Jeffrey Benabio, MD, MBA

I don’t recommend ice baths. Perhaps I should. On my podcast-filled commute, I am reminded for miles of the mental and physical benefits of this revolutionary wellness routine: Cold exposure causes a spike in adrenaline and raises your baseline dopamine, thereby giving you superhuman focus and energy. Goodbye procrastination! Eliminate your ADHD in one icy step! I’m trying to be the fashionable mustached-columnist here so maybe I should get on board.

In fact, a heavyset, similarly-mustached 32-year-old patient just asked if I do ice baths. It was meant as a compliment, I believe. Displaying poise wearing my Chief of Dermatology embroidered white coat in my toddler-art-adorned office, I could hear him thinking: “This doc is legit. On fleek.” (Note, this is an approximation and the patient’s actual thoughts may have varied). We were talking podcasts and he was curious about my daily routine.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now, ice baths probably do have the benefits that Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan, and the others have described, I don’t argue. And the experience is oft described as invigorating with a runner’s high-like euphoria that follows a good dunk. I’ve tried it. I would describe it as “very uncomfortable.” To boot, following icy-cold morning showers, I wasn’t any better able to stave off opening my New York Times app on a newsy day. No, cold water isn’t my jams. But then again, I don’t journal like Marcus Aurelius or sleep on a mattress that keeps my body a chill 97 degrees like an inverse sous vide. If I were asked by Huberman in an interview what I do to be mentally strong, I’d answer, “I clean the pool.”

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

“Here’s how I do it, Dr. Huberman,” I’d say. “First, open the pool cover. Then with a cup with pool water from about 12 inches down, fill these little beakers with water and add a few drops of chemical reagents. Then calculate the ounces of calcium hypochlorite, muriatic acid, and other chemicals to make your pools sparkle. After skimming, take your pool brush and brush the bottom and sides of your pool. Rack your equipment when done and close the cover back up. This exercise takes about 15 minutes.” It’s a mundane task, but ah, there’s the point. Like folding the laundry, weeding the garden, emptying the dishwasher, they can be oh, so gratifying. Each of these has a crisp beginning and end and offer a lovely spot to be present. Let the thoughts flow with each stroke of the brush. Watch the water ripple the surface as you slowly pull the long pole out, dripping 7.4 pH water as you glide it in for the next pass. This is the Benabio secret to success.

BenabioAprilcolumn_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I don’t recommend ice baths. Perhaps I should. On my podcast-filled commute, I am reminded for miles of the mental and physical benefits of this revolutionary wellness routine: Cold exposure causes a spike in adrenaline and raises your baseline dopamine, thereby giving you superhuman focus and energy. Goodbye procrastination! Eliminate your ADHD in one icy step! I’m trying to be the fashionable mustached-columnist here so maybe I should get on board.

In fact, a heavyset, similarly-mustached 32-year-old patient just asked if I do ice baths. It was meant as a compliment, I believe. Displaying poise wearing my Chief of Dermatology embroidered white coat in my toddler-art-adorned office, I could hear him thinking: “This doc is legit. On fleek.” (Note, this is an approximation and the patient’s actual thoughts may have varied). We were talking podcasts and he was curious about my daily routine.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now, ice baths probably do have the benefits that Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan, and the others have described, I don’t argue. And the experience is oft described as invigorating with a runner’s high-like euphoria that follows a good dunk. I’ve tried it. I would describe it as “very uncomfortable.” To boot, following icy-cold morning showers, I wasn’t any better able to stave off opening my New York Times app on a newsy day. No, cold water isn’t my jams. But then again, I don’t journal like Marcus Aurelius or sleep on a mattress that keeps my body a chill 97 degrees like an inverse sous vide. If I were asked by Huberman in an interview what I do to be mentally strong, I’d answer, “I clean the pool.”

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

“Here’s how I do it, Dr. Huberman,” I’d say. “First, open the pool cover. Then with a cup with pool water from about 12 inches down, fill these little beakers with water and add a few drops of chemical reagents. Then calculate the ounces of calcium hypochlorite, muriatic acid, and other chemicals to make your pools sparkle. After skimming, take your pool brush and brush the bottom and sides of your pool. Rack your equipment when done and close the cover back up. This exercise takes about 15 minutes.” It’s a mundane task, but ah, there’s the point. Like folding the laundry, weeding the garden, emptying the dishwasher, they can be oh, so gratifying. Each of these has a crisp beginning and end and offer a lovely spot to be present. Let the thoughts flow with each stroke of the brush. Watch the water ripple the surface as you slowly pull the long pole out, dripping 7.4 pH water as you glide it in for the next pass. This is the Benabio secret to success.

BenabioAprilcolumn_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I don’t recommend ice baths. Perhaps I should. On my podcast-filled commute, I am reminded for miles of the mental and physical benefits of this revolutionary wellness routine: Cold exposure causes a spike in adrenaline and raises your baseline dopamine, thereby giving you superhuman focus and energy. Goodbye procrastination! Eliminate your ADHD in one icy step! I’m trying to be the fashionable mustached-columnist here so maybe I should get on board.

In fact, a heavyset, similarly-mustached 32-year-old patient just asked if I do ice baths. It was meant as a compliment, I believe. Displaying poise wearing my Chief of Dermatology embroidered white coat in my toddler-art-adorned office, I could hear him thinking: “This doc is legit. On fleek.” (Note, this is an approximation and the patient’s actual thoughts may have varied). We were talking podcasts and he was curious about my daily routine.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Now, ice baths probably do have the benefits that Andrew Huberman, Joe Rogan, and the others have described, I don’t argue. And the experience is oft described as invigorating with a runner’s high-like euphoria that follows a good dunk. I’ve tried it. I would describe it as “very uncomfortable.” To boot, following icy-cold morning showers, I wasn’t any better able to stave off opening my New York Times app on a newsy day. No, cold water isn’t my jams. But then again, I don’t journal like Marcus Aurelius or sleep on a mattress that keeps my body a chill 97 degrees like an inverse sous vide. If I were asked by Huberman in an interview what I do to be mentally strong, I’d answer, “I clean the pool.”

[embed:render:related:node:267456]

“Here’s how I do it, Dr. Huberman,” I’d say. “First, open the pool cover. Then with a cup with pool water from about 12 inches down, fill these little beakers with water and add a few drops of chemical reagents. Then calculate the ounces of calcium hypochlorite, muriatic acid, and other chemicals to make your pools sparkle. After skimming, take your pool brush and brush the bottom and sides of your pool. Rack your equipment when done and close the cover back up. This exercise takes about 15 minutes.” It’s a mundane task, but ah, there’s the point. Like folding the laundry, weeding the garden, emptying the dishwasher, they can be oh, so gratifying. Each of these has a crisp beginning and end and offer a lovely spot to be present. Let the thoughts flow with each stroke of the brush. Watch the water ripple the surface as you slowly pull the long pole out, dripping 7.4 pH water as you glide it in for the next pass. This is the Benabio secret to success.

BenabioAprilcolumn_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You’ll never walk alone.” — Nettie Fowler, Carousel

A few winters ago, a young man and his fiancée were driving on the 91 freeway in southern California during a torrential downpour when their Honda Civic hydroplaned, slamming into the jersey barrier. They were both unhurt. Unsure what to do next, they made the catastrophic decision to exit the vehicle. As the man walked around the back of the car he was nearly hit by a black sedan sliding out of control trying to avoid them. When he came around the car, his fiancé was nowhere to be found. She had been struck at highway speed and lay crushed under the sedan hundreds of feet away.

I know this poor man because he was referred to me. Not as a dermatologist, but as a fellow human healing from trauma. On January 1, 2019, at about 9:30 PM, while we were home together, my beloved wife of 24 years took her own life. Even 5 years on it is difficult to believe that she isn’t proofing this paragraph like she had done for every one of my Derm News columns for years. We had been together since teenagers and had lived a joy-filled life. As anyone who has lost a loved one to suicide knows, it is an unknowable, fatal disease. Very few of my patients know my story. There isn’t any medical reason to share. But that day I joined the community of those who have carried unbearable heaviness of grief and survived. Sometimes others seek me out for help.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

At first, my instinct was to guide them, to give advice, to tell them what to do and where to go. But I’ve learned that people in this dark valley don’t need a guide. They need someone to accompany them. To walk with them for a few minutes on their lonely journey. I recently read David Brooks’s new book, How to Know a Person. I’ve been a fan of his since he joined the New York Times in 2003 and have read almost everything he’s written. I sometimes even imagine how he might approach a column whenever I’m stuck (thank you, David). His The Road to Character book is in my canon of literature for self-growth. This latest book is an interesting digression from that central theme. He argues that our society is in acute need of forming better connections and that an important way we can be moral is to learn, and to practice, how to know each other. He shares an emotional experience of losing a close friend to suicide and writes a poignant explanation of what it means to accompany someone in need. It particularly resonated with me. We are doctors and are wired to find the source of a problem, like quickly rotating through the 4X, 10X, 40X on a microscope. Once identified, we spend most of our time creating and explaining treatments. I see how this makes me a great dermatologist but just an average human.

Brooks tells the story of a woman with a brain tumor who often finds herself on the ground surrounded by well-meaning people trying to help. She explains later that what she really needs in those moments is just for someone to get on the ground and lie with her. To accompany her.

Having crossed the midpoint of life, I see with the benefit of perspective how suffering has afforded me wisdom: I am more sensitive and attuned to others. It also gave me credibility: I know how it feels to walk life’s loneliest journey. I’ve also learned to make myself vulnerable for someone to share their story with me. I won’t be afraid to hear the details. I won’t judge them for weeping too little or for sobbing too much. I don’t answer whys. I won’t say what they should do next. But for a few minutes I can walk beside them as a person who cares.

166939_photo_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You’ll never walk alone.” — Nettie Fowler, Carousel

A few winters ago, a young man and his fiancée were driving on the 91 freeway in southern California during a torrential downpour when their Honda Civic hydroplaned, slamming into the jersey barrier. They were both unhurt. Unsure what to do next, they made the catastrophic decision to exit the vehicle. As the man walked around the back of the car he was nearly hit by a black sedan sliding out of control trying to avoid them. When he came around the car, his fiancé was nowhere to be found. She had been struck at highway speed and lay crushed under the sedan hundreds of feet away.

