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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

PSYCHIATRISTS
Graham Bishop

I was talking to my doctor the other day. We tend to have wide-ranging conversations, often triggered by events in the local news.

In a few days earlier a disgraced psychiatrist we both knew had been forced to resign his position as Medical Director of a local hospital.
“There is something strange about psychiatrists,” I said, “They are always getting into trouble. “

“Yes,” she replied, “It’s funny. I went to a class reunion the other night. All the bright ones were there; they were all brain surgeons or cardiologists, or something distinguished. Then there were the ordinary ones like me, mostly family doctors or administrators and then there were the peculiar ones .They were all psychiatrists. It wasn’t immediately obvious, as they were all urbane and polished, but once it started to register, the correspondence became quite think uncanny… now what’s your problem?” I had a feeling she felt she may have said enough, or even too much. We moved on to my problem, but she had set me thinking, and when I got home I started doing a bit of research.

It soon became apparent that psychiatrists are much more likely to be arrested than librarians or geologists, or any other sort of professional. Their ethical standards are distinctly questionable. Where I live there are probably about 100 psychiatrists. One of them abandoned his patients, and his job as medical director of a local hospital, without notice. He simply gathered up some papers and walked out. Another, the Head of the University Department of Psychological Medicine, is currently serving a life sentence for the murder of his wife. He was having an affair with his senior lecturer and at least one other woman at the time.

One of the most remarkable cases in New Zealand was the Linda Aster affair. This bogus Polish psychiatrist was appointed to Nelson Hospital on the strength of recommendations from several other psychiatrists. During her tenure (its not absolutely clear what sex she was) she prescribed electro-convulsive therapy for some of her patients. After attending a medical conference in Nice, France on paid leave she disappeared. She never returned to New Zealand.
(363)
Dr Graham Bishop
22 Erin St
Roslyn
Dunedin 9010
New Zealand

TORTURE
Graham Bishop

Torture? (√)
In New Zealand? (√)
Really? (√)
In the health system? (√)
You’re joking (x)

The ‘infliction of severe bodily pain e.g. as punishment or means of persuasion’ spells TORTURE. I had never been tortured before, and here it was happening to me, right here in the quiet university town of Dunedin, New Zealand. My fingers were being bent backwards over my wrist as my other arm was being twisted up behind my back. The pain was extreme, but the anticipation of waiting for my fingers to snap was worse. I have a high pain tolerance, but I couldn’t believe anything could hurt so much. It’s hard to plead for mercy when you have a scream stuck in your throat, but fortunately my body made the decision, and I passed out.

What made the incident even more remarkable was the perpetrators were two healthcare nurses, one male, one female.

The situation came about after I was admitted to hospital in the mistaken belief that I was experiencing a bipolar episode. In fact I was recovering from a stroke which I had suffered a few months before. Nine psychiatrists out of ten got it wrong. Number three got it right, but none of those who came later bothered to check his diagnosis. Once you have a psychiatric label it’s hard to shake, but that’s another story.

I had been a naughty boy (although I was going on 60), and gone AWOL. I had booked into a motel and ate some decent food and drank decent plonk, for the first time in six months. When I was discovered and returned to Wakari I was pleasantly tight, and thought the whole incident was rather funny. In psychobabble, however, I was ‘grossly intoxicated, and a danger to myself and others.’ So I was being transferred from one ward to a more secure part of the system, in case I embarrassed them again.

I was quite cheerful about this move. There was a distinct lack of privacy in the less secure ward from which I had departed. My possessions frequently went missing. Some turned up being worn by other patients. In Ward 9B patients (clients) were much more respectful of the possessions of other ‘clients’, although the same could not be said for the staff. However I would have a room to myself again and I could put up with having my computer being examined regularly in my absence, and my other property being rummaged from time to time.

