Three doctors over breakfast discussing contracts, diabetes, trauma and hearts

August 31, 2014

At breakfast sat down doctors three
The advice that we gave was for free
We talked about cases
And contractual places
And what we should charge for a fee.



Synopsis: I’m a family practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. I danced back from the brink of burnout in 2010, and, honoring a one-year non-compete clause, went for adventures working in out-of-the-way locations. After jobs in Alaska, New Zealand, Iowa, and Nebraska, I returned home and took a part-time position with a Community Health Center. I still take short-term positions occasionally.

Three of us met on a Thursday at a popular coffee spot. Over trendy breakfast items and flavored lattes we discussed game theory and negotiating techniques.

A couple of Thursdays or Fridays per month have found us at a morning meal together for the last couple of years. We have guided each other through difficult items of a doctor’s career. We all face hard decisions for our lives and our life’s work.

We do not hesitate to give voice to good advice in the face of questionable choices, and we each have regretted not taking our own advice.

But yesterday we talked about getting a better offer. One who has no willingness to walk away from a deal has no bargaining position at all. We have all faced bait-and-switch situations; an employer has said one thing, made a deal, then unilaterally changed the circumstances. What can a doctor do?
None of us alone has more wisdom than all of us put together, and our group consciousness guides us to better decisions and actions.

We finished stronger than when we had started but we ran out of time and we still had cases to discuss. Because the business of being a doctor and the work of being a doctor are so intertwined. Come to my house tomorrow at 7:00AM, I said, I’ll make omelets and we’ll continue.

As dawn on Friday broke, I engineered quick but elaborate breakfast dishes. Jarlsburg cheese caramelized in the frying pan as the discussion started.

For reasons of anonymity, I will leave out who presented which patient.

An 18 year old female with thrush, or, at least, a painful mouth diagnosed elsewhere as thrush.
“Does she have HIV?” one asked. No, she didn’t, but that’s a good thought and the test came up negative. “How about the 3 P’s?” came the next question. Excellent, the presenter said, referring to polydipsia, polyuria, and polyphagia (drinking a lot, urinating a lot and eating a lot), the three signs of diabetes we all learned in medical school. Yes, she did; her sugar was 424. There followed a presentation about distinguishing Type I diabetes, where the patient will need insulin for the rest of her life, from Type II, where diet, exercise and pills can take care of the problem. We talked about 4 lab tests 2 of us had never heard of, and how the phone call to the endocrinologist (hormone specialist) went.

Then a case of wide-complex ventricular tachycardia with low blood pressure, a presentation classic from Advanced Cardiac Life Support, a course we’ve all taken. And after that, a death from massive trauma, complicated by legal and administrative issues and a difficult family situation.

As we ate mushrooms, onions, fresh basil, eggs and cheese, each of us filled in the human details, the heart-rending impact of disease as it ripples through the family, the community, and the hospital staff. By the time we finished we were better doctors.

Schizophrenia should not be a death sentence

May 1, 2014

Even the worst of the cynics
Support the function of clinics
It’s a seasonal flow
They come and they go
The homeless bipolar schizophrenics

