New to Meducation?
Sign up
Already signed up? Log In
Dr Genevieve Yates

Dr Genevieve Yates

Dr Genevieve Yates

Dr Genevieve Yates

I’m a doctor and medical educator in regional Australia. When not healing the sick or teaching the healers, I like to indulge in a range of creative pursuits. I am a freelance columnist, writing for several medical publications, have had several short stories, a novel and a play published, a short film produced and five plays staged. I’ve worked in film and TV, and performed on stage in plays, musicals and stand-up comedy. In my spare time I play (and teach) violin and piano, sing, and play in two orchestras. But not simultaneously! I’m passionate about putting creativity into medicine, and medicine into creativity. I use film, theatre and music in my teaching of GP registrars and supervisors, and find that medicine inspires and complements my writing and vice versa. My website is at http://genevieveyates.com/

Where else can you find me?

%3fr=0
7
64

Physician Don’t Heal Thyself

By Genevieve Yates One reason why I chose to do medicine was that I didn’t always trust doctors – another being access to an endless supply of jelly beans. My mistrust stemmed from my family’s unfortunate collection of medical misadventures: Grandpa’s misdiagnosed and ultimately fatal cryptococcal meningitis, my brother’s missed L4/L5 fracture, Dad’s iatrogenic brachial plexus injury and the stuffing-up of my radius and ulna fractures, to name a few. I had this naïve idea that my becoming a doctor would allow me to be more in charge of the health of myself and my family. When I discovered that doctors were actively discouraged from treating themselves, their loved ones and their mothers-in-law, and that a medical degree did not come with a lifetime supply of free jelly beans, I felt cheated. I got over the jelly bean disappointment quickly – after all, the allure of artificially coloured and flavoured gelatinous sugar lumps was far less strong at age 25 than it was at age 5 – but the Medical Board’s position regarding self-treatment took a lot longer to swallow. Over the years I’ve come to understand why guidelines exist regarding treating oneself and one’s family, as well as close colleagues, staff and friends. Lack of objectivity is not the only problem. Often these types of consults occur in informal settings and do not involve adequate history taking, examination or note-making. They can start innocently enough but have the potential to run into serious ethical and legal minefields. I’ve come to realise that, like having an affair with your boss or lending your unreliable friend thousands of dollars to buy a car, treating family, friends and staff is a pitfall best avoided. Although we’ve all heard that “A physician who heals himself has an idiot for a doctor and a fool for a patient”, large numbers of us still self-treat. I recently conducted a self-care session with about thirty very experienced GP supervisors whose average age was around fifty. When asked for a show of hands as to how many had his/her own doctor, about half the group confidently raised their hands. I then asked these to lower their hands if their nominated doctor was a spouse, parent, practice partner or themselves. At least half the hands went down. When asked if they’d seek medical attention if they were significantly unwell, several of the remainder said, “I don’t get sick,” and one said, “Of course I’d see a doctor – I’d look in the mirror.” Us girls are a bit more likely to seek medical assistance than the blokes (after all, it is pretty difficult to do your own PAP smear – believe me, I’ve tried), but neither gender group can be held up as a shining example of responsible, compliant patients. It seems very much a case of “Do as I say, not do as I do”. I wonder how much of this is due to the rigorous “breed ’em tough” campaigns we’ve been endured from the earliest days of our medical careers. I recall when one of my fellow interns asked to finish her DEM shift twenty minutes early so that she could go to the doctor. Her supervising senior registrar refused her request and told her, “Routine appointments need to be made outside shift hours. If you are sick enough to be off work, you should be here as a patient.” My friend explained that this was neither routine, nor a life-threatening emergency, but that she thought she had a urinary tract infection. She was instructed to cancel her appointment, dipstick her own urine, take some antibiotics out of the DEM supply cupboard and get back to work. “You’re a doctor now; get your priorities right and start acting like one” was the parting message. Through my work in medical education, I’ve had the opportunity to talk to several groups of junior doctors about self-care issues and the reasons for imposing boundaries on whom they treat, hopefully encouraging to them to establish good habits while they are young and impressionable. I try to practise what I preach: I see my doctor semi-regularly and have a I’d-like-to-help-you-but-I’m-not-in-a-position-to-do-so mantra down pat. I’ve used this speech many times to my advantage, such as when I’ve been asked to look at great-aunt Betty’s ulcerated toe at the family Christmas get-together, and to write a medical certificate and antibiotic script for a whingey boyfriend with a man-cold. The message is usually understood but the reasons behind it aren’t always so. My niece once announced knowledgably, “Doctors don’t treat family because it’s too hard to make them pay the proper fee.” This young lady wants to be a doctor when she grows up, but must have different reasons than I did at her age. She doesn’t even like jelly beans! Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com/  
Dr Genevieve Yates
over 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 ud040l?1444774156
2
313