I lit a cigarette as we emerged from the lift in the basement below Ward 10 at the start of this transfer, and we set out on the short walk in the open air down to Ward 9B. On one side of the walkway was a rocky bank quite impossible for me to scale, and on the other side was a waist-high netting fence which was equally impregnable. Escape was impossible especially as I had a pronounced limp and couldn’t run. Escape however, was the last thing on my mind. Nevertheless one of the several nurses present, a burly female called Jo-Anne (her real name); decided she would take my crippled arm. She had known me for six months and knew my left arm and left leg were part paralysed, and I couldn’t use my left hand for anything. Having my arm seized both annoyed and hurt me, so I tried to pull away. I almost certainly reminded her in blunt language that she was not very intelligent and I would prefer it if she let go. As I tried to pull away however she retaliated by twisting my arm up behind my back. ‘Partial restraint’ is the euphemism for the situation I now in. I protested loudly and redoubled my efforts to break free.

My struggling and verbal complaints attracted the attention of Peter B. He arrived at such speed I threw up my right hand to protect myself, in the process dropping my cigarette. It was subsequently claimed I threw it at him; which was nonsense designed to show me in the worst possible light. Peter was an athletic young man in his early 20s who showed distinct signs of manic behaviour. He is rather more portly now. He grabbed my right wrist with his left hand, and with his right hand proceeded to bend my fingers backwards as described above. I was now in a position of ‘full restraint’. I couldn’t take much more, but there was no way I could stop him. My fingers were going to snap or dislocate. Time stood still, as I waited for the inevitable crack. What did he want from me? What should I do? There was nothing I could do. In desperation I tried to stamp on his feet or rake his shins with my shoe. It is the first and only time I have ever wilfully tried to hurt anyone.

After I fainted from the pain (’sat down on my bottom’ according to my file), I was picked up bodily by the nurses, and carried into the isolation unit. There I was dumped on a bed and left. It was about 4pm. Nobody asked me how I was, or made any attempt to check if I was injured. I thought it was possible my shoulder was dislocated, and maybe at least one of my fingers also. I tried bathing them under the drinking fountain but the water was only a trickle, so I flushed the toilet a couple of times, knelt in front of it, and thrust my hand into the soothing water in the bowl. First aid in Wakari Hospital called for improvisation. It became clear I wasn’t going to be given any dinner. It may have been punishment, but I think it more likely I had simply been overlooked during the change from the afternoon to the evening shift. It had happened before. There was no way I could complain or communicate with anyone. The video monitor may have registered if I died, but I doubt it. It failed to register a lot of things, like once when a blob of soggy toilet paper covered the lens for twenty minutes. Someone will die in solitary one day, but it will be creatively explained away.

I was in a state of shock, and found it difficult to believe what had happened. I posed no physical threat. In addition to being lightly built, I was also seriously underweight, I think less than 60 kg, and totally non-violent. I was 58 years old. I was known to the staff to be normally polite, cooperative, and considerate, in addition to being badly paralysed. It is hard to imagine a less dangerous monster.

16 hours later I got some breakfast. After that Dr D. arrived. He was a sinister-looking individual, completely dressed in black (Dr Death?).

His examination, almost 20 hours after the incident, was cursory and rough. After shaking my shoulder, he assured me it wasn’t dislocated, and as I could wiggle my fingers, painfully, they were all right too. He made no comment about the swelling and bruising that was developing across the knuckles at the base of my fingers.

Eventually I was released from the isolation cell and allocated a room, life returned to normal, sort of. The extent of the bruising of my knuckles appalled one of my visitors, a registered nurse. When she mentioned it to colleagues, they warned the treatment might result in permanent injury. How right she was. Several of the staff also commented, one remarking that it was a technique that should never have been used. After protesting almost daily for six weeks I finally had my hand x-rayed, by which time both the bruising and swelling had subsided. I don’t think any record of the appearance of my hand it was ever entered on my file, but it was not unusual for incidents reflecting poorly on staff to be overlooked.

It took a judicial decision to get me out of Wakari. Although my general condition improved immediately I was allowed back into my own home, the conditions of my three damaged fingers, on my only working hand, began to deteriorate steadily. It was bad news for a writer as typing eventually became an ordeal. However there is always another way, and voice recognition software proved to the way. Now I can ‘type’ more rapidly and more accurately than ever before. But my injured fingers have became increasingly painful and arthritis has set in, although the digits that escaped the trauma (my thumb and little finger) are still in good shape.

Eventually I made a claim to the Accident Compensation Commission (ACC). It seemed a reasonable claim as the basic elements of the incident were recorded in my file.
I can just imagine their broad-bottomed discomfort. “Oh no! People don’t get tortured in New Zealand. We better get this reviewed by a psychiatrist.”

