Hitting a Nerve

Medicine, as often said, is a business.

That’s often forgotten in a crisis, such as COVID-19, and with good reason. Our training in medicine is needed to care for the sick and find ways to prevent disease. Things like money are in the background when it comes to the emergencies of saving lives and helping the sick.

But that doesn’t mean finances don’t matter. They’re always in the background for medical practices of all sizes – just like any business.

Some practices have closed for patient and staff safety. I haven’t gone that far, as some people still need me. I am, after all, a doctor.

So I’m alone in my office, my staff working from home. That helps cut some lines of transmission there.

Like everyone else, I’m also doing telemedicine, and even a few phone appointments. These keep all involved safe, but also have a lot of limitations. They’re fine for checking up on stable, established patients, or following up on test results. But certainly not for new patients or established ones with new problems.

After all, you can’t evaluate a foot drop, extrapyramidal rigidity, or do an EMG/NCV over the video-phone connection.

In-person appointments are spaced out to minimize the number of people in my waiting room. Patients are told not to come in if they’re sick, and I insist we both be wearing masks (of pretty much any kind at this point). Common-use pens, such as those out in the waiting room, are wiped down with alcohol between uses.

People need to be seen, in both good and bad times. That’s the nature of medicine. But the business of medicine is always there, too. So, as the coronavirus emergency plays out, I have to watch my bank accounts closely.

With only two staff members, there really isn’t anyone extraneous to cut. I’ve stopped taking a paycheck so I can keep paying them, my rent, and the other miscellaneous costs of running an office.

I’ve always taken a bonus only at the end of the year, after all the other accounts have been paid, and take only a modest regular salary. In this case, that’s worked to my advantage, as I had more cash on hand when the emergency started. While not a huge amount, it’s enough to buy me some time, maybe several weeks, to see how this plays out. After that I’d have to tap into a line of credit, which obviously no one wants to do.

Telemedicine and the few office patients I’m seeing are a trickle of revenue. It’s better than nothing, but certainly isn’t enough to keep the door open and lights on.

That said, I’m not ungrateful. I’m well aware how fortunate my practice and family are compared to many others during this time. I haven’t had to ask for a pass on a mortgage or rent payment – yet. My staff and I have been together since 2004. I’m not going to break up a great team now.

I have no idea when things will turn around and people will start to come in. Your guess is as good as mine. I suspect the trickle will slowly increase at some point, then suddenly there will be a surge of calls for appointments from people who’ve been putting off coming in. Even then, though, I’ll likely space appointments apart and keep using a mask until it appears things are stable. There are going to be further waves of infections, and we don’t know how bad they’ll be.

Like everyone else, I can only hope for the best.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

Medicine, as often said, is a business.

That’s often forgotten in a crisis, such as COVID-19, and with good reason. Our training in medicine is needed to care for the sick and find ways to prevent disease. Things like money are in the background when it comes to the emergencies of saving lives and helping the sick.

But that doesn’t mean finances don’t matter. They’re always in the background for medical practices of all sizes – just like any business.

Some practices have closed for patient and staff safety. I haven’t gone that far, as some people still need me. I am, after all, a doctor.

So I’m alone in my office, my staff working from home. That helps cut some lines of transmission there.

Like everyone else, I’m also doing telemedicine, and even a few phone appointments. These keep all involved safe, but also have a lot of limitations. They’re fine for checking up on stable, established patients, or following up on test results. But certainly not for new patients or established ones with new problems.

After all, you can’t evaluate a foot drop, extrapyramidal rigidity, or do an EMG/NCV over the video-phone connection.

In-person appointments are spaced out to minimize the number of people in my waiting room. Patients are told not to come in if they’re sick, and I insist we both be wearing masks (of pretty much any kind at this point). Common-use pens, such as those out in the waiting room, are wiped down with alcohol between uses.

People need to be seen, in both good and bad times. That’s the nature of medicine. But the business of medicine is always there, too. So, as the coronavirus emergency plays out, I have to watch my bank accounts closely.

With only two staff members, there really isn’t anyone extraneous to cut. I’ve stopped taking a paycheck so I can keep paying them, my rent, and the other miscellaneous costs of running an office.

I’ve always taken a bonus only at the end of the year, after all the other accounts have been paid, and take only a modest regular salary. In this case, that’s worked to my advantage, as I had more cash on hand when the emergency started. While not a huge amount, it’s enough to buy me some time, maybe several weeks, to see how this plays out. After that I’d have to tap into a line of credit, which obviously no one wants to do.

Telemedicine and the few office patients I’m seeing are a trickle of revenue. It’s better than nothing, but certainly isn’t enough to keep the door open and lights on.

That said, I’m not ungrateful. I’m well aware how fortunate my practice and family are compared to many others during this time. I haven’t had to ask for a pass on a mortgage or rent payment – yet. My staff and I have been together since 2004. I’m not going to break up a great team now.

I have no idea when things will turn around and people will start to come in. Your guess is as good as mine. I suspect the trickle will slowly increase at some point, then suddenly there will be a surge of calls for appointments from people who’ve been putting off coming in. Even then, though, I’ll likely space appointments apart and keep using a mask until it appears things are stable. There are going to be further waves of infections, and we don’t know how bad they’ll be.

Like everyone else, I can only hope for the best.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

Medicine, as often said, is a business.

That’s often forgotten in a crisis, such as COVID-19, and with good reason. Our training in medicine is needed to care for the sick and find ways to prevent disease. Things like money are in the background when it comes to the emergencies of saving lives and helping the sick.

But that doesn’t mean finances don’t matter. They’re always in the background for medical practices of all sizes – just like any business.

Some practices have closed for patient and staff safety. I haven’t gone that far, as some people still need me. I am, after all, a doctor.

So I’m alone in my office, my staff working from home. That helps cut some lines of transmission there.

Like everyone else, I’m also doing telemedicine, and even a few phone appointments. These keep all involved safe, but also have a lot of limitations. They’re fine for checking up on stable, established patients, or following up on test results. But certainly not for new patients or established ones with new problems.

After all, you can’t evaluate a foot drop, extrapyramidal rigidity, or do an EMG/NCV over the video-phone connection.

In-person appointments are spaced out to minimize the number of people in my waiting room. Patients are told not to come in if they’re sick, and I insist we both be wearing masks (of pretty much any kind at this point). Common-use pens, such as those out in the waiting room, are wiped down with alcohol between uses.

People need to be seen, in both good and bad times. That’s the nature of medicine. But the business of medicine is always there, too. So, as the coronavirus emergency plays out, I have to watch my bank accounts closely.

With only two staff members, there really isn’t anyone extraneous to cut. I’ve stopped taking a paycheck so I can keep paying them, my rent, and the other miscellaneous costs of running an office.

I’ve always taken a bonus only at the end of the year, after all the other accounts have been paid, and take only a modest regular salary. In this case, that’s worked to my advantage, as I had more cash on hand when the emergency started. While not a huge amount, it’s enough to buy me some time, maybe several weeks, to see how this plays out. After that I’d have to tap into a line of credit, which obviously no one wants to do.

Telemedicine and the few office patients I’m seeing are a trickle of revenue. It’s better than nothing, but certainly isn’t enough to keep the door open and lights on.

That said, I’m not ungrateful. I’m well aware how fortunate my practice and family are compared to many others during this time. I haven’t had to ask for a pass on a mortgage or rent payment – yet. My staff and I have been together since 2004. I’m not going to break up a great team now.

I have no idea when things will turn around and people will start to come in. Your guess is as good as mine. I suspect the trickle will slowly increase at some point, then suddenly there will be a surge of calls for appointments from people who’ve been putting off coming in. Even then, though, I’ll likely space appointments apart and keep using a mask until it appears things are stable. There are going to be further waves of infections, and we don’t know how bad they’ll be.

Like everyone else, I can only hope for the best.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

Eventually this strange Twilight Zone world of coronavirus will end and life will return to normal.

But obviously it won’t be the same, and like everyone else I wonder what will be different.

Telemedicine is one obvious change in my world, though I don’t know how much yet (granted, no one else does, either). I’m seeing a handful of people that way, limited to established patients, where we’re discussing chronic issues or reviewing recent test results.

