Archive Page 174

Rural Medicine – Not Just Runny Noses

A lot of people, many of them medical students, think that rural doctors don’t get to see many interesting cases.

The opposite is true; if you are the only doctor within a wide radius, people will come to you for help, rather than try to pick the appropriate out-of-town specialist to diagnose their problem. In this state with widespread physician shortages most specialists won’t even see self-referred patients.

Sir William Osler wrote:

“The environment of a large city is not essential to the growth of a good clinical physician. Even in small towns, a man can, if he has it in him, become well versed in methods of work, and with the occasional visit to some medical centre he can become an expert diagnostician and reach a position of dignity and worth in the community in which he lives.”

Today, with UpToDate and all the medical journals of the world instantly at our disposal through the Internet, rural physicians cannot blame the size of their patient panel or of their medical community for not keeping up with the essentials in their field. Rural primary care doctors are usually the first ones with an opportunity to evaluate and diagnose our community members’ medical problems, regardless of their complexity or severity.

In situations when I feel stumped with a difficult diagnosis, I sometimes end up explaining to patients that until I understand better what the nature of the problem is, I don’t even know which specialty is the right one to refer them to, since the delineation of specialties follows disease location or mechanism rather than presentation.

For example, a person with weight loss could have an endocrine problem, an intestinal problem, cancer or a psychiatric diagnosis. The family physician is usually in the best position of all specialists to sort out which is the underlying cause.

It is sometimes quite touching when, after I have diagnosed a patient with a rare disease that only a big city or university-based specialist can manage, patients say “ah, Doc, can’t you treat me instead – I’m comfortable with you, and you’re the one who figured out what was wrong with me”.

Rural medicine, in terms of the spectrum of disease we encounter, is the most challenging and most stimulating kind of primary care medical career available to doctors in this country.

The double-booked visit with the Chief Complaint “I think I have a sinus infection” could be a brain tumor. The woman with chest pain could have an esophageal diverticulum, and the man with heart palpitations could have hyperthyroidism, an arrhythmia, a drinking problem or an anxiety disorder – perhaps even a pheochromocytoma.

It is my job to do the right thing, not too little and not too much, for each one of these patients, who trusts me with their care.

It’s all in a day’s work in primary care.

And, oh, one man with a runny nose just didn’t act right. He seemed vague with some word-finding difficulties. I had never seen a brain abscess before, but that is what he had.

Journey’s End

The long journey that began a year and a half ago ended suddenly this morning.

The Swedish ringtone sounded four times after I dialed the number I had dialed the same time every morning for several years as well as every weekend afternoon, the number I knew would suddenly become meaningless any time as my mother’s disease progressed.

A strange voice answered and in one instant I was orphaned at age fifty-eight, never having said a final good bye. My last words had been “get a good night’s sleep and I’ll call you when I wake up in the morning”.

Hers had been “I am content, take care of yourself”. She was ready, even if I was not.

I have lost count of how many deaths I have attended as a physician, but it is always with an eery swiftness that the moment passes, no matter how long the wait has been.

Instantly the moment is gone, the chance to say the words we wanted to have said. Instantly the feeling of loss overwhelms us as we are hurled from one way of existing to another, just like our loved one is whisked away from our presence.

Hearing a young Hospice nurse struggle to find the right words to tell me what must have happened before she arrived for her scheduled visit, I realized what had happened with the speed of my imagination as her words continued to form in slow motion. Through the receiver, across three thousand miles of frigid ocean and across a time difference of half a day I gathered up the pieces of my mother’s last hours on this earth.

Somehow, I knew it would end like this. I knew it the day my father died and I was the one who walked across my home town to tell her, confined to her hospital room across the river. I knew it every time I said good bye on the telephone, that one day the phone would ring and ring, she would not answer and the familiar number wouldn’t be hers anymore.

I just didn’t know it would be today.

QS, Ad Lib and PRN

Our hospital has a list of approved abbreviations. It is shorter than the list I had to memorize during my training. The reason some long-established abbreviations have been banned is their similarity to other abbreviations with different meaning. Even when doctors type orders instead of writing them by hand, the concern is that nurses and pharmacists may mistake them for something other than what the doctor ordered.

