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All Ears

General health problems such as ear infections, pink eye and influenza affect nearly every person eventually. Rod Moser, PA, PhD, shares information and advice here on the most common general health disorders, their symptoms, treatments, and prevention.

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Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Small Town Festivals
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I just love when small towns have their annual festivals. They are often associated with agricultural products, or events directly attributed to the town. In California, we have The Courtland Pear Fair, The Isleton Crawdad Festival, The Gilroy Garlic Festival, The Apple Hill Festival, and so many others. For instance, in Gilroy, one can experience garlic ice cream, deep fried garlic, garlic wine, and just about every concoction you can think about involving garlic. North Sacramento is famous for methamphetamine, but I doubt I will see Crank-Fest 2008 advertised.

We visited my brother and his wife on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, an area is famous for chicken. All of the famous chicken brands, like Purdue Farms and Tyson are everywhere in town. While this area is also famous for an abundance of seafood, like crabs and oysters, Salisbury, Maryland is famous for their poultry industry. You would think it would have been that gravy-covered, chopped steak.

Yesterday, we attended the 59th Annual Delmarva Chicken Festival, held in an open field adjacent to a shopping center. (FYI: Delmarva means, "Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia"). I was particularly interested in the festival trademark - the Giant Frying Pan - that was made especially for this event in 1950 (a year before I was born). The frying pan is ten feet in diameter, weighs 650 pounds, and is fired up by liquid propane gas. About 180 gallons of cooking oil is required to fill the pan. The local Lions Club does the cooking; approximately 10,000 chicken quarters for this two day eat-a-thon. People were even wearing chicken hats. Paramedics were available for burns and cholesterol-checking.

There were other exhibits, like baby chicks emerging from eggs. This was sort of bizarre since the people were most likely eating their parents. We brought our 87 year old mother from the nursing home with us. She enjoyed holding the baby chicks and listening to the Dixieland and Bluegrass music on stage. The banjo player was my brother's neighbor and good friend, Matt. In small towns, it is not uncommon to know just about everyone.

Several years ago, I visited my old hometown of Fairchance, Pennsylvania - a small, Appalachian community tucked in a tiny valley, south of Uniontown. Our town was famous for coke. Not the coke that druggies snort up their noses or the soft drink, but a charcoal-like product made from coal that was formerly used in the steel industry. Now that the coke ovens have closed, I did not think that our little town had any distinction at all; at least not something that could justify a "festival". I was wrong. My trip coincided with the annual Hi-To Lake Snake-Fest. This was something that I had to see.

Wanting to avoid the crowds, we went early. Our car was one of the four in the parking lot. Country music filled the air from big speakers. A quad-runner race around the man-made lake (about the size of a farm pond) had just concluded and the three contestants were pleased that they had taken first, second, and third. There was one booth.

As my son, Alex, and I approached this booth - basically a corral, crudely-made with chicken wire - we saw that it contained an impressive collection of rattlesnakes and copperheads. As a child, snakes were my biggest fear (other than my mother).

For a dollar, which included the rental of some, well-worn knee high, rubber boots, one could commune with the snakes. You were expected to walk around and let ‘em bite ya! This was not like swimming with the dolphins. As we watched those fearsome serpents in their makeshift pen, we notice that one rattlesnake had escaped and was heading for freedom from these crazy hillbillies. These are my people, unfortunately.

"One of them is getting away," said my son.

"I'll get 'em! That is the same somebitch that keeps gettin' out." Apparently, a snake crawling through the many holes in chicken wire was not expected.

As the tune of "Born Free" ran through my mind, the wayward rattler was re-captured and thrown back in the snake pit. He slithered to the corner in utter frustration and disappointment.

Neither Alex nor I decided to walk with the snakes that day, although I did feel sorry for the one that tried to escape. He really wanted to bite someone. Besides, paramedics were NOT available.

They eat a lot of rattlesnakes in Texas, but not so much in Pennsylvania. They definitely don't eat copperheads; even if you are real hungry. People in my town ate a lot of squirrels, rabbits, groundhogs (Sorry, Punxsutawney Phil), raccoons, and possums. I was told that they taste like chicken. Now, if Fairchance only had one of those big skillets...

