Why Not Tweet When You Are In the Hospital and Not Feeling Well?

A question surfaced last month is if – or why – patients should tweet, blog, or otherwise share details of their circumstances on the Internet. The discussion focused on the “case” of a friend, a thoughtful and bright woman who enthusiastically and frequently, perhaps assertively, shares her experiences as a person who lives and receives care for metastatic breast cancer. Apart from the brouhaha surrounding some vicious and factually incorrect columns by a married pair of journalists about her blog and Tweeting – the story might and I think should generate a broader discussion among journalists and doctors about patients’ privacy, social media and “openness” in the hospital setting.

This post may seem un-PC, especially at first. But my purpose is to consider the ramifications of patients using social media while getting treatment. I intend this as a conversation-starter:

From the physician’s side 

If I were a doctor making rounds now in a hospital, let’s say an oncology floor, and I knew that any of the patients might be tweeting – or could tweet – pretty much anything about his or her situation, I’d be uncomfortable about it, enough so that it might interfere with my giving the best care possible. Maybe I’d get over it, kind of the way reality TV show participants say they start to forget about being on camera all the time. But I’m not sure I’d be so honest with patients as I was, or open, as without a certain barrier, a “privacy setting,” between us (the patient and me) and the outside world.

In a (figuratively) glass hospital, I’d be more careful with my words and gestures. On the surface, that sounds like a good thing. Transparency breeds best behavior. But it’d be harder to give a patient a hug, to sneak-deliver a bunch of abandoned flowers in a vase from the utility room, to sit down in a chair at a patient’s bedside and watch the Olympics on TV for three minutes, say, while other patients (and colleagues) were waiting for me, to give a post-op patient with parched lips an ice chip, to break a minor rule. A barrier separating the patient and doctor from the world, the medical team, case managers…can strengthen the bond, and trust, between a doctor and a sick patient.

The loss of privacy can diminish the relationship. Many hospitals have rules on patients’ use of social media, and for doctors, too. But surely the future will bring new ways to break those rules. There will be greater connectedness, not less.

Now, a smart and careful patient might say to her doctors, as I do to mine: “Don’t worry, I won’t write about you on the Internet.” And I don’t, except occasionally and vaguely. Generous words, a genuinely positive “review” might cause trouble down the road. Because if something goes wrong later, and the doctor feels exposed… Stuff happens, and you may not be able to control it.

Why this matters is that if doctors don’t trust the patients they’re giving care to, the care won’t be as kind, or “good” in the sense of quality. To practice well, most doctors need to know, to be confident, that their patients will be careful and cautious about sharing information. In recent decades, doctors’ trust in their patients has eroded, not just from threats of malpractice, but by the plain fact that patients shift from doctor to doctor based on insurance and other changes, and, increasingly, receive care from medical teams and what some call patients’ “homes.”

From the patient’s side –

Being isolated in a hospital room leaves you vulnerable to doctors and other caregivers who may be inappropriate, rude and even abusive. This is especially true if you’re in pain, unable to walk or can’t speak. You might consider that having the capacity to call for help – to Tweet – is empowering.  Health care #911, and very public!

But the main benefit, as I see it, is that patients with similar conditions can find one another and provide support, one to each other. When I was in the hospital for scoliosis surgery as a teenager, for instance, I think I would have benefited from connections to other kids going through the same. When I had my breast cancer treatment, maybe I would have found comfort in the support of – and being “with,” while in the hospital – knowing other women who were going through it, too.

Being sick and alone is scary. Having instant contact to the outside world can be a lifeline.

Split decision?  #nojudgement

Ideas welcome!

Related Posts:

“The Dallas Buyers Club” Takes on AIDS, Peer Patients, and Not Taking “No” for An Answer

If you’re a doctor or nurse of a certain age, the Dallas Buyers Club will jog memories. If you’re among those who lost a loved one or friend to AIDS maybe 20 or 30 years ago, or not, this new film might wrench your heart. Anyone watching will be pushed to think hard about drug development today, the slow pace of progress for metastatic breast cancer and other young life-takers, and the FDA’s role in sanctioning, or blocking, treatments for adults with terminal illness.