I know this poor man because he was referred to me. Not as a dermatologist, but as a fellow human healing from trauma. On January 1, 2019, at about 9:30 PM, while we were home together, my beloved wife of 24 years took her own life. Even 5 years on it is difficult to believe that she isn’t proofing this paragraph like she had done for every one of my Derm News columns for years. We had been together since teenagers and had lived a joy-filled life. As anyone who has lost a loved one to suicide knows, it is an unknowable, fatal disease. Very few of my patients know my story. There isn’t any medical reason to share. But that day I joined the community of those who have carried unbearable heaviness of grief and survived. Sometimes others seek me out for help.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

At first, my instinct was to guide them, to give advice, to tell them what to do and where to go. But I’ve learned that people in this dark valley don’t need a guide. They need someone to accompany them. To walk with them for a few minutes on their lonely journey. I recently read David Brooks’s new book, How to Know a Person. I’ve been a fan of his since he joined the New York Times in 2003 and have read almost everything he’s written. I sometimes even imagine how he might approach a column whenever I’m stuck (thank you, David). His The Road to Character book is in my canon of literature for self-growth. This latest book is an interesting digression from that central theme. He argues that our society is in acute need of forming better connections and that an important way we can be moral is to learn, and to practice, how to know each other. He shares an emotional experience of losing a close friend to suicide and writes a poignant explanation of what it means to accompany someone in need. It particularly resonated with me. We are doctors and are wired to find the source of a problem, like quickly rotating through the 4X, 10X, 40X on a microscope. Once identified, we spend most of our time creating and explaining treatments. I see how this makes me a great dermatologist but just an average human.

Brooks tells the story of a woman with a brain tumor who often finds herself on the ground surrounded by well-meaning people trying to help. She explains later that what she really needs in those moments is just for someone to get on the ground and lie with her. To accompany her.

Having crossed the midpoint of life, I see with the benefit of perspective how suffering has afforded me wisdom: I am more sensitive and attuned to others. It also gave me credibility: I know how it feels to walk life’s loneliest journey. I’ve also learned to make myself vulnerable for someone to share their story with me. I won’t be afraid to hear the details. I won’t judge them for weeping too little or for sobbing too much. I don’t answer whys. I won’t say what they should do next. But for a few minutes I can walk beside them as a person who cares.

166939_photo_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You’ll never walk alone.” — Nettie Fowler, Carousel

A few winters ago, a young man and his fiancée were driving on the 91 freeway in southern California during a torrential downpour when their Honda Civic hydroplaned, slamming into the jersey barrier. They were both unhurt. Unsure what to do next, they made the catastrophic decision to exit the vehicle. As the man walked around the back of the car he was nearly hit by a black sedan sliding out of control trying to avoid them. When he came around the car, his fiancé was nowhere to be found. She had been struck at highway speed and lay crushed under the sedan hundreds of feet away.

I know this poor man because he was referred to me. Not as a dermatologist, but as a fellow human healing from trauma. On January 1, 2019, at about 9:30 PM, while we were home together, my beloved wife of 24 years took her own life. Even 5 years on it is difficult to believe that she isn’t proofing this paragraph like she had done for every one of my Derm News columns for years. We had been together since teenagers and had lived a joy-filled life. As anyone who has lost a loved one to suicide knows, it is an unknowable, fatal disease. Very few of my patients know my story. There isn’t any medical reason to share. But that day I joined the community of those who have carried unbearable heaviness of grief and survived. Sometimes others seek me out for help.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

At first, my instinct was to guide them, to give advice, to tell them what to do and where to go. But I’ve learned that people in this dark valley don’t need a guide. They need someone to accompany them. To walk with them for a few minutes on their lonely journey. I recently read David Brooks’s new book, How to Know a Person. I’ve been a fan of his since he joined the New York Times in 2003 and have read almost everything he’s written. I sometimes even imagine how he might approach a column whenever I’m stuck (thank you, David). His The Road to Character book is in my canon of literature for self-growth. This latest book is an interesting digression from that central theme. He argues that our society is in acute need of forming better connections and that an important way we can be moral is to learn, and to practice, how to know each other. He shares an emotional experience of losing a close friend to suicide and writes a poignant explanation of what it means to accompany someone in need. It particularly resonated with me. We are doctors and are wired to find the source of a problem, like quickly rotating through the 4X, 10X, 40X on a microscope. Once identified, we spend most of our time creating and explaining treatments. I see how this makes me a great dermatologist but just an average human.

Brooks tells the story of a woman with a brain tumor who often finds herself on the ground surrounded by well-meaning people trying to help. She explains later that what she really needs in those moments is just for someone to get on the ground and lie with her. To accompany her.

Having crossed the midpoint of life, I see with the benefit of perspective how suffering has afforded me wisdom: I am more sensitive and attuned to others. It also gave me credibility: I know how it feels to walk life’s loneliest journey. I’ve also learned to make myself vulnerable for someone to share their story with me. I won’t be afraid to hear the details. I won’t judge them for weeping too little or for sobbing too much. I don’t answer whys. I won’t say what they should do next. But for a few minutes I can walk beside them as a person who cares.

166939_photo_web.jpg

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You have psoriasis,” I say all the time. I mean it when I say it, of course. But I don’t always to the same degree. Sometimes I’m trying to say, “You probably have psoriasis.” Other times I mean, “You most definitely have psoriasis.” I rarely use those terms though.

One 36-year-old man with a flaky scalp and scaly elbows wasn’t satisfied with my assessment. His dad has psoriasis. So does his older brother. He was in to see me to find out if he had psoriasis too. “Probably” was what I gave him. He pushed back, “What percent chance?” That’s a good question — must be an engineer. I’m unsure.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

With the exception of the poker players, our species is notoriously bad at probabilities. We’re wired to notice the significance of events, but terrible at understanding their likelihood. This is salient in lottery ticket holders and some NFL offensive coordinators who persist despite very long odds of things working out. It’s also reflected in the language we use. Rarely do we say, there’s a sixty percent chance something will happen. Rather, we say, “it’s likely.” There are two problems here. One, we often misjudge the actual probability of something occurring and two, the terms we use are subjective and differences in interpretation can lead to misunderstandings.

Let’s take a look. A 55-year-old man with a chronic eczematous rash on his trunk and extremities is getting worse despite dupilumab. He recently had night sweats. Do you think he has atopic dermatitis or cutaneous T-cell lymphoma? If you had to place a $100 bet, would you change your answer? Immanuel Kant thinks you would. In his “Critique of Pure Reason,” the German philosopher proposes that betting helps clarify the mind, an antidote to brashness. The example Kant uses is of a physician who observes a patient and concludes he has phthisis (tuberculosis), but we really don’t know if the physician is confident. Kant proposes that if he had to bet on his conclusion, then we’d have insight into just how convinced he is of phthisis. So, what’s your bet?

If you’re a bad poker player, then you might bet he has cutaneous T-cell lymphoma. However, not having any additional information, the smart call is atopic dermatitis, which has a base rate 1000-fold higher than CTCL. It is therefore more probable to be eczema even in a case that worsens despite dupilumab or with recent night sweats, both of which could be a result of common variables such as weather and COVID. Failure to account for the base rate is a mistake we physicians sometimes make. Economists rarely do. Try to think like one before answering a likelihood question.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

For my scaly patient, we know psoriasis is common and so it’s likely he has it. The trouble is what “probably” means to me might mean something different to him. If you think about it, “probably” means something different even to me, depending on the situation. I might say I’ll probably go to Montana this summer and I’ll probably retire at 65. The actual likelihoods might be 95% and 70%. That’s a big difference. What about between probably and likely? Or possibly and maybe? Do they mean the same to you as to the person you’re speaking with? For much of the work we do, precise likelihoods aren’t critical. Yet, it can be important in decision making and in discussing probabilities, such as the risk of hepatitis on terbinafine or of melanoma recurrence after Mohs.

I told my patient “I say about a 70% chance you have psoriasis. I could do a biopsy today to confirm.” He thought for a second and asked, “What is the chance it’s psoriasis if the biopsy shows it?” “Eighty six percent,” I replied.

Seemed like a good bet to me.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You have psoriasis,” I say all the time. I mean it when I say it, of course. But I don’t always to the same degree. Sometimes I’m trying to say, “You probably have psoriasis.” Other times I mean, “You most definitely have psoriasis.” I rarely use those terms though.

One 36-year-old man with a flaky scalp and scaly elbows wasn’t satisfied with my assessment. His dad has psoriasis. So does his older brother. He was in to see me to find out if he had psoriasis too. “Probably” was what I gave him. He pushed back, “What percent chance?” That’s a good question — must be an engineer. I’m unsure.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

With the exception of the poker players, our species is notoriously bad at probabilities. We’re wired to notice the significance of events, but terrible at understanding their likelihood. This is salient in lottery ticket holders and some NFL offensive coordinators who persist despite very long odds of things working out. It’s also reflected in the language we use. Rarely do we say, there’s a sixty percent chance something will happen. Rather, we say, “it’s likely.” There are two problems here. One, we often misjudge the actual probability of something occurring and two, the terms we use are subjective and differences in interpretation can lead to misunderstandings.

Let’s take a look. A 55-year-old man with a chronic eczematous rash on his trunk and extremities is getting worse despite dupilumab. He recently had night sweats. Do you think he has atopic dermatitis or cutaneous T-cell lymphoma? If you had to place a $100 bet, would you change your answer? Immanuel Kant thinks you would. In his “Critique of Pure Reason,” the German philosopher proposes that betting helps clarify the mind, an antidote to brashness. The example Kant uses is of a physician who observes a patient and concludes he has phthisis (tuberculosis), but we really don’t know if the physician is confident. Kant proposes that if he had to bet on his conclusion, then we’d have insight into just how convinced he is of phthisis. So, what’s your bet?

If you’re a bad poker player, then you might bet he has cutaneous T-cell lymphoma. However, not having any additional information, the smart call is atopic dermatitis, which has a base rate 1000-fold higher than CTCL. It is therefore more probable to be eczema even in a case that worsens despite dupilumab or with recent night sweats, both of which could be a result of common variables such as weather and COVID. Failure to account for the base rate is a mistake we physicians sometimes make. Economists rarely do. Try to think like one before answering a likelihood question.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

For my scaly patient, we know psoriasis is common and so it’s likely he has it. The trouble is what “probably” means to me might mean something different to him. If you think about it, “probably” means something different even to me, depending on the situation. I might say I’ll probably go to Montana this summer and I’ll probably retire at 65. The actual likelihoods might be 95% and 70%. That’s a big difference. What about between probably and likely? Or possibly and maybe? Do they mean the same to you as to the person you’re speaking with? For much of the work we do, precise likelihoods aren’t critical. Yet, it can be important in decision making and in discussing probabilities, such as the risk of hepatitis on terbinafine or of melanoma recurrence after Mohs.

I told my patient “I say about a 70% chance you have psoriasis. I could do a biopsy today to confirm.” He thought for a second and asked, “What is the chance it’s psoriasis if the biopsy shows it?” “Eighty six percent,” I replied.

Seemed like a good bet to me.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“You have psoriasis,” I say all the time. I mean it when I say it, of course. But I don’t always to the same degree. Sometimes I’m trying to say, “You probably have psoriasis.” Other times I mean, “You most definitely have psoriasis.” I rarely use those terms though.

