A lot can happen in a week…


This time last week I had this mad idea to share some of my thoughts about “exercise” – not thinking that post would create such a stir! Is it really so radical to recognise that not everyone likes That Word? And that for some, the benefits of exercise aren’t as valued as other important parts of life? And that movements, like people, come in all shapes and sizes so what YOU like might not be something I like?

In New Zealand we’ve also had a new emergence of Covid19 in the community, after 102 days without any community-based cases. This has been very scary for some of us, a real frustration for others, and an economic blow for many others. It’s brought out the worst in our electioneering politicians (National, I’m looking at you), and in turn led to bad behaviour on the interwebs.

Bad behaviour, too, between clinicians on the interwebs. Behaviour unbecoming of senior white male clinicians, mainly. Not that this kind of unsocial behaviour is surprising to me: among some of our rehabilitation professionals there is a culture of “calling out” people who don’t hold similar beliefs, culminating in atrocious behaviour that serves no-one well. (ever heard of motivational interviewing and rolling with resistance?)

In case you hadn’t worked out, I’m a woman. Furthermore I’m a middle-aged woman – at the age where I suddenly become invisible. Those micro-aggressive behaviours of opening doors for me, lustful glances as I walk by, offers to buy me a drink… they’ve vanished. I’m like a piece of wallpaper. Because, as all women find, so much of my influence over the years has been based on my appearance.

Feminism has been part of my life since forever. I can’t recall when I first started resenting the ideologies that meant I wasn’t allowed to consider metalwork or wooodwork but had to study sewing and “home economics”. Or that I was advised I could be a nurse or a teacher, but never, despite having good marks in English, chemistry, biology, and physics (yeah I was that A-grade student) encouraged to consider a career in science or medicine.

These were overtly anti-female actions.

Then there have always been the slightly (but not always so minimal) “obligations” to watch how I dress, where I walk, how I sit, how I express an opinion (did you know I have a “strong personality”?!!). The time a senior male asked the two of us in an office “would one of you girls do this photocopying” – when both “girls” were over 50 years old?! Ask yourself who organises the coffee at your meetings – and who tidies up afterwards…

I look at the academics in my department: six women. Two are young and involved in the CREATE group, lab science developing bio-engineering solutions for cartilage degenerations. The other four have all had at least 15 years clinical career before completing a PhD, then maintaining that clinical career while also carrying out research. The men? Not so much.

When we begin to look at systematic disadvantages surrounding female participation in research, the strengths women bring into our applied clinical research programmes are often overlooked, particularly in career progression in academia. For example, we’re well-connected. We’ve had experience in clinical work so we can ask those awkward questions – and we often do. These questions are often complex because they’ve arisen from our daily clinical experiences. This means the questions lend themselves to mixed methods research, or intensive repeated measures research (single subject experimental designs, ecological momentary assessment designs), action research, qualitative methods. This kind of research doesn’t get published in Nature or Science.

And then we come to collaborations – where people meet in person (pre-Covid) it’s common to find women’s voices are not as loud, noticed or solicited. This practice begins at school (Wieselmann, 2019), and is evident most clearly in male-dominated work (Wright, 2016). While gender sensitivity training is available, it’s not possible to establish whether outcomes are improved, and many of these studies are about LGBT populations (Lindsay, Resai, Kolne & Osten, 2019). Intersectionality (where people are disadvantaged in many ways – eg sexual orientation, age, disability AND gender and ethnicity) means people in these groups are often stigmatised or invisible, excluded simply because they don’t fit with the established (ie male) norms. We have so much to do.

There have been superb examples of women researchers making themselves visible on social media. I’ve been fortunate to be included in some of these endeavours – raising my personal profile, but more importantly, helping me and others find each other!

My point in writing this post is that while many men are wonderful examples of compassionate, generous, kind and strong masculinity, there are others who are oblivious to their privilege. In their fear (although they would deny that they are afraid) they lash out at women who will not obey the rules this group of men cling to. We can call this fragility. A state where it’s perfectly fine to say that a defender of female under-representation is considered to have “allodynia of emotional pain”, arguing that “if you are this sensitive you might reconsider engaging in the Twitterverse.” Not only unprepared to acknowledge one woman’s response to his behaviour, but arguing for normalisation of this behaviour, along with exclusion for those who don’t agree.

I am calling for actively promoting the work of female commentators, researchers, clinicians and educators. Our voices are as valid as the currently dominating male ones.

I’m not calling for men like the one I’ve quoted above to be silent (though it’s hard to HEAR if you’re always doing the TALKING). I am calling for men who are recipients of privilege just by being male and because our society has held male norms as more valuable than female norms to be the change our societies need. Especially in healthcare where the attitudes I have seen demonstrated on Twitter suggest little sensitivity towards those with different experiences. I do wonder about the interactions with patients by those who have recently revealed their privilege and limited sensitivity on Twitter.

We can do better. Be positive and kind and compassionate and strong. We’ve got this, women.

Lindsay, S., Rezai, M., Kolne, K., & Osten, V. (2019). Outcomes of gender-sensitivity educational interventions for healthcare providers: A systematic review. Health Education Journal, 78(8), 958–976. https://doi.org/10.1177/0017896919859908

Wieselmann, Jeanna. (2019). Student Participation in Small Group, Integrated STEM Activities: An Investigation of Gender Differences. Retrieved from the University of Minnesota Digital Conservancy, http://hdl.handle.net/11299/209027.

Wright, T. (2016) Women’s Experience of Workplace Interactions in Male‐Dominated Work: The Intersections of Gender, Sexuality and Occupational Group. Gender, Work and Organization, 23: 348– 362. doi: 10.1111/gwao.12074.

Is exercise the new snake oil? or just a dirty word?


If you haven’t heard about the health benefits of exercise in the last 10 years or longer, then you’ve probably been a hermit! Exercise can do all these wonderful things – help you lose weight, reduce heart disease, moderate insulin and blood glucose levels, improve your mental health, and yes! reduce pain and disability when you’re sore. (check this list out)

The claims sound suspiciously similar to the claims made by old snake oil merchants – or the amazing White Cross Electric Vibrator!

Well perhaps there’s a little more research supporting claims for exercise… but are those claims being inflated just a little? When it comes to pain, particularly persistent pain, perhaps so…

But before I launch into some of the problems with exercise research, I have another problem with “exercise” – and that’s the word itself.

