Allan M. Block, MD

At the end of March, in an anniversary no one but I noticed, I passed 4 years since I’d last rounded at the hospital.

It’s hard to comprehend that. I was at the hospital regularly for the first 22 years of my career, though admittedly it had dwindled from daily (1998-2011) to 1-2 weekends a month at the end.

Looking back, I still don’t miss it, and have no desire to go back. That’s not to say I don’t keep up on inpatient neurology, in case circumstances change, but at this point, honestly, I don’t want to. I’ve become accustomed to my non-hospital world, no late-night consults, no weekends spent rounding, no taking separate cars to restaurants or family events in case I get called in.

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

At the end of March, in an anniversary no one but I noticed, I passed 4 years since I’d last rounded at the hospital.

It’s hard to comprehend that. I was at the hospital regularly for the first 22 years of my career, though admittedly it had dwindled from daily (1998-2011) to 1-2 weekends a month at the end.

Looking back, I still don’t miss it, and have no desire to go back. That’s not to say I don’t keep up on inpatient neurology, in case circumstances change, but at this point, honestly, I don’t want to. I’ve become accustomed to my non-hospital world, no late-night consults, no weekends spent rounding, no taking separate cars to restaurants or family events in case I get called in.

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

At the end of March, in an anniversary no one but I noticed, I passed 4 years since I’d last rounded at the hospital.

It’s hard to comprehend that. I was at the hospital regularly for the first 22 years of my career, though admittedly it had dwindled from daily (1998-2011) to 1-2 weekends a month at the end.

Looking back, I still don’t miss it, and have no desire to go back. That’s not to say I don’t keep up on inpatient neurology, in case circumstances change, but at this point, honestly, I don’t want to. I’ve become accustomed to my non-hospital world, no late-night consults, no weekends spent rounding, no taking separate cars to restaurants or family events in case I get called in.

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

Depression is a serious issue. I want to say that off the top, because nothing below is intended to minimize it.

But does everyone need to be tested for it?

A lot of general practices test for it with every patient and every visit. After all, mandates say you have to or you’ll get penalized a few bucks. Since no one wants to leave any money on the table in the razor-thin margins of running a medical practice, they ask these questions (I don’t blame them for that).

I can see where this might be useful, but does it really do much? Or is it just a mandatory waste of time?

Good question.

A recent review by the American College of Physicians found it was mostly a waste of time (which surprises no one). Only one of the eight measures involved in depression screening (suicide risk assessment) turned out to be useful. So, basically, 88% of the time spent on these questions contributed absolutely nothing of clinical relevance.

Of course, this isn’t unique to family medicine. Every time I see a Medicare or Medicare Advantage patient I have to document whether they’ve had flu and pneumonia vaccines. While there are occasional cases where asking about recent vaccines is critical to the history, for most it’s not. But I do it so I don’t get penalized, even though the answer changes nothing. It’s not like I give vaccines in my practice.

A fair number of people come to me for hospital follow-ups, so I go into the system and review the chart. The notes inevitably contain questions of sexual activity, fear of violence, fear of domestic abuse, food security, recent travel patterns, and so on. Some of them are useful in certain situations, but not in all, or even most. All they do is increase the length of the note until anything of relevance is obscured, and allow someone in coding to check the boxes to raise the billing level. Realistically, the ER staff involved probably didn’t ask any of them, and just clicked “no.”

Once this probably seemed like a good idea, but clearly most of it is now a waste of time. These “quality measures” have turned the art of taking a good history into a session of mouse and box clicking.

Does that really improve care?
 

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

Depression is a serious issue. I want to say that off the top, because nothing below is intended to minimize it.

But does everyone need to be tested for it?

A lot of general practices test for it with every patient and every visit. After all, mandates say you have to or you’ll get penalized a few bucks. Since no one wants to leave any money on the table in the razor-thin margins of running a medical practice, they ask these questions (I don’t blame them for that).

I can see where this might be useful, but does it really do much? Or is it just a mandatory waste of time?

Good question.

A recent review by the American College of Physicians found it was mostly a waste of time (which surprises no one). Only one of the eight measures involved in depression screening (suicide risk assessment) turned out to be useful. So, basically, 88% of the time spent on these questions contributed absolutely nothing of clinical relevance.

Of course, this isn’t unique to family medicine. Every time I see a Medicare or Medicare Advantage patient I have to document whether they’ve had flu and pneumonia vaccines. While there are occasional cases where asking about recent vaccines is critical to the history, for most it’s not. But I do it so I don’t get penalized, even though the answer changes nothing. It’s not like I give vaccines in my practice.

A fair number of people come to me for hospital follow-ups, so I go into the system and review the chart. The notes inevitably contain questions of sexual activity, fear of violence, fear of domestic abuse, food security, recent travel patterns, and so on. Some of them are useful in certain situations, but not in all, or even most. All they do is increase the length of the note until anything of relevance is obscured, and allow someone in coding to check the boxes to raise the billing level. Realistically, the ER staff involved probably didn’t ask any of them, and just clicked “no.”

Once this probably seemed like a good idea, but clearly most of it is now a waste of time. These “quality measures” have turned the art of taking a good history into a session of mouse and box clicking.

Does that really improve care?
 

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

Depression is a serious issue. I want to say that off the top, because nothing below is intended to minimize it.

But does everyone need to be tested for it?

A lot of general practices test for it with every patient and every visit. After all, mandates say you have to or you’ll get penalized a few bucks. Since no one wants to leave any money on the table in the razor-thin margins of running a medical practice, they ask these questions (I don’t blame them for that).

I can see where this might be useful, but does it really do much? Or is it just a mandatory waste of time?

Good question.

A recent review by the American College of Physicians found it was mostly a waste of time (which surprises no one). Only one of the eight measures involved in depression screening (suicide risk assessment) turned out to be useful. So, basically, 88% of the time spent on these questions contributed absolutely nothing of clinical relevance.

Of course, this isn’t unique to family medicine. Every time I see a Medicare or Medicare Advantage patient I have to document whether they’ve had flu and pneumonia vaccines. While there are occasional cases where asking about recent vaccines is critical to the history, for most it’s not. But I do it so I don’t get penalized, even though the answer changes nothing. It’s not like I give vaccines in my practice.

