Electronic Apostasy: Why I Have Re-embraced the Paper Book

As I write this, I am on an airplane at 30,000 feet, and it strikes me as an ideal time to confess a digital heresy: I have entirely abandoned electronic books.

When the first e-readers burst onto the scene, I was an early adopter; initially on a single function reader, later on a tablet.  The appeal of the technology was immediately obvious.  My entire library was at my fingertips.  I could carry hundreds of books with me everywhere (even at 30,000 feet).  It was quick and easy – virtually instantaneous – to buy a book on line.  Clearly, this was a life-enhancing technological innovation.

After several years, you can now place me firmly in the anti-e-reader camp.  Here are my top nine reasons I have sworn off e-books:

1. I miss the tactile experience.  This is probably the most obvious reason on everyone’s list of a certain generation.  Anyone who was raised (and likely, developed neurologically) reading physical books, probably misses the sensation of turning pages – the weight of the paper, the new-book and old-book aroma, the palpable crack of the spine upon completing the ritual of properly opening a new book for the first time. That ritual, incidentally, came to me courtesy of my outstanding third grade English teacher, Mrs. Walton.  I never think of Mrs. Walton when I fire up my iPad.
2. Thickness of the remaining pages is part of the experience.  E-readers all have some sort of “percent completion” feature to let you know how much of the book you have plowed through.  I need the feel of the remaining pages.  Beyond the purely tactile experience, a thick book, with lots of unread pages, motivates me (“you have a lot to read…better get to it”).  For a cliffhanger, it gives me a sense of how much time the author has to wrap things up. It helps to manage my expectations.
3. My nightstand is a major motivator.  I always have a half-dozen or so books on my nightstand in various stages of completion.  They are a constant reminder of commitments I have made, but have not yet met.  My “stack” in my e-reader probably has dozens of waiting commitments.  I have no memory of many of the books I downloaded on a whim.  I never look at my queue.  My lost books float in cyberspace, like a sailor cast adrift on a life raft hoping to be discovered.
4. The thrill is the hunt.  I love to go to the bookstore, wander around and stumble upon an unexpected treasure.  As I carry my latest acquisition around the store, I have a sense of anticipatory excitement I never experience with an electronic download.
5. Written margin notes help me learn.  As I read, I make occasional notes in the margin.  Frequently, particularly when reading non-fiction, I will flip back to my earlier notes.  Years later, when I pick up a book I previously enjoyed, I review my old notes to jog my memory of the book.  Electronic highlighting does not have the same impact.
6. I like maps.  When I read history, I love books with maps.  I like to dog-ear the pages with interesting maps, and flip back frequently as I am reading.  The ability to casually flip back to a certain page does not work well with an e-reader.
7. I enjoy looking at my bookshelf.  At home, my desk is surrounded by bookshelves.  I enjoy glancing at the spines, reminded of great books I have read.  I feel pangs of guilt for the few volumes I was never able to make it through (but will someday).  I am surrounded by friends.  I never spontaneously flip through my electronic queue, nor does it evoke any real affection.
8. My memory is flawed.  When I read a physical book, every time I pick it up, I see the title…the author’s name…the cover art.  Subsequently, I remember the details, in part due to repetition. When I read an electronic book, I am frequently in the position of enthusiastically attempting to recommend it to a friend, while struggling to remember the author’s name, and sometimes even the title.
9. I am distractible.   Reading is sometimes an effortless pleasure.  Reading is sometimes a painful slog.  Part of the benefit that comes from reading a great book is the investment you have to make of yourself in the experience.  I love to read John le Carré. The early chapters of his books are always challenging.  He drops you into the middle of a confusing story, with incomplete information. The motivation of his characters and the complexity of their situations are revealed very slowly.  It requires patience and commitment.  If the first few chapters of The Spy Who Came In From the Cold had to compete with my email, text messages, Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Solitaire, Pandora, etc., I might not have ever made it through one of my favorite books.

For these reasons, and others, I am declaring my liberation from e-books.  Now, back to my reading, as soon as I finish labeling the Kodachromes in my photo albums.