Dallas Buyers Club image from FOCUS films copy

scene from “the Dallas Buyers Club” (Focus Films)

The movie draws loosely on the story of Ron Woodroof, a Texan rodeo rider who developed AIDS around 1985. A rail-thin Matthew McConaughey, who says he dropped nearly 50 pounds for this role, somehow nails the look of young, HIV-infected men who were filing into hospitals and clinics back then. After absorbing his diagnosis and said prognosis of 30 days to live, the cowboy teams up with Rayon, a (fictitious) transgender woman portrayed, memorably, by Jared Ledo. Together with an oddball group of sympathetic accomplices, the pair set up shop, to procure and distribute unapproved medications the doctors won’t prescribe. Jennifer Garner plays a sympathetic young physician, Dr. Eva Saks, who in the movie crosses lines a bit incredibly, too personally in the second half, to help the AIDS patients and commiserate. But otherwise the film is spot-on. It captures the desperation, determination and clinging together of people, then, affected by what was incurable disease.

One question that sticks with me, as a physician reflecting on the story, is how unclear it is which drugs, exactly, helped the protagonist. Woodroof, as depicted in the film, briefly takes AZT and then moves on to all kinds of substances including DDC (Zalcitabine) from Mexico, interferon of unknown purity or dose from Japan, protein supplements and more. Through a mix of stuff he lives until 1992, seven years beyond what the doctors first told him to expect. An old-school clinical trialist, almost any of my former teachers, and anyone who appreciates evidence-based medicine (as I do, for the record) would know and state and insist that you can’t draw any conclusions based on what happened to the movie’s protagonist, or Woodroof in real life.

On the other hand, clinical trials are painfully slow. Published trials can be flawed. Even if they’re randomized and well-analyzed, the findings can be hard to interpret when it comes to a single patient’s course and well-being. What’s a dying man to do?

Another relevant point, for people affected by almost any health problem, is the extent to which the patients took charge in the Dallas Buyers Club. They found and shared information about their disease independently of their physicians. The image of an AIDS patient using an old computer in a library, looking up articles about his condition, anticipates patient networks of which there are hundreds, on-line and in communities, today.

I came away from this movie feeling optimistic. Because when I was a student, 30 years ago, I wouldn’t have believed that a man afflicted by AIDS, as McConaughey portrays, could now, likely, live for a long time.

#hope, and happy Thanksgiving,


Related Posts:

Why I Like the (Absurd) Dancing in the OR Video

Last Thursday I was struck by a video of a woman dancing in the O.R. The Huffington Post lifestyle editor called it awesome. “Deb’s Flash Mob” lasts 6 minutes and 14 seconds. The scene takes place in an ordinary-appearing operating room. The song, Get Me Bodied, by Beyoncé, beats familiarly, throughout. And flash mobs, well, they’ve happened in all kinds of places.

What I’d never seen before – what’s news – is a furiously lively woman dancing with doctors, nurses and other others in the operating suite where she would soon undergo a bilateral mastectomy. She, the patient, is shaking and grooving. She’s clad in two hospital gowns, one flipped backwards (for modesty; a trick those of us who’ve been there know), a cap and hospital ID bracelets. An IV part dangles from the crook of one arm. Despite the circumstances, it looks like Deb’s having fun, smiling and, in the end – as her surgery nears, she’s thanking and hugging people who appear to be her friends, dressed in scrubs and adorned with health care accessories like stethoscopes.

Deb’s OR Flash Mob

As of this post, Deb’s OR Flash Mob has been viewed over 6.3 million times on YouTube. Not everyone, including a breast cancer patient and blogger I respect, loved the clip. (And I must admit it gets a bit long; at 3 minutes in, I was ready to concentrate, again, on what I’d been writing.) There are a hundred things wrong with this video, not the least of which is that if every patient were to ask for a dance party before surgery, the hospitals would lose money and (more importantly) precious operating room time. It’s a completely unreasonable, and, maybe, selfish thing to do.

But the dance party is humanizing. I’d go so far as to suggest it adds value to the Deb’s health care experience, and, remotely, might make a good outcome more likely. Why’s that? Because if the nurses and doctors, including the anesthesiologists who take care of the patient during surgery are reminded of her personality – her spirit, or spark, or whatever you want to call it – before they start monitoring and cutting, they are more likely to pay attention, to take care of her body, of which she’s relinquished control, than if they simply perceive her as a physical human container of a tumor with flesh, bones, a beating heart, lungs and other organs.

It turns out the patient is a physician, Dr. Deborah Cohan. She’s an obstetrician and AIDS researcher at UCSF. I can only infer that her position was a factor in the medical center’s indulging her request for a dance party before her mastectomy. On a Caring Bridge site, she offers few details of her circumstances. What all of us who’ve been there, after that kind of surgery, know is that the recovery isn’t always easy. Drains and all that. The dance party was a week ago tomorrow, early in the morning before the bilateral mastectomies. I hope that the patient is recovering well.

