TREATMENT
Probably the most important immediate assurance that can be given to those who come complaining of insomnia is that practically no one has ever [{654}] been seriously hurt by the wakefulness called insomnia. Patients suffering from brain tumors, from serious disturbance's of cerebral circulation that give objective signs, from various organic diseases, as of the heart or liver, or certain constitutional diseases, have been made worse by the wakefulness induced by their affections. In the cases where there were no definite objective signs and wakefulness was the only symptom we have no cases on record of serious injury resulting. Men have come complaining of wakefulness for days or weeks and sometimes, though it is strange to understand it, for months or even years, and yet have lived their lives without serious developments and have neither gone into insanity nor into any premature loss of vitality, much less a fatal termination. It is not subjective symptoms but objective signs that are of value for the diagnosis of the serious organic conditions. This reassurance lifts a load from patients' minds at once and does more than anything else to relieve them of the burden of solicitude which is the main factor in the continuance of their insomnia.
Suggestive Treatment.—The psychotherapy of sleep consists in changing the patient's attitude of mind toward his sleep. It is quite impossible for him to sleep normally and regularly if he worries much about it and if the afternoon and evening hours are mainly spent in wondering whether he will sleep, anxious as to when he is going to sleep like other people, marvelling how long he will last in health and sanity if his tendency to wakefulness continues. There is no factor so strong in insomnia as getting one's self on one's mind. It weighs as an intolerable burden, an incubus that is sure to keep its subject awake. Insomnia is a mental and not a physical ailment in much more than nine out of every ten cases. It is not the brain but the mind that is at fault. Patients must be made to realize that if they go quietly to bed, confident that if they do not sleep the early part of the night they will sleep later, and that in case they should lose considerable sleep, so long as they lie quietly for eight hours in bed, their physical organism is not likely to come to any serious trouble. They must be quiet, peaceful and unworried. They must not begin to toss at the first sign of not going promptly to sleep for by so doing they may put off completely the possibility of falling to sleep. Finally they must prepare for sleep by passing a quiet evening, as a rule, occupied with diversions of various kinds.
There are many factors which inhibit sleep that must be removed or at least obviated. These are very different in different individuals and the suggestion of getting them out of the way helps a great deal in making people realize that they are better prepared for sleep than before. They have been keeping themselves awake by contrary unfavorable suggestions. They must be taught to aid themselves in going to sleep by a series of favorable suggestions attached to the doing of certain things that are helpful and, above all, avoiding acts of various kinds that have an unfavorable suggestive influence. In this way an accumulation of suggestions can be secured that will prove helpful.
Drugs.—Of course, patients must be warned with regard to the taking of drugs. Certain drugs may be taken for an occasional loss of a night's sleep, where the loss of sleep is regular and frequent, however, drugs are sure to do more harm than good. Opium leads to a serious habit, chloral is dangerous because it must be increased, most of the coal-tar somnifacients produce [{655}] serious after results and their physical effect is in the end probably more deleterious than would be the loss of the sleep which they are supposed to counteract. This is true for even the vauntedly least harmful of them, and it is important to make patients understand it.
External Conditions to be Inhibited.—In the treatment of insomnia two sets of inhibitory conditions are particularly to be looked to, those external to the patient, and those internal. Unless every possible obstacle is removed there can be no assurance of the relief of sleeplessness, while very often the careful regulation of a few conditions that are disturbing the patient will bring sleep fully and promptly. It is curious what small annoyances will sometimes prove disturbing.
No Pillow.—I have found patients who had heard somewhere the idea that it was natural for man to sleep without a pillow. The pillow in this theory was supposed to be an added refinement of men in a state of luxury, but a real degeneration opposed to nature, and the many presumed benefits of sleeping on a perfectly level mattress with the head no higher than the rest of the body was emphasized. While in ordinary health these patients had found that after the preliminary discomfort of getting used to sleeping without a pillow, they were apparently the better for it. People will feel better for almost anything if they are only persuaded that they ought to. After a certain length of time, however, worry or work had a tendency to keep them more or less wakeful and then insomnia came on, that is, for several hours at the beginning of the night they did not go to sleep and became very much worried about it.
In several of these cases I have found one of the most helpful adjuncts to more direct treatment of their wakefulness was the restoration of the pillow. Just how the hygienic theory of pillowless sleep originated, or on what it is supposed to be founded, I do not know. The only theory of sleep that seems to have many adherents at present is that it is due to brain anemia. With the head a little higher than the rest of the body the force of gravity tends to help in the production of this brain anemia. The experience of mankind seems to confirm this. Certainly, from the earliest records of history men have slept with something under their head, even though they could find nothing better than a log or a stone. To sleep without a pillow is, owing to the conformation of the head and neck and shoulders, almost inevitably to sleep mainly on the back. From the anatomical relations of the internal organs it is easy to understand that sleeping on the side is more comfortable and healthy than sleeping on the back and hence most people naturally take this position. Relaxation is much more complete and comfort is greater. What the majority of men do is almost surely dictated by instinct, and instinct is the most precious guide we have in the natural functions of life. We are not so differently formed from the animals that the analogy from their habits should not have some weight for us. Patients should then be advised always to sleep with a reasonably firm pillow, not too low, so that the head is a little higher than the body and the lateral position perfectly comfortable.
Too high Pillow.—There is an abuse in the other direction of too high a pillow that deserves to be noted. Occasionally the physician hears complaints of waking up with tired feelings in the large muscles of the back of the neck near their insertion into the occiput. This is sometimes complained of [{656}] as an occipital headache. Not infrequently it will be found that these people are sleeping on pillows that are too large, or that they pile up several of them. Most physicians have found in their experience that having the head quite a little higher than the rest of the body materially aided sleep, especially in elderly people. This is true even when there is no distinct heart lesion, but this favorable position is best secured not by means of one or more high pillows, but by raising the head of the bed, or by the insertion of bolsters beneath the mattress, so that there is a gentle slope upward from the hips to the head. High pillows should, as a rule, be discouraged, especially in young folks where the assumption of the strained positions which they cause, may encourage various deformities in the anatomy of the head and shoulders so that stoop shoulders or a craned neck result. On the other hand, before attempting to give drugs to elderly people, the arrangement of the mattress so as to put the head a foot, or even more, higher than the body should be tried and will often be found to give relief where other things fail.
Discomfort Due to Cold.—In order to sleep well patients must be thoroughly comfortable in bed. In recent years as the very hygienic practice of having a window in the sleeping apartment open has become a rule among intelligent people, sleeping rooms have been much colder than they used to be. Care must be taken lest the active factor in causing wakefulness should be cold. Over and over again I have found that patients who complain of wakefulness, in the latter part of the night particularly, that is, in the early morning, were awakened by the increasing cold because they were insufficiently clothed. Whenever the sleeping room becomes very cold, then, the patient should not sleep between cotton or linen sheets which are likely to induce sensations of chilliness, but in a light woolen nightgown. It is curious what a difference in the patient's feelings is produced by the touch of wool to the skin in cold weather as compared with cotton. Thin, anemic patients are especially likely to suffer from chilliness. It must not be forgotten, however, that some stout people, in spite of an accumulation of fat, are really anemic. Their red blood corpuscles and hemoglobin are distinctly below normal. These constitute some of that large class of stout women in whom reduction cures fail because of the anemic tendency. They must be as carefully protected from cold as thinner persons, yet they need fresh air for their comfort and health almost as much as tuberculosis patients. The experience of sanatoria in the Adirondacks and at altitudes generally shows that for quiet, undisturbed sleep, if the room becomes distinctly cold during the night because of an open window, a hood or night-cap and gloves, as well as the wearing of woolen underclothing, even to stockings, is almost indispensable. In older times, when houses were not well heated, many persons very sensibly wore night caps. Now that a return to cold fresh air in the sleeping room has come many will have to resume the old night-cap habit in spite of cosmetic objections to it. These may seem little things, but they count very much in relieving disturbed sleep. The curious thing about them is that patients themselves seldom realize that certain common-sense regulations are more important for sleep than formal remedies. They want to be "cured" of their insomnia, not relieved by suggestion.
Cold Feet.—A large number of people have their sleep at the beginning of the night seriously disturbed by cold feet. Some cannot get to sleep for [{657}] an hour or more, because their feet are cold. If the patients become worried over this loss of sleep, a real insomnia may develop. It is for these people that the old-fashioned warming-pan was invented and it should not be forgotten that the symptom can be relieved very promptly by means of a hot-water bag or a hot brick wrapped in flannel at the foot of the bed. An excellent practice for very sensitive persons, is to have the sheets warmed thoroughly for a couple of hours before bedtime. This is especially important in damp weather.
The distinguished English surgeon. Sir Henry Thompson, who lived well beyond eighty years of age (when surely he would seem to have some right to do so), wrote a little book on how to be well and grow old and describes a habit which he had acquired and that I have often recommended to patients and friends as well as used myself with advantage when there is a tendency to cold feet, either habitually or occasionally. It is, moreover, useful whenever there is a tendency to insomnia because some exciting occupation has preceded going to bed. Before retiring Sir Henry used to sit beside his bath tub and let the hot water flow into it over his feet, gradually becoming warmer and warmer, until he could no longer stand the heat. A temperature well above 120 degrees may be borne with comfort after a while, though at the beginning it would seem entirely too hot. The feet are kept in the hot water at least five minutes. When taken out they should be thoroughly red and show evidence of a good deal of blood having been attracted to them. If they are now carefully wiped and rubbed vigorously there will usually be no further tendency to cold feet that night and sleep will come naturally. Sir Henry said that when he had been out at meetings where he had to make an address or had to take part in business of any kind that inclined to make him wakeful, he found this an excellent method of preparing himself for immediate sleep.
It must not be forgotten that the worst forms of cold feet are found among those suffering from flatfoot. The dropping of the arch interferes with the return circulation and also with lymphatic circulation. These individuals feel very tired because of their foot condition, yet their cold feet often disturbs their sleep at the beginning of the night. The only effective relief for this is afforded by proper treatment of the feet. (See the chapter on [Foot Troubles3].)
Lack of Air.—On the other hand, occasionally it happens in spite of all that has been said in recent years about fresh air in sleeping rooms, windows are hermetically sealed and even then people cover themselves with many thicknesses of bed clothing and are too warm. I have found over and over again that where people could not be persuaded to leave a window open all night (and when they are old and deeply prejudiced in the matter I do not insist, for the suggestion of possibly catching cold would almost surely keep them awake), the thorough airing of rooms before retiring made a great difference in the sleep of elderly people. When patients are young, I simply insist on the window being wide open for some time before they go to bed and slightly during the night, except in extreme cold weather. Many a patient who complains of waking several times during the night and being awake for some time on each occasion will begin to have longer periods of sleep without a break if such a change in the ventilation of the room is effected. [{658}] Anyone who has seen fever patients who had been restless, disturbed and wakeful, sink into a quiet slumber after the room has been thoroughly aired and the temperature of it reduced ten or fifteen degrees, will realize how helpful this same method of treatment will be in nervous, wakeful irritability.
How important air is for the obtaining of the power to sleep for many hours every day can be best understood and appreciated from the habits insisted on for patients in tuberculosis sanatoria as a result of experience. When there is any tendency to a rise in temperature in these patients they are kept absolutely without exercise. They are either in bed or on a lounging chair all day, but they are out in the air or at least close to an open window. As a rule, they sleep some in the morning and then they sleep again in the afternoon. This would ordinarily be fatal to sleep at night in even healthy people taking considerable exercise and therefore presumably tired and more likely to sleep than these patients who had made no exertion during the twenty-four hours; but it is not often, after patients have been for ten days or two weeks at the sanatorium, that there is any complaint of lack of sleep at night. This is true in spite of the fact that patients are often wakened by coughing during the night, yet after a comparatively short interval they go to sleep again and sleep until morning. This is not true when patients do not pass most of their time in the open air and when their rooms are not well aired.
Sleep at Sea.—I know nothing that is more effective in doing away with insomnia than a sea voyage. The passengers sit on their lounging chairs all the morning in the open air, usually sleeping for some time, often for several hours. During the afternoon this is repeated. In spite of this extra sleep they turn in, not long after ten, and sleep well until morning. There is practically no exercise and the air usually excites such an appetite that five and even six meals a day are consumed. There is no disturbance of digestion unless some special excess is indulged in, and, above all, sleep is rather favored than impaired by the large amount of food taken. This experience which is so common, is very valuable as indicating just what is the best pre-requisite for sleep. It is not exercise and tiredness to such a degree that one fairly drops from fatigue, but such an oxidation of all tissues by the breathing of pure air that there are no toxic waste products left in the system to act as excitants for disturbance of sleep.
Cold Water.—In summer, when wakefulness is due to heat, a cool bath, or at least a rub down with cold water and going to bed without drying is an excellent method of inviting sleep. Under these circumstances the sheet acts as a soothing cool pack and people who have been wakeful for hours before, or at least have found considerable difficulty in getting to sleep, sleep promptly. The mechanism of sleep-production is easy to understand. There is less blood to go to the brain when the little capillaries at the surface are pretty well extended and after the application of cool water the reaction which follows the closing of the capillaries in response to cold leaves them of sufficient size to accommodate a large amount of the blood of the body. Of course, in both cases there is the suggestive value of a proceeding of this kind so well calculated to predispose the patient's mind to go to sleep without solicitude.
Diet.—As has already been outlined in the hints that precede, the first thing in the treatment of insomnia is to remove any causes that may be at work in producing wakefulness. Among the most common of these in our modern life is the taking of coffee or tea, important in the order mentioned. Every physician has frequent experiences of people who complain of insomnia, yet who take a cup of coffee late at night. A large proportion of humanity cannot do this with impunity and expect to go to sleep promptly. Occasionally one finds that patients complaining of sleeplessness are taking three to five cups of coffee a day. This must be stopped. A physician may be told by such patients that they cannot get along without their coffee. I have only one answer for this and it is meant to show patients that if they want to sleep they must take the means to secure it and, above all, must remove all disturbing factors. I tell them that if they cannot do without coffee they may continue to do without sleep. If they want to sleep they must give up coffee or at least must limit the amount. I have found it comparatively easy to get people to limit coffee-taking by the suggestion that there should be one tablespoonful of strong coffee taken to a cup of hot milk. This gives the taste, or rather the aroma of coffee, for coffee has properly no taste to speak of, and while, at first, patients crave the stimulation they have been accustomed to, it takes but a few days to overcome this craving entirely.
Usually it is easy to get people to confess that they are taking too much coffee. For some reason not easy to understand it is harder to get them to acknowledge that they are taking too much tea. Coffee is taken with a certain amount of deliberation. Tea may be and often is taken at odd intervals for friendliness' sake and sometimes patients do not know how much they are taking. Six or seven cups a day may be their usual quota, yet they do not realize it and at first are inclined to answer that they take it only two or three times a day, forgetting the little potations between meals. Tea is not so prone to cause wakefulness as coffee, yet the toxic irritant principle in both is the same and when the amount of tea and its strength are sufficient, the same results follow. The tea habit must always be given up if there is complaint of lack of sleep, especially early in the night.
There is a very common persuasion that the eating of food in any quantity shortly before going to bed, and especially the eating of certain materials, will keep people awake. It is well known, however, that there are a great many people who can eat anything and sleep well after it and young children sleep best when their stomachs are full. There are undoubtedly idiosyncrasies in this matter that must be respected, but many patients are deceiving themselves. They are eating too little and their wakefulness is more due to the mental state than to anything else. As this contradicts a very prevalent impression, I may say that it is said deliberately and only after much experience with people inclined to be over-solicitous about their diet and their health generally and who were actually producing wakefulness or at least very light dreamful sleep, by their elimination from their diet, and especially from their evening meal, of many nutritious substances. I make it a rule to insist with patients that if it is more than five hours since their last meal they must take a glass of milk and some crackers or a cup of cocoa and something to eat before going to bed. This is particularly important if they have been out in the air much between their last meal and bedtime.
The Evening Hours.—The use of the hours after the evening meal is an extremely important factor with regard to insomnia. If the patient tries to read the paper or some conventionally interesting magazine or book, thoughts of the possibility of his not sleeping will surely obtrude themselves and he will fail to get to sleep when he lies down. As a matter of fact, he will have so disturbed himself as to predispose to insomnia. Some quiet occupation, interesting yet not too interesting, that diverts the mind from the thoughts about itself and about sleep possibilities, yet does not excite it, is the best possible auxiliary and preparation for sleep. Prof. Oppenheim has, as usual, said this very well in his "Letters to Nervous Patients," to which we have turned so often:
A great deal depends upon the right use of the evening hours. On no account let yourself occupy them with anxious forebodings about the night. But, on the other hand. It is not at present wise to take up your mind with too exciting thoughts, as the strong after-impression of feeling and fancy may counteract the tendency to sleep. You must find out for yourself whether a quiet game (cards, halma, chess, or patience), the reading of a serious or an amusing book, the perusal of an illustrated paper, or a chat with a friend will be most certain to give you that tranquillity of mind through the vestibule of which you will pass into the temple of sleep.
Direct Sleep Suggestions.—Many plans are suggested by which people are supposed to be able to get to sleep. A favorite and very old suggestion is that of counting sheep go over a fence or something of that kind that is merely mechanical, yet takes the mind from other thoughts. As a rule, any plan involving mental occupation that is meant to produce sleep is likely to react and do harm rather than good. Sleep must not be wooed deliberately but must be allowed to come of its own sweet will. It is extremely important that exciting thoughts and bothering interests be put aside, not at the moment when we want to go to sleep, but some considerable time before. This is not always an easy matter and often requires careful planning. It is worth while doing it, however, in order to secure sleep promptly and not allow a prolonged period to pass while one is lying awake, for if nervous irritability ensues wakefulness is still further prolonged and the patient may begin to toss and so disarrange the bedclothing and disturb himself as to prepare for several hours of sleeplessness which would not have occurred if there had been an appropriate interval given to preparing the mind for sleep.
Diminishing Solicitude.—Patients must not be too anxious for sleep. If they worry themselves over the possibility of not sleeping then they will almost surely disturb their sleep, or at least delay its coming. The ideal state of mind is not to bother one's head about it, to lie down habitually at a given hour, compose one's self to sleep with assurance and then wait its coming without solicitude. Many people will say this is not easy to do, but habit makes it easy. Most of our animal life is lived by habit. We are hungry at certain times by habit. Our bowels move at a particular time by habit. We can sleep by habit. If we try to use our intellect solicitously with regard to any of these habitual functions we do much more harm than good. The more anxiety there is about sleep the more likely it is to be disturbed. When the habit of sleep at a particular hour has been broken the best way to regain it is to lie down at that particular hour and then wait patiently for [{661}] the advent of sleep. If impatience gets the better of us sleep is kept off and will not come for hours. If the patient can lie down feeling "Well, if I do not sleep now I will to-morrow morning" then there is usually little difficulty about sleep.
Dread of Consequences.—Many people who suffer from insomnia fear that their loss of sleep will injure their intellectual capacity or make them prematurely aged, or drain their vitality so that they will not have health and strength of mind and body when they grow old. This adds to their solicitude about themselves and inveterates their condition. There is only one answer to this dread, which has no foundation in what we know of actualities, and that is, to tell them the experience of certain persons which absolutely contradicts such a notion. One distinguished physician who, at the age of seventy-five, is writing books that are attracting widespread attention and is doing an amount of work that many a younger man might envy, has told me of all that he suffered from insomnia between the ages of thirty and fifty-five. His mental productivity was much hampered at that time by his wakefulness and anxiety with regard to it. He feared the worst as regards advancing years, yet he is in the full possession of mental and bodily strength well beyond the Psalmist's limit. His is not an exceptional case, for there are many others in my own personal knowledge. Virchow once told me of years when he suffered from insomnia, yet he lived to be well past eighty and then died, not from natural causes, but from an injury. A man who accomplished an immense amount of work in his day in the organization of a great university suffered from insomnia in his younger years to such a degree that his friends and even he himself feared for his mental stability, eventually overcame this symptom completely and went on to years of great active work, dying in the end, not from his head, but his heart. We have records of a number of such cases. Few of the hard students of the world went through life without having some bother from insomnia. It is well-known, however, that many of the great thinkers, investigators and discoverers in philosophy and in science have lived long lives well beyond the age of the generality of mankind.
Mental Diversion.—The main thing is to banish the thoughts of one's ordinary occupation as far as that can be accomplished without laboring so intently at this as to give the mind another bothersome occupation. Many people find that a game of cards just before going to bed takes their thoughts off business and worry almost better than anything else. Something like this is needed in many people. Most people must not write for some time before retiring, because writing proves so absorbing an occupation, as a rule, that the mind becomes thoroughly awake and then remains so for some time afterwards. Reading is better, but the reading must be chosen with proper care. An exciting story, for instance, may serve to keep one awake for hours, as everyone knows who has tried and found himself still reading at three in the morning after having begun an interesting book. The reading of works of general information, of travels, of description of places, where it is comparatively easy to stop at any place, of short stories which do not hold the interest beyond a brief period, is much better. Osler's recommendation to have a classic author beside one's bed to be read for a few minutes every night after retiring as a preparation for sleep is an excellent remedy for the milder forms of insomnia, as well as a stepping-stone to scholarship.
William Black in one of his books has a description of an old man who had suffered from insomnia very severely until he discovered a plan of his own to enable him to get to sleep. This consisted in reading the Encyclopedia Britannica. He began at the beginning and read straight ahead, article after article, and volume after volume. He never even by any chance departed from this routine either to look up cross references, or read anything further about men who were mentioned in the article he was going through at the moment and whose names occurred in another volume. He read straight on until his eyes got heavy and then he went to sleep. At the time he was introduced into the story he had already read the whole work through twice and was, I think, at "D" on the third reading. He had had considerable bother about getting to sleep before he adopted this plan, but it proved an always efficient somnifacients. There is a story about an old American farmer who said that he read the dictionary over and over again for the same purpose. The stories were short and disconnected, but they never bothered his sleep, while his wife and daughters were sometimes kept up more than he thought was good for them by their interest in the story paper.
Treatment of Early Morning Wakefulness.—With regard to the disturbance of sleep in the early morning hours there are certain instructions to patients that have always seemed to me extremely important. Most of the patients who complain of wakefulness in the early morning hours are really suffering from hunger at that time. This is especially true with regard to those who stay up rather late at night. They have their last regular meal about seven or a little earlier, they get to bed at eleven or even later, and some of them, following the old maxim that eating before sleep is likely to disturb it, go to bed on an empty stomach. Whenever more than four hours have passed since the last meal the stomach is quite empty, and after the preliminary fatigue has worn off and the sleep has become lighter and the lack of nourishment more pronounced a vague sense of discomfort in the abdominal region wakes them, though most of them do not realize that they are disturbed by a craving for food. In a large number of these cases I have found that the recommendation of a glass of milk and some crackers, or some simple cake, just before retiring does more than anything else to lengthen sleep and prevent what has been learnedly called matutinal vigilance.
After emptiness of the digestive tract, the most prominent cause of wakefulness in the early morning is anxiety about the hour of rising or about some engagement that has to be kept in the early morning. I have known patients who worked themselves up so much thinking over the necessity for rising at a particular hour to catch a train, that they were awake for several hours before they needed to be. Some are much more inclined to this over-anxiety than others. If they move to the country where trains have to be caught regularly, their sleep may be seriously disturbed by this circumstance. If the trouble becomes acute they must simply change their residence. If it is absolutely necessary that they stay, then they must have someone to wake them at a definite time. This must be someone on whom they can absolutely depend, otherwise the old solicitude will reassert itself. This seems a small matter, yet I have known serious cases of neurasthenia with annoying digestive symptoms due to nothing else than this morning wakefulness consequent upon overanxiety with regard to trains and other morning engagements.
Habits.—In the correction of troubles of sleep one of the difficulties that the physician has to contend with when patients have grown accustomed to staying up late and finally have so disturbed their sleep mechanism that symptoms of insomnia develop, is the declaration that there is no use for them going to bed early since they cannot sleep. If a man has been accustomed for a long period to go to bed between midnight and 2 a. m. and his habits are suddenly changed so that he goes to bed at ten or even eleven, it is very likely that for some time after retiring he will not sleep. If he grows over-anxious he may toss and become somewhat feverish and then, even when the accustomed time for sleep comes, he may not secure it. Besides, the depression consequent upon failure to sleep when he has fulfilled his physician's directions and when he knows that this is considered an important adjuvant in his treatment, acts as a distinctly discouraging factor. Under these circumstances it is important to recall to him that one habit can only be removed by the making of another. It may be necessary to send him to bed for awhile only an hour earlier than before until he has grown accustomed to going to sleep somewhat sooner, and then this habit, in turn, be changed to an earlier hour so as to secure all the sleep that is necessary.
In a word, insomnia is not a definite affection to be treated by giving one or the other of one's favorite drugs, or if these should fail trying still others, but it is a condition of mind very often predisposed to by certain conditions of body. If this condition of mind can be adjusted by careful attention to the correction of whatever may be physically out of order, then there is every reason to look for definite improvement very soon and complete cure without any delay. Insomnia is not the awful ailment that it is sometimes pictured, nor all that it appears to the excited imagination of the young person who loses a few hours' sleep; but a manifold condition to be dealt with very differently in different individuals, according to the indications of the case. If the patient's confidence can be secured that means more than almost anything else that can be done. If a little patience is exercised in obtaining such definite details of the mental state and of certain physical factors as may seem quite trivial to the patient yet are really predisposing elements for his affection, the therapeutics become comparatively simple. It is the use of tact and judgment in this matter that means most, however, and then very few drugs will be required. Between the habits consequent upon the opiates and certain of the serious hemolytic conditions due to the abuse of coal-tar products, this is a consummation that may well be worked for assiduously.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME TROUBLES OF SLEEP
Certain annoying incidents in connection with sleep annoy those affected by them so much as to arouse them very completely from sleep and make them wakeful for a time. Nothing disturbs most people so much as the thought that some passing incident, a little out of the common, is quite individual and peculiar to them. If they are at all nervous they are likely to think that it portends some serious ailment, either present or about to [{664}] develop. Nothing reassures them more than to learn that these incidents are not so uncommon as they imagine, indeed that many of them are quite frequent, and, above all, that many people who have had them are still alive and well beyond threescore and ten, and laughing at the fears of their earlier years.
Starting.—Perhaps one of the most annoying of these incidental troubles is starting in sleep. It occasionally happens that just about the time a person is dozing off he suddenly starts and, almost before he realizes it, is fully awake, his heart beating emphatically and there may even be a little feeling of oppression on the chest. The cause is not the same in all cases and individual differences are worth investigating. In most people this starting means that there is, for the moment, some mechanical interference with the action of the heart and that a systole has been delayed and has been pushed through with more force than usual because of this delay. A full stomach will occasionally cause this, especially if patients lie on their left sides. In some people even a drink of water taken just before retiring will be sufficient weight to cause this interference with heart action. An accumulation of gas in the stomach will do it by pushing up against the diaphragm. Where there is a distinct tendency to the accumulation of gas in the stomach I have sometimes been sure that the expansion of the gas consequent upon the cozy warmth of the patient in bed, or its greater effect upon the stomach because the relaxation of sleep affected even the stomach walls slightly, was the cause of it. It happens more frequently in the old than it does in the young, but it is observed at all ages and patients are usually quite disturbed about it, as, indeed, they are likely to be with regard to anything that affects their hearts.
The thought that this forcible beat must mean some serious pathological condition will obtrude itself on many people, and if it does sleep is sure to be disturbed. Even though there may be no discoverable lesion of the heart, these patients often, though they are physicians, will worry lest some underlying condition should be developing. The first patient who ever described this symptom to me told me of it while I was a medical student and he is still alive and in good health, though he is past seventy. At the time I went over him rather carefully with the idea that there might be an organic heart lesion, but found none. The prognosis of these cases is always favorable, for there are many who suffer yet live long. I have found if to occur particularly in elderly people when they were a little overtired on going to bed, or in anemic young people when they had had somewhat more exertion than usual during the day. Unless there is really some demonstrable heart lesion the start does not mean anything and patients can be reassured at once. They should be counselled against lying on the left side, though in some of them it will occur even while lying on the right side and then the mechanism of its production seems to be the gaseous over-distention of the stomach. Patients may be told at once that it occurs in a large number of people and then, instead of lying awake and worrying about it as they often do, they learn simply to place themselves in a more comfortable position and go to sleep again without solicitude. They would learn this for themselves in the course of time, but the physician's reassurance will enable them to anticipate the lessons of experience and they will thus be saved worrying.
At times this starting from sleep seems due to some unusual noise. In [{665}] certain nervous states even slight noises produce an exaggerated reaction and there seems to be a surprising, almost hypnotic, acuity of hearing just at the moment when all the other senses are going to sleep. Any of the small noises that sound so loud in the stillness of the night may serve to wake the patient so thoroughly after a preliminary doze that sleep is disturbed for some time. As a rule, however, such noises would not disturb people if they were in normal healthy condition, or at least the disturbance would be only momentary. The solicitous effort that some people make to get away from every possible noise is an attempt in the wrong direction. We have heard of people building special houses, or noise-proof rooms in the center of houses where they hoped it would be impossible to be disturbed. What is needed is not so much an effort to secure absolutely noiseless surroundings, which is almost impossible in any circumstances, be it city or country, but to change the patient's physical condition so that slight noises are not reacted to so explosively. There are many general directions for this and certain drugs, as the bromides, are of distinct service. On the other hand, the taking of cinchona products seems often to emphasize it.
I have found that two classes of nervous patients particularly were likely to be disturbed by these starts in their sleep. The first class is perhaps the larger. They are the patients who do not eat enough. They will usually be found to be underweight and to be nursing some thought with regard to their digestion, or some supposed idiosyncrasy towards food that is keeping them below the normal weight for their height. Nothing makes sleep lighter than a certain amount of hunger. This hunger may be disguised so completely, or so covered up by the patient's persuasion that more food cannot be taken without serious gastric disturbance, that it may pass utterly unnoticed. When such patients are disturbed early in the night, it usually means that besides taking a not quite sufficient amount of food they are taking more tea or coffee or some stimulant than is good for them. I say some stimulant because in several cases that I investigated rather carefully the cause seemed to be the alcohol taken with one of the largely advertised patent medicines, a supposed digestive tonic, consisting mainly of dilute alcohol, and really about as strong as whiskey. When the tendency to be startled occurs in the early mornings, then people need to eat something simple just before they go to bed.
The other class of cases who are likely to start at night in their sleep are those who do not get out into the air enough during the day or who sleep in rooms insufficiently ventilated. At the beginning of the night the lack of ventilation makes the sleep light and easily disturbed. After a certain number of hours have been spent in a badly ventilated room the patient sinks into a rather deep sleep, which is likely to be dreamy, however, and then he is rather hard to waken, but wakes not feeling rested, but on the contrary often heavier and more tired than on retiring. In these cases an investigation of the amount of air the patient is allowing to enter his sleeping room or that his circumstances provide him with is extremely important. As for those who do not get out enough during the day, it is easy to understand that their sleep may be light. To them, as a rule, it will be a surprise to find how much depth is added to their sleep by an additional hour or two in the air. Commonly, people who do not get out much during the day are shivery and [{666}] suffer from cold, especially in the winter time, and so they are likely to keep their rooms rather tightly closed. In this case they have two reasons for a tendency to be wakeful, which is emphasized if there are noises near them or if there is anything that disturbs their sleep.
In young children, of course, it must not be forgotten that starting in sleep may be due to the twitching pains of a beginning tuberculous joint disease. At times the children are so young, or the symptoms so vague and the tenderness, if there is any, so deep, that the real significance of this may not be recognized. The most successful treatment for these starting pains in children that has thus far been found, forms a striking commentary on what we have just been saying with regard to fitful sleep when ventilation is insufficient or when the patient has not been out of doors enough during the day. The children from the New York hospitals who in recent years were taken down to Sea Breeze during the autumn and winter and made to live in wards, the windows of which were constantly open so that the temperature was often below fifty, so that doctors and nurses had to wrap themselves up warmly and sometimes cover their heads and their hands, had all been sufferers from these starting pains before this experience, but gradually they lessened in frequency until after a few months the crying of a child at night because of these pains was extremely rare. The lesson is evident, and abundance of air not only cures tuberculous conditions, but also makes the nervous system so much less irritable that starting pains do not so easily affect it.
Noise.—Slight noises often make it impossible for nervous people to sleep. This is much more a question of personal sensitiveness and anxious expectancy and over-irritability than anything else. One distinguished physician whom I knew was extremely sensitive to noise and would be awake for hours if wakened up early in the night by the slamming of a door or a call in the street or anything of the kind. He suffered from insomnia to a noteworthy degree and found to his surprise that he could sleep better on a train than anywhere else. After he had lost two or three nights of sleep he actually used to make arrangements to take a berth on an express train going out of his city, ride until the morning and then come back. He usually slept well amidst all the noise and jar of the train, though he would be quite sleepless at home as the result of even slight noises. I have known people suffering from insomnia who took a long ocean trip on a slow vessel and who slept well amidst all the noises of shipboard, but were light sleepers after landing, and felt that they missed the noise and bustle. Of course, in these cases the rocking movements sometimes predispose to sleep. It is not the custom now to rock infants to sleep and a very definite agreement seems to have been come to among pediatrists to forbid the practice as harmful. It is probable, however, that the instinct of the race in the matter was not at fault. Rocking seems to relax a certain tension of muscles that of itself prevents the brain anemia which is the physiological basis of sleep. It is extremely difficult for nervous people to relax themselves completely, and the rocking movements, by tending to help them in this matter, are excellent predisposing factors. A rocking chair or a hammock furnish abundant proof of this.
Noise in general, as regards its relation to sleep, is an extremely individual matter. Habit plays the largest role in the matter. We all know the [{667}] stories of men who have gone to great expense in order to build noise-proof rooms and yet have found afterwards that they did not sleep well. The rustle of the bedclothes as their thoraxes rose and fell in respiration was enough to disturb them when they allowed themselves to become over-sensitive about noise. We all know how impossible sleep becomes with a rustle of a mouse in the wastepaper basket, or the scratching of one on the wainscoting. On the other hand, anyone who has lived in a large city where past hundreds of thousands of homes the elevated trains thunder every few minutes all during the night, or the trolley goes rolling by within a few feet of the bed, knows, too, that a great many people become accustomed to noises so as to be utterly undisturbed by them, though at the beginning any such insensitiveness to noise seemed out of the question.
I remember having a patient who insisted that he could not sleep so near the elevated. At the end of a week he had lost so many nights of sleep that he was almost in despair. If he did get sound asleep he said he used to hear the thunder of the elevated train coming toward him in his dreams and he would begin to pull his feet up so as to get them out of the way of the train, yet always with the feeling that he could not get them quite far enough, until his knees were almost to his chin. Under the influence of a little bromides, two hours more of outdoor air than he had been accustomed to before, and some reassurance that noise need not disturb sleep at all if taken philosophically, he learned in the course of two weeks to sleep quite peacefully and now has lived for ten years where the elevated passes within ten feet of his window, which is wide open for seven months in the year and always at least slightly open, except in the most stormy weather. It is a question, then, of the individual much more than his surroundings. The problem is to predispose the mind to sleep and then the senses will not disturb it except under special circumstances.
As a matter of fact, noises usually disturb people very little at night. The most surprising things can happen between 12 and 3 o'clock and attract no attention. Burglars calmly blow up a safe in a hotel confident that if there is no one awake when the explosion occurs there will be no investigation, because even though people wake up at the noise, they will wait for its repetition in order to see what it means, will not get up to investigate, especially in cold weather, and usually promptly go to sleep again.
Lying Awake.—There are many people to whom lying awake carries with it a sense of discouragement and dread. They seem to forget that lying awake and occupation with pleasant thoughts may be made a very agreeable pastime by those who are not over-anxious to sleep and who let the pleasant thoughts that may be suggested by the environment or the noises that are heard flow through consciousness. Everyone knows how pleasant it is or may be to listen to the rain patter on the roof of a country house, or to hear the murmur of the ocean or of the wind through the trees when there is not too much anxiety about to-morrow and to-morrow's occupations and the necessity for sleep to be ready for them. Stewart Edward White, in his series of essays on "The Forest," has a chapter on Lying Awake at Night that can well be recommended to the attention of those who complain bitterly of an hour of sleeplessness. Of course, in his case the lying awake is in the midst of the forest with all the witchery of wind in the trees and the [{668}] unusual sounds of forest life, while ordinary lying awake is in the rather monotonous environment at home, but still there is much that can be said for his insistence that in peaceful brooding, faculties revive while soft velvet fingers are laid on the drowsy imagination and you feel that in their caressing vaster spaces of thought are opened up. The impatience that comes to so many almost at once if they fail to go to sleep promptly only serves to keep them awake just that much more surely.
Very often, as suggested by Mr. White, this wakefulness occurs just when a good night's rest is surely expected. There is sometimes even a preliminary period of drowsiness. Then some little noise that ordinarily would not be noticed at all floats into the consciousness with a vigor that indicates that one sense is thoroughly awake. The very surprise of it wakes up the other senses with a start and then comes the thought that there is to be no sleep for some time. If this is resented, the period of wakefulness will be all the longer. If, when it has proved to be inevitable, one sits up quietly, reads a book for a time, plays a quiet game of solitaire, it may be on a board kept beside the bed for such purposes, or in some quiet way succeeds in bothering away the thought of insomnia, then almost surely sleep will come after a time, quietly and restfully, and the lost period will not prove harmful. If nature does not want to sleep she must not be forced into it, but gently led and after a time the wakefulness will disappear.
Night Terrors.—One of the troubles of sleep that is more often called to the attention of the physician than almost any other, is the so-called "night terrors" of children. Little ones wake with a scream, sit up in bed, evidently terrified, usually trembling, and ready to seek refuge from something that has seriously disturbed them. Under Dreams we have called attention to the fact that usually these terrors are due to a dream. Sometimes the dreams are the ordinary experience of supposed falling in sleep, from which the patients wake very much startled, or they are repetitions of exciting scenes through which they have passed, or of stories that they have heard, or, above all, plays that they have seen. Ghost stories, for instance, told shortly before they go to bed will often disturb children. Fairy stories and the ordinary myths of childhood, usually with a happy ending and without any serious terrors in them, are not so likely to disturb them. Melodramatic theatrical performances to which children lend themselves and their attention with great concentration of mind, have nearly as much effect on them as if they passed through the actual scenes. Every physician knows how much a fright is likely to disturb a child and cause it to wake many a night afterwards in a state of terror.