A fair number of people come to me for hospital follow-ups, so I go into the system and review the chart. The notes inevitably contain questions of sexual activity, fear of violence, fear of domestic abuse, food security, recent travel patterns, and so on. Some of them are useful in certain situations, but not in all, or even most. All they do is increase the length of the note until anything of relevance is obscured, and allow someone in coding to check the boxes to raise the billing level. Realistically, the ER staff involved probably didn’t ask any of them, and just clicked “no.”

Once this probably seemed like a good idea, but clearly most of it is now a waste of time. These “quality measures” have turned the art of taking a good history into a session of mouse and box clicking.

Does that really improve care?
 

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

Once upon a time, treating multiple sclerosis (MS) was easy — steroids.

Then, in the 1990s, came Betaseron, then Avonex, then Copaxone. Suddenly we had three options to choose from, though overall roughly similar in efficacy (yeah, I’m leaving Novantrone out; it’s a niche drug). Treatment required some decision making, though not a huge amount. I usually laid out the different schedules and side effect to patients and let them decide.

MS treatment was uncomplicated enough that I knew family doctors who treated MS patients on their own, and I can’t say I could have done any better. If you’ve got a clear MRI, then prescribe Betaseron and hope.

Then came Rebif, then Tysabri, and then pretty much an explosion of new drugs which hasn’t slowed down. Next up are the BTK agents. An embarrassment of riches, though for patients, their families, and neurologists, a very welcome one.

But as more drugs come out, with different mechanisms of action and monitoring requirements, the treatment of MS becomes more complicated, slowly moving from the realm of a general neurologist to an MS subspecialist.

At some point it raises the question of when does a disease become its own specialty? Perhaps this is a bit of hyperbole — I’m pretty sure I’ll be seeing MS patients for a long time to come — but it’s a valid point. Especially as further research may subdivide MS treatment by genetics and other breakdowns.

Alzheimer’s disease may follow a similar (albeit very welcome) trajectory. While nothing really game-changing has come out in the 20 years, the number of new drugs and different mechanisms of action in development is large. Granted, not all of them will work, but hopefully some will. At some point it may come down to treating patients with a cocktail of drugs with separate ways of managing the disease, with guidance based on genetic or clinical profiles.

And that’s a good thing, but it may, again, move the disease from the province of general neurologists to subspecialists. Maybe that would be a good, maybe not. Probably will depend on the patient, their families, and other factors.

Of course, I may be overthinking this. The number of drugs we have for MS is nothing compared with the available treatments we have for hypertension, yet it’s certainly well within the capabilities of most internists to treat without referring to a cardiologist or nephrologist.

Perhaps the new drugs won’t make a difference except in a handful of cases. As new drugs come out we also move on from the old ones, dropping them from our mental armamentarium except in rare cases. When was the last time you prescribed Betaseron?

These drugs are very welcome, and very needed. I will be happy if we can beat back some of the diseases neurologist see, regardless of whom the patients and up seeing.
 

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

Once upon a time, treating multiple sclerosis (MS) was easy — steroids.

Then, in the 1990s, came Betaseron, then Avonex, then Copaxone. Suddenly we had three options to choose from, though overall roughly similar in efficacy (yeah, I’m leaving Novantrone out; it’s a niche drug). Treatment required some decision making, though not a huge amount. I usually laid out the different schedules and side effect to patients and let them decide.

MS treatment was uncomplicated enough that I knew family doctors who treated MS patients on their own, and I can’t say I could have done any better. If you’ve got a clear MRI, then prescribe Betaseron and hope.

Then came Rebif, then Tysabri, and then pretty much an explosion of new drugs which hasn’t slowed down. Next up are the BTK agents. An embarrassment of riches, though for patients, their families, and neurologists, a very welcome one.

But as more drugs come out, with different mechanisms of action and monitoring requirements, the treatment of MS becomes more complicated, slowly moving from the realm of a general neurologist to an MS subspecialist.

At some point it raises the question of when does a disease become its own specialty? Perhaps this is a bit of hyperbole — I’m pretty sure I’ll be seeing MS patients for a long time to come — but it’s a valid point. Especially as further research may subdivide MS treatment by genetics and other breakdowns.

Alzheimer’s disease may follow a similar (albeit very welcome) trajectory. While nothing really game-changing has come out in the 20 years, the number of new drugs and different mechanisms of action in development is large. Granted, not all of them will work, but hopefully some will. At some point it may come down to treating patients with a cocktail of drugs with separate ways of managing the disease, with guidance based on genetic or clinical profiles.

And that’s a good thing, but it may, again, move the disease from the province of general neurologists to subspecialists. Maybe that would be a good, maybe not. Probably will depend on the patient, their families, and other factors.

Of course, I may be overthinking this. The number of drugs we have for MS is nothing compared with the available treatments we have for hypertension, yet it’s certainly well within the capabilities of most internists to treat without referring to a cardiologist or nephrologist.

Perhaps the new drugs won’t make a difference except in a handful of cases. As new drugs come out we also move on from the old ones, dropping them from our mental armamentarium except in rare cases. When was the last time you prescribed Betaseron?

These drugs are very welcome, and very needed. I will be happy if we can beat back some of the diseases neurologist see, regardless of whom the patients and up seeing.
 

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

Once upon a time, treating multiple sclerosis (MS) was easy — steroids.

Then, in the 1990s, came Betaseron, then Avonex, then Copaxone. Suddenly we had three options to choose from, though overall roughly similar in efficacy (yeah, I’m leaving Novantrone out; it’s a niche drug). Treatment required some decision making, though not a huge amount. I usually laid out the different schedules and side effect to patients and let them decide.

MS treatment was uncomplicated enough that I knew family doctors who treated MS patients on their own, and I can’t say I could have done any better. If you’ve got a clear MRI, then prescribe Betaseron and hope.

Then came Rebif, then Tysabri, and then pretty much an explosion of new drugs which hasn’t slowed down. Next up are the BTK agents. An embarrassment of riches, though for patients, their families, and neurologists, a very welcome one.

But as more drugs come out, with different mechanisms of action and monitoring requirements, the treatment of MS becomes more complicated, slowly moving from the realm of a general neurologist to an MS subspecialist.

At some point it raises the question of when does a disease become its own specialty? Perhaps this is a bit of hyperbole — I’m pretty sure I’ll be seeing MS patients for a long time to come — but it’s a valid point. Especially as further research may subdivide MS treatment by genetics and other breakdowns.