What Deb did, and I thank her for this, is offer an extreme example of patient-centered care. Among other things, she did everything possible to assure that the people caring for her perceive her as a human being who dances and enjoys music.

In reality, many and probably most breast cancer (and other) patients can barely get their legitimate questions answered about their surgery or treatment options, or have sufficient time with doctors to discuss those thoroughly. If only every doctor would “see” each patient as a vibrant human, that might help. Each of us deserves a dance party equivalent, or at least a good conversation and attention from the people we trust with our medical care.


Related Posts:

Image Share Project (Finally) Enables People to Share and Access Radiology Results

Today Laura Landro reports in the WSJ on the Image Share Project. According to her Informed Patient column, people who want to access and share radiology images pertaining to their health, such as MRIs or CT scans, can do so using this program. The platform enables easier transmission of electronic versions of large, detailed images. Pilot medical centers involved include New York’s Mount Sinai Hospital, UCSF and the Mayo Clinic.

a doctor looks at a medical image on a computer (NIH, NIBIB)

a doctor looks at a medical image on a computer (NIH, NIBIB)

The Radiological Society of North America is on board with the program. This makes sense, among other reasons because funding comes from the NIH’s National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering (NIBIB). According to the WSJ: “This is all about giving patients control of their health information and engaging them in their own care,” said David Mendelson, director of radiology-information systems at Mount Sinai and a principal investigator on the project.

I’m fine with this – how could I not be? Great, super, and of course patients should have access to electronic files of their x-ray images! Except why has it taken so long? Hard to fathom that in 2013 we’re exploring “pilot” sites where patients can enroll in a program that allows them to transmit their electronic health images to doctors in other cities.

Sooo 2003, you’d think.

Related Posts:

Can Anyone Be a Patient Advocate?

The first time I met an official patient advocate, it was the spring of 1991. I was a first-year fellow, learning by treating patients with blood disorders and all kinds of cancers.

A young gay man with low platelets came to see me in consultation. It was his first visit to the clinic. As I walked by the desk on the way to greet him, the receptionist mentioned that the patient was accompanied by an advocate. “He’s from an organization,” she whispered. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“OK,” I agreed, not sure what to expect.

My patient was a frail, tired-appearing and polite young man in his 20s. He lived in the West Village and was no longer employed, suffering from AIDS. The man who accompanied him was also thin, perhaps 30 years old – like me, then – and what you might call assertive. The advocate explained that he’d stay with the patient during the evaluation and discussion of recommendations. He added that he’d seen a file on me at ACT UP, and that I was “all right.”

We walked into one of the small consultation rooms. I took detailed notes on the patient’s medical history – too long for his age, approximately 23 years. His body was frail and bruised. A bouquet of tiny red spots lined his palate. Similar marks, a bit darker, coated his legs over and above both ankles. We called those – a manifestation of low platelets – petechiae. I reviewed the patient’s prior blood tests, and drew a sample that I might examine his cells under the microscope.  Later on, the patient, advocate and I spoke about his likely diagnosis and treatment options.

This encounter – my first with an advocate – happened approximately 22 years ago. I don’t know the long-term outcome of the patient’s story, but it’s likely he died of AIDS within a year or two of that encounter. He’d already had several serious infections, and his T cells were quite low as I recall. The advocate may have died, too, but I was not privy to his medical history. All I learned about the advocate – over the course of a few visits, and never by my asking him questions – was that he was involved with ACT-UP, that he was extremely familiar with AIDS manifestations, and that he cared that my patient have access to treatment by a considerate doctor.

So who’s a patient advocate, today?

I’ve been wondering about this, in part because I’d like to serve as a patient advocate on a committee and help decide on priorities, meeting agendas and funding for, say, breast cancer research. Some agencies consider that someone like me – a physician who’s had significant illness – can’t serve as a patient advocate at a table with limited chairs, because I have a medical degree. The problem is, I’m on “the other side,” or something along those lines.

