollution.

I’m still pretty careful about hand washing, but that’s the nature of my job, anyway.

I keep coming back to the mask, though. Obviously, nothing is 100% successful, but certainly it puts a respiratory filter of sorts between us and the world (and vice versa). We use them in surgery and isolation rooms. It’s probably not the only reason I went 4 years without a cold, but it likely helped.

On the other hand, it has its drawbacks. A lot of my patients have hearing issues, and the mask doesn’t improve that. It also limits communication by facial expression, which is always important. It fogs up my classes (during the pandemic it became quite clear that any mask that claimed to be fog-free was lying).

I’m not saying everyone should wear them. This is up to me, that’s up to them.

But, for myself, it’s something to think about.

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

I have a cold.

This is nothing new. Like most of us, I’ve probably gotten two or three a year for most of my life. I load up on Tylenol, Sudafed, cough syrup, and ginger ale (I’m not a chicken soup person), and I power through.

I may be sick, but there are patients to see. For better or worse, the idea of calling in sick never seems to apply to the health care profession. So I put on a mask to protect my patients and go ahead with my day.

But, as I blow my nose and accept my fate for the next week, I realize that I haven’t been sick with anything since 2019. Really.

Somewhere, with the masks, extra hand washing, Purell, and some good luck, I’d managed to dodge the rhinoviruses for 4 years.

I have no idea how many times in the last week I’ve told someone “I’d forgotten how much I hated being sick.” Certainly there are far worse things to have (colds are high on the “annoying” but low on the “serious” scales), but it’s odd to find myself back in the familiar pattern of coughing, sneezing, and low-grade fever that used to be a semi-annual occurrence.

So I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if the masks were that bad an idea? Certainly I have my share of patients, usually with immune diseases, who still wear them, and I see people at the store doing the same. There are countries where it was common to have them on even before the pandemic, though that was more for pollution.

I’m still pretty careful about hand washing, but that’s the nature of my job, anyway.

I keep coming back to the mask, though. Obviously, nothing is 100% successful, but certainly it puts a respiratory filter of sorts between us and the world (and vice versa). We use them in surgery and isolation rooms. It’s probably not the only reason I went 4 years without a cold, but it likely helped.

On the other hand, it has its drawbacks. A lot of my patients have hearing issues, and the mask doesn’t improve that. It also limits communication by facial expression, which is always important. It fogs up my classes (during the pandemic it became quite clear that any mask that claimed to be fog-free was lying).

I’m not saying everyone should wear them. This is up to me, that’s up to them.

But, for myself, it’s something to think about.

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

“What do you think about the whole Israel thing?”

That question came at the end of an otherwise routine appointment.

My answer surprised her, but she didn’t push it. She paid her copay, scheduled a follow-up for 3 months, and left.

As I’ve written before, I try to avoid all news except the local weather. The sad reality is that most of it is bad and there’s nothing I can really do about it. It only upsets me, which isn’t good for my mental health and blood pressure, and if I can’t change it, what’s the point of knowing? It falls under the serenity prayer.

Of course, some news stories are too big not to hear something. I pass TVs in the doctors lounge or coffee house, hear others talking as I stand in line for the elevator, or see blurbs go by when checking the weather. It’s not entirely unavoidable.

I’m not trivializing the Middle East. But, to me, it’s not part of the doctor-patient relationship any more than my political views are. You run the risk of driving a wedge between you and the person you’re caring for. If you don’t like their opinion, you may find yourself less interested in them and their care. If they don’t like your opinion on news, they may start to question your ability as a doctor.

That’s not what we strive for, but it can be human nature. For better or worse we often reduce things to “us against them,” and learning someone is on the opposite side may, even subconsciously, alter how you treat them.

That’s not good, so to me it’s best not to know.

Some may think I’m being petty, or aloof, to be unwilling to discuss nonmedical issues of significance, but I don’t see it that way. Time is limited at the appointment and is best spent on medical care. Something unrelated to the visit that may alter my objective opinion of a patient – or theirs of me as a doctor – is best left out of it.