For this reason both QID (quater in die; four times a day) and QD (quaque die; once daily) are off the list; a hurried nurse or pharmacists could inadvertently quadruple a patient’s daily dose by imagining an “I” that wasn’t there to begin with.

At the local pharmacy, thanks to e-prescribing, we are forced into a specificity we weren’t tied to before:

Gone is the universal “QS”, (quantum sufficat; sufficient quantity), which made it the pharmacist’s responsibility to figure out how many pills it takes to do a prednisone taper with 6 pills the first two days, 5 the next two, then 4 a day for two days etcetera until zero.

“QS” also got us doctors off the hook with liquid medicines for children; while the printed “Monthly Prescribing Reference” listed the size bottles all the common antibiotics come in, the new e-prescribing software doesn’t tell us that. Consequently we have to prescribe the exact volume needed for a full course, hoping there is a bottle of just that size or that the pharmacist will be allowed to pick the closest size up without having to call us back.

“Ad Lib” (ad libitum; “freely as wanted”) has fallen by the wayside in medicine, and now seems mostly a term used in theater, public speaking or music.

Curiously, a theatrical synonym for ad libitum, extempore, was often used in my native Sweden for a custom prescription, usually for a cream or ointment, less often a hand-made capsule or pastille. In the United States, this term is seldom used, although the concept of specially compounded medications is not uncommon.

“PRN” (Pro Re Nata; “as the circumstance arises”) seems to have survived the abbreviation cutbacks. It allows the patient or caregiver to use the medication as needed.

Prescriptions were historically a vehicle for doctor-to-pharmacist communication that was written specifically to exclude the patient. This is to some extent why so many abbreviations were used. Somewhere near the bottom of most prescriptions typically was the word Label with a check box in front of it. Only when checked did the patient get to see the name of the medication on the bottle. That was before the era of informed consent, but the word and the check box can occasionally still be found on prescriptions.

Abbreviations and secret symbols still find their way into modern medical jargon and documentation, even if they are not allowed on prescriptions or in hospital records, from the handwritten Ψ for psychiatry or psychiatric to classics like GOMER – Get Out of My Emergency Room, ETKTM – every test known to man, and FF – Frequent Flyer, to some newer ones like:

PJAR – Person Just Ain’t Right

SALT – Same As Last Time

TMB – Too Many Birthdays, and

GOK – God Only Knows

Every profession needs its abbreviations…

Art, Science and Charity in Medicine

Sir William Osler spoke of the influence of these three forces on the life and conduct of a physician. He eloquently used temperature analogies to characterize the necessary qualities of a physician – burning hot or keeping cool, but never being lukewarm:

”….of Art, the highest development of which can only come with that sustaining love for ideals which burns bright…”;

 “Science, the cold logic that keeps the mind independent and free from the toils of self-deception and half-knowledge”;

“of Charity, in which we of the medical profession, to walk worthily, must live and move and have our being.”

                                      (Aequanimitas, 1904)

Today’s medicine tends to be more tepid, at least in my field, Primary Care. Others clamor to set our priorities, to the point that doctor and patient sometimes both feel marginalized. The personal doctor-patient relationship is sometimes replaced by a more generic consumer-provider exchange, where a patient may see the physician as just a necessary intermediary between their need and the solution they already know they want – as in the case of asking for a drug advertised on television.

We must start with what Osler calls “the cold logic of Science”. It is our role and our duty as physicians to view new claims of clinical benefit from tests, procedures or pharmaceuticals with a critical mind, applying our training and experience. Simply following guidelines is an abdication from our professional responsibility. You don’t need to go to medical school to follow guidelines – in fact, it may make it harder sometimes.

The burning flame behind our passion for the Art and compassion for our fellow human beings, what Osler calls Charity, must never be lukewarm.

We all have to work at the Art of medicine. It is easy to slip into routines of complacency; another case of this or that, giving it our usual “Spiel”. Seeing each patient and each clinical presentation as unique is necessary in order to connect with the other person in the exam room. Finding the right way to approach each one of many seemingly similar case histories is what makes a personal physician just that – each patient needs something slightly different from us. The better we understand those needs, the more effective we can be.

The Art of the medical practitioner lies in the balance between cold science and hot passion. This is where the chemistry between physician, patient and disease takes place.

