Allan M. Block, MD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably more often than we want to admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably more often than we want to admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably more often than we want to admit.

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

I have a cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have a cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have a cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty standard up to that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty standard up to that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty standard up to that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now he’s gone.

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

Why a mensch like him?

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll miss you, friend.

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

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

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

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

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

And now he’s gone.

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

Why a mensch like him?

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll miss you, friend.

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

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

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

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

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

And now he’s gone.

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

Why a mensch like him?

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll miss you, friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I was 16, keeping my car shiny was a priority. I washed it every weekend and waxed it once a month. I was pretty good at it and got paid to do the occasional job for a neighbor, too.

In college I was busier, and my car was back at the house, so it didn’t need to be washed as much.

In medical school I think I washed the car once a year. Residency was probably the same.

Today I realized I couldn’t remember when I last had it washed (at my age I don’t have time to do it myself). So I looked it up in Quicken: Nov. 14, 2018.

Really? I’ve gone almost 5 years without washing my car? I can’t even blame that on the pandemic.

It’s funny how things that were once so important to us fall by the wayside as we get older and other stuff takes their place. I mean, I still like my car. It’s comfortable, has good air conditioning (in Phoenix that’s critical), and gets me where I want to go. At my age those things are what’s really important. It’s hard to believe that 40 years ago, keeping a polished car was the center of my existence. Of course, it probably still is for most guys that age.

It’s a reminder of how much things change as life goes by.

Here in my little corner of neurology, multiple sclerosis has gone from steroids for relapses, to a few injections of mild benefit, to a bunch of drugs that are, literally, game-changing for many patients. And the Big Four epilepsy drugs (Dilantin, Tegretol, Depakote, and Phenobarb) are slowly fading into the background.

But back to changing priorities – it’s the way life rewrites our plans at each step. From a freshly waxed car to good grades to mortgages to kids – and then watching as they wax their cars.

Suddenly my car looks dusty. Am I the same way? I’m certainly not 16 anymore. Realistically, the majority of my life and career are behind me now. That doesn’t mean I’m not still having fun, it’s just the truth. I try not to think about it that much, as doing so won’t change anything.

In all honesty, neither did washing my car. I mean, the car looked good, but did it make me one of the cool kids? Or get me a girlfriend? Or invited to THE parties? Not at all. Like so many things about appearances, very few of them really matter. There’s only so far that style will get you, compared with substance.

Which doesn’t change the fact that I need to wash my car. But procrastination is for another column.

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

When I was 16, keeping my car shiny was a priority. I washed it every weekend and waxed it once a month. I was pretty good at it and got paid to do the occasional job for a neighbor, too.

In college I was busier, and my car was back at the house, so it didn’t need to be washed as much.

In medical school I think I washed the car once a year. Residency was probably the same.

Today I realized I couldn’t remember when I last had it washed (at my age I don’t have time to do it myself). So I looked it up in Quicken: Nov. 14, 2018.

Really? I’ve gone almost 5 years without washing my car? I can’t even blame that on the pandemic.

It’s funny how things that were once so important to us fall by the wayside as we get older and other stuff takes their place. I mean, I still like my car. It’s comfortable, has good air conditioning (in Phoenix that’s critical), and gets me where I want to go. At my age those things are what’s really important. It’s hard to believe that 40 years ago, keeping a polished car was the center of my existence. Of course, it probably still is for most guys that age.

It’s a reminder of how much things change as life goes by.

Here in my little corner of neurology, multiple sclerosis has gone from steroids for relapses, to a few injections of mild benefit, to a bunch of drugs that are, literally, game-changing for many patients. And the Big Four epilepsy drugs (Dilantin, Tegretol, Depakote, and Phenobarb) are slowly fading into the background.

But back to changing priorities – it’s the way life rewrites our plans at each step. From a freshly waxed car to good grades to mortgages to kids – and then watching as they wax their cars.