One 36-year-old man with a flaky scalp and scaly elbows wasn’t satisfied with my assessment. His dad has psoriasis. So does his older brother. He was in to see me to find out if he had psoriasis too. “Probably” was what I gave him. He pushed back, “What percent chance?” That’s a good question — must be an engineer. I’m unsure.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

With the exception of the poker players, our species is notoriously bad at probabilities. We’re wired to notice the significance of events, but terrible at understanding their likelihood. This is salient in lottery ticket holders and some NFL offensive coordinators who persist despite very long odds of things working out. It’s also reflected in the language we use. Rarely do we say, there’s a sixty percent chance something will happen. Rather, we say, “it’s likely.” There are two problems here. One, we often misjudge the actual probability of something occurring and two, the terms we use are subjective and differences in interpretation can lead to misunderstandings.

Let’s take a look. A 55-year-old man with a chronic eczematous rash on his trunk and extremities is getting worse despite dupilumab. He recently had night sweats. Do you think he has atopic dermatitis or cutaneous T-cell lymphoma? If you had to place a $100 bet, would you change your answer? Immanuel Kant thinks you would. In his “Critique of Pure Reason,” the German philosopher proposes that betting helps clarify the mind, an antidote to brashness. The example Kant uses is of a physician who observes a patient and concludes he has phthisis (tuberculosis), but we really don’t know if the physician is confident. Kant proposes that if he had to bet on his conclusion, then we’d have insight into just how convinced he is of phthisis. So, what’s your bet?

If you’re a bad poker player, then you might bet he has cutaneous T-cell lymphoma. However, not having any additional information, the smart call is atopic dermatitis, which has a base rate 1000-fold higher than CTCL. It is therefore more probable to be eczema even in a case that worsens despite dupilumab or with recent night sweats, both of which could be a result of common variables such as weather and COVID. Failure to account for the base rate is a mistake we physicians sometimes make. Economists rarely do. Try to think like one before answering a likelihood question.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

For my scaly patient, we know psoriasis is common and so it’s likely he has it. The trouble is what “probably” means to me might mean something different to him. If you think about it, “probably” means something different even to me, depending on the situation. I might say I’ll probably go to Montana this summer and I’ll probably retire at 65. The actual likelihoods might be 95% and 70%. That’s a big difference. What about between probably and likely? Or possibly and maybe? Do they mean the same to you as to the person you’re speaking with? For much of the work we do, precise likelihoods aren’t critical. Yet, it can be important in decision making and in discussing probabilities, such as the risk of hepatitis on terbinafine or of melanoma recurrence after Mohs.

I told my patient “I say about a 70% chance you have psoriasis. I could do a biopsy today to confirm.” He thought for a second and asked, “What is the chance it’s psoriasis if the biopsy shows it?” “Eighty six percent,” I replied.

Seemed like a good bet to me.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

‘Twas the night before Festivus and all through the house, everyone was griping.

In case you’ve only been watching Friends reruns lately, Festivus is a holiday that originated 25 years ago in the last season of Seinfeld. George’s father created it as an alternative to Christmas hype. In addition to an aluminum pole, the holiday features the annual airing of grievances, when one is encouraged to voice complaints. Aluminum poles haven’t replaced Christmas trees, but the spirit of Festivus is still with us in the widespread airing of grievances in 2023.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Complaining isn’t just a post-pandemic problem. Hector spends quite a bit of time complaining about Paris in the Iliad. That was a few pandemics ago. And repining is ubiquitous in literature — as human as walking on two limbs it seems. Ostensibly, we complain to effect change: Something is wrong and we expect it to be different. But that’s not the whole story. No one believes the weather will improve or the Patriots will play better because we complain about them. So why do we bother?

Even if nothing changes on the outside, it does seem to alter our internal state, serving a healthy psychological function. Putting to words what is aggravating can have the same benefit of deep breathing. We describe it as “getting something off our chest” because that’s what it feels like. We feel unburdened just by saying it out loud. Complaining is also a way to bond with others. We have a strong instinct to be with people like ourselves and what better way to connect than to find common suffering? Think about the last time you complained: Cranky staff, prior auths, Medicare, disrespectful patients, many of your colleagues will nod in agreement, validating your feelings and making you feel less isolated.

There are also maladaptive reasons for whining. It’s obviously an elementary way to get attention or to remove responsibility. It can also be a political weapon (office politics included). It’s such a potent way to connect that it’s used to build alliances and clout. “Washington is doing a great job,” said no candidate ever. No, if you want to get people on your side, find something irritating and complain to everyone how annoying it is. This solidifies “us” versus “them,” which can harm organizations and families alike.

[embed:render:related:node:266599]

Yet, eliminating all complaints is neither feasible, nor probably advisable. You could try to make your office a complaint-free zone, but the likely result would be to push any griping to the remote corners where you can no longer hear them. These criticisms might have uncovered missed opportunities, identify problems, and even improve cohesion if done in a safe and transparent setting. If they are left unaddressed or if the underlying culture isn’t sound, then they can propagate and lead to factions that harm productivity.

Griping is as much part of the holiday season as jingle bells and jelly donuts. I don’t believe complaining is up now because people were grumpier in 2023. Rather I think people just craved connection more than ever. So join in: Traffic after the time change, Tesla service, (super) late patients, prior auths, perioral dermatitis, post-COVID telogen effluvium.

I feel better.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X (formerly Twitter). Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

‘Twas the night before Festivus and all through the house, everyone was griping.

In case you’ve only been watching Friends reruns lately, Festivus is a holiday that originated 25 years ago in the last season of Seinfeld. George’s father created it as an alternative to Christmas hype. In addition to an aluminum pole, the holiday features the annual airing of grievances, when one is encouraged to voice complaints. Aluminum poles haven’t replaced Christmas trees, but the spirit of Festivus is still with us in the widespread airing of grievances in 2023.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Complaining isn’t just a post-pandemic problem. Hector spends quite a bit of time complaining about Paris in the Iliad. That was a few pandemics ago. And repining is ubiquitous in literature — as human as walking on two limbs it seems. Ostensibly, we complain to effect change: Something is wrong and we expect it to be different. But that’s not the whole story. No one believes the weather will improve or the Patriots will play better because we complain about them. So why do we bother?

Even if nothing changes on the outside, it does seem to alter our internal state, serving a healthy psychological function. Putting to words what is aggravating can have the same benefit of deep breathing. We describe it as “getting something off our chest” because that’s what it feels like. We feel unburdened just by saying it out loud. Complaining is also a way to bond with others. We have a strong instinct to be with people like ourselves and what better way to connect than to find common suffering? Think about the last time you complained: Cranky staff, prior auths, Medicare, disrespectful patients, many of your colleagues will nod in agreement, validating your feelings and making you feel less isolated.

There are also maladaptive reasons for whining. It’s obviously an elementary way to get attention or to remove responsibility. It can also be a political weapon (office politics included). It’s such a potent way to connect that it’s used to build alliances and clout. “Washington is doing a great job,” said no candidate ever. No, if you want to get people on your side, find something irritating and complain to everyone how annoying it is. This solidifies “us” versus “them,” which can harm organizations and families alike.

[embed:render:related:node:266599]

Yet, eliminating all complaints is neither feasible, nor probably advisable. You could try to make your office a complaint-free zone, but the likely result would be to push any griping to the remote corners where you can no longer hear them. These criticisms might have uncovered missed opportunities, identify problems, and even improve cohesion if done in a safe and transparent setting. If they are left unaddressed or if the underlying culture isn’t sound, then they can propagate and lead to factions that harm productivity.

Griping is as much part of the holiday season as jingle bells and jelly donuts. I don’t believe complaining is up now because people were grumpier in 2023. Rather I think people just craved connection more than ever. So join in: Traffic after the time change, Tesla service, (super) late patients, prior auths, perioral dermatitis, post-COVID telogen effluvium.

I feel better.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X (formerly Twitter). Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

‘Twas the night before Festivus and all through the house, everyone was griping.

In case you’ve only been watching Friends reruns lately, Festivus is a holiday that originated 25 years ago in the last season of Seinfeld. George’s father created it as an alternative to Christmas hype. In addition to an aluminum pole, the holiday features the annual airing of grievances, when one is encouraged to voice complaints. Aluminum poles haven’t replaced Christmas trees, but the spirit of Festivus is still with us in the widespread airing of grievances in 2023.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Complaining isn’t just a post-pandemic problem. Hector spends quite a bit of time complaining about Paris in the Iliad. That was a few pandemics ago. And repining is ubiquitous in literature — as human as walking on two limbs it seems. Ostensibly, we complain to effect change: Something is wrong and we expect it to be different. But that’s not the whole story. No one believes the weather will improve or the Patriots will play better because we complain about them. So why do we bother?

Even if nothing changes on the outside, it does seem to alter our internal state, serving a healthy psychological function. Putting to words what is aggravating can have the same benefit of deep breathing. We describe it as “getting something off our chest” because that’s what it feels like. We feel unburdened just by saying it out loud. Complaining is also a way to bond with others. We have a strong instinct to be with people like ourselves and what better way to connect than to find common suffering? Think about the last time you complained: Cranky staff, prior auths, Medicare, disrespectful patients, many of your colleagues will nod in agreement, validating your feelings and making you feel less isolated.

There are also maladaptive reasons for whining. It’s obviously an elementary way to get attention or to remove responsibility. It can also be a political weapon (office politics included). It’s such a potent way to connect that it’s used to build alliances and clout. “Washington is doing a great job,” said no candidate ever. No, if you want to get people on your side, find something irritating and complain to everyone how annoying it is. This solidifies “us” versus “them,” which can harm organizations and families alike.

[embed:render:related:node:266599]

Yet, eliminating all complaints is neither feasible, nor probably advisable. You could try to make your office a complaint-free zone, but the likely result would be to push any griping to the remote corners where you can no longer hear them. These criticisms might have uncovered missed opportunities, identify problems, and even improve cohesion if done in a safe and transparent setting. If they are left unaddressed or if the underlying culture isn’t sound, then they can propagate and lead to factions that harm productivity.

Griping is as much part of the holiday season as jingle bells and jelly donuts. I don’t believe complaining is up now because people were grumpier in 2023. Rather I think people just craved connection more than ever. So join in: Traffic after the time change, Tesla service, (super) late patients, prior auths, perioral dermatitis, post-COVID telogen effluvium.

I feel better.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X (formerly Twitter). Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” – Henry David Thoreau

I have many patients like Maxine. Tall, with a shock of white hair. Old, but still in charge. When you try to make eye contact, she looks right through you. First with her left eye. Then her right. Her face is inscrutable. What’s she thinking? Unlike many of my patients, however, this Maxine was a llama. Every morning my daughter and I tried to coax her into moving as we leaned on the cold steel gate that kept her in her pasture. We were visiting family in October and chose to stay on a working New England farm. The kids will love the animals, we thought, and we’ll appreciate the extra bedrooms.