I hate being on-call - I’m just not good at sleeping on the job

BOXING Day, 1.30am. “Are you the doctor on call?” I wrenched my reluctant brain from its REM state. “Yes.” “I’m worried about my wife. She’s 16 weeks pregnant and very gassy.” “Gassy?” “Burping and farting. Smells terrible! It’s keeping us both awake. I’m worried it could be serious.” By the time I ascertained that there were no sinister symptoms and that the likely culprit was the custard served with Christmas pudding (the patient was lactose intolerant), I was wide awake. My brain refused to power down for hours, as if out of spite for being so rudely aroused. I have a confession to make. When the Australian Federal Government announced that it was planning to abolish after-hours practice incentive payments, I was delighted. I know, I know, I should have been outraged along with the rest of you. After all, the RACGP predicted that after-hours care would be decimated if incentives were removed. Comparisons were made with the revamp of the UK system in 2004, which led to 90% of the profession opting out of after-hours work. Much as I sympathised, I was secretly rubbing my hands together with selfish glee. Surely this would mean that our semi-rural practice would stop doing all of our own on-call and free me from my after-hours responsibilities? I detest being on call. I loathe it with a passion completely out of proportion to the imposition it actually causes. I’m on call for the practice and our local hospital only once a week and the workload isn’t onerous. Middle-of-the-night calls aren’t all that frequent, but my sleep can be disturbed by their mere possibility, leaving me tired and cranky. If I’m forced suddenly into “brain on, work mode” by a phone call, I can kiss hours of precious slumber goodbye. I love to sleep, but, as with drawing and tennis, I’m not very good at it. I gaze with envy at those lucky devils who nap on public transport and fight malicious urges to disturb their peaceful repose. If I’m not supine, in a quiet, warm room, with loose-fitting clothing, a firm mattress and a pillow shaped just-so, I can forget any chance of sleep. Let’s just say I can relate to the Princess and the Pea story. I bet she wouldn’t have coped well with being phoned in the middle of the night either. If these nocturnal calls were all bona fide emergencies, I wouldn’t mind so much. It’s the crap that really riles me. I’ve received middle-of-the-night phone calls from patients who are constipated, patients with impacted cerumen (“Me ear’s blocked, Doc. I can’t sleep”) and patients with insomnia who want to know if it’s safe to take a second sedative. The call that took the on-call cake for me, though, was from a couple who woke me at 11.30 one night to settle an argument. “My husband says that bacteria are more dangerous than viruses but I reckon viruses are worse. After all, AIDS is a virus. Can you settle it for us so we can get some sleep? It would really help us out.” I kid you not. Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com  
Dr Genevieve Yates
over 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 yurv3e?1444774179
5
63

