Digitized Care

Digitized Care

In 1964, My father lost a leg to cancer. He didn’t slow down one bit. He spent the next 30 years on crutches raising six children, coaching Little League, volunteering, running for office, and traveling around the world on business. In April 1993, he had emergency by-pass surgery. This slowed him down — slightly.

My sister’s wedding was scheduled for June and my father was determined to walk her down the aisle. Not yet back to full strength, he drove 400 miles to the wedding. As a small concession to his recovery, he rented a wheelchair for walking long distances. On the wedding day, which was also my parent’s 38th anniversary, Dad walked my sister down the aisle. He enjoyed the rest of the day in the rented wheelchair. 

Flash forward twenty years. Still on crutches, Dad had slowed down a bit due to severe gout. He applied to his health-care system for a wheelchair. They responded that since he had returned a more-sophisticated wheelchair twenty years earlier and was now applying for a simpler one, he must have “gotten better.”  Request denied.

We were stunned. But being the family we are, we asked him if he had grown a new leg since we last visited. We were also angry. No one had examined my father or even asked him any questions. He had been denied sight-unseen.

Patients today, despite huge technological advances in care, have become less and less visible to the healthcare system. A patient consults a doctor who arrives carrying a computer. She taps at the keyboard while symptoms are described. While they chat, the doctor orders tests, forwards information to other doctors. makes notes in her records, and sends a prescription to the printer. Her data is analyzed by insurance companies and healthcare systems who decide if the care should be covered or denied.

The introduction of computers has made medical care more efficient but less personal. Abraham Verghese, physician, educator, and author of many books, worries that the “human connections” of medicine are being lost in the digital age. Time-harried doctors can’t look at their patients, listen to their stories, or know who they are. The cornerstone of medicine — one person caring for another — is lost when computers step between patient and doctor.

After struggling two more years on crutches, my father finally got his wheelchair.  His caring doctor who knew him well, resubmitted the application, clearly stating my father’s condition and his need, and his request was approved. We still laugh about the “new” leg but also wonder how many others don’t get the care they need. Many people remain unseen — those without families, insurance, advocates, or money. 

Doctors are people. Patients are people. People are not data. When healthcare policies are based on data alone, much is lost. Digital medicine cannot replace the compassion a good doctor offers his patients. Health does not happen without caring. 

Pleasant-ly!

Pleasant-ly

My father was a card-carrying member of the Grammar Police. He infuriated his children, who were just trying to make an argument for getting their way, by insisting on correct grammar at all times. He loved nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and obscure tenses that nobody ever needs to use — as I often insisted. Dad earned his commission from his mother, a first-generation immigrant who loved words and English — her second language.

I continued my father’s commission by slyly correcting friends during conversations and by shouting at the radio and television when grammar mistakes were made: Live fearless-LY! Not less calories — fewer! Got milk? No, Do you have milk? I carried a virtual Sharpie to correct misusage in signs, “Let(apostrophe)s go.” I erased commas and corrected spelling as I strolled the mall and rewrote scripts while watching movies. I especially jumped on misused words: You have fewer coins but less money. It is between two friends, not among them. I walked my beat with diligence and felt smug in my GC — grammatical correctness. 

As a parent, I introduced my children to words and usage. As a teacher, I didn’t have the same control since children come to school already speaking. I gently reinforced correct grammar in verbal exchanges and wielded my red pen judiciously. 

One day, while exercising my red pen, I tuned the radio to an interview show. The calming tones of Mr. Rogers filled the room. The host asked Fred about his childhood. Fred had been a quiet boy, overweight, lonely, and often ill, spending hours  in bed playing with his toy soldiers in, he noted, “the land of counterpane.” 

Then came a seminal moment in my life. The host asked Fred if gazing out the window during his illness triggered his imagination. I gasped. Every good grammarian knows that “The Land of Counterpane” refers to a Robert Louis Stevenson poem and has nothing to do with windows. A counterpane is a bedspread. I waited for Mr. Rogers to refer to the poem or correct the host, but he didn’t. He paused and said that yes, being alone so much did trigger his imagination. 

I put down my pen. Mr. Rogers, an intelligent man, an accomplished musician and composer, well-versed in child psychology, and an ordained minister surely could have corrected his interviewer and been well-justified. But Fred chose to be pleasant instead. 

In the movie Harvey, Elwood P. Dowd. an older gentleman whose best friend is an imaginary six-foot rabbit is asked by a doctor why he persists in his delusion. He answers, “Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be… oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”

That day, in my quiet classroom, I decided to be more like Fred. I maintain my commission with the Grammar Police but have abandoned my club of correctness. Now instead of being oh-so-correct, I try to be oh-so-pleasant when editing or conversing. Speak well but live pleasant-ly. Fred, Elwood, and I recommend it. 

(Writer’s note: I am still working on this!)