Synopsis: I’m a family practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. I danced back from the brink of burnout in 2010, and, honoring a one-year non-compete clause, went for adventures working in out-of-the-way locations. After jobs in Alaska, New Zealand, Iowa, and Nebraska, I returned home and took a part-time position with a Community Health Center. I just returned from my second locums trip to Petersburg, Alaska.
The young man I talked to in the clinic recently brought a distressingly familiar story; because so many have similar tales I can talk about the non-unique elements. From out of town, he couldn’t give me a good reason he had landed in Sioux City; he had no work or money and the word “tenuous” described his housing arrangements. As we talked the contradictions in the history started to add up, but I carefully avoided bringing inconsistencies to his attention.
I won’t discuss his “admission ticket,” the physical illness he described came second to his main problem.
A long, involved medical history with improbable descriptions of other health care facilities, led me to conclude that he maintained an uncertain relationship with reality, and, eventually, he mentioned his history of schizophrenia.
My 22 years as a co-owner of an upscale clinic brought me little contact with schizophrenics, but my current position has. Our facility cares for most of the schizophrenics in the city.
I have learned that schizophrenia, bipolar disease, and substance abuse overlap each other with terrible frequency. Most schizophrenics smoke, and trying to get them to stop ranks with trying to stop the tides. The majority of schizophrenics have difficult-to-control diabetes.
We have drugs to treat the bipolar, the diabetes, and the smoking. Yet we lack good, effective treatment for the basic disease process, where a person’s thoughts loses touch with reality.
(One very effective drug, clozaril, shows dramatic improvements not only in symptoms but functionality; the worst side effect, occasional and unpredictable bone marrow shut down, makes it too toxic for all but the most severe cases.)
Our society has failed our mentally ill. A Republican President with bipartisan support closed the mental hospitals and dumped the patients onto the streets. They form a disproportionate percentage of our prison and jail population and a majority of the homeless. Unable to cope with the real world, they can’t hold jobs, manage money or maintain interpersonal relationships.
If someone in our town stumbles out from under a bridge and into a clinic, they stumble into our clinic. They truly can’t afford to pay for their services.
The most conservative, fiscally stingy, small-government supporters I know agree that schizophrenia should not be a death sentence.
Some of my schizophrenics can maintain a semblance of a normal existence with regular medication; a few can manage part-time employment. But many just keep drifting, north in the summer, south in the winter.
I do what I can for them, recognizing the fleeting nature of the relationship.

Dead doctors and AAA batteries

April 9, 2014

This one’s about a dead cell
That leaked, and corroded as well
I got over that quirk,
And made the thing work
After only a very short spell

Synopsis: I’m a family practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. I danced back from the brink of burnout in 2010, and, honoring a one-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures and work in out-of-the-way locations. After jobs in Alaska, New Zealand, Iowa, and Nebraska, I returned home and took up a part-time position with a Community Health Center. I have just returned from a one month locums assignment in Petersburg, Alaska.
In 1989, my then-partner said, “Well, it’s like when you make rounds on Christmas. You start early, you put a Dictaphone in your pocket and you go like mad.”
Sitting at a stoplight on the way home I thought about what he’d said and decided to round as efficiently as possible every day. Later on, when I started doing the hospital work for my group, I started to carry a dictating machine to save time. The alternative required finding a telephone, and entering the following digitally: physician number, dictation type (progress note, discharge summary, etc.), and patient medical record number. As years passed each hospital required more info and developed more pauses before dictation could actually start. Both hospitals shift their equipment every 2-3 years, requiring purchase of a new dictating machine, generally for about $600. With every passing year that purchase brings an increased efficiency over phone documentation.
The last of the handwritten progress notes died two years ago. By then I had figured out how to dictate while walking from patient to patient.
This morning I slipped my hospital-specific digital recorder in my pocket and started rounds at 7:00AM, finding the machine would not turn on. As always, I looked to battery replacement as the first fix, and the pediatric head nurse brought me two new AAA cells, but to no avail. While I grumbled, she took the batteries to the recycling bin, commenting that, as one had leaked, much time must have passed since last I used the machine.
New in mid-January, those batteries saw scant use till late February and no use after; I thought neither period qualified as a long time. I removed the new cells and spotted corrosion on one of the terminals. I went to work with a pencil eraser, cleaning the metal to shininess. I recalled how, in previous years, I repaired so many tiny tapes with scalpel, forceps, and Scotch tape I almost wrote an article, Microsurgery for Microcassettes.
I know batteries go bad, but I have never seen a battery go from new to leaking in less than three months.
Then, with the digital recorder working well, I started on rounds.
At lunch in the Doctors’ lounge, I sat down to a conversation in full swing on the subject of death. One of our ophthalmologists passed away a couple of weeks ago without warning. Then we all remembered the cardiologist who died young on a treadmill, and the orthopedist who died, gratuitously, of colon cancer. In short order we shifted the topic to nature vs. nurture in the realm of colon cancer, heart attacks, alcoholism and cirrhosis.
While the other docs talked, I ate hospital chicken and rice, and thought about batteries leaking and corroding after premature failure. And I rejoiced in the time I’ve spent doing locum tenens.
Carpe diem.

Syphilis and gold: finding what you look for

April 2, 2014

Across the car park I strolled
In the rain and the wind and the cold
The thing I did find
Brought hope to my mind
And turned out to be real gold.