What it means to be an Australian with skin cancer

Each year on the 26th of January, Australia Day, Australians of all shapes, sizes and political persuasions are encouraged to reflect on what it means to be living in this big, brown, sunny land of ours. It is a time to acknowledge past wrongs, honour outstanding Australians, welcome new citizens, and perhaps toss a lamb chop on the barbie (barbecue), enjoying the great Australian summer. It is also a time to count our blessings. Australians whinge a lot about our health system. While I am certainly not suggesting the model we have is anywhere near perfect, it could be a whole lot worse. I recently read this NY times article which talks about the astronomical and ever-rising health care costs in the US and suggests that this, at least sometimes, involves a lack of informed consent (re: costs and alternative treatment options). The US is certainly not the “land of the free” when it comes to health care. There are many factors involved, not least being the trend in the US to provide specialised care for conditions that are competently and cost-effectively dealt with in primary care (by GPs) in Australia. The article gives examples such as a five minute consult conducted by a dermatologist, during which liquid nitrogen was applied to a wart, costing the patient $500. In Australia, (if bulk billed by a GP) it would have cost the patient nothing and the taxpayer $16.60 (slightly higher if the patient was a pensioner). It describes a benign mole shaved off by a nurse practitioner (with a scalpel, no stitches) costing the patient $914.56. In Australia, it could be done for under $50. The most staggering example of all was the description of the treatment of a small facial Basal Cell Carcinoma (BCC) which cost over $25000 (no, that is not a typo – twenty five THOUSAND dollars). In Australia, it would probably have cost the taxpayer less than $200 for its removal (depending on exact size, location and method of closure). The patient interviewed for the article was sent for Mohs surgery (and claims she was not given a choice in the matter). Mohs (pronounced “Moe’s” as in Moe’s Tavern from The Simpsons) is a highly effective technique for treating skin cancer and minimises the loss of non-cancerous tissue (in traditional skin cancer surgery you deliberately remove some of the surrounding normal skin to ensure you’ve excised all of the cancerous cells) . Wikipedia entry on Mohs. This can be of great benefit in a small minority of cancers. However, this super-specialised technique is very expensive and time/ labour intensive. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it has become extremely popular in the US. ”Moh’s for everything” seems to be the new catch cry when it comes to skin cancer treatment in the US. In the past two years, working very part time in skin cancer medicine in Australia, I have diagnosed literally hundreds of BCCs (Basal Cell Carcinomas). The vast majority of these I successfully treated (ie cured) in our practice without needing any specialist help. A handful were referred to general or plastic surgeons and one, only one, was referred for Mohs surgery. The nearest Mohs surgeon being 200 kilometres away from our clinic may have something to do with the low referral rate, but the fact remains, most BCCs (facial or otherwise), can be cured and have a good cosmetic outcome, without the need for Mohs surgery. To my mind, using Mohs on garden variety BCCs is like employing a team of chefs to come into your kitchen each morning to place bread in your toaster and then butter it for you. Overkill. Those soaking up some fine Aussie sunshine on the beach or at a backyard barbie with friends this Australia Day, gifting their skin with perfect skin-cancer-growing conditions, may wish to give thanks that when their BCCs bloom, affordable (relative to costs in the US, at least) treatment is right under their cancerous noses. Being the skin cancer capital of the world is perhaps not a title of which Australians should be proud, but the way we can treat them effectively, without breaking the bank, should be. Dr Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com/  
Dr Genevieve Yates
about 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 dd0lu2?1444774205
6
113

Male Postnatal Depression - a sign of equality or a load of nonsense?

Storylines on popular TV dramas are a great way of raising the public's awareness of a disease. They're almost as effective as a celebrity contracting an illness. For example, when Wiggles member Greg Page quit the group because of postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, I had a spate of patients, mostly young and female, coming in with self-diagnosed "Wiggles Disease". A 30% increase in the number of mammograms in the under-40s was attributed to Kylie Minogue's breast cancer diagnosis. The list goes on. Thanks to a storyline on the TV drama Desperate Housewives, I received questions about male postnatal depression from local housewives desperate for information: "Does it really exist?" "I thought postnatal depression was to do with hormones, so how can males get it?" "First it's male menopause, now it's male postnatal depression. Why can't they keep their grubby mitts off our conditions?" "It's like that politically correct crap about a 'couple' being pregnant. 'We' weren't pregnant, 'I' was. His contribution was five seconds of ecstasy and I was landed with nine months of morning sickness, tiredness, stretch marks and sore boobs!" One of my patients, a retired hospital matron now in her 90s, had quite a few words to say on the subject. "Male postnatal depression -- what rot! The women's liberation movement started insisting on equality and now the men are getting their revenge. You know, dear, it all began going downhill for women when they started letting fathers into the labour wards. How can a man look at his wife in the same way if he has seen a blood-and-muck-covered baby come out of her … you know? Men don't really want to be there. They just think they should -- it's a modern expectation. Poor things have no real choice." Before I had the chance to express my paucity of empathy she continued to pontificate. "Modern women just don't understand men. They are going about it the wrong way. Take young couples who live with each other out of wedlock and share all kind of intimacies. I'm not talking about sex; no, things more intimate than that, like bathroom activities, make-up removal, shaving, and so on." Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "And I'm told that some young women don't even shut the door when they're toileting. No wonder they can't get their de facto boyfriends to marry them. Foolish girls. Men need some mystery. Even when you're married, toileting should definitely be kept private." I have mixed feelings about male postnatal depression. I have no doubt that males can develop depression after the arrival of a newborn into the household; however, labelling it "postnatal depression" doesn't sit all that comfortably with me. I'm all for equality, but the simple fact of the matter is that males and females are biologically different, especially in the reproductive arena, and no amount of political correctness or male sharing-and-caring can alter that. Depressed fathers need to be identified, supported and treated, that goes without saying, but how about we leave the "postnatal" tag to the ladies? As one of my female patients said: "We are the ones who go through the 'natal'. When the boys start giving birth, then they can be prenatal, postnatal or any kind of natal they want!" (This blog post has been adapted from a column first published in Australian Doctor http://bit.ly/1aKdvMM)  
Dr Genevieve Yates
about 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 gvoh9v?1444774222
1
38