According to Wikipedia (and no, it’s not an academic reference!!) “Exercise is any bodily activity that enhances or maintains physical fitness and overall health and wellness.” Winter and Fowler (2009) in an interesting paper looking at definitions of exercise, found that “exercise” and “physical activity” are essentially the same and differ only in terms of motivation/intent, finally arriving at this definition: “A potential disruption to homeostasis by muscle activity that is either exclusively or in combination, concentric, isometric or eccentric.” Whew! Glad we’ve got this sorted.

But given the sticky nature of our minds, and that very few of us are inclined to spend hours debating the technical details, the word “exercise” has picked up quite a few other meanings. For me it conjures up images of sweaty, lycra-clad blokes grunting in front of enormous mirrors while they heave on lumps of metal to the pumping rhythm of loud music (and the eyes that follow my every move). It also raises the spectre of school sports where I was inevitably the last person chosen for any sports team, the last to come in after every run, the person who got hit in the face by the ball, who got her thumb smacked by the hockey stick the week before my piano exams…

I’m not alone in my distaste for “exercise”. Qualitative researchers have often investigated how people with pain view exercise: “I get the comments that “It is not dangerous” and that “you are not going to be worse.” I do not believe it is dangerous … but actually it happens that I become worse after .… I know that the pain will increase. And they … talk to me about pain that is not like my pain.” (Karlsson, Gerdle, Takala, Andersson & Larsson, 2018)

Boutevillain, Dupeyron, Rouch, Riuchard & Coudeyre (2017) in another qualitative study, found that people with low back pain firstly identified that pain intensity interfered “any minimal physical activity, standing still in one spot, is torture” (line 1683); “if my back hurts, I don’t do any activity that’s for sure, I am not going to the garden and do some digging, that is out of the question! I have two children, if I am in pain and they want to play, my back hurts and I can’t play with them. My back hurts I can’t do it. It’s not that I don’t want to it is just that I cannot. I am unable to” (line 29). In turn, motivation for exercise was reduced “I don’t have any desire to exercise. A lack of motivation, even apprehension” (line 390); “there needs to be this spark to get motivated, and I just don’t have it” (line 1335). Along with the lack of perceived benefits for some: “Sometimes I try to exercise and then I’m in pain, looking back had I known it would hurt I would probably not have done it” (line 2037) “It can be harmful, I give you an example: I have a colleague with low back problems, similar to mine, and she loves to take step classes, but each time she exercises too much, she is in pain but continues. I think she should stop, it is quite dangerous for her” (line 378).

A systematic review by Slade, Patel, Underwood and Keating (2014) found that “Individuals were more likely to engage within programs that were fun and had variety than ones that were boring, unchallenging, or onerous because they disrupted daily activities.” They added that “Difficulties with exercise adherence and not seeing benefits of exercise were frequently attributed to lack of time and fit into daily life.” Quotes drawn from the studies included in this review show that lack of confidence, negative experiences at the time, and poor “fit” between the exercises selected and individual preferences influence whether exercise was carried out consistently.

At the same time as these negative views, many participants in qualitative studies report that they use “movement” as a key strategy for their daily management. Whether movement looked like “exercise” as prescribed by PTs or trainers is a little less clear – people use the word “exercise” to mean many different things, hence Karlsson and colleagues (2018) combined the term “physical activity and exercise”.

Now one very important point about exercise, and one that’s rarely mentioned, is how little exercise actually reduces pain – and disability. A systematic review of systematic reviews from the Cochrane collaboration found that most studies included people with mild-to-moderate pain (less than 30/100 on a VAS) but the results showed pain reduction of around 10mm on a 0 – 100mm scale. In terms of physical function, significant improvements were identified but these were small to moderate in size.

And let’s not talk about the quality of those studies! Sadly, methodological problems plague studies into exercise, particularly sample size. Most studies are quite small, which can lead to over-estimating the benefits, while biases associated with randomisation, blinding and attrition rate/drop-outs, adherence and adverse effects.

Before anyone starts getting crabby about this blog post, here are my key points (and why I’ve taken this topic on!):

  1. Over-stating the effects of exercise won’t win you friends. It creates an atmosphere where those who don’t obtain pain reduction can feel pretty badly about it. Let’s be honest that effects on pain reduction and disability are not all that wonderful. There are other reasons to move!
  2. Exercise and physical activity can be done in a myriad of wonderful ways, research studies use what’s measurable and controllable – but chasing a puppy at the beach, dancing the salsa, cycling to work, vacuuming the house, three hours of gardening and walking around the shopping mall are all movement opportunities up for grabs. Don’t resort to boring stuff! Get creative (need help with that? Talk to your occupational therapists!).
  3. The reasons for doing exercise are enormously variable. I move because I love the feeling of my body in rhythm with the music, the wrench of those weeds as they get ripped from my garden, the stretch of my stride as I walk across the park, the ridiculousness of my dog hurtling after a ball… And because I am a total fidget and always have been. Exercise might be “corrective”, to increase cardiovascular fitness, because it’s part of someone’s self-concept, to gain confidence for everyday activities, to beat a record or as part of being a good role model. Whatever the reason, tapping into that is more important than the form of the exercise.
  4. Without some carryover into daily life (unless the exercise is intrinsically pleasurable), exercise is a waste of time. So if you’re not enjoying the 3 sets of 10 you’ve been given (or you’ve prescribed to someone), think about how it might translate into everyday life. It might be time to change the narrative about movement away from repetitive, boring exercises “for the good of your heart/diabetes/back” and towards whatever larger, values-based orientation switches the “on” switch for this person. And if you’re the person – find some movement options that you like. Exercise snacks through the day. Jiggles to the music (boogie down). Gardening. Swimming. Flying a kite. Don’t be limited by what is the current fashion for lycra and sweaty people lifting heavy things with that loud music pumping in the background.

Boutevillain, L., Dupeyron, A., Rouch, C., Richard, E., & Coudeyre, E. (2017). Facilitators and barriers to physical activity in people with chronic low back pain: A qualitative study. PLoS One, 12(7), e0179826. doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.0179826

Edward M. Winter & Neil Fowler (2009) Exercise defined and quantified
according to the Système International d’Unités, Journal of Sports Sciences, 27:5, 447-460, DOI: 10.1080/02640410802658461

Geneen, L. J., Moore, R. A., Clarke, C., Martin, D., Colvin, L. A., & Smith, B. H. (2017). Physical activity and exercise for chronic pain in adults: an overview of Cochrane Reviews. Cochrane Database Syst Rev, 4, CD011279. doi: 10.1002/14651858.CD011279.pub3

Karlsson, L., Gerdle, B., Takala, E. P., Andersson, G., & Larsson, B. (2018). Experiences and attitudes about physical activity and exercise in patients with chronic pain: a qualitative interview study. J Pain Res, 11, 133-144. doi: 10.2147/JPR.S149826

Pain may not be what a person fears most


We all have typical ways of going about our daily routines and solving problems. Mostly these work – until we encounter a situation where they don’t. If we’re flexible enough, we’ll figure out a way to change what we do in that instance, and this will become another strategy to draw on, and might even become another habit that works – until it doesn’t.

