Death in Life

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health, Life, Productivity, Writing

One can have a pulse, breath in the lungs, eyes that see, ears that hear, and a mouth that mutters nonsense when required… and still be considered dead, Dead, DEAD.

As Ray Bradbury says in his poem, “Doing Is Being,” “To not do is to die…” And I have found myself reflecting over the past few months on the crux of G. K. Chesterton’s Manalive:

His principle can be quite simply stated: he refuses to die while he is still alive. He seeks to remind himself, by every electric shock to the intellect, that he is still a man alive, walking on two legs around the world.

A writer who writes not is dead. And I’ve been on the deadish side of the lively scale for quite some time.

Not that I have ceased writing completely. It has dwindled. I have a productive day and I rejoice loudly, only to be followed by another span of unproductivity. The flow was constant once, long ago, and it absolutely flourished. But life goes through various changes and stages. We grow befuddled. Still, one must prioritize. One must plan and schedule. I am well aware of my shortcomings. And I know this is a struggle for many writers.

To quote Bradbury again, “Not to write, for many of us, is to die.”

I tend to agree.

Life is a strange thing. It isn’t always lively. Sometimes life slinks off into the corner to whimper. We must be disciplined. We must do. We must live.

Sometimes that is difficult. Painfully difficult. Life flings many sharp-edged rocks at us. Sickness. Loss. Fears. All sorts of distractions and depressive monsters that leave you stunned, overwhelmed, and sometimes empty, loud demands that beg immediate attention, making our whispered loves and preferred inclinations shuffle dejectedly aside…

Once the storm is gone and you pause, realizing you’ve been inert for much too long, you must come back to life. It takes effort. But it must be done.

And to create is a big help. Be it art, photography, music, or writing, it is always good to create.

It’s time to stop thinking about it, dreaming about it, reading about it, and reminiscing about it. Pick up the pen and let it be a constant companion once again.

It’s time to stop being dead.

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Of Nineteenth-Century Hiccup “Cures”

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cures, diaphragm, health, hiccough, hiccups, medicine, quackery, singultus

When I’m in a public place, I find that I have to restrain myself when I encounter a person I’m unacquainted with who is suffering from a stubborn bout of hiccups.

I’d love to say, “Poor thing, it appears you’re suffering from a case of synchronous diaphragmatic flutter!” I’ve tried it on family members. It scares them right away (the hiccups, not my kin). But I know better than to scare unsuspecting random mothers out of their wits when their young children sporadically pop in the air making ridiculous hic! noises every few seconds. That would be very naughty of me, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s tempting.

Synchronous diaphragmatic flutter is actually nothing other than hiccups or hiccough in medical lingo. It is also known as singultus, that being the Latin terminology. I like to call it the curse of the wobbly diaphragm from time to time. However, I think I enjoy German word, Schluckauf, even more.

It’s indisputable that hiccups are nuisances. We all know the basic cures. Hold your breath. Gulp cold water at top speed or in various ridiculous positions. Startle the hiccup victim senseless. I always found sugar to be the most effective cure; however, my high school biology teacher swore that drinking water while holding your ears and nose closed was the one-and-only true method. It worked like a wonder for a little while. I still prefer sugar.

I’ve read somewhere that Hippocrates recommended sneezing as a cure for hiccups. I wonder how many people can do that on command.

But what was done for hiccups in the 1800s? I did my best finding off-the-wall treatments. Most books I found only mentioned hiccups as symptoms for ailments, but few said what to do about the hiccups themselves. I did come across the old water-guzzling, sugar-dissolving, breath-holding, scare-the-patient standbys.

In Our Home Physician (1873), George Miller Beard also suggests swallowing vinegar or lemon juice, and goes on to say, “…when it occurs after a full meal, everybody* knows that a little brandy generally puts it to a stop.” Count me out of that everybody. For hiccups accompanied by fever or inflammatory diseases, Beard recommends “opium, henbane, and similar narcotic medicines.”** Opium, needless to say, had many purposes in those days, and this suggestion did not surprise me in the least.

And then there’s good ol’ Dr. Gunn. I came across a digital edition of Gunn’s New Domestic Physician from 1861, which I thought I would compare with my tangible copy of Dr. Gunn’s Household Physician from 1901 (the two-hundred and tenth edition, revised and enlarged — oh, how I love this book, for it is a source of endless entertainment). The two books are very similar, but after so many editions, a few changes are inevitable — even in regard to hiccups.

The 1861 edition includes my favorite sugary method, the strict “‘nine swallows’ of cold water, taken without breathing”, fennel seed tea, compound spirits of lavender, anise, castor oil and spirits of turpentine, mustard drafts applied to the stomach and abdomen, sweet oil and fresh milk (if the hiccups come from poison, which happens to the best of us), warm baths, peppermint with sulphuric acid, tincture of musk and tincture of hyoscyamus (if nervousness if the culprit), and, the biggest eye-opener (or eye-shutter), “Inhaling chloroform will also be good.” That single sentence stands out to me. He does not elaborate any further. Not in the 1861 edition, that is.