I’m here to be your doctor, and to do the best I can for you. I’m not here to be a debate partner. Whenever a patient asks me a question on politics or news I always think of the Monty Python skit “Argument Clinic.” That’s not why you’re here. There are plenty places to discuss such things. My office isn’t one of them.

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

“What do you think about the whole Israel thing?”

That question came at the end of an otherwise routine appointment.

My answer surprised her, but she didn’t push it. She paid her copay, scheduled a follow-up for 3 months, and left.

As I’ve written before, I try to avoid all news except the local weather. The sad reality is that most of it is bad and there’s nothing I can really do about it. It only upsets me, which isn’t good for my mental health and blood pressure, and if I can’t change it, what’s the point of knowing? It falls under the serenity prayer.

Of course, some news stories are too big not to hear something. I pass TVs in the doctors lounge or coffee house, hear others talking as I stand in line for the elevator, or see blurbs go by when checking the weather. It’s not entirely unavoidable.

I’m not trivializing the Middle East. But, to me, it’s not part of the doctor-patient relationship any more than my political views are. You run the risk of driving a wedge between you and the person you’re caring for. If you don’t like their opinion, you may find yourself less interested in them and their care. If they don’t like your opinion on news, they may start to question your ability as a doctor.

That’s not what we strive for, but it can be human nature. For better or worse we often reduce things to “us against them,” and learning someone is on the opposite side may, even subconsciously, alter how you treat them.

That’s not good, so to me it’s best not to know.

Some may think I’m being petty, or aloof, to be unwilling to discuss nonmedical issues of significance, but I don’t see it that way. Time is limited at the appointment and is best spent on medical care. Something unrelated to the visit that may alter my objective opinion of a patient – or theirs of me as a doctor – is best left out of it.

I’m here to be your doctor, and to do the best I can for you. I’m not here to be a debate partner. Whenever a patient asks me a question on politics or news I always think of the Monty Python skit “Argument Clinic.” That’s not why you’re here. There are plenty places to discuss such things. My office isn’t one of them.

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

“What do you think about the whole Israel thing?”

That question came at the end of an otherwise routine appointment.

My answer surprised her, but she didn’t push it. She paid her copay, scheduled a follow-up for 3 months, and left.

As I’ve written before, I try to avoid all news except the local weather. The sad reality is that most of it is bad and there’s nothing I can really do about it. It only upsets me, which isn’t good for my mental health and blood pressure, and if I can’t change it, what’s the point of knowing? It falls under the serenity prayer.

Of course, some news stories are too big not to hear something. I pass TVs in the doctors lounge or coffee house, hear others talking as I stand in line for the elevator, or see blurbs go by when checking the weather. It’s not entirely unavoidable.

I’m not trivializing the Middle East. But, to me, it’s not part of the doctor-patient relationship any more than my political views are. You run the risk of driving a wedge between you and the person you’re caring for. If you don’t like their opinion, you may find yourself less interested in them and their care. If they don’t like your opinion on news, they may start to question your ability as a doctor.

That’s not what we strive for, but it can be human nature. For better or worse we often reduce things to “us against them,” and learning someone is on the opposite side may, even subconsciously, alter how you treat them.

That’s not good, so to me it’s best not to know.

Some may think I’m being petty, or aloof, to be unwilling to discuss nonmedical issues of significance, but I don’t see it that way. Time is limited at the appointment and is best spent on medical care. Something unrelated to the visit that may alter my objective opinion of a patient – or theirs of me as a doctor – is best left out of it.

I’m here to be your doctor, and to do the best I can for you. I’m not here to be a debate partner. Whenever a patient asks me a question on politics or news I always think of the Monty Python skit “Argument Clinic.” That’s not why you’re here. There are plenty places to discuss such things. My office isn’t one of them.

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

I was a resident, on morning rounds. The attending neurologist was young and ambitious (weren’t we all once?), trying to get the hospital to help him fund a research program in his subspecialty of interest.

One of the patients we saw that morning was a locally known successful businessman who’d been admitted, fortunately not for anything too serious.

Pretty standard up to that point.

After answering questions, however, the attending suddenly went into a sales pitch on his new research program, asking the guy for a financial donation, and giving him the card for the person at his office handling the funding.

