Let No One Put Asunder

At my age, I suppose I should have learned to expect the unexpected, to revel in the entrepreneurism of a new and alien generation, and to wonder at its ability to see opportunity in the predicaments of others. But then again, why not? Isn’t that what lawyers are all about? And doctors…? Where would we be without predicaments?

Alright, I accept that the approach may seem cheeky, or even downright calculating, but I have to say I sometimes admire the attempt –a Swedish hotel chain is ‘offering a refund to couples who get divorced within a year of staying at one of its places.’ http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-news-from-elsewhere-39382059 The idea being, apparently, ‘to encourage spouses to spend time together and work on their relationship’. And so, ‘It’s offering a “relationship guarantee” on mini-breaks at its hotels, so if things subsequently don’t work out and the marriage ends within a year, then the chain says it will reimburse the cost of a two-night stay’.

Of course, they’re not fools; nobody wants to be taken to the cleaners -they’re out to make a profit and, perhaps naively, figure that those who decide to vacation together for a while might not be that close to the brink. And, naturally, ‘There is some fine print: couples must be already married, stay in the same room and reference the relationship guarantee when booking. If they subsequently divorce and want to claim a refund, they have to submit court documents as evidence’.

I don’t know… At first glance, it might seem that they’re either very naïve, or really convinced they have an effective therapy -I mean, the divorce to marriage ratio in Sweden (2010, at least) was 47%. On second glance, however, the marriage rate in Sweden according to Eurostat Demographic Statistics –OECD Family Database (2014)- was only around 6 per 1000. So who, exactly, is sufficiently wide-eyed not to notice they may be on to something? I’m reminded of most private insurance agencies who offer great deals as long as you are low risk and have no major ongoing disabilities.

But it speaks to something larger, I think: the institute of marriage itself. Marriage is something which is incredibly difficult to define. In its simplest form, it is an officially sanctioned union between two people that affords legitimacy to any offspring and entails certain rights and responsibilities -and these vary from one society to another. In Western cultures it has been the religious –or secular (usually governmental)- authorities that are required to sanction and guarantee those issues. But in other societies, families, traditions, and deeply held beliefs often prescribe the boundaries, duties, and also the rights of each person in the relationship. Hence the cross-cultural misunderstandings and misgivings. We tend to ascribe the most legitimacy to that of the society in which we were raised.

Guilt, is not imposed, by and large, it is acquired -usually at a very early age- by deviating from the expectations of those we love and trust: our family, and immediate friends, bonds that link intimately with cultural and, often, religious beliefs. Sexual mores and intimacy are no exception -in fact, they are often the incentives offered by matrimony.

But marriage is becoming more popular recently, even in Sweden, with the ongoing influx of migrants from other cultures who were raised with different familial and religious obligations to which they feel they must adhere -obligations which may not be as easily dissolved, or as readily ignored as in the host country. After all, ‘Marriage is a matter of more worth than to be dealt in by attorneyship’ according to Shakespeare.

So is the hotel chain actually reading those trends, too? And are there other conditions –loopholes- that are not immediately apparent in their advertisements? Fine print? Exceptions? I don’t know, but I certainly wish them well. It’s a gamble on their part, to be sure… But I think I’d put my money in real estate, frankly.

Perhaps I’m just being far too cynical, though. Far too… divorced –there, I said it- but I’m willing to bet that they haven’t read the famous definition of how realistic are the expectations of marriage by none other than George Bernard Shaw in his preface to ‘Getting Married,’ 1908: ‘[W]hen two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition until death do them part’.

Pick your side on divorce and marriage, but they do seem to follow each other around and around like a tail the dog. I have to say, part of me is tempted to quote Samuel Johnston’s sarcasm (out of context) on the hotel chain’s promise -that it’s ‘The triumph of hope over experience’. And yet, when I stop to think of it, why not credit them with the courage of their conviction? Why not Alexander Pope’s ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast’…?  After all, that’s what they’re trying to accomplish in those couples who stay with them… And that’s what we all hope for, isn’t it?

 

 

Staying in Touch

In the endless dark of night, belief that there will be a morning is sometimes all that sustains us. Hope springs eternal in the human breast, as Alexander Pope declared in one of his essays -and that is occasionally all there is. When Medicine fails, the understandable temptation is to turn to alternatives; when inductive reasoning seems insufficient (compilation and collation of observations to arrive at a tentative conclusion) then perhaps the converse might be helpful: deductive reasoning (start with a conclusion and then look around for supporting evidence). The Scientific Method tends to use more of the former than the latter to test hypotheses, although to be honest, it is often a melange. But to start with a conclusion and then to attempt to prove it can be a recipe for failure –or worse, deceit.