Suddenly my car looks dusty. Am I the same way? I’m certainly not 16 anymore. Realistically, the majority of my life and career are behind me now. That doesn’t mean I’m not still having fun, it’s just the truth. I try not to think about it that much, as doing so won’t change anything.

In all honesty, neither did washing my car. I mean, the car looked good, but did it make me one of the cool kids? Or get me a girlfriend? Or invited to THE parties? Not at all. Like so many things about appearances, very few of them really matter. There’s only so far that style will get you, compared with substance.

Which doesn’t change the fact that I need to wash my car. But procrastination is for another column.

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

When I was 16, keeping my car shiny was a priority. I washed it every weekend and waxed it once a month. I was pretty good at it and got paid to do the occasional job for a neighbor, too.

In college I was busier, and my car was back at the house, so it didn’t need to be washed as much.

In medical school I think I washed the car once a year. Residency was probably the same.

Today I realized I couldn’t remember when I last had it washed (at my age I don’t have time to do it myself). So I looked it up in Quicken: Nov. 14, 2018.

Really? I’ve gone almost 5 years without washing my car? I can’t even blame that on the pandemic.

It’s funny how things that were once so important to us fall by the wayside as we get older and other stuff takes their place. I mean, I still like my car. It’s comfortable, has good air conditioning (in Phoenix that’s critical), and gets me where I want to go. At my age those things are what’s really important. It’s hard to believe that 40 years ago, keeping a polished car was the center of my existence. Of course, it probably still is for most guys that age.

It’s a reminder of how much things change as life goes by.

Here in my little corner of neurology, multiple sclerosis has gone from steroids for relapses, to a few injections of mild benefit, to a bunch of drugs that are, literally, game-changing for many patients. And the Big Four epilepsy drugs (Dilantin, Tegretol, Depakote, and Phenobarb) are slowly fading into the background.

But back to changing priorities – it’s the way life rewrites our plans at each step. From a freshly waxed car to good grades to mortgages to kids – and then watching as they wax their cars.

Suddenly my car looks dusty. Am I the same way? I’m certainly not 16 anymore. Realistically, the majority of my life and career are behind me now. That doesn’t mean I’m not still having fun, it’s just the truth. I try not to think about it that much, as doing so won’t change anything.

In all honesty, neither did washing my car. I mean, the car looked good, but did it make me one of the cool kids? Or get me a girlfriend? Or invited to THE parties? Not at all. Like so many things about appearances, very few of them really matter. There’s only so far that style will get you, compared with substance.

Which doesn’t change the fact that I need to wash my car. But procrastination is for another column.

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

I’m really going to miss Jimmy Buffett.

I’ve liked his music as far back as I can remember, and was lucky enough to see him in person in the mid-90s.

I’ve written about music before, but its affect on us never fails to amaze me. Songs can be background noise conducive to getting things done. They can also be in the foreground, serving as a mental vacation (or accompanying a real one). They can transport you to another place, briefly clearing your head from the daily goings-on around you. Even if it’s just during the drive home, it’s a welcome escape to a virtual beach and tropical drink.

Songs can bring back memories of certain events or people that we link them to. My dad loved anything by Neil Diamond, and nothing brings back thoughts of Dad more than when my iTunes randomly picks “I Am ... I Said.” Or John Williams’ Star Wars theme, taking me back to the summer of 1977 when I sat, spellbound, by this incredible movie whose magic is still going strong two generations later.

It’s amazing how our brain tries to make music out of nothing. Even in silence we have ear worms, the songs stuck in our head for hours to days (recently I’ve had “I Sing the Body Electric” from the 1980 movie Fame playing in there).

My office is over an MRI scanner, so I can always hear the chiller pumps softly running in the background. Sometimes my brain will turn their rhythmic chirping into a song, altering the pace of the song to fit them. The soft clicking of the ceiling fan, in my home office, does the same thing (for some reason my brain usually tries to fit “Yellow Submarine” to that one, no idea why).