165996_farm_pho_web.PNG

Airbnb helped us find this charming fiber-farm in Rhode Island where they raise Leicester Longwool sheep, a historic breed that once roamed George Washington’s pastures, along with a few goats, ducks, chickens, and Maxine. It’s situated deep in the woods, which were yellow, orange, and red that week. As it happens, we were just a short drive due south of Walden Pond where Henry David Thoreau spent 2 years, 2 months and 2 days escaping “overcivilization” nearly 175 years ago. Hoisting our overweight bags over the uneven granite stone steps when we arrived, I realized this was going to be more like the Thoreau experiment than I intended. The farmhouse dated to the 1790s. There were wide, creaky floorboards, low ceilings, one staircase to the bedrooms (which could have aptly been called a ladder) and loads of book-laden shelves. Instructions posted in the kitchen warned that the heat is tricky to regulate – a redundant admonition as we watched our 3-year-old putting on her socks and shoes as she got into bed.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Now, if you’ve ever been on vacation with little kids, you know that it’s basically just childcare in a novel location. After barricading the staircase with luggage and unplugging lamps from their dicey outlets we set out to feed the chickens and try to pet a sheep. Walking the perimeter of the farm we saw stone walls that needed mending and stumbled across two ancient cemeteries, one had been for family, the other for slaves. I wondered how many farmers and weavers and menders had walked this trail with their kids over the generations.

The next morning, we learned that roosters do not in fact crow at dawn, they crow before dawn (which could also aptly be called nighttime). There were no commutes or late patients here. But there was work to be done. Chickens don’t care that it’s Sunday. It downpoured. Watching the sheep from the kitchen as I sipped my coffee, they didn’t seem to mind. Nor did our farmer hosts who trudged past them in tall boots, just as they had every other day of their farmer lives.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

By the fifth day, we had fallen into the rhythms of the homestead. We cracked the blue, green, and brown eggs that our hosts placed outside our door in the early hours and made omelets that were as orange as the foliage. We finally learned to adjust the heat so we neither got chilblains nor had to open the windows and strip naked to cool down. The sky was a brilliant blue that last morning and Sloan ran around trying to catch leaves as they blew off the trees. She had no objective. No counting. No contest. Just chasing leaves as they fell. It was the ultimate atelic activity, done just for doing it. I joined her and found I was no better at this than a 3-year-old.

We came to see family and a few animals and we left with a new appreciation for the goodness of people and nature. Perhaps it’s time to bring back Transcendentalism again? We might all benefit from a little time in the woods.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” – Henry David Thoreau

I have many patients like Maxine. Tall, with a shock of white hair. Old, but still in charge. When you try to make eye contact, she looks right through you. First with her left eye. Then her right. Her face is inscrutable. What’s she thinking? Unlike many of my patients, however, this Maxine was a llama. Every morning my daughter and I tried to coax her into moving as we leaned on the cold steel gate that kept her in her pasture. We were visiting family in October and chose to stay on a working New England farm. The kids will love the animals, we thought, and we’ll appreciate the extra bedrooms.

165996_farm_pho_web.PNG

Airbnb helped us find this charming fiber-farm in Rhode Island where they raise Leicester Longwool sheep, a historic breed that once roamed George Washington’s pastures, along with a few goats, ducks, chickens, and Maxine. It’s situated deep in the woods, which were yellow, orange, and red that week. As it happens, we were just a short drive due south of Walden Pond where Henry David Thoreau spent 2 years, 2 months and 2 days escaping “overcivilization” nearly 175 years ago. Hoisting our overweight bags over the uneven granite stone steps when we arrived, I realized this was going to be more like the Thoreau experiment than I intended. The farmhouse dated to the 1790s. There were wide, creaky floorboards, low ceilings, one staircase to the bedrooms (which could have aptly been called a ladder) and loads of book-laden shelves. Instructions posted in the kitchen warned that the heat is tricky to regulate – a redundant admonition as we watched our 3-year-old putting on her socks and shoes as she got into bed.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Now, if you’ve ever been on vacation with little kids, you know that it’s basically just childcare in a novel location. After barricading the staircase with luggage and unplugging lamps from their dicey outlets we set out to feed the chickens and try to pet a sheep. Walking the perimeter of the farm we saw stone walls that needed mending and stumbled across two ancient cemeteries, one had been for family, the other for slaves. I wondered how many farmers and weavers and menders had walked this trail with their kids over the generations.

The next morning, we learned that roosters do not in fact crow at dawn, they crow before dawn (which could also aptly be called nighttime). There were no commutes or late patients here. But there was work to be done. Chickens don’t care that it’s Sunday. It downpoured. Watching the sheep from the kitchen as I sipped my coffee, they didn’t seem to mind. Nor did our farmer hosts who trudged past them in tall boots, just as they had every other day of their farmer lives.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

By the fifth day, we had fallen into the rhythms of the homestead. We cracked the blue, green, and brown eggs that our hosts placed outside our door in the early hours and made omelets that were as orange as the foliage. We finally learned to adjust the heat so we neither got chilblains nor had to open the windows and strip naked to cool down. The sky was a brilliant blue that last morning and Sloan ran around trying to catch leaves as they blew off the trees. She had no objective. No counting. No contest. Just chasing leaves as they fell. It was the ultimate atelic activity, done just for doing it. I joined her and found I was no better at this than a 3-year-old.

We came to see family and a few animals and we left with a new appreciation for the goodness of people and nature. Perhaps it’s time to bring back Transcendentalism again? We might all benefit from a little time in the woods.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” – Henry David Thoreau

I have many patients like Maxine. Tall, with a shock of white hair. Old, but still in charge. When you try to make eye contact, she looks right through you. First with her left eye. Then her right. Her face is inscrutable. What’s she thinking? Unlike many of my patients, however, this Maxine was a llama. Every morning my daughter and I tried to coax her into moving as we leaned on the cold steel gate that kept her in her pasture. We were visiting family in October and chose to stay on a working New England farm. The kids will love the animals, we thought, and we’ll appreciate the extra bedrooms.

165996_farm_pho_web.PNG

Airbnb helped us find this charming fiber-farm in Rhode Island where they raise Leicester Longwool sheep, a historic breed that once roamed George Washington’s pastures, along with a few goats, ducks, chickens, and Maxine. It’s situated deep in the woods, which were yellow, orange, and red that week. As it happens, we were just a short drive due south of Walden Pond where Henry David Thoreau spent 2 years, 2 months and 2 days escaping “overcivilization” nearly 175 years ago. Hoisting our overweight bags over the uneven granite stone steps when we arrived, I realized this was going to be more like the Thoreau experiment than I intended. The farmhouse dated to the 1790s. There were wide, creaky floorboards, low ceilings, one staircase to the bedrooms (which could have aptly been called a ladder) and loads of book-laden shelves. Instructions posted in the kitchen warned that the heat is tricky to regulate – a redundant admonition as we watched our 3-year-old putting on her socks and shoes as she got into bed.

[embed:render:related:node:265422]

Now, if you’ve ever been on vacation with little kids, you know that it’s basically just childcare in a novel location. After barricading the staircase with luggage and unplugging lamps from their dicey outlets we set out to feed the chickens and try to pet a sheep. Walking the perimeter of the farm we saw stone walls that needed mending and stumbled across two ancient cemeteries, one had been for family, the other for slaves. I wondered how many farmers and weavers and menders had walked this trail with their kids over the generations.

The next morning, we learned that roosters do not in fact crow at dawn, they crow before dawn (which could also aptly be called nighttime). There were no commutes or late patients here. But there was work to be done. Chickens don’t care that it’s Sunday. It downpoured. Watching the sheep from the kitchen as I sipped my coffee, they didn’t seem to mind. Nor did our farmer hosts who trudged past them in tall boots, just as they had every other day of their farmer lives.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

By the fifth day, we had fallen into the rhythms of the homestead. We cracked the blue, green, and brown eggs that our hosts placed outside our door in the early hours and made omelets that were as orange as the foliage. We finally learned to adjust the heat so we neither got chilblains nor had to open the windows and strip naked to cool down. The sky was a brilliant blue that last morning and Sloan ran around trying to catch leaves as they blew off the trees. She had no objective. No counting. No contest. Just chasing leaves as they fell. It was the ultimate atelic activity, done just for doing it. I joined her and found I was no better at this than a 3-year-old.

We came to see family and a few animals and we left with a new appreciation for the goodness of people and nature. Perhaps it’s time to bring back Transcendentalism again? We might all benefit from a little time in the woods.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Look at this guy – NFL Chargers jersey and shorts with a RVCA hat on backward. And next to him, a woman wearing her spin-class-Lulu gear. There’s also a guy sporting a 2016 San Diego Rock ‘n Roll Marathon Tee. And that young woman is actually wearing slippers. A visitor from the 1950s would be thunderstruck to see such casual wear on people waiting to board a plane. Photos from that era show men buttoned up in white shirt and tie and women wearing Chanel with hats and white gloves. This dramatic transformation from formal to unfussy wear cuts through all social situations, including in my office. As a new doc out of residency, I used to wear a tie and shoes that could hold a shine. Now I wear jogger scrubs and sneakers. Rather than be offended by the lack of formality though, patients seem to appreciate it. Should they?

At first glance this seems to be a modern phenomenon. The reasons for casual wear today are manifold: about one-third of people work from home, Millennials are taking over with their TikTok values and general irreverence, COVID made us all fat and lazy. Heck, even the U.S. Senate briefly abolished the requirement to wear suits on the Senate floor. But getting dressed up was never to signal that you are elite or superior to others. It’s the opposite. To get dressed is a signal that you are serving others, a tradition that is as old as society.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Think of Downton Abbey as an example. The servants were always required to be smartly dressed when working, whereas members of the family could be dressed up or not. It’s clear who is serving whom. This tradition lives today in the hospitality industry. When you mosey into the lobby of a luxury hotel in your Rainbow sandals you can expect everyone who greets you will be in finery, signaling that they put in effort to serve you. You’ll find the same for all staff at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., which is no coincidence.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Suits used to be standard in medicine. In the 19th century, physicians wore formal black-tie when seeing patients. Unlike hospitality however, we had good reason to eschew the tradition: germs. Once we figured out that our pus-stained ties and jackets were doing harm, we switched to wearing sanitized uniforms. Casual wear for doctors isn’t a modern phenomenon after all, then. For proof, compare Thomas Eakins painting “The Gross Clinic” (1875) with his later “The Agnew Clinic” (1889). In the former, Dr. Gross is portrayed in formal black wear, bloody hand and all. In the latter, Dr. Agnew is wearing white FIGS (or the 1890’s equivalent anyway). Similarly, nurses uniforms traditionally resembled kitchen servants, with criss-cross aprons and floor length skirts. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that nurses stopped wearing dresses and white caps.