Socks, Kiwis and Surgical Removal

I’m a klutz. Always have been. Probably always will be. I blame my clumsiness on the fact that I didn’t crawl. Apparently I was sitting around one day and toddling on two feet the next. Whatever the cause, it’s a well-tested fact that I’m not good on icy footpaths. Various parts of my anatomy have gotten up close and personal with frozen ground on many an occasion. Not usually an issue for a born-and-bred Australian, except when said Australian goes to visit her Canadian family during the northern winter. During one such visit, I found myself unceremoniously plopped onto slick ice while my two-year-old niece frolicked around me with sure-footed abandon. I thought, “There has to be an easier way.” As freezing water seeped through my jeans, providing a useful cold pack for my screaming coccyx, my memory was jogged. I recalled that a lateral-thinking group of New Zealand researchers had won the Ignoble Prize for Physics for demonstrating that wearing socks on the outsides of shoes reduces the incidence of falls on icy footpaths. To the amusement of my niece, I tried out the theory for myself on the walk home. I don’t know if I had a more secure foothold or not, but I did manage to get blisters from wearing sneakers without socks. I love socks. They cover my large, ungainly clod-hoppers and keep my toes toasty warm almost all year round. You know the song ‘You can leave your hat on.’? Well for me, it is more a case of ‘You can leave your socks on, especially in winter. There’s nothing unromantic about that… is there? I’m not, however, as attached to my socks as a patient I once treated. As an intern doing a psychiatry rotation, one of my tasks was to do physical examinations on all admissions. Being a dot-the-i’s kinda girl, when an old homeless man declined to remove his socks so that I could examine his feet, I didn’t let it slide. “I haven’t taken off my socks for thirty years,” he pronounced. “It can’t be that long. Your socks aren’t thirty years old. In fact, they look quite new,” I countered. “When the old ones wear out, I just slip a new pair over the top.” I didn’t believe him. From his odour, I would have believed that he hadn’t showered in thirty years, but the sock story didn’t add up. He eventually agreed to let me take them off. The top two sock layers weren’t a problem but then I ran into trouble. Black remains of what used to be socks clung firmly to his feet, and my gentle attempts at their removal resulted in screams of agony. I tried soaking his feet. Still no luck. His skin had grown up into the fibres, and it was impossible to extract the old sock remnants without ripping off skin. In retrospect I probably should have left the old man alone, but instead got the psych registrar to have a peek, who then involved the emergency registrar, who called the surgeon and soon enough the patient and his socks were off to theatre. The ‘surgical removal of socks’ was not a commonly performed procedure, and it provided much staff amusement. It wasn’t so funny for Mr. Sock Man, who required several skin grafts! From my perspective here in Canada, while I thoroughly commend the Kiwis for their ground-breaking sock research, I think I’ll stick to the more traditional socks-in-shoes approach, change my socks regularly and work a bit on my coordination skills. References: PHYSICS PRIZE: Lianne Parkin, Sheila Williams, and Patricia Priest of the University of Otago, New Zealand, for demonstrating that, on icy footpaths in wintertime, people slip and fall less often if they wear socks on the outside of their shoes. "Preventing Winter Falls: A Randomised Controlled Trial of a Novel Intervention," Lianne Parkin, Sheila Williams, and Patricia Priest, New Zealand Medical Journal. vol. 122, no, 1298, July 3, 2009, pp. 31-8. (This blog post has been adapted from a column first published in Australian Doctor http://www.australiandoctor.com.au/articles/58/0c06f058.asp) Dr Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com/  
Dr Genevieve Yates
about 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 s45v8o?1444774247
2
16