Music is a part of that mysterious essence that makes us human. It touches all of us in some way, which varies between people, songs, and artists.

Jimmy Buffet’s music has a vacation vibe. Songs of the Caribbean & Keys, beaches, bars, boats, and tropical drinks. The 4:12 running time of his most well-known song, “Margaritaville,” gives a brief respite from my day when it comes on.

He passes into the beyond, to the sadness of his family, friends, and fans. But, unlike people, music can be immortal, and so he lives on through his creations. Like, Bach, Lennon, Bowie, Joplin, Sousa, and too many others to count, his work – and the enjoyment we get from it – are a gift left behind for the future.

Tight lines, Jimmy.

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

I’m really going to miss Jimmy Buffett.

I’ve liked his music as far back as I can remember, and was lucky enough to see him in person in the mid-90s.

I’ve written about music before, but its affect on us never fails to amaze me. Songs can be background noise conducive to getting things done. They can also be in the foreground, serving as a mental vacation (or accompanying a real one). They can transport you to another place, briefly clearing your head from the daily goings-on around you. Even if it’s just during the drive home, it’s a welcome escape to a virtual beach and tropical drink.

Songs can bring back memories of certain events or people that we link them to. My dad loved anything by Neil Diamond, and nothing brings back thoughts of Dad more than when my iTunes randomly picks “I Am ... I Said.” Or John Williams’ Star Wars theme, taking me back to the summer of 1977 when I sat, spellbound, by this incredible movie whose magic is still going strong two generations later.

It’s amazing how our brain tries to make music out of nothing. Even in silence we have ear worms, the songs stuck in our head for hours to days (recently I’ve had “I Sing the Body Electric” from the 1980 movie Fame playing in there).

My office is over an MRI scanner, so I can always hear the chiller pumps softly running in the background. Sometimes my brain will turn their rhythmic chirping into a song, altering the pace of the song to fit them. The soft clicking of the ceiling fan, in my home office, does the same thing (for some reason my brain usually tries to fit “Yellow Submarine” to that one, no idea why).

Music is a part of that mysterious essence that makes us human. It touches all of us in some way, which varies between people, songs, and artists.

Jimmy Buffet’s music has a vacation vibe. Songs of the Caribbean & Keys, beaches, bars, boats, and tropical drinks. The 4:12 running time of his most well-known song, “Margaritaville,” gives a brief respite from my day when it comes on.

He passes into the beyond, to the sadness of his family, friends, and fans. But, unlike people, music can be immortal, and so he lives on through his creations. Like, Bach, Lennon, Bowie, Joplin, Sousa, and too many others to count, his work – and the enjoyment we get from it – are a gift left behind for the future.

Tight lines, Jimmy.

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

I’m really going to miss Jimmy Buffett.

I’ve liked his music as far back as I can remember, and was lucky enough to see him in person in the mid-90s.

I’ve written about music before, but its affect on us never fails to amaze me. Songs can be background noise conducive to getting things done. They can also be in the foreground, serving as a mental vacation (or accompanying a real one). They can transport you to another place, briefly clearing your head from the daily goings-on around you. Even if it’s just during the drive home, it’s a welcome escape to a virtual beach and tropical drink.

Songs can bring back memories of certain events or people that we link them to. My dad loved anything by Neil Diamond, and nothing brings back thoughts of Dad more than when my iTunes randomly picks “I Am ... I Said.” Or John Williams’ Star Wars theme, taking me back to the summer of 1977 when I sat, spellbound, by this incredible movie whose magic is still going strong two generations later.

It’s amazing how our brain tries to make music out of nothing. Even in silence we have ear worms, the songs stuck in our head for hours to days (recently I’ve had “I Sing the Body Electric” from the 1980 movie Fame playing in there).

My office is over an MRI scanner, so I can always hear the chiller pumps softly running in the background. Sometimes my brain will turn their rhythmic chirping into a song, altering the pace of the song to fit them. The soft clicking of the ceiling fan, in my home office, does the same thing (for some reason my brain usually tries to fit “Yellow Submarine” to that one, no idea why).