Alzheimer’s disease may follow a similar (albeit very welcome) trajectory. While nothing really game-changing has come out in the 20 years, the number of new drugs and different mechanisms of action in development is large. Granted, not all of them will work, but hopefully some will. At some point it may come down to treating patients with a cocktail of drugs with separate ways of managing the disease, with guidance based on genetic or clinical profiles.

And that’s a good thing, but it may, again, move the disease from the province of general neurologists to subspecialists. Maybe that would be a good, maybe not. Probably will depend on the patient, their families, and other factors.

Of course, I may be overthinking this. The number of drugs we have for MS is nothing compared with the available treatments we have for hypertension, yet it’s certainly well within the capabilities of most internists to treat without referring to a cardiologist or nephrologist.

Perhaps the new drugs won’t make a difference except in a handful of cases. As new drugs come out we also move on from the old ones, dropping them from our mental armamentarium except in rare cases. When was the last time you prescribed Betaseron?

These drugs are very welcome, and very needed. I will be happy if we can beat back some of the diseases neurologist see, regardless of whom the patients and up seeing.
 

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

An article in the March 20 JAMA Network Open looked into the use of AI for responding to patient emails. Basically, they found that this led to a reduction in physician burden, but didn’t save any time.

1. Not sure that’s worth the trouble.

2. Unless the AI is simply responding with something like “message received, thank you” I don’t think this is a good idea.

Yeah, we’re all stretched for time, I understand that. From the starting gun each morning we’re racing between patients, phone calls, incoming test results, staff questions, drug reps, sample closets, dictations, and a million other things.

But AI needs to be a lot better before I let it handle patient questions and concerns.

Someday, yeah, maybe it can do this, like 2-1B, the surgical droid that replaced Luke’s hand in “The Empire Strikes Back.” But we’re not even close to that. Just because a log-in screen says “Jumping to Hyperspace” doesn’t mean you’re on the Millennium Falcon.

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

An article in the March 20 JAMA Network Open looked into the use of AI for responding to patient emails. Basically, they found that this led to a reduction in physician burden, but didn’t save any time.

1. Not sure that’s worth the trouble.

2. Unless the AI is simply responding with something like “message received, thank you” I don’t think this is a good idea.

Yeah, we’re all stretched for time, I understand that. From the starting gun each morning we’re racing between patients, phone calls, incoming test results, staff questions, drug reps, sample closets, dictations, and a million other things.

But AI needs to be a lot better before I let it handle patient questions and concerns.

Someday, yeah, maybe it can do this, like 2-1B, the surgical droid that replaced Luke’s hand in “The Empire Strikes Back.” But we’re not even close to that. Just because a log-in screen says “Jumping to Hyperspace” doesn’t mean you’re on the Millennium Falcon.

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

An article in the March 20 JAMA Network Open looked into the use of AI for responding to patient emails. Basically, they found that this led to a reduction in physician burden, but didn’t save any time.

1. Not sure that’s worth the trouble.

2. Unless the AI is simply responding with something like “message received, thank you” I don’t think this is a good idea.

Yeah, we’re all stretched for time, I understand that. From the starting gun each morning we’re racing between patients, phone calls, incoming test results, staff questions, drug reps, sample closets, dictations, and a million other things.

But AI needs to be a lot better before I let it handle patient questions and concerns.

Someday, yeah, maybe it can do this, like 2-1B, the surgical droid that replaced Luke’s hand in “The Empire Strikes Back.” But we’re not even close to that. Just because a log-in screen says “Jumping to Hyperspace” doesn’t mean you’re on the Millennium Falcon.

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

Recently, Acadia Pharmaceuticals announced it was stopping trials on Nuplazid for indications outside of Parkinson’s disease psychosis.

I was impressed with what I saw in my office. Although I know there’s some controversy over the drug, the majority of studies do show efficacy, and in my little practice I clearly noticed improvements in patients with Parkinson’s disease who’d previously failed the more standard agents (note - I have no financial affiliation with Acadia Pharmaceuticals).

So, as a lay-neurologist, I expected the drug to work for other kinds of psychosis, particularly Alzheimer’s disease. All of us in practice know how much we need new options for that.

But when the clinical trials came, the drug didn’t work. It didn’t work for schizophrenia, either, Finally, Acadia threw in the towel and gave up.

I have no idea what happened. I’m sure others are wondering the same thing. On paper, I’d have thought it would work for Alzheimer’s psychosis, but in the real world it didn’t.

Is psychosis between the two disorders that different, with different neurotransmitter causes? Are the benefits in my patients with Parkinson’s disease really just from my own selection bias? Or is there just a lot we still don’t know?

Medicine, unfortunately, is littered with ideas that should have worked, but either didn’t, or at least aren’t as good as we thought they should have been. Look at the graveyard full of amyloid-targeting drugs. Yeah, I know Leqembi is out there, and donanemab is in the wings, but are they anywhere near as good as we thought they’d be? Not at all.

At the same time, we’ve been waiting for the BTK drugs (not to be confused with a Korean pop band) for multiple sclerosis. They sounded like they were the Next Big Thing.

They may be, but recent data on one of them, evobrutinib, was less than encouraging. Of course, that shouldn’t extrapolate to the group as a whole, but it does leave you wondering why.

Medicine is always improving, but it’s also still a trial-and-error process. Just because something should work doesn’t mean it will, and it may be years before we know why.

It’s just a reminder that, here in 2024, we still have a lot to learn.
 

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

Recently, Acadia Pharmaceuticals announced it was stopping trials on Nuplazid for indications outside of Parkinson’s disease psychosis.

I was impressed with what I saw in my office. Although I know there’s some controversy over the drug, the majority of studies do show efficacy, and in my little practice I clearly noticed improvements in patients with Parkinson’s disease who’d previously failed the more standard agents (note - I have no financial affiliation with Acadia Pharmaceuticals).

So, as a lay-neurologist, I expected the drug to work for other kinds of psychosis, particularly Alzheimer’s disease. All of us in practice know how much we need new options for that.

But when the clinical trials came, the drug didn’t work. It didn’t work for schizophrenia, either, Finally, Acadia threw in the towel and gave up.

I have no idea what happened. I’m sure others are wondering the same thing. On paper, I’d have thought it would work for Alzheimer’s psychosis, but in the real world it didn’t.