Synopsis: I’m a family practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. I danced back from the brink of burnout in 2010, and, honoring a one-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures and work in out-of-the-way locations. After jobs in Alaska, New Zealand, Iowa, and Nebraska, I returned home and took up a part-time position with a Community Health Center. I just returned from my second locums trip to Petersburg, Alaska.

On my first Monday back from Alaska I went into the office to catch up on the miscellany that accumulated in my absence. I found 320 clinical items on my electronic desktop along with 78 administrative emails. In the quiet of the early morning, when my body clock should have screamed for sleep, I dug in and started plowing through the items one by one.

About half had to do with bad things that had happened to my patients, requiring hospitalization, while I vacationed. Every admission generated an ER note, a history and physical, progress notes, lab and x-ray reports, and a discharge summary. I could not determine the importance of each item without reading it.

I ran into some surprises.

Three patients received malignant diagnoses, and I judged each cancer gratuitous. None of them did anything to deserve their tumor.

One person’s syphilis tests came up positive. I followed the communications; saw that my partners had done the right thing through the health department notification, the lumbar puncture, and the penicillin injections. I look forward to seeing if the patient’s symptoms improve.

When my father attended medical school, his professors would lecture, “Know syphilis and know medicine,” but since then the frequency diminished to the point where we rarely think about it, and sometime we forget to look for it. Lyme disease brought a resurgence in testing because searching for one justifies testing for the other.

I left the clinic at 1230 to go home for lunch, and as I got into the car, I saw a faint gleam of yellow on the pavement. Smaller than a dime, when I picked it up I saw it had suffered from passing car tires grinding it into the gravel. But it had a milled edge, which marked it as a coin.
At age 9 I found a dollar bill in the street in front of our house, a powerful experience at the time, and even more so because of the large purchasing power it represented in 1959. I started looking for more. One finds things that one looks for.

During med school, the Michigan State school paper published a piece by a student who also found money and who kept track of it; he commented that as inflation eroded the value of money he found more and more. Perhaps because of its lower worth, and perhaps because I keep getting better at spotting it, I find a lot more money than I used to.

When I came back to the office, I stopped in at the pawn shop across the street, and asked my friends there to check the tiny item for gold content, which came, to the surprise of all, as 22 karat; I accepted the spot gold price and walked out a happier man.

I worked through till 530, when I cleared out the last of my electronic communications, thinking about how one find things that one looks for.

Another last day

March 27, 2014

My month now draws to an end
What a great way my vacation to spend
I might be a geezer
Enjoying his leisure
But I’m sure enjoying the trend.

Synopsis: I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, sold my share of a private practice, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I returned to take a part-time position with a Community Health Center, now down to 40 hours a week from 54. Right now I’m in Petersburg, Alaska, on a 1 month working vacation.

The month of March flew by in Southeast Alaska. This trip’s last day passed in a leisurely fashion.

I cared for 8 patients in the course of both sessions and none in the last two hours of the afternoon.

Confidentiality limits what I can say about patients, but I can write about clinical matters. When all else fails, examine the patient, even the hard-to-examine autistic. Meatal stenosis (a narrowing of the hole through which the urine passes) requires a surgery so simple that I could probably do it. Phyctenular keratoconjunctivitis, an unusual cause of a red eye, comes no more commonly than rosacea of the conjunctiva. Allodynia (where light touch produces pain), unusual to start with and even less common as back pain, demands more than symptomatic treatment. If the original plan fails to fix the patient, the three most important steps are re-evaluate, re-evaluate, re-evaluate. Hemoptysis (coughing up blood) in a former smoke demands a chest x-ray, even if the smoking stopped ten years ago.

I got the chance to speak Spanish; I told a joke involving a pun involving ratito meaning both a small period of time and a diminutive rodent.

In the middle of the morning I stopped into the lab to get my PPD (TB skin test) read. Every health care institution demands periodic testing for tuberculosis among its workers in 21st century America and my previous test lapsed a little over two weeks ago. The small geographic size of the operation here made getting the poke in the forearm much easier than such a test at home. After all, it takes 14 steps to get from my office to the lab, and at home I would have to drive to my doctor’s office.

I ate lunch down the hill at Coastal Sea Foods, deep-fried halibut and fries. A construction worker shared my table and we talked a lot about the vagaries of the weather in the Alaska Panhandle. The place filled up during our discussion, and I finished my meal surrounded by commercial fishermen.