Respiratory Interference.—It is particularly important to remember that any interference with breathing will almost surely wake the child in a seriously startled condition. Adults are often affected by this same sort of dream, due very often to some pathological condition in the throat around which a series of dream ideas collect with somewhat poignant results. I have known a man suffering from elongated uvula wake up thinking that he was suffocating because, as he thought, he had nearly swallowed his tongue, or at least had been trying to do so. The sensation was so startling that it brought him to his feet at once. I have known a patient traveling a long five-days' railroad journey and suffering severely from train catarrh, come to the [{669}] persuasion that he might suffocate during sleep because his nose was completely stopped up and he had not the habit of sleeping with his mouth open. As a result his sleep was as much disturbed by his mind as his breathing. If these affect adults so strongly, it is easy to understand why children should be so frightened by them. Children who are mouth-breathers from adenoids or nasal obstruction, and still more those whose nasal breathing apparatus is not completely stopped up, but who are frequent intermittent mouth-breathers, are especially likely to be troubled in this way. The neurosis known as nervous croup, due to a spasm of the vocal cords, occurs oftenest in this class of children and is an associated phenomenon to that of night terrors.
Sleeping in the Light.—The habit of accustoming children to sleep with a light in the room nearly always lessens the depth of their sleep. They are more easily wakened and their sleep is not so refreshing. Besides, if they do not grow accustomed to the dark when they are young, they may always retain a dread of the dark and will require some light in the room where they sleep. Nature intended that the eyes and the optic nerve should have as complete a rest as possible and even with the lids lowered some light stimulus, if it is present, finds its way to the nerve fibers. Hence the desirability of having as far as possible an absolutely dark room. For some very timorous children, this may seem impossible. Many mothers will recall how awful the dark seemed to them and what shadowy shapes loomed up in it. It will usually be found on inquiry, however, that in these cases the children, after having been accustomed to sleep with some light and after having had all sorts of exciting pictures shown them and stories told them, were asked to sleep in the dark. From the very beginning they should be accustomed to sleeping in the dark and then it has none of the terrors thus pictured.
CHAPTER IX
DREAMS
Dreams, that is, thoughts and illusions and mental phenomena of various kinds that occur during sleep, have always been interesting to the psychologist, and have usually been related to physicians by patients either because they were thought to have a significance related to disease, or because something in them disturbed the patient's mind. This is almost as true in the modern time as it was long ago. It is curiously interesting to note that the very latest development of psychotherapy includes the use of hints obtained from dreams in order to determine the origin of psycho-neurotic conditions and certain of the minor psychic disturbances, and also as a foundation for treatment. The oldest stories of therapeutics that we have are those of patients waited on by the priest physicians of the olden times in the temples, who were supposed to be greatly helped by information obtained from the patient's dreams. It is interesting to read such recent studies as that of "Incubation in the Old Temples," by Miss Ingersoll, with the thought in mind that we are once more analyzing dreams in order to accomplish a similar purpose.
Dreams are so often a source of disturbance of mind for patients, lead to such disturbed sleep, or even so affect the bodily health that it is important for anyone who wants to influence patients through their minds to know the significance attributed to dreams by the most recent studies of them. This is all the more important because dreams are such a universal phenomenon. From our earliest years we dream. The night terrors of children are probably due to dreams and show that even as early as the age of three we dream vividly. Doubtless some of the terrifying dreams of childhood are similar to those that we experience later. Dreams of falling, dreams of being cold, of being out of breath, with vivid repetitions of exciting scenes through which they have gone during the day, or which they have seen in picture or been told in story, form the substance of these dreams. Children are likely to be much disturbed by them. They wake in a terror of anxiety, in cold sweat, and crying bitterly because of their dream visions. Older people are not so much disturbed at the moment, but often brood over dreams and may be seriously affected by them.
It is difficult, however, to persuade many people that their dreams have no special significance, either of present or of future evil, and to many the fact that they dream much becomes a suggestion of wakefulness that disturbs sleep and makes them quite unequal to the next day's work, because they have the feeling that, as they have been dreaming all night, they must be quite tired. Tiredness in nervous people is often a matter of the mental state rather than of physical exhaustion or genuine mental weariness. The actual place of dreams in psychology, then, becomes an important consideration in psychotherapeutics.
Our real advances in the knowledge of the significance of dreams have come from the study of the dreams that are common to most people. These show us exactly how and why dreams occur and just what their meaning is. Probably the most familiar dream common to all the human race is that of falling from a height. Everyone has been wakened with a startled sense of intense relief that the sensation of falling was illusory. The waking came just before the bottom was reached. There is a tradition that if one ever did strike the bottom in one's dream it would be the end and that death would result as surely as if the fall were real. So far we have had no one come back to tell us of that, and the tradition is reasonably safe from direct contradiction. It serves without any reason, however, to disturb timorous people and make them dread to fall asleep again. Often this dream-falling so seriously affects sensitive individuals that they do not get to sleep for an hour or more and occasionally those with an inclination to insomnia may even suffer for the rest of the night from the effect of it. It is important to explain, then, what we know about the causation of the dream. In nearly all cases the subject on waking finds himself on his back, and then the inclination is at once to turn over to the side with a sigh of relief. Commonly the dream occurs rather early in the night, when a rather heavy meal has been taken shortly before retiring. The weight in the stomach, particularly if considerable liquid has been taken, seems to press upon the abdominal aorta and interferes, to some extent at least, with the circulation to the legs. This deprives little nerves at the periphery of the body of some of their nutrition and causes a tingling feeling in them. This is quite different from pressure [{671}] on nerves, which gives the sensation termed "being asleep" to a limb. This tingling feeling resembles that which we experience when going down rapidly in an elevator. It is the falling sensation. This sensation tries to force its way into the consciousness and in this process does not completely wake consciousness up, but brings about an association of ideas connected with falling—hence the dream of being on a height and of falling therefrom out of which we wake so startled. The whole process instead of being injurious is really conservative. It is important that the aorta should not be pressed upon and this is the mode by which awakening is brought about and the position shifted so that further interference is stopped, though we ourselves are quite unconscious of the real purpose that has been accomplished. An explanation of this kind usually makes people who suffer from such dreams and have been disturbed by them much more tolerant of the phenomenon and more ready to go to sleep again, since evidently nature can be trusted to care for them even during sleep.
After the sensation of falling probably the commonest dream that humanity has, at least in the civilized state, is that of being out in some public place without sufficient clothing. Usually we wake just to find that some portion of our anatomy has been exposed to the air and that it is cold. It is this sensation gradually forcing its way into consciousness that has gathered around it a group of ideas that form our dream.
Among men, a familiar dream is that of running for a car, or away from something, or to catch someone, and finding that it is almost impossible to move. We are so out of breath that we are scarcely able to drag one foot after another and, indeed, sometimes we seem to be actually rooted to the spot. We cannot move at all. When we wake after this dream we find that, because of a cold in the head, our nose is stopped up by the secretion and that our mouths are shut and consequently we were getting no air. When that sensation tries to break into the consciousness there gather around it certain familiar ideas usually associated with being out of breath and hence we have the dream of trying to run without being able to move.
Frequency of Dreams.—Nervous people often complain that they dream all night or else very frequently, and that as a consequence their sleep is not restful. It is probable that there are always ideas in the mind and that literally we dream without ceasing. These ideas, however, do not get into our consciousness except just during the process of waking. All those who have investigated the subject of dreams are practically agreed on this. In subsequent paragraphs we quote a number of good observers on this subject. Certainly this is what we should expect from what we all know about day-dreaming. We can never catch ourselves during the day without finding some thought wandering through our minds. If we want to understand dreaming during sleep this day dreaming is instructive. We jump from one idea to another, apparently without a connection; yet there is always some connecting link. We have just read in the paper of someone in Cairo, and we think of old Egypt, and then of old Babylonia, and the Code of Hammurrabi, and the laws of the Medes and the Persians, and Xenophon and our school days, and of an old schoolmaster now a missionary in Japan, and of Japanese art and of an American artist much influenced by it, and of one of his great windows in a church in New York and of social work in connection with that church, [{672}] and of settlement houses and then Hull House, Chicago, and then of the Adamses in Massachusetts, and so on.
Thus, also, do our minds go flitting round apparently during the night. We remember only such things as are brought into our consciousness directly and emphatically during the process of wakening. During our day dreaming we recall only those things which for some reason led us to think consciously about them and then follow out our thoughts to definite conclusions. It is an interesting study to follow back our day dreams through their wanderings to the origin. As a rule, however, we lose track of the connections and after a time remember only some of the wonderful transformations and transmigrations of thought; and so it is in our dreams.
With regard to the frequency of dreaming. Sir Arthur Mitchell in his book "Dreaming, Laughing, and Blushing" (London, 1905), insists on the great probability of the constancy of our dreaming during sleep. He says:
It seems to me that there is no such thing as dreamless sleep. During the whole continuance of sleep, the mind, I believe, is occupied with a certain kind of thinking which works round what I have called hallucinations. I do not expect to be able to prove the correctness of this opinion as to the persistence of dreams all through sleep, but I think that it can easily be shown to be possibly correct. I go further, and say that many things show that it is probably correct. I may not be able to prove absolutely its correctness, but it is proper to bear in mind that it is quite as difficult to prove absolutely that it is not correct. My difficulty is frankly avowed. Many things, however, are taught in biology as being certainly true. In regard to which a like avowal could be made but is not made. There is what has been called a "conjectural biology."
We do not and we cannot remember much of what we have been thinking about while we are awake. This is unquestionably true in a large sense. But, nevertheless, we do not doubt that we have been thinking continuously. We do not suppose that at any time all thinking had ceased, though we may be completely unable to recall what it was about.
He shows further that many writers on dreams and careful students of the subject in the past have come to the same conclusion. Robert Dale Owen, for instance, deliberately endeavored to find out whether he had always been dreaming just before he awoke. After months of observation he records that in every instance he was conscious of having dreamed. Hazlitt, a century ago, tried the same thing for a prolonged period and notes that whenever he was waked, and immediately recollected himself as to possible dreaming, he was always aware that he had been dreaming. Sir Arthur Mitchell himself has tried this same experiment on himself and for a considerable time has scarcely ever failed to put to himself this question about dreaming when he awoke and always got a satisfying affirmative answer. Personally, for several years, I have been interested enough in this subject to recur frequently to it immediately on awaking and I cannot say that I have ever, under those circumstances, failed to find that there had been some vague dream fancies at least running through my mind before I was fully awake. This opinion as to the constancy of dreaming during sleep has many authorities in its support. Sir Arthur Mitchell has quoted a number, some of them distinguished physicians, who add the weight of their testimony to this view:
It is not a new thing to hold that there is no sleep without dreaming—in other words, that dreaming goes on unceasingly all through sleep. I have stated my own [{673}] opinion strongly, but the same opinion has been nearly as strongly expressed by others. Sir Benjamin Brodie, for instance, may be said to express it when he writes, "I believe that I seldom if ever sleep without dreaming." Sir Henry Holland expresses it still more plainly when he says: "No moment of sleep is without some condition of dreaming." Goodwin says much the same thing when he asserts that "sleep is not a suspension of thought"—in other words, that dreaming is sleep-thinking. Dr. John Reid still more clearly holds the opinion, though he does not furnish me with a short apt quotation. Hazlitt, too, may be taken as holding that there is no such thing as dreamless sleep.
Descartes and his followers may, perhaps, be regarded as holding that the mind is unceasingly at work in sleep—even in the "profoundest sleep," though "the memory retains it not," and Isaac Watts says that "the soul never intermits its activity," and that we may "know of sleeping thoughts at the moment they arise, and not retain them the next moment."
Hippocrates, Leibnitz, and Abercrombie have also been quoted as holding that there is no dreamless sleep, and so far as they express themselves on the subject they appear to do so.
A strong weight of opinion in all ages favors the view that during sleep dream-thoughts are constantly running through our mind, though we recollect only those which are impressed upon us at the moment of awaking. We do not even recall those unless, for some reason, we have paid special attention to them. That is just exactly what is true of day dreaming. After it is over we have no idea at all of the thoughts that occupied our minds for hours, though we are all aware that at any given moment, if we turned our consciousness inwards we found that there was something that we were thinking about.
Short Duration of Dreams.—This view of the constant occurrence of dreams during sleep is confirmed by other things that we have come to know as to dreams and dream states. Probably the most interesting of these is with regard to the length of dreams. As our memory of dreams is only such as we have from the thoughts of sleep getting into our consciousness just at the moment of awaking, dreams are never as long as they sometimes seem to be. As a matter of fact, they occupy but a few moments, though in that time a long story may seem to unroll itself. Probably nothing gives more assurance to people who are persuaded that they are losing much rest because of their dreams than this explanation of the brevity of the phenomena. Nervous people wake frequently. Whenever they wake they find themselves dreaming. As a consequence, they acquire the persuasion that they have been dreaming "all the night long," and it is not hard for them to suggest to themselves in the early morning that they are not rested. Nervous people seldom feel rested in the early morning, it is their worst time, and with the occurrence of dreams as a suggested reason for this, they exaggerate the feeling of tiredness with which they get up. A frank discussion of this question of the duration of dreams is often the best possible therapeutic auxiliary for such cases. It gives them a new series of suggestions and, above all, relieves them of unfavorable suggestions.
Prof. Maury of the University of Paris tells a striking story of a very brief dream of his own which shows how short may be the time occupied by what seems surely a long dream. He had been reading before going to bed a very striking book on the Reign of Terror. He dreamt that he himself was arrested during the Terror, taken to prison, that his name was called on the list of the condemned, that he was carried to the guillotine, fastened to the [{674}] board, pushed beneath the knife and that he woke just as the knife struck his neck. Of course he awoke with the usual sense of thankfulness and relief that comes at such times. When he awoke he found that a light curtain rod had fallen from the bed above him and had struck just across his neck. His dream evidently had all come to him during the extremely short time necessary for him to become fully awake after the rod had hit him. His mind was occupying itself with the history that he had read before going to bed. When the rod struck him the long story of his arrest and imprisonment, the journey to the place of the guillotine and the preparations for execution, all came to him as a series of rapid ideas during his coming to consciousness.
It is probable that most of our dreams are not much longer than this. One of my earliest recollections is of an old gentleman coming into the country school during my first year as a pupil and telling us the story of a dream of his of the night before quite as brief as that of Professor Maury. He had fallen asleep after dinner in his chair and, having a cold that stopped up his nose and his mouth being shut, he had the usual dream of being out of breath from running. It took him back to the story of the massacre of Wyoming, near the scene of which the school was situated. He dreamt that for hours he had been running away from the Indians and seemed at last utterly unable to escape them because he was out of breath. He made such efforts in his chair that his wife awakened him and then he found that he had been asleep altogether only a very few minutes.
Significance of Dreams.—Many people are quite sure that their dreams have a definite significance quite apart from any mere wandering of the mind or the suggestion of half-waking and the ideas that gather round sensations not fully in the consciousness. A number of people, for instance, have dreams of events that are happening at a distance at the moment that they dream. The Psychic Research Society of England has gathered a number of these and it is indeed difficult to understand many of them. There seems no doubt, however, that in many cases there is an illusion of memory, by which, after an event, dreams that might be taken to refer in some vague way to the happening, are clothed with a wealth of detail which appears to make them wonderful premonitory representations of future events or repetitions of simultaneous events. One of the most familiar of this form of dreams is what has been called a phantasm of the dying. People dying at a distance seem to have some wonderful power of making themselves appear to very near friends, especially brothers and sisters, and, above all, twins, and to friends with whom they have been very intimately associated. Occasionally such phantasms are seen during waking hours, or what are supposed to be waking hours, though it must not be forgotten that dreams may come very easily and almost unconsciously in short naps, but much more frequently in what are known to be dreams.
Nearly always these partake of the nature of the ordinary dream, as can be seen by a careful analysis of their conditions, and are mere coincidences occupying a very brief space of time. A typical example of this is to be found in one of the stories told by Camille Flammarion, the French astronomer, in his book "The Unknown." A young man who had fallen in love with a young woman was deeply grieved to be parted from her by the injunction of parents. Separated by a long distance, they kept up a clandestine [{675}] correspondence for more than a year. For a considerable period, however, he had not heard from her, and he was beginning to be anxious lest anything had happened to her. One night she appeared to him in a dream in his room in white garments with a pale face and, placing her cold hand in his, she bade him good-bye. He awoke with a start. He found it difficult to sleep and was very anxious about her. The next day he learned that she had died the night before and concluded that his dream was a last message from her. The end of the story, however, as it is told, spoils this nice sentimental conclusion. When he awoke he found he had in his hand a glass of ice water which had been standing on the table beside him. The grasping of this had awakened him. During the awakening process the thoughts of her in his mind gathered round the cold sensation in his hand and gave him the dream of her and the last farewell.
There are many instances in which dreams of future events seem to come true. Indeed, so many of these stories have been told that it is hard to persuade some people that dreams have no meaning and can have no meaning. By this we mean that they can by no possibility represent prophetic foresight. What patients need to be made to understand is that dreams represent only straggling sensations trying to get into our consciousness, just barely succeeding, and then arousing trains of ideas unconnected in themselves, but which we connect afterwards when we recollect our dreams. This whole subject has been studied so thoroughly in Maury's work on "Le Sommeil et les Rêves" about the middle of the last century and Freud "Ueber den Traum" and Sante de Sanctis' "I Sogni" Turin, 1899, at the end of the century, that there can be no further doubts about the matter for those who are open to conviction. Most people, however, want to believe that their dreams mean something. They like to think that they are in some way picked out from the multitude and that their dreaming has a significance more than is accorded to other people. It is, indeed, this self-centeredness that makes for the belief in premonitions and prophetic dreams and, as in all cases, these feelings work out their own revenge.
If they will listen to reason, however, most people may be rather readily convinced that their dreams cannot have any serious significance. In the chapter on [Premonitions] we have already called attention to the situation that exists with regard to the possibility of future events giving information of themselves in advance of their happening. Simultaneous events may perhaps in some way give warnings. The possibility of action on the mind at a distance, especially where minds are involved, has been discussed and admitted. The cases in which it is supposed to have happened are, to my mind, all dubious and are mere coincidences. For future events, however, there is no possible physical explanation. When we turn to explanations in the borderland between spirit and matter we find nothing satisfactory. The future event exists nowhere. No spirit even knows it; it is dependent on human free will. To the Creator it is known only as a contingent possibility dependent on free will. The information does not come from Him, for then there would be more design in these incidents. Such dreams would effect some serious purpose, while usually they have but minor significance in the stories as told and they often concern only the most trivial things.
What is thus true of premonitions can readily be applied to dreams. [{676}] There is no reasonable source of information with regard to future events. What, then, are we to say of the dreams that come true? There is no doubt that dreaming is extremely common. Probably, as was said, we never sleep without dreams. There are a billion dreams at least, probably many billions of dreams every night, then, in this little world of ours. When these are startling they cling to us. It would be surprising if some of them did not come true. Indeed, it is inevitable, according to the theory of probabilities, that some of them will connect themselves directly with future events. We have a few thousands of such startling coincidences in the history of the race. Out of these have been made all the data supposed to underlie the teaching that dreams have a prophetic significance. It is much easier to understand with regard to dreams than even with regard to telepathy coincidence explains all the supposedly wonderful warnings of events that actually happen after we have had apparently premonitory dreams.
An interesting example of a premonition that did not come true, the subject of which was sure that it was a waking premonition and not a dream, though it seems more likely that it was as suggested by the narrator a sleep vision, is told by Sir Arthur Mitchell in his "Dreaming, Laughing, Blushing" (London, 1905). A number of scientists who discussed the story declared that if it had only come true it would have been one of the most startling manifestations of premonition and of the clairvoyant power of dreams, or at least of their telepathic significance, that we have ever had. It involved so many distinguished scientists that there could have been no doubt about it. It was so detailed and those details were known to so many authorities in science, that it would have carried great weight and it would have been extremely difficult to have people accept it as a mere coincidence. It is easy to see now after the event that, if it had been fulfilled, it would have been, in spite of its startlingness, a mere coincidence. Since it was not fulfilled, however, it represents one of the best evidences that we have for the insignificance of premonitory or telepathic dreams.
Sir William T. Gairdner, K. C. B., whose interesting typhus delirium experience appears in the paper by Professor Coates on "Sleep, Dreams and Delirium" (Glas. Med. Jour., Vol. xxxviii, 1892, pp. 241-261), has written to me about his dreams generally, and he concludes his letter with the narrative of a dream, which, as he correctly says, "if it had only fulfilled itself, might have become famous." He prefaces the narrative by this statement: "In all my individual experience, now extending over more than the usual term of life, I have never met with anything suggestive in the remotest degree of telepathy or second sight, or of dream prophecies or any other fact bearing on the marvellous." He then goes on to tell the dream to which I have referred. "In crossing the Atlantic In 1891," he says, "in delightful weather and perfect bodily health, and without a shade of anxiety on my mind so far as I was aware (in waking consciousness), I was suddenly aroused in the very early morning, say, three or four a. m., out of a perfectly sound, and, as I should call it, dreamless sleep, by the apparition of a telegram written on the usual paper, and presumably from home, in these words: 'Miss Dorothea died at ——,' all the rest being blurred and indistinct, but these words having a startling distinctness and a vivid sense of reality. I was not, I think, in the least degree alarmed at first, and certainly had no superstition about it on discovering that it was only a dream; but, failing to get any more sleep, I rose early, took my bath as usual, and went on deck, where I had to repeat the story of my dream to each one of some three or four companions who were on board, of whom I will only mention Sir. John Batty Tuke, Professor Young of Owens College, and Professor [{677}] Cunningham, then of Trinity College, Dublin. Any of these gentlemen will confirm my saying that I attached no special importance to this dream in the way of a scare or a superstition, but in this way it got abroad to a certain extent within a small circle on board in such a way as would have ensured it a widespread fame had it only come true. In discussing the matter at breakfast I remarked (alluding to telepathy) that the telegram was clearly, judging from its terms, not from my wife or any member of my immediate family, and could only have been despatched by a servant or some one with whom I could not be supposed to be in telepathic rapport. From this point of view it clearly refuted itself, and yet the effect upon my mind was such that, upon arriving at New York, I at once despatched a telegram announcing my arrival and making inquiry, the reply to which showed that the family were pursuing a quite undisturbed course at St. Andrews."
Sir William describes himself as aroused out of sound sleep by the apparition of a telegram, but I think this only means that he became suddenly awake on seeing the telegram during sleep. He does not say whether he knew in his dream that he was a passenger on a great ship on the mid-ocean, but he says that the telegram was written on the usual paper by which I take it that he means the paper used here on shore.
If it happened that the death of Miss Dorothea took place about the time of the appearance of the telegram to so distinguished a man as Sir William in his sleep, I scarcely think there would be any more startling record of a so-called telepathic message. But most happily the death did not take place, so that the story of the dream will be forgotten. Tens of thousands of similar dream stories have that fate.
Children's Dreams.—There is an old tradition that to tell our dreams causes them to come back, or at least to recur in some other form. This tradition is so old and so universal that probably there is more in it than might at first be thought. This emphasizing of certain forms of unconscious cerebration probably encourages their repetition, or, at least, the repetition of further processes of the same kind. There seems to be no doubt, too, that the reading of certain kinds of imaginative writing and the looking at exciting pictures sometimes leads to dreams about them. Certainly children should not be told terrifying stories and the more nervous they are and the more affected they are by such stories, which to some people make renewed temptations to tell them, the more should they be avoided.
Any physician who has had much experience with city children, especially in New York City, is likely to know how exciting, tragic and, above all, melodramatic scenes serve as the basis for disturbing dreams and night terrors. They will not, of course, in vigorous, healthy and strong-minded children, but these are the ones who are most prone to play out of doors and so are likely to be less bothered. Just the nervous, old-fashioned, delicate children who prefer the theater to sports of other kinds, are likely to be most affected in this unfortunate way. The scenes become so real to children that they impress them very deeply and are readily rehearsed in the unconscious cerebration of sleep. Many a child sees in its dreams someone, often a near relative, fastened on the carriage of a sawmill and inevitably approaching a buzz-saw, or fastened inextricably to the rails while an express train thunders down on them. That they should wake up with a start and a scream of terror and lose most of their night's sleep and disturb that of others, is not surprising. It is well known how witnessing actual danger, as of an automobile accident, or a railroad wreck, disturbs a child's imagination for long after; and its theater experiences are almost as actual as the reality.
Many of the colored supplements of Sunday newspapers seem to be particularly undesirable literature for children in this respect, though, of course, there are many other reasons why children should not be encouraged to look at them. It is not unusual for the newspapers to give lurid pictures of wonderful dreams or things that happen in dreams. This is undoubtedly a suggestion that acts in causing nearly all children, but especially those of nervous organization, to dream much more than would ordinarily be the case. It recalls the old warning about telling dreams. These sets of pictures certainly serve to develop the imagination of the child along undesirable lines. Possibly some of them which emphasize the fact that after eating certain very undesirable foods, dreams are much more likely to come than at other times may not be without their prophylactic sanitary value, but this is a doubtful advantage compared to the psychic harm that they bring. I am not of those who would limit the fairy stories and other pleasant essays in imagination which delight children so much and form a desirable part of their education, but artistic effort that is terrifying or deterrent, whether with pen or brush, should be kept away from them until after their mental control is well established. Children will probably dream anyhow, and, therefore, should have a pleasant fund of imaginative material as a basis for their dreams.
CHAPTER X
DISORDERS OF MEMORY
Many patients suffering from various nervous symptoms insist that they are losing their memory or that it is becoming notably deficient in some ways. If they are a little on in years they are sure that their memory is not as good as it used to be and that they now forget many things that were formerly remembered without difficulty. Especially are they likely to assert that the names of people and certain words will not come to them when they want them, that they often have to seek for facts and dates that should be quite familiar, that they fail to remember acquaintances and the like. These symptoms of which they complain are often sources of considerable worry and serve to emphasize in them the idea that there is something serious the matter with their general health, or some pathological condition developing in their brain. They have heard much of loss of memory as a sign of degenerative nervous diseases and they are prone to think that their own special loss of memory, be it real or imaginary, must be a forerunner, or perhaps even an early symptom, of some important organic lesion.
This idea of progressive memory disturbance as a preliminary of nervous breakdown often becomes so firmly fixed as to be of itself a profound source of anxiety to patients, and an almost unspeakable dread. So it is important to make them understand what the real nature of their condition is and what their loss of memory, supposed or real, is due to. As a matter of fact, what many of these patients need is not treatment for a diseased memory, but reassurance from what we know about the psychology of memory, that their troubles are only quite natural incidents in the life history of their particular memory [{679}] faculty. Many a man who is worrying about his supposed loss of memory or, at least, impairment of it in some way, is not suffering from a true pathological condition, but is usually the victim only of some functional disturbance of the nervous system with the neurotic anxiety and heightened introspection that accompanies such a condition.
Reasons for Memory Difficulties.—Nervous patients particularly complain that they do not remember what they wish to as easily as they used to a few years before. They say that it is much more difficult for them to impress things upon their memories and, in addition, that it is much easier for them to forget. There are three quite natural reasons for these phenomena as far as they actually exist, which should be pointed out to these patients. The first and most important is that they are incapable of that concentration of mind which they had in earlier years and which enabled them to give themselves up so completely to the consideration of a particular subject that it could not help but be impressed on their minds. They are now so much occupied with many other things, and, above all, most of these patients are so preoccupied with themselves that they cannot hope to have the concentration of mind that was comparatively easy when they were younger and is now impaired, but which is so necessary for the enduring remembrance of things. Secondly, their over-anxiety to remember things sometimes acts as an inhibitory motive in securing that deep, impression that will enable them to remember details very well. Thirdly, their supposed impairment of memory is due to a false judgment with regard to themselves. They are not comparing their power of memory now with what they used to have, but owing to anxiety about themselves they have taken to comparing themselves with others and, after all, the faculty of memory acts very differently for different people and it is well known that what one man remembers with ease another recalls with difficulty, or only because of special attention.
Attention and Memory.—The first of these causes for supposed impairment deserves to be discussed further. It is often said that as we grow older our memory is not so retentive as it used to be, and that while we remember the events of boyhood and the things we learned in the early years of school life, our recollection of recent events and things learned in later years is much less vivid. This is all very true, but the reason usually given, that in the meantime our memories have failed in power is inconclusive. What we learned in early childhood came to us with the surprise of novelty and for this reason we paid close attention, it was new and impressed us with its importance, it was dwelt upon for long periods and often, because there was little else to think about, has been frequently recalled since and, of course, is indelibly impressed upon our memories. The same thing is true with regard to early acquaintances. We got to know them so well that, of course, we cannot forget them. What we have learned in later life, however, has come in the midst of many other things, has not been dwelt on very long, has not been often recalled and, of course, occupies much less place in the memory than the things of earlier life. That is not, however, because of any defect in memory, but because of lack of attention and repetition that means so much for memory.
Age and Memory.—It is often said that people do not learn so readily when they get older. This is, of course, a truth of common experience, but [{680}] it is not because of dullness of the faculty of memory, but failure to concentrate the attention sufficiently for memorizing. I have known old men who could learn things just as well as any young man and indeed better than most of them. They were men who had been accustomed all their lives to concentrate attention on the subject they had in hand and who did not allow the cares and worries of life to intrude on their studies. Cato learning Greek at eighty is often quoted as an exceptional example, but I have had some dear old friends who could learn things quite as readily as younger men and whose minds were just as bright and clear. Whenever they devoted as much attention to anything that they wanted to remember as they did when they were younger men, I am sure that they remembered quite as well. It is a question of attention and not of any loss of faculty that makes the difference between the memory of the young and the old until, of course, senile impairment actually comes.
Solicitude and Memory.—Everyone who has had to depend much on his memory knows that over-anxiety with regard to the recollection of anything may seriously inhibit the power to recall it. Public speakers know that to hesitate is to be lost. If they want a particular name or word which they know often escapes them, they must with confidence begin the sentence in which it is to occur, though perhaps wondering all the time whether the word will be on hand or not for them to use it. Occasionally it will not come, but as a rule it turns up just in time. If they allow themselves to be disturbed by the thought that the word or expression may not come, then they know the hopeless vacant blank that stares them in the face when they want it. They have to make a circumlocution in the hope that it may turn up. Some let it go at that, but many start another sentence in the hope to tempt it to come and often it will eventually come, but sometimes it persistently refuses to come. That is not a loss of memory but a failure of neuron connections. There are some of us who know that certain words will always do that with us. Archimedes has bothered me for years and his name will often not come when I want it. Then there are certain words with regard to which transposition is likely to take place. We involuntarily and unconsciously substitute one word for another. We call one man by another's name. We have done it before and we know that we are likely to do it again. Somehow the connections in memory exist along these wrong lines and are constantly mismade. The name of something a man has written comes up instead of his name. This heterophemia is often noted in men of excellent memory.
Peculiarities of Memory.—Memory is an illusive and elusive function at best. All of us have had the sensation of having a word, and particularly a name, on the tip of our tongues. We often know the first letter and sometimes the first syllable of it. What memory brings to us, however, may not always be the first syllable of a word or name, though we are prone to think it must be, and we may go looking for it in the dictionary of names only to discover after a time that we are many letters away from its beginning. Very often we have to give up seeking in sheer inability to get a hint of it and then of itself it will come a little later. Sometimes it will come when we no longer want it. As a rule, words that have escaped us once in this way are prone to do so again. Over and over again the experience will be that [{681}] a particular word or group of words escapes our memory, or at least fails to be at our command, as most other things are. Those of us who are not much given to introspection take no notice of these difficulties which are common-place experiences enough, but the man or the woman who is looking for symptoms, who is prone to believe for some reason or other that his or her memory is failing, will take these hints of the more or less natural fallacy of memory as confirmations, strong as direct proof of the fact that memory is seriously deteriorating.
Such pauses and lapses of memory are much more likely to occur if we are nervous and over-anxious about possible loss of memory. I was once asked to attend for a few hours before the time fixed for his oration one of the greatest orators of this country, who was about to talk at a university commencement. What surprised me was that this practiced speaker, who had often appeared before very large audiences, took a very light meal in considerable trepidation, immediately after asked to have certain books brought to him and certain facts looked up for him, took notes in a hurried, feverish way and generally displayed all the over-excitement of the schoolboy about to make his first oration. He was a magnificent occasional speaker, often called upon, yet he assured me that it was always thus with him and that the reason for it was that in spite of previous preparation—and the finish of his orations made it clear that he had devoted much thought to them beforehand—certain of his facts and names and dates had the habit of slipping from him in the midst of the development of his theme, unless he had refreshed his memory with regard to them immediately before, and that he feared that sometime he would find himself in the midst of an address with an absolute blank before him and that he would be compelled to sit down in disgrace. He had never done so and never did in the many years that he, lived afterwards, though always with this dread, never trusting his memory as most people do.
Name Memory.—There are certain circumstances in which memory may fail and yet no significance of a pathological nature can be attributed to the fact. All of us probably have had the disturbing experience of undertaking to introduce two friends whom we had known for many years and yet having to ask at least one of them for his name before we could make the introduction. It is not that we did not know the name, but at the moment we were utterly unable to recall it. After this has happened once or twice it is prone to happen again, because when we set about introducing people the thought of the previous unfortunate occurrences of this kind comes to our mind and acts as an inhibition of memory, making it impossible for us to recall names. Not infrequently if we are brought to the pass of having to ask one of the parties for his name we have to ask the other, though it was on the tip of our tongue a moment before, because in the meantime the disturbance of mind incident to having to ask has interfered with the train of recollection. Men have been known to forget their own names under circumstances of great excitement and such a forgetting is not pathological, but only a physiological disturbance of function because of secondary trains of association set to work in the brain which disturb ordinary recollection. Of course, some people have an excellent memory for names and never have such experiences, but they are very rare, though practice in recalling names does much to keep [{682}] people from such embarrassing situations. On the other hand, there are some people especially gifted with name memories. Napoleon could recall all his soldiers' names.
Fatigue and Memory.—Occasionally it happens quite normally that when we are very tired certain portions of our memory at least become vague and indefinite and may even fail to respond to any excitation on our part. Under these circumstances we seem to be able only with considerable effort to exert the effort necessary to bring about such connections of brain cells as will facilitate recollection and reproduction and we may fail entirely. In a foreign country it is, as a rule, much more easy to talk the language in the morning when we are fresh than in the evening when we are tired. Especially is this true if we are asked to pass from one foreign language to another, which always requires a special effort. Everyone who has traveled must have had the experience that on crossing the frontier suddenly to be addressed in German after he has been talking French for weeks, may quite nonplus the traveler, even though he knows German as well or even better than French. This is especially true if much depends on the answers, if he has been addressed by a railway official or customs inspector. Apparently there must be a momentary wait until some shifting operation takes place in the brain before the German memory can get to work to establish the connections necessary to enable him to talk German. After a man has been talking to a number of people in one foreign tongue he is likely to be quite lost for words for a moment if he has to use another. The effects of fatigue and excitement and unusualness upon memory then must be remembered in order to be able to reassure patients who pervert the significance of the phenomena.
Ribot gives an excellent personal illustration of this peculiarity of memory in his "Diseases of Memory," which is worth recalling here. He says:
I descended on the same day two very deep mines In the Hartz Mountains, remaining some hours underground in each. While in the second mine, and exhausted both from fatigue and inanition, I felt the utter impossibility of talking longer with the German inspector who accompanied me. Every German word and phrase deserted my recollection; and it was not until I had taken food and wine, and been some time at rest, that I regained them again.
Sensations and Memory.—Just as soon as people compare their memories with others, as they do when they worry and begin to grow introspectively self-conscious, they find noteworthy differences and because of differences they will be prone to think that their memory is pathologically defective when it is only different, or, still more, that because they are not able to remember some things, as others do, their memory must be failing. It is well known that some people have a good memory for things seen, others for things heard, and still others only for things in which they have taken actual part. These are spoken of as visual, auditory and action memories. Memories for things seen are divided into special classes. Some people remember forms very well, while others remember colors. It is evident that our memories are somehow dependent on the special mode in which sensation affects us and that our acutest sensations are the sources of our longest and best memories. Color vision defectives are not affected much by colors and easily forget them. The tone-deaf have no memory for tunes. Every sense defect affects the memory. Sense defects are often unconscious. Their effect on memory may [{683}] only be noted when introspection begins to bring out the special sensation and memory qualities of the individual. Nature, not disease, may be the basis of some memory troubles thus brought to recognition. All these curious phenomena with regard to memory need to be recalled whenever there is question of a supposed deterioration of it, for it is not easy to decide such a question.
Limits of Normal Forgetfulness.—Curious instances of forgetfulness may occur in the experience of men with excellent memories, which, when they happen to persons morbidly inclined to test their every act, are interpreted to signify something much more serious than they really mean. Nearly everyone has had more than once the experience of telling a story to a particular group of people and then forgetting all about having told it and coming back a few days later to tell it over again. Occasionally a teacher hears the same lesson a week apart and yet does not remember that he went over it before, though the class is almost sure to do so. A man may repeat a lecture that he has given before to the same audience without realizing it. The story has been told more than once of a clergyman delivering the same sermon on two Sundays in succession and, though such lapses are very rare, they do not necessarily indicate a failing memory, but may only mean a lack of concentration of attention on the part of the human mind. Prof. Ribot in his "Diseases of Memory" tells the story of one such case in which the subject was quite alarmed lest it should indicate that he was beginning to suffer from some serious memory disturbance due to brain disease, though there was no ground for his fears:
A dissenting minister, apparently in good health, went through the entire pulpit service one Sunday morning with perfect consistency—his choice of hymns and lessons and extempore prayer being all related to the subject of the sermon. On the Sunday following he went through the service in precisely the same manner, selecting the same hymns and lessons, offering the same prayer, giving out the same text, and preaching the same sermon. On descending from the pulpit he had not the slightest remembrance of having gone through precisely the same service on the preceding Sunday. He was much alarmed and feared an attack of brain disease, but nothing of the kind supervened.