Is psychosis between the two disorders that different, with different neurotransmitter causes? Are the benefits in my patients with Parkinson’s disease really just from my own selection bias? Or is there just a lot we still don’t know?

Medicine, unfortunately, is littered with ideas that should have worked, but either didn’t, or at least aren’t as good as we thought they should have been. Look at the graveyard full of amyloid-targeting drugs. Yeah, I know Leqembi is out there, and donanemab is in the wings, but are they anywhere near as good as we thought they’d be? Not at all.

At the same time, we’ve been waiting for the BTK drugs (not to be confused with a Korean pop band) for multiple sclerosis. They sounded like they were the Next Big Thing.

They may be, but recent data on one of them, evobrutinib, was less than encouraging. Of course, that shouldn’t extrapolate to the group as a whole, but it does leave you wondering why.

Medicine is always improving, but it’s also still a trial-and-error process. Just because something should work doesn’t mean it will, and it may be years before we know why.

It’s just a reminder that, here in 2024, we still have a lot to learn.
 

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

Recently, Acadia Pharmaceuticals announced it was stopping trials on Nuplazid for indications outside of Parkinson’s disease psychosis.

I was impressed with what I saw in my office. Although I know there’s some controversy over the drug, the majority of studies do show efficacy, and in my little practice I clearly noticed improvements in patients with Parkinson’s disease who’d previously failed the more standard agents (note - I have no financial affiliation with Acadia Pharmaceuticals).

So, as a lay-neurologist, I expected the drug to work for other kinds of psychosis, particularly Alzheimer’s disease. All of us in practice know how much we need new options for that.

But when the clinical trials came, the drug didn’t work. It didn’t work for schizophrenia, either, Finally, Acadia threw in the towel and gave up.

I have no idea what happened. I’m sure others are wondering the same thing. On paper, I’d have thought it would work for Alzheimer’s psychosis, but in the real world it didn’t.

Is psychosis between the two disorders that different, with different neurotransmitter causes? Are the benefits in my patients with Parkinson’s disease really just from my own selection bias? Or is there just a lot we still don’t know?

Medicine, unfortunately, is littered with ideas that should have worked, but either didn’t, or at least aren’t as good as we thought they should have been. Look at the graveyard full of amyloid-targeting drugs. Yeah, I know Leqembi is out there, and donanemab is in the wings, but are they anywhere near as good as we thought they’d be? Not at all.

At the same time, we’ve been waiting for the BTK drugs (not to be confused with a Korean pop band) for multiple sclerosis. They sounded like they were the Next Big Thing.

They may be, but recent data on one of them, evobrutinib, was less than encouraging. Of course, that shouldn’t extrapolate to the group as a whole, but it does leave you wondering why.

Medicine is always improving, but it’s also still a trial-and-error process. Just because something should work doesn’t mean it will, and it may be years before we know why.

It’s just a reminder that, here in 2024, we still have a lot to learn.
 

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

I had a premed college student with me, a young lady trying to figure out if medicine was for her, and what exactly a neurologist does.

The patient, a gentlemen in his mid-70s, had just left. He had some unusual symptoms. Not implausible, but the kind of case where the answers don’t come together easily. I’d ordered tests for the usual suspects and walked him up front.

When I got back she asked me “what do you think is wrong with him?”

Without thinking I said “I have no idea.” By this time I’d turned to some scheduling messages from my secretary, and didn’t register the student’s surprise for a moment.

I mean, I’m an attending physician. To her I’m the epitome of the career. I got accepted to (and survived) medical school. I made it through residency and fellowship and have almost 26 years of trench-earned experience behind me (hard to believe for me, too, sometimes). And yet I’d just said I didn’t know what was going on.

Reversing the roles and thinking back to the late 1980s, I probably would have felt the same way she did.

Of course “I have no idea” is a bit of unintentional hyperbole. I have some idea, just not a clear answer yet. I’d turned over the possible locations and causes, and so ordered tests to help narrow it down. As one of my attendings in residency used to say, “some days you need a rifle, some days a shotgun” to figure it out.

Being a doctor, even a good one (I hope I am, but not making any guarantees) doesn’t mean you know everything, or have the ability to figure it out immediately. Otherwise we wouldn’t need imaging, labs, and a host of other tests. Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things, but Watson was the doctor.

To those at the beginning of their careers, just like it was to us then, this is a revelation. Aren’t we supposed to know everything? We probably once believed we would, too, someday.

What we learn through training and years of experience isn’t so much the answers to everything as much as the road map on how to get there. What combination of tests and decisions will hopefully lead us to the correct point.

Most of us realize that intuitively at this point, but it can be hard to explain to others. We have patients ask “what do you think is going on?” and we often have no answer other than “not sure yet, but I’ll try to find out.”

We don’t realize how far we’ve come until we see ourselves in someone who’s starting the same journey. And that’s something you can’t teach.

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

I had a premed college student with me, a young lady trying to figure out if medicine was for her, and what exactly a neurologist does.

The patient, a gentlemen in his mid-70s, had just left. He had some unusual symptoms. Not implausible, but the kind of case where the answers don’t come together easily. I’d ordered tests for the usual suspects and walked him up front.

When I got back she asked me “what do you think is wrong with him?”

Without thinking I said “I have no idea.” By this time I’d turned to some scheduling messages from my secretary, and didn’t register the student’s surprise for a moment.

I mean, I’m an attending physician. To her I’m the epitome of the career. I got accepted to (and survived) medical school. I made it through residency and fellowship and have almost 26 years of trench-earned experience behind me (hard to believe for me, too, sometimes). And yet I’d just said I didn’t know what was going on.

Reversing the roles and thinking back to the late 1980s, I probably would have felt the same way she did.

Of course “I have no idea” is a bit of unintentional hyperbole. I have some idea, just not a clear answer yet. I’d turned over the possible locations and causes, and so ordered tests to help narrow it down. As one of my attendings in residency used to say, “some days you need a rifle, some days a shotgun” to figure it out.

Being a doctor, even a good one (I hope I am, but not making any guarantees) doesn’t mean you know everything, or have the ability to figure it out immediately. Otherwise we wouldn’t need imaging, labs, and a host of other tests. Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things, but Watson was the doctor.