…I’m sorry, but I couldn’t resist this image here.

Forty years later in the two-hundred and tenth edition, it is no longer necessary to take nine swallows of water, or any specific number at that. All of his other cures still apply. However, he has more to say about the chloroform: “It may be necessary to completely anaesthetize the patient with Chloroform or Ether.”*** In other words, just knock ’em out full-force. The fact that this is a “household guide” both amuses and frightens me.

I’ll stick with the sugar.

__________________________________

*My emphasis.

**Please, please, PLEASE do not exercise these methods — they are listed for historical amusement only.

***The same applies with chloroform and ether. Please refrain from this “cure.”

Of Medicinal Leeches and Sophia Hawthorne

Tags

1800s, American literature, animals, bloodletting, Hawthorne, health, History, leeches, Medical History, medicinal leeches, medicine, nature, New England, nineteenth century, Sophia Peabody Hawthorne

“Those incomparable, lovely, delicate, gentle, tender, considerate, generous, fine, disinterested, excellent, dear, elegant, knowing, graceful, active, lovely, animated, beautiful leeches have done me a world of good.”

That’s what Nathaniel Hawthorne’s future wife, Sophia Peabody, said of leeches when she was a teenager. I don’t think I’d ever be able to speak of a leech with such exuberance, but… I’m happy for Sophia that they gave her such delightful relief, or that she at least thought they did.

Sophia Peabody Hawthorne

Sophia was an invalid of sorts, starting in her youth. Headaches plagued her. Loud noises set her head throbbing, and she was the sort to languish about with the typical 19th-century melodrama of her suffering. She tried numerous treatments — leeches among them. Pursuing art brought relief as well, and I personally believe it was this distraction from her malady that did her more good than any bucket of leeches.

I recently laid eyes upon my first live medicinal leeches at a local science museum. Knowing their significance in medical history, I was excited to see those two serpentine, blobby beasts clinging to the side of their little watery aquarium. Certain Youtube videos of the Mütter Museum’s director and his pet leeches came to mind (I admit they make me cringe to watch and make me feel somewhat faint, but I do think it’s cute that their names are Harvey and Hunter). And as I watched those real-life leeches, I was so thankful that I’m not living in the heyday of blood-letting via leeches (not that I’d want to endure any sort of blood-letting for that matter). Of course, you cannot forget mechanical leeches, either!

Leeches: Interesting enough to look at from a safe distance. But I’d rather not have them clinging to me. And no, I would not like to have one for a pet.

As for Sophia… she ought to curb her enthusiasm, or all the leeches will be after her.

Medicinal Leech: “I’ll alleviate your ills and you’ll give me dinner in payment. What’s not to like?”

Of Animal Medicine

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Cats, Dental, health, medicine, Pet, Teeth cleaning, Tooth, Tooth Resorption, Veterinary medicine

I’m used to human medicine. I read about it often, historically and in the modern sense, often comparing the two. It’s amazing to see the great progression made from just the 1800s. And some things don’t change much at all. Medical history fascinates me. I’m not certain as to why, but it’s one of those strange facts in life that I won’t waste any time analyzing.

But animal medicine — that’s when I get weak and start to whimper. They don’t complain like humans. On a frustrating note, animals cannot tell us when or how they are hurting. And those innocent faces, the imploring, sad eyes that humans have yet to truly master. I’m used to the fact that people get sick. But I just can’t bear an ailing animal.

I do, however, have a deep respect for those who have the strength to help animals that are feeling poorly. And I also love James Herriot’s stories. Who doesn’t?

My cat recently had another medical adventure. Going in for a dental cleaning, it was discovered that he had a bad case of tooth resorption* — 15 teeth had to be extracted, mostly from the upper jaw. The little guy ended up being under anesthesia for about two and a half hours, factoring in cleaning time and surgery time. That’s longer than I’ve ever been under, and the most teeth I’ve had removed at one time was two. He experienced something more intense that I ever had in the dental department, and I don’t know which one of us was more shaken by it. And seeing his teary eyes when I picked him up from the vet office didn’t help matters at all.

He was obliging enough to pose for a sketchy portrait the day after his procedure, and hooray! — he actually looks content.

Thankfully he is recovering well. He’s taking it easy, of course, and it will take some adjusting with his new lack of teeth, but I am very relieved that he is on the mend and is pretty much back to his usual happy self.

Cat skull and teeth drawing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*For those not familiar with tooth resorption, it is, most simply put, breaking down of the tooth from the inside, exposing the root. It is painful. And it is very common in cats, moreso than in dogs, and extraction is all that can be done — at least at this point in history.