In the last half of the afternoon I cleaned up both my physical and electronic desktops. I tried to log in to the provider portal at my clinic back home. When the request came to change my password because of brevity, I fired off a quick note saying that 9 characters had sufficed for 3 months, and I wouldn’t accede to a request for more.

My sojourn here coincided with a family emergency for one of the full-time permanent doctors who returned today. I expressed gratitude that I could help.

I had a good time. If all works well, I go fishing tomorrow.

Memories of March 11. 1979

March 14, 2014

Three decades ago I did walk
How fast move the hands of the clock!
My life rearranged
As a man I was changed
And I remember the speaker’s fine talk.

Synopsis: I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, sold my share of a private practice, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I returned to take a part-time position with a Community Health Center, now down to 40 hours a week from 54. Right now I’m in Petersburg, Alaska, on a 1 month working vacation.

The anniversary of my medical school graduation arrived with snow and rain in southeast Alaska.

March 11, 1979 remains a date burned into my personal calendar. I had hitchiked back from Montana, my 4th move in 5 months. I stayed with friends in Saginaw and East Lansing the few days till graduation.

My father and brother flew out from Denver.

The graduation speaker did an effective job; I still remember what he said: There aren’t very many true emergencies. Write down what you need to know for each one on 3×5 cards and carry them around till memorized. Every morning, first thing, look in the mirror and say, “I don’t know.” Get good at it. Medicine is a jealous mistress with a cruel embrace.

He spoke for about 20 minutes. His exact words probably reside somewhere in the archives, but I carry the most important parts in my memory.

Michigan State at that time and to this day keeps the med students in East Lansing for the two preclinical years; after that the College of Human Medicine sends the students off to the five clinical campuses around the state. Those clinicals years constitute the crucible that makes a doctor. We saw people born and die; we delivered babies. We received praise and verbal abuse. We listened to attending physicians expound wisdom and acclaim outright lies. And for our last year, most of us travelled.

We lost track of each other. Some slowed their program from four to five years, some longer. Some dropped out. For the next three years we focused on our post graduate training, and for the next thirty years we focused on our careers.

But most of us walked across the stage that cold and snowy night in East Lansing.

I almost didn’t.

While I stood in line I started to panic. I had been a student for 24 years at that point, and without a school and a program, I had no identity. With only two classmates ahead of me, I turned to my one time roomate, who, fortunately, came right behind me alphabetically. “I can’t do this,” I said, “I’m a student. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He said, “Be quiet. Turn around and graduate.” Which I did.

In that short walk across the stage I underwent a metamorphosis. I walked off the stage gripping a faux parchment (not the diploma; they had handed me a note that promised my diploma would be mailed to me), a changed man. The change, of course, had built over the three years of premed and the four years of medical school, but those few steps brought me past the tipping point.

Yes, I had lost an identity and in doing so acquired another.

My classmates and I milled around in euphoria and then we prepared to leave.

My father and brother and I went out to the Chinese restaurant afterwards. My fortune cookie said, “You will have great power over women. Use it wisely.”

What “weekend on call” means here

March 11, 2014

What does call mean, can you tell?
A 3 day or 12 hour spell?
Does it make me a cynic
To see folks in the clinic?
The sick along with the well.

Synopsis: I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa. In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, sold my share of a private practice, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand. I returned to take a part-time position with a Community Health Center, now down to 40 hours a week from 54. Right now I’m in Petersburg, Alaska, on a 1 month working vacation.

Different people can use the same word and mean different things, and the same word used by one person can mean different things at different times.

At the Practice Formerly Known As Mine, “weekend call” meant from Saturday at 8:00AM to Monday at 8:00AM; it included seeing patients in the ER, rounding in the hospital, and delivering babies.

In Barrow, “on call” always meant 12 hours, covering the ER and caring for the patients in the hospital.

At the Community Health Center where I now have my main part-time gig, before December 1 “weekend call” meant Friday 8:00AM to Monday 8:00AM, no ER, and responsibility for 20 to 40 hospitalized patients. Now, with the same time parameters, the hospital census seldom exceeds 8, all of them children. Interactions with the ER come only with pediatric admissions.