In pain rehabilitation, there are certain patterns of activity that have received a lot of research attention. Activity avoidance is one of them, while task persistence is given rather less air time (though it’s emerging as an intriguing area to study (Hasenbring, Andrews & Ebenbichler, 2020)). But perhaps what we’ve looked into less are aspects of adjusting to life with pain that raise uncomfortable thoughts and feelings. These in turn make it more difficult for a person to change how they go about daily life.

Some examples I’ve heard from people I’ve worked with:

  • I need to keep pushing through the day because I’m the boss, and a hands-on manager. If I stop being hands-on, there’s nobody to pick up the slack. Things won’t get done.
  • I’m a mum, and I can’t let my children go off to school without them having had breakfast, and making their lunches, and there’s all the parent-teacher events. I can’t just stop.
  • When I left the lawn half-done, my partner jumped in and did it for me, then got really angry with me and I’m not doing that again!
  • I was a professional athlete. Going to the gym is horrible. I’m a failure – I’m lifting these tiny weights and I used to lift massive ones.
  • I’m going back to work on this graded programme, but I can’t fit my gym programme in, and that’s the only way I’m going to fix my core strength.

These situations are pretty common. The clash between “pain management” and the reality of daily life. Daily life is messy, and there are social factors at play, there’s the unpredictable, the real fear of criticism or loss of a job or someone not taking up the slack while the person makes changes in how he or she does life. It’s far easier to prescribe exercises in a controlled place, to track progress by weights, repetitions and cardiovascular fitness or range of movement.

Doing self management, things like pacing or setting time aside for movement, or spending time in meditation or asking someone to help: these are easy in the short-term, right? But not quite as easy if you think of these things needing to happen for life. In fact, some people with pain begin to feel like this new life isn’t really a life at all! Where’s the spontaneity?

When we begin drawing on Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) a common error is thinking the “acceptance” part is only about accepting pain, and stopping treatment, ie let’s focus on being willing to experience pain in the pursuit of what’s important. And there’s good evidence supporting the process of doing valued activities as one of the key processes in ACT, as well as being a key outcome (Vowles, Sowden, Hickman & Ashworth, 2019). All the occupational therapists say “preach it!” because, of course, this is what occupational therapy as a profession is based on!

So what else needs to be the focus if we’re using ACT in persistent pain management? As you can see from the client examples I’ve given, there are more effects from pain and self-management strategies than just being willing to experience the ouch. People hold fused beliefs about what kind of a person they are: the reliable worker; the dutiful parent; the responsible boss; the super-athlete; the compliant patient. The strategies people use to cope with persistent pain may impinge on ideas a person holds about themselves.

Furthermore, things clinicians tell people – like “your exercises will reduce your pain”, or “you must learn to fire this muscle to help stabilise”, or “meditation needs to be done this way” – can also become fused ideas. A lot like wearing a splint for years “because the therapist said I must”, or using a particular chair “because the therapist said it was the best for me.”

Any time we begin introducing new ways of doing things, we’re likely to encounter people who will find it hard to see why our perfectly reasonable solution won’t fit them in their circumstances. Consequently we can either try hard to persuade the person to do it (creating pliance), or we can decide the person isn’t cooperative and give up. I think there’s a third way: using ACT we can examine the usefulness or workability of the approach preferred by the person, and we can do the same for the new approach. By looking at the good and not-so-good in each option, we can also begin to explore the fused thoughts and emotions, experiential avoidance (what is it the person is unwilling to experience?), values, sense of self (is it me, or a story about me?) – indeed, all the ACT processes are likely to come into play.

What we need to do then will depend on your clinical orientation and the person. If the person judges that what they’re currently doing is working for them – our job is done. We can “leave the door open” for them by indicating that there are alternative strategies the person might want to experiment with in the future, but pushing against a person’s own belief that they’re doing fine just isn’t aligned with ACT.

If the person agrees that no, their current approach isn’t working – then we can begin exploring what’s going on. Occupational therapists might begin with daily activities, perhaps identifying what’s important about them, and then experimenting with (or playing with!) different ways of doing them. As an occupational therapist, I’m likely to want to understand is showing up for the person, maybe draw on other important values to help them to begin to use a coping strategy. The cool thing about ACT is that while committed action must be 100% we can adjust the demands of that action to the level of confidence a person has.

For example, if someone really has strongly fused ideas that “everything needs to be done for the children before they go to school”, we might begin by laying out the children’s lunches but asking the children to put them into their bags. Two things might be going on in this case: one might be about loosening the fused idea that “good mothers do everything for their children” while simultaneously helping the person develop skills to communicate effectively with their children – allowing the children to experience what happens if they forget! (Kids have ways of finding food, believe me)

We could be building on the mum’s value of raising independent children, and drawing on her skills of mindfulness and being in the present moment. We’d need to check in with her willingness to do this: is she 100% willing to let her kids go to school without physically putting their lunches into their bags? If she’s not, we might try making the task a little less challenging. This might look like allowing the children not to brush their hair before going to school, or putting the lunches beside the bags but not inside them. Whatever we do we’re gently allowing her to feel the shiver of anxiety that she hasn’t “done everything for the children” while also using another value “I’m raising independent children” to help her follow through.

In terms of where this example might go, if one of the fused thoughts is that “I feel guilty if I don’t do everything for my kids”, this is likely playing out in other parts of this person’s life. By helping her be willing to experience that anxiety in the pursuit of supporting her children to become independent, she’s developing more space between her thoughts and what she decides to do with them. She’s rehearsing a process where she draws on strengths (values, mindfulness, cognitive defusion) to help her commit to doing something that’s not easy. And doing this in one part of her life begins to open the possibilities for doing this in other parts of her life.

Pain rehabilitation and management is often not so much about dealing with the pain and effects of pain on life, but on life and how we live it. Life is more than whether we’re pain-free, fit or happy, it’s about moving onward in the direction of what’s important to us.