To those at the beginning of their careers, just like it was to us then, this is a revelation. Aren’t we supposed to know everything? We probably once believed we would, too, someday.

What we learn through training and years of experience isn’t so much the answers to everything as much as the road map on how to get there. What combination of tests and decisions will hopefully lead us to the correct point.

Most of us realize that intuitively at this point, but it can be hard to explain to others. We have patients ask “what do you think is going on?” and we often have no answer other than “not sure yet, but I’ll try to find out.”

We don’t realize how far we’ve come until we see ourselves in someone who’s starting the same journey. And that’s something you can’t teach.

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

I had a premed college student with me, a young lady trying to figure out if medicine was for her, and what exactly a neurologist does.

The patient, a gentlemen in his mid-70s, had just left. He had some unusual symptoms. Not implausible, but the kind of case where the answers don’t come together easily. I’d ordered tests for the usual suspects and walked him up front.

When I got back she asked me “what do you think is wrong with him?”

Without thinking I said “I have no idea.” By this time I’d turned to some scheduling messages from my secretary, and didn’t register the student’s surprise for a moment.

I mean, I’m an attending physician. To her I’m the epitome of the career. I got accepted to (and survived) medical school. I made it through residency and fellowship and have almost 26 years of trench-earned experience behind me (hard to believe for me, too, sometimes). And yet I’d just said I didn’t know what was going on.

Reversing the roles and thinking back to the late 1980s, I probably would have felt the same way she did.

Of course “I have no idea” is a bit of unintentional hyperbole. I have some idea, just not a clear answer yet. I’d turned over the possible locations and causes, and so ordered tests to help narrow it down. As one of my attendings in residency used to say, “some days you need a rifle, some days a shotgun” to figure it out.

Being a doctor, even a good one (I hope I am, but not making any guarantees) doesn’t mean you know everything, or have the ability to figure it out immediately. Otherwise we wouldn’t need imaging, labs, and a host of other tests. Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things, but Watson was the doctor.

To those at the beginning of their careers, just like it was to us then, this is a revelation. Aren’t we supposed to know everything? We probably once believed we would, too, someday.

What we learn through training and years of experience isn’t so much the answers to everything as much as the road map on how to get there. What combination of tests and decisions will hopefully lead us to the correct point.

Most of us realize that intuitively at this point, but it can be hard to explain to others. We have patients ask “what do you think is going on?” and we often have no answer other than “not sure yet, but I’ll try to find out.”

We don’t realize how far we’ve come until we see ourselves in someone who’s starting the same journey. And that’s something you can’t teach.

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

We toss the word “miracle” around a lot — the ’69 Mets; the 1980 U.S. mens hockey team; Charlton Heston scowling into the wind, parting the waters of the Red Sea (or at least a Hollywood backlot).

We especially like to use it for medications, as in “miracle drug.”

Those of us who do this long enough know there ain’t no such thing, but the term keeps coming up — aspirin, penicillin, Botox ...

Recently, the popular press has hung the moniker on the GLP-1 drugs, like Ozempic, as “miracles.” While certainly useful, most of this comes from the drug’s reputation as the American dream of something that causes weight loss without the bother of diet and exercise. Of course, it’s also useful for diabetes, and is being investigated for numerous other conditions.

But the real truth is that it’s not a miracle (in fairness, none of the manufacturers of these drugs are making such a ridiculous claim). Nothing is. The word is tossed around for so many things that it’s almost become meaningless.

This isn’t a knock on the GLP-1 agents as much as it’s how people are. We want to be believe something will cure whatever ails us without side effects or other fuss. Of course, such a drug will never exist, in spite of all the claims on various Internet sites about miracle cures that Big Medicine is hiding from the public.

People are similar, but not the same, and too heterogeneous to know which drug will work/not work or cause a given side effect. We all deal with the uncertainties of medicine being a trial and error process. We try our best to communicate this to people, with varying degrees of success.

Unfortunately, human nature is such that we often hear only what we want to hear. You can run down the whole list of concerns, but some people stopped paying attention when they heard “weight loss” or “migraine relief” or whatever. Every physician ever has had to deal with this, as will those who follow us.

Medicine changes. People ... not so much.
 

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

We toss the word “miracle” around a lot — the ’69 Mets; the 1980 U.S. mens hockey team; Charlton Heston scowling into the wind, parting the waters of the Red Sea (or at least a Hollywood backlot).

We especially like to use it for medications, as in “miracle drug.”

Those of us who do this long enough know there ain’t no such thing, but the term keeps coming up — aspirin, penicillin, Botox ...

Recently, the popular press has hung the moniker on the GLP-1 drugs, like Ozempic, as “miracles.” While certainly useful, most of this comes from the drug’s reputation as the American dream of something that causes weight loss without the bother of diet and exercise. Of course, it’s also useful for diabetes, and is being investigated for numerous other conditions.

But the real truth is that it’s not a miracle (in fairness, none of the manufacturers of these drugs are making such a ridiculous claim). Nothing is. The word is tossed around for so many things that it’s almost become meaningless.

This isn’t a knock on the GLP-1 agents as much as it’s how people are. We want to be believe something will cure whatever ails us without side effects or other fuss. Of course, such a drug will never exist, in spite of all the claims on various Internet sites about miracle cures that Big Medicine is hiding from the public.

People are similar, but not the same, and too heterogeneous to know which drug will work/not work or cause a given side effect. We all deal with the uncertainties of medicine being a trial and error process. We try our best to communicate this to people, with varying degrees of success.

Unfortunately, human nature is such that we often hear only what we want to hear. You can run down the whole list of concerns, but some people stopped paying attention when they heard “weight loss” or “migraine relief” or whatever. Every physician ever has had to deal with this, as will those who follow us.

Medicine changes. People ... not so much.
 

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

We toss the word “miracle” around a lot — the ’69 Mets; the 1980 U.S. mens hockey team; Charlton Heston scowling into the wind, parting the waters of the Red Sea (or at least a Hollywood backlot).

We especially like to use it for medications, as in “miracle drug.”

Those of us who do this long enough know there ain’t no such thing, but the term keeps coming up — aspirin, penicillin, Botox ...

Recently, the popular press has hung the moniker on the GLP-1 drugs, like Ozempic, as “miracles.” While certainly useful, most of this comes from the drug’s reputation as the American dream of something that causes weight loss without the bother of diet and exercise. Of course, it’s also useful for diabetes, and is being investigated for numerous other conditions.