If I have to see a new patient or an established one with an urgent issue, I’m still willing to meet them at my office (wearing masks and washing hands frequently). In neurology, a lot still depends on a decent exam. It’s pretty hard to check reflexes, sensory modalities, and muscle tone over the phone. If you think a malpractice attorney is going to give you a pass because you missed something by not examining a patient because of coronavirus ... think again.

I’m not sure how the whole telemedicine thing will play out after the dust settles, at least not at my little practice. I’m currently seeing patients by FaceTime and Skype, neither of which is considered HIPAA compliant. The requirement has been waived during the crisis to make sure people can still see doctors, but I don’t see it lasting beyond that. Privacy will always be a central concern in medicine.

When they declare the pandemic over and say I can’t use FaceTime or Skype anymore, that will likely end my use of such. While there are HIPAA-compliant telemedicine services out there, in a small practice I don’t have the time or money to invest in them.

I also wonder how outcomes will change. I suspect the research-minded will be analyzing 2019 vs. 2020 data for years to come, trying to see if a sudden increase in telemedicine led to better or worse clinical outcomes. I’ll be curious to see what they find and how it breaks down by disease and specialty.

How will work change? Right now my staff of three (including me) are all working separately from home, handling phone calls as if it were another office day. In today’s era that’s easy to set up, and we’re used to the drill from when I’m out of town.

Maybe in the future, on lighter days, I’ll do this more often, and have my staff work from home (on typically busy days I’ll still need them to check patients in and out, fax things, file charts, and do all the other things they do to keep the practice running). The marked decrease in air pollution is certainly noticeable and good for all. When the year is over I’d like to see how non-coronavirus respiratory issues changed between 2019 and 2020.

Other businesses will be looking at that, too, with an increase in telecommuting. Why pay for a large office space when a lot can be done over the Internet? It saves rent, gas, and driving time. How it will affect us, as a socially-dependent species, I have no idea.

It’s the same with grocery delivery. While most of us will likely continue to shop at stores, many will stay with the ease of delivery services after this. It may cost more, but it certainly saves time.

There will be social changes, although how long they’ll last is anyone’s guess. Grocery baggers, stockers, and delivery staff, often seen as lower-level occupations, are now considered part of critical infrastructure in keeping people supplied with food and other necessities, as well as preventing fights from breaking out in the toilet paper and hand-sanitizer aisles.

I’d like to think that, in a country divided, the need to work together will help bring people of different opinions together again, but from the way things look I don’t see that happening, which is sad because viruses don’t discriminate, so we shouldn’t either in fighting them.

Like with other challenges that we face, big and little, I can only hope that we’ll learn something from this and have a better world after it’s over. Only time will tell.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

Eventually this strange Twilight Zone world of coronavirus will end and life will return to normal.

But obviously it won’t be the same, and like everyone else I wonder what will be different.

Telemedicine is one obvious change in my world, though I don’t know how much yet (granted, no one else does, either). I’m seeing a handful of people that way, limited to established patients, where we’re discussing chronic issues or reviewing recent test results.

If I have to see a new patient or an established one with an urgent issue, I’m still willing to meet them at my office (wearing masks and washing hands frequently). In neurology, a lot still depends on a decent exam. It’s pretty hard to check reflexes, sensory modalities, and muscle tone over the phone. If you think a malpractice attorney is going to give you a pass because you missed something by not examining a patient because of coronavirus ... think again.

I’m not sure how the whole telemedicine thing will play out after the dust settles, at least not at my little practice. I’m currently seeing patients by FaceTime and Skype, neither of which is considered HIPAA compliant. The requirement has been waived during the crisis to make sure people can still see doctors, but I don’t see it lasting beyond that. Privacy will always be a central concern in medicine.

When they declare the pandemic over and say I can’t use FaceTime or Skype anymore, that will likely end my use of such. While there are HIPAA-compliant telemedicine services out there, in a small practice I don’t have the time or money to invest in them.

I also wonder how outcomes will change. I suspect the research-minded will be analyzing 2019 vs. 2020 data for years to come, trying to see if a sudden increase in telemedicine led to better or worse clinical outcomes. I’ll be curious to see what they find and how it breaks down by disease and specialty.

How will work change? Right now my staff of three (including me) are all working separately from home, handling phone calls as if it were another office day. In today’s era that’s easy to set up, and we’re used to the drill from when I’m out of town.

Maybe in the future, on lighter days, I’ll do this more often, and have my staff work from home (on typically busy days I’ll still need them to check patients in and out, fax things, file charts, and do all the other things they do to keep the practice running). The marked decrease in air pollution is certainly noticeable and good for all. When the year is over I’d like to see how non-coronavirus respiratory issues changed between 2019 and 2020.

Other businesses will be looking at that, too, with an increase in telecommuting. Why pay for a large office space when a lot can be done over the Internet? It saves rent, gas, and driving time. How it will affect us, as a socially-dependent species, I have no idea.

It’s the same with grocery delivery. While most of us will likely continue to shop at stores, many will stay with the ease of delivery services after this. It may cost more, but it certainly saves time.

There will be social changes, although how long they’ll last is anyone’s guess. Grocery baggers, stockers, and delivery staff, often seen as lower-level occupations, are now considered part of critical infrastructure in keeping people supplied with food and other necessities, as well as preventing fights from breaking out in the toilet paper and hand-sanitizer aisles.

I’d like to think that, in a country divided, the need to work together will help bring people of different opinions together again, but from the way things look I don’t see that happening, which is sad because viruses don’t discriminate, so we shouldn’t either in fighting them.

Like with other challenges that we face, big and little, I can only hope that we’ll learn something from this and have a better world after it’s over. Only time will tell.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

Eventually this strange Twilight Zone world of coronavirus will end and life will return to normal.

But obviously it won’t be the same, and like everyone else I wonder what will be different.

Telemedicine is one obvious change in my world, though I don’t know how much yet (granted, no one else does, either). I’m seeing a handful of people that way, limited to established patients, where we’re discussing chronic issues or reviewing recent test results.

If I have to see a new patient or an established one with an urgent issue, I’m still willing to meet them at my office (wearing masks and washing hands frequently). In neurology, a lot still depends on a decent exam. It’s pretty hard to check reflexes, sensory modalities, and muscle tone over the phone. If you think a malpractice attorney is going to give you a pass because you missed something by not examining a patient because of coronavirus ... think again.

I’m not sure how the whole telemedicine thing will play out after the dust settles, at least not at my little practice. I’m currently seeing patients by FaceTime and Skype, neither of which is considered HIPAA compliant. The requirement has been waived during the crisis to make sure people can still see doctors, but I don’t see it lasting beyond that. Privacy will always be a central concern in medicine.

When they declare the pandemic over and say I can’t use FaceTime or Skype anymore, that will likely end my use of such. While there are HIPAA-compliant telemedicine services out there, in a small practice I don’t have the time or money to invest in them.

I also wonder how outcomes will change. I suspect the research-minded will be analyzing 2019 vs. 2020 data for years to come, trying to see if a sudden increase in telemedicine led to better or worse clinical outcomes. I’ll be curious to see what they find and how it breaks down by disease and specialty.

How will work change? Right now my staff of three (including me) are all working separately from home, handling phone calls as if it were another office day. In today’s era that’s easy to set up, and we’re used to the drill from when I’m out of town.

Maybe in the future, on lighter days, I’ll do this more often, and have my staff work from home (on typically busy days I’ll still need them to check patients in and out, fax things, file charts, and do all the other things they do to keep the practice running). The marked decrease in air pollution is certainly noticeable and good for all. When the year is over I’d like to see how non-coronavirus respiratory issues changed between 2019 and 2020.

Other businesses will be looking at that, too, with an increase in telecommuting. Why pay for a large office space when a lot can be done over the Internet? It saves rent, gas, and driving time. How it will affect us, as a socially-dependent species, I have no idea.

It’s the same with grocery delivery. While most of us will likely continue to shop at stores, many will stay with the ease of delivery services after this. It may cost more, but it certainly saves time.

