What it means to be an Australian – with skin cancer

Each year on the 26th of January, Australia Day, Australians of all shapes, sizes and political persuasions are encouraged to reflect on what it means to be living in this big, brown, sunny land of ours.  It is a time to acknowledge past wrongs, honour outstanding Australians, welcome new citizens, and perhaps toss a lamb chop on the barbie (barbecue), enjoying the great Australian summer.  It is also a time to count our blessings.

We whinge a lot about our health system.  While I am certainly not suggesting the model we have is anywhere near perfect, it could be a whole lot worse.

Dr Justin Coleman recently shared this NY times article via Twitter @drjustincoleman

It talks about the astronomical and ever-rising health care costs in the US and suggests that this, at least sometimes, involves a lack of informed consent (re: costs and alternative treatment options).  The US is certainly not the “land of the free” when it comes to health care.

There are many factors involved, not least being the trend in the US to provide specialised care for conditions that are competently and cost-effectively dealt with in primary care (by GPs) in Australia.

The article gives examples such as a five minute consult conducted by a dermatologist, during which liquid nitrogen was applied to a wart, costing the patient $500.  In Australia, (if bulk billed by a GP) it would have cost the patient nothing and the taxpayer $16.60 (slightly higher if the patient was a pensioner).

It describes a benign mole shaved off by a nurse practitioner (with a scalpel, no stitches) costing the patient $914.56.  In Australia, it could be done for under $50.

The most staggering example of all was the description of the treatment of a small facial Basal Cell Carcinoma (BCC) which cost over $25000 (no, that is not a typo – twenty five THOUSAND dollars). In Australia, it would probably have cost the taxpayer less than $200 for its removal (depending on exact size, location and method of closure).  The patient interviewed for the article was sent for Mohs surgery (and claims she was not given a choice in the matter).

Mohs  (pronounced “Moe’s” as in Moe’s Tavern from The Simpsons) is a highly effective technique for treating skin cancer and minimises the loss of non-cancerous tissue (in traditional skin cancer surgery you deliberately remove some of the surrounding normal skin to ensure you’ve excised all of the cancerous cells) . Wikipedia entry on Mohs  This can be of great benefit in a small minority of cancers.  However, this super-specialised technique is very expensive and time/ labour intensive. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it has become extremely popular in the US.  ”Moh’s for everything” seems to be the new catch cry when it comes to skin cancer treatment in the US.

In the past two years, working very part time in skin cancer medicine in Australia, I have diagnosed literally hundreds of BCCs (Basal Cell Carcinomas).  The vast majority of these I successfully treated (ie cured) in our practice without needing any specialist help. A handful were referred to general or plastic surgeons and one, only one, was referred for Mohs surgery. The nearest Mohs surgeon being 200 kilometres away from our clinic may have something to do with the low referral rate, but the fact remains, most BCCs (facial or otherwise), can be cured and have a good cosmetic outcome, without the need for Mohs surgery.

To my mind, using Mohs on garden variety BCCs is like employing a team of chefs to come into your kitchen each morning to place bread in your toaster and then butter it for you. Overkill.

Those soaking up some fine Aussie sunshine on the beach or at a backyard barbie with friends this Australia Day, gifting their skin with perfect skin-cancer-growing conditions, may wish to give thanks that when their BCCs bloom, affordable (relative to costs in the US, at least) treatment is right under their cancerous noses.

Being the skin cancer capital of the world is perhaps not a title of which Australians should be proud, but the way we can treat them effectively, without breaking the bank, should be.

Happy Australia Day!

“So you are practising at being a doctor, generally?”

I had such fun on the phone tonight… with a cold calling scammer of all things… just had to write it down…

8:30pm, Friday 17th January. Phone rings

Me: Hello, Genevieve speaking

There is a 3 second delay, a slight crackle and then a heavily accented voice greets me.

Him: Hello madam, I am calling from Microsoft Customer Care.

I laugh loudly.

Him: Madam?  I said I was from Microsoft Customer Care

Me: (cheery) I know, I heard you.  So what are going to tell me is wrong with my computer this time?

Him:  Not your computer, madam, my computer. I have a problem and I was hoping that you could help me.