I don’t remember anymore if he repeated that with other patients, but even now it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. As a resident I wasn’t in a position to criticize him, nor did I want to endanger my own standing in the program by talking to someone higher up.

He was, fortunately, the only attending I ever worked with who did that. It still stands out in my mind, perhaps as an example of what not to do, and sometimes I still think about it.

Perhaps I’m naive, but I assumed he was an aberration. Apparently not, as the American College of Physicians recently issued a position paper advising its members not to ask patients for donations to the doctor’s workplace. There’s actually an acronym, GPF (Grateful Patient Fundraising) for this.

I understand a lot of these doctors are in academics and need funding for research and other programs. I know that a lot of good comes from this research, and I fully support it.

But this seems to be a bad way of doing it. Standing at the bedside on that long-ago morning, I remember thinking the patient (who looked kind of surprised) was going to wonder if this was a vague sort of hint: You’ll get better care if you pay up. Or a veiled threat that you may not get decent care if you don’t. I have no idea if he donated.

There must be a better way to get funding than hitting up a patient as part of the care plan. Perhaps discharge materials might include a brochure about how to make a donation, if interested. Or the ubiquitous portal might have a “donate” box in the task bar.

If the patient were to initiate this on his own, I wouldn’t have an issue with it. He gets out of the hospital, is grateful for his care, and calls the physician’s office to say he’d like to make a donation to whatever his program is (or just goes online to do it). That’s fine. I’ve even had the occasional patient call my office to say they’d like to make a donation to my favorite charity, and I give them a list of various neurology research foundations (none of which I’m affiliated with, for the record).

But to actively solicit donations from someone under your care is tasteless and inappropriate. It creates a conflict of interest for both parties.

The patient may believe he’ll get better care, and is obligated to keep giving – or else. The physician may feel like he’s stuck going beyond what’s really needed, ordering unnecessary tests and such to keep the financial VIP happy. And what happens if the big donor patient calls in because he hurt his ankle and needs a Percocet refill that another doctor won’t give him?

The statement by the ACP is appropriate. The only thing that bothers me about it is that it had to be made at all.

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

I was a resident, on morning rounds. The attending neurologist was young and ambitious (weren’t we all once?), trying to get the hospital to help him fund a research program in his subspecialty of interest.

One of the patients we saw that morning was a locally known successful businessman who’d been admitted, fortunately not for anything too serious.

Pretty standard up to that point.

After answering questions, however, the attending suddenly went into a sales pitch on his new research program, asking the guy for a financial donation, and giving him the card for the person at his office handling the funding.

I don’t remember anymore if he repeated that with other patients, but even now it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. As a resident I wasn’t in a position to criticize him, nor did I want to endanger my own standing in the program by talking to someone higher up.

He was, fortunately, the only attending I ever worked with who did that. It still stands out in my mind, perhaps as an example of what not to do, and sometimes I still think about it.

Perhaps I’m naive, but I assumed he was an aberration. Apparently not, as the American College of Physicians recently issued a position paper advising its members not to ask patients for donations to the doctor’s workplace. There’s actually an acronym, GPF (Grateful Patient Fundraising) for this.

I understand a lot of these doctors are in academics and need funding for research and other programs. I know that a lot of good comes from this research, and I fully support it.

But this seems to be a bad way of doing it. Standing at the bedside on that long-ago morning, I remember thinking the patient (who looked kind of surprised) was going to wonder if this was a vague sort of hint: You’ll get better care if you pay up. Or a veiled threat that you may not get decent care if you don’t. I have no idea if he donated.

There must be a better way to get funding than hitting up a patient as part of the care plan. Perhaps discharge materials might include a brochure about how to make a donation, if interested. Or the ubiquitous portal might have a “donate” box in the task bar.

If the patient were to initiate this on his own, I wouldn’t have an issue with it. He gets out of the hospital, is grateful for his care, and calls the physician’s office to say he’d like to make a donation to whatever his program is (or just goes online to do it). That’s fine. I’ve even had the occasional patient call my office to say they’d like to make a donation to my favorite charity, and I give them a list of various neurology research foundations (none of which I’m affiliated with, for the record).