165543_Agnew_Clinic_web.jpg

In the operating theater it’s obviously critical that we wear sanitized scrubs to mitigate the risk of infection. Originally white to signal cleanliness, scrubs were changed to blue-green because surgeons were blinded by the lights bouncing off the uniforms. (Green is also opposite red on the color wheel, supposedly enhancing the ability to distinguish shades of red).

But in outpatient medicine, the effect size for preventing infection by not wearing a tie or jacket is less obvious. In addition to protecting patients, it seems that wearing scrubs and donning On Cloud sneakers might also be a bit of push-back from us. Over time we’ve lost significant autonomy in our practice and lost a little respect from our patients. Payers tell us what to do. Patients question our expertise. Choosing what we wear is one of the few bits of medicine we still have agency. Pewter or pink, joggers or cargo pants, we get to choose.

The last time I flew British Airways everyone was in lounge wear, except the flight crew, of course. They were all smartly dressed. Recently British Airways rolled out updated, slightly more relaxed dress codes. Very modern, but I wonder if in a way we’re not all just a bit worse off.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

Look at this guy – NFL Chargers jersey and shorts with a RVCA hat on backward. And next to him, a woman wearing her spin-class-Lulu gear. There’s also a guy sporting a 2016 San Diego Rock ‘n Roll Marathon Tee. And that young woman is actually wearing slippers. A visitor from the 1950s would be thunderstruck to see such casual wear on people waiting to board a plane. Photos from that era show men buttoned up in white shirt and tie and women wearing Chanel with hats and white gloves. This dramatic transformation from formal to unfussy wear cuts through all social situations, including in my office. As a new doc out of residency, I used to wear a tie and shoes that could hold a shine. Now I wear jogger scrubs and sneakers. Rather than be offended by the lack of formality though, patients seem to appreciate it. Should they?

At first glance this seems to be a modern phenomenon. The reasons for casual wear today are manifold: about one-third of people work from home, Millennials are taking over with their TikTok values and general irreverence, COVID made us all fat and lazy. Heck, even the U.S. Senate briefly abolished the requirement to wear suits on the Senate floor. But getting dressed up was never to signal that you are elite or superior to others. It’s the opposite. To get dressed is a signal that you are serving others, a tradition that is as old as society.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Think of Downton Abbey as an example. The servants were always required to be smartly dressed when working, whereas members of the family could be dressed up or not. It’s clear who is serving whom. This tradition lives today in the hospitality industry. When you mosey into the lobby of a luxury hotel in your Rainbow sandals you can expect everyone who greets you will be in finery, signaling that they put in effort to serve you. You’ll find the same for all staff at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., which is no coincidence.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Suits used to be standard in medicine. In the 19th century, physicians wore formal black-tie when seeing patients. Unlike hospitality however, we had good reason to eschew the tradition: germs. Once we figured out that our pus-stained ties and jackets were doing harm, we switched to wearing sanitized uniforms. Casual wear for doctors isn’t a modern phenomenon after all, then. For proof, compare Thomas Eakins painting “The Gross Clinic” (1875) with his later “The Agnew Clinic” (1889). In the former, Dr. Gross is portrayed in formal black wear, bloody hand and all. In the latter, Dr. Agnew is wearing white FIGS (or the 1890’s equivalent anyway). Similarly, nurses uniforms traditionally resembled kitchen servants, with criss-cross aprons and floor length skirts. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that nurses stopped wearing dresses and white caps.

165543_Agnew_Clinic_web.jpg

In the operating theater it’s obviously critical that we wear sanitized scrubs to mitigate the risk of infection. Originally white to signal cleanliness, scrubs were changed to blue-green because surgeons were blinded by the lights bouncing off the uniforms. (Green is also opposite red on the color wheel, supposedly enhancing the ability to distinguish shades of red).

But in outpatient medicine, the effect size for preventing infection by not wearing a tie or jacket is less obvious. In addition to protecting patients, it seems that wearing scrubs and donning On Cloud sneakers might also be a bit of push-back from us. Over time we’ve lost significant autonomy in our practice and lost a little respect from our patients. Payers tell us what to do. Patients question our expertise. Choosing what we wear is one of the few bits of medicine we still have agency. Pewter or pink, joggers or cargo pants, we get to choose.

The last time I flew British Airways everyone was in lounge wear, except the flight crew, of course. They were all smartly dressed. Recently British Airways rolled out updated, slightly more relaxed dress codes. Very modern, but I wonder if in a way we’re not all just a bit worse off.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

Look at this guy – NFL Chargers jersey and shorts with a RVCA hat on backward. And next to him, a woman wearing her spin-class-Lulu gear. There’s also a guy sporting a 2016 San Diego Rock ‘n Roll Marathon Tee. And that young woman is actually wearing slippers. A visitor from the 1950s would be thunderstruck to see such casual wear on people waiting to board a plane. Photos from that era show men buttoned up in white shirt and tie and women wearing Chanel with hats and white gloves. This dramatic transformation from formal to unfussy wear cuts through all social situations, including in my office. As a new doc out of residency, I used to wear a tie and shoes that could hold a shine. Now I wear jogger scrubs and sneakers. Rather than be offended by the lack of formality though, patients seem to appreciate it. Should they?

At first glance this seems to be a modern phenomenon. The reasons for casual wear today are manifold: about one-third of people work from home, Millennials are taking over with their TikTok values and general irreverence, COVID made us all fat and lazy. Heck, even the U.S. Senate briefly abolished the requirement to wear suits on the Senate floor. But getting dressed up was never to signal that you are elite or superior to others. It’s the opposite. To get dressed is a signal that you are serving others, a tradition that is as old as society.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Think of Downton Abbey as an example. The servants were always required to be smartly dressed when working, whereas members of the family could be dressed up or not. It’s clear who is serving whom. This tradition lives today in the hospitality industry. When you mosey into the lobby of a luxury hotel in your Rainbow sandals you can expect everyone who greets you will be in finery, signaling that they put in effort to serve you. You’ll find the same for all staff at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., which is no coincidence.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Suits used to be standard in medicine. In the 19th century, physicians wore formal black-tie when seeing patients. Unlike hospitality however, we had good reason to eschew the tradition: germs. Once we figured out that our pus-stained ties and jackets were doing harm, we switched to wearing sanitized uniforms. Casual wear for doctors isn’t a modern phenomenon after all, then. For proof, compare Thomas Eakins painting “The Gross Clinic” (1875) with his later “The Agnew Clinic” (1889). In the former, Dr. Gross is portrayed in formal black wear, bloody hand and all. In the latter, Dr. Agnew is wearing white FIGS (or the 1890’s equivalent anyway). Similarly, nurses uniforms traditionally resembled kitchen servants, with criss-cross aprons and floor length skirts. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that nurses stopped wearing dresses and white caps.

165543_Agnew_Clinic_web.jpg

In the operating theater it’s obviously critical that we wear sanitized scrubs to mitigate the risk of infection. Originally white to signal cleanliness, scrubs were changed to blue-green because surgeons were blinded by the lights bouncing off the uniforms. (Green is also opposite red on the color wheel, supposedly enhancing the ability to distinguish shades of red).

But in outpatient medicine, the effect size for preventing infection by not wearing a tie or jacket is less obvious. In addition to protecting patients, it seems that wearing scrubs and donning On Cloud sneakers might also be a bit of push-back from us. Over time we’ve lost significant autonomy in our practice and lost a little respect from our patients. Payers tell us what to do. Patients question our expertise. Choosing what we wear is one of the few bits of medicine we still have agency. Pewter or pink, joggers or cargo pants, we get to choose.

The last time I flew British Airways everyone was in lounge wear, except the flight crew, of course. They were all smartly dressed. Recently British Airways rolled out updated, slightly more relaxed dress codes. Very modern, but I wonder if in a way we’re not all just a bit worse off.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

I’m not the smartest dermatologist in our department. We’re fortunate to have a few super-smarties, you know, the ones who can still recite all the genes in Jean Bolognia’s dermatology textbook and have “Dermpath Bowl Champion” plaques covering their walls. Yet as our chief, I often get requests for a second or third opinion, hoping somehow I’ll discover a diagnosis that others missed. Sometimes they are real diagnostic dilemmas. Oftentimes they’re just itchy.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Recently an itchy 73-year-old woman came to see me. She had seen several competent dermatologists, had comprehensive workups, and had reasonable, even aggressive, attempts at treating. Not much interesting in her history. Nothing on exam. Cancer workup was negative as was pretty much any autoimmune or allergic cause. Biopsy? Maybe a touch of “dermal hypersensitivity.” She was still upset at being told previously she might have scabies. “Scabies!” she said indignantly. “How could I have scabies? No one has touched this body in nearly 4 years!” That’s interesting, I thought.

The electronic medical record holds a lot of useful information. We spend hours combing through histories, labs, pathology, scans, drugs to search for clues that might help with diagnoses. One tab we hardly visit is demographics. Why should that matter, of course? Age, phone number, and address are typically not contributory. But for this woman there was a bit of data that mattered; I checked right after her remark. Marital status: Widowed. She couldn’t have had scabies because no one touches her. Anymore. As our comprehensive workup did not find a cause nor did treatments mitigate her symptoms, I wondered if loneliness might be a contributing factor. I asked if anyone else was itching, any family, any friends? “No, I live alone. I don’t have anyone.”

Loneliness is a huge health risk. Lacking personal connection has psychological and physical consequences, increasing the risk for depression, cardiovascular disease, and dementia for example. According to the U.S. Surgeon General, it increases the risk for premature death comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet, we rarely (ever?) ask people if they’re lonely. In part because we don’t have good treatments. Remedies for loneliness are mostly societal – reaching out to the widowed, creating spaces that encourage connection, organizing events that bring people together. I cannot type any of these into the EMR orders. However, merely mentioning that a patient could be lonely can be therapeutic. They might not recognize its impact or that they have agency to make it better. They also might not see how their lives still have meaning, an important comorbidity of loneliness.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Not long after her appointment was a 63-year-old man who complained of a burning scrotum. He worked as a knife sharpener, setting up a folding table at local groceries and farmers markets. COVID killed most of his gigs. Like the woman who didn’t have scabies, comprehensive workups turned up nothing. And seemingly nothing, including antibiotics, gabapentin, indomethacin, lidocaine, helped. At his last visit, we talked about his condition. We had also talked about the proper way to sharpen a knife. I came in prepared to offer something dramatic this visit, methotrexate, dupilumab? But before I could speak, he opened a recycled plastic grocery bag and dumped out knives of various sizes. Also a small ax. He then proceeded to show me how each knife has to be sharpened in its own way. Before leaving he handed me a well-worn Arkansas sharpening stone. “For you,” he said. I gave him no additional recommendations or treatments. He hasn’t been back to dermatology since.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I’m not the smartest dermatologist in our department. We’re fortunate to have a few super-smarties, you know, the ones who can still recite all the genes in Jean Bolognia’s dermatology textbook and have “Dermpath Bowl Champion” plaques covering their walls. Yet as our chief, I often get requests for a second or third opinion, hoping somehow I’ll discover a diagnosis that others missed. Sometimes they are real diagnostic dilemmas. Oftentimes they’re just itchy.