This is a new one to me, I thought.  Let’s see where this goes.  I’m intrigued.

Me: Your computer?  I thought you said you were from Microsoft Customer Care.

Him: That’s right madam.

Me: And you’re ringing about a problem with your computer?

Him: Yes madam. My computer won’t let me log on. It keeps asking me for a password and then says my password is wrong.  Can you help me with this?

Me: Why?

Him: I don’t know why, that’s why I need your help.

Me: No.  Why are you asking me to fix it?

Him: I’ve heard you’re very good at fixing computers.

Me: From whom?

Him: Pardon?

Me: Who told you I was good at fixing computers?

Him: My colleague did.  He said you were the one to go to.

Me: Your colleague from Microsoft Customer Care?

Him: Yes madam.

Me: And where are you calling from?

Him: Umm…  from nearby to your home.

Me:  Nearby where exactly?

Him: Just one moment madam  (sound of frantic typing) … I’m in Ball-Leena

I presume he was mispronouncing “Ballina”, the town in which I live, in northern NSW

Me:  Oh, from the big Microsoft headquarters in Tamar St?

Which of course does not exist.

Him: (relief in voice)  Yes madam, that’s right

Me: And you’re calling from there now?

Him: Yes, madam.

Me: (as if making pleasant conversation) So how are you finding this weather we’re having?

Him: The weather is… umm…  very… nice?

Me: Nice?  You call sub –zero temperatures and blizzards nice?

It has been hot and sunny – we are in the middle of an Australian summer.  It has never snowed in Ballina – at least since the last Ice Age.

Him: (uncertain) Umm… yes.

Me: You must like the snow, then. You a skier?

Him: (with relief) Yes, yes, I like the snow on the ground because I like to ski, but I would like you to help me with my computer now.  I heard you were very clever to fix computers.

Me: So you said… from your colleague at Microsoft Customer Care.

Him: That’s right, madam.  My computer won’t accept my password and I…

Me: Sorry to interrupt you but I’m a little confused.  You work for Microsoft, right?

Him: Yes, madam.

Me: And the colleague you mentioned works for Microsoft?

Him: Yes madam

Me: And yet he recommended me to fix your Microsoft Windows problem. How interesting.

Him: (getting desperate) Please will you help me?  I really need to use my computer. It is very important for my work.

Me: Have you spoken with the IT support person at your workplace?

I idly wonder whether Microsoft have IT support staff for their own office computers.

Him: Umm… I’m working from home today and I need to get onto my computer to do work right away. That is why I’m calling you.  I’ve heard you are the best at computer problems.

Me: So you said. What are you typing on?

Him: Pardon?

Me: I can hear you typing.  If you can’t log on to your computer, what are you typing on?

Him: Umm… my laptop, madam. It is working very well.  My desktop is my problem.

This is just too much fun.

Me: OK, I’ll see what I can do to help.

Him: (with huge relief) Really?  Oh thank you madam.  If you would just go to your computer and…

Me: We don’t need my computer.  We can use yours.

Him: My computer is not working.  If you just…

Me: Not your desktop, your laptop.

Him: My laptop is fine. I need…

Me: Great.  Bring up Internet Explorer or Google Chrome

Him: (frustrated) But they are search engines for websites. I can get to any website I want. That’s not…

Me: Type in “Microsoft password problem” into your search engine of choice.

Him: (becoming increasingly frustrated but trying not to show it) They can’t help me. I’ve heard that you are the best computer expert, madam.

I thought it was time to cut him a break.

Me: I think you have the wrong “madam”. I’m only a doctor.

Him: (voice brightens) A doctor?  A person doctor?

Me: Yes, a person doctor. Not a computer doctor. We deal with different viruses.

Him: What kind of person doctor? A bone doctor? A nerve doctor?

Me: I’m in general practice.

Him: (in all seriousness) So you are practising at being a doctor, generally?

Me: No, I’m… never mind.  Sorry I can’t help you with your computer.  Good bye.

Him: Wait! Do you know about knees?

Me: Only those belonging to bees.

Him: I don’t understand madam.

Me: Forget it.  Have a nice…

Him: Wait!  I have a problem with my knee.