But to actively solicit donations from someone under your care is tasteless and inappropriate. It creates a conflict of interest for both parties.

The patient may believe he’ll get better care, and is obligated to keep giving – or else. The physician may feel like he’s stuck going beyond what’s really needed, ordering unnecessary tests and such to keep the financial VIP happy. And what happens if the big donor patient calls in because he hurt his ankle and needs a Percocet refill that another doctor won’t give him?

The statement by the ACP is appropriate. The only thing that bothers me about it is that it had to be made at all.

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

I was a resident, on morning rounds. The attending neurologist was young and ambitious (weren’t we all once?), trying to get the hospital to help him fund a research program in his subspecialty of interest.

One of the patients we saw that morning was a locally known successful businessman who’d been admitted, fortunately not for anything too serious.

Pretty standard up to that point.

After answering questions, however, the attending suddenly went into a sales pitch on his new research program, asking the guy for a financial donation, and giving him the card for the person at his office handling the funding.

I don’t remember anymore if he repeated that with other patients, but even now it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. As a resident I wasn’t in a position to criticize him, nor did I want to endanger my own standing in the program by talking to someone higher up.

He was, fortunately, the only attending I ever worked with who did that. It still stands out in my mind, perhaps as an example of what not to do, and sometimes I still think about it.

Perhaps I’m naive, but I assumed he was an aberration. Apparently not, as the American College of Physicians recently issued a position paper advising its members not to ask patients for donations to the doctor’s workplace. There’s actually an acronym, GPF (Grateful Patient Fundraising) for this.

I understand a lot of these doctors are in academics and need funding for research and other programs. I know that a lot of good comes from this research, and I fully support it.

But this seems to be a bad way of doing it. Standing at the bedside on that long-ago morning, I remember thinking the patient (who looked kind of surprised) was going to wonder if this was a vague sort of hint: You’ll get better care if you pay up. Or a veiled threat that you may not get decent care if you don’t. I have no idea if he donated.

There must be a better way to get funding than hitting up a patient as part of the care plan. Perhaps discharge materials might include a brochure about how to make a donation, if interested. Or the ubiquitous portal might have a “donate” box in the task bar.

If the patient were to initiate this on his own, I wouldn’t have an issue with it. He gets out of the hospital, is grateful for his care, and calls the physician’s office to say he’d like to make a donation to whatever his program is (or just goes online to do it). That’s fine. I’ve even had the occasional patient call my office to say they’d like to make a donation to my favorite charity, and I give them a list of various neurology research foundations (none of which I’m affiliated with, for the record).

But to actively solicit donations from someone under your care is tasteless and inappropriate. It creates a conflict of interest for both parties.

The patient may believe he’ll get better care, and is obligated to keep giving – or else. The physician may feel like he’s stuck going beyond what’s really needed, ordering unnecessary tests and such to keep the financial VIP happy. And what happens if the big donor patient calls in because he hurt his ankle and needs a Percocet refill that another doctor won’t give him?

The statement by the ACP is appropriate. The only thing that bothers me about it is that it had to be made at all.

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

I’ve worked hard to get rid of paper, or at least minimize it.

I use e-fax for sending and receiving as much as possible. I send scripts and order digitally when I can.

But, 23 years into a paperless practice, the stuff isn’t going away soon. Nor I do I want it to.

For many applications paper is just easier (at least to me) to use. When I have a meeting and know I’ll need to read from notes, I’d much rather have them on paper than a screen, so I print them up. Even a grocery list is easier to scribble down on something and look at as I wander the aisles, rather than navigate to an app every 2 minutes. Paper isn’t susceptible to the whims of battery power, signal strength, being dropped, or software glitches.

I’m also not particularly good at taking notes on a computer. I’m sure most of the current generation of physicians is (or they just use a scribe), but I’m old school. Since day one I’ve had a note pad on my desk, jotting points and observations down on the fly (I use a pencil, too, if anyone remembers what that is). Then, when I have time, I type up my notes from the paper.

I also still have patients who, for whatever reason, want a handwritten prescription. Or sometimes need the legendary “doctor’s note” for work or school. Or need me to fill out forms.