Of Thorwald’s “The Century of the Surgeon”

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books, health, Jurgen Thorwald, Medical History, medicine, out of print, rare books, surgery, The Century of the Surgeon

Of every book relating to medical history I have read thus far, my favorite and the one I most highly recommend is Jürgen Thorwald’s The Century of the Surgeon. Now, there’s a good side and a bad side to it.

The good side is that it is a very entertaining and informative read.  And it doesn’t strip history into a dry list of discoveries, milestones, names, and years (certain books come to mind that I will refrain from mentioning). Thorwald presents the history via first-person narrative so that it reads like a novel, and it also gives the historical figures greater depth and personality. Thorwald creates the fictitious Mr. Hartmann, a surgeon who watches the advancements of surgery unfold throughout the nineteenth century. It starts with Hartmann witnessing his first surgical procedures, performed by none other than John Collins Warren.  Hartmann is also present for the first ether operations both in America and in England (he is even invited by Liston himself!). A young Joseph Lister personally shows him through his hospital ward. An exciting description of an early heart surgery on a patient suffering from a stab wound is saved for the conclusion.

Perhaps it is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach due to the detail in which some procedures are described, but I’ll toss the warning out there because the average person would consider some of the material to be graphic, and I admit there are some intense sections. Nevertheless, I still consider it a fantastic introduction that breathes much life into medical history.

Jürgen Thorwald, author of Century of the Surgeon 

The negative aspect to The Century of the Surgeon is that it is extremely difficult to find. It was first published in 1957, is currently out of print, and at the time of writing this post, the only copy of it I see for sale at Amazon costs over $500. I was fortunate enough to borrow a copy from my university’s library when I was a student. I remember waiting for my December finals to be all out of the way so I could read Century at leisure! And it was worth the wait. The sad part was returning it. And the frustrating part — trying to find my own copy.

I did manage to find a Reader’s Digest condensed version of it reaching behind some books in a public library. It was used as a mere spacer — clearly  not a wanted book. So I bought it for $2. It is indeed something. Complete with a cover that creaks like a neglected door when I open it. But it simply isn’t the same, so the search continues.

The Reader’s Digest 1957 condensed version of The Century of the Surgeon, which also contains Lobo, By Love Possessed, Duel with a Witch Doctor, and Warm Bodies… works of fiction that I could live without.

For those interested in borrowing Century of the Surgeon, it is not a total impossibility. See if your local library system owns it. If not, ask about getting it through inter-library loan (I have a feeling that university libraries are more likely to own it than public libraries). I also found one ebook copy at Open Library that can be borrowed. And if it ever gets back in print — what a blessing that would be!

I was happy to learn that I’m not the only person around to recommend this book as a starting place for learning about med history. Sherwin B. Nuland, author of How We Die (and one of my favorite medical writers), gave it a thumbs-up in an interview here: http://www.americanscientist.org/bookshelf/pub/sherwin-nuland. And I have to admit, if you can’t get your hands on Century of the Surgeon, his book Doctors: The Biography of Medicine is another excellent starting place.

Of the Vet

Tags

cat, Doctors, health, Health care, medicine, Pet, Veterinarian

I’ve been to a variety of doctors and specialists over time. And the care I’ve been most pleased with is that provided for my cat at the vet. Yes, my cat gets stellar medical service. So if you want great medical care, have fur and four legs. (Alas, I don’t qualify.)

For one thing, I can usually get a vet appointment on the same day that I call. When making an appointment for myself at the human doctor, I have to choose between a one- to two-week wait or going to the emergency room.

My cat is dealing with a condition right now. And I have my own problems, too. But the kitty has gotten more phone calls about his progress and care instructions than I’ve ever gotten from any doctor in the past. I know how to take care of my cat every step of the way. As for my own health, that’s more of a guessing game. These veterinarians are actually concerned about their patients!

I hope this little guy appreciates his health care, because I’m almost jealous.

Besides, the patients in the waiting room at the vet are far more interesting than those at the human general practitioner. (No offense intended, humans.) Not to mention that my cat gets treats at the vet. Just for being cute and fuzzy, I suppose. All I ever get are pills.

In spite of the positive aspects, I’m not about to make an appointment for myself at the vet. I don’t think I’d enjoy being shoved in a carrier to go to my appointment, and I do appreciate that we humans don’t get our temperatures taken via our rear ends.

UPDATE 06-14-2012: My conscience tells me to take back some of what I have said in this post… Lately (since the writing of this post) I have been dealing with some excellent specialists who are as helpful as my cat’s veterinarian, if not moreso. Kudos to them for proving me wrong — one instance in which it is a great feeling to be proven incorrect!