Refills, refills, refills.

Recently an elderly patient of mine (let’s call him AB) needed refills for multiple medications for various serious health issues. Because of his limited insurance, he can only fill the meds at one particularly bad pharmacy (I won’t name the corporation, but it’s easy to guess).

AP contacted me by email and gave me his full name and address, but no phone number, and a list of his nine medications. I sent everything electronically and figured that was that.

Two days later, he emailed me in a panic. He had been to the pharmacy and they had “no record” of any prescriptions being sent for him. Unfortunately, this happens all the time — especially if the doctor leaves a voicemail, which is rarely checked promptly, if at all.

I confirmed in my EMR the meds had been transmitted. I called the pharmacy and spoke to the pharmacist, gave the patient’s name and date of birth. Yes, all the medications had been filled and were waiting for him. However, the pharmacy (like me) didn’t have a phone number for AB. I emailed him back, telling him the medications were definitely there. I also urged AB to please, please give me a phone number. No response.

Another two days went by. Another email from AB. He had gone there again, no medications, and he suggested it was my fault, that I had “pressed the wrong button”.

I immediately emailed back: “What is your phone number?” And, thankfully, he responded.

I called AP, conferenced in the pharmacy, and asked for help. The harried pharmacist asked the patient for his date of birth and full name. AB is from Afghanistan. When he gave his full name to the pharmacist, he added an additional surname he had not given me: ABC.

So. Even though the pharmacy had his birth date and address on record — and the name AB (so close!) — they neither had the time nor cared enough to realize that ABC was the same person needing critical medications. And they sent him away. Twice.

The pharmacist’s solution on the phone? “When you come in here, just say you’re AB.”

Life is often busy, stressful and downright irritating. People like AB — older, confused at times, from another culture — tend to be nearly invisible to our profit-based health care system. But I often find if you take a deep breath and empathize, most problems are solvable by just caring.

Nuba Health is Here.

Quite a dramatic headline but for me it is a big deal. I started this practice to form real relationships with patients and not worry about all the nonsense that serves to make so much of U.S. healthcare a tragic mess: EMRs, bureaucracy, mammoth corporations that care more about their branding than people.

Health care in America is expensive, impersonal and profit-based, which is a lucrative but unsustainable model. You shouldn’t put a price on someone’s life; they’ll always pay. But that’s precisely the situation we are in. Moreover, the vast profits made by health care companies come from treating chronic illnesses rather than preventing them. In America, there’s no money in prevention.

As a result, most primary care physicians are burned-out clinicians who have little to no control over their relationships with patients. Volume and billings, not compassion and service, dictate their daily work. And they are trapped: after years of education and sacrifice, many cannot take the risk of working for themselves. Even less so nowadays, as small practice after small practice is gobbled up by health care conglomerates, and the independent doctor who is also a friend becomes a thing of the past.

My practice is an attempt to give patients a meaningful alternative to corporate medicine. I focus on prevention and improvement rather than a different pill or additional surgery. Human beings are inherently healthy. The body and mind are exquisite organisms that in general need very little intervention to heal and thrive. Stress, isolation and lack of knowledge underlie most of the health problems in America today. My mission is to change that, one patient at a time.