Money-back guarantees

Ironically, it seems the health products with the least evidence are coming with the greatest assurances. A few years ago, a package holiday company advertised guaranteed sunny holidays in Queensland (Australia). The deal went something like this: if it rained on a certain percentage of your holiday days, you received a trip refund. An attractive drawcard indeed, but what the company failed to grasp was that the “Sunshine State” is very often anything but sunny. This is especially so where I live, on the somewhat ironically named Sunshine Coast. We had 200 rainy days last year and well over 2 metres of rain, and that was before big floods in January. Unsurprisingly, the guaranteed sunny holiday offer was short-lived. There are some things that really shouldn’t come with guarantees. The weather is one, health is another. Or so I thought… “Those capsules you started me on last month for my nerve pain didn’t work. I tried them for a couple of weeks, but they didn’t do nothin'.” “Perhaps you’d do better on a higher dose.” “Nah, they made me feel kinda dizzy. I’d prefer to get my money back on these ones an’ try somethin’ different.” “I can try you on something else, but there are no refunds available on the ones you’ve already used, I’m afraid.” “But they cost me over 80 dollars!” “Yes, I explained at the time that they are not subsidised by the government.” “But they didn’t work! If I bought a toaster that didn’t work, I’d take it back and get me money back, no problem.” “Medications are not appliances. They don’t work every time, but that doesn’t mean they’re faulty.” “But what about natural products? I order herbs for me prostate and me heart every month and they come with a 100% satisfaction guarantee. You doctors say those things don’t really work so how come the sellers are willing to put their money where their mouths are?” He decided to try a “natural” treatment next, confident of its likely effectiveness thanks to the satisfaction guarantee offered. Last week I had a 38-year-old female requesting a medical certificate stating that her back pain was no better. The reason? She planned to take it to her physiotherapist and request a refund because the treatment hadn’t helped. Like the afflicted patient above, she didn’t accept that health-related products and services weren’t “cure guaranteed”. “My thigh sculptor machine promised visible results in 60 days or my money back. Why aren’t physios held accountable too?” Upon a quick Google search, I found that many “natural health” companies offer money-back guarantees, as do companies peddling skin products and gimmicky home exercise equipment. I even found a site offering guaranteed homeopathic immunisation. Hmmm… In an information-rich, high-tech world, we are becoming less and less tolerant of uncertainty. Society wants perfect, predictable results — now! For all its advances, modern medicine cannot provide this and we don’t pretend otherwise. Ironically, it seems the health products with the least evidence are coming with the greatest assurances. A clever marketing ploy that patients seem to be buying into — literally and figuratively. I think we all need to be reminded of Benjamin Franklin’s famous words: “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes.” We can’t really put guarantees on whether it will rain down on our holidays or on our health, and should retain a healthy scepticism towards those who attempt to do so. This blog post has been adapted from a column first published in Australian Doctor http://www.australiandoctor.com.au/articles/11/0c070a11.asp Dr Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com/  
Dr Genevieve Yates
about 4 years ago
%3fr=0
2
32