Hasenbring, M. I., Andrews, N. E., & Ebenbichler, G. (2020). Overactivity in Chronic Pain, the Role of Pain-related Endurance and Neuromuscular Activity: An Interdisciplinary, Narrative Review. The Clinical Journal of Pain, 36(3), 162-171.

Vowles, K. E., Sowden, G., Hickman, J., & Ashworth, J. (2019). An analysis of within-treatment change trajectories in valued activity in relation to treatment outcomes following interdisciplinary Acceptance and Commitment Therapy for adults with chronic pain. Behav Res Ther, 115, 46-54. doi: 10.1016/j.brat.2018.10.012

That elephant in the room thing


This weekend I was incredibly fortunate to speak at Le Pub Scientifique (the next one is the super intelligent Tasha Stanton!) about one part of our pain conversation that’s absent: how do we have a conversation about when pain persists and doesn’t respond to any treatments?

I still don’t have any research to show how we might broach this topic in a way that respects the person with pain, acknowledges just how poorly our treatments do, and provides a framework for us to collaborate. It’s like this big bogey sitting in our clinics that we pretend isn’t there.

Why do we need to have this conversation?

Well, one reason is that our treatments are pretty poor and by ignoring this reality we’re sitting there with our hands over our ears going “lalalalala” as if by NOT talking about it, it doesn’t happen.

Another is that people living with pain are put through the most awful process of being offered something (hope!), waiting to get that something (waiting, waiting, waiting…life on hold…), getting it (ooh! exciting!), waiting for it to work (waiting, waiting, waiting…life on hold…), then finding it doesn’t help (despair!). Rinse and repeat. The time spent waiting alone is such an incredible waste.

As a result of us not being brave enough to talk about it, people with pain are often thought of as The Problem. They get blamed for not responding. Blamed by family, friends, other health professionals and funding agencies, insurers and case managers, and worst of all: their own minds.

In 2007 I hit my head and sustained a concussion. For 18 months I wasn’t working full time because I’d need to come home and sleep for at least an hour. Even though I knew that my symptoms were real, and that it can take time to recover from concussion, I spent hours worrying that I was “exaggerating”, “taking things too hard”, “not working hard enough”, “not motivated enough.” Believe me, these thoughts do not help anyone, and they delayed my recovery by pushing me towards a depressive episode.

Imagine if you’re a person with pain that doesn’t respond and instead of being given consistent messages about it as I was with my concussion, you’re being told “Treatment X might be a good option”, or “Have you tried Y?” or “Maybe another investigation might help us sort it out?”

How might that erode your sense of self, your confidence in your own experience?

Now I’m not suggesting we say to people “Guess what, your pain is going to go on forever” – that would be horrible, uncaring and unfeeling.

This isn’t the same as pretending that pain isn’t there, gritting teeth and “just getting on with it”. This isn’t about being resigned to a life of suffering.

What I am suggesting is that we help people to become less afraid of their pain, and to begin to start adding life into their life. That by taking pain into account we can begin to build patterns of activity that move us towards what we value – and I doubt that many of us value waiting for the next healthcare appointment. It also doesn’t mean that people can’t at the same time seek pain reduction approaches – I’ve certainly tried a bunch over the years, sadly none of them have changed my pain one iota.

When a person seeks help for their pain, underlying that request is typically something much more pragmatic. It’s about how much pain is interfering with important things the person wants to be able to do. It’s also about what the pain might signify – is it cancer? does it mean I need to change my job? does it mean I’m succumbing to old age or the legacy of being reckless as a young person? Clinicians often forget to ask “if pain was less of a problem for you, what would you be doing?” Clinicians also forget to ask what the person’s main concern is about their pain.

Addressing these concerns will, I think, help us move the conversation away from which set of exercises is better, which gadget might be new and groovy, which dominant voice should be listened to, and whether someone is “right” or “wrong” about an approach to helping people.

So perhaps, as we begin to recognise that our treatments are not very effective (despite the occasional win! Just like the gambler’s occasional win), we can work towards helping people with pain move towards what matters in their lives – with pain as a companion in the back seat, rather than taking over the steering wheel. And perhaps, somewhere along the way, there will be a place to stop to offload this passenger, but knowing that we’ll always carry the memories and thoughts of having had it as part of our lives. Pain has taught me so much! I am stronger than I think, I am good at finding wiggle room, and I am more compassionate towards others who are newer to the journey.

Le Pub Home Brew


Now I’m the kinda woman who enjoys a bevvie or two – and I do love to talk! Combine them both with my favourite topic of pain, and you end up with Le Pub Home brew…and I’m speaking THIS SATURDAY!!

My topic? Let’s stop focusing on pain, because we have a few elephants in the room we need to discuss.

Come and join me as I poke and prod at assumptions made about why people come asking for help with their pain, why clinicians often focus on the wrong thing, why we need to listen to the messages buried beneath the “take my pain away” call – and why the skills clinicians have HAD to draw on during lockdown might just well be the Most Important Skills they have (psssst! Call them “soft skills” at your peril!).

I might wander into some philosophy, some sociology, and probably I’ll tread on some toes and push my own agenda to have more people recognise what occupational therapists already know about context, meaning, values and being flexible.

’nuff said: click on the link below and get in on the conversation (BYO home brew)

Secondary gain: really?


One of my most popular posts ever is one I wrote many years ago on malingering. Secondary gain, like malingering or symptom magnification is one of those terms used by people who don’t live with persistent pain, and commonly used when a person with pain doesn’t seem to be progressing “as expected”. The term is an old one, originating in the psychoanalytic literature, brought into compensation and insurance environments but never really examined (Fishbain, Rosomoff, Cutler & Rosomoff, 1995) until well after it had become a popular label.

Freud first identified the potential for gains from being unwell – primary gains referred to the direct gains obtained from developing a psychiatric illness in the face of unresolved psychic conflict while secondary gains were considered to be “an interpersonal or social advantage attained by the patient as a consequence of his/her illness”.

The sick role, or illness behaviour, is a sociological phenomenon (Bradby, 2009). As a society we permit people who are unwell to take time off responsibilities of paid employment, caring for others, socialising and doing the everyday life activities that people do. We also, in some cases, pay people to stay away from work, both to undertake recovery and to protect others from the illness in the form of sick leave entitlements and compensation. To ensure “fairness” or a sort of moral agreement between the ill person and society, humans have used healers, shaman or religious authorities to ensure the person has an authentic problem: ie, that they are morally fit to receive our help.

