Archive Page 188

A Walking Time Bomb

“Apprehension, uncertainty, waiting, expectation, fear of surprise, do a patient more harm than any exertion.”          Florence Nightingale


Stephen Bloom became my patient almost ten years ago. He was an anxious fellow with high blood pressure and a less than perfect lipid profile. He also had borderline diabetes.

His previous doctor had told him he was a heart attack waiting to happen. “A walking time bomb” were the words Stephen remembered.

The doctor’s words had done little to bring about any change in Stephen’s lifestyle. When I met him, he was thirty pounds overweight with a blood pressure a good ten points over ideal, and his lipids were not quite controlled, but his biggest problem was his anxiety. He acted like every day was his last. He worried about what to eat, about which kind of physical activity was too much or too little, about side effects and about the cost of his medications.

Over the next several months we adjusted his medications and he actually lost a few pounds. I helped him figure out which foods raised his blood sugar the most and I encouraged him to make small changes in his eating patterns between each cholesterol test. But he was still on the verge of panic about his heart attack risk.

I had to work on his anxiety.

“Look at all the things you have been able to change. Your blood pressure is controlled, your weight is down, your blood sugars are normal and your cholesterol is so much better.”

I took a deep breath and added: “Right now, your biggest cardiac risk factor is your own stress and anxiety.”

He thought for a while, then seemed to relax and said “OK, that makes sense”.

I continued to see him every three months to monitor his progress, and he seemed to be more and more solid in his belief that he was doing everything he could to lower his heart attack risk. He seemed to enjoy life, and was an absolute rock when his wife, Donna, had a stroke.

Then, one day about a year ago, Stephen ended up in the emergency room with chest pain. His EKG was normal and his blood work didn’t show any sign of damage to his heart. I saw him in follow-up and ordered a nuclear stress test, which was normal.

From then on, Stephen’s anxiety was back. He often experienced chest pain when he got upset or when he couldn’t fall asleep at night, but never with physical exertion. I broached the subject of doing something more for his anxiety, but he said no, adding “I think my heart is starting to act up, it’s just not showing in the tests yet”.

All the courage he had gained and been able to maintain over the last ten years had suddenly escaped him, and he became more and more convinced that the good health he had enjoyed was sure to come to a cruel end at any moment. Unlike ten years ago, nothing I said made a difference this time.

I kept wondering, had I failed to reassure him, or was his fear and anxiety so deep, so miasmic, that he couldn’t be helped?

Shortly thereafter Stephen transferred his care to a doctor in the next town.

The other day I happened to see his sister, Gertrude. She told me Stephen was on all new medications and had to see Dr. Grimes for follow-ups at least every month because he was at such high risk for having a heart attack. Stephen never did anything without checking in with Dr. Grimes. In fact, she added, Dr. Grimes considered her brother to be “a walking time bomb”.

“Cure Sometimes, Treat Often, Comfort Always”

In my forays into the history of medicine I came across these six little words by Hippocrates. They seem strangely modern, almost like something you might find on a Hallmark-card for today’s medical school graduates. I don’t know how old the translation is and I couldn’t understand the original text if I tried – but these simple words really touched me when I first read them.

In Family Medicine we don’t often cure our patients’ diseases. Many of the things we think of as medical cures are possibly only spontaneous recoveries from ear infections, pneumonias, strep infections, indigestion and acne.

Mostly we treat chronic conditions in hopes of mitigating their effects on our patients’ vital organs – eye, kidney and nerve damage in diabetes or strokes and heart attacks in patients with elevated blood pressure and cholesterol. Sometimes we only treat the symptoms – pain from degenerative arthritis or cough, congestion and shortness of breath from chronic lung disease.

The one thing physicians always can and should do is the thing we may be inclined to forget when the everyday frustrations of modern medicine make us watch the clock, the reimbursement schedule or any one of the distractions that get in the way of real doctoring:

Comfort and hope should be offered to every patient, every fellow human being, in every encounter. We must never lose sight of the power we have in changing our patients’ perceptions and expectations of their diseases.