The psychiatrist was based in Auckland. She had never met me and apparently made her assessment on the basis of my file, which concluded I was suffering from a complaint I didn’t have. My psychiatric condition, however, was immaterial to the state of my fingers. Perhaps she couldn’t accept that people do get tortured in New Zealand either. So I battled on, trying to get some justice for an injury that pains me on average 10 or 12 times an hour, or nearly 2000 times a day, and greatly limits the number of things I can do, like opening tins and changing camera lens, or doing anything with a screwdriver. Using power tools as a bit of a no-no into the bargain, all because some poorly trained goon wanted to show off his sado-macho skills.

Perhaps the worst aspect is my fingers pain me at night and the pain triggers nightmares, which take me right back to the time I was staring into the savage black eyes of Peter B., and feeling the most excruciating pain I have never felt. Peter B. taught me the meaning of violence, and when I wake, in a cold sweat, I have thoughts of even more savage retaliation. The thoughts disturb me, even though I know I will never put them into practice.

That’s just one small part my of legacy from the mental health system. It was a shameful period that needlessly terminated my career, took me to the threshold of suicide, and taught me never to trust a psychiatrist again. At last count I had received six apologies, some acceptable, some not. I have never received any expression of regret, remorse, or apology, for the incident described above.
(1773)

Dr Graham Bishop
22 Erin St
Roslyn
Dunedin 9010
New Zealand

IS SEX NECESSARY?

The role of sex in making babies is well known. But there is another reason – a very important reason. It’s about hormones. Hormones affect the way we feel, our moods and passions, the way we think, our creative, mental, and sexual energy, our relationships – in short our hormonal balance affects almost every aspect of our lives.

The beauty of a full-on loving sexual relationship is that it enables both partners to draw on each other to modify and strengthen their individual hormonal balance. This can only occur when there no physical or chemical barriers to impede or complicate the two way transfer of male and female hormones. In such a relationship the partners begin to think a little like each other, they start to acquire a little of the karma of each other. They both develop an inner peace and a heightened self-esteem. They each become larger individuals than they already are. They do this because they complement each other. They don’t restrict or limit or try to modify the other’s behaviour – they come closer together because their body chemistries are interlinked – they are both fuelled by a similar
hormonal combination. This is the real importance of a sexual relationship once reproduction is no longer an issue; it is also why no meaningful relationship can develop unless the two-way exchange of hormones is unimpeded. It is a relationship, which requires trust, but also requires an understanding and interest in getting the best from your body.

The human body is an incredibly complex machine, which is amazingly efficient and nothing about it is random – there is a purpose behind everything. It has all sorts of ways of telling you what it needs and sends us frequent messages about its requirements. Most we take as a matter of course. We get hungry because we need food to convert to energy or thirsty because we need to flush the system. Some messages, however, may be quite subtle- they may be for instance call for a change of diet to sweet, sour, fiery, or fatty food. Always there will be a reason. Most of us will recall childhood admonitions; – “Don’t pick your nose,’ ‘Don’t scratch that sore,’ ‘Don’t squeeze that pimple.’ and so on. But we did, and kept on doing it because it felt good and the results seemed beneficial, and in fact they are.

One of the most frequent messages our body sends out is it wants some sex. Why? After a few kids, most couples have generally satisfied their procreational desires, but the urge for sex continues long after the desire to reproduce has passed, and indeed long after the ability to reproduce has gone. Before that happens most of us get involved with some form of contraception and go to it, without worrying too much about why, except that it feels good. BUT- the reason it feels good is not just a tax -free perk of a relationship – it feels good to ensure that we will keep doing it, for our own well-being, and the well-being of our partners, and even more so for the well-being of our relationships.

Once the individuals in a relationship start an unprotected sexual relationship they start to acquire attributes derived from each other; they literally start to think and grow together. Body fluids, (seminal fluid, sperm, vaginal fluid, and saliva) are the nutrients and bonding agents of a full relationship.