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Posted by: Rod Moser_PA_PhD at 8:42 AM

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Eric the Grad
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Nearly six and a half years ago, Eric and Alex's father, my friend, Peter, passed away after losing the inevitable battle with pancreatic cancer. Eric was about 11 years old at that time. After I finish writing this, I am going to a reception to celebrate his high school graduation. This Blog is his gift. I know that he will read it, since Eric is one of my Bloggies - he reads them all.

Peter and I were about the same age and we were both PAs. In 1978, we worked in the same family practice. That was thirty years ago. He lived a good life and was loved by his patients, family, and friends. He did not smoke or drink. His only fault in my eyes was that he drove the ugliest orange Datsun 240Z you have ever seen. He loved that car and parked it near his office window so that he could admire it. He had absolutely no risk factors for pancreatic cancer which tends to strike like lightning. Most people who are diagnosed with this terrible disease die in a few months.

Through sheer will and conviction, Peter was able to survive nearly two years after getting this terrible news. The love of his family helped him survive day by day. He fought valiantly to survive, yet carefully planned his death. Being a medical professional, Peter knew his odds of surviving were dismal. He told me that he was willing to do just about anything that showed promise, from experimental drugs to unproven therapy, but he was also a realist. Since health insurers do not pay of experimental treatments, he spent a lot of his hard-earned money. In the end, the pancreatic cancer won.

Peter was in a lot of pain. One day, I asked him what it felt like. He said that it was indescribable. He called it Cancer Pain. In order to function, he had to take powerful narcotics, trying to balance the profound sedation against the excruciating agony of the cancer that was killing him. Most days, he suffered the pain so that he would be conscious enough to get this estate in order.

There was one pain that narcotics would not numb, and that was the pain he felt in his heart knowing that he would be soon leaving his beloved wife and two sons. Peter knew that he would not be seeing his oldest son graduate from high school; nor would he be able to share in the joy of his future accomplishments. My own father died of cancer when I was six, so Eric and I share this painful experience. We were both old enough to see suffering and to go to sleep at night not knowing if your father would be there when you woke up.

Life is so precious and most of us will never know when it will end. At least Peter knew. He was able to hug his wife and boys, share his wisdom, and leave this Earth knowing they would be just fine. For a dying man, there is great comfort in this.

Even though he was just eleven, Eric knew that his role had changed. I remember the day the Eric called me so that I could tell him how to backwash and clean the pool filter, a job that only his father could do. I suspect when I go to their home today, the pool will be sparkling; just the way Peter liked it. As I sat outside on the patio at his graduation reception, I picked and ate cherries from a tree his father -- my friend -- planted so many years ago; even before Eric was born.

Eric was one of the class valedictorians and will definitely excel in college. Eric chose UC Davis; one of my alma maters; and will be majoring in geology.

I know that Eric will be a man just like his late father. Some day, Eric may sit with his own children on his lap to tell them about their grandfather; a man they never had the opportunity to meet. If those children look deep enough into Eric's eyes, they will clearly see their grandfather with his bushy mustache. And, underneath that blond soup-strainer, leaning against his orange Z, they will see the proud smile of the man that started it all.


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Posted by: Rod Moser_PA_PhD at 5:23 PM

Friday, June 06, 2008

Dealing with Office Distractions
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Unless you work alone in a remote cave in Siberia, you are likely be interrupted by many distractions. In Siberia, it might be a wolf or polar bear, but in most work situations, it is often your co-workers.

We have a large medical office with about a dozen clinicians working every day, and another three dozen or so medical assistants, patient service representatives, billers, nurses, and front desk receptionists. My office is unfortunately located right smack in the middle of most of them; adjacent to a very busy nurse's station - Gabbing Central. Not only is there a constant banter of non-work-related conversations going on all day, but they constantly try to drag me into their bull sessions. Constant laughing may be a sign of a happy workplace, or a warning sign of mental instability. I can't really drown them out, even if I close my door. If my door is closed, they knock to ask my opinion about something or other. Or, they will rag on me if I complain.