Music is a part of that mysterious essence that makes us human. It touches all of us in some way, which varies between people, songs, and artists.

Jimmy Buffet’s music has a vacation vibe. Songs of the Caribbean & Keys, beaches, bars, boats, and tropical drinks. The 4:12 running time of his most well-known song, “Margaritaville,” gives a brief respite from my day when it comes on.

He passes into the beyond, to the sadness of his family, friends, and fans. But, unlike people, music can be immortal, and so he lives on through his creations. Like, Bach, Lennon, Bowie, Joplin, Sousa, and too many others to count, his work – and the enjoyment we get from it – are a gift left behind for the future.

Tight lines, Jimmy.

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

A lot of businesses benefit from being in private equity funds.

Health care isn’t one of them, and a recent report found that private equity buyouts of medical practices resulted in higher consumer prices.

This really shouldn’t surprise anyone. Such funds may offer glittering phrases like “improved technology” and “greater efficiency” but the bottom line is that they’re run by – and for – the shareholders. The majority of them aren’t going to be medical people or realize that you can’t run a medical practice like it’s a clothing retailer or electronic car manufacturer.

I’m not saying medicine isn’t a business – it is. I depend on my little practice to support three families, so keeping it in the black is important. But it also needs to run well to do that. Measures to increase revenue, like cutting my staff down (there are only two of them) or overbooking patients would seriously impact me effectively doing my part, which is playing doctor.

You can predict pretty accurately how long it will take to put a motor and bumper assembly on a specific model of car, but you can’t do that in medicine because people aren’t standardized. Even if you control variables such as same sex, age, and diagnosis, personalities vary widely, as do treatment decisions, questions they’ll have, and the “oh, another thing” factor.

That doesn’t happen at a bottling plant.

In the business model of health care, you’re hoping revenue will pay overhead and a reasonable salary for everyone. But when you add a private equity firm in, the shareholders also expect to be paid. Which means either revenue has to go up significantly, or costs have to be cut (layoffs, short staffing, reduced benefits, etc.), or a combination of both.

Regardless of which option is chosen, it isn’t good for the medical staff or the patients. Increasing the number of people seen in a given amount of time per doctor may be good for the shareholders, but it’s not good for the doctor or the person being cared for. Think of Lucy and Ethyl at the chocolate factory.

Even in an auto factory, if you speed up the rate of cars going through the assembly line, sooner or later mistakes will be made. Humans can’t keep up, and even robots will make errors if things aren’t aligned correctly, or are a few seconds ahead or behind the program. This is why they (hopefully) have quality control, to try and catch those things before they’re on the road.

Of course, cars are more easily fixable. When the mistake is found you repair or replace the part. You can’t do that as easily in people, and when serious mistakes happen it’s the doctor who’s held at fault – not the shareholders who pressured him or her to see patients faster and with less support.

Unfortunately, this is the way the current trend is going. The more people who are involved in the practice of medicine, in person or behind the scenes, the smaller each slice of the pie gets.

That’s not good for the patient, who’s the person at the center of it all and the reason why we’re here.

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

A lot of businesses benefit from being in private equity funds.

Health care isn’t one of them, and a recent report found that private equity buyouts of medical practices resulted in higher consumer prices.

This really shouldn’t surprise anyone. Such funds may offer glittering phrases like “improved technology” and “greater efficiency” but the bottom line is that they’re run by – and for – the shareholders. The majority of them aren’t going to be medical people or realize that you can’t run a medical practice like it’s a clothing retailer or electronic car manufacturer.

I’m not saying medicine isn’t a business – it is. I depend on my little practice to support three families, so keeping it in the black is important. But it also needs to run well to do that. Measures to increase revenue, like cutting my staff down (there are only two of them) or overbooking patients would seriously impact me effectively doing my part, which is playing doctor.