When the writer first started thinking deeply about such things, it became obvious there were a lot of questions needing answers. Some of the very best relationships are childless. That was a clue – couples not requiring contraceptive techniques had something over the rest of us. They were deriving the full benefits of the two-way transference of body fluids unmodified by chemical additives, or depleted by ligation or vasectomies. Meanwhile the rest of us, blessed with our little darlings, decided enough was enough and took the contraceptive course which seemed most suited to our need for unrestricted passion or pleasure, blissfully unaware that we were cutting off our hands to spite our face. By putting a physical or chemical barrier between male and female, we were denying our partnership the means of achieving full maturity.

Ironically, couples in a committed relationship have no need for artificial methods of contraception. Our bodies come fully equipped to allow us sex every day without fear of pregnancy. Natural methods rely on identifying the day the woman ovulates and after allowing a few days either side, there is only about a week of potentially fertile time, when an alternative method is needed.

There are numerous methods available to cope with these few days. Oral sex is widely practised by much of the community. Low lights, soft music and soixante-neuf in front of the fire can bring a sparkle to even the most mundane Saturday night (but do turn off the TV). The ancient Greeks considered the rectum was more inviting than the vagina, which was reserved for procreation. Men can learn non-ejaculatory techniques, and manual methods afford an opportunity to learn much more about your partner’s responses. Mechanical methods are not very exciting, but if you are into that scene just make sure you have some spare batteries.

Remember our bodies are not an accident – there is a grand design and reason for everything, but lots of very clever people have a habit of overlooking the obvious. In doing so they have helped restrict the ways which we can best manage ourselves.

A HEALTH AND HAPPINESS PILL

(Make your own)  

Graham Bishop

Fresh air  

Get outside and breathe some, for at least half an hour a day or preferably an hour.  Eat your lunch outside; go for a walk even if it is cold and gloomy.  Avoid busy streets with lots of vehicle fumes.  Head for the beach, the bush, a park, or the Botanic Gardens.

Sunshine 

Sunshine is pretty important as a source of vitamin D, so when its shining find a sheltered spot and spend at least 10 minutes there, concentrating on how good it feels and exposing as much skin as possible. Sunshine can be scarce in winter, so when it’s out don’t procrastinate, but put other things aside and get out and have your 10 minute soak in it. 

Water 

You can make water that tastes just as good as any bottled water by leaving it open in a wide mouthed bottle in the fridge overnight.  Pour a large glass first thing in the morning and keep drinking it throughout the day.

Exercise 

You could go to a gym, but gyms cost money and walking doesn’t cost anything at all. Nor do you have to go anywhere to start or need a lot of special gear. You just open the door and step out.  Furthermore you will also get some fresh air and maybe even some sunshine as well, two things that even the most expensive gyms don’t deliver.  You can choose a route to suit to but try to include some hills and even a few steps if there are some around. A walk each and every day is one of the best counters for depression that there is. Leave your cell phone at home, and look at the view instead.

Fruit and veg 

Aim to eat four or five pieces of fruit of day.  The cost of fruit varies enormously but you can usually get an apple, a banana and an orange, and a kiwi fruit for about the same cost as a pie or a packet of chips, and your body will love you for it.  Add to them two servings of coloured vegetables at dinner time (peas, carrots, tomatoes etc). Imagine your plate as consisting of four quarters, one quarter of for meat or the equivalent, one quarter for rice or spuds or pasta, and one half for coloured vegetables.

Preparation 

Don’t peel vegetables.  Most of the goodies are lurking just beneath the skin.  Scrub or brush them and cook them in a minimum of water, or preferably steam.

Meat 

Buy meat from a butcher if you can.  You get exactly what you want, not six or eight when you actually want seven chops.  You don’t pay for the packaging or the bits of the fat that you can’t see.  When you cook it, grill or bake it, rather than frying it.

Salt and sugar 

If you use a lot of salt and sugar, try reducing the amount by half or a third.  I did and was surprised to find the food actually tasted better.

Refined food 

Select less-refined food, wholemeal or multi-grain bread rather than white, raw sugar rather than white, and brown rice.

It is better to eat a little good food than a lot of junk. Follow the suggestions above and in a few days your digestion will improve, your skin will start to glow, and you will start feeling good. As an extra bonus, your libido will get a boost.

Health and happiness is not a pill

 Dr Graham Bishop
22 Erin St
Roslyn
Dunedin
New Zealand