To most of us, particularly people in Australia and New Zealand, UK, Canada with largely socialised healthcare systems, the idea of sharing the burden of ill health through socially sanctioned support seems natural. We allow people a period of time to get well and then, when recovered, the person can return to normal activities. If the person sustains some nasty event, like spinal cord injury or brain injury, leaving him or her with ongoing ill health, we support ongoing payments (some more than others, depending on the funding bucket used). It’s easy to justify this when the person’s problems are visible – but for people with less visible, or truly invisible disabilities, our moral compass starts going awry.

For example, we have Mobility Parking: but woe betide the person with an invisible disability such as irritable bowel disorder, or panic disorder, using the park even when displaying the appropriate sticker! Tut! tut! tut! It is even more difficult with an invisible problem such as persistent pain, and even more so when the person’s problem hangs around. Secondary gain is the word whispered in the wind as people judge whether this person really has a problem – or is it “secondary gain”?

Let’s unpack the notion of secondary gain. From a behavioural perspective, behaviour is repeated if (1) something introduced afterwards increases the likelihood of the behaviour being repeated, eg a tearful child is cuddled after tripping, meaning the next time the child trips, he will look for someone to cuddle him; (2) something unpleasant is removed as a result of the initial behaviour, eg the pain of a grazed knee reduces with some topical analgesia. In these situations, the child is not usually aware that the contingency offered changes what they do – they just do what makes sense.

It’s when we start looking at people who don’t fit the typical response curve after an injury, that commentators begin flinging the term “secondary gain” around as if the person deliberately chooses to remain ill. Of course, insurers who fund compensation received by the person have a vested interest in reducing their payments and, given persistent pain can’t be objectively measured either directly or indirectly (Tuck, Johnson & Bean, 2019), will question the motives of a person who doesn’t recover. And therein lies our problem.

In our societies, medical practitioners are pseudo priests in many ways. The word of a doctor holds a great deal of weight: medical certificates, death certificates, oh and judgements about diagnosis and recovery. When it comes to insurers, the opinion of a doctor is used to verify that a person really has the problem they say they have, and can then continue receiving payment. The problem with pain is, yet again, having no direct objective measure of pain. The doctor is assumed to have special powers to detect whether a person really has pain – and yet there is considerable evidence that many medical practitioners have very little training in pain and even less in persistent pain in their training (Shipton, Bate, Garrick, Steketee, Shipton & Visser, 2018).

How is the term “secondary gain” experienced by the person living with persistent pain? Lang, Igler, Defenderfer, Uihlein, Brimeye & Davies (2018) undertook an intriguing study of how the various ways pain in adolescents can be “dismissed” by clinicians. They report that 40% of adolescents indicate their pain was dismissed by others, with almost 30% of those individuals stating this was done by a physician (p. 664). It’s probably not surprising that this kind of dismissal happens more often to female adolescents! Their study established that no, the sense of being dismissed wasn’t an indication of adolescents being “too sensitive”, but rather, that being dismissed by either misbelief (you don’t really have this pain); minimising (you have pain but it’s not as bad as you think it is); secondary gain (you’re using this as a way to avoid something like school); and psychogenic (it’s your emotional state that’s the real problem and cause) – are all likely to lead adolescents to look for another opinion, and to feel stigmatised.

So – is secondary gain a real thing? I like to look at it through a different lens. Taking the moral judgement tone out of the equation (that belief that only people who truly ‘deserve’ help should get it), I like to look at the problem of delayed recovery through a lens of problem solving.

Yes, there can be some gains from being unwell – who doesn’t like a bit of fussing or to be excused from doing something you don’t enjoy. The question is whether these gains come at the expense of other things – and there’s pretty compelling evidence that the losses outweigh any possible gains (Worzer, Kishino & Gatchel, 2009). At the same time, telling someone “you’re just doing this because you don’t want to get better” or words to that effect is not likely to help them have any desire to change what they’re doing – it seems to shift the person towards resisting any change in how they’re coping. It’s counter-productive.

Let’s look at a few losses:

  • employment (and people DO value working for reasons other than money! – think self concept, identity, social interaction, daily routine…)
  • relationship loss (partners, family roles, friendships – some of the most profound stories I hear come from men saying they no longer have mates they spend time with)
  • emotional impact (depression, anxiety, anger, demoralisation, shame, guilt)
  • financial loss (with loss of employment and increased healthcare costs) (Worzer, Kishino & Gatchel, 2009)

What traps someone into these losses? What might maintain someone’s helplessness and demoralisation? Pain, of course, but so too does shame; stigma from time away from work (employers want to know if you have a “bad back” – then run a mile); lack of confidence about capabilities (am I reliable? can I be counted on?); disability (there are some things I cannot do); limited communication (how do I ask for help?) and a myriad of other things. For the avoidance of doubt, people do not magically “get better” once they obtain their insurance payout (Fishbain, Rosomoff, Goldberg, Cutler, Abdel-Moty, Khalil, et al, 1993).

What can we do?

  1. First do no harm, that means avoiding moral judgements about motives for ongoing disability. It doesn’t help and does harm.
  2. Second, begin working on the actual problems the person is experiencing – things like building consistency in activity levels; improving communication skills; increasing confidence.
  3. Third, start addressing the social stigma associated with persistent pain. This means taking a long, hard look at ourselves as clinicians, and at our workplaces and social scenes, and insurers or funders.

Why do we run from the conversation that yes, pain does persist for a good number of people? Why don’t we acknowledge that even the best treatment in the world may not reduce pain – and that this is not the person’s fault for not trying?

This doesn’t mean researchers and clinicians should stop searching for pain reduction approaches – it does mean giving those who are not helped the chance to view living well with pain as a viable option.

Bradby, H. (2009). Defining health, defining disease. In Medical sociology: An introduction (pp. 51-64). London: SAGE Publications Ltd doi: 10.4135/9781446211724.n4

Fishbain, D. A., Rosomoff, H. L., Cutler, R. B., & Rosomoff, R. S. (1995). Secondary gain concept: a review of the scientific evidence. The Clinical journal of pain.

Fishbain, D. A., Rosomoff, H. L., Goldberg, M., Cutler, R., Abdel-
Moty, E., Khalil, T. M., et al. (1993). The prediction of return to
the workplace after multidisciplinary pain center treatment.
Clinical Journal of Pain, 9, 3–15.

Shipton, Elspeth E, Bate, Frank, Garrick, Raymond, Steketee, Carole, Shipton, Edward A, & Visser, Eric J. (2018). Systematic review of pain medicine content, teaching, and assessment in medical school curricula internationally. Pain and therapy, 1-23.