Attention not Memory.—When patients come with complaints of the loss of memory, the most important thing is to analyze their symptoms carefully. This will usually enable us to give patients ample reassurance. I have known men who were convinced that they were losing their memories because of their failure to recall important details in their business affairs in the midst of much hurry and bustle in the winter time, find that when they were living a simpler life in the course of travel or life in the country during the summer time under conditions different from the ordinary, their memory could be absolutely depended on for trains and travel details and all important matters to which they were now devoting attention.
Cultivating Looseness of Memory.—Many people complain of loss of memory in the sense that they do not now remember when things took place as well as they used to. For instance, I have had men of fifty tell me that they were sure that their memories were growing weaker than they used to be because a number of times within a year they had found that events which they thought had taken place only a year or two ago really dated four or [{684}] five or even more years in the past. Some are considerably disturbed by this. As a matter of fact it is only another instance of lack of attention. Most of what we read in newspapers attracts so little of our serious attention that it is no wonder that we do not recall with exactness when events took place. Events crowd each other out of memory. Newspaper reading is, indeed, the best possible cultivation of looseness of memory that we could have. We do not expect to remember what we read. We would probably grow distracted if we did. At the end of the day if you ask a man what he read in the morning paper he will have no idea at all, unless something especially startling or particularly interesting to him has turned up. After a week we could no more separate Monday's from Tuesday's news of the week before than we could recall a random list of events, having heard it but once. We cultivate looseness of memory with great assiduity. Let us not be surprised if, to some extent, we succeed.
Memories Individual.—People are often much worried over children's memories and may communicate this worry and anxiety to the children themselves, making them solicitous. It is probable that our memories are like our stature. They are what they are. By thinking we cannot add a cubit to the one nor facility to the other. The training of the memory is a very small element compared to the natural faculty. It must not be forgotten, however, that many distinguished men have been noted for rather bad memories when they were young and yet these faculties have developed quite enough to enable them to accomplish good work afterwards. The memory is, after all, a comparatively unimportant faculty in itself and other intellectual faculties surpass it in significance. It is the faculty that first develops, however, and so a child is often thought to be intellectually slow when it has not so bright a memory as its companions, though a little later its other faculties may develop so as to put it on a plane above its fellows. Memories, too, are very individual and may not retain any of the ordinary subjects, while they may be very attentive for certain special lines of thought. This form of the faculty is better, for the encyclopedic memory is usually of little use and, except in high degrees, encourages superficiality rather than real knowledge.
As a matter of fact, few of our greatest thinkers have had what would be called brilliant memories and it would almost seem as though the diversion of mental energy to this faculty rather disturbed the development of the others. Many a distinguished man has been rather notorious as a child for bad memory, so that in the early days when memory was the only faculty called upon at school he was set down as a dunce. Perhaps the most striking example of this was Sir Isaac Newton, who was actually called a dunce, and yet the world would welcome a few other such dunces. Thomas of Aquin, the great medieval writer on philosophy and theology, who still influences philosophy so much, was so slow as a young man that he was called by his fellow pupils "the dumb ox." His great teacher, Albertus Magnus, recognized the depth of mind that his fellow students could not see and declared that the bellowings of that "ox" would be heard throughout the world. Sir Walter Scott was spoken of as a very backward child. This is all the more surprising to those who know and appreciate the wealth of information that he put into his Waverley Novels. Goldsmith, than whom we have no more brilliant writer in English, seemed not only a dunce as a child, but all his [{685}] life, so far as outward appearance went, was a numbsknll. This was due to a lack of readiness rather than any lack of wit.
Tricks of Memory.—Some tricks of memory may be very disturbing to those who are over-occupied with themselves and with the possibility of losing their memory. For their consolation it is well for the physician who hears their complaints to have at hand some stories that illustrate certain of these curious tricks of memory. I had been trying to persuade a literary woman for some time that it was not her memory that was playing her false, but merely her habit of attention and lack of concentration of mind on things because she is occupied with a great many interests, when one day she came to me with what she thought was absolutely convincing proof that her memory was going. She had read a passage in a newspaper the day before which she liked very much, but after reflection it sounded strangely like some of the things that she had thought along these lines herself. It was a quotation, but there was no indication to tell whence it came. A little inquiry, however, showed that the quotation was from an article of her own written only two years before. Here was definite proof of a failure of memory. Strange as it may seem, however, this experience is quite common. I feel sure that there is not a single writer for periodical literature who has not had similar experiences. Anyone who writes much editorially, where the articles are unsigned, finds it rather difficult two or three years later, as a rule, to be absolutely sure which editorials are his. Occasionally it happens that even by the time the proof comes back for monthly periodicals, say six weeks or two months, some at least of what was written may seem quite unfamiliar. This will be particularly true if phases of the same subjects have been treated in successive articles and thus repetitions are caused.
There is plenty of good warrant for such occurrences in the lives of distinguished writers. Scott once heard a song in a drawing-room that he did not care for very much and he said rather contemptuously, "Oh! that's some of Byron's stuff." His attention was called to the fact that he was the author of the stuff himself. Carlyle confessed to Froude when Froude went over some of the passages of Carlyle's own autobiography with him, that he had quite forgotten some of the things written down there. Manzoni, the distinguished Italian writer, whose "I Promessi Sposi" has probably been more read throughout Europe than any novel written during the nineteenth century, except possibly some of Scott's, tells some stories of his own lapses of memory and, above all, of having once quoted a sentence of his own to confirm something that he was saying, though he confessed that he did not know by whom the quotation had been written.
Memory and Low Grade Intelligence.—There are many people who complain of their memory and of their inability to recall many things which others recall without difficulty. They are prone to think that this is some defect in them and not infrequently, as a consequence of comparisons, they persuade themselves that their memory was better and that it has lost some of its qualities. Until they became familiar with some of the feats of memory possible of performance by others, they were quite satisfied, but now they find in every instance of forgetting a new symptom of an increasingly deficient memory. I have found in these cases, that setting before such people some of the curiosities of memory, and especially the fact that memory is by no [{686}] means necessarily connected with profound intelligence, so that, indeed, its presence is quite compatible with a low grade of intelligence or even with what is practically idiocy, will do much to rob these gloomy forebodings of their terrors with regard to their own supposed deterioration of intellect. Ribot, in his "Diseases of Memory" [Footnote 52] has an excellent passage in which he sums up a number of these peculiarities of memory that are likely to be especially consolatory to people of ordinary memory who are worrying about themselves.
[Footnote 52: International Scientific Series, D. Appleton & Co., New York.]
It has long been observed that in many idiots and imbeciles the senses are very unequally developed; thus, the hearing may be of extreme delicacy and precision, while the other senses are blunted. The arrest of development is not uniform in all respects. It is not surprising, then, that general weakness of memory should co-exist in the same subject with evolution and even hypertrophy of a particular memory. Thus certain idiots, insensible to all other impressions, have an extraordinary taste for music, and are able to retain an air which they have once heard. In rare instances there is a memory for forms and colors, and an aptitude for drawing. Cases of memory of figures, dates, proper names, and words in general, are more common. An idiot "could remember the day when every person in the parish had been buried for thirty-five years, and could repeat with unvarying accuracy the name and age of the deceased, and the mourners at the funeral. Out of the line of burials he had not one idea, could not give an intelligible reply to a single question, nor be trusted even to feed himself." Certain idiots, unable to make the most elementary arithmetical calculations, repeat the whole of the multiplication table without an error. Others recite, word for word, passages that have been read to them, and cannot learn the letters of the alphabet. Drobisch reports the following case of which he was an observer: A boy of fourteen, almost an idiot, experienced great trouble in learning to read. He had, nevertheless, a marvelous facility for remembering the order in which words and letters succeeded one another. When allowed two or three minutes in which to glance over the page of a book printed in a language which he did not know, or treating of subjects of which he was ignorant, he could, in the brief time mentioned, repeat every word from memory exactly as if the book remained open before him. The existence of this partial memory is so common that it has been utilized in the education of idiots and imbeciles. It is worth noting that idiots attacked by mania or some other acute disease frequently display a temporary memory. Thus, an idiot in a fit of anger told of a complicated incident of which he had been a witness long before, and which at the time seemed to have made no impression upon him.
Training Memory.—In recent years in many departments of therapeutics training has been found to be of value. This is especially true with regard to nervous defects. Probably one of the greatest surprises that nervous specialists have had in the last twenty-five years in the domain of therapeutics came from the introduction of Frenkel's methods of retraining the muscles in locomotor ataxia. This idea of retraining has been found useful in such distinct departments as the use of the eye muscles, the co-ordination of the muscles of speech, so as to get rid of stuttering and stammering, and the muscles of the hand for writing. We are only just beginning to realize that retraining can be of great value in psychic affections also. Patients may be disciplined against their dreads and tremulousness due to over-apprehension and against even certain defective uses of their intellect. Urbantschitsch of Vienna showed that by training defective hearing it might in many cases be very much improved. What he accomplished, however, was not [{687}] any better use of the external auditory apparatus, but a more intense attention of mind which enabled the patient to catch and understand sounds which had hitherto been so vague that their significance was lost.
In a number of cases of complaint of loss of memory I have deliberately set patients to retrain their memories and have at least relieved their apprehensions if I have not always succeeded in increasing their actual memory power. It has even seemed, however, that in old people some actual improvement of the memory faculties was thus brought about. Under the head of Occupation of Mind I have referred to the exercise of memory in younger people as representing an excellent form of mental diversion. When the idea first suggested itself it seemed as though patients would not take to it at all, and yet I have found that with a little persuasion they become much interested and find a great deal of pleasure in their gradually increasing power to recall the great thoughts of great authors in the literal original words. A reference to that chapter will tell more of my experience. This made me more confident of the possibilities there were of making people understand that if they were losing their memories they could bring them back by proper exercise. In this way many of the modern evils of lack of attention and of failure of concentration of mind can be corrected.
My rule now is to tell patients who come complaining of loss of memory that if there is any real loss of memory it is due to their improper use of the faculty, or perhaps to their failure to exercise it sufficiently, for the proper performance of function depends on adequate exercise. They are then instructed to take certain simple classical bits of literature and commit them to memory. At the beginning such short poems with frequently repeated rhymes of the modern poets as are comparatively easy to learn are set as memory exercises. Later Goldsmith's "Traveler" and "Deserted Village" are suggested. Then passages from Shakeaspeare are given. Just as soon as the patient finds that he can commit to memory as he used to, if he only gives himself to the task, a change comes over his ideas with regard to the loss of memory. For many of these people the occupation of mind is an excellent therapeutic measure. Besides selections can be made in such a way as to keep before their minds the thoughts they most need in the shape of memory lessons. It is a discipline of memory that revives it and also a constant exercise in favorable suggestion.
Gregor in the Monattschrift für Psychiatrie und Neurologie, Band XXI, has detailed some of his experiences with the retraining of the memory of patients suffering from Korsakoff's Psychosis—alcoholic neuritis with psychic disturbances, especially of memory. The patient was required to learn words and then after a certain length of time was tested to see if he could learn a similar series with fewer repetitions than at first. The memory increased in capacity with the exercises and there was evidently a definite gain in the faculty. In this disease patients have also lost the power to some degree at least of recognizing objects. After exercises in recognition they are much more capable in this matter, however, and it is evident that in every way the memory can be improved. This experience, with a serious form of disease that gravely impairs the memory, shows how much can be accomplished in circumstances far more unfavorable than are those which usually bring patients to the physician complaining of deficiencies of memory.
CHAPTER XI
PSYCHIC CONTAGION
The term psychic contagion is often thought of as merely figurative. It is, however, quite literal. Many minds are influenced by what they see happening round them and induced to imitate the activities of others. The term psychic contagion is so thoroughly descriptive of what happens that it deserves the place that it has secured.
Everywhere and at all times we find historical traces of psychic contagion compelling people to perform in crowds or groups the most curious and inexplicable and sometimes the most horrible things. Even in the old myths before the times of the Trojan War, we have the story of hysteria spreading among the daughters of King Proteus, so that the famous old physician, Pelampus, had to administer white hellebore in goat's milk in order to relieve them. It is probable that this rather heroic remedy with its definite effect upon the bowels produced such a revulsion of feeling as to cure the hysteria. Anyone who has read the awful tragedy that Euripides has written in the Bacchae will have had brought home to him a typical example of psychic contagion. The queen mother in the midst of one of the Bacchic orgies kills her own son in the frenzy that has come from the religious excitement exaggerated by the association of a number of women in the religious rites of the god Bacchus. It is well understood that this was not a case of drunkenness, but of psychic intoxication.
Phrygian Bacchantes are described as overcome from time to time by paroxysms of curious uncontrollable automatic movements with or without disturbance of consciousness. This represents the earliest form of what came to be known afterwards as St. Vitus Dance when it spread among a number of people. Such manifestations were not at all uncommon in the East in the earlier days and they have continued during all history. In Hindustan epidemics of automatic movements, evidently choreic in character, have been known for many centuries under the name of lapax. Outbreaks of this kind were common in the Middle Ages and Paracelsus has described them as happening early in the sixteenth century. At any time the occurrence of an hysterical seizure in a crowded hall, and especially in a schoolroom, will lead to other hysterical manifestations. A case of chorea will induce imitative movements in susceptible bystanders that may be quite uncontrollable. Tics of various kinds are readily picked up by children and special care must be exercised to prevent their spread. In general the state of mind is extremely important in all these conditions and they can be influenced favorably only through the mind.
Contagions Trifles.—Perhaps the extent to which psychic contagion influences us can be seen better in little things than anywhere else. Everyone knows how contagious yawning is. Again and again observations have been made while actors were yawning upon the stage. Nearly everyone in the theater begins to yawn in a few minutes and, in spite of the most determined [{689}] efforts, every now and then even the most serious-minded elderly gentleman in the audience finds himself unconsciously joining in. It seems foolish and to an onlooker appears almost prearranged. It is only necessary, however, to yawn a few times in a street car, especially at night, to have many imitators. Nearly the same thing is true of all respiratory phenomena. Sighing, for instance, is quite contagious. Coughing is often as much the result of imitation as anything else. At certain pauses in church services a preliminary cough is heard and then some scattering coughs here and there, like the musketry of scouts, and then a whole battery of coughs is let off, especially if it is in the winter time, because nearly everybody within hearing is tempted to cough. To talk about yawning or coughing or sighing before some people is almost sure to produce a tendency to these manifestations. These apparently trivial happenings help to explain many phenomena of human imitation in more serious things.
Most of the phenomena associated with expression are liable to be initiated as the result of imitation. Laughing, for instance, is particularly contagious among young folks and is especially likely to be insuppressible when they wish to be particularly solemn. At religious services it takes but little to make people laugh and giggle, no matter how much they may wish to be dignified and reverential. A few giggling girls will sometimes disturb a serious service. Extremes are particularly prone to meet in this matter and the sublime easily becomes the ridiculous. A titter will set off even the best intentioned of young folks in spite of resolutions to the contrary. Crying has something of the same contagious nature, though it is not quite so strong, but among women tears are particularly likely to evoke tears. The epidemic of curious manifestations of expression, usually of an hysterical nature, that we know by tradition to have spread in communities in the Middle Ages and much later, are only typical examples of this tendency for modes of expression to be contagious to an exaggerated degree.
Expectoration is largely dependent on imitation, sometimes conscious, of course, but often quite unconscious. In the recent crusade organized to prevent the spread of tuberculosis the question of expectoration as a diffusing agent of the bacilli has given a new importance to observations on this subject. It is recognized that we have "a spitting sex" and that men spit from force of habit, boys imitate them, while women and girls almost never spit. There is no reason in the world why when men and women are engaged in the same occupations there should be any difference in this regard between them, yet employers know how hard it is to keep corners and by-places in the rooms where men work free from expectoration, while no such difficulty is found where women work. We have a spitting sex because of psychic contagion, and in spite of the fact that there are serious dangers connected with the habit. What is true of spitting may also be true of other habits relating to the respiratory passages. Hawking and blowing the nose more frequently than is needed are spread by psychic contagion and certain habits in these matters that are injurious to the respiratory apparatus often require considerable effort to break.
Fads and Health.—Enlightened as we think ourselves, we have many more examples of psychic contagion in the present than we would perhaps care to admit, unless the facts were called to our special attention. [{690}] At a particular period in the modern time it becomes the fad to do things in a special way. We write alike, we build our houses after a common type. We take our recreation in a particular fashion. Bicycling comes in and goes out; roller skating attacks nearly every one of the young folks and then is abandoned. There are fashions in everything and fashions, after all, are recurring instances of psychic contagion. The mental influence spreads from one to another. It may be that a particular fashion, as in houses or in clothes, is especially ugly. That makes no difference. After a time taste revolts against it, but in the meantime the psychic contagion is enough to overturn the canons of taste. There are fashions in literature, or at least what is called literature. The nature novel comes and goes, then the novel of adventure has its place, then the detective novel, after a time the little-country prince or princess and their romance comes into fashion. After a time we realize that these are passing fancies, but in the meantime they have influenced many people.
Some of these fashions bring conditions that are deleterious to health. The moving-picture show in places that almost never have a stime of sunlight in them and are, in their way, quite as bad, especially for respiratory troubles, as the dust-laden atmosphere of the roller-skating rink, become the fad of the moment in spite of knowledge or ignorance of hygiene. Just now we are in the midst of a fad for fresh air, that, unfortunately, goes and comes with the centuries and we have no guarantee that people will not learn again to live in closely sealed houses. High heels come and go, as do corsets of various kinds, more or less injurious, in spite of the admonition of the physician. In fact, one of the most interesting studies in psychic contagion is the history of the fashions. A particular fashion, especially in its exaggerated forms, will probably look well on about one-fifth of the women at a given time. About four-fifths of them, however, adopt it in spite of the fact that on three-fifths it emphasizes certain qualities that it would be well to keep in the background. It is woman's principal desire to please, yet this is completely perverted by the psychic epidemic of fashion which causes people to follow after others quite as much as did the medieval people in various fads that attracted attention and have come down to us.
Our enlightenment, at least in as far as that word means general diffusion of the ability to read, has rather added to the power of psychic contagion. People accept ideas from others almost as unconsciously as they catch disease from those suffering from it. The psychology of advertising shows how easy it is to make people accept things just by insisting on them and by frequent repetitions of statements. The psychology of the proprietary medicine business in modern times is about as typical an example of psychic contagion induced deliberately as one could well imagine. Those who stop to reason do not fall victims. Most people, however, do not stop to reason. They have not the mental resistive vitality to render them immune to the influence of certain irrationalities and so literally hundreds of millions of dollars have been spent on perfectly useless, oftentimes harmful drugs, which people had become persuaded through the psychic contagium of printer's ink were sure to do them good. The psychology of the mob has been studied somewhat in recent years and it shows how clear it is that men follow after one another in doing foolish things even more than in doing wise ones. Psychic contagion is a prominent factor in life, it always has been, is now, and evidently always [{691}] will be, and must be reckoned with by anyone who wishes to recognize the principles that underlie psychotherapy.
Suicide Contagions.—It is with regard to much more serious things than fashions, however, that psychic contagion is most manifest. For instance, there is no doubt that suicide is frequently the result of such psychic influence. Seldom does it happen that a very queer suicide is reported without there being certain imitations of it more or less complete in various parts of the country afterwards. There is no doubt that the reporting of suicides has a serious effect in this matter. Perhaps the most striking example of this that we have ever had in America was the well-known suicidal epidemic at Emporia, Kansas, which reached its height just about the middle of June, 1901. Two or three well-known people in town committed suicide at the end of May and the beginning of June. A veritable epidemic of suicide broke out as a consequence. Nothing seemed to stop it and the authorities were much disturbed. Finally it was agreed that the most potent influence in bringing about the imitation of the epidemic was the publication of the details of the suicides in the papers. The Mayor of the city, after consulting with the Board of Health, decided to issue the following proclamation:
I have consulted the Board of Health, and if the Emporia papers do not comply with my request I shall have a right to stop, and I will stop summarily, the publication of these suicide details, under the law providing for the suppression of epidemics. There is clearly an epidemic in this city, and although it is mental, it is none the less deadly. Its contagion may be clearly shown to come from what is known in medicine as the psychic suggestion found in the publication of the details of suicides. If the paper on which the local Journals are printed had been kept in a place infected with smallpox, I could demand that the Journals stop using that paper, or stop publication. If they spread another contagion—the contagious suggestion of suicide—I believe the liberty of the press is not to be considered before the public welfare, and that the courts would sustain me in using force to prevent the publication of newspapers containing matter clearly deleterious to the public health.
Murder.—In almost the same way murders prove contagious. Especially is this true of murder and suicide together. These occur notably in groups. A man who is downhearted and for whom the future looks blank, will, out of a sense of pity for those who are dependent on him, murder them and himself; then the brutal story is reported and another tottering intellect gives way and a similar story has to be told within a few days. A mother who is melancholic about her health and includes her children in her gloomy outlook makes away with them and herself. Within a few days a similar story is reported because of the influence of psychic contagion. Very often there are distinct imitations of the methods employed in the first case. Often, however, it is only the idea itself that has proved contagious. There is no doubt that this suggestion brings about subsequent cases when otherwise such an awful thought might not occur. The connection is too clear for us to doubt the reality of it or to think that it is mere coincidence. As in Emporia, doubtless the suppression of the description of such events would have a beneficial effect. There are many disequilibrated minds, apparently just tottering on the verge of an insane act of this kind, that are pushed over by the suggestion furnished by the details of another story.
Place of Psychic Contagion.—The physician who would treat nervous patients successfully and use psychotherapeutics to advantage must recognize the place that psychic contagion has in influencing the generality of mankind. We know that direct suggestions are profoundly influential. It must be constantly kept in mind, however, that indirect suggestion, suggestion that does not come by any formal method, but that is represented by the examples of those around, also has great weight.
Favorable Influence.—Fortunately it is not alone for evil that psychic contagion is manifest. People in a crowd stand fatigue better than when alone. Soldiers marching in step do not notice their tiredness to such a degree and even forget their sore feet. People suffering from hunger, so long as there is a good spirit among them, will help each other to bear it. The accidents in coal mines in recent years in which men have been imprisoned for considerable periods have shown that in groups they stand the hardships of confinement and of lack of food and water better than they do when alone, men live longer, they do not suffer so much or at least their suffering is not so insistent, and they bear up better.
This has been particularly noticed in the cures at various watering places. The very air of the place takes on a favorable suggestion that is helpful to patients. The routine, the hopefulness of those who are completing the cure, the stories of improvement, the evident betterment, all these things combine to give a psychic contagion of health. Health is, in this sense, quite as contagious as disease. This must be taken advantage of just as far as possible for the advantage of patients. On the other hand, ideas are contagious for ill and patients may derive from their environment notions that prove auto-suggestive and against which it is extremely difficult to work. Ideas derived from the general feelings of those around, without any direct suggestion, may become obsessions. The physician, therefore, must be ready to secure prophylaxis against psychic contagion and then by counter-suggestion relieve the patient, who has become afflicted by it, of the resulting disturbance of mind. It must not be forgotten that, instead of being less susceptible as education and civilization progress, people really become more susceptible.
Psychology of the Mob.—The most interesting instance of psychic contagion is the tendency just hinted at for crowds to run away with the sober judgment of serious sensible people that happen to be among them and do things that may be extremely regrettable. A mob always follows the suggestions of the worst elements in it unless perchance there is some extremely strong character who asserts himself and imposes his views on the rest. The tendencies to panic, to cowardly flight, sometimes to destructiveness, that come over crowds represent the power of psychic contagion to override reason. An alarm of fire will, if a few persons lose their heads, lead to the most serious consequences. Persons trample over one another, pull and maul one another, sometimes even pulling out hair or pulling off ears in their insane efforts to escape what is often an imaginary danger, though a few moments before they were rational beings and they will be quite reasonable a short time after. It is possible, however, to overcome even the worst tendencies in human nature by the suggestive power of discipline. Fire drills in schools enable children to get out in a few minutes without confusion when without them the most serious results could be looked for. Discipline and training, [{693}] following commands and observing tactics, helps an army almost more than the individual courage of soldiers. The suggestive influence of the thought that now is the time to do something that has often been done before at the word of command is enough to enable the soldier to control his panicky feelings. The difference between the trained soldier and the raw recruit is great, but it consists only in this mental discipline and self-control.
Prevention.—Evidently, then, in the many circumstances in life in which psychic contagion manifests itself it is perfectly possible to overcome its influence by such discipline and mental training as gives the individual control over himself. In children corporal punishment is often not effective in breaking up habits and tendencies and the motive of fear often lessens self-control and makes conditions worse. In older people the fear of punishment is likely to be forgotten, whereas the suggestion of discipline will assert itself powerfully. Psychic contagion can be neutralized by psychotherapy, but its force in life must be recognized and its unfavorable influence guarded against. While it concerns mainly the less serious things of life, it may affect the most serious and imitation leads even to such serious criminal acts as suicide and murder. The modes of psychic contagion, then, must be constantly under surveillance.
With this before us it is extremely interesting to realize how unfavorably suggestive for human health and happiness are our newspapers. They are constantly suggesting disease and suicide and murder and sex crimes and crimes against property, by giving all the details available with regard to these subjects. Such news can do no good, only excites morbid curiosity which requires still further satisfaction in the same line, and keeps thoughts with regard to these things constantly before the mind. We have had many burglaries and holdups and stealings of various kinds as a consequence of boys and even girls seeing the pictures of crimes in the moving-picture show. The saturation of mind with disease and crime produced by daily reading of unsavory and sensational newspaper accounts is sure to produce evil effects. There seems to be consolation for some people in reading of the crimes and punishments of others because they feel that, bad as is their own state, there are others who are worse. This schadenfreude, "harm-joy" as the Germans call it, is not satisfying to think of for human nature and it has an inevitable reaction through the unfavorable suggestion of these crimes.
I have found over and over again that the prohibition of reading the newspapers for a time did many nervous people much good. This is particularly true for sufferers from such forms of psychasthenia as bring down on them dreads and premonitions of evil in fears for the development of disease and in general a sense of instability with regard to the future, lest dreadful things should happen to them. At first patients object strenuously and seem to be deprived of a great satisfaction. After a time, however, they are invariably persuaded of the fact that the absence of mental contact with human misfortune, in this morbid way, is doing them good and that their dreads and premonitory feelings of evil drop from them.
SECTION XIX
DISORDERS OF WILL
CHAPTER I
ALCOHOLISM
In recent years so much has been said about addiction to alcohol as a disease rather than as a habit that the treatment of it frankly as a disease in psychotherapeutics, even though there be not entire readiness to agree with those who emphasize exclusively the pathological interest of these cases, will not seem surprising. It is with regard to the various habits, drug and alcoholic, occurring in neurotic subjects that psychotherapy proves most effective and has secured some of its real triumphs. As a matter of fact, it has long been conceded that all of the so-called cures for alcoholism are dependent for their success upon the mental effect produced upon the patient. Most of them emphasize the necessity for building up the physical condition of the patient as a necessary preliminary to any lasting cure. There is no doubt that the powers of resistance of a man whose physical health has been seriously impaired by over-indulgence in alcohol and the lack of food and irregular sleep and exposure to the elements that so frequently accompany it, will not be sufficient to enable him to break off the alcohol habit, nor afford him the ability to inhibit the craving for stimulants, that he would have in a state of health. On the other hand, even in good health, unless his moral character is braced up, there will surely be a return to his old habit.
Historical Résumé of Cures.—We have had many different cures for alcoholism exploited during the last half century. The older method of the first inebriate asylums founded in this country was to give a man a disgust for liquor, as it was then called, by putting a small amount of alcohol into practically everything that he consumed. This did not give him enough to satisfy his craving, but it did create in him an intense distaste for it by constantly keeping the flavor before him. There was a drop or two of whiskey in his tea, there was some whiskey in his milk, there was a taste of it in the water that he drank, there was some of it mixed even in the gravy of his meat, and he always had weak brandy sauce on his dessert. The consequence was, in most cases, such a complete disgust for liquor that men were sure that they would never touch it again. Of course, in the meantime they were fed well and heartily, they were kept in an environment free from temptations to excessive indulgence in alcoholic drinks, they had brought home to them what a mess they were making of their lives and their health, they had time to reflect what ruin they were bringing on themselves and their families and usually they [{695}] recognized that they were the kind of men who must stay away from alcohol absolutely, for whom there could be no such thing as a moderate indulgence in stimulants. This, with the intense distaste for alcohol, amounting almost to nausea at the sight of it, acquired from the system in vogue, started them well on the road to reform.
Moral Cures.—It was the moral elements in the cure, however, that were the most important, though its inventors were sure that the physical elements played the largest role. The physical disgust for alcohol consequent upon having its taste constantly recur in everything at table passed off in a few weeks or at the most a few months. It was then that the moral uplift came in and had to be effective if the patient was to be preserved for the future from his old habit. If he was of a weak and flabby character, if, unfortunately, he was placed in circumstances where temptations were frequent, if, owing to the enforced absence in the inebriate asylum his business affairs had become involved and he was subject to many worries, then almost surely he dropped back. As a result his case was even more hopeless than before and, indeed, second cures were seldom of much benefit, for the man's confidence in himself was gone.
All in all, however, this old-time, simple method probably produced as large a proportion of "real cures" as any other method, even the much advertised and discussed scientific discoveries of modern times. All of us have heard stories of men who had seemed to be hopeless drunkards, who were thus reformed and hundreds of men who appeared to be drifting into hopeless inebriety were reformed to such an extent that they became not only useful members of society and supports to their families where they had before been a drain, but even became leaders in the work of uplifting the character of others to resist the temptation of over-indulgence in stimulants.
Modern Cures.—Of late we have had a number of "cures" for alcoholism widely exploited by well-directed advertising in the hands of men who realized what a fortune there was in this sort of thing and who actually have made immense sums of money out of them. Needless to say these "cures," though supposed to be secret, did not long remain so. Perhaps the most famous of them, the one whose institutes were found all over the country, was said to have used only two drugs, strychnin and apomorphin. The strychnin was given as a needed and well-chosen tonic for the physical condition of the patients who came to the institution usually in a rather seriously broken down condition. When patients began the treatment they were distinctly told that if they wanted whiskey at any time they could have it, but that the next injection of the "cure" after they took the whiskey would show how directly opposed to alcohol the ingredients of it were, by producing vomiting and prostration.
As a rule, the patients came in perfectly confident of the effect of the remedy they had heard so much of. The strychnin injections made an excellent tonic for these nervous wrecks, bracing them up at once so that they felt better from the very beginning and this betterment was confirmed by the growing assurance from the physician and the patients around them that now, at last, they were to be relieved of their degrading habit. To those whose craving for alcohol returned in spite of the favorable condition in which they were placed and the stimulation of the strychnin, which made up so well, as a [{696}] rule, for the absence of their accustomed alcohol, whiskey was actually allowed. When the next time for their injection came, however, these patients who had been given whiskey on their request did not now receive an injection of strychnin but instead a small injection of apomorphin. The apomorphin acted promptly in making the stomach relieve itself and produced a complete and immediate sense of prostration. The limpness and discomfort of seasickness is as nothing compared to the state that, as a rule, develops after such treatment. Anyone who has ever had to handle, in a hospital, a wildly drunk, long-shoreman, whose brute strength in his irrational condition made him a dangerous object for patients and physicians, who has seen even large doses of morphin fail to produce quiet, and then has felt bound for the patient's sake as well as those around him, to administer a tenth of a grain of apomorphin with the result of having an eminently tractable patient in a few minutes, will have a good idea of what happened to the poor alcoholic who got apomorphin instead of strychnin.
After that the inebriate knew that any further indulgence in liquor would be followed by this extremely unpleasant result and so he had a new argument for avoiding it. After a month or six weeks of careful treatment, the preliminary rest that would restore physical health and strength being followed by a course of exercise in the open air with plenty of good food, pleasant surroundings, and hope constantly held out to them, it is no wonder that these patients went out of the sanitariums as a rule confident that their habit was conquered for good. In many cases this proved to be true. It was soon found, however, that there were many relapses. This hurt the prestige of the "cure" and the gradual diffusion of this idea spoiled its effectiveness. It still continued to do good, however, and though it has been modified in various ways, and, indeed, in various parts of the country is said to be applied quite differently, there are still many reformations worked by these cures every year and they undoubtedly do good. The secret of its success, however, is not any marvelous drug or other mode of treatment that is employed, but is because the victims of alcoholism are given an opportunity to retrieve their physical condition and then to brace up their moral characters so as to resist their craving for alcohol.
Mental Influence.—Other so-called cures and treatments have followed almost exactly similar lines. The main element in the cure has been the producing in the mind of the patient a definite idea that he can stay away from liquor if he really wishes to and then helping his run-down physical condition so that he craves stimulants less than before. Whenever such "sure cures" are used on the worst forms of alcoholic patients as we see them in the large general hospitals of our greater cities, the bums of the streets, the drunkards of a score of years or more, they have practically no effect. The man must have moral stamina, he must have some character left, besides, as a rule, he must have some good reasons in worldly interest to help him to brace up and then he may get away from alcoholism if he sincerely wills to reform. The important element, however, is the will to do so. If he is firmly convinced that he cannot stay away from liquor, if he feels in spite of all that has been done for him that he cannot resist his craving, then, of course, he will not reform. Men, however, who have sunk to the lowest depths, who, according to their own and others' testimony, have scarcely drawn a [{697}] sober breath for ten or even twenty years, sometimes have something happen to them, often it seems very trivial to everyone but themselves, that stiffens their relaxed moral fiber, that wakens their sense of manhood, that serves quite beyond expectation to give them a new purpose in life, and they reform and never drink again.
It is this successful phase of the cure of alcoholism, however it may be explained, that is most interesting. It represents the most encouraging aspect of the whole question. Probably nothing more harmful has ever been done than the public proclamation that alcoholism is often an hereditary disease against which it is hopeless to struggle, and that the poor victims of it are to be pitied and not blamed. Except in those of low mentality, whether of intellect or will, or in the actually insane, there never was a case of alcoholism that did not deserve at least as much blame as is usually accorded to it. This is said after making due allowances for temperament. It is quite clear that for one man alcohol has no attractions at all, while for another the craving for it is almost an insuperable temptation. It is idle to say that these two contrasted men are equally free as to whether they shall take alcohol or not. Of course they are not equally free. If the man who has no craving for alcohol prides himself on his power of resistance against the vile habit, he is simply fooling himself. He probably knows nothing about the real nature of the temptation of alcohol. The Spaniards have a proverb: "He who doesn't drink wine and doesn't smoke, the devil gets by some other way." There is probably something else with regard to which the non-alcoholic has quite as little freedom as the poor victim of alcoholism and the great law of compensation comes in to make up to both of them, for their failings. Man has the defects of his virtues.
Supposed Inheritance.—No man is such a slave to the habit, however, that he cannot correct it if he will. We have heard much about the inheritance of this disease. We have heard even more about its essentially morbid character, though people used to think it a moral defect. It must still be considered a moral defect, however, even though we all concede that there is an element of the pathological in it. We are getting away entirely from the ordinary idea of inheritance of disease. There is no inheritance of acquired characters. The fact that a man's father acquired the drinking habit because he was placed in circumstances where it was easy for him to indulge himself and because he did not have the moral stamina to resist, is no reason why his son should have an unconquerable or even a very strong craving for alcohol. One might as well say that because a father lost a finger when he was young his son would be born without that finger. Alcohol destroyed certain cells in the father's body and injured certain others, but produced no change deep enough to lead to hereditary influences.
Contagion More than Heredity.—Perhaps some tendency to take alcohol runs in a family, that is, perhaps there is lessened resistance to the craving for stimulants that awakens in every human being if it is once aroused. This is what is true in tuberculosis. Some people have less resistive vitality to it than others. Careful autopsies show that practically every man who lives to be over thirty has or has had living tubercle bacilli in his tissues. Seven-eighths of us are thoroughly able to resist them. The other eighth succumbs. Their lack of resistive vitality may in some degree be due to hereditary taint, [{698}] but that is doubtful and we know that they acquire the disease by contact with others who have it already and, as a rule, it is able to work its ravages because they are not living in conditions that would help them to resist it. If they live in the free open air and have plenty of good, simple food, the disease will not run its fatal course, but nature will cure it. If the craving for alcohol is lighted up by association, aroused by indulgence, rendered strong by environment and by exposure to temptations of all kinds with regard to it, then the resistive power of the individual is so lowered that the alcoholic habit rules him instead of his being able to command it.
Inherited Resistance.—The most curious fact that has come out in our studies of heredity in recent years has been that far from heredity working its will in causing degeneration and deterioration of mankind, immunity, for the race at least, is acquired in the course of subjection to disease and to various morbid habits. Nations, for instance, that have been subjected to diseases for long periods no longer display the susceptibility to them which they formerly possessed. After a disease has been endemic among a people for many generations that people gradually becomes quite insusceptible to its effects and suffers much less from it than before.
Just this same thing is true of alcoholism. Nations that have been the longest in a position to be subject to the temptation to use alcohol in its stronger forms suffer least from the ravages of alcoholism. The southern nations of Europe using wine daily and knowing well the process of distillation to help them to make stronger drink for many hundreds of years, now exhibit much less tendency to over-indulgence in strong drink than the northern nations whose ancestors have only in comparatively recent times been subjected to the temptation of craving for strong alcoholic liquors. The attitude of any nation toward alcohol is a function of the length of time that nation has had a chance to procure strong drink easily. Our American Indians discovered, as has every people at some time, that intoxicating liquor could be made by allowing solutions of starch and sugar to ferment. It was only with the coming of the European, however, that they were provided with "fire water"—strong drink—in quantities. Its effect on them is a matter of history. Two things the white man brought his Indian brother to which the Indians were unaccustomed and that gradually obliterated the original inhabitants of this country—infectious diseases and strong alcoholic liquors. They proved equally fatal because of Indian susceptibility to them.