Benabio_Jeff_SanDiego2017_web.jpg

Recently an itchy 73-year-old woman came to see me. She had seen several competent dermatologists, had comprehensive workups, and had reasonable, even aggressive, attempts at treating. Not much interesting in her history. Nothing on exam. Cancer workup was negative as was pretty much any autoimmune or allergic cause. Biopsy? Maybe a touch of “dermal hypersensitivity.” She was still upset at being told previously she might have scabies. “Scabies!” she said indignantly. “How could I have scabies? No one has touched this body in nearly 4 years!” That’s interesting, I thought.

The electronic medical record holds a lot of useful information. We spend hours combing through histories, labs, pathology, scans, drugs to search for clues that might help with diagnoses. One tab we hardly visit is demographics. Why should that matter, of course? Age, phone number, and address are typically not contributory. But for this woman there was a bit of data that mattered; I checked right after her remark. Marital status: Widowed. She couldn’t have had scabies because no one touches her. Anymore. As our comprehensive workup did not find a cause nor did treatments mitigate her symptoms, I wondered if loneliness might be a contributing factor. I asked if anyone else was itching, any family, any friends? “No, I live alone. I don’t have anyone.”

Loneliness is a huge health risk. Lacking personal connection has psychological and physical consequences, increasing the risk for depression, cardiovascular disease, and dementia for example. According to the U.S. Surgeon General, it increases the risk for premature death comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet, we rarely (ever?) ask people if they’re lonely. In part because we don’t have good treatments. Remedies for loneliness are mostly societal – reaching out to the widowed, creating spaces that encourage connection, organizing events that bring people together. I cannot type any of these into the EMR orders. However, merely mentioning that a patient could be lonely can be therapeutic. They might not recognize its impact or that they have agency to make it better. They also might not see how their lives still have meaning, an important comorbidity of loneliness.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Not long after her appointment was a 63-year-old man who complained of a burning scrotum. He worked as a knife sharpener, setting up a folding table at local groceries and farmers markets. COVID killed most of his gigs. Like the woman who didn’t have scabies, comprehensive workups turned up nothing. And seemingly nothing, including antibiotics, gabapentin, indomethacin, lidocaine, helped. At his last visit, we talked about his condition. We had also talked about the proper way to sharpen a knife. I came in prepared to offer something dramatic this visit, methotrexate, dupilumab? But before I could speak, he opened a recycled plastic grocery bag and dumped out knives of various sizes. Also a small ax. He then proceeded to show me how each knife has to be sharpened in its own way. Before leaving he handed me a well-worn Arkansas sharpening stone. “For you,” he said. I gave him no additional recommendations or treatments. He hasn’t been back to dermatology since.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

I’m not the smartest dermatologist in our department. We’re fortunate to have a few super-smarties, you know, the ones who can still recite all the genes in Jean Bolognia’s dermatology textbook and have “Dermpath Bowl Champion” plaques covering their walls. Yet as our chief, I often get requests for a second or third opinion, hoping somehow I’ll discover a diagnosis that others missed. Sometimes they are real diagnostic dilemmas. Oftentimes they’re just itchy.

Recently an itchy 73-year-old woman came to see me. She had seen several competent dermatologists, had comprehensive workups, and had reasonable, even aggressive, attempts at treating. Not much interesting in her history. Nothing on exam. Cancer workup was negative as was pretty much any autoimmune or allergic cause. Biopsy? Maybe a touch of “dermal hypersensitivity.” She was still upset at being told previously she might have scabies. “Scabies!” she said indignantly. “How could I have scabies? No one has touched this body in nearly 4 years!” That’s interesting, I thought.

The electronic medical record holds a lot of useful information. We spend hours combing through histories, labs, pathology, scans, drugs to search for clues that might help with diagnoses. One tab we hardly visit is demographics. Why should that matter, of course? Age, phone number, and address are typically not contributory. But for this woman there was a bit of data that mattered; I checked right after her remark. Marital status: Widowed. She couldn’t have had scabies because no one touches her. Anymore. As our comprehensive workup did not find a cause nor did treatments mitigate her symptoms, I wondered if loneliness might be a contributing factor. I asked if anyone else was itching, any family, any friends? “No, I live alone. I don’t have anyone.”

Loneliness is a huge health risk. Lacking personal connection has psychological and physical consequences, increasing the risk for depression, cardiovascular disease, and dementia for example. According to the U.S. Surgeon General, it increases the risk for premature death comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet, we rarely (ever?) ask people if they’re lonely. In part because we don’t have good treatments. Remedies for loneliness are mostly societal – reaching out to the widowed, creating spaces that encourage connection, organizing events that bring people together. I cannot type any of these into the EMR orders. However, merely mentioning that a patient could be lonely can be therapeutic. They might not recognize its impact or that they have agency to make it better. They also might not see how their lives still have meaning, an important comorbidity of loneliness.

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Not long after her appointment was a 63-year-old man who complained of a burning scrotum. He worked as a knife sharpener, setting up a folding table at local groceries and farmers markets. COVID killed most of his gigs. Like the woman who didn’t have scabies, comprehensive workups turned up nothing. And seemingly nothing, including antibiotics, gabapentin, indomethacin, lidocaine, helped. At his last visit, we talked about his condition. We had also talked about the proper way to sharpen a knife. I came in prepared to offer something dramatic this visit, methotrexate, dupilumab? But before I could speak, he opened a recycled plastic grocery bag and dumped out knives of various sizes. Also a small ax. He then proceeded to show me how each knife has to be sharpened in its own way. Before leaving he handed me a well-worn Arkansas sharpening stone. “For you,” he said. I gave him no additional recommendations or treatments. He hasn’t been back to dermatology since.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.” – Ernst Toller

A nice feature of the Apple watch is the stopwatch. With it, I can discreetly click the timer and watch seconds tick away. Tap. There’s one lap. Tap. Two. Tap. That was a quick visit, 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Tap. Under 2 minutes to close the chart. Let’s see if I can beat it. Tap. Tap. What if I moved my Mayo stand over to this side of the room? How about a sign, “All patients must have clothes off if you want a skin exam.” You think ob.gyns. are quick from skin to baby in a stat C-section? You should see how fast I can go from alcohol wipe to Drysol on a biopsy. Seconds. Tick, tick, tap.

Every day I look for ways to go faster. This is not so I can be out the door by 3. Rather, it’s simply to make it through the day without having to log on after we put the kids to bed at night.

[embed:render:related:node:263056]

Speaking of bedtimes, another nice feature of the Apple watch is the timer. With it, I can set a timer and a lovely chimey alarm will go off. This comes in handy with 3-year-olds. “Sloan, in two minutes we are going to brush your teeth.” Ding. “Sloan, you have one minute to get your pajamas on.” Ding. “Sloanie, I’ll give you 3 more minutes to put the kitties away, then get into bed.” Ding, ding, ding ...

As you can see, using the stopwatch to time a bedtime routine would be demoralizing. If you’ve tried to put a toddler to bed in summer you know. They explore every option to avoid sleeping: one more book (that would make 3), “accidentally” putting their pajamas on backwards, offering to brush their teeth a second time. And once the light is off, “Papa, I have to potty.” No, bedtime routines cannot be standardized. They resist being made efficient.

In contrast, we think of seeing patients as a standardizable process; work to be optimized. This idea that work should be as efficient as possible came from the father of business management, Frederick Taylor. Taylor, a mechanical engineer, observed inefficiencies on the factory floor. His work was seminal in the development of the second industrial revolution. Before then no one had applied scientific rigor to productivity. His book, “The Principles of Scientific Management,” written in 1909, is considered the most influential management book of the 20th century. He was the first to use stopwatches to perform time studies, noting how long each task took with the belief that there was one best way. The worker was an extension of the machine, tuned by management such that he was as efficient as possible.

Ford_assembly_line_1913_web.jpg

A more insidious downside on the drive to efficiency lies in the nature of what we do. We aren’t factory workers punching out widgets, we’re physicians caring for people and people cannot be standardized. In this way, seeing patients is more like putting a toddler to bed than like assembling an iPhone. There will always be by-the-ways, basal cells hiding behind the ear, traffic jams, and bags of products that they want to review. Not sure how to use your fluorouracil? Let’s go over it again. Need to talk more about why you have granuloma annulare? Let me explain. Despite Taylor’s vision, some work simply cannot be optimized. And shouldn’t.

“Where’s my 11:30 patient who checked in half an hour ago?!” I asked my medical assistant. “Oh, she had to go to the bathroom.” Tap.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.” – Ernst Toller

A nice feature of the Apple watch is the stopwatch. With it, I can discreetly click the timer and watch seconds tick away. Tap. There’s one lap. Tap. Two. Tap. That was a quick visit, 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Tap. Under 2 minutes to close the chart. Let’s see if I can beat it. Tap. Tap. What if I moved my Mayo stand over to this side of the room? How about a sign, “All patients must have clothes off if you want a skin exam.” You think ob.gyns. are quick from skin to baby in a stat C-section? You should see how fast I can go from alcohol wipe to Drysol on a biopsy. Seconds. Tick, tick, tap.

Every day I look for ways to go faster. This is not so I can be out the door by 3. Rather, it’s simply to make it through the day without having to log on after we put the kids to bed at night.

[embed:render:related:node:263056]

Speaking of bedtimes, another nice feature of the Apple watch is the timer. With it, I can set a timer and a lovely chimey alarm will go off. This comes in handy with 3-year-olds. “Sloan, in two minutes we are going to brush your teeth.” Ding. “Sloan, you have one minute to get your pajamas on.” Ding. “Sloanie, I’ll give you 3 more minutes to put the kitties away, then get into bed.” Ding, ding, ding ...

As you can see, using the stopwatch to time a bedtime routine would be demoralizing. If you’ve tried to put a toddler to bed in summer you know. They explore every option to avoid sleeping: one more book (that would make 3), “accidentally” putting their pajamas on backwards, offering to brush their teeth a second time. And once the light is off, “Papa, I have to potty.” No, bedtime routines cannot be standardized. They resist being made efficient.