Accountable Care Organizations, Explained (link to Kaiser Health News article)

Nice, brief review of Accountable Care Organizations, From Kaiser Health News:

Accountable Care Organizations, Explained

What Academic Medical Centers Can Learn From Lippi

Fra Filippo Lippi - Madonna with the Child and two Angels

What does this 15^th century Renaissance painting have to do with a 21^st century academic medical center?  Painted by Fra. Lippi (a monk of some questionable repute) in about 1465, I selected this image as an analogy for our two broad challenges in building a successful academic medical enterprise in the rapidly changing healthcare environment.

The first challenge is the need to innovate.  At first blush, Lippi’s Madonna With Child and Two Angels may not scream innovation.  However, in its time it included a number of groundbreaking techniques.  For a moment, focus on the landscape in the background of the painting.   The use of realistic perspective was an innovation of the period, and separated it from flat two-dimensionality of medieval art.  Note also the painted frame surrounding the scene; the placement of the characters in front of the frame brings them into the world of the viewer.  Coupled with the cherub in the lower right – who makes direct eye contact with the viewer, and looks like he knows a secret he wishes to share – the effect is to draw you into the painting.  This is a degree of interactivity that would have been startling at the time; something akin to watching a 3D movie when all you have known is black-and-white television.

The need for innovation in today’s academic medical center is driven by the pace of economic, demographic and scientific change.  This topic could consume (and probably deserves) many pages of discussion.  However, at least some of the challenge is represented in the Institute of Medicine’s call to create the Learning Health System (LHS) of the future from the Academic Medical Center (AMC) of the past.  A Learning Health System uses data to drive continual improvement in the care of patients.   All three words – Learning Health System – have meaning.

Academic could be interpreted by some as detached and separate from the care delivery system.  Note, that one secondary definition of the word “academic” is “theoretical, speculative; having no practical or useful significance.” Learning implies a continuous and ongoing feedback loop.  The process of discovery and acquisition of new knowledge, while still invaluable in their own right, must be actively applied to improve care.  Care that is suboptimal or inconsistent across populations must be a major catalyst for the process of discovery.

Medical strongly suggests we are focused on the diagnosis and treatment of disease –still a priority in the new world order.  However, the concept of health broadens the mission.  Not only will our emerging LHS develop startling new treatments, we will also take responsibility for maximizing the health of populations.  Prevention of disease and improvement of environmental and behavioral determinants of health will become much more critical components of an institution’s academic portfolio.

Center strongly invokes a specific place (perhaps an ivory tower).  The concept of system conveys a heightened priority on connectivity.  In the traditional model, the care delivery system is where learners go to practice when they finish training.   In the emerging model, learners and the educational process will be integrated into the delivery system.  In the Academic Medical Center, research produces knowledge that is pushed out to providers of care.  Frequently, it takes many years for this knowledge to be integrated into practice for the benefit of patients.  In the Learning Health System, the acquisition of new knowledge remains critical.  However, in addition, the science of care delivery – the implementation of new knowledge – takes on added importance.  The care delivery system becomes an important laboratory.

The second challenge represented by Lippi’s painting is the changing nature of the “halo effect” in academics.  The Madonna’s halo is faint and ethereal.  It does not jump off the canvas at the viewer, and could even be missed by the casual observer.  This reflects the diminishing value the patina of academia has for health care systems.  Over the past half a century, in a system relatively flush with revenue, a hospital could reasonably be expected to contribute resources to education and research almost purely for the associated reputational benefit.  In the emerging health care economy, hospital margins are small against historical standards, and economic success is driven by managing cost and improving outcomes.  The economic value of reputation is waning.

The challenge for the LHS of the future will be to repaint Lippi’s halo with heavy, bold, thick brushstrokes.  Successful Learning Health Systems must foster partnerships with successful care delivery systems (like Catholic Health Initiatives).  Ideal partnerships will be mutually symbiotic:  the care delivery system will provide new academic opportunities for educators and researchers.   In return, the engine of academia must drive concrete strategic advantage back to the health system partner.  I will develop this concept more fully in a future posting.