You can predict pretty accurately how long it will take to put a motor and bumper assembly on a specific model of car, but you can’t do that in medicine because people aren’t standardized. Even if you control variables such as same sex, age, and diagnosis, personalities vary widely, as do treatment decisions, questions they’ll have, and the “oh, another thing” factor.

That doesn’t happen at a bottling plant.

In the business model of health care, you’re hoping revenue will pay overhead and a reasonable salary for everyone. But when you add a private equity firm in, the shareholders also expect to be paid. Which means either revenue has to go up significantly, or costs have to be cut (layoffs, short staffing, reduced benefits, etc.), or a combination of both.

Regardless of which option is chosen, it isn’t good for the medical staff or the patients. Increasing the number of people seen in a given amount of time per doctor may be good for the shareholders, but it’s not good for the doctor or the person being cared for. Think of Lucy and Ethyl at the chocolate factory.

Even in an auto factory, if you speed up the rate of cars going through the assembly line, sooner or later mistakes will be made. Humans can’t keep up, and even robots will make errors if things aren’t aligned correctly, or are a few seconds ahead or behind the program. This is why they (hopefully) have quality control, to try and catch those things before they’re on the road.

Of course, cars are more easily fixable. When the mistake is found you repair or replace the part. You can’t do that as easily in people, and when serious mistakes happen it’s the doctor who’s held at fault – not the shareholders who pressured him or her to see patients faster and with less support.

Unfortunately, this is the way the current trend is going. The more people who are involved in the practice of medicine, in person or behind the scenes, the smaller each slice of the pie gets.

That’s not good for the patient, who’s the person at the center of it all and the reason why we’re here.

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

A lot of businesses benefit from being in private equity funds.

Health care isn’t one of them, and a recent report found that private equity buyouts of medical practices resulted in higher consumer prices.

This really shouldn’t surprise anyone. Such funds may offer glittering phrases like “improved technology” and “greater efficiency” but the bottom line is that they’re run by – and for – the shareholders. The majority of them aren’t going to be medical people or realize that you can’t run a medical practice like it’s a clothing retailer or electronic car manufacturer.

I’m not saying medicine isn’t a business – it is. I depend on my little practice to support three families, so keeping it in the black is important. But it also needs to run well to do that. Measures to increase revenue, like cutting my staff down (there are only two of them) or overbooking patients would seriously impact me effectively doing my part, which is playing doctor.

You can predict pretty accurately how long it will take to put a motor and bumper assembly on a specific model of car, but you can’t do that in medicine because people aren’t standardized. Even if you control variables such as same sex, age, and diagnosis, personalities vary widely, as do treatment decisions, questions they’ll have, and the “oh, another thing” factor.

That doesn’t happen at a bottling plant.

In the business model of health care, you’re hoping revenue will pay overhead and a reasonable salary for everyone. But when you add a private equity firm in, the shareholders also expect to be paid. Which means either revenue has to go up significantly, or costs have to be cut (layoffs, short staffing, reduced benefits, etc.), or a combination of both.

Regardless of which option is chosen, it isn’t good for the medical staff or the patients. Increasing the number of people seen in a given amount of time per doctor may be good for the shareholders, but it’s not good for the doctor or the person being cared for. Think of Lucy and Ethyl at the chocolate factory.

Even in an auto factory, if you speed up the rate of cars going through the assembly line, sooner or later mistakes will be made. Humans can’t keep up, and even robots will make errors if things aren’t aligned correctly, or are a few seconds ahead or behind the program. This is why they (hopefully) have quality control, to try and catch those things before they’re on the road.

Of course, cars are more easily fixable. When the mistake is found you repair or replace the part. You can’t do that as easily in people, and when serious mistakes happen it’s the doctor who’s held at fault – not the shareholders who pressured him or her to see patients faster and with less support.

Unfortunately, this is the way the current trend is going. The more people who are involved in the practice of medicine, in person or behind the scenes, the smaller each slice of the pie gets.

That’s not good for the patient, who’s the person at the center of it all and the reason why we’re here.

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