"The Sick Woman," aka "The Doctor and His Patient," by Jan Steen, 17th Century, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam (WikiCommons)

“The Doctor and His Patient,” by Jan Steen

It happens that some physicians, including your author at Medical Lessons, are among the fiercest proponents of patients’ rights I know. I support patients’ unrestricted access to information about medicine and new research, to reasonable treatments matching their preferences and values, and to respect from health care providers. At the same time, I’ve seen doctors who, it seems, promote or outright advertise themselves as “patient advocates” on blogs, websites, in books and elsewhere. Suspicious, yes, but not necessarily untrue –

So here’s the question for the crowd: Can a good doctor, or a nurse, or a physical therapist, or any other person employed by the health care system, serve as a patient advocate?

I’m sure I served an advocate for my patients, years ago, while I was practicing, just as I might now, for people with various illnesses. Tell me I’m wrong.

Comments please! How, exactly, might we define a patient advocate? And, while we’re at it – who’s a patient navigator, and what’s the difference?

Related Posts:

Reading Between the Lines, and Learning from an Epidemiologist

Early on in Between the Lines, a breezy new book on medical statistics by Dr. Marya Zilberberg, the author encourages her readers to “write, underline, highlight, dog-ear and leave sticky notes.” I did just that. Well, with one exception; I didn’t use a highlighter. That’s partially due to my fear of chemicals, but mainly because we had none in my home.

I enjoyed reading this book, perhaps more than I’d anticipated. Maybe that’s because I find the subject of analyzing quantitative data, in itself, dull. But this proves an easy read: it’s short and not boring. The author avoids minutia. Although I’m wary of simplified approaches – because as she points out, the devil is often in the details of any study – this tact serves the reader who might otherwise drop off this topic. Her style is informal. The examples she chooses to illustrate points on medical studies are relevant to what you might find in a current journal or newspaper this morning.

Over the past year or two, I have gotten to know Dr. Zilberberg, just a bit, as a blogging colleague and on-line associate. This book gave me the chance to understand her perspective. Now, I can better “see” where she’s coming from.

There’s a lot anyone with an early high school math background, or a much higher level of education, might take away from this work. For doctors who’ve attended four-year med schools and, of course, know their stats well (I’m joking, TBC*), this book provides an eminently readable review of basic concepts – sensitivity, specificity, types of evidence, types of trials, Type II errors, etc. For those, perhaps pharmacy student, journalists and others, looking for an accessible source of information on terms like “accuracy” or HTE (heterogeneous treatment effect), Between the Lines will fill you in.

The work reads as a skinny, statistical guidebook with commentary. It includes a few handy tables – on false positives and false negatives (Chapter 3), types of medical studies (Chapter 14), and relative risk (Chapter 19). There’s considered discussion of bias, sources of bias, hypothesis testing and observational studies. In the third chapter the author uses lung cancer screening scenarios to effectively explain terms like accuracy, sensitivity and specificity in diagnostic testing, and the concept of positive predictive value.

Though short, this is a thoughtful, non-trivial work with insights. In a segment on hierarchies of evidence, for example, the author admits “affection for observational data.” This runs counter to some epidemiologists’ views. But Zilberberg defends it, based on the value of observational data in describing some disease frequencies, exposures, and long-term studies of populations. In the same chapter, she emphasizes knowing – and stating – the limits of knowledge (p. 37): “…I do think we (and the press) do a disservice to patients, and to ourselves, and to the science if we are not upfront about just how uncertain much of what we think we know is…”

Mammography is, not surprisingly, one of few areas about which I’d take issue with some of the author’s statements. For purposes of this post and mini-review, I’ll leave it at that, because I think this is a helpful book overall and in many particulars.

Dr. Zilberberg cites a range of other sources on statistics, medical studies and epistemology. One of my favorite quotes appears early on, from the author directly. She considers the current, “layered” system of disseminating medical information through translators, who would be mainly physicians, to patients, and journalists, to the public. She writes: “I believe that every educated person must at the very least understand how these interpreters of medical knowledge examine, or should examine, it to arrive at the conclusions.”

This book sets the stage for richer, future discussions of clinical trials, cancer screening, evidence-based medicine, informed consent and more. It’s a contribution that can help move these dialogues forward. I look ahead to a continued, lasting and valuable conversation.


*TBC = to be clear

Related Posts:

How Much Do You Want Your Doctors To Say About Risks of Treatment?

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was working as a board-certified oncologist. The initial decisions most patients face – which doctor to see, what kind of doctor to see, and at which medical center to see them – were basically non-decisions. I knew, within an instant of my diagnosis, who I’d ask to be my oncologist, surgeon and plastic surgeon. Those choices were straightforward, because I knew what those physicians were like in terms of how they cared for patients, their knowledge and other aspects of their practices and personalities.