Me: I thought you had a problem with your computer.

Him: I do. And my knee.  It clicks when I bend it and hurts a lot when I…

Me: And you would like my advice?  As a doctor?

Him:  (eagerly) Yes please madam doctor. That would be very kind of you.

Me: No worries.   Go to your laptop.

Him: My laptop?

Me: Uh huh.  Bring up Internet Explorer or Google Chrome.  Type in “knee clicks when I bend” into your search engine of choice and then…. Hello?  Hello?  Anyone there?

……

Most fun I’ve had in ages… which probably suggests I should get out more. 

An ECT visit with a twist

The GP registrar, Dr S, took a big breath before bringing in her first patient from the waiting room. It was her first ECT (External Clinical Teacher) visit and she was probably wishing she’d been booked in for the other kind of ECT instead.

“I’ve got another doctor sitting in with me today as part of my training. Is that okay, Jacquie?”

“Sure, no problem. I’m just here for my results and a quick script,” replied the 50-something Jacquie as she walked with Dr S down the corridor.

In contrast to Dr S’ obvious discomfort, Jacquie seemed perfectly at ease — until she saw me sitting in the corner. Her eyes widened and then carefully avoided any further contact with mine. She twisted and untwisted the strap of her handbag.

“Are you okay?” Dr S asked. “You seem kind of jumpy.”

The response came through gritted teeth: “I’m fine.”

“Good news about your results. They are all normal. I’ll go through each one with you now. The arsenic level was undetectable”

“No need to go through them. Can I just get a printout please? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Well, okay. You wanted a copy for your naturopath, didn’t you?”

“Umm, no. Just for me.”

Dr S looked confused.

“But didn’t your naturopath give you the list of the blood tests she wanted you to have done?”

“Umm, oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

Dr S shook her head almost imperceptibly as she printed out the results. She turned back to Jacquie.

“And your script?”

“What script?”

“You mentioned you wanted a script. Was that for temazepam?”

“No, I don’t need a script. I have a spare one at home. I forgot.”

Dr S was struck with the possibility of an interesting diagnosis. Her face lit up momentarily before settling into a caring but concerned expression.

“You seem to be having some memory problems, Jacquie. I’d like to ask you a few more questions if that’s okay?”

“Not today, I’ve got to go. Thanks.”

Jacquie flew out of the room, clutching her pathology results.

Dr S turned to me, her brow creased with concern.

“Well, I stuffed that up. Should I have handled the memory issue differently? She seemed really scatty today — she’s never been like that before. Do you think early onset dementia is a possibility?”

“Just take a deep breath. You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes there are other things going on.”

I smiled and explained that Jacquie was a regular patient of my practice, 50km away. She’d been in to see me only a week earlier when she’d asked for a range of unusual blood tests as requested by her naturopath. I had not ordered them. I had, however, given her a script for temazepam, which she insisted she used only occasionally.

As is the case with most registrars, Dr S soon relaxed into the ECT visit and found the experience valuable educationally.

It was valuable for me too. And for Jacquie. Somewhat to my surprise, she came back to see me, contrite, and we had a frank and open discussion about what had happened.

Her memory is just fine, although she wishes she could forget that embarrassing day.

(Names have been changed and permission has been obtained from the involved parties for this account to be published).

First published in Australian Doctor on 9th August, 2012 On an ECT visit about an encounter I had a few years back, but memorable even now…

http://www.australiandoctor.com.au/opinions/the-last-word/the-last-word-on-an-ect-visit

The importance of examining patients

Medicine is both a science and an art, and while knowing the causes of chronic renal failure is important (or so I’m told ;-)), there is so much more to being a good doctor.

Most start their medical training full of noble ideals and altruism (at least, that’s what they claim in their entrance interviews) but it is all too easy for medical students and registrars to quickly get overwhelmed by the enormous amount of stuff to learn.  Experienced doctors too, can get stuck in work mode and lose sight of the big picture.

I believe one of the fundamental responsibilities of a medical educator is to help our learners see the wood, the trees and the forest of medicine, preferably simultaneously.   Also important to remind ourselves!