There will be social changes, although how long they’ll last is anyone’s guess. Grocery baggers, stockers, and delivery staff, often seen as lower-level occupations, are now considered part of critical infrastructure in keeping people supplied with food and other necessities, as well as preventing fights from breaking out in the toilet paper and hand-sanitizer aisles.

I’d like to think that, in a country divided, the need to work together will help bring people of different opinions together again, but from the way things look I don’t see that happening, which is sad because viruses don’t discriminate, so we shouldn’t either in fighting them.

Like with other challenges that we face, big and little, I can only hope that we’ll learn something from this and have a better world after it’s over. Only time will tell.
 

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

“There is no sound save the throb of the blowers and the vibration of the hard-driven engines. There is little motion as the gun crews man their guns and the fire-control details stand with heads bent and their hands clapped over their headphones. Somewhere out there are the enemy planes.”

That’s from one of my favorite WW2 histories, “Torpedo Junction,” by Robert J. Casey. He was a reporter stationed on board the cruiser USS Salt Lake City. The entry is from a day in February 1942 when the ship was part of a force that bombarded the Japanese encampment on Wake Island. The excerpt describes the scene later that afternoon, as they awaited a counterattack from Japanese planes.

For some reason that paragraph kept going through my mind this past Sunday afternoon, in the comparatively mundane situation of sitting in the hospital library signing off on my dictations and reviewing test results. I certainly was in no danger of being bombed or strafed, yet ...

Around me, the hospital was preparing for battle. As I rounded, most of the beds were empty and many of the floors above me were shut down and darkened. Waiting rooms were empty. If you hadn’t read the news you’d think there was a sudden lull in the health care world.

But the real truth is that it’s the calm before an anticipated storm. The elective procedures have all been canceled. Nonurgent outpatient tests are on hold. Only the sickest are being admitted, and they’re being sent out as soon as possible. Every bed possible is being kept open for the feared onslaught of coronavirus patients in the coming weeks. Protective equipment, already in short supply, is being stockpiled as it becomes available. Plans have been made to erect triage tents in the parking lots. 

I sit in the library and think of this. It’s quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning blowers as Phoenix starts to warm up for another summer. The muted purr of the computer’s hard drive as I click away on the keys. On the floors above me the nurses and respiratory techs and doctors go about their daily business of patient care, wondering when the real battle will begin (probably 2-3 weeks from the time of this writing, if not sooner).

These are scary times. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened about what might happen to me, my family, my friends, my coworkers, my patients.

The people working in the hospital above me are in the same boat, all nervous about what’s going to happen. None of them is any more immune to coronavirus than the people they’ll be treating.

But, like the crew of the USS Salt Lake City, they’re ready to do their jobs. Because it’s part of what drove each of us into our own part of this field. Because we care and want to help. And health care doesn’t work unless the whole team does.

I respect them all for it. I always have and always will, and now more than ever.

Good luck.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

“There is no sound save the throb of the blowers and the vibration of the hard-driven engines. There is little motion as the gun crews man their guns and the fire-control details stand with heads bent and their hands clapped over their headphones. Somewhere out there are the enemy planes.”

That’s from one of my favorite WW2 histories, “Torpedo Junction,” by Robert J. Casey. He was a reporter stationed on board the cruiser USS Salt Lake City. The entry is from a day in February 1942 when the ship was part of a force that bombarded the Japanese encampment on Wake Island. The excerpt describes the scene later that afternoon, as they awaited a counterattack from Japanese planes.

For some reason that paragraph kept going through my mind this past Sunday afternoon, in the comparatively mundane situation of sitting in the hospital library signing off on my dictations and reviewing test results. I certainly was in no danger of being bombed or strafed, yet ...

Around me, the hospital was preparing for battle. As I rounded, most of the beds were empty and many of the floors above me were shut down and darkened. Waiting rooms were empty. If you hadn’t read the news you’d think there was a sudden lull in the health care world.

But the real truth is that it’s the calm before an anticipated storm. The elective procedures have all been canceled. Nonurgent outpatient tests are on hold. Only the sickest are being admitted, and they’re being sent out as soon as possible. Every bed possible is being kept open for the feared onslaught of coronavirus patients in the coming weeks. Protective equipment, already in short supply, is being stockpiled as it becomes available. Plans have been made to erect triage tents in the parking lots. 

I sit in the library and think of this. It’s quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning blowers as Phoenix starts to warm up for another summer. The muted purr of the computer’s hard drive as I click away on the keys. On the floors above me the nurses and respiratory techs and doctors go about their daily business of patient care, wondering when the real battle will begin (probably 2-3 weeks from the time of this writing, if not sooner).

These are scary times. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened about what might happen to me, my family, my friends, my coworkers, my patients.

The people working in the hospital above me are in the same boat, all nervous about what’s going to happen. None of them is any more immune to coronavirus than the people they’ll be treating.

But, like the crew of the USS Salt Lake City, they’re ready to do their jobs. Because it’s part of what drove each of us into our own part of this field. Because we care and want to help. And health care doesn’t work unless the whole team does.

I respect them all for it. I always have and always will, and now more than ever.

Good luck.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

“There is no sound save the throb of the blowers and the vibration of the hard-driven engines. There is little motion as the gun crews man their guns and the fire-control details stand with heads bent and their hands clapped over their headphones. Somewhere out there are the enemy planes.”

That’s from one of my favorite WW2 histories, “Torpedo Junction,” by Robert J. Casey. He was a reporter stationed on board the cruiser USS Salt Lake City. The entry is from a day in February 1942 when the ship was part of a force that bombarded the Japanese encampment on Wake Island. The excerpt describes the scene later that afternoon, as they awaited a counterattack from Japanese planes.

For some reason that paragraph kept going through my mind this past Sunday afternoon, in the comparatively mundane situation of sitting in the hospital library signing off on my dictations and reviewing test results. I certainly was in no danger of being bombed or strafed, yet ...

Around me, the hospital was preparing for battle. As I rounded, most of the beds were empty and many of the floors above me were shut down and darkened. Waiting rooms were empty. If you hadn’t read the news you’d think there was a sudden lull in the health care world.

But the real truth is that it’s the calm before an anticipated storm. The elective procedures have all been canceled. Nonurgent outpatient tests are on hold. Only the sickest are being admitted, and they’re being sent out as soon as possible. Every bed possible is being kept open for the feared onslaught of coronavirus patients in the coming weeks. Protective equipment, already in short supply, is being stockpiled as it becomes available. Plans have been made to erect triage tents in the parking lots. 

I sit in the library and think of this. It’s quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning blowers as Phoenix starts to warm up for another summer. The muted purr of the computer’s hard drive as I click away on the keys. On the floors above me the nurses and respiratory techs and doctors go about their daily business of patient care, wondering when the real battle will begin (probably 2-3 weeks from the time of this writing, if not sooner).

These are scary times. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened about what might happen to me, my family, my friends, my coworkers, my patients.

The people working in the hospital above me are in the same boat, all nervous about what’s going to happen. None of them is any more immune to coronavirus than the people they’ll be treating.

But, like the crew of the USS Salt Lake City, they’re ready to do their jobs. Because it’s part of what drove each of us into our own part of this field. Because we care and want to help. And health care doesn’t work unless the whole team does.

I respect them all for it. I always have and always will, and now more than ever.

Good luck.

Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz. He has no relevant disclosures.

As of this morning, March 19, 2020, I’m still working.

Granted, there aren’t a lot of people who want to come in. My schedule has dropped to 3-5 follow-ups per day and no new patients.

I can understand people not wanting to expose themselves unnecessarily right now.

But, I’m still a doctor. What drove me to study for the MCAT, apply to med school 2 years in a row, and then survive medical school, internship, residency, and fellowship ... is still there.

Like I said in my 1987 personal statement, I still want to help people. I’d feel remiss if (provided I don’t have COVID-19) I didn’t show up for work each day, ready to care for any who need me. It’s part of who I am, what I do, and what I believe in.

I’m sure my colleagues in family practice, internal medicine, and pulmonology are swamped right now, but neurologists with primarily outpatient practices are taking a back seat except for a handful of patients.