But the real truth is that it’s not a miracle (in fairness, none of the manufacturers of these drugs are making such a ridiculous claim). Nothing is. The word is tossed around for so many things that it’s almost become meaningless.

This isn’t a knock on the GLP-1 agents as much as it’s how people are. We want to be believe something will cure whatever ails us without side effects or other fuss. Of course, such a drug will never exist, in spite of all the claims on various Internet sites about miracle cures that Big Medicine is hiding from the public.

People are similar, but not the same, and too heterogeneous to know which drug will work/not work or cause a given side effect. We all deal with the uncertainties of medicine being a trial and error process. We try our best to communicate this to people, with varying degrees of success.

Unfortunately, human nature is such that we often hear only what we want to hear. You can run down the whole list of concerns, but some people stopped paying attention when they heard “weight loss” or “migraine relief” or whatever. Every physician ever has had to deal with this, as will those who follow us.

Medicine changes. People ... not so much.
 

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

Some things are universal, or at least worldwide.

She didn’t speak a word of English, but I don’t speak any Mandarin. Fortunately, her concerned son was fluent in both.

A nice lady in her 60s, here from China to visit her son and his family for a month. The visit was going fine until she abruptly developed double vision. Through the modern miracle of email she contacted her doctor in Beijing, who told her to find a neurologist here or go to an ER.

I’d had a last minute cancellation a few minutes before her son called and so was able to see her that afternoon. Both were scared that I was going to admit her to a hospital.

Fortunately, people are wired the same no matter where they’re from. The electrical fibers of the nervous system are predictable across international borders, as are the maladies.

A history and exam made the diagnosis of a diabetic cranial nerve palsy most likely, and I was able to reassure them. I ordered the usual imaging studies (fortunately she’d bought travelers’ insurance in advance). As anticipated, they were normal.

Her son and I spoke by phone to close things out, with her in the background and him translating between us. By the time she left 2 weeks later the symptoms were resolving. I made sure she went home with copies of my notes and the MRI reports, figuring someone there would be able to translate them for her physician.

These sorts of encounters are uncommon in my little solo practice, but still drive home the point that people around the world have more in common than not. Disease prevalence varies by regions, and there are certain genetic issues one has to take into account, but the basic principles of medicine are the same.

Not to mention families. The mother traveling around the world to see her son and grandchildren. The child concerned for the welfare of his parent and helping her get care. These, too, are human universals, regardless of the language spoken. There isn’t a culture on Earth that doesn’t value family connections, nor is there one that didn’t develop (albeit in different forms) doctors.

The human population is 8 billion. Everyone is different, and yet everyone, overall, is the same. Fellow travelers on a small planet.
 

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

Some things are universal, or at least worldwide.

She didn’t speak a word of English, but I don’t speak any Mandarin. Fortunately, her concerned son was fluent in both.

A nice lady in her 60s, here from China to visit her son and his family for a month. The visit was going fine until she abruptly developed double vision. Through the modern miracle of email she contacted her doctor in Beijing, who told her to find a neurologist here or go to an ER.

I’d had a last minute cancellation a few minutes before her son called and so was able to see her that afternoon. Both were scared that I was going to admit her to a hospital.

Fortunately, people are wired the same no matter where they’re from. The electrical fibers of the nervous system are predictable across international borders, as are the maladies.

A history and exam made the diagnosis of a diabetic cranial nerve palsy most likely, and I was able to reassure them. I ordered the usual imaging studies (fortunately she’d bought travelers’ insurance in advance). As anticipated, they were normal.

Her son and I spoke by phone to close things out, with her in the background and him translating between us. By the time she left 2 weeks later the symptoms were resolving. I made sure she went home with copies of my notes and the MRI reports, figuring someone there would be able to translate them for her physician.

These sorts of encounters are uncommon in my little solo practice, but still drive home the point that people around the world have more in common than not. Disease prevalence varies by regions, and there are certain genetic issues one has to take into account, but the basic principles of medicine are the same.

Not to mention families. The mother traveling around the world to see her son and grandchildren. The child concerned for the welfare of his parent and helping her get care. These, too, are human universals, regardless of the language spoken. There isn’t a culture on Earth that doesn’t value family connections, nor is there one that didn’t develop (albeit in different forms) doctors.

The human population is 8 billion. Everyone is different, and yet everyone, overall, is the same. Fellow travelers on a small planet.
 

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

Some things are universal, or at least worldwide.

She didn’t speak a word of English, but I don’t speak any Mandarin. Fortunately, her concerned son was fluent in both.

A nice lady in her 60s, here from China to visit her son and his family for a month. The visit was going fine until she abruptly developed double vision. Through the modern miracle of email she contacted her doctor in Beijing, who told her to find a neurologist here or go to an ER.

I’d had a last minute cancellation a few minutes before her son called and so was able to see her that afternoon. Both were scared that I was going to admit her to a hospital.

Fortunately, people are wired the same no matter where they’re from. The electrical fibers of the nervous system are predictable across international borders, as are the maladies.

A history and exam made the diagnosis of a diabetic cranial nerve palsy most likely, and I was able to reassure them. I ordered the usual imaging studies (fortunately she’d bought travelers’ insurance in advance). As anticipated, they were normal.

Her son and I spoke by phone to close things out, with her in the background and him translating between us. By the time she left 2 weeks later the symptoms were resolving. I made sure she went home with copies of my notes and the MRI reports, figuring someone there would be able to translate them for her physician.

These sorts of encounters are uncommon in my little solo practice, but still drive home the point that people around the world have more in common than not. Disease prevalence varies by regions, and there are certain genetic issues one has to take into account, but the basic principles of medicine are the same.

Not to mention families. The mother traveling around the world to see her son and grandchildren. The child concerned for the welfare of his parent and helping her get care. These, too, are human universals, regardless of the language spoken. There isn’t a culture on Earth that doesn’t value family connections, nor is there one that didn’t develop (albeit in different forms) doctors.

The human population is 8 billion. Everyone is different, and yet everyone, overall, is the same. Fellow travelers on a small planet.
 

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

In my mind’s calendar, two dates stand out. Both far enough away that I don’t have to think about them too much right now, but near enough that they can’t be forgotten about, either.