Alternative Medicine appears to be guilty of the latter -although whether by intent or naivete can be argued, I suppose- but it does seem to attract a certain edge of the population. I, for one, am not a believer, but to set the stage, perhaps a definition of alternative medicine would be helpful. The description in Wikepedia (sorry!) is as good as any I’ve seen: ‘Alternative medicine is any practice that is perceived by its users to have the healing effects of medicine, but does not originate from evidence gathered using the scientific method, is not part of biomedicine, or is contradicted by scientific evidence or established science. It consists of a wide range of healthcare practices, products and therapies, ranging from being biologically plausible but not well tested, to being directly contradicted by evidence and science, or even harmful or toxic.’

In this essay, I don’t intend to debate the merits or harms of alternative strategies for health, but merely to illustrate the pitfalls that can result when they are espoused too vigorously -when hope triumphs over experience. When, to paraphrase Macbeth, Physic is thrown to the dogs.

*

I really liked Loretta; I could tell that as soon as I saw her in the waiting room chatting to her neighbours. A slender young woman barely grazing her twenties, she had short brown hair and was dressed in jeans and a yellow tank-top. Her face was all smile –or, rather, all teeth and tongue, with large, brown eyes occasionally mobilized to emphasize some point or other. The whole room seemed alive with laughter and focussed on her every word, her every gesture –and there were a lot of those. Her body was in constant motion, sometimes pointing with a ring-laden hand, then gesticulating with her arms as her bracelets clinked and ran up and down her forearms like beads on an abacus; even her legs were integral as she swung them back and forth to illustrate a point with her dainty sandal-clad feet – an actress playing to an adoring audience. I almost felt embarrassed as I crossed the room to lead her offstage. She actually waved to them as she left; I half expected her to blow kisses.

She sat on the edge of her chair in my office clutching a backpack in one hand and a phone in the other as if to relax was anathema to her. “You seemed quite popular out there,” I said, nodding towards the corridor that led to the waiting room.

Her smile broadened at the compliment. “I like to stay in touch with everybody… and everything,” she added, as if it were a necessary addendum, then filled the time between our words with safaris into the uncharted depths of her pack. “I’ve come here for a pap smear,” she said as she saw me scrolling on the computer. “That’s what my GP says, but it’s really because he doesn’t know what to do with me…” She let the sentence dribble to a close without a firm indication she was finished with it. Like it was still a work in progress. So I waited. A text arrived on her phone and she blinked at me and proceeded to thumb a rapid, practiced reply almost as if she was scratching her leg without thinking about it.

Still she said nothing, but instead inspected the room, starting with the pictures on the wall and then progressing to the the plants on my desk, inspecting them one by one, perhaps thinking I was going to quiz her about the office. “What is it that concerns your GP, Loretta?” I felt I had to say something.

She shrugged goodnaturedly and her eyes migrated to my face. “I suspect she thinks I’m too self aware…” She giggled at the thought, then noticed the puzzled expression that I had tried to disguise. “I like to be on top of things…” She immediately blushed and corrected herself. “You know, like my health and stuff.”

I smiled to encourage her to explain.

“Like, you have to be careful about what you put in your body. I mean they’re putting additives in everything. Bodies need help getting rid of all the toxins that build up: detox regimes.” I grimaced inwardly, but maybe she saw the shadows. “My GP said that was nonsense, too, but I know I feel better after a cleanse,” she said, momentarily dropping the smile and folding her arms across her chest with the bracelets following close behind for emphasis.

I tried to disguise a deep breath. “I see…” –but actually I didn’t– “Is there any reason he felt that a gynaecologist could be of some help?”

“Help?” she said with a sharp intake of breath, as if I had really not understood a word of what she’d been telling me.

“You know,” I quickly added, “Help with something that you’ve been unable to deal with using your…” I hurriedly rummaged around in my head for an appropriate word –one that wouldn’t seem to insult her, yet wouldn’t suggest acquiescence either. “…Your strategies.” I thought that sounded neutral and not overly critical. I wanted to keep her on my side to see if there really was anything I could do to help. She could sort out the knowledge base for herself later.