In Hippocrates’ era, doctors believed that patients had a natural ability to overcome disease. Medical treatments were meant to support the natural healing processes. Hippocrates is said to have written:

“Natural forces within us are the true healers of disease”.

How ironic that twenty-five centuries later we are re-discovering and proving, through the modern science of neuroimmunology, that patients’ frame of mind and perception of their disease predict their treatment success and cure rate more than many of the technical details of their condition or its treatment.

When we comfort a patient, we may be doing more than consoling him or her. We may be stimulating the patient’s immune system to overcome disease and return the body to a healthful balance.

We used to call that the Placebo Effect.

Shooting From The Hip

“Doctor Pete” was fifty-one when I started my residency in Family Medicine. “Family Practice” we called it then, and I think I liked that name of our specialty better. It implies continued learning and brings to my mind visions of practicing a down-to-earth craft.

I had interviewed with his predecessor the summer before and was really impressed with him and the program. I ranked it as my first choice in the match. Fortunately, they ranked me number one or two, so I was accepted, even though I may have seemed like a wild card as their first foreign-trained physician.

In the spring, a few months before I was due to move from Sweden to the United States, I got a letter in the mail with the news that the residency director was moving on after getting the program off the ground. “Doctor Pete”, his Associate Director, would be taking over. He assured me that things would continue the way they were and hoped to get to know me soon.

“Doctor Pete” was a congenial, relaxed yet energetic man with strong, hairy arms, weather-beaten cheeks and a Midwestern accent. He exuded confidence and common sense. He was one of the first Board Certified Family Practitioners in our state, and he had been chief of Family Practice, Obstetrics and Coronary Care at a small hospital a hundred miles away before joining the residency program three years before my arrival.

He spoke from experience. If he hadn’t seen it, he had at least seen something pretty close, and he always knew what to do. He was always ready to help you out, not by taking over, but by nudging you in the right direction. His pride when you mastered a difficult new situation was like a father’s pride. He had raised five adopted children, and you were just one more – that’s how it felt.

I remember a session when we had to give feedback to the faculty of our residency program. I told “Doctor Pete” that even though I really admired his experience and clinical skills, I sometimes wished he would back up his answers to some of my questions with more scientific literature. I thought he had a tendency to make things seem a little too simple sometimes. With his slight drawl, I thought of him as slightly cowboy-ish, and I remember describing his style as sometimes “shooting from the hip”.

I don’t remember his response, but I remember my critique seemed to roll off him. We continued to enjoy the most powerful mentoring relationship I ever had in my training.

I am now older than “Doctor Pete” was the day he grabbed and shook my hand at our graduation ceremony. I remember he slapped my back and made some wisecrack in his raspy voice as if trying not to get too sentimental.

I find myself quoting more scientific articles when I talk with patients or younger colleagues than “Doctor Pete” used to, but not always. When the chips are down and something needs to be done fast and without dilly-dallying or when I feel a little stuck and the details of a case don’t fit together quite the way they ought to, I have this tendency to just follow my instinct. Don’t ask me how I get to my decision in those situations. I could justify things afterwards, but I have to admit it: There are times when I seem to hit the bull’s-eye just shooting from the hip.

Just like you, “Doctor Pete”!

(In Memoriam WRP, MD, 1930-2008)

The Minimum Effective Dose

“I think I’ve tried every medication there is for my OCD”, Debbie Kurbitz said as she pulled out a large notebook from her canvas bag. “I’ve had reactions to all of them.”

Her record keeping was consistent with her diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Listed on the pages of her notebook were the doctors she had seen, all the usual medications in our armamentarium they had prescribed and the particular side effects each drug had caused.

I already knew Debbie truly needed something done. She was struggling with rituals like counting everyday objects, words and even the steps she took.