Having grown up with paper, and been through school and residency with paper, it’s not easy to give it up entirely. There’s something reassuring about the tactile nature of flipping pages as opposed to scrolling up and down.

I’m not complaining about its decreased use, though. A digital world is, for the most part, much, much easier. Even now paper is just a transient medium for me. It’s either going to be scanned or shredded (or scanned, then shredded) when I’m done. I don’t want the hassle of paper charts as my repository of information. Currently I have 23 years of charts sitting on a Mac-Mini, and accessible from wherever I am on Earth (as long as I have a decent signal). You definitely can’t do that with paper.

On a larger scale paper has other, more significant, drawbacks: deforestation, pollution, freshwater and petroleum usage, and others. I’m aware of this, use only scratch paper for my scribbles and lists, and buy recycled paper products as much as possible.

Certainly I wish we had less use of it. For one thing, I’d love to be rid of all the junk mail that comes to my house, which far outnumbers anything of importance. I always send it straight to recycling, but it would be far better if it had never been created in the first place.

Realistically, though, it’s still a key part of medical practice and everyday life. I don’t see that changing anytime soon, nor do I really want it to. I’ll leave it to a future generation of doctors to make that break.

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

I’ve worked hard to get rid of paper, or at least minimize it.

I use e-fax for sending and receiving as much as possible. I send scripts and order digitally when I can.

But, 23 years into a paperless practice, the stuff isn’t going away soon. Nor I do I want it to.

For many applications paper is just easier (at least to me) to use. When I have a meeting and know I’ll need to read from notes, I’d much rather have them on paper than a screen, so I print them up. Even a grocery list is easier to scribble down on something and look at as I wander the aisles, rather than navigate to an app every 2 minutes. Paper isn’t susceptible to the whims of battery power, signal strength, being dropped, or software glitches.

I’m also not particularly good at taking notes on a computer. I’m sure most of the current generation of physicians is (or they just use a scribe), but I’m old school. Since day one I’ve had a note pad on my desk, jotting points and observations down on the fly (I use a pencil, too, if anyone remembers what that is). Then, when I have time, I type up my notes from the paper.

I also still have patients who, for whatever reason, want a handwritten prescription. Or sometimes need the legendary “doctor’s note” for work or school. Or need me to fill out forms.

Having grown up with paper, and been through school and residency with paper, it’s not easy to give it up entirely. There’s something reassuring about the tactile nature of flipping pages as opposed to scrolling up and down.

I’m not complaining about its decreased use, though. A digital world is, for the most part, much, much easier. Even now paper is just a transient medium for me. It’s either going to be scanned or shredded (or scanned, then shredded) when I’m done. I don’t want the hassle of paper charts as my repository of information. Currently I have 23 years of charts sitting on a Mac-Mini, and accessible from wherever I am on Earth (as long as I have a decent signal). You definitely can’t do that with paper.

On a larger scale paper has other, more significant, drawbacks: deforestation, pollution, freshwater and petroleum usage, and others. I’m aware of this, use only scratch paper for my scribbles and lists, and buy recycled paper products as much as possible.

Certainly I wish we had less use of it. For one thing, I’d love to be rid of all the junk mail that comes to my house, which far outnumbers anything of importance. I always send it straight to recycling, but it would be far better if it had never been created in the first place.

Realistically, though, it’s still a key part of medical practice and everyday life. I don’t see that changing anytime soon, nor do I really want it to. I’ll leave it to a future generation of doctors to make that break.

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

I’ve worked hard to get rid of paper, or at least minimize it.

I use e-fax for sending and receiving as much as possible. I send scripts and order digitally when I can.

But, 23 years into a paperless practice, the stuff isn’t going away soon. Nor I do I want it to.

For many applications paper is just easier (at least to me) to use. When I have a meeting and know I’ll need to read from notes, I’d much rather have them on paper than a screen, so I print them up. Even a grocery list is easier to scribble down on something and look at as I wander the aisles, rather than navigate to an app every 2 minutes. Paper isn’t susceptible to the whims of battery power, signal strength, being dropped, or software glitches.