From these considerations it is clear that just such an immunity to the effect of alcohol is produced in a people exposed to its effects in concentrated form for a long time as with regard to an infectious disease when they have been correspondingly exposed to it. Heredity, then, instead of playing a role that brings about deterioration in the race, on the contrary, carries on the higher qualities and gives us, as might be expected in the course of evolution, a better, that is, a more resistant, race. Most of what is commonly said as to alcoholism, and unfortunately most of the recent so-called popular scientific articles on this subject, seem to point to just the opposite conclusion to this. Men are supposed to be condemned by heredity to an inevitable craving to take alcoholic drinks that, in certain of them at least, cannot be overcome by any natural power of resistance. At this stage of our western civilization this is not true for anyone, as the more susceptible families have been long [{699}] since eliminated and it is a personal weakness and not a family characteristic that leads people to indulge this appetite to their own destruction.
Unfavorable Suggestion of Heredity Idea.—An alcoholic patient, or even a man with only a moderately strong tendency to take alcohol to excess, who harbors any such notion as this, has a serious impediment to the full exercise of his will in overcoming the difficulties that he encounters in any attempt at reform. In going counter to so much that has been written and still more that has been said and generally accepted on this subject I feel it necessary to quote a good recent authority on the matter and so here insert these passages from "The Principles of Heredity" by Dr. Archdall Reid. [Footnote 53] He says (p. 157):
[Footnote 53: Author of "The Present Evolution of Man," "Alcoholism," "A Study in Heredity," etc. Chapman and Hall, London, 1905.]
Formerly all the world believed in the transmission of acquirements, and consequently all the world was constantly finding conclusive evidence of its constant occurrence. To-day there is hardly a rag of that evidence left, and, with rare exceptions, only certain French medical observers are able to discover fresh evidence. It is a remarkable fact, however, that the problem of evolution—of adaptation—has excited singularly little interest in France, and it is equally curious that these French observations relate almost entirely to laboratory work which it is not easy to repeat. In Great Britain or Germany, you may cut off the tails of a thousand dogs, or amputate the limbs of a thousand men, or observe the non-infected offspring of a thousand tuberculous patients, and get no evidence of transmission.
With regard to alcohol Dr. Reid in the same volume insists on the proposition that alcohol does not cause degeneration of a race, creating, as is claimed, ever more and more a tendency for people to take it because their immediate ancestors have taken it, but, on the contrary, there is a distinct evolution against it, and that what is hereditary, not by acquisition, but by family trait, is an immunity against the disease which eventually protects the nations that have been longest exposed to the effects of alcohol from the evil consequences of the substance. He says (p. 196):
How, then, has alcohol affected the races that have used it? Are the Jews and the races inhabiting the South of Europe the most degenerate on earth? Are North Europeans only less degenerate? Are the races that have never used alcohol, the Terra del Fuegians, the Esquimaux, and the Australian blacks, for instance, mentally and physically the finest in the world? We have only to state the proposition to see its absurdity. There is no evidence that the hereditary tendencies of any race have been altered by alcohol circulating in the blood and acting directly on the germ plasm. Once again the sufferings of the peoples have produced no effect, but the deaths among the peoples have produced an immense effect. Every race that has had experience of alcohol is temperate in the presence of an abundant supply in proportion to the length and severity of its past experience of the poison. The South Europeans and the Jews are the most temperate peoples in the world. West Africans also are very temperate. North Europeans are not drunken. Those savages, and those only, who have had little or no experience of alcohol—Esquimaux, Red Indians, Patagonians, Terra del Fuegians, Australian blacks—are beyond all the peoples the most drunken on earth.
Lest it should be thought that this discussion of the subject is only of significance with regard to nations and does not touch the individual, and, therefore, has but little significance for the problem that we are treating here. Dr. Reid's succeeding paragraph deserves attention:
Stated in this brief and direct way, the thesis is apt to excite incredulity. It is sharply opposed to popular beliefs, though that need not trouble us. Popular notions on abstruse points of science are occasionally erroneous. Of more importance is the fact that a mass of statistics purporting to prove that the children of drunkards tend to be degenerate has been compiled, especially by medical men in charge of lunatic asylums. But no "control" observations appear to have been made. We know that many drunken parents have normal children; certainly, therefore, parental drunkenness is not invariably a cause of filial degeneration. We know also that many temperate parents have defective children. There is nothing to show that the proportion is greater in the one case than in the other. Even were it established that the proportion of defective children is higher in the case of drunken parents, it would still have to be proved that the relation is one of cause and effect. People who have an inborn tendency to mental defect, who are abnormally depressed, nervous, restless or irritable, are often so constituted as to find solace in drink. Their children are liable to inherit their inborn mental defects with spontaneous variations—that is, to inherit the defect to a greater or lesser extent. The unborn child of a drunken and pregnant mother is practically another drunken person, as liable, or more liable to suffer from the effects of drink; but in such a case the resulting defect, though a mere acquirement, is tolerably certain to be regarded as a congenital (i. e. inborn) defect by the medical man who sees it. Mere acquirements, also, are the defects due to the ill-treatment, want and neglect to which the children of drunken parents are particularly exposed. Indeed, were it fully established that drunken parents, other than pregnant mothers, tend to have an excessive number of their children "congenitally defective," it would still be a question whether the filial defects were not mere acquirements. Prof. Cossar Ewart's observations on diseased pigeons renders this not unlikely. All these sources of error render the success of a statistical inquiry peculiarly difficult, if not impossible, but there is no indication that they ever occurred to the minds of the compilers.
Warnings as Suggestions.—I have a case in my notes in which a rather prominent professional man insists that he is quite sure that the alcoholism from which he suffered during the ten years between twenty-five and thirty-five was entirely due to suggestion. As a boy of sixteen he had gone off to boarding school, but not until his mother had taken him aside, told him that his father had drunk himself to death, had done it by secret tippling, and that they had found that for many years he had been accustomed to have whiskey near him in his office and take it rather frequently. He had never tasted spirituous liquor at this time and his mother begged him not to, for she felt sure that if he did his father's craving would awaken in him and would become uncontrollable. The day that he went away his father's eldest brother took him aside and said practically the same thing to him. A maiden aunt was not quite so emphatic, but she, too, pleaded with him to understand all the dangers. For his first year at school he did not touch liquor, but in his second year he tasted it once or twice but had no particular craving aroused in him. By chance when he was home at Christmas time some college mates who were visiting him gave his mother the impression that he belonged to a rather jovial set. Once more he was warned by mother and uncle. Above all they told him never to keep strong drink near him because that was what his father used to do. During his college years the fear of this hung over him. He resented it and probably took more liquor than he would have so far as actual craving went. After getting out into active life once more he suggested himself into the habit of taking an occasional glass of whiskey by himself. After a time he was constantly taking too much. For [{701}] ten years he hurt all of his prospects, broke his mothers heart, and was looked upon as a hopeless alcoholic. Then one day the thought came to him that it was not that he craved alcohol so much, but that his thoughts turned on it constantly and at first he dreaded it overmuch, then wondered what attraction there could be and then acquired a habit by suggestion. Once this train of thought worked itself out in his mind, he quit spirituous liquors for good. For ten years he has not touched them, he does not care for them, they do not constitute a temptation.
It must not be forgotten that many warnings may so preoccupy the mind with regard to a danger as to constitute temptations by suggestion. This is eminently true of alcoholism, the drug habits, sex habits and the like, in spite of the foolish present-day notion that information and warning must necessarily be helpful. In all these, teaching may be suggestively harmful.
Prophylaxis.—The most important part of the treatment of alcoholism through mental influence is by prophylaxis, and that, to be effective, must begin very early. Just as with regard to overeating, as I have pointed out in the chapter on [Obesity], it is extremely important not to permit children to acquire habits with regard to alcohol when they are young. During the growing years the system, indeed one may say all the systems of the body—the nervous, the muscular, the digestive and the mental systems—are all more or less unstable. Deep impressions may be produced on them then, and if children are allowed, much less encouraged, during their growing years (and this includes practically all the years up to twenty-five) to indulge in alcohol, then one can look for the development of a craving very hard to eradicate later in life. Many of them will be able to conquer the desire thus awakened, but a great many of them will not. We have some very definite evidence on this point and some of it collected here in America is very valuable. Dr. Alexander Lambert of New York made a study of over 250 cases of alcoholism seen in the wards at Bellevue Hospital, paying special attention to the age at which the patients remembered they had begun the use of alcoholic liquors. If anyone doubts the influence of youth in this matter, then his statistics should be read:
Of 259 instances where the age of beginning to drink was known, four began before six years of age; thirteen between 6 and 12 years; sixty between 12 and 16; one hundred and two between 16 and 21; seventy-one between 21 and 30; and eight only after 30 years of age. Thus nearly seven per cent. began before 12 years of age, or the seventh school year; thirty per cent. began before the age of 16; and over two-thirds—that is, sixty-eight per cent.—began before 21 years of age.
Dr. Henry Smith Williams, commenting on Dr. Lambert's study of this subject in his article on "The Scientific Solution of the Liquor Problem," [Footnote 54] states emphatically the conclusion so inevitable from these statistics that more than anything else alcoholism is the result of habits and occasions created in early years. He adds some remarks that are worth noting for those who are interested in the prevention and cure of alcoholism, not only in particular cases, but also for the community:
[Footnote 54: McClure's Magazine, February. 1909.]
In the light of such facts, it is clear that the drink problem is essentially a problem of adolescence. The cumulative effects of alcoholic poisoning frequently fail to declare themselves fully until later in life; but the youth who does not taste liquor till his majority minimizes the danger of acquiring the habit in its most insistent form; and the man who does not drink until he is thirty is in no great danger of ever becoming a drunkard. As to the man who has passed forty—well, according to the old saw, he must be either a fool or his own physician. His habits of mind and body are formed, and if he becomes a drinker now he can at most curtail by a few years a life that is already entering upon the reminiscent stage. As factors in racial evolution, the youth of each successive generation, not its quadragenarians, are of interest and importance.
Treatment.—The conclusions that naturally flow from the historical introduction to this chapter which show mental influence as the basis of all cures, simplify very much the treatment of alcoholism on psychotherapeutic principles. There is no doubt that moral means are the only really effective remedies in this matter. They fail often, not because of any lack of power, but because of lack of co-operation on the part of the patient. There are men whose mentality and responsibility is breaking down, and who are on the way to the insane asylum for various causes, who cannot be thus influenced. They are, however, not alcoholics, but incipient insane patients likely to go to excess in any line. There is no pretense that psychotherapy will cure mental disorder that rises to the height of real insanity. On the other hand, just as after several relapses of tuberculosis due to the foolishness of the patient, further improvement by sanatorium treatment is usually out of the question, so each relapse of the alcoholic patient makes it increasingly difficult to bring about noteworthy improvement. There are examples, however, which demonstrate that even after seventy times seven relapses men may still encounter something that rouses their dormant wills to real activity and then their alcoholism is a thing of the past, for good and all.
Sanitarium Question.—There always comes the question whether these cases need to be sent to a sanitarium or can be treated at home. The answer to this question is the same for alcoholism as it is for tuberculosis or, indeed, for any of the exhaustive diseases. It all depends on the individual's physical condition and his circumstances. If tuberculosis is discovered, as it should be, at a very early stage in the disease—not when the patient is coughing up bacilli in large numbers and already has many physical signs in his lungs, but when he has a slight unproductive cough and over-rapid pulse and some prolongation of expiration at one apex—then he may be cared for at home, if the physician is confident that he can make his patient feel the absolute necessity for following instructions and can make him realize the seriousness of his condition in spite of the few symptoms that are present. If his environment is unfavorable, in a crowded tenement house or where an abundance of fresh air cannot be readily obtained, the patient may have to go to a sanitarium for proper treatment even at this early stage, or at least he will have to change his living conditions.
This question has received a very different answer in recent years from what used to be given to it. Formerly the physician hesitated to say "tuberculosis" to his patient until the disease was well advanced and then he advised the distant West or some other change of climate, though, as a rule, this brought only a palliation of symptoms, the case being too far advanced, and [{703}] the fatal termination came in the course of two or three years. Now the careful physician diagnoses tuberculosis much earlier, detects the disease in its incipiency, and is able to treat the patient at home quite successfully, if conditions are at all favorable. It is true he has to make him give up fatiguing occupations, and especially those in dusty places; he has to insist on his living out of doors a good part of the day, even though there should be no better means of securing this than the roof or a fire-escape, and on keeping his windows open all night. He has to watch his nutrition carefully and see that he gains in weight. If all this can be accomplished, however, there is no reason why a tuberculosis patient in the incipient state should not get better at home almost as well as he would at a sanitarium. The only difference between the two methods of treatment is that in a sanitarium the patient realizes that his one duty in life is to care for his health and he does not bother about other things, as he is likely to do if he remains at home.
If this precious development of teaching with regard to tuberculosis, which is founded on such thorough-going common sense and the application of good therapeutic principles to the treatment of the disease, be transferred to the sphere of alcoholism, then the answer to the question whether there shall be sanitarium treatment or not is practically arrived at. If the patient is in an early stage of his alcoholism, if the pathological character of his tendency to take intoxicants has been recognized and made clear to him early, then there is little difficulty in treating him at home. The crux of the problem is just that which occurred with regard to tuberculosis years ago. The physician does not take the early symptoms of the affection seriously enough. He does not want to disturb his patient's equanimity by the suggestion that he is in the incipient stage of alcoholism any more than a few years ago the family physician cared to suggest the awful thought of tuberculosis until the condition had reached a serious stage. But this is the essential preliminary to the successful treatment of alcoholism just as it is to the successful treatment of tuberculosis.
It is almost useless to send advanced cases of tuberculosis, in which cavity formation has already occurred, to a sanitarium. The course of their disease may be delayed for a while, but scarcely more than that. Their resistive vitality has been so overcome by the ravages of the disease that their ultimate cure seems beyond hope, yet not infrequently wonderful results are obtained even in these cases. Just this same thing is true with advanced cases of alcoholism. No one can do anything with them, though careful treatment in a sanitarium may, on a number of occasions, afford them opportunity to brace up and be themselves, i.e., their better selves, for several months. Just as with tuberculosis, however, even the quite advanced cases will sometimes be so much bettered by sanitarium treatment that, though their prognosis seemed absolutely hopeless and was so pronounced by good authorities, all the symptoms are relieved and the patients get a new lease of life that may last for many years.
In the same way some apparently hopeless cases of alcoholism will brace up after sanitarium treatment and have many years of useful sober life without a break. In alcoholism, as in tuberculosis, the will of the individual is the all-important consideration. Someone has said that tuberculosis takes away mainly the quitters. Those who have the courage to insist that they [{704}] will live in spite of everything being apparently against them, pull through crises that seem absolutely hopeless and survive for years. Robert Louis Stevenson bravely doing his work, living on in spite of fate and disease, is the typical example. Alcoholism completely overcomes only the quitters. If a man wants to give up drinking even when he seems practically a hopeless wreck from the effects of alcohol, he can do so if he has a physician in whom he has confidence, who will relieve him from depressing symptoms due to previous excess, who will lift him up and strengthen him by food and stimulation, and, above all, by faithful, unending, never discouraged assurance that he can conquer the craving which has such a hold of him, if he only persists a little and does not give up the struggle. The victory is worth while and it is not hard to lift a man up if he has any remnants of character left.
Confidence.—In the treatment of alcoholism, then, just two things are necessary. One of these is that the patient has confidence in himself, the other that he has confidence that his physician can help him over the hard spots on the road. There is no doubt that many drugs can be used that will lessen the patient's irritability, increase his nerve force, stimulate organs which are depressed by the reaction against over-stimulation, arouse appetite and correct disturbed functions. All these things must be done. It is no use laying down any set of rules as to how they shall be done, for they must be done differently in individual patients. It is not alcoholism that is treated nor the effects of alcoholism, but an individual alcoholic patient, and a set of symptoms that are very different in every individual. The more physiological disturbance can be relieved by proper drug, dietetic, hydropathic and remedial measures, the more chance is there for the patient to get over his habit without trouble. Every ill feeling that he has tempts him to think of alcohol. Above all, he must be made to sleep, his bowels must be thoroughly regulated, and he must be made to eat heartily. For stimulation full doses of nux vomica, not less than thirty drops three or four times a day or even oftener, are probably best.
For cases of alcoholism in the earlier stages there is but little difficulty. Those who try the effect of favorable suggestion, of confident assurance, of constantly repeated encouragement on individuals who have begun to be afraid that they cannot break the habit, will frequently have the most gratifying results. The important point to remember is that men are suffering from alcoholism who are indulging in alcohol every day and to whom it has become more or less of a necessity, though even as yet its effect upon their business is not marked and they are not known, even among their acquaintances, as drunkards. Whenever a man must have three or four whiskeys a day or he cannot do his business and his appetite fails him and he does not sleep well, he is an alcoholist. He has the cellular craving that later may become an absolute tyrant. If we can educate the community generally to realize this as we are gradually educating them to the knowledge that tuberculosis must be caught in its incipient stage and that pulmonary consumption begins in very mild symptoms after a person has been exposed to it, we shall have little difficulty in curing tuberculosis or in treating alcoholism successfully by suggestion.
For alcoholism, as for the drug habits and also the sex habits, moral influences are all-important. Hence the necessity for exercising them [{705}] frequently. It is probable that the best way to break any of these habits is to have the patient come regularly to the physician's office, at least once, and at the beginning twice a day. In cases of alcoholism the method of giving for the first week, at least, the dose of the stimulant drug which replaces the alcoholic stimulation directly to the patient is often of great service. It seems a good deal to ask the patient to come three times a day just to get a drug (tonic), but it is comparatively easy to resist the craving for liquor for four or five hours, that is, until the doctor is seen again, while sometimes twenty-four hours will seem a long while. The personal element in this matter is extremely valuable. It is this that has made the efficiency of all forms of cures, and it is only this that can be successfully used.
How much can be accomplished for even the worst forms of drunkenness and under extremely unfavorable circumstances once a really strong impression is made on the individual's mind and his will is aroused to help himself seriously may be readily learned from the lives of any of the great temperance advocates. Their experience is illuminating. It shows clearly that strong personal influence will do more than anything else for these sufferers. Sometimes their efforts are supposed to affect only certain classes of individuals who have character but who, for some reason, have fallen into an unfortunate habit. A little investigation will show, however, that they affect all classes and kinds of individuals and, indeed, may reform a whole community. The story of Father Matthew is very interesting in this regard because there is some striking testimony as to his reformation of whole neighborhoods that had been given over to drink before and that among a people especially emotional and susceptible. The movement that he initiated still lives in the temperance societies of the English-speaking peoples everywhere which help by prophylaxis in youth and the moral force of association in later life.
After-Treatment.—In alcoholism the most important feature of the treatment is what has come to be known in our time as the after-treatment. This department of therapeutics has taken on great importance in recent years in every form of disease. For early and middle life most diseases have a definite tendency to get better, though many of them leave distinct pathological tendencies. The after-treatment, then, has become much more important than the cure for the patient during the existence of the acute or sub-acute stage. Even in children's diseases it is now generally recognized that while measles and whooping cough are not dangerous affections as a rule, they may prove the forerunners of tuberculosis, because of the weakened pulmonary resistance consequent upon their invasion. For scarlet fever, the possibilities of injury to the kidneys after the great irritation to which they have been subjected, is now recognized and convalescence is prolonged. In typhoid fever we realize that not weeks but many months of convalescence are needed to put the patient beyond the risk of various degenerative processes that may be serious. There is even question in the minds of many observant physicians whether the weakness incident to typhoid fever may not, if a premature return to work is allowed, prove a potent cause of precocious arterio-sclerosis.
In a word, after-treatment has become one of the most interesting subjects of modern therapeutics. It will not be surprising, then, if we insist that the after-treatment of the alcoholic is the most important part of the remedial methods to be employed. If a man who has suffered from tuberculosis because [{706}] he was working in one of the many dusty trades and living in a badly ventilated tenement house is restored to health or at least has all his symptoms disappear as a consequence of sanitarium treatment, it is almost needless to say that he must not be allowed to return to the conditions in which his disease originally developed. If he does, he is absolutely certain to have a relapse. This phase of tuberculosis has been much discussed in recent years. It is often said that it is impossible to keep working people from a return to their occupations. Just so far as that is impossible, so far will any real hope of keeping their tuberculosis in abeyance be reduced. They are much more likely to suffer from the disease, as a rule, after their return from the sanitarium than they were before they originally contracted it, because apparently some of their immunity has been destroyed by the invasion of the bacillus.
It is only recently that we have thus planned for the after-treatment of tuberculosis. If we are to be successful in the after-treatment of alcoholism, at least some of this same thoughtfulness must be exercised. The victims must be discouraged from going back into the conditions in which their habit developed. It is comparatively easy, especially at the beginning of his alcoholism, to stimulate a man back to normal physical condition, to reduce his craving for intoxicants, give him back his appetite and set him on his feet again. The affection is quite curable. If a man returns to the conditions in which it originally developed, however, it will develop again quite as inevitably as tuberculosis does under similar conditions. We do not blame the sanitarium if, after having given a man a new lease of life in spite of tuberculosis, he resumes the unsanitary life in which his disease originally developed and has a relapse. It is not the fault of the system of treatment for alcoholism if men relapse, but the blame is upon them that they do not take their danger of relapse seriously enough, permit themselves to get into an unfavorable environment, and, as a consequence, suffer once again from their affection.
Religious Motives.—More and more we are realizing the place of the higher motives of life in the reform of alcoholic patients. Religious motives probably form the best possible source of suggestions that enable a patient to lift himself out of the slough of despond of chronic alcoholism. Many of the best workers for the reform of the drunkard were themselves drunkards for many years. The motive of helping others is particularly important in its effects upon any alcoholic. Some motive apart from himself is more helpful than any appeal to his selfishness or even to what he can do for his children and his wife. It is the newer motive that appeals most strikingly. In recent years certain church movements have done much for alcoholic patients. In this they are only repeating the effect of other great church movements and the effect of the lives of apostles of temperance in recent generations. Without these higher motives cure is probably impossible in many cases. With them it not only becomes possible but even comparatively easy in the most hopeless-looking cases.
In the light of what we have heard recently of the success of the Emanuel movement in the treatment of alcoholism, it is interesting to recur to what was said in this relation by Prof. Forel of Zurich on the treatment of alcoholism, in a communication read to the South German Neurologists and Psychiatrists at its meeting in Freiburg over twenty years ago. Prof. Forel, who is not what [{707}] would be called a particularly religious-minded man, insisted that "an inebriate asylum can only with great difficulty be successful without religious auxiliaries, since most inebriates, and especially at the beginning of their reformation, are entirely too weak to get along without religious consolation. To secure this, however, the nicest tact is required in order to permit the practice of all the different nuances of faith that men have, in peace and comfort. This can only be secured if in practice faith is subjected to charity for one's neighbor as the basis for religion."
Many such expressions have been used before and since in practically every country in Europe. The assertion that physicians have failed to recognize the part that religion plays in such cases is entirely without foundation and can only be made by those who are quite ignorant of our medical literature.
CHAPTER II
DRUG ADDICTIONS
Much of what has been said with regard to alcoholism finds ready application to the treatment of drug addictions. At the very beginning it must be realized that there is no specific remedy that will enable the patient to overcome his craving for a drag to which he has become habituated. There is no method of treatment that will infallibly and without serious and prolonged and determined effort on his part enable him to overcome his craving. The first and most important thing in any system of treatment is the patient's good will. If the patient is not ready to give up the drug, then nothing that a physician can do for him will make him do so, or will turn him against it; above all, nothing will make the process of cure so easy that there will be no trouble involved or only a passing period of struggle required to accomplish it. There have been many claims made in this matter. We have wanted such remedies and methods of treatment so much that it has been rather easy to persuade us sometimes that they have been discovered. It is like the question of specifics in medicine. For centuries men devoted themselves to trying to find a specific remedy for each disease. It was thought they must exist in nature. Now we know that they probably do not exist, though those who claim to discover them find an easy livelihood exploiting the credulity of those who still cherish the belief in them. Scientific students of medicine have practically given over the search for them in order to devote themselves to strengthen the patient to resist the disease rather than spend more time trying to find something to give him that cures it.
Treating the Patient rather than the Habit.—This principle holds with special force with regard to drug addictions. We do not treat the patient's habit, but we treat the patient. He must be braced up, must be made to understand that if he wants to quit the habit, no matter how slavishly he is addicted to it, he can do so. He must be told of men who had habits like his, often of longer duration and to a greater degree, yet gave them up when firmly resolved and properly stimulated. It is not hard to find such examples, since medical and even ordinary literature abound with them and every physician's experience furnishes him with instances. The first and [{708}] most absolutely necessary preliminary of the treatment is to lift up the patient in his own eyes and make him understand that, low as he has sunk, his case is not hopeless, that his degradation is not at all uncommon nor so rare as he might think, and that men and women have succeeded in lifting themselves out of conditions worse than his. The psychotherapeutist must, above all, not be of those who insist that human nature is degenerating and that people are much weaker physically and morally than they used to be, though of course he must be thoroughly aware that drug habits are more frequent than they were and are quite alarmingly on the increase. This is not due to any deterioration in human nature, however, but mainly to the excitement of modern life and its inevitable reaction, the strenuousness with which men now take existence and the consequent craving for artificial relief from over-activity, and then, above all, the facility with which the habit-forming drugs can be obtained.
Prophylaxis.—This last point accounts for the frequency of drug habits in our time more than anything else. Men have always been ready to do something for the sake of novelty and excitement. Everyone is curious to experience for himself the effects produced by drugs that can make people such slaves to them. We hear too often of the intense pleasure that the drug habitué gets from his use of drugs. The curiosity thus aroused constitutes the suggestion that has led many to try the effect, confident that he or she would be able to resist any craving just before it became seriously tyrannous. Psychiatrists agree that one of the worst elements in modern social conditions is the impression generally maintained that there is such intense pleasure in the taking of drugs. A clear statement of the reality of the case is eminently desirable. It is not positive pleasure that the drug habitué has, but mere negative pleasure, as a rule. His "dope" does not so much add to his good feeling as take away the bad feelings that he has because of depression or ennui at the beginning and later because of the craving for the drug.
Physicians to whom many drug habitués have told their experience frankly are not at all inclined to think that the usually accepted opinion of pleasure in drug taking is true. It is not that it is heaven to have the drug so much as it is hell to be without it. The patient's system has learned to crave it so much because of the surcease of painful consciousness of self it gives and this it is that compels these unfortunates to go back to ever-increasing doses. The pleasant side is a very dubious affair at all times, accompanies only the earliest steps of the formation of the habit at most, and usually whatever agreeable feelings there are are accompanied by such a nightmare of solicitude and anxiety as a background that the pleasure is more poignant than agreeable. As a prophylactic against the formation of drug habits this aspect of the experience of drug habitués deserves to be emphasized and knowledge of it widely diffused. Of course, the morphin fiend brightens up after his dose of morphin, his eye lightens, his expression becomes happy, and his nerves get steadier, but that is only because the depression in which he was sunk before has now been stimulated away, the struggle with his worst feelings is over and the consequent reaction has developed. Of course, the cocain-taker is pitiably helpless and downcast without his "dope," but it is only by contrast with this previous state that his succeeding condition can be said to be pleasant or agreeable, even to himself.
Favorable Suggestion.—One of the most helpful sources of favorable suggestion for these patients is to be found in the stories of cured drug habitués. These may be used tactfully to bring confidence to patients that they, too, can be broken of their habit if they are willing to take the pains to do so. De Quincey, taking his thousand drops of laudanum a day, represents one of the most encouraging examples of this since he succeeded eventually in breaking away from his habit. Coleridge succeeded, also, in breaking his habit more than once, but unfortunately returned again and again, and illustrates the danger of the almost inevitable tendency to relapse, if the patient permits himself to think that now that he has once conquered the habit he is too strong ever to let it get hold of him again. If he ventures to think complacently of his self-control and that consequently he may with impunity—always for some good reason—take a dose or two of his favorite drug in order to tide him over some crisis of mental worry or some spell of physical pain, relapse is certain. The tendency of patients to fool themselves in this way is too well known to need special emphasis, but it is as well to say that there is scarcely a single cured case that does not relapse. The relapse is due not so much to craving for the drug, as to the memory of its previous effects in relieving discomfort and the unfortunate confidence that the patient has developed that now, knowing the dangers, he will be able to resist the formation of the habit before it gets a strong hold of him.
It is curious how even highly intelligent patients will slip back into their old habits, sometimes deeper than before, on this reasoning, in spite of the lessons of experience, even their own as well as others. Like the drunkard, they persuade themselves that just this once will not count, and when it would have been comparatively easy for them to say no they yield once or twice and make self-denial for the future increasingly difficult. This is especially true if patients have the drug near them, so that it is not difficult for them to have recourse to it. Hence doctors and nurses are not hard to cure of such habits, as a rule, provided they are away from their professional duties, but they almost inevitably relapse when they go back to work. Every time the relapse is due to the fact that tired feelings, because of irregular hours or some physical pain, prompt them to seek relief and they yield to the temptation of taking the old drug, sure that they need it, only for the moment. They will all assert that they could just as well resist as not, that, indeed, had not the drug been so handy, they would not have taken it, and that if anyone had been near to help them by a word in the matter even then they would not have indulged in it.
If patients are to be kept from relapsing, all this must be set before them frankly. After they have been told once or perhaps twice or perhaps many times and yet relapse into their habits, they must simply be told it again a little more emphatically, more encouragingly, up to seventy times seven, if necessary. Patience is needed more than anything else in taking care of these cases. Over and over again their confidence in their power to overcome their habit, if they really wish to do so, must be reawakened. Without this confidence in themselves success is hopeless. It matters not how often they have relapsed, they can still break off the habit, and if they will not fool themselves into over-confidence in their power to keep away, they need never be slaves to the habit again. There will be quite as many disappointments in [{710}] treating drug addiction as in the treatment of alcoholism. Those who have most experience insist that there are even more, but there are some wonderfully encouraging examples of men and women who have broken from their habit, even after a number of bad relapses, and have for many years lived absolutely without any of their drug and, though still not over-confident in their power to resist if once they should yield (such confidence, it cannot be repeated too often, is always fatal), do actually keep away from the drug without any other bother than the necessity of living a regular hygienic life and exercising a little self-control.
In drug addictions as in alcoholisms, the question of sanitarium treatment comes up in every case. Much more rarely than in the case of the alcohol habit is it necessary to send a drug habitué to a sanitarium. Here once more, however, the patient's circumstances and the possibility of diversion of mind with reasonable freedom from temptations to take the drug and from ready access to it, are the most important considerations. If a patient really wants to break off the use of a drug, it can be done gently and without much bother in the course of three or four weeks. I have seen cocain fiends who have tried many remedies and many physicians completely cured in five or six weeks without serious trouble. The important thing is perseverance in the effort and in the treatment and the definite persuasion of the patient that it is not only perfectly possible to get rid of the habit, but that it is even easy with good will on his part. If certain other milder stimulants are supplied for a time so that all the symptoms due to the physiological effects of the excessive use of the drug are minimized, the physical trial need not be severe. The patient's mind, however, must be occupied. Time must not be allowed to hang heavy on his hands and all physical symptoms must be treated promptly. Drug addictions are indeed more curable than alcoholism and the danger of relapse is not quite so imminent. The social temptations do not exist for drug habitués as they do for alcoholics. As I have said, however, in the cases of nurses and physicians almost a corresponding state of affairs obtains and in them the danger of relapse is great.
Early Treatment.—It is quite as important for drug victims as it is for alcoholics that the case should be taken under treatment early. Every physician knows how curiously easy it is for some people, indeed for most people, to acquire a drug habit. I have seen one of the solidest men I ever knew, with plenty of character that had been tried by many a crisis in life, recommended cocain for a toothache when he was past fifty years of age and in the course of ten days acquire a thorough beginning of the cocain habit, so that he was taking several grains a day. He had no idea that he was unconsciously slipping into a drug habit. When the druggist refused any longer to supply the cocain solution without a prescription he was quite indignant. It was not until he had forty-eight hours of nervous symptoms and craving that he realized that he had created a need for stimulation of his nervous system by the mere taking of cocain by application on his gums. This habit was broken up at once and there has never been any tendency to its recurrence. He had his warning, fortunately, without evil effects.
If the cocain habit can be formed as unconsciously as this, there should be little difficulty in treating it. It is not a profound change in the organism, but only a habit. It is not the habit itself that is hard to break, but the effects [{711}] upon the nervous system of the patient are such as to create a series of symptoms that can only be soothed by the drug. It is these symptoms of depression, irritation, sleeplessness, lack of appetite, constipation and the rest that it is the physician's duty to treat in order to help the patient. The patient breaks the habit by his will-power when properly persuaded and when it is made clear to him that it is neither so difficult as he thought, nor is he so likely to fail in the matter as he has imagined, and as has perhaps been suggested to him even by physicians. The mental treatment consists in making him realize that he can do it and that if he wants to get rid of his habit he must do it for himself. With this must come the assurance that every annoying symptom will be met, that he need not recur to his favorite drug for this purpose, that his appetite will be gradually restored and that, though perhaps for a week he will have considerable inconvenience to bear, after that it will be plain sailing. Usually three days can be set as the term at which his craving ceases to be so disturbing as to make the possibility of his relapsing into the habit a positive danger. As in alcoholic and sex habits, the patient to be helped in breaking the habit should be seen once a day at least, usually oftener. If he can be made to understand that whenever the old tendency seems about to get the upper hand is the time to see his physician, and if something physical as well as moral is done for him, the breaking of the habit is comparatively simple.
This method of treatment looks too simple to be quite credible to those who have so often tried and failed in the cure of drug habits. It is not the doctor, however, who fails, but the patient. We cannot put new wills into a patient, but we can so brace up even an old and tottering will as to make it possible for the worst victims of drug habits to reform. The doctor, too, easily becomes discouraged. He has not confidence enough in his own methods to make assurance doubly sure for the patient as to his cure. This is what many of the pretended specific purveyors of drug habit cures have as their principal stock in trade. They assure patients with absolute confidence, while the physician only too often says the same thing, but half-heartedly. A half-hearted physician makes a hesitant patient, and success is then very dubious from the beginning. Every patient can be cured. They may relapse, but then they can be cured again. This is the essence of the psychotherapy of drug habits, but it is also the only successful element in any treatment of the drug habit that is really effective. Specifics come and go. Sure cures cease to have their effect. The only really effective element in any cure is the absolute trust of the patient.
In his "Drugs and the Drug Habit" (Methuen, London) Dr. Harrington Sainsbury, Senior Physician to the Royal Free Hospital of London, has emphasized all these points that can only be touched on very briefly here. He has called particular attention to the fact that the victim of one drug habit is rather prone to acquire another if by any chance he should once begin to take another habit-forming drug. The original drug habit has broken down the will. It is not so much the craving for a particular drug as the lack of will power that proves unfortunate for the patient. He suggests "incidentally, if this explanation hold good, it proves the solidarity of the will that it works as a whole and not by compartments." He has dwelt on recoveries from the most discouraging depths and insists "we must teach that [{712}] no one is ever so enslaved by a habit as to be incapable of relief—this alone is right teaching, justifiable moreover by records well substantiated of recoveries from desperate plights."
Heredity and Unfavorable Suggestion.—As to the suggestion, sometimes encountered, of the influence of heredity and its all-powerful effect in making it practically impossible for the son of a man who has taken drugs to keep from doing the same thing, we must recall very emphatically here the principles discussed elsewhere. So far as concerns heredity, opium and the other drugs are exactly in the same position as alcohol in their effect upon the human race. Instead of being justified in saying that by heredity individuals of succeeding generations are rendered more susceptible to them, just the opposite is true and, if anything, an immunity is produced. This is not only racial and general but is personal and actual. In recent years we have come to realize that individuals born of tuberculous parents who care for themselves properly are much better able to resist the invasion of the tubercle bacilli than those who come from stocks that were never affected by the disease. They are the patients who, in spite of the fact that their disease reaches an advanced stage, sometimes live on for years with proper care. Just this is true for drug addictions so far as we know anything about it. The whole subject is as yet obscure, but heredity rather favors than hurts the patient in these cases.
Hereditary Resistance.—Instead of being discouraged by the fact that his father took a drug to excess and that therefore he is weaker against this than other people, a man should rather be encouraged by the thought that a certain amount of resistance to the craving has probably been acquired by the particular line of cells through which his personality is manifested. Dr. Archdall Reid has said that "the facts concerning opium are very similar" (to those that concern alcohol). Then he continues:
That narcotic has been used extensively in India for several centuries. It was introduced by the English into China about two centuries ago. Quite recently the Chinese have taken it to Burma, to various Polynesian Islands, and to Australia. There is no evidence that the use of opium has caused any race to deteriorate. Indeed it happens that the finest races in India are most addicted to its use. According to the evidence given before the late Royal Commission on Opium, the natives of India never or very rarely take it to excess. When first introduced into China it was the cause of a large mortality; but to-day most Chinamen, especially in the littoral provinces, take it in great moderation. On the other hand. Burmans, Polynesians and Australian natives take opium in such excess and perish of it in such numbers that their European governors are obliged to forbid the drug to them, though the use of it is permitted to foreign immigrants to their countries. In exactly the same way alcohol is forbidden to Australians and Red Indians in places where it is permitted to white men.
After-Cures.—I have said so much about the after-cure of alcoholism that applies directly to drug addictions also, that it does not seem necessary to repeat it here. Patients must be warned that if they become overtired, if they lose sleep, if they are subject to much excitement, if they put themselves in conditions of anxiety and worry, if any form of recurrent pain develops—headache, toothache, stomach-ache—they are likely to be tempted to take up their old habit. If they are in a position where they can easily get the drug it is almost inevitable that something will happen to make them feel that [{713}] they are justified in taking one or two doses and from this to the reestablishment of the habit is only a small step. Often these patients need a change of occupation. Some of them are over-occupied, some of them have not enough to do. In either case it is the doctor's duty to know enough about his patient to be able to give directions. We do not treat a drug addiction with the hope of curing it, but we treat a patient suffering from a particular drug habit and we try so to modify that patient's life that after we have succeeded in getting him away from his habit, which is never difficult, he will not relapse into it. The after-cure is the more important of the two.
