Category Archives: medicine

If The Elephant In The Room Could Talk.

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Elephants are really smart.

Actress Kim Basinger, not long after her published financial struggles, took on a very noble cause: saving the endangered breed. Her celebrity drew worthy attention to the plight of these grand, lumbering creatures. I remember paying special attention, for two reasons: 1.) Kim Basinger had been raised among Bible-believing Christian fundamentalists, as had I; 2.) Ms. Basinger, a woman after my own heart, seemed to know something the rest of us would need to learn.

Re: Wikipedia:

“The elephant (both Asian and African) has a very large and highly complex neocortex, a trait also shared by humans, apes and certain dolphin species.

Asian elephants have the greatest volume of cerebral cortex available for cognitive processing of all existing land animals. It exceeds that of any primate species, with one study suggesting elephants be placed in the category of great apes in terms of cognitive abilities for tool use and tool making.[11]

The elephant brain exhibits a gyral pattern more complex and with more numerous convolutions, or brain folds, than that of humans, other primates, or carnivores, but less complex than that of cetaceans.[15] Elephants are believed to rank equal with dolphins in terms of problem-solving abilities,[9] and many scientists tend to rank elephant intelligence at the same level as cetaceans; a 2011 article published by ABC Science suggests that, “elephants [are as] smart as chimps, [and] dolphins“.[7]

Other areas of the brain

Elephants also have a very large and highly convoluted hippocampus, a brain structure in the limbic system that is much bigger than that of any human, primate or cetacean.[16] The hippocampus of an elephant takes up about 0.7% of the central structures of the brain, comparable to 0.5% for humans and with 0.1% in Risso’s dolphins and 0.05% in bottlenose dolphins.[17]

The hippocampus is linked to emotion through the processing of certain types of memory, especially spatial. This is thought to be possibly why elephants suffer from psychological flashbacks and the equivalent of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).[18][19]“

So, along with their obvious dominance in size among Earth’s living creatures, elephants apparently carry formidable capacities for comprehension.

Ergo the one stuck in the room, as it were, of our current public health aftermath. What would the elephant say, about the steadily increasing number of sudden deaths among our population?

The press releases had been identifying numerous cases of cardiac arrest; now, we note, the reports merely indicate death by “natural causes.” The latter phrase is usually employed to distinguish between those found under suspicious circumstances, i.e. homicide or suicide. Natural causes, however, cover a specific range: a.) massive stroke; and, b.) cardiac arrest. When one is found unresponsive, alone, at home, expired neither expectedly nor due to progressive deterioration, this is classified as a sudden death.

And, sudden death does occur. But, statistically, how frequently, and why do we now see reports of these daily?

The question is fundamental.

If only the elephant could speak.

Maybe a trip to the zoo is in order. My ears are open.

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Copyright 5/13/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog link, exclusively; no copying – in whole/part/by translation. Thank you for considering the questions.

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The Disease of Compliance.

CANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, civic commentary, commentary, education, family history, grief, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, medicine, personal testimony, political commentary, politics, psychology, Questions, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , ,

She’d given me the look.

That look, of doleful disapproval, on my mother’s otherwise silent face will never leave me.

I’d spoken with authority, against those to whom she had submitted. My efforts were in her defense – her immediate creature comforts, her broader sustenance, what she deserved from those to whom humane treatment was allegedly a priority.

My mother’d given me that look. She did so, because she could no longer speak. My mother was dying, of terminal brain cancer.

The medical center to whom she had relinquished her vulnerable body had – as far as my eye, ear, and remaining senses could perceive – utterly failed.