I’m also not particularly good at taking notes on a computer. I’m sure most of the current generation of physicians is (or they just use a scribe), but I’m old school. Since day one I’ve had a note pad on my desk, jotting points and observations down on the fly (I use a pencil, too, if anyone remembers what that is). Then, when I have time, I type up my notes from the paper.

I also still have patients who, for whatever reason, want a handwritten prescription. Or sometimes need the legendary “doctor’s note” for work or school. Or need me to fill out forms.

Having grown up with paper, and been through school and residency with paper, it’s not easy to give it up entirely. There’s something reassuring about the tactile nature of flipping pages as opposed to scrolling up and down.

I’m not complaining about its decreased use, though. A digital world is, for the most part, much, much easier. Even now paper is just a transient medium for me. It’s either going to be scanned or shredded (or scanned, then shredded) when I’m done. I don’t want the hassle of paper charts as my repository of information. Currently I have 23 years of charts sitting on a Mac-Mini, and accessible from wherever I am on Earth (as long as I have a decent signal). You definitely can’t do that with paper.

On a larger scale paper has other, more significant, drawbacks: deforestation, pollution, freshwater and petroleum usage, and others. I’m aware of this, use only scratch paper for my scribbles and lists, and buy recycled paper products as much as possible.

Certainly I wish we had less use of it. For one thing, I’d love to be rid of all the junk mail that comes to my house, which far outnumbers anything of importance. I always send it straight to recycling, but it would be far better if it had never been created in the first place.

Realistically, though, it’s still a key part of medical practice and everyday life. I don’t see that changing anytime soon, nor do I really want it to. I’ll leave it to a future generation of doctors to make that break.

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

Early Monday morning was my usual start-the-week routine: Set up things at the office, update my computer, check the mail, review the week’s schedule.

I was rolling the phones when a text passed by on my screen that a friend had died.

He wasn’t a close friend, but still someone I liked and got along with on the occasional times we ran into each other. Good neurologist, all-around nice person. It was a shock. I’d just seen him a week ago when we crossed paths and briefly chatted about life, the universe, and everything, before going on with our days.

We’d trained together back in the mid-90s. He was 2 years younger than I. I was in my last year of residency when he started the program. I remember being at different gatherings back then with him and his wife, a few with his then-young son, too.

And now he’s gone.

Along with the grief, you think about your own mortality. What can I be doing to hang around longer? To be better? To enjoy whatever time that I have left?

Why a mensch like him?

These are questions we all face at different times. Questions that have no answers (or at least not easy ones). There’s a lot of “why” in the universe.

There are people out there whom you don’t see often, but still consider friends, and enjoy seeing when you encounter them. Sometimes you’re bound by a common interest, or background, or who knows what. You may not think of them much, but it’s somehow reassuring to know they’re out there. And upsetting when you suddenly realize they aren’t.

You feel awful for them and their families. You wish there was a reason, or that something, anything, good will come out of the loss. But right now you don’t see any.

Our time here is never long enough. We make the best of what we have and wish for a better tomorrow.

As Longfellow wrote, the best we can hope for is to leave “footprints on the sands of time.” In medicine, and in everyday life, we strive to do our best for ourselves and for those who need us.

I’ll miss you, friend.

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

Early Monday morning was my usual start-the-week routine: Set up things at the office, update my computer, check the mail, review the week’s schedule.

I was rolling the phones when a text passed by on my screen that a friend had died.

He wasn’t a close friend, but still someone I liked and got along with on the occasional times we ran into each other. Good neurologist, all-around nice person. It was a shock. I’d just seen him a week ago when we crossed paths and briefly chatted about life, the universe, and everything, before going on with our days.

We’d trained together back in the mid-90s. He was 2 years younger than I. I was in my last year of residency when he started the program. I remember being at different gatherings back then with him and his wife, a few with his then-young son, too.

And now he’s gone.

Along with the grief, you think about your own mortality. What can I be doing to hang around longer? To be better? To enjoy whatever time that I have left?

Why a mensch like him?

These are questions we all face at different times. Questions that have no answers (or at least not easy ones). There’s a lot of “why” in the universe.