Tuck, Natalie L., Johnson, Malcolm H., & Bean, Debbie J. (2019). You’d Better Believe It: The Conceptual and Practical Challenges of Assessing Malingering in Patients With Chronic Pain. Journal of Pain, 20(2), 133-145. doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.jpain.2018.07.002

Worzer, W. E., Kishino, N. D., & Gatchel, R. J. (2009). Primary, secondary, and tertiary losses in chronic pain patients. Psychological Injury and Law, 2(3-4), 215-224.

International Chronic Pain Virtual Summit 2020


I am so happy to be part of this virtual summit especially under our current COVID19 disruptions! It’s FREE and more than 20 speakers from around the world are talking about the things that matter in pain rehabilitation and management. I might even drop in a word or two about occupational therapy….!
Click the link and find out more! – click

Just to give you an idea of the speakers involved, you’ll get to hear from:

Professor Peter O’Sullivan

Professor Tasha Stanton

Lissanthea Taylor

Vidyamala Burch

Dr Stephen Grinstead

Kathy Hubble

Pete Moore

Prof Kim Burton

Prof Ann Taylor

Dr Adriaan Louw

Dr Shilpa Patel

Dr Saurab Sharma

Knowledge translation: beyond the peer reviewed papers


Oh the risks and pitfalls of trying to get research into clinical practice! There’s an often-cited figure estimating it takes around 17 years for a new practice to enter routine clinical care (Dilling, Swensen, Hoover, Dankbar, Donahoe-Anshus, Murad & Mueller, 2013) – that’s a long time!

There are many reasons for this delay:

  • Inertia – change is hard!
  • Systems – often support the status quo, may not fund new or innovative practice
  • Peer pressure – to keep on doing the same as everyone else
  • Questioning whether the benefits are truly there
  • Busy clinical practice making it difficult to think differently
  • Contradictory reports in research
  • Lack of confidence to make a change (original training maybe didn’t include the skills now needed)
  • Expectations, perhaps from the people we hope to help
  • Holding on to beliefs that feel good/provide short-term effects but may not provide long-term ones

Blogs, like this one, are one way to bridge the research to practice gap. Social media has become a powerful influence, at least in explicit attitudes even if not necessarily daily clinical practice. There are risks, however, in using social media for ongoing learning though I will say that there are also risks in attending conferences, workshops, reading books, reading journals and the like!

The main risk, in my humble opinion (see what I did there?!), is that authors write what they know, and everything that’s put out “there” is filtered through the author’s opinion. Now that’s not novel, it happens in peer-reviewed research as well. The difference in peer-reviewing is that at least two other people, often more, also have read and critiqued the article. This doesn’t mean unbiased papers though, but perhaps a better quality of bias!

Knowledge translation is a real thing. It’s the process of disseminating information from research into clinical practice. This process isn’t straightforward, because all research is biased and no research (pretty much) will fit directly into the nuances of your particular practice context. Although few quantitative research studies openly declare their philosophy of science, it’s assumed that their findings are devoid of values and context: a dangerous assumption given that our clinical worlds are full of competing values and our contexts are hugely variable.

To translate something from research into practice takes some skill. Firstly to distill the research findings into usable bits and pieces, while understanding the contexts and assumptions built into those results. Then to have awareness of the context in which the research might be implementing. Finally, to have creativity to work out which parts of the research will fit well into this clinical context

To do knowledge translation means recognising different philosophical traditions – knowing that all research holds assumptions, and these aren’t declared in many cases (because it’s assumed everyone knows them!). Qualitative researchers, by and large, are more likely to openly state their philosophical stance, making it far easier to understand the assumptions they’ve made in conducting their research. Once assumptions are known, it’s easier to establish which parts of the research will hold in a different context.

When I look at the list of reasons people don’t implement new information, what strikes me is how human they are. They’re about how WE as humans respond to change. They’re about systems and links between actions and what happens next (contingencies). They’re about our social nature, and that we’re motivated by needing to belong, to feel competent and for things to make sense. Introducing new ideas means someone has to be the first one to try it – this means that person is “different”, they don’t belong. Any new thing needs to be learned: that means a time when it’s likely people using it will feel less than competent. And new things often mean letting go of old beliefs and habits, so for a time at least, things don’t make sense as they used to.

One way social media has worked to translate knowledge into practice is by making it OK to belong to a “tribe”. When there are enough people saying similar things, it’s easier to feel like this new idea is acceptable – and by implementing it, we still belong.
Social media might also break the complex ideas developed in research into smaller, bite-sized chunks, so making it much easier to put into practice without feeling incompetent.

But social media doesn’t work as well at helping us let go of old beliefs and habits. What seems to happen is a lot of “he said” and “she said” and argumentation that only serves to reinforce each person’s current stance. It’s relatively uncommon for these kinds of discussions to move beyond posturing, and frankly, I think this is destructive. It’s one of the reasons I don’t engage in critiquing posts where I think the person’s incorrect. My strategy is to post positive information because the more often positive information is made available, the more likely it will be seen. But given recent readership stats on this blog, perhaps it’s not such a good strategy! Gone are the heady days of 1200 hits on a post in a single day!

Nevertheless I post to help disseminate information that is otherwise locked up in journals behind paywalls, to write the long-form because one of the first steps in knowledge translation is to read the research then summarise it. I also do it for myself (mainly I do it for myself) – because when I write, I’m sorting out what I think. Writing to learn is recognised as a useful strategy for deep learning and understanding (Stewart, Myers & Culley, 2010).

Occupational therapy could be considered the “knowledge translation” profession – much of our work involves taking skills developed in the comparatively controlled world of the clinic out into daily life. Occupational therapists are also practical problem solvers, given the philosophical basis for the profession is likely pragmatism (Ikiugu & Schulze, 2006). It’s probably where occupational therapists who are enthused about research and its application could do the most good. The philosophy of science I think most suits occupational therapy is functional contextualism – how workable are solutions given the values and context of the person?

Research deserves to be used. It’s usually why people begin to do research – they’re curious about a situation or a problem, then want to work out why. Implementing that research may not fit so well but this is where we need to be to make a change in our world.

Dilling, J. A., Swensen, S. J., Hoover, M. R., Dankbar, G. C., Donahoe-Anshus, A. L., Murad, M. H., & Mueller, J. T. (2013). Accelerating the use of best practices: the Mayo Clinic Model of Diffusion. Joint Commission journal on quality and patient safety, 39(4), 167–176. https://doi.org/10.1016/s1553-7250(13)39023-0

Ikiugu, M. N., & Schultz, S. (2006). An argument for pragmatism as a foundational philosophy of occupational therapy. Canadian Journal of Occupational Therapy, 73(2), 86-97.