CHAPTER III
SUICIDE
In spite of the gradual increase of comfort in life and its wide diffusion—far beyond what people enjoyed in the past—there has been a steady progressive increase in the number of suicides in recent years. It is as if people found life less worth living the more of ease and convenience there was in it. This increase in suicide is much greater (over three times in the last twenty years) than the increase in the population. Surprising as it may seem, prosperity always brings an addition to the number of suicides. Stranger still, during hard times the number of suicides decreases to a noteworthy degree. It is not those who are suffering most from physical conditions who most frequently commit suicide. Our suicides come, as a rule, from among the better-to-do classes of people. While suicide might seem to be quite beyond the province of the physician, it is a duty of the psychotherapeutist to prevent not only the further increase of suicides in general but to save particular patients from themselves in this matter. A careful study of the conditions as they exist, moreover, will show that he can accomplish much—more than is usually thought—and that it is as much a professional obligation to do so as, by the application of hygienic precautions and regulations, to lessen disease and suffering of all kinds and prevent death.
The same two modes of preventive influence that we have over disease in general can be applied to suicide. The physician can modify the mental attitude in individual cases and thus save people from themselves and then he can, by his influence in various ways upon public opinion, lessen the death rate from suicide. For this purpose, just as with regard to infectious disease, it is important for him to appreciate the social and individual conditions that predispose to suicide, as well as the factors that are more directly causative. The more he studies the more will he be convinced that what we have to do with in suicide is a mental affliction not necessarily inevitable in its results and that may be much influenced by suggestion. Indeed, unfavorable suggestion is largely responsible for the increase in suicide that has been seen in recent years. Favorable suggestion might be made not only to stop the increase, but actually to reduce the suicide rate. For this purpose it is important to know just what are the conditions and motives that predispose to suicide and, above all, to realize that it is not the result of insufferable pain [{714}] or anguish, but rather of the concentration of mind on some comparatively trivial ailment, or exaggeration of dread with regard to the consequences of physical or moral ills.
Suicides are often said to be irrational; in a certain sense they are. No one who weighs reasonably all the consequences of his act will take his own life. This irrationality, however, is nearly always functional and passing, not of the kind that makes the commission of suicide inevitable, but only produces a tendency to it. This tendency is emphasized by many conditions of mind and body that the physician can modify very materially if he sets about it. Many of the supposed reasons for suicide are founded on the complete misunderstanding of the significance of symptoms and dread of the future of his ailments, often quite unjustified by what the individual is actually suffering. Indeed, the desperation that leads to suicide is practically always the result of a state of mind and not of a state of body. It is exactly the same sort of state of mind which sometimes proves so discouraging in the midst of diseases of various kinds as to make it impossible for patients to get over their affections until a change is brought about in their ideas. This makes clear the role of psychotherapy with regard to suicide, and there is no doubt that many people on the verge of self-murder can be brought to a more rational view and then live happy, useful lives afterwards. For this purpose, however, it is important that the physician should come to be looked upon as a refuge by those to whom the thought of suicide has become an obsession.
A well-known social religious organization not long since established a suicide bureau, that is, a department to which those contemplating suicide may apply with the idea that they would there find consolation and perhaps some relief for their troubles and thus the idea of suicide might be dissipated. Many a suicide would be avoided if the reasons that impelled to it had been known to one or two other people beforehand, so that some relief might have been afforded to what seemed an intolerable condition. This suicide bureau is said to have done much good. There is no doubt that the mere act of giving one's confidence to another is quite sufficient of itself to diminish to a marked degree a burden of grief and trial. If anything in the world is true, it is that sorrows are halved by sharing them with another, while joys are correspondingly increased. The fact that there is someone to whom they might go, who would look sympathetically at their state of mind, who would appreciate the conditions, who had been accustomed to dealing with such cases, would be enough to tempt many people from that awful introspection and concentration of mind on themselves which, more than their genuine sufferings and trials, whatever they may be, make their situation intolerable.
There has always been a suicide bureau, however, in the office of every physician who really appreciates the genuine responsibilities of his profession. More than any others we have the opportunity to alleviate physical sufferings, to lessen mental anguish and to make what seemed unbearable ill at least more or less tolerable. Unfortunately in recent years the change in the position of the physician in his relations to the family has somewhat obscured this fact in the minds of the public. The old family physician occupied to no slight extent the position of a father confessor, to whom all the family secrets were told, from whom indeed, as a rule, it was felt that they should not be kept; to whom father went with regard to himself and mother, to whom mother [{715}] went with regard to all the family as well as herself, to whom the boy confided some of his sex trials and the girl some of the secrets that she hid from almost everyone else, so that to go to him for anything disturbing became the first thought. We must restore something of this old-fashioned idea of the doctor's place in life if all our professional duties are to be properly fulfilled. If those contemplating suicide learn to think of us as persons to be appealed to when all looks so black that life is no longer tolerable, we shall soon be in a position to confer increased benefits on this generation that needs them so much.
Physical Factors.—As a rule there is a physical element as the basis for nearly all suicides. With the unfortunate, unfavorable suggestion that has come from the supplying of details of pathological information—the half-knowledge of popular medical science—without the proper antidote of the wonderful compensatory powers of the human body for even serious ailments, a great many nervous people are harboring the idea that they have or soon will have an incurable disease. Physicians have abundant evidence of this. All sorts of educated people come to us to be reassured that some trivial digestive disturbance does not mean cancer of the stomach, or, when they are between forty and fifty, come to make sure that some slight disturbance of urination is not an enlarged prostate. Brain workers of all classes come over and over again to be reassured that they are not breaking down because of organic brain disease, of which they show absolutely no sign. Sometimes they have been making themselves quite miserable for a long period by such thoughts. It is easy to understand, then, how many less informed people, yet provided with the opportunities of quasi-information that modern life affords, are apt to think the worst about themselves.
So-called Insomnia.—The correction of such preconceived notions will always greatly alleviate the mental sufferings of these patients. For this purpose there are many chapters of this book which point out how various symptoms and syndromes that are often amongst the factors in the production of suicide may be managed. Perhaps one of the most frequent of these is so-called insomnia. Most people are insomniac, mainly because they are overanxious about their sleep. A few of them are wakeful because of bad habits in the matter of work and the taking of air and exercise. Essential insomnia is extremely rare and symptomatic; insomnia is not mental, but is usually due to some definite physical condition that can be found out and, as a rule, treated successfully. There is always some other symptom besides loss of sleep. If men will live properly and rationally there is no reason why insomnia should be a bane of existence, nor even any reason why the morphin or other drug habit should be formed which is so likely to come if inability to sleep is treated as if it were an independent ailment. In the forms in which it incites to suicide it owes its origin to a nervous superexcitement with regard to sleep in people whose daily life in some way does not properly predispose them for the greatest of blessings on which there is no patent right. Additional suggestions as to these insomniac conditions are made in the chapters on [Insomnia] and [Some Troubles of Sleep] which make it clear that suicide, because of insomnia is due to a delusion.
Headache.—Persistent supposedly incurable headache is another prominent feature of the stories of suicides and here once more we have to deal rather [{716}] with a delusion of over-attention of mind and concentration of self on a particular part than a real physical ailment. Most of the so-called headaches that are supposed to be so intractable are really not headaches but pressure feelings and other queer sensations in the head originally perhaps partaking of the nature of an ache but continued through over-advertence. Severe pain within the head occurs in cases of congestion and brain tumor, and without the head in cases of neuralgia, but most of these are only temporary and long-continued headaches are rather neurotic than neuritic or due to any real disturbance of the nervous system. This is discussed in the chapter on Headaches. People commit suicide who have for a long time been sufferers from headache because they fear that they may go crazy. There is absolutely no reason in the world to think this probable, and in the one case of continuance of severe intermittent headaches for years already mentioned—that of von Bülow, the Austrian pianist and composer, in which we have the autopsy record—it was found, after a long life, that his severe intracranial headaches were due to the pinching of a nerve in the dura and not to any organic change in the brain itself.
Mental Factors.—While physical factors enter into the suicide problem to a marked degree, it would be a great mistake to think that physical conditions or material circumstances are the main causes or occasions in suicide. It is supposed, as a rule, to be due to depression produced by incurable disease, oppressive weather, financial losses and the like. There is no doubt that these are contributing causes, but the physical conditions have very little influence compared with the attitude of the patient's mind toward himself. As a rule, it is not those who are in absolutely hopeless conditions who turn to this supposed refuge of a voluntary exit from life in order to get out of trouble, but rather those who are momentarily discouraged and who have not sufficient moral stamina to face the consequences of their acts. There was a time when it was considered brave to fight a duel and cowardly to refuse to do so. Looking back now, we know that they were the real brave men who dared to refuse when a barbarous civilization would force them into a false position and who, in spite of disgrace, ventured to be men and not fools. There are those who used to say that it was brave to take one's own life rather than bring disgrace on loved ones, but the mitigation, if there be any, of the disgrace that suicide brings with it, comes from that lowest of all motives, pity for the survivors, and the cowardly suicide leaves to others the thankless task of making up for his faults.
Suicide and the Weather.—An investigation of suicide records shows, as we have said, that it is not nearly so often bodily or material hardships that lead men to it as mental states. These mental states are not mental diseases, but passing discouragements in which men are tempted beyond their strength and do irretrievable things for which there is no rational justification. It is not in dark damp weather that men commit suicides most, though this was supposed to be a commonplace in our knowledge of suicide. Recent investigations show that quite the contrary is true. Professor Edwin T. Dexter of the University of Illinois published a very important study of this question in a paper entitled "Suicide and the Weather." [Footnote 55] He followed out the records of nearly 2,000 cases of suicide reported to the police in the City of New York [{717}] and placed beside them the records of the weather bureau of the same city for the days on which these suicides occurred. According to this, which represents the realities of the situation, the tendency to suicide is highest in spring and summer and the deed is accomplished in the great majority of cases on the sunniest days of these seasons.
[Footnote 55: Popular Science Monthly, April, 1901. ]
His conclusions are carefully drawn and there is no doubt that they must be accepted as representing the actual facts. All the world feels depressed on rainy days and in dark, cloudy weather, but suicides react well, as a rule, against this physical depression, yet allow their mental depression to get the better of them on the finest days of the year. Prof. Dexter said:
The clear, dry days show the greatest number of suicides, and the wet, partly cloudy days the least; and with differences too great to be attributed to accident or chance. In fact there are thirty-one per cent. more suicides on dry than on wet days, and twenty-one per cent. more on clear days than on days that are partly cloudy.
What is thus brought out with regard to the influence of weather can be still more strikingly seen from the suicide statistics of various climates. The suicide rate is not highest in the Torrid nor in the Frigid zones, but in the Temperate zones. In the North Temperate zone it is much more marked than in the South Temperate zone. Civilization and culture, diffused to a much greater extent in the North Temperate zone than in the South, seem to be the main reason for this difference. We make people capable of feeling pain more poignantly, but do not add to their power to stand trials nor train character by self-control to make the best of life under reasonably severe conditions. With this in mind it is not surprising to find that the least suicides occur in the month of December, when the disagreeable changes so common produce a healthy vital reaction, though the many damp dark days that occur would usually be presumed to make this the most likely time for suicides. On the contrary, it is the month of June, the pleasantest in the North Temperate zone, that has the most suicides. It is important to remember this in estimating the role of physical influences on the tendency to suicide.
Social Factors that Restrain Suicides.—War.—A most startling limitation of suicide is brought about by war. For instance, our Spanish-American war reduced the death rate from suicide in this country over forty per cent. throughout the country and over fifty per cent. in Washington itself, where there was most excitement with regard to the war. This was true also during the Civil War. Our minimum annual death rate from suicide from 1805 (when statistics on this subject began to be kept) was one suicide to about 24,000 people, which occurred in 1864 when our Civil War was in its severest phase. There had been constant increase in our suicide rate every year until the Civil War began, then there was a drop at once and this continued until the end of the war. In New York City the average rate of suicide for the five years of the Civil War was nearly forty-five per cent. lower than the average for the five following years. In Massachusetts, where the statistics were gathered very carefully, the number of suicides for the five-year period before 1860 was nearly twenty per cent. greater than for the five-year period immediately following, which represents the preliminary excitement over the war and the actual years of the war. This experience in America is only in accordance [{718}] with what happens everywhere. Mr. George Kennan in his article on "The Problems of Suicide" (McClure's Magazine, June, 1908), has a paragraph which brings this out very well. He says:
In Europe the restraining influence of war upon the suicidal impulse is equally marked. The war between Austria and Italy in 1866 decreased the suicide rate for each country about fourteen per cent. The Franco-German War of 1870-71 lowered the suicide rate of Saxony 8 per cent., that of Prussia 11.4 per cent. and that of France 18.7 per cent. The reduction was greatest in France, because the German invasion of that country made the war excitement there much more general and intense than it was in Saxony or Prussia.
Great Cataclysms.—Even more interesting than the fact that war reduces the suicide rate is the further fact that a reduction of the number of suicides takes place after any severe cataclysm. The earthquake at San Francisco, for instance, had a very marked effect in this way. Before the catastrophe suicides were occurring in that city on an average of twelve a week. After the earthquake, when, if physical sufferings had anything to do with suicide, it might be expected that the self-murder rate would go up, there was so great a reduction that only three suicides were reported in two months. Some of this reduction was due to inadequate records, but there can be no doubt that literally hundreds of lives were saved from suicide by the awful catastrophe that levelled the city. Men and women were homeless, destitute, and exposed to every kind of hardship, yet because all those around them were suffering in the same way, everyone seemed to be reasonably satisfied. Evidently a comparison with the conditions in which others are has much to do with deciding the would-be suicide not to make away with himself, for by dwelling too much on his own state he is prone to think that he is ever so much worse off than others.
If life were always vividly interesting, as it was in San Francisco after the earthquake, and if all men worked and suffered together as the San Franciscans did for a few weeks, suicide would not end ten thousand American lives every year, as it does now.
Individual Restraints.—Religion.—It seems worth while to call to attention certain factors that modify the tendency to suicide and limit it very distinctly, because it is with the limitation of it that the physician must be mainly occupied. There seems to be no doubt that certain religious beliefs, which affect the individual profoundly and occupy his thoughts very much, furnishing, both by tradition and heredity as it were, sources of consolation for evils in this life by the thought of a future life, notably lessen the suicide rate. All over the world the Jews who cling to their old-time belief have perhaps the lowest suicide rate of any people. This is true in spite of racial differences. People who retain the confidence in prayer, that used to characterize members of all religions a century or more ago, are likely to be able to resist the temptation to suicide. This is true particularly for the more or less rational suicide. Oppenheim has recalled attention to the power of prayer against depression and in the insane asylums of England its efficiency in this way is well recognized.
It is well-known that Roman Catholics the world over have much less tendency to suicide than their Protestant neighbors living in the same [{719}] communities. It is true that where the national suicide rate is high many Catholics also commit suicide, but there is a distinct disproportion between them and their neighbors. The suicide rate of Protestants in the northern part of Ireland, as pointed by Mr. George Kennan, is twice that of Roman Catholics in the southern part. He discusses certain factors that would seem to modify the breadth of the conclusion that might be drawn from this, but in the end he confesses that their faith probably has much to do with it and that, above all, the practice of confession must be considered as tending to lessen the suicide rate materially. It is the securing of the confidence of these patients that seems the physician's best hope of helping them to combat their impulse and Mr. Kennan's opinion is worth recalling for therapeutic purposes:
In view of the fact that the suicide rate of the Protestant cantons in Switzerland is nearly four times that of Catholic cantons, it seems probable that Catholicism, as a form of religious belief, does restrain the suicidal impulse. The efficient cause may be the Catholic practice of confessing to priests, which probably gives much encouragement and consolation to unhappy but devout believers and thus induces many of them to struggle on in spite of misfortune and depression.
Disgrace as a Restraint.—It is curious what far-fetched motives, that appear quite unlikely to have any such influence, sometimes prove able to affect favorably would-be suicides and prevent their self-destruction. Plutarch tells the story, in his treatise on "The Virtuous Actions of Women," of the well-authenticated instance of the young women of Milesia. Disappointed in love, they thought life not worth living. Accordingly there was an epidemic of suicide among the young women and it even became a sort of distinction to prefer death to matrimony. Some perverted sense of delicacy entered into the feeling that prompted the suicides, as if sex and its indulgence were something belittling to the better part of their nature. The authorities in Milesia must have been psychologists. They issued a decree that the body of every young woman who committed suicide would be exposed absolutely naked in the market-place for a number of days after her death. This decree, once put into effect, immediately stopped the suicides. The young women shrank from this exposure of their bodies, even though it might be after death, and the suicide fashion came to an end.
It might be thought perhaps that this incident represented ancient feeling and that a similar condition in the modern times would not have a corresponding effect. It so happens that something similar has been tried. In some of the cities of South Central Europe in which the suicide rate is almost the highest in the world, it was decided about a generation ago by the Church authorities of the towns that suicides would not thereafter be buried in the cemeteries near the bodies of those who died in the regular course of nature, but must be interred in a separate portion reserved for themselves. Strange as it may seem, just as in the case of the young women of Milesia, this proved a great deterrent to suicide. The suicide rate was reduced one-half the next year.
As a matter of fact, it only takes some reasonably forceful countervailing notion to set a train of suggestions at work that will prevent suicide. If those contemplating suicide are made acquainted with some of these curious facts we know, then the notion of suicide loses more than half its terrible [{720}] attraction by being stripped of all of its supposed inevitableness. Almost any motive that attracts attention, even apparently so small a thing as disgrace after death, makes these people realize the littleness and the cowardice of the act.
Favoring Factors.—Psychic Contagion.—A prominent factor in suicides that must constantly be borne in mind is the influence of example or, as we have come to call it learnedly in recent years, psychic contagion. It is discussed more in detail in the chapter on Psychic Contagion, but its place here must be emphasized. It has often been noted that certain peculiar suicides are followed by others of the same kind. If a special poison has been used, others obtain it and put an end to their lives in that way. Even such horrible modes of death as eroding the jugular vein by drawing the neck backward and forward across a barbed-wire fence have been imitated. If the story of jumping off a high building is told with lurid details, special care has to be taken in permitting unknown people to go up to the same place for some time afterwards. The imitative tendency is evidently a strong factor. Plutarch's story of the young women of Milesia brings this out, and it has been noted all down the centuries.
In any discussion of the prophylaxis of suicide the effect of newspaper descriptions of previous suicides must be looked upon as very important. The influence of suggestion of this kind on people who have been thinking for some time of suicide is very strong. There comes to them the impelling thought that the suicide's miseries are over and they wish they were with him. From the wish to the resolve and then to the deed itself are only successive steps when suggestion is constantly prodding the unfortunate individual. If we are going to reduce the suicide rate materially or, indeed, keep it from increasing beyond all bounds, this question must be squarely faced. Accounts of suicides are not news in the ordinary sense of the word and while they might find a place for legal and other purposes in a few lines of an obituary column, the present exploitation of them by the papers makes them a constantly recurring source of strong suggestion to go and do likewise. These suggestions come to persons already tottering on the edge of disequilibration in this matter, and it is like tempting children to do things that they know are wrong, but that look irresistibly inviting when presented under certain lights. The very fact that their death will produce a sensation and will give them so much space in the newspapers attracts many morbidly sensation-loving people. Physicians must work as much for this prophylaxis as we have for the prevention of infectious diseases.
Child Suicides.—Probably the worst feature of the suicide statistics of recent times in all countries is the great increase of self-murder among children. Arthur MacDonald in discussing the "Statistics of Child Suicide" [Footnote 56] has shown that there is a special increase of young suicides everywhere. In France there are nearly five times as many suicides at the end of the nineteenth century as there were at the beginning of it. In England there is almost as startling an increase. Though the statistics are not as well kept, child suicide has increased not only in proportion to the increase of suicide among adults, but ever so much more. In Prussia the condition is even worse.
[Footnote 56: "Statistics of Child Suicide," Transactions of American Statistical Association, Vol. X., pp. 1906-1907.]
The French child suicide rate is especially interesting and disheartening. In the Paris Thesis for 1906 Dr. Moreau discusses the subject of suicide among young people and shows how rapid has been the growth of the number of such suicides in the last 100 years. The first statistics available for the purpose that, in his opinion, are exact enough to furnish a basis for scientific conclusions, are from 1836 to 1840. Altogether during that period in France there were 92 suicides under the age of seventeen years, 69 of whom were boys and 23 girls. In 1895 this number had increased to such a degree that in a single year there were almost as many suicides (90) as there had been in five years, only fifty years before. In 1895 the proportion of suicides less than ten years of age was a little more than one in twenty of the total number of suicides in France. There are countries in Europe in which the suicide rate among such children is even higher than it is in France. In every country it has gone on increasing and the awful thing is that the suicide rate is increasing more rapidly among children than it is among adults, though among adults it doubles every twenty years.
Causes at Work.—The causes for the increase in suicide among children were pointed out even by Esquirol, the great French psychiatrist, nearly a century ago. They are the same to-day, only emphasized by the conditions of our civilization. He attributed it to a false education which emphasizes all the vicious side of life, makes worldly success the one object of life, does not properly prepare the child for constancy in the midst of hardships, nor make it appreciate that suffering is a precious heritage to the race, that has its reward in forming character and fixing purpose. He thought that there were two very serious factors for the increase of suicide among children not usually realized. They were in his time literature and the theater. He said: "When the theater presents only the triumphs of crime, the misfortunes of virtue, when the books that are in common circulation because of the low price at which they are issued, contain only declarations against religion, against family ties and duties towards our neighbor and society, then they inspire a disdain of life and it is no wonder that suicide rapidly increases even among the very young." He was commenting on the case of a child of thirteen who had hanged himself, leaving this written message: "I bequeath my soul to Rousseau and my body to the earth."
Cowardice of Suicide.—Of course, the strongest motive for dissuasion from suicide is the utter cowardice of the act. As a rule, the man who contemplates suicide is not a sufferer from inevitable natural causes, but one who for some foolish act has put himself into what seems to him an intolerable position out of which escape without disgrace is impossible, and he is afraid to face the consequences of his own acts. It is from the fear of mental worry and of the condemnation of others rather than from any dread of physical suffering and pain that men commit suicide. The suicide leaves those who are nearest and dearest to him to face the battle of life alone, with all the handicaps that have been created by their foolishness. Running away in battle is as nothing compared to the cowardice of the suicide. The deserter is deservedly held in deepest dishonor, and if there is some little pity for the suicide, it is because of the supreme foolishness of his act and the feeling that it only can have been dictated by some defect of mental equilibrium. A frank recognition of these conditions in their real significance probably will do more than anything [{722}] else to make the prospective suicide realize the true status of his act better than anything else.
Men sometimes seem to persuade themselves that it is a brave thing thus to face death. The shadowy terrors of what may come after death are too little realized to deter a man from his act when compared with the real disgrace that he is so familiar with and that he has often witnessed in actual life. It is the man, as a rule, who has most condemned others when something has gone wrong, who has found no sympathy in his heart for the slips of his fellows, who discovers no courage in himself when he has to face disgrace. He does not realize that for most men there are so many extenuations of any evil that a man may do, that the large-minded man is ready to forgive and eventually to forget almost anything that happens. "To know all is to forgive all," and the more we know of men the readier we are to forgive them. Little men do not forgive and cannot forget the failings of their fellows and they think that everyone else looks upon men's failings in the same way. It is only the small, narrow man who contemplates suicide as a refuge from disgrace, and the fact that he can complacently plan the abandonment of others not only to the disgrace which he himself is not ready to face, but to all the suffering consequent upon it, is the best proof of his littleness of soul. The utter pusillanimity of suicide is the best mental antidote for the temptation to it.
Besides, the thought that deterred Hamlet may well be urged:
There's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause;
. . . who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
Cut that the dread of something after death.—
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns.—puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have.
Than fly to others we know not of?
It is sometimes said that this is the argument of a coward, but such cowardice is as reasonable as the dread of touching a wire that may be carrying a high charge of electricity. Besides it is only such an argument that will properly suit the man who, in his cowardice, is ready to let others bear the brunt of his disgrace, flying from it himself. [Footnote 57]
[Footnote 57: Is life worth living? How old this argument as to suicide is can perhaps best be appreciated from the fact that it is discussed very suggestively in a papyrus of the Middle Kingdom the date of which is probably not later than 2500 B. C, which is now in the Berlin Museum and is recognized to be the most ancient text of its kind that has been preserved in the Nile Valley. I have referred to this in the initial historical chapter. I think that I have more than once turned men's thoughts from the serious contemplation of suicide—always a dangerous thing—by discussing with them this fact that men have at all times in the world's history argued just the same way on these subjects. Men prefer not to resemble the dead ones, and a motive is all that is needed. ]
There has sometimes been an erroneous tendency to confuse suicide and heroism, but Chesterton, in "Orthodoxy," [Footnote 58] has well expressed the difference:
[Footnote 58: ["Orthodoxy"] by Gilbert K. Chesterton, New York, John Lane Co., 1909.]
A soldier surrounded by enemies, if he is to cut his way out, needs to combine a strong desire for living with a strange carelessness about dying. He must not merely cling to life, for then he will be a coward, and will not escape. He must not merely wait for death, for then he will be a suicide, and will not escape. He must seek his life in a spirit of furious indifference to it; he must desire life like water and yet drink death like wine. No philosopher, I fancy, has ever expressed this romantic riddle with adequate lucidity, and I certainly have not done so. But Christianity has done more: it has marked the limits of it in the awful graves of the suicide and the hero, showing the distance between him who dies for a great cause and him who dies for the sake of dying. And it has held up ever since above the European lances the banner of the mystery of chivalry: the Christian courage, which is a disdain of death; not the Chinese courage, which is a disdain of life.
The feature of incidents in life that bring with them disgrace and punishment which needs to be insisted on for those to whom the thought of suicide comes, is that the sensation which the revelation of such acts causes is but a passing phase of present-day publicity, and that after all it is not even a nine-days' wonder, but a two- or three-days' wonder, and then it is forgotten and replaced by something else. The facing of the condemnation for the moment may seem an extremely severe trial. The world's blame, however, is largely a bogey, a dread that is phantom-like and that disappears, or at least diminishes, to a great degree as soon as it is bravely faced. Besides, as practically every man who has been carrying around a guilty secret with him for years is free to confess, there is an immense sense of relief once the worst is known. At last the effort at concealment, the nervous tension, the fear of the moment of exposure are all past and a new set of thoughts can be allowed to come. Those may be unpleasant and yet they are not so bad as the dread of discovery that hung over the unfortunate. If a man can be braced up to meet exposure, usually he will find in a very few days that there are sources of consolation that make it much easier for him to live than he thought possible before.
Real Suffering a Tonic.—Probably the best remedy for a man or a woman who talks of suicide and seems to fear lest the temptation should overcome them is, if possible, to give them an opportunity to see some real suffering. I have on a number of occasions had the opportunity to note the effect on a discouraged man or woman of the sight of a cancer patient suffering severely, yet bearing the suffering patiently, wishing that the end might come, yet ready to wait until it shall come in the appointed order of nature. Suffering, like everything else, becomes much more bearable with inurement to it. The old have learned the lesson of not only not looking for pleasure in life, but of being quite satisfied with their lot if no pain comes to them, and they even grow to consider that they have not much right to murmur if their pain is not too severe. It is not among those who have to suffer severe pain that one finds suicides as a rule. It is true that young, strong, healthy persons who suddenly find that pain is to be their lot for a prolonged period may grow so discouraged and moody over it as to take their lives. The patients that I have seen suffering from incurable diseases have expressed no desire at all that their life should be shortened, except during the paroxysms of their pain, unless they feel that they are a serious burden on others when they may express the wish to be no more.
Euthanasia.—Every now and then there is a discussion in the newspapers [{724}] of the justifiableness of euthanasia, that is, the giving of a pleasant death to those who are known to be incurably ill and who are doomed to suffer pain for most of what is left of their existence. The question usually discussed is whether patients have the right to shorten their own existence and then, also, whether their physician might have the right or, even as some people say, the duty, to lessen human suffering by abbreviating existence for such incurable cases. The discussion has always seemed to me beside the realities of things, because physicians do not see many patients, I might almost say any patients, who really want to shorten their lives or would want to have them shortened. I have known many physicians die of cancer, but very seldom is it that one tries to shorten his own existence, or that even his best friend in the profession would consider that he was justified in doing this for him. This, it seems to me, should be the test of the problem. It is true that not infrequently, in the midst of their paroxysms of pain, patients wish they were dead, but there come intervals of surcease from discomfort to some degree at least that make life quite livable for a time again and even occasionally there is real happiness in these intervals, deep, human, natural happiness in heroic forbearance and example.
We can recall AEsop's fable of the old man who, gathering wood for the fire in the winter that he needed so much, finds the burden of his labor and the wood too much for him and calls loudly for death to come to him. Promptly Death makes his appearance and asks what the old man wants. "Oh! nothing," is the reply; "only I would like you to help me to carry this bundle of sticks." This is the attitude of mind of practically all who have grown old in suffering. They have learned to bear with patience, and that patience gives even something of satisfaction. After all, it is not so often the pleasant things in life that we look back on and recall with most satisfaction as the difficulties and trials. Virgil said long ago, "Forsan et hoc olim meminisse juvabit"—perhaps at some future time we shall recall these, our trials and pains, with pleasure. It is the conquering of difficulty that means most for men and even the standing of pain is not without an aftermath, if not of pleasure, at least of broad human satisfaction. When we talk about euthanasia, then, it would be well to ask some of these old people whether they want it or not. Seldom will the answer be found to be that which is so often presumed, by those in good health and strength, to be inevitable under such conditions.
Physicians have all seen incurable cancer patients who were approaching their end inevitably and with the fatal termination not far off, have hours and days of alleviation of suffering and even of enjoyment that made up for the prolongation of life almost in the midst of constant agony. The distinguished New York surgeon who had the pleasure a few years ago of listening once more to his favorite singer and fairly seemed to get renewed life from the inspiration of her voice and who for days after had the pleasant consciousness of smooth running life in improvement so characteristic of convalescence, is a typical example of what may happen under such circumstances. I shall not soon forget Dr. Thomas Dunn English, the well-known author of "Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," saying at an Alumni dinner of the University of Pennsylvania, that, like Bismarck, he used to think that all the joys of life's existence were in the first eighty years of life, but of late years he had found [{725}] that many of them were also in the second eighty years of life. He was at the time 83. He made the most joyous and happiest speech on that occasion. He was quite blind, was almost deaf, had been reported dying some months before, and had gone through prolonged suffering, yet he was by his cheeriness and whole-hearted gaiety on that occasion a joy and inspiration to all the younger men at the table.
Dread of Suicide.—There are patients who come to the physician worked up because they fear they may commit suicide. Every now and then the thought comes to them that some time or other they will perhaps throw themselves out of a window, or be tempted to drop in front of a passing train, or over the side of a steamboat, or impulsively take poison. Some nervous people become quite disturbed by these thoughts. Every physician is sure to have some patients who must be reassured, every now and then, that they are not likely to commit suicide. Their nervousness over the fear of this may serve to make them supremely miserable and it evidently becomes the doctor's duty to reassure them. It is not difficult to do this, as a rule, provided the physician will be absolutely confident and unhesitating in his declaration that there is no danger that they will commit suicide, since it has almost never been known that patients who dread it very much and, above all, those who dread it so much that they take others into their confidence in the matter, take their own lives. The very fact that the thought produces so much horror and disturbance in them is the best proof that they will not impulsively do anything irretrievable in this way.
Prof. Dubois has discussed this subject in his usual thoroughly practical way and his words serve as an authoritative confirmation of what has been already said, though as a matter of fact the expressions and experience of nearly every nervous specialist thoroughly justify the position here assumed. Besides, it must be realized that this confident assurance is the best possible prop that doubting patients can have with regard to the actions they dread, and by positive declarations the physician will accomplish more than in any other way.
There are patients who are subject to strange obsessions. They are afraid that they will throw themselves out of the door of a car, or climb over the parapet of a bridge. They are afraid that they will throw their relatives out of a window, or will wound somebody with a knife or a gun. There are some with a strong impulse to open their veins. But if there is a certain attraction in such things, it is really a phobia. It tends to make one shrink back and not to act.
Nothing quiets these patients like the frequently repeated statement that they will not do anything. It is necessary to show them the vast distance there is between the impulse toward suicide and murder and the phobia which, however distressing it may be, is a safeguard. One must keep at this education of the mind with imperturbable persistence and use the most forceful and convincing arguments that one can think of to correct the judgment of his patient, in order to make the strings of moral feeling and reason vibrate in unison.
It is through lack of courage and perseverance that we err in the treatment of these psychoneuroses. We wait too long to distinguish the morbid entities that bear on a certain etiology or a different prognosis. We do not see clearly enough the bond which unites these different affections.
It may seem to some physicians as though they would be assuming too much responsibility in giving patients such positive assurance that their dreads [{726}] will not be fulfilled, but as a matter of fact the experience of physicians is quite sufficient to justify the confident statements here suggested. It is true that occasionally a person who afterwards commits suicide talks the matter over and hints at the possibility of taking his own life. He does not, as a rule, speak of it with dread, however, but as one of the alluring solutions of his difficulties that he sees ahead of him. He is much more likely to write a letter to his physician telling him that all his arrangements are made and that by the time this letter reaches him he will be already dead. The prospective suicide is usually quite secretive about this purpose, not only to friends, lest he should be prevented from accomplishing it, but even with his physician, in whom he has had absolute confidence and to whom he has told practically everything else. The patients who fear the possibility of committing suicide, who tell how much they dread the horror of it, and who rush to consult the physician to help them against themselves, show by the very fact the unlikelihood of action on their part.
The Physician and Suicide.—By mental influence, then, the physician may lessen the tendency to suicide in the individual and in the community. To do this is to save suffering and to help in the solution of one of the most serious social problems in modern times. It can only be accomplished by a sympathetic attitude towards the whole subject and a tactful understanding of each individual case. Every effort in the matter, however, is well worth while, for there is no more hideous blot on our modern civilization than the startling increase of suicide. It is particularly important to bring about improvement in this regard among young suicides, and fortunately it is here that the influence of the physician for good is likely to be most felt. The saving of life is the noblest part of the mission of the physician and nowhere, perhaps, can this be accomplished more successfully than with regard to some of these patients whom a rash resolution, due to a momentary fit of depression and a sense of suffering exaggerated out of all proportion to their actual pain, is hurrying out of life.
CHAPTER IV
GRIEF
Grieving would seem at first glance to be one of the conditions for which the physician, especially if the etymology of the name of his profession be taken strictly, should not be called upon to minister, nor his remedies be expected to relieve. Grief is usually supposed to be due to moral ills and, therefore, at most to come under the care of the alienist, with the feeling that even he can accomplish very little for what is an affective rather than a true mental disorder. There is no doubt at all, however, that grieving, especially in the excess that shows it to be pathological, is always associated with certain physical and mental conditions for which the physician can accomplish much. Indeed more often than not the physical condition of the grief-stricken person is a prominent factor in the production of the state of feeling which causes grief to be exaggerated, while, on the other hand, this state of mind [{727}] itself reacts upon the physical being so as to make it more sluggish in all its functions, and as a consequence a vicious circle of cause and effect is formed affecting unfavorably both the mental and physical conditions. It is when patients are run down in health that grief becomes extremely difficult or apparently impossible to bear and grief itself still further brings about a deterioration of health that makes the mind's reactionary power against its gloomy feelings still weaker than they were.
Viewed in this way, grief is an ailment that should properly come to the physician for treatment and with regard to which that important principle is eminently true that the physician cannot always cure, but he can nearly always relieve, and he can always console his patients. On the one hand, an improvement in the general health always make grief easier to bear because it increases the resistive vitality of both mind and body. On the other, any diversion of mind that lifts the burden of grief even to some degree, releases new stimuli and physical powers for the restoration of bodily function to the normal and this brings about an immediate lessening of the depressive condition. In a word, for the vicious circle of unfavorable influences ever pushing the victim farther into depression, a virtuous circle, in the Latin sense of the word virtue, meaning courage, favoring strength, must be formed, that brings about an immediate improvement in the patient's mental and physical well-being. This is not a pretty bit of theory but is the result of the experience of every physician who has ever taken seriously the problems of caring for the grief-stricken.
Natural and Pathological Grief.—It is, of course, not easy to distinguish between grief that may be called morbid in the sense of a melancholy, that is, more than natural—a true mental disease—and that which represents only an affective state accompanied by depression from which there will be complete reaction. A mother loses a favorite, it may be an only son, and is plunged into grief. For days, even weeks, she refuses to take any interest in life, she thinks moodily about the awful affliction that has come to her and how blank the future is, and she cannot be aroused to attend either to her own affairs or to the duties of life around her. Such a grief is, in many cases, not more than the normal depression incident to such a loss. If after months, however, the mother still continues to refuse to take interest in life and the things around her, especially if, besides, she now talks of having been visited with this punishment because of some unpardonable sin in her own life, or because the Deity has been offended beyond all hope of propitiation, then the case verges over into one of true melancholy in which the mental depression is not merely a symptom of a passing condition, but partakes of the nature of a mental disease, or is the consequence of a profound neurotic condition.
It must not be forgotten that there is always the danger that exaggerated grief, as it seems for the moment to be, may be only the first symptom of a true melancholic condition. Only too often friends and physicians have been deceived by this. Some of the sad cases of self-destruction and a few cases of homicide and suicide have followed a condition that seemed to be only abnormal grief for the loss of a relative.
Etiology.—The cause of exaggerated, prolonged grief is, in a considerable proportion of the cases, a melancholic tendency, that is, a failure on the [{728}] part of the mind to react against depression. The weakness of mind that predisposes to this may be inherent or acquired. Sometimes no special loss is needed to produce melancholia in susceptible individuals, while occasionally it is precipitated by some misfortune, inasmuch as this is a mental disease, very little can be done directly, and yet the patient can be helped and diversion of mind may bring a good measure of relief. More often, however, the reason for persistent grieving is that before the disturbing loss came into the life of the individual there had been a serious deterioration in health. This was due to the conditions preceding the unfortunate event. Wives sometimes have worn themselves out physically and mentally while nursing husbands, or mothers their children, and this has produced a lack of physical force which prevents them from reacting with healthy mentality against the subsequent shock of loss.