On September 30, 2028, my office lease ends, and in 2029 my neurology board certification has to be renewed. I’ll be in my early 60s then and I’ve been a practicing neurologist for 30 years.

I have no idea what I’m going to do. Of course, a lot can happen between now and then, and a lot of variables come into the calculus of when to retire.

After all these years, I still enjoy my job. It gives me the purpose that I wanted so long ago when I applied to medical school. The late William Pancoe, associate dean when I was at Creighton, always told us to remember how we felt when we got that acceptance letter — we’d need it to keep us going through medical school.

And, even now, I still remember the call from my dad that it had arrived. What a moment that was. I have no regrets. I can’t imagine doing anything else.

But in 4 years how much longer will I want to practice? Hopefully I’ll be faced with that decision. Will I want to renew the lease for 2 years? 5 years? I like my little office. It’s far from gleaming, there’s no TV or Keurig in the lobby, the carpet, paint, and furnishings are still from the early 90s when the place was built. But it’s my home away from home. I spend anywhere from 40-60 hours/week there. It’s quiet and (at least for me) cozy. Would I want to give that up and move to a smaller, shared place, for the remainder of my career? Or just close down?

Likewise, will I want to renew my board certification? Granted, that isn’t necessary to practice, but it certainly looks better to have it. To do that I’ll have to fork over a decent chunk of change to take the test, more money for a review course, and spend some time studying. Strange to think that at 63 I might be back at my desk (same desk, by the way) studying for a test like I did in college and medical school. But, if I want to keep playing doctor, that’s what I’ll have to do.

Four years to think about this. The same amount of time I spent each in high school, medical school, and residency. For that matter, the same amount of time since we all went into quarantine.

Doesn’t seem that long, does it?

I guess I’ve got some thinking to do.
 

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

In my mind’s calendar, two dates stand out. Both far enough away that I don’t have to think about them too much right now, but near enough that they can’t be forgotten about, either.

On September 30, 2028, my office lease ends, and in 2029 my neurology board certification has to be renewed. I’ll be in my early 60s then and I’ve been a practicing neurologist for 30 years.

I have no idea what I’m going to do. Of course, a lot can happen between now and then, and a lot of variables come into the calculus of when to retire.

After all these years, I still enjoy my job. It gives me the purpose that I wanted so long ago when I applied to medical school. The late William Pancoe, associate dean when I was at Creighton, always told us to remember how we felt when we got that acceptance letter — we’d need it to keep us going through medical school.

And, even now, I still remember the call from my dad that it had arrived. What a moment that was. I have no regrets. I can’t imagine doing anything else.

But in 4 years how much longer will I want to practice? Hopefully I’ll be faced with that decision. Will I want to renew the lease for 2 years? 5 years? I like my little office. It’s far from gleaming, there’s no TV or Keurig in the lobby, the carpet, paint, and furnishings are still from the early 90s when the place was built. But it’s my home away from home. I spend anywhere from 40-60 hours/week there. It’s quiet and (at least for me) cozy. Would I want to give that up and move to a smaller, shared place, for the remainder of my career? Or just close down?

Likewise, will I want to renew my board certification? Granted, that isn’t necessary to practice, but it certainly looks better to have it. To do that I’ll have to fork over a decent chunk of change to take the test, more money for a review course, and spend some time studying. Strange to think that at 63 I might be back at my desk (same desk, by the way) studying for a test like I did in college and medical school. But, if I want to keep playing doctor, that’s what I’ll have to do.

Four years to think about this. The same amount of time I spent each in high school, medical school, and residency. For that matter, the same amount of time since we all went into quarantine.

Doesn’t seem that long, does it?

I guess I’ve got some thinking to do.
 

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

In my mind’s calendar, two dates stand out. Both far enough away that I don’t have to think about them too much right now, but near enough that they can’t be forgotten about, either.

On September 30, 2028, my office lease ends, and in 2029 my neurology board certification has to be renewed. I’ll be in my early 60s then and I’ve been a practicing neurologist for 30 years.

I have no idea what I’m going to do. Of course, a lot can happen between now and then, and a lot of variables come into the calculus of when to retire.

After all these years, I still enjoy my job. It gives me the purpose that I wanted so long ago when I applied to medical school. The late William Pancoe, associate dean when I was at Creighton, always told us to remember how we felt when we got that acceptance letter — we’d need it to keep us going through medical school.

And, even now, I still remember the call from my dad that it had arrived. What a moment that was. I have no regrets. I can’t imagine doing anything else.

But in 4 years how much longer will I want to practice? Hopefully I’ll be faced with that decision. Will I want to renew the lease for 2 years? 5 years? I like my little office. It’s far from gleaming, there’s no TV or Keurig in the lobby, the carpet, paint, and furnishings are still from the early 90s when the place was built. But it’s my home away from home. I spend anywhere from 40-60 hours/week there. It’s quiet and (at least for me) cozy. Would I want to give that up and move to a smaller, shared place, for the remainder of my career? Or just close down?

Likewise, will I want to renew my board certification? Granted, that isn’t necessary to practice, but it certainly looks better to have it. To do that I’ll have to fork over a decent chunk of change to take the test, more money for a review course, and spend some time studying. Strange to think that at 63 I might be back at my desk (same desk, by the way) studying for a test like I did in college and medical school. But, if I want to keep playing doctor, that’s what I’ll have to do.

Four years to think about this. The same amount of time I spent each in high school, medical school, and residency. For that matter, the same amount of time since we all went into quarantine.

Doesn’t seem that long, does it?

I guess I’ve got some thinking to do.
 

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

“He was one of those fresh Jewish types you want to kill at sight ... she on the other hand looked Italian, a goaty slant to her eyes ... She looked dirty. So did he ... And she smelled, the usual smell of sweat and dirt you find among people who habitually do not wash or bathe ... People like that belong in clinics ... Just dumb oxen. Why the hell do they let them into the country? Half idiots at best.”

Who wrote that? Some hate-mongering pundit on a cable channel? A Twitter troll?

Nope. It was William Carlos Williams, MD, the patron saint of physician-writers.

You’re thinking “No! Not him!” We all read “The Use of Force” and “Red Wheelbarrow” in high school or college. But this blatant anti-Semitism and xenophobia?

The short story is “A Face of Stone” from his collection “The Doctor Stories” (highly recommended). When Williams was asked to remove those parts before publication, he refused because they’re a key part of the story. And I agree with him.