My small office has been set up for my staff to work remotely in a pinch since 2016, so that was easy to enact. The three of us cover the phones the way we always have, and I see patients here.

With the relaxing of telehealth requirements for Medicare that were announced on March 17, I’m setting up to “see” patients remotely.

The whole situation seems bizarre and surreal.

It’s easy for anyone to read too much into anything. A brief tickle in my throat when I wake up, or a sneeze, or a few coughs, suddenly trigger a flurry of “could I have it?” thoughts. Fortunately, they fade when things quickly return to normal, but a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have thought anything of them at all.

Inevitably, I and pretty much everyone else will be exposed to or catch the virus. It’s what virions do. Unless you absolutely isolate yourself on a desert island, it will happen. When it does, you can only hope for the best.

I’m here for my patients today and will be as long as they need me. Unless I have to go into quarantine, of course. And even then, if able, I’ll do the best I can to treat them remotely.

That’s all I could ever want.
 

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

As of this morning, March 19, 2020, I’m still working.

Granted, there aren’t a lot of people who want to come in. My schedule has dropped to 3-5 follow-ups per day and no new patients.

I can understand people not wanting to expose themselves unnecessarily right now.

But, I’m still a doctor. What drove me to study for the MCAT, apply to med school 2 years in a row, and then survive medical school, internship, residency, and fellowship ... is still there.

Like I said in my 1987 personal statement, I still want to help people. I’d feel remiss if (provided I don’t have COVID-19) I didn’t show up for work each day, ready to care for any who need me. It’s part of who I am, what I do, and what I believe in.

I’m sure my colleagues in family practice, internal medicine, and pulmonology are swamped right now, but neurologists with primarily outpatient practices are taking a back seat except for a handful of patients.

My small office has been set up for my staff to work remotely in a pinch since 2016, so that was easy to enact. The three of us cover the phones the way we always have, and I see patients here.

With the relaxing of telehealth requirements for Medicare that were announced on March 17, I’m setting up to “see” patients remotely.

The whole situation seems bizarre and surreal.

It’s easy for anyone to read too much into anything. A brief tickle in my throat when I wake up, or a sneeze, or a few coughs, suddenly trigger a flurry of “could I have it?” thoughts. Fortunately, they fade when things quickly return to normal, but a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have thought anything of them at all.

Inevitably, I and pretty much everyone else will be exposed to or catch the virus. It’s what virions do. Unless you absolutely isolate yourself on a desert island, it will happen. When it does, you can only hope for the best.

I’m here for my patients today and will be as long as they need me. Unless I have to go into quarantine, of course. And even then, if able, I’ll do the best I can to treat them remotely.

That’s all I could ever want.
 

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

As of this morning, March 19, 2020, I’m still working.

Granted, there aren’t a lot of people who want to come in. My schedule has dropped to 3-5 follow-ups per day and no new patients.

I can understand people not wanting to expose themselves unnecessarily right now.

But, I’m still a doctor. What drove me to study for the MCAT, apply to med school 2 years in a row, and then survive medical school, internship, residency, and fellowship ... is still there.

Like I said in my 1987 personal statement, I still want to help people. I’d feel remiss if (provided I don’t have COVID-19) I didn’t show up for work each day, ready to care for any who need me. It’s part of who I am, what I do, and what I believe in.

I’m sure my colleagues in family practice, internal medicine, and pulmonology are swamped right now, but neurologists with primarily outpatient practices are taking a back seat except for a handful of patients.

My small office has been set up for my staff to work remotely in a pinch since 2016, so that was easy to enact. The three of us cover the phones the way we always have, and I see patients here.

With the relaxing of telehealth requirements for Medicare that were announced on March 17, I’m setting up to “see” patients remotely.

The whole situation seems bizarre and surreal.

It’s easy for anyone to read too much into anything. A brief tickle in my throat when I wake up, or a sneeze, or a few coughs, suddenly trigger a flurry of “could I have it?” thoughts. Fortunately, they fade when things quickly return to normal, but a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have thought anything of them at all.

Inevitably, I and pretty much everyone else will be exposed to or catch the virus. It’s what virions do. Unless you absolutely isolate yourself on a desert island, it will happen. When it does, you can only hope for the best.

I’m here for my patients today and will be as long as they need me. Unless I have to go into quarantine, of course. And even then, if able, I’ll do the best I can to treat them remotely.

That’s all I could ever want.
 

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

Recently, a study in the Journal of the American Heart Association found that taking statins and blood pressure medications doesn’t lead to healthier lifestyles.

copyright Jeffrey Hamilton/Thinkstock

This should surprise no one practicing medicine today. With absolutely no scientific data to back up the next statement, I’m willing to bet a study on oral antiglycemics for type 2 diabetes would yield similar results.

The problem here is that these drugs don’t change human nature, and I’m not belittling their ability to reduce morbidity and mortality.

Developed nations nowadays live in a world of plenty. For most of us, there’s not only no shortage of food options, but the majority of what’s out there is the worst stuff for your health. Salty, dense calories, high-fat, sweetened – for most of us that’s a normal day of eating. It tastes good. Two million years of evolution have programmed us to eat similar stuff because in the wild it sustains survival.

In the city and suburbs, however, that’s not the case.

Food manufacturers make it and stores sell it because, quite bluntly, it makes money. The profit margin for unhealthy stuff is higher than that for fruits and vegetables. If you’re trying to run a successful business, which one would you choose to sell?

As long as people are going to eat unhealthy stuff, others will sell it to them. All the medical breakthroughs in the world won’t change that.

Same with exercise. Some people love to exercise. Some people catch the bug to do it consistently. But most try for a few weeks, usually in January-February, then give up because they don’t have time, or the will, or both.

Medical breakthroughs won’t fix that, either.

There’s also, I suspect, a component of misplaced faith in modern medicine. Like the mysterious “anti-calories” in a can of diet soda. You really do encounter people who think that drinking a diet soda and having a slice of chocolate cake will cancel each other out. Any doctor or nutritionist will scoff at this, but it’s amazing how many people think that doing one good thing (health wise) means you can equally do one bad thing at no penalty. Humans love magical thinking like that.

Unintentionally, the medications contribute to this belief. People figure if they’re lowering blood sugar or lipids, maybe they can eat more steak and ice cream. That’s an unintended consequence of modern medicine. It’s not even limited to nonmedical people. When Lipitor came to market in the late 1990s, one of my attendings called it “a license to eat.” Sadly, as the new study proves, he wasn’t that far from the truth.

People want an easy cure. A pill that makes it all better. That’s human nature. But the real problem, for all the great work we’ve done in medications, is that many patients don’t want to be an active participant in their own care. Exercising and maintaining a healthy diet are hard work, in spite of all the evidence showing their benefits (especially when combined with modern medicine, which is the whole idea in the first place). So it’s much easier for them to place all the responsibility on doctors and medications, and just take a simple pill to fix everything.

As this study shows, it doesn’t work that way.
 

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

Recently, a study in the Journal of the American Heart Association found that taking statins and blood pressure medications doesn’t lead to healthier lifestyles.

copyright Jeffrey Hamilton/Thinkstock

This should surprise no one practicing medicine today. With absolutely no scientific data to back up the next statement, I’m willing to bet a study on oral antiglycemics for type 2 diabetes would yield similar results.

The problem here is that these drugs don’t change human nature, and I’m not belittling their ability to reduce morbidity and mortality.

Developed nations nowadays live in a world of plenty. For most of us, there’s not only no shortage of food options, but the majority of what’s out there is the worst stuff for your health. Salty, dense calories, high-fat, sweetened – for most of us that’s a normal day of eating. It tastes good. Two million years of evolution have programmed us to eat similar stuff because in the wild it sustains survival.

In the city and suburbs, however, that’s not the case.

Food manufacturers make it and stores sell it because, quite bluntly, it makes money. The profit margin for unhealthy stuff is higher than that for fruits and vegetables. If you’re trying to run a successful business, which one would you choose to sell?

As long as people are going to eat unhealthy stuff, others will sell it to them. All the medical breakthroughs in the world won’t change that.

Same with exercise. Some people love to exercise. Some people catch the bug to do it consistently. But most try for a few weeks, usually in January-February, then give up because they don’t have time, or the will, or both.