Her diagnosing surgeon had gone on vacation, to publish his new novel. The PA in whose charge she had been placed had us on hold, instructed to reroute her past surgical options to the latest chemo protocol still on the shelves at the local cancer center. That facility sent its physicians on rounds, to speak with us in the hospital room, check her vitals, and determine when the chemo port should be scheduled. The chemo port procedure failed. Her lung was punctured; she wheezed; I tore around that ward like Shirley MacLaine in “Terms of Endearment” until a portable xray machine was located and a technician to take the image. The nurses assigned to her charge were surgical, moved to the cancer floor to cover for short staffing, and had no idea how to operate her chemo infusion machine. Her veins rolled; the caustic solution, intended for the chemo port in her sternum which hadn’t found its destination dispersed through her tissues, never reaching her brain. She likely stroked out, losing what little ability she had left to either speak or press the call button, and filled a toilet feces collector tray which sat for hours on a hot August afternoon until I, returning to my watch after a brief lunch, sourced the choking odor. The nurses who were assigned to periodically turn her in the bed were absent; when asked to appear, one of them jerked her body so abruptly the lung tube came out and had to be reinserted. Finally, the surgeon returned from his vacation, took one look at her, pulled me out into the hall, told me she “didn’t look good”, and assigned Hospice to convince us to take her home. Two weeks later, the sun streaming in the bedroom window, my mother took her final catch breaths as I held her hand. The date was August 4, 1995.

Little has changed, at that medical facility, except for a magnificent expansion of most all departments and building additions. The nurses are still short handed; the bedside attention completely dependent upon the availability of qualified individuals; and, patients are still subject to a level of care that is based entirely upon their willingness to comply.

Compliance.

An agreement to do whatever one is told, without argument.

Life, and its counterpart – death – notwithstanding.

In generations past, principally the one within which my mother was raised, people were trained to care. And, the professions dedicated to helping others attracted the truly compassionate.

What changed?

Enter the “model.” Such is a behavioral plan, designed and then applied to both institutions and corporations. Because of the veritable size of contemporary enterprise, management of such breadth has required a top down approach to containment – the goal being to maintain order. Without order, systems collapse.

But, hierarchy has its own, inherent weakness. Power, established at the top, while appearing to solidify structure ultimately produces imbalance. How, and why?

When there is power at the top, the distribution of decision making becomes diluted. Multiple departments are created, over which each has its own manager; this produces compartmentalization, which becomes not only a pattern of action but a mentality which infuses perception. This, in turn, births insularity.

When insular thinking pervades, everyone existing within its cocoon learns to believe that what happens in their comparatively tiny world defines reality everywhere. Any notion of standard, whether intellectual or moral, is completely subject to thinking which is increasingly ruled by opinion rather than fact. Accountability diminishes. One answers only to one’s immediate superior, who may or may not have a cogent grasp on anything.

What’s worse, those who actually do possess the cognitive mettle to interpret situations functionally are so far removed from each compartment that assessment is reduced to remotely accessed paperwork.

Enter the health care institution. At the very bottom of this malignant monstrosity is the bedside caregiver. Whence does valid authority rule? And, most importantly, who cares?

Tyrants look at this picture and choose depopulation. Reduce the volume; solve the problem. Oh?

The word “money”, both its acquisition and domain, has yet to enter this discussion. Perhaps the reader carries awareness of its power, in silence; by now, most regardless of socio-economic status know those at the top seize enormous salary and, with it, the power to determine the hourly wage of their counterparts on the bottom rung. In the medical field, those who have direct interaction with the most vulnerable receive the least in compensation.

The model which has informed the structure of health care institutions comes from big business. In my day, the theory driving its application was called Total Quality Management – TQM. This idea birthed the meeting room, wherein all employees from a given level were called together, allegedly to air all grievances, and given a promise of follow up action. Over time, all learned to expect from these pretensive scenes little to nothing beyond status quo. Those in charge selected the appropriate form, filled in data where required, and filed it in a slot marked “Reports.”

To date, I have been “dismissed” from three medical practices. I am no longer a good “fit.” As the patient in pain, I am documented as alternately defiant, my tone lacking in “professionalism”; whereas, my transgressions have included identifying both irregularities and errors, naming them, questioning why, and asking for further assistance. As the patient, I have been non-compliant.

Theoretically, we in the United States have an advocate. It’s called Congress. Should I appear before this body, stand from my seat, be recognized, and speak, be forewarned.