I have started recommending this utterly inspiring talk from Dr Abraham Verghese about the importance of examining patients to my registrars.  He encapsulates the essence of our role and influence much more eloquently than I can…

Recapping memorable moments of 2013 – the “Prostate and Fingers” gaff

I love this time of year.  The water is warm, the days are long and the whole world seems to slow down.

The change of year provides a perfect excuse to reflect and plan, with or without making accompanying resolutions. I’m one of those people who likes to take a good hard look at the used year before tossing it out and opening a brand new one.

While sentimentality occasionally creeps in, I refuse to let it linger. I certainly don’t subscribe to the “a year is like your virginity” school of thought (you only miss it when it’s gone).

My very favourite things in the media (online, TV and newspaper) at this of year are the “year in review” compilations. All the big events in an acoustically and/or aesthetically pleasing five minute clip or five page spread.

Several of the Australian 2013 recaps included Tim Mathieson’s remark about Asian women doing prostate examinations at a reception at the lodge for the members of the West Indian cricket team in late January.  http://www.abc.net.au/lateline/content/2013/s3678150.htm

I wrote this column in the wake of the uproar and thought now would be a good time to share it, in the “reflecting on the year that’s been” tradition…

The Last Words on Prostate and Fingers

So our First Bloke got his fingers burned recently. For those who missed it, during a reception at The Lodge he told the West Indian cricket team: “We can get a blood test for it but the digital examination is the only true way to get a correct reading on your prostate so make sure you go and do that, and perhaps look for a small Asian female doctor is probably the best way.”

The story spread faster than the then-still-burning southern bushfires and flooding northern rivers. It dislodged natural disaster stories from their month-long prime spots and displaced the displaced-person interviews.

Cries such as “discriminatory”, “poor taste” and “potentially prosecutable if Gillard’s anti-discrimination bill were already law” were broadcast far and wide.

It shouldn’t have come as a shock to Tim that his light-hearted comment was given the finger. Surely he could have worked out that a sentence incorporating suggestions of sexism, racism and penetration of that particular orifice, delivered at an official function with the PM at his side, would have been better left unsaid.

Then again, I doubt it was scripted or intentional. Ill-conceived attempts at black humour are par for the course when people find themselves in uncomfortable situations, and for most blokes, talking about rectal examinations would definitely qualify as uncomfortable.

Add public speaking, TV cameras and famous international sport stars to the mix, and it’s no surprise that our First Bloke was all fingers and thumbs.

I don’t want to enter into a debate on DRE/PSA testing of asymptomatic men and I’m not going to criticise his ungrammatical sentence construction.

However, I do have a bone to pick with him: his premise. I think Tim has got his facts wrong regarding finger length and rectal examination.

Many female doctors have told me that small hands make digital rectal examinations very difficult. They complain of having insufficient length to reach the superior pole of the prostate.

Many will gallantly try to push as far in as they can, but I expect this process is not a particularly comfortable one for the patient.

I believe long, slender fingers are best suited to prostate examinations. Narrow width for comfort. Long length for maximum reach.

As I have been heard to say on more than one occasion (but never near a cameraman or a prime minister): “Long, thin fingers — good for piano; good for prostates.”

I imagine The Lodge was a rather tense place on the evening of 28 January. If Julia is anything like any other woman whose partner has embarrassed her at a dinner party, Tim would have had to weather quite a storm once the guests left.

In a way, the timing was almost as unfortunate as the comment. Unlike Julia’s, Mother Nature’s fury was finally dissipating. If Tim had made his faux pas a week earlier, the Queensland floods would have washed the story away in minutes. As it was, PM Gillard was forced to go into damage control.

No doubt inspired by the recent sandbagging, back-burning and other efforts by emergency services to save the endangered, Julia knew she would need to reach deeply into her bag of tricks to combat this unnatural disaster.

She did, and in just over 24 hours, pulled out an election. Or at least, an election date.

While she may deny that the two events are linked, I have a sneaking suspicion that Australia’s launch into the longest ever election campaign may have had more than a little to do with an inaccurate espousing of the shortest digits.

First published in Australian Doctor on 15th February, 2013: On prostates and fingers