Extolling the benefits of learning plans

“You’re a boring whore! Fix it.” The barked criticism came like a slap in the face. The director of Les Miserables was right, though. I was a boring whore. Actors need to immerse themselves in their roles, shed inhibitions and squelch embarrassment. I was not managing to do this while rehearsing the Lovely Ladies prostitute scene. My performance was overly self-conscious and restrained. Three days later I found myself at a medical education conference, attending a session discussing learning plans. A popular tool in adult education generally, and a training requirement for all GP registrars, learning plans are actively disliked by many. Done purposely and thoughtfully, they can be of great benefit; completed hastily or reluctantly because they are compulsory, they are next to useless. I have to confess that, as a registrar, my own learning plans were dashed off with little thought, submitted and then promptly forgotten. I’d never thought this technique would work for me. At the conference, the attending educators were instructed to each write a learning plan that addressed an aspect of their non-medical lives. We were asked to choose something that we genuinely wanted to improve. I instantly knew what I’d write about, and completed the task with seriousness and sincerity. The facilitator randomly picked a few participants to read out their learning plans. The topics were predictable: “I want to exercise each morning”, “I want to get at least seven hours of sleep a night” and the like. Yes, you can see where this is leading ... I should have anticipated being called upon, but when the “We have time for one more, how about you?” came, along with direct eye contact and a kindly smile, I momentarily panicked. Surveying the room of mostly middle-aged, male faces, many of whom I didn’t know, I considered making something up on the spot. Instead, I stood up, took a deep breath and read out: “I want to be a more exciting whore.” I then outlined my proposed methods for achieving this objective and how I intended to measure my progress. Without explanation, I then sat down. Silence. Not a sound. Most eyes were glued to me, the others looking anywhere but. The atmosphere was thick with shock, amusement, confusion, suspense and fascination. I didn’t leave them hanging for too long. After my disclosure as to why I chose the topic and the context in which I was “whoring”, there were audible sighs of relief and a sprinkling of laughter throughout the room. It was memorable for those present. Four years later, I still get the occasional question about my “whoring” when I run into certain educators at conferences. I am pleased to report that my learning plan well and truly achieved its aim. I enacted my plan exactly as written and practised diligently. I knew I had been successful when the director instructed me to “Tone it down a bit. This is a family show, you know!” I now feel a lot more comfortable extolling the benefits of learning plans to unconvinced registrars. I tell them: “I used to think that I wasn’t a learning plan-type person either but I’ve discovered that if you choose a relevant and important objective and spend time and effort working out how to achieve it, the technique can really work.” I tend to leave out: “It didn’t do much for my medicine, but it turned me into a fabulous whore.” This blog post has been adapted from a column first published in Australian Doctor. Dr Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com/  
Dr Genevieve Yates
about 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 4u1p2i?1444774268
8
79

Like being at your own funeral - without the inconvenience of dying

I’m sure there are times when all us GPs feel under-appreciated — by our patients, staff, specialist colleagues or society in general. You can’t blame them for sometimes taking us for granted — it’s part of the human condition. People don’t value what they have until they lose it, whether “it” is the ability to walk or a domestic fairy who makes sure there’s always spare toilet paper. It’s a common lament that we can’t be at our own funerals to hear how much we’re loved. Mind you, eulogies are rarely objective and balanced. Nonetheless, it’s a pity we’re not around to hear the praise — deserved or otherwise — that is expressed once we’re gone. The long-serving, somewhat-taken-for-granted GP has a non-fatal way of bringing out the appreciation in his or her patients and staff: moving on. After 10 years of GP-ing in the Noosa hinterland and a lifetime of living in south-east Queensland, I headed south of the border: to northern NSW. The hardest part of the move for me — harder than selling my house in a depressed market, harder than dealing with banks, builders, real estate agents, solicitors and Australia Post, harder even than trying to get rational answers out of my telecommunications company after they cut off my internet and phone prematurely — was telling my patients that I was leaving. I knew many of my patients were very attached. I knew they’d come to me expecting to receive a loyal, life-long partner kind of doctoring, rather than the one-night-stand variety. But I had no idea how difficult it would be to break the “I’m leaving you” news again and again and again. Hard as breaking up a relationship may be, at least you only have to do it once when you leave a romantic partnership. For me, telling patients I was leaving felt a bit like breaking up with hundreds of boyfriends, one after the other after the other. You may interpret this as my being too close to my patients or not close enough to my boyfriends, but the fact is I found the protracted process exhausting, emotionally draining and just plain horrible. The “it’s not you, it’s me” part goes without saying and I know I am far from irreplaceable, but seeing the tears well up in countless eyes because of the words I’ve uttered was enough to break my tender heart. Looking on the bright side, as I am wont to do, if I’d ever felt under-appreciated, I sure don’t now. I received more expressions of gratitude in those last three months than I did in the previous decade. To hear how influential I was in some of my patients’ lives put a warm glow in my battered heart. And as much as it hurt me to see my patients upset, it probably would’ve hurt me more if they’d been completely indifferent to my leaving. However, I did please someone. Mrs L had been trying for years to get her husband to agree to move interstate to be near family. His last remaining excuse was that his multiple complex medical problems meant that he couldn’t possibly leave me, his long-term GP. A grateful Mrs L rang me within hours of my informing them of my impending departure to say: “He’s finally come around. Thank you so much for deciding to leave us.” It’s nice to be appreciated! (This blog post has been adapted from a column first published in Australian Doctor www.australiandoctor.com.au/opinions/the-last-word/the-last-word-on-moving-on- ) Dr Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work at http://genevieveyates.com/  
Dr Genevieve Yates
about 4 years ago
Foo20151013 2023 1n8q51t?1444774287
1
24