Medical breakthroughs won’t fix that, either.

There’s also, I suspect, a component of misplaced faith in modern medicine. Like the mysterious “anti-calories” in a can of diet soda. You really do encounter people who think that drinking a diet soda and having a slice of chocolate cake will cancel each other out. Any doctor or nutritionist will scoff at this, but it’s amazing how many people think that doing one good thing (health wise) means you can equally do one bad thing at no penalty. Humans love magical thinking like that.

Unintentionally, the medications contribute to this belief. People figure if they’re lowering blood sugar or lipids, maybe they can eat more steak and ice cream. That’s an unintended consequence of modern medicine. It’s not even limited to nonmedical people. When Lipitor came to market in the late 1990s, one of my attendings called it “a license to eat.” Sadly, as the new study proves, he wasn’t that far from the truth.

People want an easy cure. A pill that makes it all better. That’s human nature. But the real problem, for all the great work we’ve done in medications, is that many patients don’t want to be an active participant in their own care. Exercising and maintaining a healthy diet are hard work, in spite of all the evidence showing their benefits (especially when combined with modern medicine, which is the whole idea in the first place). So it’s much easier for them to place all the responsibility on doctors and medications, and just take a simple pill to fix everything.

As this study shows, it doesn’t work that way.
 

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

Recently, a study in the Journal of the American Heart Association found that taking statins and blood pressure medications doesn’t lead to healthier lifestyles.

copyright Jeffrey Hamilton/Thinkstock

This should surprise no one practicing medicine today. With absolutely no scientific data to back up the next statement, I’m willing to bet a study on oral antiglycemics for type 2 diabetes would yield similar results.

The problem here is that these drugs don’t change human nature, and I’m not belittling their ability to reduce morbidity and mortality.

Developed nations nowadays live in a world of plenty. For most of us, there’s not only no shortage of food options, but the majority of what’s out there is the worst stuff for your health. Salty, dense calories, high-fat, sweetened – for most of us that’s a normal day of eating. It tastes good. Two million years of evolution have programmed us to eat similar stuff because in the wild it sustains survival.

In the city and suburbs, however, that’s not the case.

Food manufacturers make it and stores sell it because, quite bluntly, it makes money. The profit margin for unhealthy stuff is higher than that for fruits and vegetables. If you’re trying to run a successful business, which one would you choose to sell?

As long as people are going to eat unhealthy stuff, others will sell it to them. All the medical breakthroughs in the world won’t change that.

Same with exercise. Some people love to exercise. Some people catch the bug to do it consistently. But most try for a few weeks, usually in January-February, then give up because they don’t have time, or the will, or both.

Medical breakthroughs won’t fix that, either.

There’s also, I suspect, a component of misplaced faith in modern medicine. Like the mysterious “anti-calories” in a can of diet soda. You really do encounter people who think that drinking a diet soda and having a slice of chocolate cake will cancel each other out. Any doctor or nutritionist will scoff at this, but it’s amazing how many people think that doing one good thing (health wise) means you can equally do one bad thing at no penalty. Humans love magical thinking like that.

Unintentionally, the medications contribute to this belief. People figure if they’re lowering blood sugar or lipids, maybe they can eat more steak and ice cream. That’s an unintended consequence of modern medicine. It’s not even limited to nonmedical people. When Lipitor came to market in the late 1990s, one of my attendings called it “a license to eat.” Sadly, as the new study proves, he wasn’t that far from the truth.

People want an easy cure. A pill that makes it all better. That’s human nature. But the real problem, for all the great work we’ve done in medications, is that many patients don’t want to be an active participant in their own care. Exercising and maintaining a healthy diet are hard work, in spite of all the evidence showing their benefits (especially when combined with modern medicine, which is the whole idea in the first place). So it’s much easier for them to place all the responsibility on doctors and medications, and just take a simple pill to fix everything.

As this study shows, it doesn’t work that way.
 

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

This is a lot of paper.

It’s not a chart. Or mortgage forms. Or Family and Medical Leave Act paperwork.

It’s a research protocol for a study I’m involved in.

Now, I understand that research needs detailed protocols. It’s serious business, and when it’s happening at multiple sites they all need to know exactly what the plan is, what steps should be followed, who qualifies and who doesn’t, and so on.

But here’s what irritates me: That huge pile showed up at my office about an hour after all of the same documents were delivered to me by email, as PDFs.

Not only that, but someone had paid a messenger service to get them to me promptly. When I asked why I was told “because it’s the protocol that each site have both paper and digital copies.”

I don’t understand this at all. To me, the whole thing seems pretty wasteful on multiple levels. I’m told there are 28 sites for this study, so there’s a minimum stack of 28 times that one involved. Of course, each site probably has three to five copies (at least). Then, if the protocol is amended in a few months ... you get the idea.

To me this seems ridiculously wasteful. That’s a lot of paper and ink and shipping charges. If the whole thing can be sent digitally for a lot less money, why are they requiring both? If they need a signed signature sheet saying I read it, why not just print up that sheet? It’s one page instead of a huge pile. If I can digitally sign a document to refinance my house, why can’t I do it to acknowledge reading the protocol? I’m more likely to read study data on my iPad, anyway.

Not only that, now I have to store that stack in my office for several years, in spite of also having it on my hard drive.

Obviously, this is just a fraction of research costs, but it’s still money wasted.

The environmental issues of trees, water to make paper, the ink cartridges, and fuel to transport documents are all there, too. I could certainly go on.

I guess the overlying problem is that we’re still between two worlds (paper and digital) and, in spite of the marked shift to the latter, many are still insisting we try to live in both. At some point it gets silly. And costly.

I’m sure we won’t become completely paperless in my career, but there are plenty of ways we can eliminate its often-unnecessary overhead. Money is just the most obvious one.

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

This is a lot of paper.

It’s not a chart. Or mortgage forms. Or Family and Medical Leave Act paperwork.

It’s a research protocol for a study I’m involved in.

Now, I understand that research needs detailed protocols. It’s serious business, and when it’s happening at multiple sites they all need to know exactly what the plan is, what steps should be followed, who qualifies and who doesn’t, and so on.

But here’s what irritates me: That huge pile showed up at my office about an hour after all of the same documents were delivered to me by email, as PDFs.

Not only that, but someone had paid a messenger service to get them to me promptly. When I asked why I was told “because it’s the protocol that each site have both paper and digital copies.”

I don’t understand this at all. To me, the whole thing seems pretty wasteful on multiple levels. I’m told there are 28 sites for this study, so there’s a minimum stack of 28 times that one involved. Of course, each site probably has three to five copies (at least). Then, if the protocol is amended in a few months ... you get the idea.

To me this seems ridiculously wasteful. That’s a lot of paper and ink and shipping charges. If the whole thing can be sent digitally for a lot less money, why are they requiring both? If they need a signed signature sheet saying I read it, why not just print up that sheet? It’s one page instead of a huge pile. If I can digitally sign a document to refinance my house, why can’t I do it to acknowledge reading the protocol? I’m more likely to read study data on my iPad, anyway.

Not only that, now I have to store that stack in my office for several years, in spite of also having it on my hard drive.

Obviously, this is just a fraction of research costs, but it’s still money wasted.

The environmental issues of trees, water to make paper, the ink cartridges, and fuel to transport documents are all there, too. I could certainly go on.

I guess the overlying problem is that we’re still between two worlds (paper and digital) and, in spite of the marked shift to the latter, many are still insisting we try to live in both. At some point it gets silly. And costly.

I’m sure we won’t become completely paperless in my career, but there are plenty of ways we can eliminate its often-unnecessary overhead. Money is just the most obvious one.

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

This is a lot of paper.

It’s not a chart. Or mortgage forms. Or Family and Medical Leave Act paperwork.

It’s a research protocol for a study I’m involved in.

Now, I understand that research needs detailed protocols. It’s serious business, and when it’s happening at multiple sites they all need to know exactly what the plan is, what steps should be followed, who qualifies and who doesn’t, and so on.

But here’s what irritates me: That huge pile showed up at my office about an hour after all of the same documents were delivered to me by email, as PDFs.