It was clear that Debbie hadn’t done well with SSRI’s, the serotonin reuptake inhibitors we typically use for OCD. She had listed all the side effects I could think of off the top of my head. I concluded she must be very sensitive to these medications

“What doses of these did you try?”

She hadn’t listed the doses she had taken, but her recall was impeccable.

I looked at her list for a few moments before I spoke again.

“I think you might be helped by any one of these drugs, but in much lower doses than you tried before.”

“How much lower?”

“Well, I think Lexapro, escitalopram, would be worth trying again, but I would prescribe the liquid form and start you off with one milligram per day instead of ten, which is what you started with and didn’t tolerate.”

She raised her red eyebrows and put her chin in her hands.

“Take one milligram per day for three or four days. Then, if you don’t feel nauseous at all, go to two milligrams. If that agrees with you, go to three milligrams, but if you are the least bit nauseous, stay with that dose until you feel OK. Work your way up to no more than five milligram per day, and I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“OK…”, she said, but her green eyes almost seemed to roll back in disbelief.

Two weeks later those same green eyes were sparkling under her bushy red hair and eyebrows.

“I feel fine. Not a speck of stomach upset, and I’m not counting anymore!”

I smiled.

“How did you know this would work, or did you just guess?”

“I’ve been around. There are serotonin receptors in the stomach and they make you nauseous the first week on an SSRI like Lexapro. If you can get beyond the first week, you generally don’t have to worry about nausea unless you increase the dose.”

“But I only needed five milligrams…”

“Well, Lexapro has what we call a flat dose-response curve. Many people have the same effect from five as from twenty milligrams, just fewer side effects.”

“So a lot of people are taking higher doses than they need?”

“Possibly. When new drugs are introduced, the drug companies often look for a dose that is effective for the largest possible number of patients. Not everybody has serotonin receptors in their stomachs and brains as sensitive as yours. I suppose if you started everybody off at a very low dose, many people would get impatient and draw the conclusion that the drug wasn’t working and the drug company would lose a sale.”

“I can’t thank you enough. Now, do I still need to see the counselor you talked about?”

“I still think it would be worth your while.”

(The concept of prescribing the minimum effective dose goes back to Greek medicine, including Hippocrates. Many have interpreted his “First, do no harm” as a warning not to be heavy handed with medications.)

“Would You Take Me Back?”

Eleanor Burrill reminded me Friday that she turns 90 next month. She has been a patient here as long as I remember, even though she lives in the next town and has to drive 20 miles to get here. We see her once a month or more, because she has to get her bloodwork done to regulate her blood thinner.

She has always been an inspiration because of her vivid intellect and never-ceasing curiosity about how things work, not just her blood sugar, pulse and blood pressure, which she diligently records every day in her monthly planner. Eleanor has a hunger for knowledge and even surfs the Internet. There, she also keeps in contact with her great-grandchildren.

She has always maintained a dignity and a certain distance. I have always thought of her as quite a lady.

She looked serious this time, and after we had taken care of her prescriptions, she told me:

“You know I’ll be ninety next month. I’m afraid I might be getting too old to be driving through moose country to come and see you, especially with winter coming…”

“I can understand that.”

“So I have made an appointment to see the new doctor at Tall Pines Medical Group at the end of next month. Believe me, it was not an easy decision, but I know it’s time. I wish you were closer.”

“You know, I think that’s a wise decision. It will be so much more convenient for you.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You have been so good to me.”

“I don’t take this personally at all. You need to be practical and do what works best for you. I hope it works out well for you.”

We both got up from our chairs and shook hands. As I opened the exam room door for her and stepped aside to let her leave the room first, she turned back towards me.

“Thank you. I have a question, though.”

“Yes?”

“If I don’t feel comfortable with Dr. Selig, would you consider taking me back?”

“Of course I would!”

She smiled, turned away and made her way down the hall.

I should have hugged her.


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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