Lippi’s Madonna and Child frames the questions we all need to be asking of ourselves.  How does my work help the Baylor College of Medicine drive the culture of innovation necessary to be the national model of a Learning Health System?  How do our great strengths in education and research drive measurable strategic benefit to our health system affiliates and partners?  Finding the right answers to these questions will drive our success for decades to come.

This has been cross-posted from the Baylor College of Medicine blog Momentum

Data is the New Oil

I recently was given the opportunity to represent Baylor College of Medicine at the Association American of Medical Colleges (AAMC) as part of a year-long conversation on becoming a “Learning Health System”.

At the inaugural event, I heard from others around the country examples of substantive efforts to harness the power of academic medical centers to improve the care delivery system and the health of populations.

There is no one definition of a LHS – in a subsequent post I will discuss my understanding of the concept, and what it could mean to Baylor and our affiliates.

In this post, I want to focus on a single phrase, which resonated with me. It resonated because it is pithy and succinct. It resonated because it encapsulates succinctly much of what it is to be a Learning Health System.

Perhaps it also resonated because, after more than a year at Baylor, I consider myself a fully acculturated Texan. It is such a simple phrase, I am sure most of you have heard it before, but I had not:

Data is the new oil.

In Texas, oil is literally under our feet. We cannot see it, but it is everywhere. Like oil, data is all around us: In our electronic health record; in our billing and insurance systems; in hospital quality measures; in our patients’ genetic material; in disconnected and disparate tissue biobanks. We cannot see it, but it is all around us in quantities that boggle the mind.

Like oil, it is worthless where it is—it must be extracted. We must drill for oil, we must mine for data. It is necessary to pull data together into systems that can make connections and recognize patterns.

Oil comes out of the ground dirty—full of impurities and contaminants. It must be refined and processed. The impurities must be removed, and desired compounds isolated. Raw data is similarly dirty. It is filled with errors and noise. It needs to be filtered and cleansed to be useful.

The resulting petroleum product—gasoline, heating oil—then needs to transported to the end-user. Investment is needed in trucks, rail, pipelines and tankers to get it to the consumer.

Likewise, data is of limited utility if it remains locked in servers, or in the hands of a data sensei. Systems need to be developed to get actionable data in the hands of providers, teachers and researchers where it can make a difference.

For example, assume based on data (patient demographics, physiologic parameters, social factors, genetic factors) we could predict with reasonable certainty the likelihood a patient would be readmitted. Would an attending physician and case manager alter their discharge and follow up plans for a patient with a known 75 percent chance of readmission?

Finally, before the analogy becomes overly tortured, the oil buried under our feet is entirely worthless. It is only after it is extracted, purified, refined and delivered to the consumer that it has value, and its value is substantial—influencing the rise and fall of nations. The data in my computer is worthless. Our data—extracted, purified and accessible—also has incredible value, upon which health systems may rise and fall.

Baylor will continue a discussion of what it means to us to be a Learning Health System. Our definition will and should be unique to our organization. However, it will certainly demand the effective and efficient use of data.

Note: Based on extensive research (i.e. a Google search) the phrase “data is the new oil” is attributed to Clive Humby in 2006.

This has been cross-posted from the Baylor College of Medicine blog Momentum

Monday Morning: Little Things

Learned helplessness — I have heard this term used for years, but never knew (or forgot) its experimental roots.  Here is an experiment that I am confident no institutional animal protection committee would approve today:

In the 1960’s, Martin Seligman, a psychologist, performed a series of experiments on dogs to evaluate the behavioral effects of chronic, unavoidable aversive stimuli (The Gale Encyclopedia of Psychology, Second Edition).  In the original experiment, dogs were confined in a small box, with no exit.  A buzzer sounded, followed shortly thereafter by the administration of a painful electrical shock through the floor of the box.  Over time, the dogs, who could not avoid the shocks, learned when the buzzer sounded there was little they could do but cower in a corner of the device and whimper pitifully.

