Friday, July 3, 2015
After we exchanged common pleasantries, we jumped into local politics. We were hungry for news. Battle worn and weary, we were searching for signs the tide was starting to turn. The gossip was mostly pessimistic, but I saw a glimmer in his eye as he abandoned his screen and turned to face me.
I bet you haven't heard about...(fill in the name of your favorite academic medical center).
He was exited now. The words came from his mouth faster than the keystrokes that disdainfully filled the electronic medical record that had become his slave master. An academic center had taken over a hospital, and felt that it had every right to bully the large allied medical group. The physicians, tired of being pushed around, silently vowed to steer their admissions to a local competitor. Months later, the academic center was on it's knees with empty beds and an angry community to boot.
We both basked in the glow momentarily before returning to our respective tasks. Although we wanted to go back home to our families, there remained a need to share a fleeting moment with someone who could relate. Someone who could understand.
And I imagine that conversations like these are taking place across the country where physicians congregate: hospitals, clinics, and doctor's lounges.
Meaningful Use, EHR, PQRS, ACA, ACO, Value, Quality, Patient centered Medical Home, Medicare Fraud, The Physician Sunshine Act.
A once humble profession is struggling desperately to find it's soul.
I find it rather disconcerting that a decade ago, colleagues used to revel in a recent save, discuss a difficult prognostic dilemma, or brag about a diagnosis of a rare ailment when happenstance caused their paths to cross in the middle of the night.
But now, now all we talk about is sticking it to the man.
And I wonder how those, at the moment, dying to find appropriate medical care,
are feeling about this.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 6:56 AM
Monday, June 29, 2015
There is nothing truly original in the world.
I ease off the gas pedal of my already outdated hybrid Prius.
My job will eventually fall prey to a computer named Watson. My practice will be gobbled up by the nearest Goliath medical center as history scoffs at the arthritic physician bending over a doorbell with leather bag in hand.
There is no flash of glory here. No smart technology.
The echo vibrates through cracks in the sidewalk and drags me unwillingly forward to the unkempt house at the end of the block.
Adapt or perish.
I open the door without knocking and find a decrepit figure slumped into a reclining chair in front of the television. His car keys were long ago taken by some relative or another. He waits for nothing in particular. Scraps of food have been left on the side table by a home health aid.
There are memories of being gainfully employed. Road trips across barren lands and such. His son is now grown up and makes decisions on his behalf. A nursing home is a far safer environment than this empty old house.
My visits to the end of the road are numbered.
Old is replaced by new.
Utility and functionality apparently are relative terms.
And by and by something is lost.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 5:59 PM
Thursday, June 4, 2015
My patient later told me that the exam was exhaustive. The PA, who incidentally graduated school the day before and had never seen an actual patient as a licensed practitioner, poked and prodded the ninety year old woman for over an hour. He asked her about drugs and sexually transmitted diseases. He examined every joint and performed a Babinski test.
A few days later I received a call from him. He tried to leave a message with my secretary, but I intercepted the call.
He had two recommendations. He thought I should do a better job of addressing the patient's knee pain. When I asked if he thought it was a result of her polymyalgia, rheumatoid, or osteoarthritis, he had no idea. When I mentioned that the pain had been treated in the past with various medications (and physical therapy) and the patient had stopped them all due to fatigue (even Tylenol), he was surprised. When we discussed that she was in the hospital multiple times for pain control before I met her, and now had avoided hospitalization because of better symptom control, he said he was unaware.
His other recommendation was to start the patient on Detrol for overactive bladder. He, of course, had no idea that her urologist had tried the same thing a few years back and she had become dizzy and broke her hip.
It wasn't the poor PA's fault. There was no way he could have known what I gleaned from a year's worth of hospital, nursing facility, and home visits.
He just didn't know the patient as well as I did.
Which, of course, brings us back to the insurance company. They believe that complex problems can be solved with simple solutions.
Just get some PA to go over there and make recommendations.
Those dumb physicians aren't getting the job done.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 1:45 PM
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Conversations occurred that would be unthinkable if two strangers were to meet in the outside world. I learned of abuse and infidelity, pain and yearning, secret joys and countless regrets. I bore witness to the inner pain and struggles that often were hidden from one's closest friends and family.
People undressed. They replaced their clothes with unflattering gowns. They demonstrated their body parts unabashedly. Pointing to that which looked out of place. Wincing from pain induced by my clumsy touch.
The exam room became a safe zone. A place where judgement was replaced by support and understanding. A place where one's darkest secrets could be revealed but not allowed to consume them.
When I abandoned my traditional practice for home visits, I feared that something important would be lost. I often wondered if there was a certain element of depersonalization that came with such sterile environs. Maybe my patients revealed their inner needs and fears because the institutional setting of the exam room was a sufficient departure from normal life.
Then there was the question of my lab coat. The wizard's frock symbolized a certain otherness that separated me from the rest of society. Again I conjured up visions of a magnificent veil that allowed me special access of a most personal nature.
It's been almost two years now, and I have visited countless homes without the comfort of the exam room nor the lab coat to hide behind. My fears, of course, were completely unfounded.
My patients still tell me their triumphs and tragedies. They still pull their shirts up unashamedly to show me a rash or lump or bump.
And I have come to realize that it was never the sanctity of the exam room nor the long gray coat that droops from my shoulders.
With both great awe and humility,
I have come to the conclusion that it is me.
I am the safe zone.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 3:59 PM
Friday, May 22, 2015
The television above us is playing Ferris Beuller's Day Off. The volume is muted and a radio blares When Doves Cry by Prince. A mother sits in front of us with her two teenage children. A boy and a girl. She mouths the words to the radio as her kids bury their heads in their mobile devices. Her face is animated, and her body sways with the music. I understand. Because that's exactly how my body responds when I am transported back to my childhood.
The woman and her kids leave, and a young college-aged couple takes their place. Their faces are fresh and soft. She blushes as she coyly looks into his eyes. He moves closer when they talk. Their bodies almost touch.
The music on the radio has now changed. Adam Levine is singing Lost Stars. One of my current favorites.
The burger is dressed with chipotle ketchup. The fries have more pepper than salt, and are served with blueberry mayonnaise. The flavors are different than what I grew up with. Yet I like them all the same.
The crowd is heterogeneous. A group of older ladies huddles against a counter in the corner. They talk softly and sip craft beers. My wife and children, sitting beside me, have stopped talking. They are too busy inhaling the delicious food in front of them. A few young kids chat amiably at tables dispersed among the other restaurant goers.
And I realize that I am neither retro or new. I am neither young nor old. I am caught somewhere in the middle.
In the great in-between.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 5:35 PM