Stewart, T. L., Myers, A. C., & Culley, M. R. (2010). Enhanced learning and retention through “writing to learn” in the psychology classroom. Teaching of Psychology, 37(1), 46-49.

Wensing, M., Grol, R. Knowledge translation in health: how implementation science could contribute more. BMC Med 17, 88 (2019). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12916-019-1322-9

5 Things I Learned from Lock-down


As New Zealand emerges from the most severe lock-down levels to greater freedom (but still not back to life as usual) I’ve been reflecting on what I’ve learned – no, not a new language, new baking skills, or sudden competence in using R (see here for a great tutorial), but things about myself. Odd though it may seem, I’m leaving lock-down with a sense of wistfulness. You see, the time from the end of March to end of April has been a lovely time for me.

I’m lucky, I have a good job, my work hasn’t changed much (well, a bit), my family are safe, I live close to the beach and a park, and the weather has been kind. It’s autumn in Christchurch, and it’s been mainly fine. The bird life has been flourishing. The foot traffic past my house has been families – Mum, Dad, kids on bikes and in pushchairs. Apart from the occasional drop-kick lighting fireworks or playing the Zombie Apocalypse Siren, and hammering from 7.00am to 11.30pm, our neighbourhood has been peaceful. And yet I know so many people in New Zealand and around the globe who are really struggling. Strange times indeed. So what have I learned?

  1. Solitude is not the same as loneliness. Solitude is being alone and being OK with it. Loneliness is being alone when you don’t want to be. Being with my own thoughts, listening to the murmuring of sounds around me, letting my mind wander then gently bringing it back to focus is a pleasure, almost an indulgence. Having headspace to let what passes through my mind just pass by, without music or talking or anything interrupting my musing is a pleasure. Better still: being with someone who also appreciates being together in silence. I’ve learned to love solitude.
  2. Some kids will remember this time with gratitude. I’ve watched whole families walking together, making huts from driftwood, spotting the teddies in the windows, making low-tech memories of time being together. I have a fairy door (and a fairy) at my gate, and watching the little kids search for the fairy (who flies from tree to tree each day!) is such a joy. I’ve seen Mums and Dads out cycling with their kids then heading home to do the DIY together. What a treasure! I’ve learned (again) that families need time being families.
  3. Some things stay the same – especially if you live with pain. Even though my days have been peaceful, my pain has not. With changes to my routine, the weather, sleep, and world events playing on my mind, my life with fibromyalgia still needs managing. I’ve had aches in places I don’t usually have aches, and the things I do to live alongside my pain still need doing. For me these things are: making sure I carry on with mindfulness (I savour those moments when I can be with my thoughts but not part of them), go for my walk for headspace and body movement, keep my sleep/wake routine reasonably consistent, and eat normally (hah! there’s chocolate and alcohol and crisps. I may have slipped up a little there…). I’ve learned that pain management is really life management.
  4. Comparing myself with others is a waste of time. Yes, there are people out there learning new things, self-improving all over the place, doing their on-line socialising (and CPD), being creative and producing a lot. Good for them! I admire their achievements, and I’ve even contributed to a few of those online Zoom talks. Meanwhile, I thought I’d have been truly productive in the studio making loads of silver jewelry (those of you who don’t know – that’s my ‘hobby’ that seems to have taken over my photography, painting, sewing and everything else!). I’ve created a few pieces – but when I caught myself feeling pressured to come up with a “COVID19 Collection” I realised that this pressure wasn’t me. It was my mind being competitive and wanting to prove something to others. The need to belong can lead me to also want to be acknowledged as Something Special. Better than. As good as. Because, of course, underneath that is “I’m not good enough as I am”. So I decided to let that rope go. I don’t have to compete. There isn’t a prize for She Who Produces The Most because in the end, life is a process not a goal. I’ve learned (again) that comparisons are one way my mind beats up on me, and my mind doesn’t know everything.
  5. Resilient people are adaptable people. Resilience is a word many people in Christchurch, NZ, are well and truly over. Since 2010, and the 10,000 earthquakes since, plus the Port Hills fire, and the terror attack on Al Noor Mosque, people in Christchurch have been challenged more than many in our wee country. Resilience doesn’t mean we’re unchanged. Resilience means we change with circumstances and we develop new ways of being, ways of expressing who we are and what matters to us. I sometimes think people believe resilience means “Oh you’ve bounced back and life goes on as it was” but for me the events since 2010 have had a profound effect on my life. I can’t walk through my city without seeing earthquake-wrought changes. I see bumper stickers saying “they are us” and “kia kaha“. I walk past the memorial wall Oi Manawa when I head in to work. The new streetscapes, city buildings, ongoing roadworks and repairs – all part of the way my city has changed. That underground subversive element in Christchurch has touched so much of our lives. Resilient people have found ways to express who they are despite the enormous impact of events over the past 10 years. I’ve learned that holding on to what I value while finding new ways to express these has given me freedom and growth – but I’ve had to let go of the form, the habitual, the routines that used to frame them. It’s painful. It’s tiring. It’s real and raw and hard work.

How does all this fit into a blog about pain? If pain doesn’t challenge clinicians and people experiencing it, I’ve wasted the last 30-odd years of my clinical career, not to mention my hours of social media involvement!

Change, as a clinician, can be tough – letting go of the form of what we offer (because … science) while holding on to why we ever started working as clinicians requires flexibility.

And solitude – to reflect on what it is we really want. We do it for families, those closest to our hearts (our own families, and others), so people can be who they really are.

Comparing ourselves with others leads to a popularity contest, and the self-management approach to pain is most definitely not a popular meme. I am not part of the Instagram/Twitter/TikTok/whatever meme culture. I don’t do short, snappy sound bites. There are, as far as I can see, no short-cuts or quick fixes for learning to live well with pain. There are only connections between people who care, who are willing to be vulnerable, who will let go of some things in order to take on new things in the pursuit of what matters.

This is what I’ve learned from Lock-down.

On labels and boundaries


What we call a disease matters. It matters to the person because a diagnosis is a marker: this problem is known, it’s recognised, it’s real (Mengshoel, Sim, Ahlsen & Madden, 2017). It matters to the clinician, particularly medical practitioners, but also those clinicians working within a largely “disease-oriented” framework (for example, physiotherapists, osteopaths) (Haskins, Osmotherly, Rivett, 2015; Kennedy, 2017). It matters also to insurance companies, or funding providers – who is in, and who is out.