Once trained the painful stimulus could not be avoided, the investigators then opened an escape hatch in one of the walls.  Any dog who had not been through the initial training would immediately escape through the opening.  The trained dogs, however, would still cower and whimper — having learned that escape was impossible, they were unable to help themselves.

Thus, the concept of learned helplessness was born:

An apathetic attitude stemming from the conviction that

one’s actions do not have the power to affect one’s situation.

In humans, the construct is useful in understanding some forms of depression and anxiety.  The phenomenon has further been characterized by “3 P’s”.  Permanence — my life situation is bad, and will remain bad forever.  Pervasiveness — because this aspect of my life is bad, the rest of my life is bad as well. Personalization — the bad things that are happening to me are directed specifically at me.

I certainly feel for Seligman’s dogs.  But I also feel for another group that has a tendency towards learned helplessness — doctors, nurses, allied health professionals and others who work in the US healthcare system.

Pick up a newspaper, read a professional journal, attend a medical conference, watch any commentary from broadcast media (regardless of the political slant) and you will hear about a broken system in need of fundamental change.  In my Seligman’s dog analogy, there are myriad electrical shocks: pressure to see more patients while providing more personalized care; incorporating a not-ready-for-prime-time, work-flow-disrupting electronic health record into daily practice, while increasing efficiency and productivity; discharging patients more quickly, while decreasing readmission rates.  The list goes on. (See prior postings: Cloud of Healthcare Anxiety Part I and Part II)

Like Seligman’s  dogs, the means of avoiding the shock seems to be out of our control.  There are proposed solutions, but few an individual can implement.  The individual doctor, nurse or therapist cannot start an Accountable Care Organization.  They cannot build a vertically integrated regional care delivery system.  They cannot develop data aggregation and analytics capacity to manage populations.  They cannot assemble a large physician network.  As a consequence, a growing body of literature suggests health care professionals are increasingly burned out and dissatisfied.

Obviously, no one has an easy solution to this dynamic.  Eventually, the system will stabilize.  The privilege working as a medical professional — of impacting the lives of others in a deep and meaningful way — will outweigh the stress created in an environment of change.

In the meantime, it is our responsibility to look for our own way out of our box.  I propose we as individuals need to focus on little things we can do to improve our situation that are within our control today.  Small actions to take care of ourselves. Activities to help prepare us personally for the future.  Small interventions to help build a functional organizational culture.  If on Monday morning, a small number of people in your organization committed to doing some positive and achievable thing, and followed through, you could start to replace helplessness with optimism.  Intermittently, in future posts, I will suggest some "little things".  In the meantime, I invite others to help answer the question (please leave comments):  to prepare for a fulfilling future career in healthcare, what little thing can I start to do on Monday?

On-line educational content: harder than it looks

Quite some time ago, I wrote a blog post reviewing Salman Khan's "One World Schoolhouse". That book introduced me to the concept of the flipped classroom, in which the teacher provides educational content in an asynchronous format (usually on-line), with the expectation the learner will access the material on his own schedule at his own pace.  The in-class time with the teacher is then reserved for working through problems, clarifying concepts and developing a deeper understanding of the material.

Recently, I posted a link describing a mnemonic device to assist in learning brainstem neuroanatomy. Inspired by Khan (and the proliferation of educational content on YouTube) I have been experimenting with on-line lecture formats, and subsequently reworked my brainstem material into video format. In other words, you've read the book, now see the movie.

The first video (about 7 minutes) reviews the anatomical location of the major cranial nerve nuclei:

The second is shorter (just over 3 minutes) and covers the major longitudinal tracts of the brainstem:

Lesson learned:  It is hard to produce high quality on-line content.  A degree of technical expertise is required.  The ability to stand in front of a large audience and be relatively engaging does not automatically transfer to the on-line virtual lecture hall.

The production value of these is fairly meager, and the narrator a tad monotone.  Hopefully the information comes across.

(Note:  If you are actually interested in the content, the videos are easier to watch on YouTube.  Click on the following links to go directly to the site: Brainstem Part I, Brainstem Part II)