Here in Petersburg, “weekend call” starts at 8:00AM Saturday, ends 8:00AM Monday. It includes a Saturday morning walk-in clinic and scheduled afternoon patients. If someone comes to the ER, the on call doctor goes in to see them, but most of the hospitalized patients will see the doctor who admitted them. When a patient in long-term care (much like a nursing home) needs to see a doctor, they see the doctor on call.

On Saturday call I saw a number of cases involving infectious diseases. We have strep making the rounds of the school system, and an epidemic of hand, foot, and mouth disease (a viral illness causing (blisters on the palms and soles and in the mouth) in the day care system. In the wake of a respiratory virus, lungs compromised by years of smoking develop problems. Commercial fishing brings its own set of medical risks, complicated by the vagaries of being away from port for days to weeks, as well as port changes. The Forest Service employs about 50 people, making it one of the larger employers; those workers have medical problems associated with spending protracted time in the wilderness. But we also have people who work desk jobs and run into overweight, diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol as a result.

And sometimes I see the worried well along with the well children.

Most cannery workers left before the end of September, but some remain for the halibut, crab, and shrimp season.

Where people walk on ice, the doctors can count on seeing slip-and-fall injuries.

But in such a small village most people walk most places. In a town where people observe the posted speed limits of 15 and 20 MPH I get little motor vehicle collision work. And the school system teaches water safety conscienctiously and effectively.

Still part of the US, we have our share of problems stemming from meth, heroin, prescription pain relievers, marijuana, tobacco, and alcohol.

Decompression: not to be confused with mania

March 9, 2014

It came, this feeling sublime,

With the freeing up of my time.

Don’t get in a panic,

I haven’t turned manic

But boy, this place is just prime.

Synopsis: I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa.  In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, sold my share of a private practice, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand.  I returned to take a part-time position with a Community Health Center, now down to 40 hours a week from 54.  Right now I’m in Petersburg, Alaska, on a 1 month working vacation. 

Two weeks after I left the Practice Formerly Known as Mine, I called my doctor from Alaska.

Me:  I’m so euphoric I’m afraid I’m having my first manic episode.

My doctor:  So you’re feeling good?

Me:  Yeah.  Really, really good.

My doctor:  Are you doing anything impulsive ?

Me:  Like?

My doctor:  Like spending money?

Me:  Does paying arctic prices for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s count?”

My doctor:  No.  Or gambling?

Me:  No

My doctor:  Doing anything risky?

Me:  Like going out on the sea ice?  Absolutely not.

My doctor:  How are you sleeping?

Me:  Fantastic!  Eight solid hours a night and waking up rested without an alarm.

My doctor:  You’re not manic, you’re just happy that you’re decompressing.

That same euphoria washed over me in waves while I walked around Petersburg the day I arrived, just an overall sense of happy.  Yes, the blue sky and the dramatic mountains could take the breath away from a fish, but it takes more than good weather to bring happiness.  I suspect I’d be this happy if I wandered around Pittsburgh (I won’t write off that possibility).  I think it has to do more with freeing up of time constraints than with scenery or a new place.

***

I left for work back home on a Wednesday with the thermometer firmly at 7 below zero; I got off the plane in Petersburg, Alaska at 45 degrees, and the air, compared to Sioux City, smelled like spring.  I ran around in shirt sleeves till the sun went down.

***

First thing off the plane I went to the clinic, where, since I left in August, a new electronic medical record (EMR) system has taken hold, though the reasons remain unclear to me.  Sleep deprived and jet lagged (the trip lasted 28 hours), my brain fails to consolidate the lessons.  Yet I observe that if it takes me 3 tries to learn something, I might as start that day  and have my first failures out of the way.

***

Second day of clinic I find I learned more than I thought.  As with any complex computer system, I run into some transient functionality problems.  Because I can’t talk about patients, I’ll talk about the disease states I encountered:  sore throat, cough, back pain, laceration, and neuropathy.   I saw four patients (if you do the math you’ll see at least one patient had more than one  diagnosis) at the rate of one per hour, and for Monday I have the confidence to handle one every 45 minutes.

I seem to learn quickly.

Enjoying my time on hold: A terrible double murder, a rocky coast, and the US Marshalls

March 7, 2014

Here’s an idea that’s bold:

A thing you can do while on hold

Instead of music to hear

That will bore you to tears

Listen to the story that’s told.