The diagnostic label itself hides a great many assumptions. The ways in which diagnostic labels are grouped reflects assumptions about underlying similarities (and distinctions) between groups of symptoms. Added to this complex situation is uncertainty in how the person presents: are they a “typical” presentation? Who decides what is ‘typical’? Think of the classic signs of chest pain signifying myocardial infarct – but this applies to males, and less so to females. Women are less likely to be resuscitated after chest pain, and also less likely to be transported to the Emergency Department using lights and sirens (Lewis, Zeger, Li, Mann, Newgard, Haynes et al, 2019).

It is the physician’s quest for certainty and the patient’s illusion of certainty, however, that leads to many of the current decision-making techniques in the practice of medicine. Evidenced-based medicine seeks to provide information to physicians and patients to allow for more informed recommendations, and yet our current evidence base is imperfect owing to unreliable clinical data, incomplete taxonomy of disease, and a weaker focus on clinical reasoning.

Correia, Tiago. (2017). Revisiting Medicalization: A Critique of the Assumptions of What Counts As Medical Knowledge. Frontiers in Sociology, 2. doi: 10.3389/fsoc.2017.00014

With any luck, clinicians working in persistent pain management will have moved beyond a simple medical diagnosis when working with someone. While a diagnosis is crucial for acute management, once the pain has been hanging around for a while the illness-based aspects of dealing with pain become more important.

What do I mean by this? Illness is about the personal experience of living with a disease. If we think of disease as being about biological aspects, illness is about the “what it is like to live with” the disease. Talcott Parsons, a sociologist at Harvard University wrote that illness could be considered “deviant” behaviour: “…behaviour which is defined in sociological terms as failing in some way to fulfill the institutionally defined expectations of one or more of the roles in which the individual is implicated in the society.”(Parsons, 1951). While Parson’s language and some of his concepts represent the outdated views of society at the time, the notion of illness being “what it is like to” live with a disease is an important distinction for us as clinicians.

For clinicians working in pain management/rehabilitation, particularly with people who have been living with pain for months or years, understanding that on top of the biomedical label, each person also has months or years of the stress of dealing with that problem. For any of us, experiencing pain even for a short time can be puzzling, represents changes in how we view our bodies, often elicits irritation or anger, sometimes sadness and typically, actions to avoid or control the problem.

Now here’s the point of my writing this blog today. If any of us face an unnamed challenge, or if our situation doesn’t change despite “following all the rules” (thinking Covid-19 maybe?), whatever typical stress response we get is likely to be elicited. If we’re inclined to worry, we’ll probably worry. If we’re inclined to withdraw from being with others, we’ll probably do that. If we tend to have trouble sleeping, we might do that. If we get irritated and tetchy when we’re stress, well we’re probably going to do that too. This is normal.

Now if someone saw you and me today, and went through a structured clinical interview for diagnosis, I’m sure I’d at least begin to show signs of anxiety or depression. Two weeks of saturation coverage of Covid-19 will do that to you, and add the challenges of being penned up in my home without any shops open, and I’m probably going to be not my usual self.

Let’s think about the person we see who has been living with persistent pain for a few years. This person is enduring pain every single day. Has possibly looked everywhere for something to help – usually we’d think of this person as pretty motivated, but for some clinicians this begins to look like “doctor shopping”. The person might have fallen out with one or two previous clinicians who persisted in treating the problem the same way they’d treat an acute pain problem. This begins to look like “difficult patient” territory. Add to this some mood problems, lots of anxiety about everything else in life – and lo! we have a person ripe for a psychiatric diagnosis. Or at the least, “yellow flags” (risk factors for prolonged disability).

Now, the whole idea of risk factors for ongoing disability was intended to help us as clinicians pay attention to doing some different for people with those risk factors in their lives. That’s right: for clinicians to take on the responsibility for either assessing in more detail, reviewing more frequently, integrating active coping strategies into treatment, and perhaps referring for specialised care if that was warranted.

Yellow flags are not some kind of warning for clinicians to negatively label, perhaps even diagnose, a person as being “difficult”. Yellow flags should elicit from clinicians (us) an awareness that this person is vulnerable. That’s right, vulnerable – and needing more care.

I’ve heard talk over the years of clinicians stepping out of their scope of practice when looking at psychosocial risk factors. I’ve always thought that it’s a good thing to be aware of risk factors so that something can be done about them, because this person is a greater risk of poor outcomes. The problem arises when someone, without appropriate training, gives a person a psychiatric label. There are a few labels that spring to mind: personality disordered, especially borderline personality disordered; attachment disordered; somatic disorder…

The problem with labels is that they don’t get erased when the clinician who gave them that diagnosis discharges them. Those labels live forever on clinical files, insurance files, claims files, medical and hospital notes. Those labels can, and often do, invoke highly discriminatory behaviour. One person sent to Emergency Department with chest pain was told they should come back when they have a real problem (duh, chest pain = real problem) because, sitting at the top of the list of diagnoses was “somatic disorder”.

Clinicians – do not use labels without thought. Don’t use labels that sound technical (thinking ‘catastrophising’), don’t make a diagnosis that is outside of your scope, don’t over-interpret a questionnaire score, don’t judge people because today they’re distressed and cranky, or worried and tearful. For goodness’ sake: stick to your clinical boundaries!

Haskins, R., Osmotherly, P. G., & Rivett, D. A. (2015). Diagnostic clinical prediction rules for specific subtypes of low back pain: a systematic review. Journal of Orthopaedic & Sports Physical Therapy, 45(2), 61-76, A61-64.

Kennedy, Ashley Graham. (2017). Managing uncertainty in diagnostic practice. Journal of Evaluation in Clinical Practice, 23(5), 959-963.

Lewis, J. F., Zeger, S. L., Li, X., Mann, N. C., Newgard, C. D., Haynes, S., . . . McCarthy, M. L. (2019). Gender Differences in the Quality of EMS Care Nationwide for Chest Pain and Out-of-Hospital Cardiac Arrest. Womens Health Issues, 29(2), 116-124. doi: 10.1016/j.whi.2018.10.007

Mengshoel, Anne Marit, Sim, Julius, Ahlsen, Birgitte, & Madden, Sue. (2017). Diagnostic experience of patients with fibromyalgia – A meta-ethnography. Chronic Illness, 14(3), 194-211. doi: 10.1177/1742395317718035

Parsons, Talcott. (1951). Illness and the role of the physician: a sociological perspective. American Journal of orthopsychiatry, 21(3), 452.