Which is the real bioterrorism?

By James J. Gormley

Recently, I was thinking about the many ways in which nature's balance and our bodies are thrown off kilter by toxins,allergens and disease.

Many of the imbalances are the result of a complex web of disastrously irrational environmental and industrial policies. In most cases, however, the poisoning of our world is not generally considered wantonly malicious, in the strictest sense of that term.

In general, we try to deal with these assaults on our bodily systems' living order (homeostasis) by attempting to purify the body — by identifying toxins and allergens and reducing our exposure to them, supporting the liver and cleaning up the diet.

However, in a post 9/11 world threatened, or haunted, by the specter of biological and chemical warfare, it was not without a degree of trepidation that I happened upon an old article in the New England Journal of Medicine, entitled "Mass Psychogenic Illness Attributed to Toxic Exposure at a High School."

Although the word "psychogenic" is a tip-off that the authors concluded that people were imagining things, I was very curious as to what went on.

Apparently, in November 1998, a teacher at a high school in Tennessee smelled a gasoline-like odor in her classroom. Then she, and others, began to experience such symptoms as headache, nausea, shortness of breath and dizziness.

The school was evacuated, and 80 students and 19 staff members went to a local emergency room; 38 people were hospitalized overnight. Five days later, after the school had reopened, 71 people went to the emergency room.

Although "extensive investigations" were carried out by several government agencies, the authors said: "We were unable to find a medical or environmental explanation for the reported illnesses," and that the illness — although similar to symptoms reported by victims of "bioterrorism" — "bore the "major features of psychogenic shock."

In other words, although over 170 people went to the hospital over the course of five days, they were all, presumably, suffering from some kind of mass hysteria; they were all just imagining things.

Were the Operation Desert Storm veterans all just imagining things, too?

And what about the biological warfare the United States allegedly conducted in Korea in 1952 and 1953, which was said to include plague and anthrax bacilii. Was our entire biological warfare effort just something we imagined, as well?

I wish it were.

Whenever there is something that doesn't offer up immediate scientific validation in neon lights, then, clearly, mainstream medicine's easiest solution is to dismiss it as a figment of an overactive imagination or "mass hysteria."

I truly would like to believe that people in McMinnville, Tennessee, just freaked out for 5 days. I'd also like to believe that a whole host of serious autoimmune disorders, such as chronic fatigue syndrome, are all just products of "psychogenic shock."

But, unfortunately, they're not. And the sooner mainstream medicine, and, our "guardians of public health," come to terms with the fact that our inability to immediately put a "pre-printed label" on a given symptom picture is not, in any way, a determination that a patient is imagining things, the sooner mainstream medicine will come closer to where holistic medicine has always been.

Until then, we have to ask ourselves: where is the real bioterrorism?

Is it a missile carrying plague, or is it when medicine sabotages health, and truth, in a quest for easy answers?

Escape from the Emergency Room

By James J. Gormley

I realized one day that I had a medical "situation," a male concern I had wondered about for a couple of months, yet had dealt with via the time-honored male tradition of "avoidance"-- if I pretend everything's okay, the problem will go away -- not exactly the best approach.

Scared about cancer, I sat down with my wife. We resolved to speak with a physician friend the next day, which I did. I was told: "Get thee to an emergency room," in no uncertain terms.

Wracked with fear, I stepped into an emergency room in the Bronx, where I live, and I was shocked. Before me were hundreds of people waiting to be called -- victims of a world without a family doctor, statistics at the periphery of an HMO universe.

There was no hope in this room. Only desperation. Only sickness. Only pain. The room was dark and filthy, the staff looked shell-shocked, and the triage "window" was a l-inch-thick bulletproof barrier.

My heart sank. I felt a ball of worry in the pit of my stomach. I telephoned my car-service friend, Marvin, and asked him to pick me up and drive me to a hospital in Manhattan, one regarded as one of the finest medical institutions in the world.

When the cab drove in along the graceful, flower-lined driveway, I thought that I was pulling up to a Hamptons dinner party, not to a place of X-rays and blood. There were only a couple of people waiting in the immaculate, "elegant" waiting room. I thought, "Now I'll be safe. Now I'm in good hands. "

Or not? The triage nurse ignored most of my questions, and I wound up in a room within the bowels of the E.R. Freezing in a hospital gown, I was examined by a surgeon who was compassionate yet overworked. He informed me that I would need ultrasound testing, and that a urologist would have to see me.

After he left, a nurse ordered me to vacate the room, since they needed it for an "eye injury." I painfully climbed down (without a step-stool) and found myself, ignominiously, having to climb up onto a stretcher in the hallway.

About 2 hours went by before transporters came to bring me to ultrasound. When I was brought back to the E.R., I was deposited in a wheelchair and forgotten.

When my meal arrived (for which I had to practically beg), the urologist intern showed up: 7 hours after I arrived, 4 hours after the ultrasound. He was very vague, and just didn't seem to care. He promised to give me the names of three urological surgeons, and sent me back to the nurse's station, where I waited another hour for my discharge instructions, which I could barely read.

When asked by one of the night-shift nurses, "Who was your nurse?," I told her that I had no idea -- that no one (except for the surgeon) had bothered to give me a name, or ask me if I was okay, or if I needed a sip of water ... anything at all.

When I sit back, and try to process what this experience taught me, I'm left with this thought: It represents the very worst and the very best of what's horribly wrong and allegedly right about mainstream medicine today. It's high-tech but "low-heart," the apex of empirical skill yet the nadir of compassionate medicine.

In 1975, Ashley Montagu said, "One goes through [...] medical school and one's internship learning little, or nothing, about goodness, but a good deal about success."

Pity that goodness needs to be taught, and sad that this is a definition of success.

Is it any wonder that holistic medicine holds the key?