Before she could respond, another text arrived, prompting yet another seemingly mindless flurry of thumbs to resolve the issue. She didn’t apologize and I realized that this was just part of the background in her life -like traffic noise, or maybe someone bumping into her in a crowd. She found time to shrug at me again, but whether to acknowledge the text she had just answered or as a way of answering my question was hard to tell. “I’ve been getting a lot of yeast infections lately, so I tried another cleanse.”

Her eyes jumped onto mine to see if I needed any clarification, and rested there when my face didn’t light up sufficiently with comprehension. We live in different worlds they said.

Toxins,” she added, like she was talking about the elephant in the room. “The bowel walls get encrusted with stuff and overgrowth of candida is one of the crusts.” She smiled innocently, almost as if she was going to admit to sneaking a cookie between meals. “I tried dietary modifications for months: fruit fasts, fiber-only diets… but no matter, I still got itching down there. So I tried a coffee enema once a week for a month. Then a probiotic one for almost three months.” She jangled her bracelets again as she thrust her arms upwards to suggest what else could she do. “Nothing worked, so finally I tried an enema using an antifungal solution that my girlfriend told me about. Jeez, try to keep one of those puppies inside for 15 minutes! I only managed 8…” She noticed the horrified expression that I’d tried desperately, but unsuccessfully to camouflage. “Eight minutes, doctor –not eight enemas!” She shrugged again –it was another form of speech for her, evidently. A sort of body text, I suppose. “But when I told my GP about it, he got really mad. “Of course there’s yeast in the bowel; we all have yeast in our bowels, he said… No he yelled that at me,” she added after thinking about it for a second.

“So I told him about the enemas they’re using nowadays for –I forget the infection…”

Clostridium difficile,” I added helpfully, and also to show that I was still listening.

“Those are special fecal enemas, he yelled back at me, and only for a special problem!  Anyway, you can’t get rid of vaginal yeast with those silly health-product enemas, he added. Not even the probiotic ones. He said ‘probiotic’ more softly, though, as if maybe he wasn’t so sure about that one.” Her face perked up again as the indignation faded and the verbal catharsis revived her spirits. “The yeast down below isn’t so bad right now –it seems to come and go. But no thanks to him -none of his prescriptions helped…” She shrugged a text at me. “That’s why I tried colonics dead last. I mean I believe in probiotics, and I hate enemas.” She studied my face for a moment. “Hey, I was desperate.” Another jingle from her arms. “There’s gotta be another way to go. Despite what all my friends say, I still think enemas are unnatural, don’t you?”|

I have to say it was hard not to roll my eyes. I realized I had a chance to convert her to our side of the fence if I was careful. And tactful. “I agree with you about probiotics, Loretta.” She smiled and nodded her head at my unexpected response. “The idea, of course, is to adjust the biota –the bacterial flora of whatever organ- to be able to suppress other unwanted organisms. But you can’t just use off-the-health-food-shelf probiotics –one type doesn’t do all jobs, just like one antibiotic doesn’t fit every occasion.” I glanced at her face to see if she was listening or playing with her phone again. She was listening. Staring at me in disbelief, actually. But in this Google age, I knew I had to be careful -I could only remember one article I’d read and that might already be outdated. For that matter, I couldn’t even recall where or when I’d seen it –the Canadian Medical Association Journal, maybe. But then again, she probably didn’t really have a yeast infection anyway…

“And the other thing is that good studies in this field are hard to find.” I hesitated a moment for effect -timing is everything. “I seem to remember there are a couple of probiotic regimes that have undergone scientific investigations. They were published a few years ago in…Ahh, the Canadian Medical Association Journal. You can look it up, I imagine.” The long-winded, but welcome news had forced her back into the chair, her phone into her pack, and the pack onto the floor. Then a look of concern replaced the incredulous rictus. “But how are the new bacteria going to be able to compete with all that toxic stuff in the area now? It might poison them, or overwhelm them before they even get a chance to set up a new colony.”

It was my turn to look concerned –well, at least curious. I’ve never understood the toxin theory promulgated by many of the alternative medicine practitioners. “How do you know there are toxins, or whatever, in the area, Loretta?” I sat back in my chair, convincing myself I had her.

Her eyes rolled as her hands reached into the pack at her feet in response to a muffled text. I assumed she was reacting to the disturbance, but suddenly realized it was me they couldn’t believe. She closed them slowly, patiently, in a slow motion blink and then opened them again, this time filled with all the sure and certain knowledge of youth. Her body texted me before any words left her mouth. “How do I know there’s still stuff living there now after months of using my colonic ‘strategies’ as you put it? Ever had a retention enema, doctor?”