Email Gone Astray

An email gone astray can provide fascinating insights for an unintended recipient. Written correspondence has undoubtedly fallen into the wrong hands since homo sapiens first put pigment on bark, but never before has it been so easy to have a personal message go awry. No longer is it a matter of surreptitiously steaming open sealed letters or snooping around in wastepaper baskets. Finding out another's personal business is now just a click away. Even more conveniently, candid opinions can sometimes make an unscheduled landing in your inbox, making for intriguing reading -- as I discovered. Some time ago, I'd sent out feelers regarding possible new GP jobs and had emailed a particular practice principal a couple of times, expressing interest. When it looked likely that I was going to pursue a different path, I sent a polite email explaining the situation and telling him I wouldn't be seeking an interview for a job at his practice at present. An email bounced back saying that my not wanting to work for him may be "a relief" as I "sounded a bit intense". It was sans salutation but, based on the rest of the content, was obviously intended for one of his work colleagues. It had no doubt been a simple error of his pressing 'reply' rather than 'forward'. I was chuffed: I've never been called "intense" before, at least, not to my knowledge. Perhaps there are several references to my intensity bouncing around cyberspace but this is the only one my inbox has ever captured. I've never considered myself an intense person. To me, the term conjured up the image of a passionate yet very serious type, often committed to worthy causes. Perhaps I had the definition wrong. I looked it up. The Oxford Dictionary gave me: "having or showing strong feelings or opinions; extremely earnest or serious". Unfortunately, I couldn't reconcile my almost pathologically Pollyanna-ish outlook, enthusiasm, irreverence and light-heartedness to this description -- nor my somewhat ambivalent approach to politics, religion, sport, the environment and other "serious" issues. At least the slip-up was minor. Several years ago, I unintentionally managed to proposition one of my young, shy GP registrars by way of a wayward text message. He had the same first name as my then-husband. Scrolling through my phone contacts late one night, alone in a hotel room at an interstate medical conference, I pressed one button too many. Hence this innocent fellow received not only declarations of love but a risqué suggestion to go with it. Not the usual information imparted from medical educator to registrar! It took me several days to realise my error, but despite my profuse apologies, the poor guy couldn't look me in the eye for the rest of the term. If I was "intense", I would conclude on a ponderous note -- with a moral message that would resonate with the intellectually elite. Alas, I'm a far less serious kind of girl and, as a result, the best I can up with is: Senders of emails and texts beware -- you are but one click away from being bitten on the bottom. (This blog post has been adapted from a column first published in Australian Doctor). Dr Genevieve Yates is an Australian GP, medical educator, medico-legal presenter and writer. You can read more of her work here.  
Dr Genevieve Yates
almost 4 years ago
O old man looking out window facebook
5
441

A plea following the death of my partner

A Pecha Kucha talk (400 second video). I hope that by sharing my personal story in this way, it will help raise awareness of unfit drivers and the responsibilities involved when assessing fitness to drive.  
Dr Genevieve Yates
over 2 years ago