The point, as in so much of life, is the big picture. Despite his vivid disgust, he examines their infant, reassuring the mother that everything is okay, and later helping her with her leg pain and walking difficulties. At the end of the short story he realizes that his impressions were wrong and that people he started out hating are, well, just people who need help. And, as doctors, isn’t helping what we’re here to do?

It’s not just Williams, it’s all of us. First impressions aren’t always correct, but we rely on them — a lot. We’re programmed to. Our ancestors in the caves didn’t have much time to decided friend or foe when they encountered others.

So we initially judge people on their faces, expressions, hair, clothes, religious symbols (if present), jewelry ... The things that are registered by the brain in a split-second before the first words are exchanged.

All of us are constantly “scanning” others we encounter. In the office, store, restaurant, whatever. Usually those impressions are fleeting as we forget that person within a minute or two since we don’t see them again. But as doctors we do get to know them as patients, and so are constantly “updating” our mental files as new information comes in.

As Williams tells the story, he realizes that the “face of stone” isn’t that of the young mother he mentally derided — it’s his own face, turned that way by his first dismissive impression of the family, and then melted as he realizes he was wrong and learns from the experience to be a better doctor.

In vivid terms he reminds us that, although doctors, we are still susceptible to the same foibles, errors, and incorrect snap-judgments that all people are, but what matters is that we can, and have to, overcome them.

As a wall plaque in St. Mary’s General Hospital in Passaic, New Jersey, reminds us: “We walk the wards that Williams walked.”

We all do. Everyday. Everywhere.
 

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

“He was one of those fresh Jewish types you want to kill at sight ... she on the other hand looked Italian, a goaty slant to her eyes ... She looked dirty. So did he ... And she smelled, the usual smell of sweat and dirt you find among people who habitually do not wash or bathe ... People like that belong in clinics ... Just dumb oxen. Why the hell do they let them into the country? Half idiots at best.”

Who wrote that? Some hate-mongering pundit on a cable channel? A Twitter troll?

Nope. It was William Carlos Williams, MD, the patron saint of physician-writers.

You’re thinking “No! Not him!” We all read “The Use of Force” and “Red Wheelbarrow” in high school or college. But this blatant anti-Semitism and xenophobia?

The short story is “A Face of Stone” from his collection “The Doctor Stories” (highly recommended). When Williams was asked to remove those parts before publication, he refused because they’re a key part of the story. And I agree with him.

The point, as in so much of life, is the big picture. Despite his vivid disgust, he examines their infant, reassuring the mother that everything is okay, and later helping her with her leg pain and walking difficulties. At the end of the short story he realizes that his impressions were wrong and that people he started out hating are, well, just people who need help. And, as doctors, isn’t helping what we’re here to do?

It’s not just Williams, it’s all of us. First impressions aren’t always correct, but we rely on them — a lot. We’re programmed to. Our ancestors in the caves didn’t have much time to decided friend or foe when they encountered others.

So we initially judge people on their faces, expressions, hair, clothes, religious symbols (if present), jewelry ... The things that are registered by the brain in a split-second before the first words are exchanged.

All of us are constantly “scanning” others we encounter. In the office, store, restaurant, whatever. Usually those impressions are fleeting as we forget that person within a minute or two since we don’t see them again. But as doctors we do get to know them as patients, and so are constantly “updating” our mental files as new information comes in.

As Williams tells the story, he realizes that the “face of stone” isn’t that of the young mother he mentally derided — it’s his own face, turned that way by his first dismissive impression of the family, and then melted as he realizes he was wrong and learns from the experience to be a better doctor.

In vivid terms he reminds us that, although doctors, we are still susceptible to the same foibles, errors, and incorrect snap-judgments that all people are, but what matters is that we can, and have to, overcome them.

As a wall plaque in St. Mary’s General Hospital in Passaic, New Jersey, reminds us: “We walk the wards that Williams walked.”

We all do. Everyday. Everywhere.
 

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

“He was one of those fresh Jewish types you want to kill at sight ... she on the other hand looked Italian, a goaty slant to her eyes ... She looked dirty. So did he ... And she smelled, the usual smell of sweat and dirt you find among people who habitually do not wash or bathe ... People like that belong in clinics ... Just dumb oxen. Why the hell do they let them into the country? Half idiots at best.”

Who wrote that? Some hate-mongering pundit on a cable channel? A Twitter troll?

Nope. It was William Carlos Williams, MD, the patron saint of physician-writers.

You’re thinking “No! Not him!” We all read “The Use of Force” and “Red Wheelbarrow” in high school or college. But this blatant anti-Semitism and xenophobia?

The short story is “A Face of Stone” from his collection “The Doctor Stories” (highly recommended). When Williams was asked to remove those parts before publication, he refused because they’re a key part of the story. And I agree with him.

The point, as in so much of life, is the big picture. Despite his vivid disgust, he examines their infant, reassuring the mother that everything is okay, and later helping her with her leg pain and walking difficulties. At the end of the short story he realizes that his impressions were wrong and that people he started out hating are, well, just people who need help. And, as doctors, isn’t helping what we’re here to do?

It’s not just Williams, it’s all of us. First impressions aren’t always correct, but we rely on them — a lot. We’re programmed to. Our ancestors in the caves didn’t have much time to decided friend or foe when they encountered others.

So we initially judge people on their faces, expressions, hair, clothes, religious symbols (if present), jewelry ... The things that are registered by the brain in a split-second before the first words are exchanged.

All of us are constantly “scanning” others we encounter. In the office, store, restaurant, whatever. Usually those impressions are fleeting as we forget that person within a minute or two since we don’t see them again. But as doctors we do get to know them as patients, and so are constantly “updating” our mental files as new information comes in.

As Williams tells the story, he realizes that the “face of stone” isn’t that of the young mother he mentally derided — it’s his own face, turned that way by his first dismissive impression of the family, and then melted as he realizes he was wrong and learns from the experience to be a better doctor.

In vivid terms he reminds us that, although doctors, we are still susceptible to the same foibles, errors, and incorrect snap-judgments that all people are, but what matters is that we can, and have to, overcome them.

As a wall plaque in St. Mary’s General Hospital in Passaic, New Jersey, reminds us: “We walk the wards that Williams walked.”

We all do. Everyday. Everywhere.
 

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