The harder decisions were what treatment to take, or not, for my early-stage breast cancer. I was perhaps the most informed cancer patient who could walk into an oncologist’s office. I was familiar with the different regimens. I knew that adjuvant chemotherapy would, roughly and over the long haul, reduce my odds of recurrence by a third. I was aware that, if I opted for a lumpectomy, radiation treatment would reduce the local recurrence rate but was unlikely to affect my long-term survival. I understood that dose-intense regimens were more likely to make me sick and more likely to cause problems down the road.

And yes, in the back of my head I knew that chemotherapy can cause another cancer. Did I think about that possibility? The best answer is, probably, not so much. I was coping with the present.

But that knowledge did influence the decision I made to take a relatively “light” dose of chemotherapy. I was lucky, also, in that I understood my pathology. My tumor, at 1.5 cm, with a negative sentinel node and generous expression of hormone receptors, was a good-prognosis tumor. I was 42 years old, and wanted to live for a few more decades if I survived my spine surgery (another story). I chose the minimal amount of chemo that had been shown in clinical trials to reduce the odds of recurrence.

Last week, I wrote a piece for the Atlantic on how doctors and patients talk about the risks of chemotherapy, or not, and whether patients listen or necessarily want to listen. The reason I put it out there is because I’ve seen doctors shy away from this part of the conversation about cancer treatment. I’m a firm believer in informed consent, and in patients’ access to as much information as they choose to have. If you get chemotherapy, you have the right to know about these risks, and to ask your doctor about them.

I’ve been there with patients who’ve said: “please, don’t tell me this. I can’t deal with it.” Some might even consider it cruel to tell patients with a serious, urgent and treatment-needing condition details of all the possible side effects. Many ask, “what would you do, doctor, if it were someone in your family?” And if they like and respect you, they go with your recommendation.

This kind of paternalism, when a doctor assesses the risks and benefits, and spares the patient’s “knowing” seems anachronistic. But it may, still, be what many people are looking for when and if they get a serious illness. Not everyone wants a “tell me everything” kind of physician. What do you think?

Related Posts:

The NBCC Holds Annual Summit and Pushes for Deadline 2020

Last week the National Breast Cancer Coalition (NBCC) held its annual summit. The meeting drew over 600 women to its opening rally in a Crystal City ballroom on Saturday, along with students who participated in sessions for Emerging Leaders, and a few men who joined in lectures and panels, and lobbied on Tuesday on Capitol Hill.

The NBCC aims to get HR 3067, the Accelerating the End of Breast Cancer Act, passed by the House of Representatives and, ultimately, into law. The bill ties in with Deadline 2020 and with the conference theme: “It’s Time.”

The opening rally, organized in the style of a political convention, was lively. When I entered, participants – or “activists,” as they might be called – were rocking to Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World. Attendees congregated by state and region. Most wore festive garments and signs over black tee shirts carrying the Deadline logo: women from Maine wore floppy red lobster hats; a contingent from Pennsylvania held brightly-decorated kite-posters; a group from Oregon played kazoos (to We’re Not Gonna Take It) and supported multicolored umbrellas over their heads; members of the CBCC lifted Rosie the Riveter boards proclaiming: “We Can Do It!” Each region offered a progress report. In videos, these demonstrated a mix of activism (“waving breast cancer goodbye” on a Rhode Island beach) and seriousness (scientist in a lab, explaining why the research matters).

Fun aside – the meeting’s mood was overwhelmingly serious. Each day’s session opened with a moment of silence to recall women who have died from breast cancer. There were plenary lectures, and smaller educational meetings on topics like “A Critical Review of New Therapies for Metastatic Breast Cancer,” “Estrogen Exposure throughout the Life Cycle,” “Nuts and Bolts of Congress,” “and “The Environment and Breast Cancer.” Many of the women there have metastatic cancer, or had cancer. I had lunch one day with a woman whose early-stage cancer came back after 15 years. Many of the college-age people attending have moms with advanced disease or who died from that. There were young people who’d had breast cancer – some under 30 years old. The few men I spoke with were affected by their wives and mothers’ illnesses. You couldn’t walk a few feet without hearing a sad tale, or seeing the outcome of loss, in motivating people to take action.

In her remarks, Fran Visco, the NBCC Founder and leader, reminded the group that breast cancer remains a leading cause of cancer deaths. Each day, on average, 110 women die in the U.S. from breast cancer. That’s the equivalent of a woman dying every 14 minutes from the disease, she explained. “This should not be considered success, or even meaningful progress.”

