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THE HIPPOCRITIC OATH
Graham Bishop

Half a century ago I was periodically admonished for swearing, generally by
my grandmother, whenever I was imprudent enough to do so within earshot.
I had yet to learn that talking rough was not synonymous with being tough.

A decade or so later, when my admiration for the subtleties of the English
language had begun to mature, along with my sense of humour, I found a
certain sardonic amusement in the shop front signs along the main street
proclaiming `MEN SWEAR’, ‘WOMEN SWEAR’, and even ‘CHILDREN SWEAR’.
Clearly the community was then unaware that swearing was intimidatory,
threatening, and a symptom of “poor impulse control”.

With the passage of more time and an increasing acquaintance with the
complexities of life, I discovered there were to be occasions on which I
was actually required to swear, (although not with four letter words), in
order to validate statements such as affidavits. Swearing is also a common
form of acceptance of oaths and pledges. One of the most famous is the
Hippocratic Oath, sworn by doctors at the start of their career.
Paradoxically few of them are able to recall it later with any degree of
accuracy. ” I swear….. I will…….. abstain from whatever is
deleterious or mischievous. I will administer no deadly
medicines……….

Following a stroke a few years ago I agreed to admit myself to hospital as
a voluntary patient under the Mental Health Act. I was well aware of the
old soldiers’ caution – never volunteer for anything; advice which was to
prove entirely appropriate. Somehow, but by whom, and for no reason that
I have ever been able to determine or discover, the witch doctors soon had
me converted to a compulsory resident.

Then followed eleven nightmarish months of detention in a ‘Place of Safety’
where I was physically and verbally assaulted by both staff and patients.
Even more scary was being administered various potent medicines, either
unidentified or deliberately misidentified, with little or no clinical
justification. Punitive Psychiatry we called it. It’s not new, and it’s
well known that it occurs, but that doesn’t make it any more acceptable to
be on the receiving end, especially late at night when all of the other
staff seem to have evaporated or gone to sleep and there are two big bully
boys crowding you from either side.

I grew increasingly anxious about if or when I was ever to be discharged
from this unhelpful environment, especially when an advocate asked my
psychiatrist, “Why was I in hospital”? The answer was a pregnant silence.
She was the fourth psychiatrist I had had in about eight months, so
perhaps she hadn’t been told. But neither had the next one. He had to ask
me! I began to worry that if they didn’t know the reason why I was there,
how would they know when I was cured? An amazing report that some some
psychiatrists right here in New Zealand not only couldn’t recognise that a
colleague was bogus, but also couldn’t tell if he or she were male or
female, hardly inspired confidence!

I digress. Eventually I was discharged, but I was dismayed and also
mystified to discover that the hospital intended to apply for an ongoing
treatment order. Such an order would have allowed the psychiatric
services to retain a draconian control over every aspect of my life,
including where I lived, and allow them to recall me to hospital for any
(or no) reason, without any right of appeal or review. Fortunately the
application must be made before a judge, and be accompanied by a sworn
affidavit from both sides.

The hospital affidavit duly arrived and my lawyer rang me in some concern.
“Graham, It’s just awful” she said. It was too, unbelievably awful. I
could not believe that a doctor concerned for the health, particularly the
mental health, of a patient could produce such an appallingly negative and
emotionally destructive document. There was not a single positive statement
or glimmer of encouragement. It was a document that left me feeling there
was absolutely no hope, no future, and that I was a significant and
on-going menace to society. It left me, if the application was
successful, with a cliff top and a one-way trip as as the only option. To
be pushed that far is an unlovely experience.

The affidavit didn’t even have my name right. Like most people I have two
Christian names, but unlike some, I am called by the second one. People
who are entitled to call me Graham, do; those that aren’t, like Telecom,
Healthcare, and insurance salesmen, call me David. It irritates the hell
out of me, besides causing a lot of confusion. After a year I would have
thought the hospital would have worked out who I was.

But that was trivial compared with the rest of the affidavit. The most
distressing claim of all, was one so awful that I cannot bring myself to
repeat it even now. It was sworn as true one day, but withdrawn as an
‘error’ on the next! I am not sure of the legal niceties of unswearing an
‘error’, but anything seems possible under the Mental Health Act, as long
as it’s not in favour of the patient. The powers of the psychiatric
profession, despite their well-earned reputation for getting it wrong, are
awesome and frightening.

I was sure we wouldn’t have a chance at the hearing.

My abject fears went unrealised. In a matter of minutes the judge had
thrown the hospital application out of court and once again I had the same
rights as anyone else. I could live where I chose, including in my own
house, I could eat what I chose, I could un-revoke my driving license, or
raise a mortgage, or go to the pictures, have a shave, get married, travel
overseas or go for a walk, all without asking. I could even swear without
the threat of a night in seclusion. These fundamental freedoms had been
returned so quickly and easily. Dazed and disbelieving, I emerged into
the watery sun of a winter afternoon in Dunedin, and was hard pressed not
to cry.

But it took two years to recover from being cured, and some memories, like
the affidavit, and being injected or forced to swallow medication I had
declined because of it’s side effects, are scorched indelibly on my soul.

To put their wrongness in perspective, I have since lived thirteen,
unsupervised, unregulated, perfectly normal years, in the house they so
nearly forced me to sell. I am not an alcoholic, I am not impotent,
incapable, incompetent or insolvent, and I am not insane. I look good, I
feel good, I am good, and I am still alive. But the credit is mine, not
theirs.

Months later I asked the psychiatrist the reason for the extreme overkill
in his statement. According to him it was because of the adversarial
system. Truth or patient welfare were not part of the equation. I raised
the issue of the Hippocratic Oath. He smiled weakly, “Oh yes, the H oath I I don’t remember it exactly, but sometimes the rules don’t fit the situation” At least I think that is what he said. He doesspeak quietly. And weakly.

The moral would seem to be:- don’t swear what isn’t true.

(1200)

Dr Graham Bishop
22 Erin St
Roslyn
Dunedin
New Zealand