Prophylaxis.—For the melancholic tendency prophylaxis cannot be special, but must be general. We cannot prevent people from suffering serious losses, but we can foresee the possibility of a loss proving very depressing, and can, therefore, try to keep the individual in reasonably good physical condition. If this is done the subsequent depression will be much less than it otherwise would be. Very often there is little or no recognition of the fact that there is a definite tendency in some patients to too great an inclination toward melancholic thoughts, and it is not until an exaggerated manifestation of it comes that the danger is realized. It is not easy to make patients realize the dangers, but where the physician talks with assurance and points out definite things to do in order to prevent serious developments, patients, or at least their friends, can be made to appreciate the dangers.
The best demonstration that I know of the value of work as a remedy for grief is my experience with members of religious orders. For them, as a rule, there is no interruption in life no matter what the loss may be. Their work goes on the day after the funeral just as before. This is the most precious possible arrangement, time and occupation of mind are the two factors that will dull the edge of grief and while humanly we may resent the consolation that is thus brought by such conventional things as the passage of time and humdrum occupations, they represent nature's resources. Above all, patients must be given something to do and if that something concerns other suffering human beings, there is every reason to expect relief.
Treatment.—The most important element in the treatment of grief cases is to prevent physical running down as far as possible and to build up the physical condition. Depression that comes to patients who have lost considerable weight, even though it may show some of the signs of melancholia, is always hopeful. Where patients are twenty or thirty pounds under weight the recovery of weight up to the normal condition will often mean the relief of their depressed condition. The one hope lies in this physical improvement. Mental treatment by diversion of mind must, of course, be practiced. This does not mean getting the patients interested once more in trivial things, but to be successful it means arousing the deeper feelings of their nature. Above all, the solace of tears will often save depressed and grieving persons from themselves. An interest in the sufferings of other people that awaken their sympathy will do the most to end exaggerated grieving over their own loss. The self-centeredness of their grief is the principal reason for its exaggeration. [{729}] It is because of overestimation of their own importance and of the importance of their loss that these people suffer severely.
Motives of Consolation.—The main resource of the physician who would employ psychotherapy for the treatment of those who are grieving beyond the limit of what is normal, is to supply motives by which they can understand the real significance of their loss. Very often, especially in young folks, there is no proper estimation of values in life and no recognition of the fact that human life was evidently not meant for happiness since that comes to but few, while suffering and partings are inevitable. They come to all, and apparently will always continue to do so. It is the young or, at least, those under middle age, who are most likely to be affected by exaggerated depression over losses and disappointments. Older folks have grown more accustomed to such incidents. These patients must be made to see how many motives there are to take their grief philosophically and while permitting themselves the luxury of sorrow, not to let this interfere either with their physical condition or their mental state to such a degree as to prevent them from taking the proper interest in their duties in life.
The ethical motives that may be urged to keep people from grieving over-much are many, but there is sometimes the feeling in the physician's mind that it is scarcely his business to emphasize them in any way. It is supposed that to the clergyman must be committed the task of consoling people for losses in life. This has always seemed to me a serious mistake. As physicians we know how much the mind influences the body and since it is our duty to care for the body, we must, above all and first of all, care for the mind as far as we can. Mens sana in corpore sano is a very old motto and is usually taken only in the sense that to have a healthy mind one must have a healthy body. In its Latin form, however, it might very well also be taken to mean that to have a healthy body one must have a healthy mind. Since grief has an untoward influence on the body, physicians are bound to learn what to do for it in any and every possible way and to exercise every faculty they have for its relief. This is all the more true because in recent years many persons have no regular religious attendant who would come to offer them consolation or to whom they would go in their trouble. It is not at all with the idea of infringing on the rights of the clergy or invading his territory that I would insist not only on the right of the medical man, but even his duty, to afford consolation to the mind as well as relief for the body.
The Family Physician.—In older times the family physician was a friend of the family to whom people turned in all troubles where he might possibly be of aid, with just as much confidence and as promptly as they did to their religious attendant. Unfortunately, in the progress of medicine, though still more because of the social vicissitudes that have taken place in recent years, this relationship of the family physician has been largely diminished, but that constitutes only one more reason why every physician, to whose attention the grief of a patient for any loss is presented as a cause of ill-health, should know all the means and be ready to employ them for the amelioration of the condition. As a matter of fact, there is often a feeling on the part of patients that it is more or less the business of the clergyman to afford consolation and that the performance of his duty in this matter is somewhat conventional, not [{730}] as if he performed it less thoroughly because of this, but as if the feeling of the routine practice detracted from its effectiveness. Some of the motives for consolation advanced by the clergyman, then, lose in significance, in some persons' minds at least, because of this feeling, while motives presented by the physician rather gain in weight because of the impression that he is a thoroughly practical man, deeply interested in life's problems from a common-sense standpoint, and who knows the motives for consolation because he has realized that losses are inevitable, suffering unavoidable, and grief sure to come, though somehow we must learn to bear up bravely under life as we find it.
Physicians have always done this in the past, but in more recent years either they have lost the habit, or have considered it unworthy of their profession, or else, perhaps, only too often they themselves have had no motives to offer that might seem sources of consolation for those in suffering and especially those who are grieved for the loss of friends. If life were a mere chance, if there were not an evident purpose in it, if, as Lord Kelvin insisted, science did not demonstrate (not "suggest" but "demonstrate" is the word he used) the existence of a Creator and a Providence, Who, while caring for the huge concerns of the universe, can just as well employ Himself with the little details of human life, then there would be some reason for physicians thinking that their science kept them from seeking consolation from the ordinary motives. Even if they occupy an advanced agnostic position, however, they may still find sources of consolation that, if not so effective as those attached to the old beliefs, at least will provide something for the forlorn to take hold of, that will mitigate their grief and sense of loss and make the present and the future look not all too blank.
Few men have been so thoroughly agnostic as Prof. Huxley, yet on the death of his wife he found that some of the thoughts of the old beliefs might prove a source of consolation. Huxley had loved his wife very dearly and their separation by death meant very much. The epitaph that he wrote for her sums up his doubts yet plucks out of them something to console, expressed in old Scriptural language:
And if there be no meeting past the grave.
If all is darkness, silence, yet 'tis rest.
Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep.
For God still giveth His beloved sleep;
And if an endless sleep He wills, so best.
Attitude Toward Death.—The ordinary attitude of people toward death is a very curious one. Death is the one absolutely certain thing in life after birth, yet most of us live our lives without much regard to it, and whenever it comes and under whatever circumstances, at whatever age, it is always a shock to us. No matter how old people are it always comes a little before it is expected. When death comes it is always a shock and all that can be said of it is what Hamlet resents when the commonplace consolations for the loss of his father, who also lost a father and so on all down the course of history, are offered to him. Perhaps, however, as much the reason for his resentment was the person who offered the consolation as the form of the consolation itself, which, after all, exhausts nearly all that we can say in this matter for grief for near and dear ones:
King.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a father;
That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound
In filial obligation, for some term
To do obsequious sorrow: but to persevere
In obstinate condolement, is a course
Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief:
. . . Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature.
To reason most absurd, whose common theme
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From the first corse, till he that died to-day,
"This must be so."
Death and Pain.—One of the most effective consolations in our day for all classes of people, quite apart from religious affiliations or beliefs, is the sociological import of death and suffering in the world. Life, without suffering and death in it, would be a riot of selfishness. Men, as a rule, would not care for others at all, the weak would go to the wall, the individuals who possess less efficiency than others would simply have to make out as best they could, and bad as social conditions are now, they would be intolerably worse. As it is the young and strong and vigorous have very little of true sympathy. Nothing makes a man feel for others like having gone through some suffering himself. On the other hand, nothing makes him feel the impotence of struggling ceaselessly for vain success and the futile rewards of life than to lose near and dear friends whose share in that success and joy over the rewards would constitute their only real value and justification. As a man grows older and has gone through some of the sufferings and has had to bear the losses of life, he learns more and more to feel for others, he is ready even to make sacrifices that others may not have to suffer as he has suffered, he has charity for them for the sake of his own suffering and that of near and dear ones, and things are much better than they could possibly be without suffering and death.
Therapy by Example.—Many men have taken losses so seriously as to think that life held no more for them, and have foolishly given up their occupations, yet have found that Time, the great healer, could work his marvels in their case as well as in most others and that new interests and, above all, their life work, could arouse them to a sense of duty and bring them back to the old routine of life. Dr. Mumford, in his "Sketch of Sir Astley Cooper," tells the story of how even that veteran surgeon gave up everything at the death of his wife and yet found, after a year of idleness, that he had to come back to the old life again. Dr. Mumford says: "Sir Astley Cooper was an emotional man. In 1827 his wife died, and the event prostrated him with grief. He felt that all the interests of life were over for him. He fell into an acute physical decline, sold his town house, threw up his practice and other professional employments, and retired to his country place to pass his last days. Within a year of the sad event he had returned to town, taken another house, resumed practice with increased vigor, and married again. He was then sixty years old, he lived on until 1841, and died in his seventy-fourth year."
A typical example of how much a strong man whose diplomatic ability had stamped him as one of the large men of his generation may yet be afflicted beyond measure by a loss of this kind is to be found in the life of the second Lord Lytton. I have told it somewhat in detail in the chapter on Periodic Depression. After the death of his boy Lord Lytton, who for more than a week of anguish had watched unceasingly at the death-bed of his dying son, came to the conclusion that God was not in His world or, at least, that the arm of Providence was shortened if such (as it seemed to him) needless suffering was permitted. The boy had probably suffered much less than the bystanders thought and much less than he seemed to, for in these cases nearly always there is a merciful deadening of the senses that to a great extent eliminates suffering, but Lord Lytton could not understand and refused ever to look at life from the same standpoint afterwards. This is, of course, only what happens in many cases, but it represents an exaggeration of grief since death and suffering have always been in the world and sometimes they will come to those near and dear to us, much as we may resent it.
Neither profound intelligence nor the sympathetic genius of the poet or artist is sufficient to safeguard men against the severer forms of griefs for loss. Louis, the distinguished French physician (to whom we in America are indebted so much as the Master of the Boston and Philadelphia schools of diagnosis, and, above all, for his teaching of the differentiation between typhoid and typhus fever), suffered so much from the loss of his son that he could scarcely be consoled. Dante Gabriel Rossetti was so much affected by the death of his wife that he put into her coffin the only manuscript copy of his poems that he possessed. It is interesting to learn that some years later he had the coffin exhumed and took out his manuscript at the urging of friends, and published the poems. Many other examples of this kind might be given, for exaggeration of grief affects all classes and conditions in life. They are practically always pathological, usually on a basis of somewhat disturbed mentality, though often the real underlying and predisposing condition is the physical exhaustion that has preceded the loss and which makes patients unable to bear the strain of it after weeks of care, solicitude, anxiety and neglect of eating and sleep.
CHAPTER V
DOUBTING
In recent years the attention of physicians has been called to the fact that many people are made profoundly miserable by an unconquerable tendency to doubt about nearly everything that has happened to them, or is happening, or is about to happen. This is not a new phenomenon, but introspection has emphasized it, leisure gives more opportunity for it, and so physicians hear more of it now than they did in the past. This doubting tendency sometimes makes serious inroads on the peace of mind of sufferers from it because they cannot make up their minds to do things, even to take exercise, to eat as [{733}] they should in quantity or quality, and to share the ordinary life around them sufficiently to get such diversion of mind as will keep their physical functions normal. The state used to be described as a neurasthenia (nervous weakness), but in recent years has come better to be designated as in the class of psychasthenias (lack of mental energy). It is always a mental trouble in the sense that it is difficult for these patients to make up their minds about things, yet it is not a mental disease in the ordinary sense of the term, and these people are often eminently sane and thoroughly intellectual when their attention has been once profoundly attracted. They may even, under favorable circumstances, be active and useful helpers in great causes, yet there is always to be observed in them a certain noteworthy difference in mentality from the normal. The physician can do more for an affection of this kind than is usually thought, and he is probably the only one who can thoroughly appreciate and sympathize and, therefore, be helpful in the condition.
Sufferers are often laughed at by their friends and relatives and are likely to be the subjects of at least a little ridicule if they take their troubles to their physician. As a matter of fact, however, doubting is a typical case for psychotherapeutics and not only can much be done for its relief, but it can be kept from disturbing the general health, which it is prone to do if neglected, and by mental discipline and acquired habits of self-control, the doubting habit may be almost completely eradicated.
Exaggeration of Ordinary State of Mind.—The first thing absolutely necessary to impress upon the minds of these victims of their own doubts is that their condition is by no means unique, it is not even very singular, but is only an exaggeration of that hesitancy and tendency to put off making decisions that practically every person finds in a lifelong experience. This frame of mind is rather cultivated by education and by a large accumulation of knowledge. The less one knows the easier it is to come to decisions about difficult problems and to form conclusions without hesitancy. The young man will decide anything under the sun, and a few other things besides, almost without a moment's hesitation, and after but slight consideration. Twenty years later he looks back and wonders how he did it, and having done it, how he succeeded in turning the practical conclusions to which he came to advantage. The scholar is eminently a doubter and a hesitater, and we recognize that he loses certain of the qualities that would make him a practical man of affairs, though he gains so much more that broadens and deepens life's significance that there can be no doubt about the value of his liberal education.
"Hamlet" is just the story of one of these doubters and hesitaters. He saw his duty clearly and that duty was imperative. In spite of cumulative evidence, however, he refused to go on to the performance of that duty, urging to himself now one and now another reason of delay, until finally he wonders whether it would not be worth the while to take his own life, rather than try any longer to solve the problems that lie around him demanding solution. When he finally does something, his hand is forced and circumstances have so arranged themselves that instead of one clean-cut punishment for a great crime, there is the tragedy that involves six lives, including his own. The play seems to involve such exceptional characters and to be written around such an unusual set of circumstances that it might be thought [{734}] that it would prove uninteresting for men and women generally. As a matter of fact, however, "Hamlet" is the most popular of Shakespeare's plays and probably the most popular play, both for readers and auditors, that was ever written. There are commentaries by the hundred on it in nearly every modern language. Men have been more interested in this figment of Shakespeare's imagination than in any man that ever lived. Caesar and Napoleon have not attracted so much attention. Only Homer and Dante have been perhaps more written about than Hamlet.
Shakespeare has emphasized the condition of Hamlet by showing us an eminently well educated man. His deep interest in literature, and especially in dramatic literature and all that relates to the stage, can be appreciated very readily from his speech to the players. No one but a man of profound critical ability and deep intellectual interests could have so summed up the actors' relation to the drama. Of course, this is Shakespeare himself talking and unthinking people have said that this was a purple patch fastened on the play because it gave the author an opportunity to express his views with regard to actors and their ways. Instead of that, it is of the very essence of the development of Hamlet's character and shows us the scholarly amateur who knows so much about many things that he has become quite unable to make up his mind about the practical problems that lie before him. James Russell Lowell says that Shakespeare sent Hamlet to Wittenberg, though Wittenberg was not founded until centuries after Hamlet existed—and Shakespeare probably knew that very well—because Wittenberg in Shakespeare's time, on account of its connection with Luther and the religious revolt in Germany, had the widespread repute of occupying men's minds with doubts about many of the things that had been deemed perfectly settled before, and its popular reputation serves to give an added hint as to the character of Hamlet as the dramatist saw it.
Once those who are perturbed by doubts learn that the reason for the universal human interest in Hamlet is that there is a large capacity for doubt of self in every man and woman, that we all put off making decisions whenever possible, sometimes refuse to open letters when they come if we fear that they will contain some disturbing news, put off writing letters because we have to state ideas definitely, apparently hope that the day and the night will bring us counsel and that somehow the decision will be made for us without the trouble of making up our minds, then they lose their sense of discouragement over their condition and appreciate that they are suffering only from an exaggeration, probably temporary and quite eradicable, of a state of mind that comes to practically every human being.
This is the important thing, because on it can be founded the only really hopeful therapy of the condition. Doubting is a habit that may be increased by yielding to it, but that can be diminished to a very great extent by constant discipline, which refuses to permit doubts and hesitancy and bravely makes decisions, even though there may be the feeling that they may prove to be wrong.
Extent of Affection.—If such discipline is not instituted, then the lengths to which the doubting hesitant habit may go are almost incredible. I have had patients tell me that they doubted about nearly everything in the past. A very dear friend once confided to me that it was always a source of bother [{735}] to him that he was not quite sure whether he was married or not. His marriage I knew had been a public ceremonial, and he had led his bride down the aisle to the strains of the "Wedding March" in quite conventional style, but he was hesitant of speech, especially under excitement, and he was not sure that he had ever said "I will" to the question of the clergyman, for there was a constriction at his throat at the moment and he could utter no sound. The absence of any audible sound from the groom is not so unusual as to attract attention and, of course, his intention and his bodily presence and everything else gave the assent without the necessity for the word, but he could not get out of his mind the thought that possibly he was not married and at times it gave him poignant discomfort. He was a thoroughly intelligent man, a teacher and a writer, with no abnormalities that attracted attention, and his tendency to doubt was only known to very near friends who laughed at it and had no idea at all of the annoyance that it often gave its unfortunate victim.
I have a clergyman friend who has had some serious scruples with regard to his ordination. He is a Catholic priest and at a certain part of the ceremonial of ordination it is considered necessary for the candidate for orders to touch at the same moment the paten, the small metal plate on which the Host is placed, and the chalice. This clergyman is not sure that he had done this simultaneously. As a rule, great care is exercised in seeing that all the details of the ordination ceremonies are carried out very exactly and as there are a number of attendants on the altar whose duty it is to see that the absolutely necessary details are properly fulfilled, it is quite improbable that any mistake in this matter was made. The young clergyman, however, had not made an act of conscious attention at the moment when he was supposed to do this, and consequently he could not be sure afterwards whether he had done it or not. He thought of it as the very essence of his ordination and he feared that all his subsequent acts as a clergyman might be impaired by this negligence.
Trivial Doubts.—It is not alone with regard to important things, however, that people may doubt and are disturbed by doubts, but with regard to every trivial thing in life, if they permit the habit to grow on them. Doubting is, after all, one of the phobias, that is to say, it is the fear that something may happen if the decision they make is wrong, that causes people to hesitate so much. There is a tendency in all of us which, if undisciplined, may make us put off the doing of things until the last moment. It is easy to resolve the night before that we will do certain things the next day, but when the next day comes we find excuses to put them off. I have already suggested as a symptom that some people put off the opening of letters. There are probably more who do this than anyone has any idea of. Delay in answering letters is probably much more often due to hesitancy of decision than to actual laziness. We doubt as to what we should say about certain things, and we do not care to take the trouble of making up our minds, and we fear if we do make up our minds it may be wrong, so we adjourn the whole matter to another time and keep on adjourning it. Many people are quite ready to confess that they do not do things until they have to, though few are ready to acknowledge that it is due to hesitancy or doubting about themselves and their decisions.
Of course, the man who doubts whether he has locked the door of his house after he gets to bed can only satisfy himself by getting up and actually investigating the state of affairs. Then there is the man who doubts whether he has locked his safe at the office. He may get his doubts just as he reaches the foot of the elevator and then if he is wise he will go back and determine the matter. If he is wise with experience he will also deliberately determine while he is there whether the office window is closed and locked and will make a conscious act when he comes out as to the locking of the office door. If he does not do all this he will have further doubts on the way up town and at his home during the evening which will make the doing of anything else a matter of discomfort and he will spoil the restfulness of his after-dinner hours. Some men conquer their first doubt, make their way home only to be beset by so many doubts that at the end of an hour they go back to their office and determine whether the safe is locked or not. Finding it locked they may forget to notice other things about the office and then they will surely have doubts about these, and they may have to go back again and see about them.
Then there is the man who doubts whether he posted a letter or if he did post it, who doubts whether it found its way down to the bottom of the mail box, or whether it may not have caught on a projecting screw or bolt or some portion of the upper part of the box and so fail of collection; he may go back several times to determine this. Doubts about even more trivial matters than this, however, annoy some people. I have known widows on whom the responsibility of managing the financial affairs of the household had been thrown for the first time after their husbands' death, who constantly doubted whether they could afford to spend this or that, though they were regularly saving money from their income. Over and over again they would have to go over all their recent expenditures to decide whether they could afford certain expenses. Such little things as the sort of paper to use in their correspondence, the wages they paid their servants, the amount of waste in the food in the household, all aroused in them doubts and set them to calculating once more just what was the relation of their income to expenditure, all to no purpose, for they would have the same doubts the next week or month.
Then there are people who doubt whether their friends really think anything of them. They think that though they treat them courteously this may be only common politeness and they may really resent their wasting their time when they call on them. They hesitate to ask these people to do things for them, though over and over again the friends may have shown their willingness and, above all, by asking favors of them in turn, may have shown that they were quite willing to put themselves under obligations. They doubt about their charities. They wonder whether they may really not be doing more harm than good, though they have investigated the cases or have had them investigated and the object of their charity may have been proved to be quite deserving. They hesitate about the acquisition of new friends, and doubt whether they should give them any confidence and whether the confidences that they have received from them are not really baits. This is, of course, a verging on suspicion as well as hesitancy and doubt, but the stories of how these people try to conquer themselves, yet have to make decision after decision, each one requiring time and a certain resolution of mind, are quite [{737}] pitiable. It gets worse rather than better unless a definite discipline of opposition and control is organized.
What ordinary people do habitually and easily and without any effort of mind, these people must waste time and mental energy over so that it is extremely difficult for them to accomplish anything. Training of mind, as of hand, consists in making certain actions so habitual that they are accomplished quite automatically. If we have decided that we are to get up at a certain hour we get up at that hour and do not have to make up our minds about it again, though this is one of the actions in which we all have the most lapses and the most need of renewal of resolution and habit. We make up our mind what we are going to eat and gradually acquire the habit of eating a certain quantity and a certain variety at meals and then we do not have to make up our minds about it every time. We go out, to do whatever must be done in our occupation quite automatically and there is no need of wasting mental energy over decisions about it. It is this that the doubter cannot do. He or she calls every trifling act before the supreme court of last decision, the bar of intellect, to decide whether it is worth while doing, whether it is to be done or not, how it is to be done, and then there is a doubt whether after it is done it may not prove to be quite the wrong thing to have done. This adds so much to the friction of life that all the surplus energy is used up in the settling of trivial matters, and nothing worth while is accomplished.
Sir James Paget once expressed all the realities of the situation of many of these people in a few terse phrases. It is probably the best explanation of its kind that we have and it deserves to be in the notebook and often before the mind of physicians who treat neurotic patients. Sir James said: "The patient says 'She cannot'; her friends say 'She will not'; the truth is she cannot will."
The expression, of course, applies to many other phases of so-called nervous disease besides doubting and especially to the psychasthenias. It represents, indeed, the keynote of many of these puzzling affections. The fact that it was uttered more than half a century ago shows how much better these affections were understood two generations before ours than we are likely to think, and how well physicians then got to the heart of them. From this to the re-education of will, that mental discipline and relearning of self-control which constitutes the essence of the treatment of them, is but a short step.
Prophylaxis.—Serious Occupation.—Of course, the real way out of the trouble is to have to do certain important things that occupy the mind and require the doing of many other things as subsidiaries which must be accomplished in order to carry out the greater resolution. Men who have important affairs on their hands seldom are bothered by doubts and hesitancy. Women who have not much to do make mountains out of the molehills of their little occupations and every trifle must be adjudged. The larger interests must be cultivated, the smaller ones must be turned over to the automaton which every one of us can develop in our persons if we only set about it resolutely. Each thing that comes up must be settled at once and action must replace contemplation. The Hamlet in us all must be put down and resolution must not be allowed to be sicklied over with the pale cast of thought. We must do [{738}] things and not think about them too much. The doubters can learn this lesson. They will never be entirely without hesitancy, but they can remove many of their difficulties, and live to accomplish much in spite of their make-up.
Physical Treatment.—The physical treatment of the doubting state consists, of course, in bringing the individual's physical condition as near as possible up to the normal. When the state occurs in people who are under weight its betterment is rather easy. The special feature of the physical condition that needs seeing to is an ample supply of fresh air. People who live in ill-ventilated places, or who do not get out into the air enough, are almost sure to suffer from the tendency to avoid the making of decisions. The man of decision usually is a vigorous outdoor-air individual. Even the perfectly healthy man who has been in the house for some reason for days together gets into a state of mind where the making of decisions becomes objectionable. He wants to push things away from him. In individuals who already have a natural tendency this way this is greatly exaggerated by confinement. Arrangements must be made, therefore, that will ensure getting out for some time, not once but twice every day. The regular making of decisions for this purpose is of itself a good mental discipline. It must not be omitted even for rain or snow, unless there are additional reasons of some kind. An abundance of fresh air in the sleeping-room is extremely important and must be secured.
Mental Treatment.—The mental treatment consists in diversion of mind. Usually the doubters have no interests that appeal to them deeply and in which they have to make prompt regular decisions. If possible, these must be secured. They must form habits of doing things regularly and of making up their minds to do them, and then not have to repeat the adjudication and resolution. In recent years people realize, quite apart from its religious significance, the value of what older religious writers called examination of conscience. Regularly before they go to sleep these people must be told to call up what they have done during the day and to note their faults in the matter of putting off doing things and making decisions slowly. They must, however, not only realize their faults, but they must make up their mind to correct them during the following day. They must not leave the arrangement of what they shall do next day to chance, but must decide just how and when they shall do things and then, as far as possible, keep to this program. The program must, of course, be sensible and considerate. This preliminary arrangement can be made to mean much more than might be thought. Some people thus learn to correct entirely their tendency to doubt whether they should do things or not and lessen greatly the difficulties they have in making decisions.
CHAPTER VI
RESPONSIBILITY AND WILL POWER
The development of science (meaning by that term knowledge with regard to physical nature in contradistinction to philosophy or the relation of nature to man) in modern times has brought about in some minds a hesitant, if [{739}] not frankly contradictory attitude towards the question of free will. There are many scientists who not only doubt the existence of free will, but insist that there cannot be such a thing. For them, man like the animals is determined to do things from without rather than from within. The stronger motive compels him. There may be a weighing in the balance of motives, but that is a question of intellect and not of will. It is true that the stronger motive may be one that is less alluring to nature or to sense than some of the others which clamor for a hearing, but it is eventually the stronger motive that compels. A man may desire something that does not belong to him very much, but the consciousness that it does not belong to him and that to take things that do not belong to him is unworthy of him will override his covetousness and so he remains honest if he has been trained to regard things that way. After all, the old maxim, "Honesty is the best policy," is founded on some such reasoning as this, since only one who is at heart dishonest would consider men as swayed by the thought that to be honest is the most profitable, instead of being the right, and therefore the only proper thing.
The argument for free will that appeals to most men is the consciousness that we are free and that at any given moment we can do a thing or not do it, just as suits us. If two things are presented to us we can do that one which seems right to us to do, or we can do both of them, or we can permit ourselves to be led into the wrong, though always acknowledging to ourselves that it is the wrong and feeling downcast, or at least disturbed, that we should let ourselves be led away from higher motives. Even in this case the determinist insists that we are determined from without by motives due to our training, to our education along certain lines with the influence of the environment in which we live, to the special sentiment that we have within us as a consequence of the influences of preceding life. Such determination, however, does not come from without us, but from within. It is the result of the formation of our wills in a particular direction. The argument is, therefore, a begging of the question. A man may have formed the habit of doing evil things and then finds it easy to do them without compunction. On the other hand, the exercise of his will in doing what he considers right, in spite of the fact that it may not be pleasant at the moment, is a training of the will founded on its essential freedom. There is an essential distinction between right and wrong, and we have it in our power, as many a man has done, to follow the right even though it costs our life.
Bad Temper.—A typical example of supposed determinism, which proves exactly the opposite of what is sometimes urged, may be noted with regard to exhibitions of temper. As Clouston declares in his "Unsoundness of Mind" (Methuen, London, 1911), "an uncontrollable temper is in many cases very like and nearly allied to an unsoundness of mind. It is certain that bad temper may gradually pass into technical insanity and that a considerable number of persons who are passing or have passed into insanity exhibit as the most marked symptom morbidness and violence of temper. 'It's just temper. Doctor,' is one of the most common remarks that I have heard made to me by patients' friends. I think that it is quite certain that in most cases much might be done in youth to establish a reasonable control over temper where it is inclined to be uncontrolled, so preventing serious discomforts in life both to its possessor and to others. In many cases I am satisfied that [{740}] this education would have the effect of preventing unsoundness of mind also, arising out of uncontrolled temper." There are many examples in the literature of hagiology particularly, from which it is clear that men have learned to control even violent tempers and by self-discipline and training in self-control have even become rather quiet, gentle individuals. The truth of such examples is attested too well to be discredited. This question of training, then, is extremely important.
It has been pointed out that the consciousness of freedom to which an appeal is made in this argument for free will is shared with us by the insane even in the performance of many acts that we know are compelled in certain ways. Insane persons reason themselves into a peculiar state of mind, in which they represent to themselves that they have been persecuted, for instance, by a particular person and then they become persecutors in turn and do harm. As they see their act, it is often a species of self-defense. They themselves have no consciousness, or, at most, a very dim and hazy realization of the inner compulsion to which they are subjected at the time of the act and sometimes talk quite rationally and discuss the motives which impelled them to do things, just as if they were free. We recognize, however, the distinction between this delusion of the insane and the rational state of mind of the sane. We have no definition for insanity, that is, no formula of words, which will absolutely include all the insane and at the same time exclude all the sane, but we have a practical working knowledge that enables us to judge rather well between those who are compelled to do things by delusions, and those who do them from motives that are rationally weighed and that influence a will that is free to follow them as it pleases. We hold the rational man responsible for his acts because he knows he was free not to do them. We punish him partly because he should not have done them and partly because we want him not to do them again, and we know that punishment will help him to keep from committing crime, because it will support his free will against his inclinations, when the time of trial comes again.
Above all, we are conscious of our own responsibility. We know that when we do wrong we are worthy of blame. We know that when we allow covetousness to lead us into the appropriation of what does not belong to us we are deserving of punishment, because we need not have done it, but we yielded to unworthy motives. We know that while anger may be blind we can control it, at least those of us who are fully in possession of our intellectual and voluntary powers, so as to keep from doing violence, even in the heat of it. This dealing with ourselves is the best proof that we have of our recognition of our freedom of will. We are responsible, and what we genuinely do not will to do is not accomplished. Our will may be bent by many attractions, but we know that these motives are not compelling unless we allow them to be. When a child tells us that he did something because he could not help it, we either feel sorry for him because he is not yet in possession of his full faculties or else we laugh at this excuse. There is a tendency to admit this excuse as having a meaning, but only by those who themselves come into court with hands assoiled in some way and who are looking for pardon from others for offenses, and who, above all, want to feel that they can pardon, or at least excuse, themselves.
In recent years we have seriously impaired the idea of responsibility in [{741}] the minds of the general public by a foolishly sentimental mercifulness to criminals. If a man under indictment for murder can show that he has ever previously in his life acted even slightly irrationally, or if he has been peculiar in certain ways, provided, of course, he has money enough to pay for the opinions, there will be an abundance of expert testimony to declare that he is irresponsible and should not be punished. As a consequence, in many cases justice fails. We are reaping the harvest of this pseudo-scientific invasion of law. Human life is cheaper in no country in the world than it is in America. Our murder rate is going up by leaps and bounds, while that of Canada remains almost stationary, and the reason is that while nine out of ten of all our murderers do not receive the death penalty and many of them escape serious punishment of any kind, nearly as large a proportion of Canadian murderers are punished by death. A man may have his responsibility somewhat impaired and yet retain sufficient free will so that he deserves to be punished for serious crimes. It is hard to decide in certain cases, but in most cases the decision is not difficult if, with the right sense of justice, morbid sentimentality is put aside.
[Footnote 59, the following lengthy citation is from an article on "Responsibility and Punishment," in the American Journal of Medical Science, 1909.]
While the doctrine of free will is so clear it is still true that the question of responsibility for actions, and above all for criminal actions, is not so simple as many people used to proclaim it in the past. No two men are free to perform an act or not to perform it in quite the same way. Familiar examples are ready to hand: One man finds no difficulty at all in resisting the inclination to take spirituous liquor to excess; another finds it a most difficult feat, often apparently impossible for him to refrain from indulging to excess almost whenever the opportunity offers, or at least whenever he gets a taste of liquor. This difference between the two men is founded in their very nature. It would be utterly a mistake to praise the one for his abstinence or to blame the other under certain circumstances for his indulgence. Between these two classes there are others quite different individually. Some of them have a slight tendency, and, fearing the worst, do not indulge in it; some of them have a marked tendency which they are able to resist under most circumstances without very much difficulty once they have made up their minds; some are sorely tempted, fall occasionally, yet never become habitual drunkards. For each of these men there is a different responsibility, and so far as they are to be punished a different punishment must be meted out, for it is our effort in the modern time to make the punishment fit the criminal and not the crime.
This same thing holds true for many other forms of crime. Some men readily lose sight of the distinction between mine and thine, and possess themselves of their neighbors' goods almost without realizing that they have done wrong. They are rare, and we have been accustomed to call these people kleptomaniacs. Between these and the man who hesitates to steal, even when starving or for his starving children, there are many degrees of inclination and disinclination toward stealing. The same thing is true to a more noteworthy degree with regard to anger. Anger, the old saw says, is a brief madness. In America we say very frankly that a man who is very angry is mad. In this brief madness he may be led to do things which he would not do at all in his sober senses. Some men easily get into one of these awful fits of anger in which their responsibility is lessened, while others have a calm phlegmatic disposition from which they are scarcely aroused even by the worst forms of abuse or injury, or even physical suffering.
It is evident in all these cases that in order to measure how much of punishment ought to be meted out for acts committed it is more necessary to know the individual than his act. This often becomes an extremely difficult matter, for [{742}] after the commission of crime every effort is made to make out as little responsibility as possible for the criminal. The easiest way to do this has been to use the insanity plea. As already stated, we have no definition of insanity. It is easy to understand then that there will be a disagreement among physicians as to who is or is not insane, and the result is almost sure to create doubt which tends to obscure the principles on which are based the proper punishment of crime. Now this system is founded on certain wrong principles as regards the administration of Justice. While it is difficult to decide with regard to a man's insanity or sanity, it is not difficult to decide with regard to his punishment when the ordinary purposes of punishment are kept well in view.
The old idea of punishment used to be that of revenge. A man had done a wrong, and what would ordinarily be held a wrong had to be done to him in order that the scales of Justice should be maintained level. At the present time we have no such idea at all. Punishment has two main purposes—the prevention of further disturbance of social order by the particular criminal, and the deterrence of others from like acts. If a man takes away the life of another we do not take away his because thus Justice will be obtained, but we take it away to prevent him from ever doing anything of the same kind again. A man who has committed murder is more likely to do it again than another. He has committed one breach of social order; we shall prevent him forever from committing another of the same kind. This is the very best deterrent to such crimes that there is. It will be said, of course, that these men could not refrain from doing their acts. It is doubtful, however, whether this contention is true in the great majority of cases, and the proper punishment of such as occur furnishes the best possible motive to help others from the commission of like acts.
This holds true for children at a time when their sense of responsibility for their acts is as yet undeveloped. They can be taught, even very early in life, by properly applied punishment, that need not be severe, that they must not do certain things, and then they will not do them, or at least, will do them much less. This is true not only for perfectly rational children, but also for those that are to some degree irrational. Punishment is of great importance in the training of children of low grade intelligence, and there is scarcely any child, however wanting it may be in intellect, that cannot be disciplined into conduct that makes it much less bothersome than would ordinarily be the case. This is well known and it is also well known that the attempt to manage such children without punishment would be extremely difficult, not to say impossible. They do not reason about the thing, they are not quite responsible for their acts; but they do connect punishment with what they have done, and are in many cases deterred from doing it again, especially while they realize that authority is near them and that punishment is inevitable. These are the principles on which the adjudication of punishment for crime must be measured. There is nothing else that can be done if society would preserve itself and its members from those who are irresponsible even in minor degrees.
In this matter practical experience is well worth the while. The lower order of creatures, the animals, we do not consider responsible for their acts in the same way as human beings. We know the value, however, of punishment in deterring them. A dog, for instance, by being whipped a few times when he is young, can be taught not to steal things to eat, and taught that there is an inevitable connection between the taking of such things and the infliction of such punishment. I shall not soon forget my first lesson in philosophy from a dear old professor, who, talking of the memory of animals, demonstrated that they had a memory, from the ordinary experience of mankind with regard to them. "If a cat does something naughty in your room," he said, "you rub its nose in it, and it will not do it again." The cat had no idea that it was doing wrong. According to its way of life it was not doing wrong. It learned, however, from sensory experience that it must not do this sort of thing under special circumstances, and after the lesson has been once thoroughly learned there is no more trouble of this kind.
Individuals who are of less mental stability than normal require, indeed, more careful discipline than average men. The rational may be managed by sweet reasonableness. The defective child must be made to realize that certain actions [{743}] will surely be followed by painful punishment, though, of course, the main purpose of modern care for such children is to watch over them so diligently as to prevent them getting into mischief. This is after all what we do with the animals, and we realize the necessity for it. Defective human beings approach the animal in their lessened power to resist impulses, and they must be treated in the same way. If we were to save the animals in an excess of tenderness toward them, because we held to the notion either that they did not know any better or else could not resist their impulses, and then permitted them to do things without punishment, we should either have to get rid of animals entirely, or else life would be one continuous readjustment of things to animal ways. Since defectives occur in the general population, it must be realized that far from being less rigid with them in the matter of meting out punishment for things they do that are harmful to others, we must be even more strict with them. Otherwise, we will have to take the bitter consequences of our own foolishness.