In contrast, we think of seeing patients as a standardizable process; work to be optimized. This idea that work should be as efficient as possible came from the father of business management, Frederick Taylor. Taylor, a mechanical engineer, observed inefficiencies on the factory floor. His work was seminal in the development of the second industrial revolution. Before then no one had applied scientific rigor to productivity. His book, “The Principles of Scientific Management,” written in 1909, is considered the most influential management book of the 20th century. He was the first to use stopwatches to perform time studies, noting how long each task took with the belief that there was one best way. The worker was an extension of the machine, tuned by management such that he was as efficient as possible.

Ford_assembly_line_1913_web.jpg

A more insidious downside on the drive to efficiency lies in the nature of what we do. We aren’t factory workers punching out widgets, we’re physicians caring for people and people cannot be standardized. In this way, seeing patients is more like putting a toddler to bed than like assembling an iPhone. There will always be by-the-ways, basal cells hiding behind the ear, traffic jams, and bags of products that they want to review. Not sure how to use your fluorouracil? Let’s go over it again. Need to talk more about why you have granuloma annulare? Let me explain. Despite Taylor’s vision, some work simply cannot be optimized. And shouldn’t.

“Where’s my 11:30 patient who checked in half an hour ago?!” I asked my medical assistant. “Oh, she had to go to the bathroom.” Tap.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.” – Ernst Toller

A nice feature of the Apple watch is the stopwatch. With it, I can discreetly click the timer and watch seconds tick away. Tap. There’s one lap. Tap. Two. Tap. That was a quick visit, 6 minutes and 42 seconds. Tap. Under 2 minutes to close the chart. Let’s see if I can beat it. Tap. Tap. What if I moved my Mayo stand over to this side of the room? How about a sign, “All patients must have clothes off if you want a skin exam.” You think ob.gyns. are quick from skin to baby in a stat C-section? You should see how fast I can go from alcohol wipe to Drysol on a biopsy. Seconds. Tick, tick, tap.

Every day I look for ways to go faster. This is not so I can be out the door by 3. Rather, it’s simply to make it through the day without having to log on after we put the kids to bed at night.

[embed:render:related:node:263056]

Speaking of bedtimes, another nice feature of the Apple watch is the timer. With it, I can set a timer and a lovely chimey alarm will go off. This comes in handy with 3-year-olds. “Sloan, in two minutes we are going to brush your teeth.” Ding. “Sloan, you have one minute to get your pajamas on.” Ding. “Sloanie, I’ll give you 3 more minutes to put the kitties away, then get into bed.” Ding, ding, ding ...

As you can see, using the stopwatch to time a bedtime routine would be demoralizing. If you’ve tried to put a toddler to bed in summer you know. They explore every option to avoid sleeping: one more book (that would make 3), “accidentally” putting their pajamas on backwards, offering to brush their teeth a second time. And once the light is off, “Papa, I have to potty.” No, bedtime routines cannot be standardized. They resist being made efficient.

In contrast, we think of seeing patients as a standardizable process; work to be optimized. This idea that work should be as efficient as possible came from the father of business management, Frederick Taylor. Taylor, a mechanical engineer, observed inefficiencies on the factory floor. His work was seminal in the development of the second industrial revolution. Before then no one had applied scientific rigor to productivity. His book, “The Principles of Scientific Management,” written in 1909, is considered the most influential management book of the 20th century. He was the first to use stopwatches to perform time studies, noting how long each task took with the belief that there was one best way. The worker was an extension of the machine, tuned by management such that he was as efficient as possible.

Ford_assembly_line_1913_web.jpg

A more insidious downside on the drive to efficiency lies in the nature of what we do. We aren’t factory workers punching out widgets, we’re physicians caring for people and people cannot be standardized. In this way, seeing patients is more like putting a toddler to bed than like assembling an iPhone. There will always be by-the-ways, basal cells hiding behind the ear, traffic jams, and bags of products that they want to review. Not sure how to use your fluorouracil? Let’s go over it again. Need to talk more about why you have granuloma annulare? Let me explain. Despite Taylor’s vision, some work simply cannot be optimized. And shouldn’t.

“Where’s my 11:30 patient who checked in half an hour ago?!” I asked my medical assistant. “Oh, she had to go to the bathroom.” Tap.
 

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Church architecture describes visually the idea of the sacred, which is a fundamental need of man.

– Mario Botta, Swiss architect

My parents are visiting the Holy See today – prima volta in Italia! My mom waited years for this. She isn’t meeting the Pope or attending Mass. Yet, in the Whatsapp pics they sent me, you can see tears well up as she experiences St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a visceral response to what is just a building and a poignant example of the significance of spaces.

More than just appreciating an edifice’s grandeur or exquisiteness, we are wired to connect with spaces emotionally. Beautiful or significant buildings move us, they make us feel something. Churches, synagogues, or mosques are good examples. They combine spiritual and aesthetic allure. But so too do gorgeous hotels, Apple stores, and posh restaurants. We crave the richness of an environment experienced through our five senses. The glory of sunlight through stained glass, the smell of luxurious scent pumped into a lobby, the weight of a silky new iPhone in your hand. We also have a sixth sense, that feeling we get from knowing that we are standing in a sacred place. A physical space that connects us with something wider and deeper than ourselves.

HolySee_Benabio_web.jpg

Every day when I cover patient messages, I offer some patients an immediate, free solution to their problem. Just today I exchanged emails with a patient thinking I had addressed her concern by reassuring her that it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. Done. She then replied, “Thanks so much, Dr. Benabio! I still would like to schedule an appointment to come in person.” So much for the efficiency of digital medicine.

Before dismissing these patients as Luddites, understand what they want is the doctor’s office experience. The sights, the smells, the sacredness of what happens here. It is no coincidence that the first clinics were temples. In ancient Greece and Rome, the sick and the gashed made pilgrimages to one of at least 300 Asclepieia, temples of healing. During the medieval period, monasteries doubled as housing for the sick until the church began constructing stand-alone hospitals, often in cross-shaped design with an altar in the middle (eventually that became the nurses station, but without the wine).

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Patients entrust us with their lives and their loved ones’ lives and a visit takes on far more significance than a simple service transaction. Forty years on, I can recall visits to Dr. Bellin’s office. He saw pediatric patients out of his Victorian home office with broad, creaky hardwood floors, stained glass, and cast iron radiators. The scent of isopropyl soaked cotton balls and typewriter ink is unforgettable. Far from sterile, it was warm, safe. It was a sacred place, one for which we still sometimes drive by when doing the tour of where I grew up.

We shall forge ahead and continue to offer virtual channels to serve our patients just as any service industry. But don’t force them there. At the same time Starbucks has been building its digital app, it is also building Starbucks Reserve Roasteries. Immense cathedral edifices with warm woods and luxurious brass, the smell of roasting coffee and warm leather perfuming the air. It is where patrons will travel long distances and endure long waits to pay a lot more for a cup of coffee.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Church architecture describes visually the idea of the sacred, which is a fundamental need of man.

– Mario Botta, Swiss architect

My parents are visiting the Holy See today – prima volta in Italia! My mom waited years for this. She isn’t meeting the Pope or attending Mass. Yet, in the Whatsapp pics they sent me, you can see tears well up as she experiences St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a visceral response to what is just a building and a poignant example of the significance of spaces.

More than just appreciating an edifice’s grandeur or exquisiteness, we are wired to connect with spaces emotionally. Beautiful or significant buildings move us, they make us feel something. Churches, synagogues, or mosques are good examples. They combine spiritual and aesthetic allure. But so too do gorgeous hotels, Apple stores, and posh restaurants. We crave the richness of an environment experienced through our five senses. The glory of sunlight through stained glass, the smell of luxurious scent pumped into a lobby, the weight of a silky new iPhone in your hand. We also have a sixth sense, that feeling we get from knowing that we are standing in a sacred place. A physical space that connects us with something wider and deeper than ourselves.

HolySee_Benabio_web.jpg

Every day when I cover patient messages, I offer some patients an immediate, free solution to their problem. Just today I exchanged emails with a patient thinking I had addressed her concern by reassuring her that it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. Done. She then replied, “Thanks so much, Dr. Benabio! I still would like to schedule an appointment to come in person.” So much for the efficiency of digital medicine.

Before dismissing these patients as Luddites, understand what they want is the doctor’s office experience. The sights, the smells, the sacredness of what happens here. It is no coincidence that the first clinics were temples. In ancient Greece and Rome, the sick and the gashed made pilgrimages to one of at least 300 Asclepieia, temples of healing. During the medieval period, monasteries doubled as housing for the sick until the church began constructing stand-alone hospitals, often in cross-shaped design with an altar in the middle (eventually that became the nurses station, but without the wine).

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Patients entrust us with their lives and their loved ones’ lives and a visit takes on far more significance than a simple service transaction. Forty years on, I can recall visits to Dr. Bellin’s office. He saw pediatric patients out of his Victorian home office with broad, creaky hardwood floors, stained glass, and cast iron radiators. The scent of isopropyl soaked cotton balls and typewriter ink is unforgettable. Far from sterile, it was warm, safe. It was a sacred place, one for which we still sometimes drive by when doing the tour of where I grew up.

We shall forge ahead and continue to offer virtual channels to serve our patients just as any service industry. But don’t force them there. At the same time Starbucks has been building its digital app, it is also building Starbucks Reserve Roasteries. Immense cathedral edifices with warm woods and luxurious brass, the smell of roasting coffee and warm leather perfuming the air. It is where patrons will travel long distances and endure long waits to pay a lot more for a cup of coffee.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

Church architecture describes visually the idea of the sacred, which is a fundamental need of man.

– Mario Botta, Swiss architect

My parents are visiting the Holy See today – prima volta in Italia! My mom waited years for this. She isn’t meeting the Pope or attending Mass. Yet, in the Whatsapp pics they sent me, you can see tears well up as she experiences St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a visceral response to what is just a building and a poignant example of the significance of spaces.

More than just appreciating an edifice’s grandeur or exquisiteness, we are wired to connect with spaces emotionally. Beautiful or significant buildings move us, they make us feel something. Churches, synagogues, or mosques are good examples. They combine spiritual and aesthetic allure. But so too do gorgeous hotels, Apple stores, and posh restaurants. We crave the richness of an environment experienced through our five senses. The glory of sunlight through stained glass, the smell of luxurious scent pumped into a lobby, the weight of a silky new iPhone in your hand. We also have a sixth sense, that feeling we get from knowing that we are standing in a sacred place. A physical space that connects us with something wider and deeper than ourselves.

HolySee_Benabio_web.jpg

Every day when I cover patient messages, I offer some patients an immediate, free solution to their problem. Just today I exchanged emails with a patient thinking I had addressed her concern by reassuring her that it was a benign seborrheic keratosis. Done. She then replied, “Thanks so much, Dr. Benabio! I still would like to schedule an appointment to come in person.” So much for the efficiency of digital medicine.