There are people out there whom you don’t see often, but still consider friends, and enjoy seeing when you encounter them. Sometimes you’re bound by a common interest, or background, or who knows what. You may not think of them much, but it’s somehow reassuring to know they’re out there. And upsetting when you suddenly realize they aren’t.

You feel awful for them and their families. You wish there was a reason, or that something, anything, good will come out of the loss. But right now you don’t see any.

Our time here is never long enough. We make the best of what we have and wish for a better tomorrow.

As Longfellow wrote, the best we can hope for is to leave “footprints on the sands of time.” In medicine, and in everyday life, we strive to do our best for ourselves and for those who need us.

I’ll miss you, friend.

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

Early Monday morning was my usual start-the-week routine: Set up things at the office, update my computer, check the mail, review the week’s schedule.

I was rolling the phones when a text passed by on my screen that a friend had died.

He wasn’t a close friend, but still someone I liked and got along with on the occasional times we ran into each other. Good neurologist, all-around nice person. It was a shock. I’d just seen him a week ago when we crossed paths and briefly chatted about life, the universe, and everything, before going on with our days.

We’d trained together back in the mid-90s. He was 2 years younger than I. I was in my last year of residency when he started the program. I remember being at different gatherings back then with him and his wife, a few with his then-young son, too.

And now he’s gone.

Along with the grief, you think about your own mortality. What can I be doing to hang around longer? To be better? To enjoy whatever time that I have left?

Why a mensch like him?

These are questions we all face at different times. Questions that have no answers (or at least not easy ones). There’s a lot of “why” in the universe.

There are people out there whom you don’t see often, but still consider friends, and enjoy seeing when you encounter them. Sometimes you’re bound by a common interest, or background, or who knows what. You may not think of them much, but it’s somehow reassuring to know they’re out there. And upsetting when you suddenly realize they aren’t.

You feel awful for them and their families. You wish there was a reason, or that something, anything, good will come out of the loss. But right now you don’t see any.

Our time here is never long enough. We make the best of what we have and wish for a better tomorrow.

As Longfellow wrote, the best we can hope for is to leave “footprints on the sands of time.” In medicine, and in everyday life, we strive to do our best for ourselves and for those who need us.

I’ll miss you, friend.

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

I’m a creature of habit. I suspect most of us are.

One can of Diet Coke on the drive to my office. Turn on the WiFi and air conditioning. Fire up the computer and unload my briefcase. Then do online refills, check the Astronomy Picture of the Day, look over the day’s schedule, turn on the Keurig, and make one cup of coffee. And so on.

I’m sure most of us have similar routines. Our brains are probably wired that way for survival, though the reasons aren’t the same anymore. Once it was get up, look outside the cave for predators, make sure the tribe is all accounted for, go to the stream for water, look for berries.

The fact is that automatic habits are critical for everything we do. Driving a car is really a series of repetitive tasks. Being able to put most of the ride on our brain’s autopilot allows us to move our attention to scanning the surroundings for changes, and to think about other items such as wonder what to do for dinner and if I remembered to turn off theWiFi and Keurig.

The practice of medicine is similar. Some things are internalized. Watching patients walk back to my office, looking at their hands as they fill out forms, hearing them introduce themselves, and other things that we subconsciously process as part of the exam before we’ve even officially begun the appointment. I quietly file such things away to be used later in the visit.

It certainly wasn’t always that way. In training we learn to filter out signal from noise, because the information available is huge. We all read tests of some sort. When I began reading EEGs, the images and lines were overwhelming, but with time and experience I became skilled at whittling down the mass of information into the things that really needed to be noted so I could turn pages faster (yes, youngsters, EEGs used to be on paper). Now, scanning the screen becomes a background habit, with the brain focusing more on things that stand out (or going back to thinking about what to do for dinner).

Over the millennia we’ve changed daily routines from something critical for survival to what we need for individual success in a chosen field. The brain in this way is the ultimate Swiss Army Knife – many tools available, but how we adapt and use them for our individual needs is variable.

Which is pretty impressive, actually. In the era of AI and computers, we each come with a (roughly) 2.5-petabyte hard drive that’s not only capable of storing all that information, but figuring out how to use it when we need to. The process is so smooth that we’re rarely aware of it. But what a marvel it is.