Not only that, but someone had paid a messenger service to get them to me promptly. When I asked why I was told “because it’s the protocol that each site have both paper and digital copies.”

I don’t understand this at all. To me, the whole thing seems pretty wasteful on multiple levels. I’m told there are 28 sites for this study, so there’s a minimum stack of 28 times that one involved. Of course, each site probably has three to five copies (at least). Then, if the protocol is amended in a few months ... you get the idea.

To me this seems ridiculously wasteful. That’s a lot of paper and ink and shipping charges. If the whole thing can be sent digitally for a lot less money, why are they requiring both? If they need a signed signature sheet saying I read it, why not just print up that sheet? It’s one page instead of a huge pile. If I can digitally sign a document to refinance my house, why can’t I do it to acknowledge reading the protocol? I’m more likely to read study data on my iPad, anyway.

Not only that, now I have to store that stack in my office for several years, in spite of also having it on my hard drive.

Obviously, this is just a fraction of research costs, but it’s still money wasted.

The environmental issues of trees, water to make paper, the ink cartridges, and fuel to transport documents are all there, too. I could certainly go on.

I guess the overlying problem is that we’re still between two worlds (paper and digital) and, in spite of the marked shift to the latter, many are still insisting we try to live in both. At some point it gets silly. And costly.

I’m sure we won’t become completely paperless in my career, but there are plenty of ways we can eliminate its often-unnecessary overhead. Money is just the most obvious one.

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

I was surprised when the name came up on my hospital census as a new consult.

andresr/Getty Images

Many years ago he’d been one of my attendings in residency. Someone I’d trained under. He’d been patient, almost grandfatherly, in the way he taught residents on his service. Never angry or impatient. I’d genuinely liked him as a person and respected him as a teacher.

And here he was now, a new consult on my daily hospital patient list.

A quick look at his chart brought the irony that I’m the same age now that he was when I worked under him. Time flies.

He didn’t remember me, nor did I expect him to. In my training from 1993 to 1997, I’d only dealt with him directly for a few months here and there. He’d seen a lot of residents come and go over his career.

He was, like me, older now. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t know the name in advance. He was frail now, seemingly smaller than I remembered, his mind and health damaged by his own neurologic issues.

Like all of us, I’ve taken care of other physicians, but this was the first time I’d encountered one of my former teachers in that role, and felt bad that he was in a situation I really couldn’t do much about.

I wrote some orders and moved on to the next consult, but haven’t stopped thinking about him.

Time comes for all of us sooner or later, though it’s never easy to reflect on. I’d certainly do what I could to help him, but was well aware (as I’m sure he was) that there was only so much I could.

When I came back the next day he’d left. At his own insistence, he wanted us to stop what we were doing and opted to be kept comfortable. It was certainly not an easy choice to make for any of us, but in character with the person and physician I still liked and respected.
 

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

I was surprised when the name came up on my hospital census as a new consult.

andresr/Getty Images

Many years ago he’d been one of my attendings in residency. Someone I’d trained under. He’d been patient, almost grandfatherly, in the way he taught residents on his service. Never angry or impatient. I’d genuinely liked him as a person and respected him as a teacher.

And here he was now, a new consult on my daily hospital patient list.

A quick look at his chart brought the irony that I’m the same age now that he was when I worked under him. Time flies.

He didn’t remember me, nor did I expect him to. In my training from 1993 to 1997, I’d only dealt with him directly for a few months here and there. He’d seen a lot of residents come and go over his career.

He was, like me, older now. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t know the name in advance. He was frail now, seemingly smaller than I remembered, his mind and health damaged by his own neurologic issues.

Like all of us, I’ve taken care of other physicians, but this was the first time I’d encountered one of my former teachers in that role, and felt bad that he was in a situation I really couldn’t do much about.

I wrote some orders and moved on to the next consult, but haven’t stopped thinking about him.

Time comes for all of us sooner or later, though it’s never easy to reflect on. I’d certainly do what I could to help him, but was well aware (as I’m sure he was) that there was only so much I could.

When I came back the next day he’d left. At his own insistence, he wanted us to stop what we were doing and opted to be kept comfortable. It was certainly not an easy choice to make for any of us, but in character with the person and physician I still liked and respected.
 

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

I was surprised when the name came up on my hospital census as a new consult.

andresr/Getty Images

Many years ago he’d been one of my attendings in residency. Someone I’d trained under. He’d been patient, almost grandfatherly, in the way he taught residents on his service. Never angry or impatient. I’d genuinely liked him as a person and respected him as a teacher.

And here he was now, a new consult on my daily hospital patient list.

A quick look at his chart brought the irony that I’m the same age now that he was when I worked under him. Time flies.

He didn’t remember me, nor did I expect him to. In my training from 1993 to 1997, I’d only dealt with him directly for a few months here and there. He’d seen a lot of residents come and go over his career.

He was, like me, older now. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t know the name in advance. He was frail now, seemingly smaller than I remembered, his mind and health damaged by his own neurologic issues.

Like all of us, I’ve taken care of other physicians, but this was the first time I’d encountered one of my former teachers in that role, and felt bad that he was in a situation I really couldn’t do much about.

I wrote some orders and moved on to the next consult, but haven’t stopped thinking about him.

Time comes for all of us sooner or later, though it’s never easy to reflect on. I’d certainly do what I could to help him, but was well aware (as I’m sure he was) that there was only so much I could.

When I came back the next day he’d left. At his own insistence, he wanted us to stop what we were doing and opted to be kept comfortable. It was certainly not an easy choice to make for any of us, but in character with the person and physician I still liked and respected.
 

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

In 1982, I went to my first concert. It was Rush, on their “Signals” tour, and I loved it. In fact, I went back and saw them again about a year later. I bought a concert T-shirt at the first one. I still have it somewhere, though I am pretty sure it hasn’t fit me in years.

Weatherman90/Wikimedia Commons/CC BY 3.0

I loved their music before the concert, enjoyed it even more afterwards, and still do. Their albums are all on my computer and phone, and part of the daily soundtrack of my life when working at my desk, driving, and walking (I’m trying to fit back in the shirt).

On Jan. 7, 2020, Neil Peart, the trio’s remarkably gifted drummer, died of a neurologic disease.

According to the news, he had a glioblastoma multiforme, a tumor terrifying for its aggressiveness, difficulty of treatment, and lack of preventable risk factors.

The cost of neurologic disease is terrible. Glioblastoma multiforme, unfortunately, is far from rare, nor is it the only one. In recent times, entertainers afflicted with neurologic disease have included Neil Diamond, Linda Ronstadt, Peter Falk, Glen Campbell, Charlton Heston, Gene Siskel, Michael J. Fox, Stephen Hillenburg, Teri Garr, Annette Funicello, Robin Williams, Dudley Moore, and most recently Ozzy Osbourne.

That’s a pretty short list, too, far from all-encompassing. The majority of people with these disorders won’t be in the news. Their everyday struggles, stories, and losses are known only to family, friends, and the medical team doing its best to help.

Medical technology advances every year. In the 22 years since I began practicing, we’ve made remarkable strides in some areas – multiple sclerosis, for example. But our work in so many other areas is nowhere close. The increasing knowledge as to the mechanisms and causes of Alzheimer’s disease have, to date, failed to translate into treatment success.

That’s not to say we should give up. Far from it. Our species has gotten where we are by always wanting to get over the next hill. Initial failures will always outnumber successes. But when you’re a doctor dealing with the very real human cost of neurologic disease, that’s not much consolation. And it’s far less so for the patients and families affected who come to us for help.

We use terms like “burden” or “cost” to discuss the financial aspects of illness, but they often don’t seem adequate to describe the real effects. The emotional damages. The gifted musicians and loved family members lost. Family members struggling with the difficult role of being care givers.

Neurologic disease doesn’t discriminate against anyone, regardless of age, fame, or talent. I’ll stay here and do my best for all of them who come to me. I’m certainly not on the front line of research. That’s incredibly important, but I’ll leave it to others. My work is where the patients are every day.

Thank you for the music, Neil.