Before dismissing these patients as Luddites, understand what they want is the doctor’s office experience. The sights, the smells, the sacredness of what happens here. It is no coincidence that the first clinics were temples. In ancient Greece and Rome, the sick and the gashed made pilgrimages to one of at least 300 Asclepieia, temples of healing. During the medieval period, monasteries doubled as housing for the sick until the church began constructing stand-alone hospitals, often in cross-shaped design with an altar in the middle (eventually that became the nurses station, but without the wine).

[embed:render:related:node:263772]

Patients entrust us with their lives and their loved ones’ lives and a visit takes on far more significance than a simple service transaction. Forty years on, I can recall visits to Dr. Bellin’s office. He saw pediatric patients out of his Victorian home office with broad, creaky hardwood floors, stained glass, and cast iron radiators. The scent of isopropyl soaked cotton balls and typewriter ink is unforgettable. Far from sterile, it was warm, safe. It was a sacred place, one for which we still sometimes drive by when doing the tour of where I grew up.

We shall forge ahead and continue to offer virtual channels to serve our patients just as any service industry. But don’t force them there. At the same time Starbucks has been building its digital app, it is also building Starbucks Reserve Roasteries. Immense cathedral edifices with warm woods and luxurious brass, the smell of roasting coffee and warm leather perfuming the air. It is where patrons will travel long distances and endure long waits to pay a lot more for a cup of coffee.

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.

1. Stride confidently into the room to greet your 84-year-old female patient.

2. Introduce yourself saying, “Hi, I’m Dr. Jeff Benabio.”

3. Extend your clenched fist toward her chest and wait for her to reciprocate.

4. Smile awkwardly behind your mask while you wait.

5. Advise that you are doing a fist bump instead of a handshake to prevent the spread of viruses.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

6. Wait.

7. Explain that she can bump, also known as “dap,” you back by extending her clenched fist and bumping into yours.

8. Wait a bit more.

9. Lower your fist and pat her on the shoulder with your left hand. Do so gently so it doesn’t seem like you just did a quick right jab followed by a left hook.

10. Sit down diffidently and pray that you can help her so this office visit is not an utter disaster.

It seemed a good idea for 2020: Let’s stop shaking hands while we wait out this viral apocalypse. Sensible, but entering a patient room and just sitting down didn’t work. It felt cold, impolite – this isn’t the DMV. In medicine, a complete stranger has to trust us to get naked, tell intimate secrets, even be stuck by needles all within minutes of meeting. We needed a trust-building substitute greeting.

There was the Muslim hand-on-my-heart greeting. Or the Hindu “namaste” or Buddhist “amituofo” folded hands. Or perhaps the paternalistic shoulder pat? I went with the fist bump. With some of my partner docs, my old MBA squad, my neighbor, the fist bump felt natural, reciprocated without hesitation. But it fails with many patients. To understand why, it’s helpful to know the history of the fist bump, also known as the dap.

Dap is an acronym for Dignity And Pride. It’s a variation of a handshake that originated among Black soldiers in the Vietnam war as a means of showing fraternity and establishing connectedness. In Vietnam, 30% of the combat battalions were Black. Marginalized in the military and at home, they created a greeting that was meaningful and unique. The dap was a series of shakes, bumps, slaps, and hugs that was symbolic. It was a means of showing respect and humility, that no one is above others, that I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. It was a powerful recognition of humanity and effective means of personal connection. It spread from the Black community to the general population and it exists still today. The choreographed pregame handshake you see so many NBA players engage in is a descendant of the dap. Like many rituals, it reinforces bonds with those who are your people, your team, those you trust.

shaking_hands_web.jpg

The more generalized version is the simple fist bump. It is widely used, notably by President Obama, and in the appropriate circumstance, will almost always be reciprocated. But it doesn’t work well to create trust with a stranger. With a patient for example, you are not showing them respect for some accomplishment. Nor are we connecting with them as a member of your team. Unless this is a patient whom you’ve seen many times before, a fist bump attempt might be met with “are you serious?” In fact, a survey done in 2016 asking infectious disease professionals what they thought of fist bumps as a greeting, very few replied it was a good idea. Most felt it was unprofessional. Not to mention that a fist bump does not symbolize an agreement in the way that a handshake does (and has done since at least the 9th century BC).

With COVID waning and masks doffed, I’ve found myself back to handshaking. Yes, I sanitize before and after, another ritual that has symbolic as well as practical significance. I get fewer sideways glances from my geriatric patients for sure. But I do still offer a little dap for my liquid nitrogen–survivor kids and for the occasional fellow Gen Xer. “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

1. Stride confidently into the room to greet your 84-year-old female patient.

2. Introduce yourself saying, “Hi, I’m Dr. Jeff Benabio.”

3. Extend your clenched fist toward her chest and wait for her to reciprocate.

4. Smile awkwardly behind your mask while you wait.

5. Advise that you are doing a fist bump instead of a handshake to prevent the spread of viruses.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

6. Wait.

7. Explain that she can bump, also known as “dap,” you back by extending her clenched fist and bumping into yours.

8. Wait a bit more.

9. Lower your fist and pat her on the shoulder with your left hand. Do so gently so it doesn’t seem like you just did a quick right jab followed by a left hook.

10. Sit down diffidently and pray that you can help her so this office visit is not an utter disaster.

It seemed a good idea for 2020: Let’s stop shaking hands while we wait out this viral apocalypse. Sensible, but entering a patient room and just sitting down didn’t work. It felt cold, impolite – this isn’t the DMV. In medicine, a complete stranger has to trust us to get naked, tell intimate secrets, even be stuck by needles all within minutes of meeting. We needed a trust-building substitute greeting.

There was the Muslim hand-on-my-heart greeting. Or the Hindu “namaste” or Buddhist “amituofo” folded hands. Or perhaps the paternalistic shoulder pat? I went with the fist bump. With some of my partner docs, my old MBA squad, my neighbor, the fist bump felt natural, reciprocated without hesitation. But it fails with many patients. To understand why, it’s helpful to know the history of the fist bump, also known as the dap.

Dap is an acronym for Dignity And Pride. It’s a variation of a handshake that originated among Black soldiers in the Vietnam war as a means of showing fraternity and establishing connectedness. In Vietnam, 30% of the combat battalions were Black. Marginalized in the military and at home, they created a greeting that was meaningful and unique. The dap was a series of shakes, bumps, slaps, and hugs that was symbolic. It was a means of showing respect and humility, that no one is above others, that I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. It was a powerful recognition of humanity and effective means of personal connection. It spread from the Black community to the general population and it exists still today. The choreographed pregame handshake you see so many NBA players engage in is a descendant of the dap. Like many rituals, it reinforces bonds with those who are your people, your team, those you trust.

shaking_hands_web.jpg

The more generalized version is the simple fist bump. It is widely used, notably by President Obama, and in the appropriate circumstance, will almost always be reciprocated. But it doesn’t work well to create trust with a stranger. With a patient for example, you are not showing them respect for some accomplishment. Nor are we connecting with them as a member of your team. Unless this is a patient whom you’ve seen many times before, a fist bump attempt might be met with “are you serious?” In fact, a survey done in 2016 asking infectious disease professionals what they thought of fist bumps as a greeting, very few replied it was a good idea. Most felt it was unprofessional. Not to mention that a fist bump does not symbolize an agreement in the way that a handshake does (and has done since at least the 9th century BC).

With COVID waning and masks doffed, I’ve found myself back to handshaking. Yes, I sanitize before and after, another ritual that has symbolic as well as practical significance. I get fewer sideways glances from my geriatric patients for sure. But I do still offer a little dap for my liquid nitrogen–survivor kids and for the occasional fellow Gen Xer. “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com

1. Stride confidently into the room to greet your 84-year-old female patient.

2. Introduce yourself saying, “Hi, I’m Dr. Jeff Benabio.”

3. Extend your clenched fist toward her chest and wait for her to reciprocate.

4. Smile awkwardly behind your mask while you wait.

5. Advise that you are doing a fist bump instead of a handshake to prevent the spread of viruses.

[embed:render:related:node:257071]

6. Wait.

7. Explain that she can bump, also known as “dap,” you back by extending her clenched fist and bumping into yours.

8. Wait a bit more.

9. Lower your fist and pat her on the shoulder with your left hand. Do so gently so it doesn’t seem like you just did a quick right jab followed by a left hook.

10. Sit down diffidently and pray that you can help her so this office visit is not an utter disaster.

It seemed a good idea for 2020: Let’s stop shaking hands while we wait out this viral apocalypse. Sensible, but entering a patient room and just sitting down didn’t work. It felt cold, impolite – this isn’t the DMV. In medicine, a complete stranger has to trust us to get naked, tell intimate secrets, even be stuck by needles all within minutes of meeting. We needed a trust-building substitute greeting.

There was the Muslim hand-on-my-heart greeting. Or the Hindu “namaste” or Buddhist “amituofo” folded hands. Or perhaps the paternalistic shoulder pat? I went with the fist bump. With some of my partner docs, my old MBA squad, my neighbor, the fist bump felt natural, reciprocated without hesitation. But it fails with many patients. To understand why, it’s helpful to know the history of the fist bump, also known as the dap.

Dap is an acronym for Dignity And Pride. It’s a variation of a handshake that originated among Black soldiers in the Vietnam war as a means of showing fraternity and establishing connectedness. In Vietnam, 30% of the combat battalions were Black. Marginalized in the military and at home, they created a greeting that was meaningful and unique. The dap was a series of shakes, bumps, slaps, and hugs that was symbolic. It was a means of showing respect and humility, that no one is above others, that I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. It was a powerful recognition of humanity and effective means of personal connection. It spread from the Black community to the general population and it exists still today. The choreographed pregame handshake you see so many NBA players engage in is a descendant of the dap. Like many rituals, it reinforces bonds with those who are your people, your team, those you trust.

shaking_hands_web.jpg

The more generalized version is the simple fist bump. It is widely used, notably by President Obama, and in the appropriate circumstance, will almost always be reciprocated. But it doesn’t work well to create trust with a stranger. With a patient for example, you are not showing them respect for some accomplishment. Nor are we connecting with them as a member of your team. Unless this is a patient whom you’ve seen many times before, a fist bump attempt might be met with “are you serious?” In fact, a survey done in 2016 asking infectious disease professionals what they thought of fist bumps as a greeting, very few replied it was a good idea. Most felt it was unprofessional. Not to mention that a fist bump does not symbolize an agreement in the way that a handshake does (and has done since at least the 9th century BC).

With COVID waning and masks doffed, I’ve found myself back to handshaking. Yes, I sanitize before and after, another ritual that has symbolic as well as practical significance. I get fewer sideways glances from my geriatric patients for sure. But I do still offer a little dap for my liquid nitrogen–survivor kids and for the occasional fellow Gen Xer. “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com