 

SYNOPSIS:  I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa.  In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, sold my share of a private practice, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand.  I returned to take a part-time position with a Community Health Center, now down to 40 hours a week from 54.  Right now I’m in Petersburg, Alaska, on a 1 month working vacation. 

I won’t dwell on the details of the case, or the drama and irony that unfolded as I watched the dancer pay the piper.  The bottom line came when the patient requested a referral to the Native Hospital on Sitka. 

I go out of my way to expedite referrals, consultations, and second opinions; I have never regretted doing so.  In this case, protocol required I call the physician on call at the referral hospital.

I got put on hold.

I have spent a lot of my life on hold; in 1990 my frustration with the insurance companies’ abuse of my time led me to put a yoyo in my pocket (which relieved tension and brought me to a degree of proficiency I could not have imagined).  I now do my best to leave my name and cell phone number rather than wait; I can get work done if not distracted by the hold music or the canned ads that impose on a captive audience.  The phone system at Mount Edgecome didn’t play music or ads. Instead, I listened to a Native story teller.  He had a good story and he told it well, drawing pictures with words, of a terrible double murder and a difficult bureacracy. 

My fascination brought me to another place, a stormy, rocky coast under gloomy skies.  Had I sat in his audience, my legs would have fallen asleep before I noticed.  I really could have listened to him all day.  And just as he got to the part where the US Marshalls discovered the bodies, the other doc picked up the phone. 

Her voice came through, clear and chipper and professional.  We exchanged pleasantries.  I told her about the case, and what we’d done so far.  She asked an incredibly insightful question about substance abuse, and 45 seconds into the conversation we poised ready to ring off.  But I had to tell her how much I had enjoyed the time on hold.  The hospital, she said, had recently changed the tape; I told her it was a great idea.

A musician in the audience

March 7, 2014

With a fiddle, a guitar, and bass,

The auditorium served up the space

You couldn’t go wrong

With a fine blue grass song

And the mandolin followed the trace

SYNOPSIS:  I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa.  In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, sold my share of a private practice, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, went to have adventures in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand.  I returned to take a part-time position with a Community Health Center, now down to 40 hours a week from 54.  Right now I’m in Petersburg, Alaska, on a 1 month working vacation. 

Thursday clinic went a little long, but I finished documentation by 530.  Tired, sleepy and hungry, I shopped the grocery store with a bias towards instant gratification, then came home and bolted cheese, garlic toast, artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes.  Then I drove back to the high school.

I haven’t seen much of Petersburg High School besides the auditorium.  It serves as the movie theater for the island, but it also serves as the venue for live music.

I arrived while the opening act finished their first number.  I took a seat at the back.

Double Rock Band performs bluegrass locally.  Three siblings play, respectively, fiddle, mandolin, and guitar; a fourth woman plays string bass.  The oldest has not yet attained the age of 16.  They played well, they even sang with Appalachian accents.  If an opening act or back up group functions mainly to make the headliner look good, Double Rock Band will never succeed; they perform too well.  Even if their showmanship hasn’t acquired polish their musicianship shines and they play from the heart.

After four numbers, they left the stage and they left the audience fully impressed.

The audience conversation buzz filled the room while the stage made minimal changes.  I saw half a dozen people I’d seen in clinic.  In a town this size, everybody knows everybody.

I napped.

I suppose lessons in the performing arts start with making the audience wait, and by the time the Ruth Moody Band came on stage I had come to appreciate Double Rock’s lack of polished showmanship. 

Ruth Moody played two sets.  Billed as a bluegrass band, in the 60s I would have called them folk.  While most of the audience just enjoyed the music, I noted the bass and the fiddle had fantastic coordination.  Ruth herself sang well and with passion.  From time to time I slipped into the moment and I just listened.

When I played with Synergy in Barrow (see entries this blog from the summer of 2010) I lived in the moment while the music rolled out of my saxophone.  I find it harder to get into the moment while listening.  But the last number, Troubles and Woes, brought me there.  Justifiably, it brought down the house.  They saved the best for the last. 

Then came the predictable standard standing ovation and the encore.

Outside, the night had warmed and smelled like snow coming.  More tired than hungry now, I dropped into bed before 10:00.


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