Our office has music on hold, apparently so that our patients will become more annoyed and enraged as they wait. Someone usually chooses some inappropriate rock or rap station that causes adrenalin to surge. Of course, even hearing "Spanish Eyes" a few dozen times a day would drive anyone to lunacy. One of medical assistants, who's desk is about twenty feet from my own, loves to put on the music at her desk; just loud enough to drive me crazy. When I turn it down; she turns it up. I finally had to have it out with her about this music, so what that means a passive-aggressiveness attitude from now on. Some additional quiet without Elvis droning on the background is worth a little overt hostility in my opinion. She has now taken to singing; the same damn song all day long until I get an ear worm (a song in my own head that refuses to leave). I know she is doing this on purpose.

The only advantage of having my office next to the nurse's station is that I can SEE what they are doing; and usually snare one of them to fax something. Of course, accessibility is a two-way street. If there are ANY questions requiring a medical decision, I appear to be the closest. My desk is even a straight-shot down the hall to the front desk and to patients standing behind the counter.

"I'm sorry. He's not in at the moment."

"What are you talking about? I can SEE him!"

I guess I don't mind if people ask me for medical advice (about a patient...NOT them). They will come walking by, looking for another medical provider, and see me in my office. Oh, I guess I can ask Rod. Of course, they do ask me, which now gets me involved in a non-critical patient problem

People are always just "popping in" to my office for water. Ever since I got my kidney stones a few years ago, I put in my own cold water dispenser. Now, people pop in to get cold (or hot water). I would really like to have a small microwave oven and coffee maker, since I sort of live in my office most of the week, but I think it would quickly turn into a break room.

We have started to limit pharmaceutical representatives from wandering around all day; dropping off samples, putting pamphlets on our desk that we just throw away when they leave, and getting signatures. Because of my office location and the fact that I am nice to them, they tend to take that as an invitation to hang out. Even though I keep typing on the keyboard, make little eye contact, they ramble on about some new medication for Restless Leg Syndrome. My leg is a little restless...I would like to reach out and kick them with it.

We have one back phone line for other physician calls, critical lab reports, etc. The fastest way to get medical assistants to scatter is to have that back line ring. No one - and I mean no one - will answer that phone until the 20 or 30th ring. Sometimes, I will answer it, only to have some child want to talk to their mother. Aaaargh! As soon as the phone stops ringing, the medical assistants will return, like birds that have been momentarily frightened away by a cat.

I finally answer the phone. One of the returning medical assistants, will ask, "Who was on the phone?"

"Oh, it was some teenager. I didn't get the name. He said something about being in jail. He said he would call back when they give him another call."

I get many patient calls during the day for advice, but I tend to call them back at the end of a session, like lunch time or at the end of my clinical day. I feel that the patients who have appointment have priority. You would think that in the age of cell phones, that it would be easy to call someone back. It is not. More often than not, I have to leave a voice mail and the phone tag begins. People do not seem to understand that it would be rude for me to make a scheduled patient wait and come directly to the phone. I am not a big fan of telephone medicine. In other words, I cannot examine someone's ear over the phone, determine if they have an ear infection, and prescribe the appropriate treatment. People just want to save the cost of an office visit.

I like to keep my door open, but I do not really have an open door policy. When I was a university professor, my students had to make an appointment to see me. In our medical practice, it is not uncommon for someone to stop by in the middle of a busy day just to chat.

As I am actively typing my chart notes, someone will pop in and say, "Oh, I see you are not busy, I can ask you! Gotta minute?"

A minute, of course, is not the sixty seconds that we have come to know. A clinic minute could be closer to five or ten minutes by the time the story ends.

"I would love to hear about your mother's angina, but would you mind coming back when I am not seeing patients?"

Basically, I think I handle distractions in the office quite well. My PA wife, however, does not. Women tend to become "one of the girls" quite early in the professional environment. They end up right in the middle of the gossip mill. I could care less about who is sleeping with whom. Apparently, my wife likes that stuff. As a result, she tends to stay an hour or so late most every night finishing her charts.

There is a big price to pay for distractions.

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Posted by: Rod Moser_PA_PhD at 7:55 AM

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