It does not make so much difference if the thoroughly rational individual occasionally escapes punishment for something done, but whenever the subrational escapes, he is encouraged to do it again. More than that, the example of his punishment is needed for others. So far as possible, punishment must inevitably follow crime in the world, in order to impress the subrational and deter them from yielding to impulses. Far from being less deserving of punishment in every sense in which a modern penologist cares to inflict punishment, these individuals are more impressed by it, and, above all, need to be more impressed by it. When the subrational know that they can do things without being severely punished for them, they will always abuse that state of affairs. The thoroughly rational man may be depended on to do his duty as a rule without the need of punishment hanging over him. This is not true for the others, and hence the greater increase in crime, and above all in murder, which has made human life cheaper in this than in any other country in the world, as the direct consequence of recent abuses in our penal system.
It has become very clear now that in recent years we have come to take entirely too lenient a view in these matters, and that many criminals who deserved to be punished, both because in this way they would be prevented from future crime and others deterred by the knowledge of their punishment, have been allowed to escape Justice. The tendency is toward too great mercifulness, which spoils the character of the nation, just as leniency to the developing child spoils individual character. Men may very well be insane, in the broad meaning of that term, in the sense that they have done irrational things, but then there is almost no one who has not. The responsibility of most men for a definite action is quite clear in the sense that if they are punished they will not do it again, or will be less likely to do it again, while if they are not punished their escape becomes a suggestion to themselves and to others to repeat such acts. It is for the subrational that we most need to insist on punishment. The cunning of the insane is proverbial, and this extends also to the subrational, and many of these folk realize that their difference from others, their queerness, as their folks call it, is quite enough to make a verdict of insanity in their case assured with the present lax enforcement of law. If the present state of affairs continues in this matter, we are simply allowing ourselves to be led by the nose by these cunning people into the perpetuation of a state of affairs in which they may do what they like because we have become foolishly oversensitive in the matter of inflicting punishment.
On the principle that punishment deters, a man who has killed another man, even under conditions that seriously impaired his responsibility for the act and with evidence of previous lowered mentality, must never again be free to live the ordinary life of men. He must be under surveillance, and should be confined for life in an institution for the criminally insane. For the subrational such a sentence, if known to be inevitable, would usually be more deterrent than even imprisonment in an ordinary prison for life with all the possibilities for freedom which are presented by executive clemency, pardoning boards, and the like. It is absurd to say that a man may have such an attack of mental unsoundness as will lead him to do so serious an act as taking away human life, and then be expected to get over his mental condition so as not to be likely to do the same thing again. [{744}] Every alienist knows that this is not true. Such acts, when really due to mental instability, occur either in depressed or maniacal conditions, and these, as is now well known from carefully collected statistics, inevitably recur, or in weakened toxic conditions in susceptible subjects, and a return to the old mode of life may at any time bring recurrences.
It is in the treatment of disorders of the will of various kinds that the physician is brought to realize how much harm is done by the teaching that determinism and not free will rules life. It is true that we often find cases in which men and women cannot use their wills or at least seem not to be able to use them. They are lacking in some essential quality of human mentality. We find many human beings, however, doing things that are harmful for them and that are so inveterated by habit that it is extremely difficult to get away from them. In every case the sane person can conquer and break the habit, no matter how much of a hold it may have obtained.
We have heard much of the born criminal and of the degenerate and his inevitable tendencies, but most of the theories founded on this phase of criminal anthropology have gradually been given up as a consequence of more careful and, above all, more detailed observation. Many criminals bear the stigmata of so-called degeneration. Many of them have irregular heads, uneven ears, some fastened directly to the cheek and some with the animal peak, many have misshapen mouths and noses, but, on the other hand, many people having these physical qualities are good men and women, perfectly capable of self-control, honest, efficient members of society, and it is evident that the original observations were founded too exclusively on the criminal classes, instead of on the whole population. It is important, then, to get away from the notion of irresponsibility in these cases.
While men are free, yet each in a different way and the freedom of their wills is as individual as their countenances, it must not be forgotten that the freedom of the will is a function of the human being, and, like all other functions, can be increased or decreased by exercise or the lack of it. The old idea of "breaking the will" was as much of a mistake as that other old-fashioned notion contemporary with it of "hardening" children by exposing them to inclement weather and severe physical trials. The will may be strengthened, however, by the exercise of it and if not exercised it may not be expected, by analogy, at least, to be as weak and flabby as muscles would be under similar circumstances. The training of the will by self-denial and self-control is extremely important. When there is an hereditary influence, a family trait and not merely an acquired character, by which the will rather easily passes out of control, there is all the more need for the training of it in early youth. Without such training men may find it impossible to make up their minds to deny themselves indulgence of many kinds, but this is not because they have not free will, but because this function has never been exercised sufficiently to enable them to use it properly. A man who attempts to do gymnastic feats without training comes a cropper. A man who is placed in circumstances requiring hard muscle exertion will fail if his muscles have not been trained to bear it. The same thing will happen with the will.
Unfortunately this training of the will has been neglected to a considerable extent in modern education, and, above all, in modern families, where the presence of but one or two children concentrates attention on them, [{745}] over-stimulating them when young, leading to self-centeredness and, above all, discouraging self-denial in any way and preventing that development of thorough self-control which comes in the well-regulated large family. Besides, unfortunately it is just the neurotic individuals who most need thorough training in self-control and whose parents suffer from the same nervous condition (for, while disease is not inherited, defects are inherited), that are deprived of such regular training in self-control because of the inability of their parents to regulate either themselves or others properly. Here is the secret of the more frequent development of neurotic symptoms in recent years. It is not so much the strenuous life as the lack of training of the will so that the faculty of free will can be used properly. Lacking this, hysterical symptoms, unethical tendencies, lack of self-control become easily manifest. The training that would prevent these should come early in life, and when it does not it is very difficult to make up for it later. Just as far as possible, however, it is the duty of the psychotherapeutist to supply by suggestions as to training and discipline for the education of the will that has unfortunately been missed.
SECTION XX
PSYCHOTHERAPY IN SURGERY
CHAPTER I
PSYCHOTHERAPY IN OLD-TIME SURGERY
Surgery, a name derived from chirurgy—handwork—might seem to be dependent almost entirely on mechanical and technical skill, yet there has always been the conviction that the patient's attitude of mind towards an operation is almost as important a factor in the success of surgery as the surgeon's skill.
Astrology in Surgery.—From the earliest history of surgery we, find that astrology was mainly employed in order to determine what days were likely to be favorable, and what unfavorable, for the practice of such surgical procedures as were in vogue at that time. Certain conjunctions of the planets were declared to be particularly unfavorable, and some of them, indeed, were declared almost absolutely fatal; others were said to be especially favorable. As astronomical and anatomical knowledge grew, more and more details were added in this matter. Definite portions of the body were supposed to be under the occult influence of certain constellations. It was only with careful reference to these constellations then that surgical procedures or, indeed, the application of remedies of any kind, might be undertaken. All remember the picture in old almanacs of a man with the signs of the zodiac around him, and the indications that referred certain of these signs and the corresponding constellations to the different parts of the body.
Venesection and the Stars.—When venesection became a frequently used remedy, the question of the favorable and unfavorable influence of the stars was an important element in it. In old Babylonia, noted for its knowledge of astronomy, which was then called astrology without any of our derogatory meaning in the word, certain positions of the planets were absolute contraindications for the performance of venesection. Indeed, astrology often furnished the best possible excuses for the failure of what were thought to be absolutely specific remedies. When the remedies did not succeed, their failure was attributed to their being taken at unfavorable times and not to the remedies themselves. These astrological ideas continued to influence medicine, and, above all, surgery, down almost to our own time. Galileo and Kepler made horoscopes, and Mesmer wrote a thesis on the influence of the stars on human constitutions. In fact, very few important patients of the seventeenth and even eighteenth centuries were treated medically or surgically without due reference to the stars at the time. All this had a profound influence on [{747}] the patient's mind. He felt that every precaution was being taken to preclude the possibility of failure and assure favorable results, and he, therefore, submitted to the operation absolutely confident that so far as human knowledge could go, everything was favorably disposed in his regard.
Mental Influence in Old Hospitals.—It is rather interesting to realize how much the history of medicine illustrates the profound attention that was given in the old times to the question of the occupation of patients' minds as an eminently helpful factor in the treatment of disease and, above all, in convalescence. In the great health resorts, the temple hospitals like that at Epidaurus, or even the city hospital, the AEsculapeum at Athens, the question of recreation of mind was evidently considered very important. At Athens, the two city theaters, the larger one seating perhaps 50,000, and the smaller, Odeon, were not far from the hospital. At Epidaurus, a theater seating probably 12,000, in which the great Greek classic plays were given; a Stadium, seating nearly 10,000, in which athletic contests were conducted, and a Hippodrome, seating 6,000, in which animal performances might be witnessed, were all in connection with the temple hospital. Outdoor sleeping apartments were provided; that is, the patients slept under a colonnade, and, in general, the mental and physical hygiene of modern times was thoroughly anticipated. All of this was considered particularly important for convalescents. Patients were occupied, while in bed, with various interests. Just as soon as they could be moved, their minds were occupied with all sorts of interests external to themselves, and especially such as had the readiest appeal to humanity. (See bird's-eye view, facing [p. 9].)
Medieval Hospitals and the Mind.—It is not difficult to trace the development of similar conditions in the hospitals of the Middle Ages. While we are inclined to think of these older hospitals as surely lacking in everything that we have developed in our modern hospitals, they prove, on the contrary, to have anticipated most of our hospital improvements. They were of single story construction, with large windows high up in the wall so that there could be no drafts, with a balcony on which patients could sit in the sun, with arrangements for procuring privacy rather easily by means of sliding partitions, with tiled floors, and, above all, with pictures on the walls, some of them the products of the brush of the great artists of the old time and which would serve to occupy patients' minds. Probably nothing is worse for patients who are convalescing from illness or operation than to be left to their own thoughts. Often they must not be talked to overmuch, or permitted the exertion of conversation or of reading, yet they must have some occupation of mind. The frescoes painted directly on the walls of the old hospitals were eminently psychotherapeutic in this respect, and we shall probably have to imitate them. Besides, the patients had the opportunity every morning to hear Mass, which was said at an altar at an end of the ward, and certain religious exercises were conducted by the sister nurses each afternoon. How much of consolation this was to believing patients at a time when all were believers is rather easy to understand.
Medieval Surgeons and Mental Influence.—Some of the insistence on this favorable state of mind for operations during the Middle Ages is extremely interesting. One of the great surgeons of the fourteenth century was Mondeville, whose text-book has recently been published in both France and [{748}] Germany. I have translated in [ "Old-time Makers of Medicine"] [Footnote 60] some of his emphatic expressions, which show how important he deemed it to keep the patient in as favorable a state of mind as possible before and after operations. He went so far as to suggest that someone should be deliberately called in to tell him jokes. He said, "Let the surgeon take care to regulate the whole regimen of the patient's life for joy and happiness by promising that he will soon be well, by allowing his relatives and special friends to cheer him, and by having someone to tell him jokes, and let him be solaced also by music on the viol or psaltery. The surgeon must forbid anger, hatred, and sadness in the patient, and remind him that the body grows fat from joy and thin from sadness. He must insist on the patient obeying him faithfully in all things." He repeats with approval the expression of Avicenna that "often the confidence of the patient in his physician does more for the cure of his disease than the physician with all his remedies."
[Footnote 60: Fordham University Press, 1911.]
Mondeville was but one of the great surgeons of the medieval period who dwelt on this. It would not be hard to find corresponding expressions in the books of such men as Guy de Chauliac, Hugh of Lucca, Theodoric, or even earlier among the great Arabian physicians and surgeons. Rhazes, for instance, declared that "physicians ought to console their patients even if the signs of impending death seem to be present, for the bodies of men are dependent on their spirits." He considered that the most valuable thing for the physician to do was to increase the patient's natural vitality. Hence his advice: "In treating a patient, let your first thought be to strengthen his natural vitality. If you strengthen that, you remove ever so many ills without more ado. If you weaken it, however, by the remedies that you use, you always work harm." Another of his aphorisms seems worth while quoting: "The patient who consults a great many physicians is likely to have a very confused state of mind." For him a confused state of mind evidently meant a lessened tendency to recovery.
Surgical Lesions Influenced.—The King's touch in England, which so often proved beneficial for scrofulous patients, illustrates very well how much strong mental influence may avail even in cases where surgery seems surely indicated. Many cases of epilepsy were also greatly benefited by the King's touch, and, indeed, in this matter there are probably many more cases of the cure of epilepsy, or at least relief of the worst symptoms of the affection, reported as following the King's touch than after operation in the modern time. In both sets of cases we are now confident that the good effects produced came through the minds of the patients. When, during the eighteenth century, Mesmerism began to attract attention, investigators and experimenters on the subject were able to show that many pains and aches could be greatly benefited by psychic treatment. The painful conditions following fractures and sprains proved to be particularly amenable to mental influence exerted in this special way. As we approach the modern time, there comes to be a definite recognition of the fact that the mind may produce many pains and aches which seem due to purely physical conditions that might be expected to yield only to physical treatment. A corresponding recognition of the power of the mind to lessen and even suppress actual physical pain is almost a corrollary of this.
Sir Benjamin Brodie declared, as I have quoted in the section on "Diseases of the Muscular and Articular System" that a large proportion of the painful joint conditions that he saw among his better-to-do patients were of the hysterical or neurotic type. Sir James Paget thought this expression of Brodie an exaggeration, but acknowledged that one-fifth to one-fourth of all his cases in both hospital and private practice were due to hysteria. In those days most of the painful conditions were considered to belong rather to surgery than to medicine, so that these opinions represent very well the practice of medicine in these cases during the early nineteenth century.
During the nineteenth century great practical surgeons, and especially those who have taught us how to treat individual patients rather than their diseases—for it is quite as true in surgery as in medicine that the patient is more than his disease—have made distinct contributions to the department of psychotherapy in surgery. Dr. Hilton's great book on "Rest and Pain" is full of psychotherapy. His cases illustrate the fact that when patients' minds and bodies are set at rest, all sorts of serious conditions proceed to get better. The rest of mind, the cessation of worry, the presence of a feeling of confidence in recovery, is quite as important as the physical measures. Young surgeons particularly probably could not do better than follow the advice of the old Scotch surgical professor at Edinburgh who suggests to his pupils that they should read Hilton's "Rest and Pain" at least once a year.
CHAPTER II
MENTAL INFLUENCE BEFORE OPERATION
Much may be done during the preparation for operation to put the patient in the most suitable condition for the manifestation of healthy reaction of tissue and of normal convalescence. Many patients do not come for operation until their health has been somewhat impaired at least by the condition requiring operation. Not infrequently a good proportion of this impairment of health is due not so much to the lesion that is present as to the worry over it and the anxiety and solicitude which its development has occasioned. If the lesion is in connection with the digestive tract, this is particularly likely to be true, and nutrition will often have been sadly interfered with, not so much by direct influence of the pathological condition as by the unfavorable mental influence developing in connection with it. We know now that it is perfectly possible for an indigestion which is entirely above the neck to make rather serious inroads upon the health of the patient, by producing dislike for food or at least such loss of appetite as leads to considerable reduction in weight. In such cases there are often complications, such as tendencies to constipation, that still further impair health or at least reduce vitality and therefore hamper that healthy reaction which should occur after operation in order to assure normal convalescence.
Accessory Neuroses.—In many of these cases, even where there is a definite lesion present, the patient can be brought up to normal weight, or at least his condition can be greatly improved by medical treatment accompanied [{750}] by such attention to his state of mind as will neutralize its unfavorable influence. If he can be made to understand that a definite effort to increase weight and to bring back his strength will be of assistance in recovery from the operation, and that the reestablishment of certain habits of eating and caring for himself will do much to help in this, very desirable changes for the better in his general health may be brought about. This is illustrated very well by what happens in certain incurable cancer cases. The patients often have lost considerable weight, even thirty to forty pounds, before an operation is decided on, and then when the operation is performed their cancer is found to be inoperable. After the exploration the patient is not told this, but is mercifully spared and is assured that now he ought to get better, since an operation has been performed. Such patients have been known to gain twenty, thirty, and in one case I believe over forty pounds as the result of the mental influence of this suggestion and the resumption of former habits of life to some extent at least, consequent upon the neutralization of the unfavorable state of mind into which they had sunk before through over-solicitude about themselves. If even the depressing effect of the toxins of cancer can thus be overcome, it is easy to understand how much can be accomplished when there is no such physical factor at work.
Dominant Ideas.—As a general rule, it must be recognized that patients may be, and indeed frequently are, besides their definite pathological conditions, under the influence of dominant ideas which must be recognized and as far as possible neutralized. Some of them have persuasions with regard to food and the amount that they can eat, others have removed many important nutritious articles from their diet and are quite sure that any attempt on their part to take such articles is sure to be followed by indigestion, and still others have habits with regard to the amount and the kind of fluids that they take at meals and between meals and, above all, the lack of fluids in their diet which need to be overcome. Unless such ideas are counteracted there is difficulty even in convalescence, and very often they have brought patients into physical conditions in which whatever pathological condition is present is emphasized by that over-attention which the nervous system is so prone to give to even slight sensations when the organism is in a state of lowered nutrition.
In not a few of these cases the bringing of the patient up to the normal condition of weight and health, and the removal of the influence of dominant ideas, will perhaps also remove many of the indications for operation. There are many patients, and especially such as are reasonably educated and have some leisure, who get certain of their organs on their minds and produce symptoms or emphasize such symptoms as are present until it seems as though an operation is the only thing that can lift their burden of discomfort and permit them to go on again with their work. We have all known of physicians who felt sure that they ought to be operated on for such conditions as gastric ulcer or duodenal ulcer, though subsequent developments in the case, when they were persuaded to put off operation and made to reform certain ill-advised habits, proved that no such lesion as they suspected had ever been present. Indeed, some of these physicians and even surgeons have insisted so much that surgical friends occasionally have operated on them and have found nothing to justify the operation.
Some of these states in connection with discomfort of various kinds in the abdomen have been discussed in the chapter on Abdominal Discomfort, and some illustrations of useless operations given. We must not forget that there is a constant stream of pathological suggestion in the air at the present time, not only in medical journals, but even in the secular press, and that this concentrates the attention of patients on comparatively slight discomforts and leads to the exaggeration of them until even an operation seems a welcome relief for them.
Operative Persuasions.—While surgical operations are in practically all cases mutilations, they are absolutely necessary under certain circumstances, are often, indeed, life-saving, and there is no doubt that they have saved mankind a great deal of discomfort. Surgeons are agreed, however, that they are not to be performed unless they hold out a definite promise of physical relief. It is extremely important, then, that patients must not become persuaded of the need of an operation in their cases unless surgical intervention is really necessary. This is as true for physicians and even surgeons themselves, as I have said, as it is for the general public. Women are much more susceptible than men to operation suggestions, and since it has become fashionable to talk about their operations, not only has the deterrent idea of surgical mutilation been greatly lessened, but there has actually developed in many of them a morbid fascination for a similar experience with all its attraction of attention and promised occupation of mind for the woman of leisure.
This phase of the necessity for favorable mental influence has been especially emphasized in the chapters on Gynecology. Unless, therefore, there are very definite indications, operations must not be performed, for they will relieve, as a rule, only for the time being, and further operations may have to be done to no purpose. Any physician of reasonably large experience has seen such cases. Patients get the idea of an operation as their one hope, and then nothing less than that will produce such diversion of mind as will bring relief of symptoms. It is important in these cases that such patients should not have operations suggested to them. Once the suggestion takes hold, they do not use their reserve energy in such a way as to help out effectively other remedies that may be given. They distrust all remedial measures, think that at most they can be only palliative, and so do not add to other forms of therapeutics the power of psychotherapy to cure them.
Besides the abdominal conditions, there are certain tuberculous conditions with regard to which this seems to be particularly true. I have seen enlarged cervical glands disappear without discharge when patients have taken up the outdoor life, and, above all, when they have gone out of the city and have lived the regime proper for those in whom tubercle bacilli are growing. If such patients, however, once become persuaded that their glands must be operated on, they are likely to need, if not active intervention, at least the discharge of material from their tuberculous lesions before they get well. Operations of a radical character for tuberculosis used to be much more popular than they are now, when we are likely to think that nature can do more for tuberculous lesions in nearly all cases than the most skillful surgery.
Fractures and the Mind.—In such surgical conditions as fractures and dislocations, a change has come about in the mode of treatment, at least in many hands, that seems entirely physical in its effect, yet has undoubtedly [{752}] exerted important psychic influences favorable to recovery which deserve to be noted. In dislocations and fractures, and particularly the latter, it was the custom in the past to do the fractured limb up in bandages and then leave it until knitting of the bones, or, in dislocations, healing of the soft tissues, had taken place. Apparently it was forgotten that this eminently artificial condition was not conducive to that healthy reaction of tissues for reparative purposes which must be expected in these cases. Circulation was not so good because of the constrictive effect of the bandages; vitality not so high because of failure of nervous activity in absolute immobility; the return venous circulation was somewhat hampered because there were no contractions of muscles; and all the conditions were distinctly unfavorable, though nature was expected not only to maintain the health of the part, but bring about the added functions of repair. In spite of the more or less unfavorable conditions, nature was able, as a rule, to do so. Prof. Lucas Championére reintroduced the older method of treating fractures and dislocations more openly and of even using certain manipulations, passive movements, and massage in order to encourage the circulation and the natural vitality of the limb.
There is another phase of the influence of this mode of treatment that deserves to be recalled. When the fracture is hidden away for many days and the patient is not absolutely sure whether it is getting on well or not, solicitude or anxiety is awakened in some minds that prevents, or at least delays, normal healthy repair. It is well known by surgeons that fractures do not heal so well after accidents in which there has been considerable shock, or in which the simultaneous death of a friend seriously disturbs the patient's mind. Nor do fractures heal so well if the patient is worried about business affairs or seriously disturbed over family matters. Among sensitive patients, a state of mind not unlike that produced by worry or shock may develop as a consequence of the dread that the fracture may not heal properly, or that there may be deformity, or that when the surgeon removes the bandages he may find it necessary either to break it again or do something that would involve considerable discomfort. These patients need reassurance. If the surgeon sees the broken limb occasionally, and, by manipulation and passive movements such as may properly be used, assures himself as to its condition, the patient's mind is much better satisfied and that inhibition of trophic processes which otherwise sometimes occurs is prevented.
Incisions and Suggestion.—Something of this same psychotherapeutic influence is noted with regard to the healing of incisions when these are not left without inspection too long. The newer surgical customs of comparatively few dressings, so that the wound may easily be inspected and the patient may be completely assured with regard to it, has undoubtedly had a good influence in bringing about more rapid repair. Air is the best environment for a healing as well as a healthy skin, and mental trust is best for the patient's power of repair. In vigorous individuals such repair will occur anyhow. It is in those of delicate health, neurotic disposition, and psychoneurotic tendencies, that reassurances are needed. Often their physical condition is such that they need every possible aid in bringing about complete repair. Their state of mind, then, must be noted carefully, and any inhibitory ideas that may be present because of over-anxiety as to how the incision is getting on must be removed. This does not mean that patients' whims should be yielded [{753}] to in the matter of over-solicitude about their condition, but that proper care should be taken to prevent inhibition of trophic influences through unfavorable mental states just as far as is possible. Most surgeons of experience do these things in the proper way by instinct from the beginning, or by a tactful habit, which develops in their surgical experience of adapting themselves to individual patients. It is well to realize, however, that such mental attitudes are extremely important and must be deliberately treated by the surgeon.
Pseudo-rabies.—Certain conditions usually treated of as surgical have mental relations that are very interesting. There seems no doubt that in a certain number of cases pseudo-rabies occurs; that is, persons are bitten by a dog, become seriously disturbed over the possibility of rabies developing, and after brooding over this for a time their mind gives way and there is either a neurosis simulating many symptoms of true rabies, or a state of collapse from fright in which even death may take place. These cases are not frequent. Their occurrence is taken by some of those who are opposed to animal experimentation as a proof that rabies is always some such delusion, and that it is due to the exaggeration of the significance of dog-bites by the medical profession that the symptom complex known as rabies has come into existence. This is, of course, nonsense, and many true cases of rabies occur. Since, however, these other cases provide the opportunity for argument in the matter, it is all the more necessary that they should be recognized for what they are. When a patient has been bitten by a dog that has not died from rabies within three weeks after the bite, there is practical certainty that the animal did not have and could not communicate rabies. The cases of hydrophobia with long incubation periods are rather dubious, and the general impression now is that there has been subsequent infection. Patients who are in the midst of overwhelming dread of the development of rabies must be taken seriously and their cases treated by mental influence. Suggestion, instruction, and the neutralization of wrong ideas by reference to authorities in the matter, must be used to overcome the unfortunate state of mind which may, if allowed to continue and, above all, to develop, prove serious for the individual.
Pseudo-rabies is but a type, though the most serious and perhaps most frequent of what may be called surgical psycho-neuroses. There are others. Imaginary syphilis is an affection that often causes worry and trouble to patient and physician. Herpes preputialis with mental symptoms is almost as bad. These are mental infections of various kinds. There are many neoplastic persuasions and toxic suggestions that must be treated with tact and firmness.
CHAPTER III
MENTAL INFLUENCE IN ANESTHESIA
Nowhere in the domain of surgery is the influence of the mind more important than in the production of anesthesia for surgical purposes. It is well known that intense preoccupation of mind will make an individual completely anesthetic even for very severe injuries. In battle men frequently are severely wounded, yet do not know it, or at least have no idea of the extent of the wound and of the pain that ordinarily would be inflicted by it. In the [{754}] midst of panics, as during fires, or when crowds are trying to get out of buildings rapidly, people often suffer severe injuries and know nothing about them. The story of the woman who lost her ear in the theater panic and was quite unaware of it until her attention was called to it, is only one of many striking examples. Men have been known to walk round even with a broken leg, or with a dislocation with which it proved quite impossible for them to move, once their mental preoccupation for others ceased and they had time to think about themselves. Anesthetic incidents under conditions in which great pain might well be expected are not uncommon. It is evidently possible so completely to occupy the mind that pain sensations cannot find their way into the consciousness.
Pain and Diversion of Mind.—From very old times, attempts have been made to use this power of the mind to prevent pain, and often with some results. In preanesthetic surgery, minor operations were performed rapidly, beginning just after the patient's attention had been attracted to something else besides the thought of the operation. Pain is, of course, much less tolerable and seems to the sufferer at least to be much more severe whenever the attention is concentrated on it. Specialists in nervous diseases, during the process of eliciting complaints of pain or tenderness while employing movements or manipulations, usually try to attract the patient's attention as much as possible to something else, in order to determine just how much genuine pain or tenderness is present. Often it is found that, while a part of the body is complained of as exquisitely tender or it is averred that a joint cannot, be touched or a limb moved without severe pain, when the patient's attention is attracted strongly to something else, deep palpations may be practiced and rather extensive manipulations can be made without complaint. In these cases very often the pain is not imaginary, but is slight, due to some physical basis, and has been very much increased by the concentration of attention on it. This part, at least of the pain, may be removed by an appeal to the mind. The principle is valuable when there is question of minor operations.
Surgeons have often taken advantage of this power of distraction of attention to relieve pain in surgical manipulations. The story is told of the French surgeon, Dupuytren, that he was called one day to see a lady whom he knew very well in order to determine the form of injury from which she was suffering. He found that she had a dislocation of the shoulder, and during the manipulations, in order to make his diagnosis, he almost inevitably inflicted considerable pain. She complained very bitterly and told him that she understood that he was very rough with his hospital patients, but he must not be rough with her. He had hold of her hand at the moment, and, just before grasping the arm in such a way as to make the manipulations necessary to reduce the dislocation, he slapped her face and told her that she must not talk to him while he was treating her. Needless to say, she was deeply shocked. Before her shock had passed away, Dupuytren had completed the reduction of the dislocation, and in her preoccupation of mind she felt almost no pain. She remarked afterwards, however, that she had suffered so much mental anguish from his unexpected roughness that she was not sure whether, after all, she had been really spared in her feelings.
Hypnotic Anesthesia.—When, in the first half of the nineteenth century, [{755}] scientific attention was seriously attracted to hypnotism, it was hoped that this would prove an effective means of producing anesthesia during surgical operations or at least of greatly lessening pain. The hope was not disappointed. There was a discussion on the subject before the Medical Chirurgical Society of London in 1840, and in 1843 Dr. Eliotson wrote a work with the title, "Numerous Cases of Surgical Operations Without Pain in the Mesmeric State." In 1846 Sir John Forbes wrote in his Review that "the testimony as to the value of hypnotism as an anesthetic is now of so varied and extensive a kind as to require an immediate and complete trial of the practice in surgical cases." At the end of that same year, ether as an anesthetic was introduced into England, and the first case was reported under the caption "Animal Magnetism Superseded," which shows how much attention the previous attempts at hypnotic anesthesia had attracted. After this, hypnotism was given up for anesthetic purposes except by a few enthusiastic students of it. These, however, succeeded in accomplishing much with it. Dr. Esdaile, in India, succeeded in doing all sorts of operations under hypnotism. Dr. Milne Bramwell, in "Hypnotism, Its History, Practice and Theory" (London, 1906), lays down the rules for hypnosis for anesthetic purposes. They are eminently practical.
While hypnotism can be used to produce anesthesia, it has many disadvantages. The length of the hypnosis cannot always be arranged so as to assure anesthesia during the whole of an operation, while in some cases it will continue after the operation for some time in spite of every effort on the part of the hypnotist to bring the patient to himself. Besides, the depth of the hypnosis cannot always be assured, and sometimes some sensation remains. Patients will groan and wince and move, though, of course, under ether or chloroform such manifestations may take place, yet the patient afterwards will give every assurance that not the slightest pain was felt. In some cases, however, even where the pain sensation is not severe during an operation under hypnosis, it may, nevertheless, prove sufficient, when continued for some time, to bring the patient out of the hypnotic state.
For short operations of minor character, undoubtedly hypnosis can be employed successfully. As we explain in the chapter on Hypnotism, anyone can produce hypnosis who has confidence in his own power and in whom the patient has trust. There is no need of a special hypnotist, and there is no special faculty required. There should be some familiarity with procedures, but any man has just as much hypnotic power as another. The influence does not pass from the operator to the subject, but is due to the subject's concentration of his attention so that there is a short circuiting of association tracts within the brain very probably, which does not permit the entrance into consciousness of sensations through any path except one or two, usually that of hearing, and sometimes of sight, less frequently of other sensations.
Concentration of Attention.—In a great many cases of minor operations, such as the opening of a boil of a small abscess, the pulling of a tooth, the lancing of a gum, or other such procedures, a surgeon who is confident in his own mental power over his patient can rather easily produce a state of mind in which the discomfort of the surgical procedure is greatly minimized. There are certain physical helps for this. For instance, if patients are asked to breathe rapidly and deeply for a few minutes, there is a hyperoxygenation [{756}] of the blood which seems to obtund sensibility. If patients are told of this, and then made to breathe rapidly for a half a minute in order that they may continue consciously their deep, rapid breathing even when pain is noted, a state of mind is produced from concentration of attention on their breathing in which painful sensations are greatly obtunded. The effect is probably more mental than physical, and is well worth while trying because of the amount of pain it often saves.
Waking Suggestion.—Without resort to hypnotism, much can be accomplished by mental suggestion in the waking state to lessen the pain of surgical operations and maneuvers. This is particularly true as regards nervous persons, who will otherwise emphasize their discomfort, and for those of lesser intelligence, children, and the like. Esdaile's experiences in India show how much can be done in this way. Often the hypnosis was so slight that the patients were perfectly cognizant of everything that went on around them, yet under the compelling influence of the assurance of Dr. Esdaile, whom they trusted completely, they did not complain of pain nor wince even when considerable surgical intervention was practiced, and they always assured their friends afterwards that they had felt nothing. I know an American physician who has an almost similar power over negroes. Ordinarily it requires more of an anesthetic to produce insensitiveness to pain in the negro than in a white person. By personal assurance, by the absolute securing of their confidence, and through their trust in him, this man is able to produce anesthesia without the use of more than a minimum quantity of the anesthetic. He is able to do the same thing with children, and, of course, it is well known that mental influence over them is extremely important in limiting the amount of anesthetic that will be necessary.
Personality of Anesthetist.—Some anesthetists by their personal influence are able to bring patients under the influence of an anesthetic with much less excitement and, as a consequence, with the use of much less of the anesthetic than others. It is the same question of personal influence that extends through all medicine. Some men seem to have it naturally, and others not, though to some extent, at least, it may be cultivated. Of course, it is now well understood that, under no circumstances, should a patient be forced to take an anesthetic. This is as true for a child as for any other patient. Only a little management is required to secure the cooperation of even a young child. Above all, there must be no struggling, and while there may be a passing stage of excitement, which cannot be entirely controlled, this can be eliminated by those who are skillful. It may be necessary, especially in the case of children, for the little patients to become familiar with the anesthetist. They should see him on several occasions and should be made to feel that they know him. The presence of a stranger is enough of itself to excite children and make them suspicious and resentful of any manipulations. It may be well for them to have breathed through the cone on several occasions and to play a sort of game with it. In this way children will often go under an anesthetic without any struggle or excitement.
It seems a little childish to suggest similar procedures with grown patients, but even surgeons of long experience with the older methods who have insisted on the trial being made on their patients have found much benefit from it. Familiarity with the anesthetist and even with the inhaler [{757}] and the breathing through it on several occasions beforehand, when no anesthetic is being administered, helps many patients not a little. This preliminary is particularly of help with regard to nervous patients and especially women. It is very seldom necessary to use nitrous oxide as a preliminary to ether if this mode of procedure is practiced.
Mental Diversion.—It is well to concentrate the mind of the patient on something else besides his sensations. One element that is extremely important for anesthesia is deep breathing. The patient must then have his attention called to the necessity for deep breathing and should frequently have the suggestion to this effect repeated in his ear as he comes under the anesthetic. There should be some practice in deep breathing deliberately beforehand, with the idea of accustoming the respiratory mechanism to take deep breaths by habit even when not entirely under the control of the will. This may be done with the inhaler on a few occasions at least. The occupation of attention necessary for deep breathing during the taking of the anesthetic lessens the concentration of mind on the feelings, and actually makes the discomfort much less. Besides, deep breathing distributes the anesthetic over the lungs, leads to its absorption more rapidly, and makes the irritation of the anesthetic less by diffusing it over a larger surface. On the contrary, short, rapid breaths lead to an intensity of irritation and much slower absorption.
Skilled anesthetists have found it of decided advantage to keep the patient's mind fixed on something else besides the breathing. Perhaps the easiest recommendation is that of locking the hands over the abdomen just above the umbilicus and asking the patient to hold tight. This gives something very definite to think about and to occupy the mind with. I have seen patients of rather nervous organizations go under the influence of even a very small quantity of an anesthetic when required to hold their hands thus and when the command was constantly repeated, "Hold your hands tight," whenever there was the slightest sign of struggle or excitement. Where this was done tactfully and regularly, I have seen patient after patient go into anaesthesia without struggle or excitement and usually without any noise or even a loud word. I realize how much the personality of the anaesthetist means in such cases, and I feel sure that anyone who is confident in his own power in the matter will produce a corresponding feeling of confidence in the patients.
Fright in Anesthesia.—There seems good reason to think that occasionally the deaths reported from anesthesia have really occurred from fright or at least have been greatly influenced by emotional factors. It has often been noted that these deaths occurred particularly at the beginning of the administration of an anesthetic and before anything like a sufficient quantity to produce a toxic effect had been administered. In other cases it has been noted that patients were allowed to come out partially from under the anesthetic, and as they recovered consciousness were disturbed by some incident. Sometimes the pain seems to act as an inhibitory agent on the heart. In more than one reported case the patient told afterwards of hearing very distinctly some remark that seemed to be of bad omen. In one case in my own experience the breathing and heart stopped (though the patient fortunately was resuscitated) as a consequence of hearing a series of rather loud goodbyes said at the door of the elevator leading to the operating room during the [{758}] course of an operation just at a moment when the anaesthetic influence was very much lessened for a while. In some cases where there has been great fear of the anesthetic which has been talked over beforehand by the patient, even a few whiffs of the ether or chloroform have given rise to serious symptoms from stoppage of the heart. It is evident that it is extremely important properly to predispose such patients.
The well-known surgical warning not to make remarks during the course of an operation that might prove disturbing to the patient, needs to be emphasized. By a very curious psychological anomaly some patients, though thoroughly anesthetic as regards pain, are able to hear and understand very well remarks that are made near them. Fortunately, such patients are few in number, but they are sometimes rather seriously disturbed by chance observations that for the moment at least seem to have an unfavorable bearing on their case. Besides, certain patients sometimes have their special senses come out from under the influence of the anesthetic before their sense of pain. They may also hear and be disturbed. These cases illustrate very well the place of mental influence and how much deliberate attention should be given to this phase of the treatment of surgical cases coming out of anesthesia, as well as while more or less under its influence.
Local Anesthesia.—In local anesthesia it has come to be generally recognized in recent years that the personality of the operator is one of the most important factors for success. A number of local anesthetics have been introduced, and in some hands only comparatively small quantities of them are needed in order to produce complete absence of pain during operations. In other hands, however, considerable and even toxic quantities may have to be employed and sometimes without entire satisfaction. Infiltration anesthesia depends for its success largely on the personal influence of the administrator over the patient. It is extremely important that the patient should have complete confidence and not have that confidence disturbed in any way. For instance, he needs to be warned that he will feel the slight prick of the needle when it is first introduced, for otherwise he will be disturbed by even so slight a pain at the very beginning and will magnify subsequent feelings until satisfactory local anesthesia becomes impossible. Without thorough command over the patient and complete trust, local anesthesia never succeeds except in very minor operations. There are some men, however, who can do even severe and extensive operations with comparatively small amounts of local anesthesia. Others cannot perform satisfactorily even minor operations with large amounts. It is the operator, his personality, and mental influence over the patient that counts.