Call it chemistry, even alchemy: As physicians, we are catalysts in each patient’s transformation. And just as any other catalyst, we cause a chemical reaction to take place without being consumed ourselves in the process.

Our true challenge as physicians in today’s health care climate is keeping the flame Osler spoke of. Without that flame we are at risk for straying from the ideals behind our profession.

Osler warned us never to feel lukewarm about being doctors:

“By far the most dangerous foe we have to fight is apathy – indifference from whatever cause, not from a lack of knowledge, but from carelessness, from absorption in other pursuits, from a contempt bred of self satisfaction.”

The Art of the Referral Letter

One of the journals I skimmed through this weekend had a piece about Meaningful Use, which is Newspeak for what electronic medical records need to do in order to satisfy Federal requirements.

One of the requirements we must satisfy in the next round of Meaningful Use is to “send summary of care records in certain referral and transition of care situations”.

The Archives of Internal Medicine reported a year ago that 70% of primary care physicians claimed to inform specialists of patients’ medical history and the reason for consultation, while only about 35% of specialists reported to be getting this information.

I remember the eloquent referral letters I used to dictate years ago, when the administrative burden of a rural family practitioner was a fraction of what it is now:

        “Dear Mike,

         This is to introduce Mary Calderon, a 53-year-old Gravida 3, Para 2 with a BMI of 30 and a recent onset of postmenopausal bleeding 18 months after a seemingly normal menopause. Her ultrasound shows endometrial thickening….”

 

        “Dear Ned,        

         Thanks for seeing Bella Beaupre, an otherwise healthy 68-yar-old with six months of migratory polyarthralgias and an inconsistent laboratory profile. Clinically, she appears to have new onset of Rheumatoid Arthritis, but I would appreciate your help….”

 

After each consult, there would be an elegantly worded, impeccably typed letter on deliciously thick linen stationery, blue from Mike, cream colored from Ned, running a page or possibly two, signed with flair in ink with each one’s favorite fountain pen.

Just as my referral letter would state whether I wanted my specialist colleague to see the patient for a consultation so I could take it from there or simply take over and manage the patient, the consultation report would succinctly outline their thoughts and proposed treatment plan.

A few years ago, Mike’s group adopted an EMR and the two-page reports on blue linen stationery were replaced by five-page boilerplate reports that all tended to look very similar, to the point of making it hard to see what Mike really thought of the problem I had referred to him. The reports, even though he is a specialist, had smoking status, last pneumonia vaccination and all kinds of “primary care” information. Because Mike never learned to type worth a darn, his thoughts about each case I sent him were often reduced to just a line or two somewhere in the middle of each report.

My own referral letters have also lost some of their flair over the years. Instead of thoroughly summarizing each patient’s past medical history, somewhere along the line I started to focus on the problem for which I was referring the patient. I would have a catch phrase somewhat like “please see enclosed records for additional background information”. It was less satisfying, but it seemed there was never quite enough time to dictate one of those old, delicious doctor-to-doctor notes.

Now, with my own transition to electronic records, I can’t just pick up my handheld recorder and dictate a referral letter anymore. Anything written is the product of my own point-and-click or hunt-and-peck. By necessity, I now type a brief, yet to-the-point paragraph at the end of the office note about why I am requesting a consultation for my patient. It doesn’t say “Dear Mike” or “Dear Ned” anymore, and, just like Mike’s and Ned’s office notes, it has a lot of information that looks the same from patient to patient and visit to visit. But, after all, smoking status as a vital sign and all those other items are necessary to meet our current “Meaningful Use” requirements.

I haven’t asked either one of my colleagues how they feel about my referrals these days.

I, for one, really miss Mike’s thick, blue stationery and his wisely worded reports that always taught me something new or confirmed my own thoughts, signed with that broad nib fountain pen of his.

That was Meaningful Use, too.


I just realized none of the posts show on an iPad or a computer, but they do show on an iPhone. WordPress is working on this. In the meantime, please visit my Substack.

 

 

Osler said “Listen to your patient, he is telling you the diagnosis”. Duvefelt says “Listen to your patient, he is telling you what kind of doctor he needs you to be”.

 

BOOKS BY HANS DUVEFELT, MD

CONDITIONS, Chapter 1: An Old, New Diagnosis

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