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

In 1982, I went to my first concert. It was Rush, on their “Signals” tour, and I loved it. In fact, I went back and saw them again about a year later. I bought a concert T-shirt at the first one. I still have it somewhere, though I am pretty sure it hasn’t fit me in years.

Weatherman90/Wikimedia Commons/CC BY 3.0

I loved their music before the concert, enjoyed it even more afterwards, and still do. Their albums are all on my computer and phone, and part of the daily soundtrack of my life when working at my desk, driving, and walking (I’m trying to fit back in the shirt).

On Jan. 7, 2020, Neil Peart, the trio’s remarkably gifted drummer, died of a neurologic disease.

According to the news, he had a glioblastoma multiforme, a tumor terrifying for its aggressiveness, difficulty of treatment, and lack of preventable risk factors.

The cost of neurologic disease is terrible. Glioblastoma multiforme, unfortunately, is far from rare, nor is it the only one. In recent times, entertainers afflicted with neurologic disease have included Neil Diamond, Linda Ronstadt, Peter Falk, Glen Campbell, Charlton Heston, Gene Siskel, Michael J. Fox, Stephen Hillenburg, Teri Garr, Annette Funicello, Robin Williams, Dudley Moore, and most recently Ozzy Osbourne.

That’s a pretty short list, too, far from all-encompassing. The majority of people with these disorders won’t be in the news. Their everyday struggles, stories, and losses are known only to family, friends, and the medical team doing its best to help.

Medical technology advances every year. In the 22 years since I began practicing, we’ve made remarkable strides in some areas – multiple sclerosis, for example. But our work in so many other areas is nowhere close. The increasing knowledge as to the mechanisms and causes of Alzheimer’s disease have, to date, failed to translate into treatment success.

That’s not to say we should give up. Far from it. Our species has gotten where we are by always wanting to get over the next hill. Initial failures will always outnumber successes. But when you’re a doctor dealing with the very real human cost of neurologic disease, that’s not much consolation. And it’s far less so for the patients and families affected who come to us for help.

We use terms like “burden” or “cost” to discuss the financial aspects of illness, but they often don’t seem adequate to describe the real effects. The emotional damages. The gifted musicians and loved family members lost. Family members struggling with the difficult role of being care givers.

Neurologic disease doesn’t discriminate against anyone, regardless of age, fame, or talent. I’ll stay here and do my best for all of them who come to me. I’m certainly not on the front line of research. That’s incredibly important, but I’ll leave it to others. My work is where the patients are every day.

Thank you for the music, Neil.

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

In 1982, I went to my first concert. It was Rush, on their “Signals” tour, and I loved it. In fact, I went back and saw them again about a year later. I bought a concert T-shirt at the first one. I still have it somewhere, though I am pretty sure it hasn’t fit me in years.

Weatherman90/Wikimedia Commons/CC BY 3.0

I loved their music before the concert, enjoyed it even more afterwards, and still do. Their albums are all on my computer and phone, and part of the daily soundtrack of my life when working at my desk, driving, and walking (I’m trying to fit back in the shirt).

On Jan. 7, 2020, Neil Peart, the trio’s remarkably gifted drummer, died of a neurologic disease.

According to the news, he had a glioblastoma multiforme, a tumor terrifying for its aggressiveness, difficulty of treatment, and lack of preventable risk factors.

The cost of neurologic disease is terrible. Glioblastoma multiforme, unfortunately, is far from rare, nor is it the only one. In recent times, entertainers afflicted with neurologic disease have included Neil Diamond, Linda Ronstadt, Peter Falk, Glen Campbell, Charlton Heston, Gene Siskel, Michael J. Fox, Stephen Hillenburg, Teri Garr, Annette Funicello, Robin Williams, Dudley Moore, and most recently Ozzy Osbourne.

That’s a pretty short list, too, far from all-encompassing. The majority of people with these disorders won’t be in the news. Their everyday struggles, stories, and losses are known only to family, friends, and the medical team doing its best to help.

Medical technology advances every year. In the 22 years since I began practicing, we’ve made remarkable strides in some areas – multiple sclerosis, for example. But our work in so many other areas is nowhere close. The increasing knowledge as to the mechanisms and causes of Alzheimer’s disease have, to date, failed to translate into treatment success.

That’s not to say we should give up. Far from it. Our species has gotten where we are by always wanting to get over the next hill. Initial failures will always outnumber successes. But when you’re a doctor dealing with the very real human cost of neurologic disease, that’s not much consolation. And it’s far less so for the patients and families affected who come to us for help.

We use terms like “burden” or “cost” to discuss the financial aspects of illness, but they often don’t seem adequate to describe the real effects. The emotional damages. The gifted musicians and loved family members lost. Family members struggling with the difficult role of being care givers.

Neurologic disease doesn’t discriminate against anyone, regardless of age, fame, or talent. I’ll stay here and do my best for all of them who come to me. I’m certainly not on the front line of research. That’s incredibly important, but I’ll leave it to others. My work is where the patients are every day.

Thank you for the music, Neil.

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

Three months is how long I’ll leave a magazine out in my waiting room. When its lobby lifespan is up, I’ll usually recycle it, though sometimes will take it home to read myself when I have down time.

pinkomelet/Thinkstock

Leafing through an accumulated pile of them over the recent holiday break, I was struck by how many carry ads for questionable “cures”: magnetic bracelets for headaches, copper-based topical creams that claim to cure diabetic neuropathy. Another was from a company with something that looks like a standard tanning bed advertising that it has special lights to “alternatively treat cancer.”

How on Earth is this legal?

Seriously. Since college I’ve been through 4 years of medical school, another 5 combined of residency and fellowship, and now 21 years of frontline neurology experience. And if, after all that, I were to start marketing such horse hockey as a cure for anything (besides my wallet), I’d be hounded by the Food and Drug Administration and state board and probably driven out of practice.

Yet, people with no “real” (science-based) medical treatment experience are free to market this stuff to a public who, for the most part, don’t have the training, knowledge, or experience to know it’s a crock.

I’m sure some of the people selling this stuff really believe they’re helping. Admittedly, there are a lot of things we don’t know in medicine. But anything that’s making such claims should have real evidence – like a large double-blind, placebo-controlled trial – behind it. Not anecdotal reports, small uncontrolled trials, and patient testimonials. The placebo effect is remarkably strong.

There are also some selling this stuff who are less than scrupulous. They’ll claim to have good intentions, but are well aware they’re bilking people – often desperate – out of their savings. They’re no better than the doctors who make headlines for Medicare and insurance fraud by performing unnecessary surgeries and billing for medications that weren’t given.

Either way, the point is the same. Unproven treatments are just that – unproven – and shouldn’t be marketed as effective ones. If it works, let the evidence prove it. But if it doesn’t, no one should be promoting it to anyone, regardless of how long (and where) they went to school.

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

Three months is how long I’ll leave a magazine out in my waiting room. When its lobby lifespan is up, I’ll usually recycle it, though sometimes will take it home to read myself when I have down time.

pinkomelet/Thinkstock

Leafing through an accumulated pile of them over the recent holiday break, I was struck by how many carry ads for questionable “cures”: magnetic bracelets for headaches, copper-based topical creams that claim to cure diabetic neuropathy. Another was from a company with something that looks like a standard tanning bed advertising that it has special lights to “alternatively treat cancer.”

How on Earth is this legal?

Seriously. Since college I’ve been through 4 years of medical school, another 5 combined of residency and fellowship, and now 21 years of frontline neurology experience. And if, after all that, I were to start marketing such horse hockey as a cure for anything (besides my wallet), I’d be hounded by the Food and Drug Administration and state board and probably driven out of practice.

Yet, people with no “real” (science-based) medical treatment experience are free to market this stuff to a public who, for the most part, don’t have the training, knowledge, or experience to know it’s a crock.

I’m sure some of the people selling this stuff really believe they’re helping. Admittedly, there are a lot of things we don’t know in medicine. But anything that’s making such claims should have real evidence – like a large double-blind, placebo-controlled trial – behind it. Not anecdotal reports, small uncontrolled trials, and patient testimonials. The placebo effect is remarkably strong.