Those who seek to silence me can expect the look.

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Copyright 4/21/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying – in whole; part; or, by translation (except you, Hans-Jorg!) – permitted. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS. Thank you for respecting the truth.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Heavy Metal.

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The man was a breed apart.

Ray* had spent his entire adult life head of maintenance, for the local General Electric plant. He swept floors, it’s true; but, he also repaired just about everything when it broke. Trained as a welder, this included soldering thick pipes.

Always resourceful, Ray taught himself to use a sewing machine. Most of the shirts he wore he’d made himself, complete with top stitching, buttoned cuffs, and added pockets. He also built a deck on the back of his house, and inlaid floor tile.

Outside of work, the man had a rich, cultured experience. He’d met his wife, a native of Rome Italy, at Karate – where they each achieved the 3rd degree black belt, and could both break brick. She a tax accountant, during her off season the two of them would travel the world on expensive cruises, usually for two weeks at a time. By the time Ray reached retirement age, he’d been just about everywhere.

Nevertheless, Ray wanted to learn cello. His goal was to play for the angels someday, in the realm to come. A lofty aspiration, no pun intended, I decided he deserved the opportunity to prepare.

Unlike most beginners, he’d had no musical background. No singing, in school. No church, in childhood. No rhythm sticks, hand bells. No records playing, at night before falling asleep. No piano lessons.

By contrast, I had been surrounded by music making since infancy. Its aural patterns played in my head, regularly and easily. How to get these into Ray’s cranium would become MY ultimate challenge.

Apparently, he’d played for a few years already before we met; Ray came to me after all three of his preliminary teachers had, for one reason or another, set him aside.

So, we began at the beginning. Solid first position set up. Bow arm trajectory. He had the basics well established, mechanically; minus a tendency to play finger to finger, all Ray really needed was an ability to hear and match pitch.

This would prove his ultimate contender.

The man was my most devoted student. Everything I advised he do, he did – to the absolute best of his ability. A self described “slow” learner, nobody knew better than Ray how much effort and repetition would be required to master the tasks set before him.

He’d been my adult cello student, for over ten years, before – post pandemic – Ray spontaneously lost the hearing in one ear. We both postulated that, surely, exposure to continuous loud interior shop noise was the likely culprit.

The ENT examined him. His ears, the doctor declared, were fine.

An MRI was scheduled, next. I kept mum my encroaching concerns; auditory tumors were not uncommon, anymore. He’d be sure to inform me, of the results of the scan.

The day came. Ray described with his customary, easygoing narrative his experience at the MRI test. The technician, he said, kept coming back out to check him – for metal. No; no earrings, nose rings, implants. No metal. But, there was metal, the tech said. In his head.

The test complete, there was no metal on Ray’s body. But, there was metal in. his. head.

Ray wracked his tired, aging brain. He’d never been in the military. Never shot a gun. Never endured a traumatic, penetrating head injury. All he could blame were those days at the G.E., welding pipes. Had he inhaled metal dust, and had particulate reached his brain?

This made sense, to both of us. To me, it explained much. Jay, always struggling to both grasp and retain teaching concepts, would make exhaustive effort to get them into his longterm memory. Even then, if enough time elapsed, invariably he’d need to relearn some of what he had already demonstrated.

Yet, when taken as a whole person, simply put: Ray was not a slow learner. He’d reached the maximum skill level, a master of the art of self defense. He’d made half of his own clothing. He could still fix whatever broke. This was evidence of giftedness – not a feeble mind!

Rock and roll music evolved, in my lifetime. From simple chord progressions topped off by an innocent melody, life and its increasing assaults would birth a genre devoid of nourishment – angry, screaming, pounding, thrashing. Called heavy metal, this was music for the abused and poisoned.

Now, Ray fights back, against the very infiltrate of this evil residue.

May the angels reserve his seat.

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*to respect his identity, my student’s name has been changed for this account.

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Copyright 3/13/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. No RSSing copies. All rights those of the biographer, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and not via RSS feed. Thank you for respecting the true stories told by others.

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