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

I’m a creature of habit. I suspect most of us are.

One can of Diet Coke on the drive to my office. Turn on the WiFi and air conditioning. Fire up the computer and unload my briefcase. Then do online refills, check the Astronomy Picture of the Day, look over the day’s schedule, turn on the Keurig, and make one cup of coffee. And so on.

I’m sure most of us have similar routines. Our brains are probably wired that way for survival, though the reasons aren’t the same anymore. Once it was get up, look outside the cave for predators, make sure the tribe is all accounted for, go to the stream for water, look for berries.

The fact is that automatic habits are critical for everything we do. Driving a car is really a series of repetitive tasks. Being able to put most of the ride on our brain’s autopilot allows us to move our attention to scanning the surroundings for changes, and to think about other items such as wonder what to do for dinner and if I remembered to turn off theWiFi and Keurig.

The practice of medicine is similar. Some things are internalized. Watching patients walk back to my office, looking at their hands as they fill out forms, hearing them introduce themselves, and other things that we subconsciously process as part of the exam before we’ve even officially begun the appointment. I quietly file such things away to be used later in the visit.

It certainly wasn’t always that way. In training we learn to filter out signal from noise, because the information available is huge. We all read tests of some sort. When I began reading EEGs, the images and lines were overwhelming, but with time and experience I became skilled at whittling down the mass of information into the things that really needed to be noted so I could turn pages faster (yes, youngsters, EEGs used to be on paper). Now, scanning the screen becomes a background habit, with the brain focusing more on things that stand out (or going back to thinking about what to do for dinner).

Over the millennia we’ve changed daily routines from something critical for survival to what we need for individual success in a chosen field. The brain in this way is the ultimate Swiss Army Knife – many tools available, but how we adapt and use them for our individual needs is variable.

Which is pretty impressive, actually. In the era of AI and computers, we each come with a (roughly) 2.5-petabyte hard drive that’s not only capable of storing all that information, but figuring out how to use it when we need to. The process is so smooth that we’re rarely aware of it. But what a marvel it is.

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

I’m a creature of habit. I suspect most of us are.

One can of Diet Coke on the drive to my office. Turn on the WiFi and air conditioning. Fire up the computer and unload my briefcase. Then do online refills, check the Astronomy Picture of the Day, look over the day’s schedule, turn on the Keurig, and make one cup of coffee. And so on.

I’m sure most of us have similar routines. Our brains are probably wired that way for survival, though the reasons aren’t the same anymore. Once it was get up, look outside the cave for predators, make sure the tribe is all accounted for, go to the stream for water, look for berries.

The fact is that automatic habits are critical for everything we do. Driving a car is really a series of repetitive tasks. Being able to put most of the ride on our brain’s autopilot allows us to move our attention to scanning the surroundings for changes, and to think about other items such as wonder what to do for dinner and if I remembered to turn off theWiFi and Keurig.

The practice of medicine is similar. Some things are internalized. Watching patients walk back to my office, looking at their hands as they fill out forms, hearing them introduce themselves, and other things that we subconsciously process as part of the exam before we’ve even officially begun the appointment. I quietly file such things away to be used later in the visit.

It certainly wasn’t always that way. In training we learn to filter out signal from noise, because the information available is huge. We all read tests of some sort. When I began reading EEGs, the images and lines were overwhelming, but with time and experience I became skilled at whittling down the mass of information into the things that really needed to be noted so I could turn pages faster (yes, youngsters, EEGs used to be on paper). Now, scanning the screen becomes a background habit, with the brain focusing more on things that stand out (or going back to thinking about what to do for dinner).

Over the millennia we’ve changed daily routines from something critical for survival to what we need for individual success in a chosen field. The brain in this way is the ultimate Swiss Army Knife – many tools available, but how we adapt and use them for our individual needs is variable.

Which is pretty impressive, actually. In the era of AI and computers, we each come with a (roughly) 2.5-petabyte hard drive that’s not only capable of storing all that information, but figuring out how to use it when we need to. The process is so smooth that we’re rarely aware of it. But what a marvel it is.

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