There are also some selling this stuff who are less than scrupulous. They’ll claim to have good intentions, but are well aware they’re bilking people – often desperate – out of their savings. They’re no better than the doctors who make headlines for Medicare and insurance fraud by performing unnecessary surgeries and billing for medications that weren’t given.

Either way, the point is the same. Unproven treatments are just that – unproven – and shouldn’t be marketed as effective ones. If it works, let the evidence prove it. But if it doesn’t, no one should be promoting it to anyone, regardless of how long (and where) they went to school.

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

Three months is how long I’ll leave a magazine out in my waiting room. When its lobby lifespan is up, I’ll usually recycle it, though sometimes will take it home to read myself when I have down time.

pinkomelet/Thinkstock

Leafing through an accumulated pile of them over the recent holiday break, I was struck by how many carry ads for questionable “cures”: magnetic bracelets for headaches, copper-based topical creams that claim to cure diabetic neuropathy. Another was from a company with something that looks like a standard tanning bed advertising that it has special lights to “alternatively treat cancer.”

How on Earth is this legal?

Seriously. Since college I’ve been through 4 years of medical school, another 5 combined of residency and fellowship, and now 21 years of frontline neurology experience. And if, after all that, I were to start marketing such horse hockey as a cure for anything (besides my wallet), I’d be hounded by the Food and Drug Administration and state board and probably driven out of practice.

Yet, people with no “real” (science-based) medical treatment experience are free to market this stuff to a public who, for the most part, don’t have the training, knowledge, or experience to know it’s a crock.

I’m sure some of the people selling this stuff really believe they’re helping. Admittedly, there are a lot of things we don’t know in medicine. But anything that’s making such claims should have real evidence – like a large double-blind, placebo-controlled trial – behind it. Not anecdotal reports, small uncontrolled trials, and patient testimonials. The placebo effect is remarkably strong.

There are also some selling this stuff who are less than scrupulous. They’ll claim to have good intentions, but are well aware they’re bilking people – often desperate – out of their savings. They’re no better than the doctors who make headlines for Medicare and insurance fraud by performing unnecessary surgeries and billing for medications that weren’t given.

Either way, the point is the same. Unproven treatments are just that – unproven – and shouldn’t be marketed as effective ones. If it works, let the evidence prove it. But if it doesn’t, no one should be promoting it to anyone, regardless of how long (and where) they went to school.

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

Years ago, I wrote about patient poaching – the practice of stealing another practice’s patients without the patient or other physician realizing what’s going on.

©moodboard/Fotolia.com

This is high on the dirty tricks list of some practices. It’s certainly not illegal, but seems pretty unethical. Fortunately, it’s infrequent (at least where I work), but still occurs.

Recently, I encountered a particularly egregious example.

One of my patients, a nice lady in her 70s, had a syncopal event and landed in a hospital I don’t cover. A neurologist who saw her there did a brain MRI and head/neck MR angiogram, which were fine. A cardiology evaluation was also fine, so she was sent home. The neurologist there told her to follow-up with him at his office.

As my nurse says, “some people just do whatever they’re told, they don’t want to make a doctor angry.” So my patient did, and at the other doctor’s office had a four-limb electromyogram test and nerve conduction study, carotid Dopplers, transcranial Dopplers, and an EEG. He also made changes in her medications.

The first time I found out about it was when the patient scheduled an unrelated procedure, and I got a clearance request to take her off a medication in advance of it. Since I hadn’t started her on the medication (or was even aware she was on it) I refused, saying they’d have to contact the physician who prescribed it.

This got back to the patient, who was under the impression I’d been aware of all this the whole time, and she called the other neurologist to have his records sent to me.

When I got them, I was surprised to find he’d documented that I’d asked him to assume her outpatient care and do these studies for me. I have no recollection of such a conversation, and I would not have agreed to such a thing unless the patient had informed me she was transferring care to him (in which case it’s no longer my concern). Unless I was in a coma at the time this conversation occurred, I’m pretty sure it didn’t happen.

Basically, what the other doctor did was perform a walletectomy (or, in this case insurance-ectomy) on the patient under the guise (to her) that he was doing this as a favor to me.

How do you look yourself in mirror each day when you do stuff like this? Apparently, it’s easier for some doctors than it is for me.

I’ll do my best to keep it that way, too. I can’t change others, but I can do my best to take the high road.
 

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

Years ago, I wrote about patient poaching – the practice of stealing another practice’s patients without the patient or other physician realizing what’s going on.

©moodboard/Fotolia.com

This is high on the dirty tricks list of some practices. It’s certainly not illegal, but seems pretty unethical. Fortunately, it’s infrequent (at least where I work), but still occurs.

Recently, I encountered a particularly egregious example.

One of my patients, a nice lady in her 70s, had a syncopal event and landed in a hospital I don’t cover. A neurologist who saw her there did a brain MRI and head/neck MR angiogram, which were fine. A cardiology evaluation was also fine, so she was sent home. The neurologist there told her to follow-up with him at his office.

As my nurse says, “some people just do whatever they’re told, they don’t want to make a doctor angry.” So my patient did, and at the other doctor’s office had a four-limb electromyogram test and nerve conduction study, carotid Dopplers, transcranial Dopplers, and an EEG. He also made changes in her medications.

The first time I found out about it was when the patient scheduled an unrelated procedure, and I got a clearance request to take her off a medication in advance of it. Since I hadn’t started her on the medication (or was even aware she was on it) I refused, saying they’d have to contact the physician who prescribed it.

This got back to the patient, who was under the impression I’d been aware of all this the whole time, and she called the other neurologist to have his records sent to me.

When I got them, I was surprised to find he’d documented that I’d asked him to assume her outpatient care and do these studies for me. I have no recollection of such a conversation, and I would not have agreed to such a thing unless the patient had informed me she was transferring care to him (in which case it’s no longer my concern). Unless I was in a coma at the time this conversation occurred, I’m pretty sure it didn’t happen.

Basically, what the other doctor did was perform a walletectomy (or, in this case insurance-ectomy) on the patient under the guise (to her) that he was doing this as a favor to me.

How do you look yourself in mirror each day when you do stuff like this? Apparently, it’s easier for some doctors than it is for me.

I’ll do my best to keep it that way, too. I can’t change others, but I can do my best to take the high road.
 

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

Years ago, I wrote about patient poaching – the practice of stealing another practice’s patients without the patient or other physician realizing what’s going on.

©moodboard/Fotolia.com

This is high on the dirty tricks list of some practices. It’s certainly not illegal, but seems pretty unethical. Fortunately, it’s infrequent (at least where I work), but still occurs.

Recently, I encountered a particularly egregious example.

One of my patients, a nice lady in her 70s, had a syncopal event and landed in a hospital I don’t cover. A neurologist who saw her there did a brain MRI and head/neck MR angiogram, which were fine. A cardiology evaluation was also fine, so she was sent home. The neurologist there told her to follow-up with him at his office.

As my nurse says, “some people just do whatever they’re told, they don’t want to make a doctor angry.” So my patient did, and at the other doctor’s office had a four-limb electromyogram test and nerve conduction study, carotid Dopplers, transcranial Dopplers, and an EEG. He also made changes in her medications.

The first time I found out about it was when the patient scheduled an unrelated procedure, and I got a clearance request to take her off a medication in advance of it. Since I hadn’t started her on the medication (or was even aware she was on it) I refused, saying they’d have to contact the physician who prescribed it.

This got back to the patient, who was under the impression I’d been aware of all this the whole time, and she called the other neurologist to have his records sent to me.

When I got them, I was surprised to find he’d documented that I’d asked him to assume her outpatient care and do these studies for me. I have no recollection of such a conversation, and I would not have agreed to such a thing unless the patient had informed me she was transferring care to him (in which case it’s no longer my concern). Unless I was in a coma at the time this conversation occurred, I’m pretty sure it didn’t happen.

Basically, what the other doctor did was perform a walletectomy (or, in this case insurance-ectomy) on the patient under the guise (to her) that he was doing this as a favor to me.

How do you look yourself in mirror each day when you do stuff like this? Apparently, it’s easier for some doctors than it is for me.

I’ll do my best to keep it that way, too. I can’t change others, but I can do my best to take the high road.
 

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