“We need to take a less comfortable approach,” she said. “The system rewards safe ideas. We need to take risks.” She spoke of the Artemis project, an NBCC-supported research program to develop a preventive breast cancer vaccine. “There’s a moral imperative to do these trials,” she said. “We’ll get scientists to form new collaborations, to change their focus not on the next grant, or publication, but on the real goal, which is saving patients’ lives.”

In the 20 years since NBCC was founded there’s been progress, she said. “But we’re nowhere near close enough.” She referred to Dr. Jonas Salk, whose polio vaccine came through after just seven years in the lab, and – as did others at the same meeting – to JFK’s 1961 promise to put a man on the moon. That seemingly impossible mission got done in less than nine years. The idea of the Accelerating the End of Breast Cancer Act is to leverage our nation’s prior investment in biotechnology, and to use that work – including much research already done – to end to breast cancer and stop metastases. Visco hopes to deliver a petition to the President on inauguration day in January, 2013.

Through the meeting, I gained a better sense of the organization and Deadline’s purpose. In the words of Senator Kirsten Gillebrand, who met with a delegation from New York on Tuesday: “It creates an urgency about the issue.”

Related Posts:

73 Cents: A Film on Regina Holliday’s Work, and Patient Advocacy Through Art

Yesterday I took a field trip to meet Regina Holliday, an artist and patient advocate. She fielded questions after a screening of 73 Cents, a short film about why she painted a mural by that name in the days after her husband died with metastatic kidney cancer. He was 39 years old.

At the time of her husband Fred’s diagnosis, both she and her husband held several jobs but he lacked health insurance. In a video, Holliday describes how his diagnosis and care were delayed.

“73 Cents” refers to the price, per page, Holliday needed to pay to get a copy of her husband’s chart when he entered a new medical facility. According to the film, she was told she’d have to wait 21 days to get his records, even though he was acutely ill and dying. Now a widow with two young sons, she pushes for patients’ rights to access to their health  records and, more generally, for a patient-centered approach to medical care.

The film-makers’ point: The unreasonable price of the medical records, combined with the delay in receiving them, exemplifies unnecessary harms patients encounter in an outdated, disjointed health care system.

Holliday has several ongoing projects, including the Walking Gallery. In that, she represents health care stories on the backs of people’s jackets. The idea is to take the message of the mural – which is one patient’s story, and necessarily static – and take it further.

Related Posts:

A Good Personal Health Record is Hard to Find

Over the weekend I developed another bout of diverticulitis. Did the usual: fluids, antibiotics, rest, avoided going to the ER, cancelled travel plans.

One of my doctors asked a very simple question: is this happening more frequently? The answer, we both knew, was yes. But I don’t have a Personal Health Record (PHR) that in principle, through a few clicks, would give a time-frame graph of the bouts and severity of the episodes over the past several years.

The last time this happened, and the time before that, I thought I’d finally start a PHR. Like most compulsive patients, I keep records about my health. In the folder in my closet in a cheap old-fashioned filing box, the kind with a handled top that flips open, I’ve got an EKG from 15 years ago, an OR report from my spine surgery, copies of lab results that the ordering physicians chose to send me, path reports from my breasts, a skin lesion or two, and, more recently a colonic polyp, bone density studies from 2004, EMGs and more, essentially miscellaneous results.

None of the records I have are digital.

A few years back I considered using Google Health. But their service, as I understood it, involved scanning documents and uploading them to the Cloud, or paying someone else to do so. That sounded like a hassle. But even had I done that, I wouldn’t have been able to, say, see a graph of my hemoglobin since 1986, or something as simple as my weight changes over time. When Google Health folded a few months back, I was disappointed. At the same time, I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t invested my personal and limited energies into putting my records there.

But now what?

I searched for a PHR, again on-line, and found some commercial stuff, mainly targeting doctors’ offices and larger health care systems. Medicare’s information on Managing Your Health Information Online offers bullet-point explanations on Why Use PHRs?

But I needed no convincing. What I need is software, or a platform, that’s user-friendly and secure. Ideally mine would mesh with my physicians’ records, but my doctors use a variety of record systems. So it’s up to me to integrate the data, if anyone will. The problem is there’s little out there, as best I can tell, that’s intended for patients. Most IT companies are, for now, focused on getting doctors to sign on.

So I’ll start an Excel spreadsheet, today, on my PC. There must be a better way.

Related Posts:

newsletter software
Get Adobe Flash player