Vomiting After Anesthesia.—The vomiting that comes after anesthesia, especially with ether, often constitutes not only an annoying but sometimes a seriously disturbing complication. It must not be forgotten that vomiting in neurotic individuals, and especially women, may be largely due to a neurosis. In the section on Psychotherapy in Obstetrics we discuss the vomiting that occurs in connection with pregnancy and suggest that it is nearly always neurotic in character. The best-known European obstetricians are now agreed in this. While ether produces a tendency to vomit in everyone, in some the actual vomiting is very slight or completely absent. If patients expect that there is to be vomiting, if they are of the neurotic temperament that not only [{759}] vomits easily but has a tendency to secure sympathy by fostering this symptom unconsciously perhaps, then the vomiting may become even a dangerous complication. If there is no expectancy in the matter, however, but if, on the contrary, it is made clear to these patients before the anesthetic is administered that, while there may be some nausea, there need be no vomiting unless they yield too readily to their feelings, much can be done to lessen the vomiting. A single suggestion may not mean much in this matter, but a series of suggestions properly given beforehand, especially if the patient has seen others vomiting after operations and is worrying about it, may prove of excellent contrary suggestive value.
If there is no expectancy, the physician must be careful not to arouse it by over-solicitous anxiety in the matter. A plain statement should be made on several occasions, however, so that the patient will have in mind a good basis for contrary suggestion when coming out of the anesthetic. Many remedies have been suggested for this post-anesthetic vomiting, but, just as with regard to the vomiting of pregnancy, the most important element in all the cures that have been reported has been the influence upon the patient's mind. Whenever we have a number of remedies for an affection, it is almost sure that it is not their physical but their psychic effect that is of most importance.
CHAPTER IV
MENTAL INFLUENCE AFTER OPERATION
Every surgeon feels the necessity of having his patients as quiet and restful as possible after operation. Any unfavorable mental influence will surely hamper the curative reaction of tissues and delay convalescence. We all know how fear blanches tissues, and anxiety causes hyperemia, and how solicitude with regard to any part of the body interferes with the normal control of the sympathetic nervous system and sets up vasomotor disturbances. Either a lessening or surplus of blood in a particular part interferes with the normal and healthy curative reaction of tissues. The patient's mind should therefore be as much as possible diverted from attention to the part that has been operated on in order to leave nature to pursue its purposes without disturbance. For this, of course, pain must be relieved and every possible measure taken that will add to the comfort of the patient. In spite of the fact that opium may interfere with certain natural processes, it is always useful after severe operations, because it represents the lesser of two evils. The pain of itself would produce more detriment than does the opium which relieves the pain. There are, of course, other anodynes which may be used and that have less disturbing sequelae. In this matter, routine is unfortunate, for individual patients react very differently to opium and its derivatives, the disturbing effect upon the mind being greater than the quieting effect on the body. Many patients stand the coal-tar derivatives much better because of their lack of effect on the mind.
Removal of Worries.—Worries of all kinds not associated with the operation must have been thoroughly removed beforehand and must not be allowed [{760}] to obtrude themselves afterwards until convalescence is well established. Business is quite another matter. Whenever it does not imply worry but only means occupation of mind and distraction of the attention of the patient from himself, it may very well be permitted, after only a comparatively brief interval after operation. Within a few days a business man may certainly be allowed to dictate letters for an hour or so, and an author may even be allowed to dictate notes of some of the fancies that came to him during anesthesia. When a man has the opportunity to look forward to even a short interval during the day when he can do something that is useful, it serves as an excellent distraction for many hours beforehand and as a satisfactory memory for hours afterwards.
Pleasant Visits.—It used to be the custom to keep visitors from patients after operation much longer than is at present the custom. There has come the realization, however, that short visits from pleasant friends may mean much for the patient. It is hard to make the selection, for certain friends and especially relatives disturb and annoy rather than help the patient. Anyone who shows much solicitude and, above all, fussy over-anxiety, must be excluded, no matter how nearly related he or she may be.
Psychic Conditions of Hospitals.—The atmosphere of the hospital must all conduce to peace and quiet of mind. It is surprising the differences that may be noted in this respect. I have been in a hospital where only a dozen of operations were done a week and have scarcely ever been there without hearing complaints of pain and discomfort that were surely disturbing to others. On the other hand, I have been in a hospital where twenty capital operations a day were done, and have heard no complaint, and at nine o'clock at night have found in it the peace of a religious community. I knew that it was all due to the personality of the surgeons and their lack of power in one case to impress their patients' minds and a very marvelous power in the other of impressing patients favorably. The success of many a surgeon in a material way depends on this power to impress his patients. It is they who send others to him, and in general there is a feeling that if he cannot cure them no one can.
Of course, it is extremely important that circumspection should be employed as regards chance remarks that may be seriously misinterpreted and prove unfavorably suggestive. Patients should not, as a rule, be allowed to see their own charts whenever there are disturbing developments in pulse and temperature. During dressings the conversation should be cheerful, distracting to the patient, and should not contain remarks that may be disturbing. The surgeon and his assistants must know how to control their expressions so as not to reveal any solicitude that may be occasioned by the patient's progress or by the state of his wound when these are not satisfactory.
Surgeon's Visits.—Practically every time that a surgeon visits a patient after operation there is something that the patient has to ask or have explained. A good deal depends, as far as regards the comfort and peace of mind during the interval until the coming of the surgeon again, on the satisfaction derived from the surgeon's explanation. He should be prepared, therefore, to answer in such a way as will leave no haunting doubts in the patient's mind. Some patients are very prone to find unfavorable suggestions in even simple expressions of the physician. He must be prepared for [{761}] this, therefore, and be sure to say nothing that can possibly be misunderstood. In spite of this, at times patients will draw unfavorable inferences and then the nurse should have the confidence of the patient sufficiently to set the matter right or at least to give reassurance that will keep the patient's anxiety from disturbing until the next visit of the surgeon. All of this seems trivial from a certain standpoint, but even surgery is as yet an art and not a science. Art depends on personality and the influence of it and the power to express itself. The personality of the surgeon must be felt in the patient, and the more he can make it felt the better the convalescence and the less discomfort even though there should be more of pain. The amount of pain actually felt depends on how much of it gets above the threshold of consciousness.
Almost any surgical patient, especially if he has gone through a serious convalescence, will tell you how much good the visits of his physician used to do him, though a glum and over-serious surgeon may have exactly the opposite effect. Sometimes busy surgeons neglect to visit their patients daily, and nearly always this has an unfortunate effect. In serious cases, the seeing of the surgeon several times a day, when it is well understood that his visits are not due to over-anxiety with regard to the patient, may hasten convalescence materially.
Comfort, Mental and Physical.—Everything must be done to make the patients as physically comfortable as possible. It must be well understood, however, that comfort lies much more in variety and response to feeling than in any continuous condition. Patients will have little complaints and there must be always something novel to do for them. This does not necessarily imply medicine or even troublesome external applications, but the rearranging of bed clothing, the use of a hot-water bag or of an ice bag, the relief of pressure, sometimes mild applications of pressure, the lifting of the head, slight turning, even small changes of position and the like. Whenever a patient can be relieved by some means so simple as these external trifling remedial measures, confidence is awakened that the discomfort they feel is not due to any serious condition, but is only such achy tiredness as comes from confinement to bed. Without relief afforded in this way, they are likely to let unfavorable suggestion accumulate until their dread of something serious may inhibit convalescence or at least interfere with sleep and greatly enhance their discomfort generally. It is the state of mind that develops as a consequence of continued trifling discomforts and not the physical results of those discomforts that must be carefully looked to in post-operative patients.
Nursing.—In the general management of patients after operations it would be eminently helpful to the surgeon if surgical nurses were supposed to read at least once a year, Florence Nightingale's ["Notes on Nursing,"] [Footnote 61] written half a century ago, and if the surgeon himself should have read it through once at least and dip into it occasionally afterwards. In her chapter on Noise there are many remarks that I should like to quote, but the whole chapter is so valuable that it is hard to know where it stops, and so only a few expressions may be given here. For instance, "Never to allow a patient to be waked intentionally or accidentally, is a sine qua non of all good nursing. If he is aroused out of his first sleep he is almost certain to have no more sleep." "The more sleep patients get the better will they be able to sleep." "I have often [{762}] been surprised at the thoughtlessness (resulting in cruelty, quite unintentionally) of friends or of doctors who will hold a long conversation just in the room or passage adjoining the room of the patient, who is either every moment expecting them to come in, or who has just seen them, and knows they are talking about him." "Everything you do in a patient's room after he is 'put up' for the night increases tenfold the risk of his having a bad night. Remember, never to lean against, sit upon, or unnecessarily shake or even touch the bed in which a patient lies."
[Footnote 61: American edition, Appleton, N. Y.. 1860.]
Miss Nightingale, as might be expected, insists emphatically on the state of the room, the arrangement of the furniture and the cheerfulness of surroundings as important factors for the cure of patients. One of the most important elements is, of course, the nurse. She must be gentle, patient, quick to understand, often ready to anticipate wishes, and always as noiseless as possible. Slowness may be neither gentle nor noiseless. Patients, particularly men, often grow impatient at the slowness with which things are done for them.
Chattering Hopes.—There is scarcely an element of mind in the patient's environment that Miss Nightingale has not thought of and touched with very practical wisdom. She deprecates, as does anyone who knows anything about the care of patients, the "chattering hopes" of those who try to cheer patients by simply telling them that they ought to be more cheerful, that of course they will get well and that they must not be anxious. She says: "I would appeal most seriously to all friends, visitors, and attendants of the sick to leave off this practice of attempting to 'cheer' the sick by making light of their danger and by exaggerating their probabilities of recovery." Cheerfulness and kindness towards the sick are one thing and foolish attempts at encouragement not founded on good reasons quite another.
Variety of Thoughts.—From the chapter on Variety the following quotations show the very practical character of Miss Nightingale's persuasion as to the value of influencing the patient's mind:
"To any but an old nurse or an old patient the degree would be quite inconceivable to which the nerves of the sick suffer from seeing the same walls, the same ceilings, the same surroundings, during a long confinement to one or two rooms." "The nervous frame really suffers as much from this lack of variety as the digestive organs from long monotony of diet." "The effect in sickness, of beautiful objects, of variety of objects, and especially of brilliancy of color is hardly at all appreciated."
As Miss Nightingale insists, flowers are remedies of great value for the ailing and especially for those who are confined to their room for a long period. She pleads for having the bed placed near a window in order that they may see out into the fields and the scenery around them, to which I would add with emphasis, and so that, if it is possible, they may see the occupations of human beings. Miss Nightingale adds: "Well people vary their own objects, their own employments many times a day; and while nursing (!) some bedridden sufferer then, they let him lie there staring at a dead wall without any change of object to enable him to vary his thoughts." Quite needless to say, variety is more important for the ailing than the well.
Pain Psychic Conditions.—Pain after operation is an extremely common symptom and often causes much disturbance. Every surgeon knows how [{763}] individual are patients in this respect, and how much depends on the personal reaction to pain. There are men and women who have very serious lesions, from which much pain might be expected, who complain very little. There are, on the other hand, many men as well as women who complain exaggeratedly after even trifling surgical intervention. We have probably had some of the most striking examples of the influence of mind over body in these cases. Many a patient who complained bitterly of torment that made it impossible to rest has, after being given a preliminary dose of morphine hypodermically, subsequently been given less and less of that drug, until finally, after a few days, he was getting injections of only distilled water. Without their injection he was in agony. After it he settled down to a quiet, peaceful night. Very often it is noted that these pains are worse at night and there is a tendency for such patients to attract attention only at such times as may be productive of considerable disturbance of the regular order and as may call special attention to them. We used to call such conditions hysteria, though, of course, they have nothing to do with the uterus and must be looked for in men quite as well as women.
Psychoneuroses.—These neurotic conditions, to use a term that carries no innuendo with it, may affect other functions besides that of sensation. Occasionally a neurologist is asked to see a patient in whom, following an operation, usually not very serious, some paralytic symptoms have developed. There is an inability to use one or more limbs, and the suspicion of thrombosis is raised. It is rather easy, however, to differentiate thrombotic conditions from neurotic palsies. The ordinary symptoms of the psychoneurosis are present. There is likely to be considerable disturbance of sensation, with patches of anesthesia and hyperesthesia, some narrowing of the fields of vision, and anesthesia of the pharynx, sometimes even of the conjunctiva. Often there is something in the history that points to the possible occurrence of a neurotic condition. Sometimes it is extremely difficult to get such patients over the mental persuasion that is the basis of their palsy, but usually it can be accomplished by suggestion in connection with certain physical means. Electricity is often of excellent effect in demonstrating to these patients that their muscles react properly under stimulus and that it is only a question of inability to use them because of mental inhibition. Such conditions as astasia-abasia may develop quite apart from surgery, but there is always some "insult," as the Germans say, that is some physical basis for them, and so they are often considered to be surgical.
Psychic Disturbance of Function.—Besides motion and pain, other functions may be affected through the mind. After operations within the abdomen it is sometimes difficult to move the bowels when it is desired to do so. It must not be forgotten that not infrequently in these cases the patient's mental attitude of extreme solicitude with regard to his intestines is inhibiting peristalsis. Such constipation will sometimes not yield to even rather strong purgatives, and yet will promptly be bettered by something that alters the mental state. It must not be forgotten that it is in cases of neurotic constipation that pittulae micarum panis have proven particularly useful. In the chapter on Constipation there is a discussion of this subject that will often prove suggestive to surgeons.
This same thing is true with regard to post-operative urination. In women, [{764}] particularly, there may be difficulty of urination after vaginal operations, which may be attributed to some lesion of the urinary tract and yet only be due to failure of the patient properly to control muscles in these cases. As in obstetrical cases, position, the presence of others, and the mental disturbance, may inhibit urination. The subject is discussed more fully in the section on Psychotherapy in Obstetrics. Surgeons are not so inclined now to insist on absolute post-operative immobility, and even a slight change of position may enable patients to gain control over their bladders without the necessity for the use of the catheter, which always carries an element of danger with it.
The influence of the mental attitude with regard to both of these functions—intestinal and vesical evacuation—must not be forgotten. There are many persons who find it extremely difficult to bring about such evacuations in the lying position. Everything is unusual, and their exercise of the coordination of muscles necessary to accomplish these functions is interfered with. It is somewhat like stuttering and the incapacity of an individual who may be able to talk very well to close friends and yet stammers just as soon as strangers are present or he is placed in unusual conditions. It has even been suggested that there should be some exercise of these functions in the lying position before operation, in order to accustom patients to the conditions that will obtain afterwards. They thus become used to their surroundings and the newer methods required, and, above all, if there should be any post-operative difficulty, they realize that it is not due directly to the operation, but rather to the unaccustomed conditions. This proves helpful in saving them from solicitude and consequent unrest and adds to the rapidity of convalescence.
Food Craving.—When food is to be given in small quantities and there is likely to be craving for it, much can be done to save the patient disquietude and disturbance by giving small portions rather frequently, rather than distributing it over three times a day, as the routine of life sometimes suggests. When water has to be denied, small pieces of ice may occasionally be used with excellent advantage. Patients learn to look forward to breaks at the end of comparatively short intervals in their craving, and the accumulative effect is greatly lessened. It is well understood that whenever people are absolutely denied anything, they are likely to let their minds dwell on that fact and crave it much more than would otherwise be the case. If they can look forward to having even the minutest quantities of anything that they want, however, craving is much less likely to be insistent, and the state of mind is much easier to manage. In all of these cases the confidence of the patient and the lessening of neurotic tendencies by suggestion means more than most of the physical remedies that have been recommended. There are some patients who respond almost in a hypnotic way to suggestion from a physician in whom they have great confidence.
Position and Peace of Mind.—The patient's general comfort is very important for the maintenance of a favorable state of mind. It used to be the custom to keep patients rigidly in one position for days, sometimes more than a week, after operation. We know now that this is almost never necessary, and that, of course, it is most fatiguing to the patient. Keep the ordinary well person absolutely in one position, without the opportunity to change from side to side even during a single night, and there will be justifiable [{765}] complaint of tired and achy feelings as a consequence. To enforce such a state for forty-eight hours in those who are well will produce a highly nervous state, consequent upon the fatigue and soreness of muscles induced. Hence, the importance of taking every possible means to provide even slight changes of position for those who have been operated upon. A number of regular-sized pillows should be provided so that the head may be raised and lowered, and a number of smaller pillows should be at hand which can be so placed as to relieve pressure at various parts and permit the patient to make at least slight changes of position during the first forty-eight hours. After this, usually definite alterations of position may be allowed without danger. The surgeon must think of these elements in the treatment and insist on them with his nurses, or they will not be carried out. It is possible now to permit patients to sit up much sooner than before, and, indeed, in pelvic operations, this is said to be definitely beneficial by preventing the spread of any infectious material that may be present into the general peritoneal cavity, and in older people it prevents the development or, at least, greatly facilitates the dispersion of congestion or such beginning pneumonic areas from hypostatic congestion as may be present.
APPENDIX I
ILLUSIONS
A physician who wishes to use psychotherapy effectively should know something about physiological psychology, or analytical or experimental psychology, as it is variously called, because of the help that he will derive from it in understanding many of his patients' symptoms. Fortunately this branch is now being taught in some of the medical schools, and the greater requirements for preliminary training bring to the medical school men who have already had a course in this subject. The chapter on Illusions is particularly important because it affords many illustrations of how easy it is to be deceived by the senses and, therefore, how many precautions have to be taken in order to be sure that impressions produced on patients' minds that seriously disturb them may not merely be due to exaggeration of the significance of information brought them by their senses.
These illusions are of special interest because they represent not only failures of the senses to convey truth, but because they illustrate how easy it is for the mind to be led astray by the senses. People often declare that they have seen things with their own eyes or in some other way have definite sensory knowledge of them, yet these illusions make it clear that it is perfectly possible for such sensory phenomena to convey quite mistaken information. People who are suffering from many symptoms are persuaded that they must pay attention to their sensations. The main purpose of the psychotherapeutist often is to have them neglect their sensations and correct them by means of information gathered from other sources. We do this with regard to our sensory illusions, why not also with regard to many sensations which are probably quite as mistaken, in certain individuals at least, as these universal illusions of mankind. The argument from analogy holds very well and can be used to decided advantage in many cases.
A startling illusion which makes it clear that care is needed in interpreting our sensations, is the so-called tube illusion or experiment. If a sheet of note paper be rolled into a tube of something less than an inch in diameter and then held close to one eye, both eyes being kept open, while the hand opposite to the eye before which the tube is held is placed palm faceward against the side of the tube about its middle, a hole will be seen, as it were, through the palm of the hand. This false vision is as clear as can be and persists after any number of repetitions of the experiment. It merely illustrates two-eyed vision. We have a picture in each eye and we combine them. When the pictures cannot be combined for any reason, optical illusions result. There are many more optical illusions than we think and there are many reasons besides two-eyed vision for them.
Other illusions of two-eyed vision may be illustrated rather easily. If [{767}] two dots are made on a sheet of paper about two inches apart and the eyes look at them in a dreamy way, looking far beyond the paper, with vision more or less fixed between them, after a few moments a number of things happen. Usually the two dots exhibit a tendency to float together.
Fig. 26
After an interval four dots will be seen—each of the dots having a picture in each eye. Then only one dot may be seen because the pictures combine. Sometimes three dots will be seen. When the dots swim toward one another, a curious feeling of insecurity comes over the experimenter, showing how much our sense of stability is dependent on vision and illustrating why vision from a height is so disturbing because objects cannot be properly fixed on the distant background.
Fig. 27
Just as the two dots may be made to come together, so, after a little practice, a bird may be made to go into a cage (Fig, 27) or an apple made to go onto a plate (Fig. 28),
Fig. 28
These illusions show how many things that people [{768}] "see with their own eyes" are not so. All depends on the attention and the state of mind at the time when the seeing is done. In day-dreams these illusions often occur and may be the basis of delusions.
Fig. 29
There are, however, a number of optical illusions which illustrate certain defects of our vision that cannot be corrected, no matter how much we may desire to see correctly. We continue to see them not as they are but as they seem, and we must correct our vision by information from other sources. The Müller-Lyer lines are familiar and are given here (Fig. 29) because [{769}] they show how easily the senses may deceive us, even that most acute of our senses, vision, as to the sizes of things.
Fig. 30
Figure 30 illustrates how easy it is to be deceived by the juxtaposition of different portions of objects. I have had a woman who had cut out high collars for children and who happened to put them in the juxtaposition of the sketch here given think that she was either losing her sight or her judgment was being affected by the nervous condition in which she was. Nothing would persuade her that some serious development was not taking place until I showed her this illustration. In this illusion the juxtaposition of the short curved line to the long curved line of the other figure produces all the disturbance of judgment of size.
The illusions of filled and unfilled space are interesting and are quite inevitable. They are due to physiological visual effects and are very strikingly illustrated by what is known as the sun and moon illusion. Both these luminaries seem larger at the horizon than they are at the zenith. This is entirely an optical illusion. The horizon seems farther away than the zenith because vision to it is interrupted. The heavens appear not to be a half sphere, but more like an old-fashioned watch glass.
Fig. 31
Since the sun and moon occupying the same space on the retina are, because of this apparent difference of distance, judged to be farther away at the horizon than they are at the zenith, we are inevitably forced to the conclusion that they are larger in size than when in the other position. The over-estimation of filled space as compared with [{770}] the unfilled is mainly due to the interrupted muscular action of the eyes in traveling over the space requiring more effort. This makes it seem longer. Probably physiological processes on the retina also contribute to the illusion. A series of objects, even dots, will cause a greater physiological excitation of the retina than an equal amount of space, the boundaries of which alone are brought to our attention.
Illusions of size are even more startling than illusions of distance. It is perfectly possible to take three spaces, each exactly a square inch, and by drawing lines in two of them in different directions to make the figures appear of [{771}] very different size. This is a rather disturbing illusion, particularly for women who are apt to think that perpendicular lines make them appear tall and thin, while horizontal lines have the opposite effect. This is true if the lines are not placed quite close together. The reason why women wear many ribbons, however, whether they themselves recognize it or not, is that the attraction of attention to these makes the space in which they are seem longer. Hussars are dressed in uniforms with many rows of gilt cord or braid running across their chests in order to increase their apparent height. As a rule, a cavalry man must not weigh over 140 pounds or his horse will break down in long, forced marches. Such men are often of small stature and their apparent height must be increased by their uniform, so as to make them look formidable. Advantage is taken of this optical illusion of filled space to produce this effect.
Fig. 32
Other illusions of size are quite frequent. It is rather hard for the ordinary observer to think that the half circles, a and a' (Fig. 32), are the same size, or that b and b' in the same chart are the same curve. The interruption in the circles c and c' produce very curious erroneous impressions which require a knowledge of this illusion to correct.
Optical illusions with regard to directions of lines are extremely common. Quite unconsciously we translate directions into special meanings. This is what enables perspective to be effective in drawings. It has many disturbing features, however. Some of these are striking illustrations of the defects of our vision.
Fig. 33
Fig. 34
Poggendorf's illustration of the displacement of oblique lines (Figure 33) [{772}] and Zöllner's distortion of parallel lines as illustrated by Figure 34, make it very clear that our judgment of direction must depend on many factors besides our vision, if we are not to make serious mistakes.
These optical illusions might seem to be of little significance, but the Greeks thought them of so much importance and recognized so thoroughly that they could not be corrected, and that the distortions and displacements would inevitably take place, that they deliberately put certain optical corrections into their great architectural monuments in order to avoid these false appearances. These have been traced very accurately in the Parthenon, for instance. In a word, the Greeks, knowing of these optical illusions, in order to make the lines of their buildings appear correct, deliberately made them wrong to a sufficient degree to correct the optical illusion; This frank mode of yielding to a limitation of human nature is a fine lesson for patients to learn if they can only be made to learn it from these illustrations.
It is with regard to colors, however, that we have the best examples of optical illusions depending on the individual and his special anatomy and physiology. Color-blind people are quite sure that they see color, just as other people do, until their defect is demonstrated to them. A man who is color blind for red thinks that he sees that color as other people do, while all that he sees is a particular shade of brightness which, because other people call it red, he has come to call red. When asked to pick out red from a series of other colors he may often succeed. When asked, however, to take a skein of red wool selected for him to a basket containing a number of different colored wools, and to bring back all those that are of the same color, he will select grays and browns and sometimes greens as well as reds, and present them as all matched colors. A man who is color blind for all colors will still think that he sees colors as other people do. The ingenious illustration of the American flag as it appears to people suffering from different forms of color blindness, though they are all persuaded that they see the same kind of flag, is an interesting example of how different may be people's sensations, though their conclusions are the same. It may be seen in many of the text books of analytical or experimental psychology.
Dalton, to whom we owe the atomic theory, was himself color blind for red and made the first investigations in that subject. He was of Quaker origin and found that a great many of his brethren were deficient in color vision. It becomes much easier from this to understand why they resolved to wear nothing but gray. They did not see colors as other people do and therefore could not understand nor sympathize with the joy of other people in color. Dalton tells the story of a Quaker prominent in his sect who once went to town to buy a gray waistcoat and purchased instead one of bright red. When he appeared at meeting in this he was promptly tried for heresy and violation of church regulations.
There is an interesting tendency on the part of people who are themselves defective in certain faculties of sensation, to conclude that when other people are wrapt in admiration of something that they cannot perceive, it is because these other people have some mental defect that leads them to enthuse too easily over their sensations. A story is told of a newspaper man who used to insist that all that was said about the beauty of the song of birds was due to the vivid imagination of the writers, for he could find nothing to admire about the songs of birds. He was placed in a room with a number of fine song birds all round him and it proved that he could not hear any of the higher notes at all. It was easy, then, to understand his condemnation of the enthusiasm of others as hysterical and imaginative. Nearly this same thing is true of many quite intelligent people with regard to music. They hear ordinary sounds, as did the newspaper man, very well. They are tone-deaf however, that is, they are quite unable to hear and appreciate combinations of sounds or even to catch melodious successions of single notes. They cannot recognize one tune from another and often do not know "Yankee Doodle" from the "Doxology," or, at most, know only the most familiar tunes, but they set themselves up very calmly as judges of the intellects of others and conclude that music lovers are really a hysterical set of people who go into ecstasies over certain quite insignificant sensations.
These interesting tendencies are helpful in enabling the physician to understand his patients better. They often serve as texts from which the physician can explain curious things to patients who are prone to draw wrong conclusions from them and often suggestions unfavorable to their health.
These illustrations and their discussion serve to make very clear the distinction between illusions, delusions and hallucinations, which are often confounded. Illusions are deceptions of the senses. If a man walking along a country road where he fears the presence of snakes sees in the gathering twilight a piece of rope coiled, he will almost surely mistake it for a snake. This is an illusion produced by the conditions in which the object is seen. If walking along the same road the next day, more timorous than ever as to snakes, he should see in broad daylight the same coil of rope, he might in his fright not stay long enough to decide whether it was a snake or not, and his illusion would continue, though it would partake somewhat of the nature of a delusion due to fright disturbing his judgment. If, in spite of careful examination, however, of it, such as would satisfy any ordinary mind that it was a coil of rope and not a snake, he should still insist in believing that it was a snake, this would be a delusion. There is always a mental element in delusions. If, having seen nothing, he should insist, owing to fright and [{774}] nervousness or to some other cause, that he sees a snake where there is nothing at all resembling a snake and where evidently whatever is the basis of his idea of the presence of the snake, is within his own mind, then he is suffering from an hallucination.
Illusions may be quite inevitable. Most of the optical illusions continue to appeal to us as truths even when we know that they represent errors of vision. In spite of the fact that we know that the sun and moon are not larger at the horizon than they are at the zenith, by optical illusion we continue to see them of larger size. It is our duty to correct such illusions by information gathered from other sources. To follow an illusion, that is, to give it credit, when we should correct it, is a delusion. To think that because we cannot see red that therefore there is no red, or because we do not hear the sounds of notes of birds that they do not utter any notes, in spite of the fact that we have the testimony of nearly the whole human race to the contrary, is a delusion. When, using the verb in its broadest sense, as "perceive," we seem to see things very differently from the generality of people around us, there is every reason to suspect that there is some specific or individual limitation of our senses which makes us fail to perceive these things as others do. We have to suspect our sources of information then and to correct them by what we can learn from the experience of others. These are important considerations for many of the ideas that patients cherish with regard to themselves and their ills.
Hallucinations are entirely mental. But the phenomena that sometimes appear to be hallucinations may be due to illusions of the senses within the organism. For instance, those who indulge in cocaine often have the feeling of having a veil over the face, or of having run into a cobweb or something of that kind. The presence of the veil or the cobweb on the face is probably not an hallucination, but is due to certain disturbances in the circulation, or perhaps in the nerves themselves, which affect the nerve endings of the face, causing them to tingle in a particular way, and this sensation is translated as coming from without in terms of something that has been felt before. Some of the appearances of muscae volitantes, or of specks before the eyes, or occasionally of wavy lines, are due to disturbances of the circulation within the eyeball which cause corresponding disturbances of the optic nerve, with consequent apparent visions. When the eyeball is pressed upon, the sensation first produced is that of light and not of pain, because whenever a nerve of special sense is irritated, it produces its own specific sensation in the brain.
The chilly stage in malaria is a typical example of a physical condition having an effect upon sensory nerves that more or less necessarily produces a delusion. The patient is actually at the height of his fever when the chilliness and shivering come on and when he demands a larger amount of covers in order to protect himself from the cold he will often have a temperature of 104 degrees Fahrenheit, or even higher. What has happened is that the little blood vessels at the surface of the body are shut up by the effect of the plasmodium upon the system. Whenever we are cold these little blood vessels shut up in order to protect the blood from being chilled by the external atmosphere. The shutting up of the little blood vessels deprives, for the time being, the terminal nerves in the neighborhood of some of their nourishment. Their response is to set up a tremor or shivering, which will mechanically tend [{775}] to open the blood vessels so that they may have their nourishment once more. Whenever we have a set of sensations that correspond to this connected set of events, we translate them as feeling cold. The outer air does feel cold to the body because the blood is not flowing through to the surface as it would normally in order to warm it. Hence the chilliness. This is not an hallucination; but an illusion with something of a delusion in it; until we know how things are. Nervousness may set our teeth chattering just as it may cause tremor through our sympathetic nervous system, disturbing the flow of blood through muscles and so disturbing control of them. Vehement emotion, anger, fright, and even those of less violence may cause similar effects. All these phenomena illustrate the close relation between mind and body.
APPENDIX II
RELIGION AND PSYCHOTHERAPY
Religion and psychotherapy have, of late, come to have many relations to each other and many interests in common, at least in the minds of a number of clergymen, and in popular estimation. There is no doubt but that religion can do much to soothe troubled men and women, even when their troubles are entirely physical in nature and origin. It at least lessens the unfavorable effect of worry in exaggerating such pathological processes as are at work. All diseases, functional and organic, are rendered worse by solicitude, while many troublesome symptoms become quite bearable if only the patient does not dwell on them too much but takes them as they come, carefully refraining from emphasizing them by over-attention. That is the very essence of psychotherapy. Religion, in the sense of trust in divine wisdom, can do much to originate and maintain this imperturbed frame of mind. People who are without religion, that is, without the feeling that somehow all their ills are a part of the great plan of the universe, the mystery of which is insoluble, but the recognition of which is demanded by reason, and who lack the assurance that somehow, in Browning's phrase:
"God's in His Heaven-
All's right with the world!"
—are more prone to give way to over-anxiety and consequently to make themselves suffer more in all their ills, than is necessary or even likely in the more favorable state of mind of those whose trust in Providence is thorough and efficient.
In recent years there has been in the general population a distinct loss of faith in the great religious truths that are so helpful in engendering a peaceful state of mind in suffering. Many have come, if not to doubt of the Providence of the Creator, at least to feel that we do not know enough about it to place any such supreme dependence on it in the trials of life as would make it a source of relief, or at least consolation, in suffering. This same spirit of doubt has paralyzed faith in the hereafter and in all that trust in it brings, to sufferers, of consolation to come for their ills if these are borne as becomes rational creatures whose suffering has a purpose, though we may not comprehend it. Some people are destined by their physical make-up or by accidental conditions to considerable suffering. There are many ailments that are incurable and are definitely known to be incurable. Some of these entail great suffering of body and even more suffering of mind. Such suffering becomes quite unbearable unless the patient is of a very stoic disposition, or unless the thought of a hereafter in which the sufferings of this life will have a meaning is present to console.
Great scientists in the midst of all our advance in science—one need but mention here such men as Lord Kelvin, Clerk Maxwell, Johann Müller, Laennec, Pasteur, Claude Bernard, though the number might easily be multiplied—have insisted that the existence of a Creator is absolutely demanded by what we know of the physical universe. "Science demonstrates the existence of a Creator," is Lord Kelvin's expression. The existence of a Creator implies, also, the existence of laws made by Him, by which His universe is regulated in every detail, nothing being left to chance. Chance is indeed only a term which indicates that we do not know the causes at work. If somehow the Creator's power has been sufficient to bring the manifold things of the universe into existence according to a plan in which there is no such interference with one another as would cause serious disturbance of the universal order around us, then He can be trusted also to care for even the minutest details of creation and of human life.
In the gradual disintegration of the religious sense which has come as a consequence of certain materialistic tendencies in nineteenth century education and science, these religious sources of consolation have been shut off from a great many people. They have come to the feeling of being portions of a machine that moves hopelessly on, somehow, on the old principle, "The mills of the gods grind slow, but they grind exceeding fine." The sufferings of humanity then, are, for these people, only a portion of a great universe of suffering that is constantly going on but for which they can see no reason and no purpose. Lucretius's lines which make human sufferings the butt of the jokes of the gods who look gleefully on from their Elysian happiness, would represent the feelings of these doubters better than any religious expression. We have come back in this age, when evolution has so much influenced the thought of the time, after the curious cyclic fashion in which human thought repeats itself from era to era, to the attitude of mind of the old Roman poet who almost singly among his contemporaries, had been deeply affected by the same doctrine of evolution. The pessimism he was prone to as to the significance of human life has become once more the fashion.
Such pessimistic thoughts do not come, as a rule, while people are in good health, but they assert themselves with double emphasis in moments of trial and suffering. Lucretius himself is said to have committed suicide. The result of the diffusion of this materialistic pessimism in our time has been a gradual preparation for a revulsion of feeling in many minds. One manifestation of this reaction has been seen in a form of religion which denies entirely the existence of evil. God the Creator is good and therefore there can be no evil in His world. Whatever of evil there is, is only due to man's failure to see the entirety of things. Evil is an error of mortal mind—only that and nothing more. In spite of the manifest absurdity of the underlying principle, if people can only be brought to persuade themselves that there is no such thing as evil or suffering, then many of their discomforts disappear, all of their symptoms grow less and a sense of well-being results. It is, indeed, surprising how many even physical ills will be relieved by this state of mind if sincerely accepted. It is the highest possible tribute to psychotherapy and the curative influence of mind over body.
Another phase of this revulsion of feeling has been the institution of a church movement that would make sufferers realize once more all the [{778}] consolations there are in religion. The sufferer is brought to a renewed lively sense of the presence of the Creator in the universe and of His care for His creatures. The great purpose of suffering in making people better and stripping them of their meanness and selfishness is brought out. Anyone who has ever had called to his attention the difference between two brothers, one of whom has been chastened by suffering above which he has risen by character development, and another who has enjoyed good health and prosperity all his life, will realize how much of good suffering means in the world. Pain is not in itself an evil, but a warning, and most of the trials of life can rather readily be shown to partake of this character. A man who can be made to submit himself, then, to the will of the Creator and be persuaded to acknowledge that somehow we must try to work out our part in the great scheme of things behind which the Creator stands, is somewhat like the soldier ready even when tired and worn out, to go in on a forlorn hope, because he has confidence that he is executing a part of the plan of his general for his country's welfare, though he does not know how, and he is quite well aware that it is going to cost him much in pain and suffering, and perhaps his life.
There is no doubt that an abiding sense of religion does much for people in the midst of their ailments and, above all, keeps them from developing those symptoms due to nervous worry and solicitude which so often are more annoying to the patient than the actual sufferings he or she may have to bear. While religion is often said to predispose to certain mental troubles, it is now well appreciated by psychiatrists that it is not religion that has the tendency to disturb the mind, but a disequilibrated mind has a tendency to exaggerate out of all reason its interests in anything that it takes up seriously. Whether the object of the attention be business, or pleasure, or sexuality, or religion, the unbalanced mind pays too much attention to it, becomes too exclusively occupied with it, and this over-indulgence helps to form a vicious circle of unfavorable influence. While many people in their insanity, then, show exaggerated interest in religion, this is only like other exaggerated interests of the disequilibrated, and religion itself is not the cause but only a coincidence in the matter.
Clouston, in his book on "Unsoundness of Mind" (Methuen, London, 1911), put this very well when he said, "It is true that religion, touching as it does, in the most intense way the emotional nature, and the spiritual instincts of mankind, sometimes appears to cause and is often mixed up with insanity. But in nearly all such cases the brain of the individual was originally unstable, specially emotional, over-sensitive, hyperconscientious, and often somewhat weak in the intellectual and inhibitory faculties and, if looked for, other causes will usually be found." He had said just before, "To talk of 'religious insanity' as if it were a definite and definable form is in my judgment a mistake."
On the contrary, there is now a growing conviction that a deep religious feeling, a sense of dependence on and trust in the Almighty, will do more than anything else to keep people from those neurotic manifestations which so often are seen in our day and are growing more and more frequent as life becomes more strenuous and more attention is paid to the material side of things, to the exclusion of the spiritual. How true this is may be judged from expressions that have been used in recent years by well-known specialists in [{779}] nervous diseases and in psychology. These have included men who were often not believers in religion themselves but who recognized its influence for good for others. Such expressions are to be found in the writings of men of every nationality. Not infrequently, in spite of their own religious affiliation, they acknowledge what a profound influence certain forms of religion have over people. These testimonies have been multiplying in our medical literature in recent years, because apparently physicians have come to appreciate much better by contrast the influence for good of religion over some of their patients, since so many of the sufferers from nervous diseases they see have not this source of consolation to recur to.
In America we have a number of such testimonies. In his "Self Help for Nervous Women" Dr. John K. Mitchell of Philadelphia, who may be taken to represent in this matter the Philadelphia School of Neurologists, to which his father has lent such distinction, said:
It is certainly true that considering as examples two such widely separated forms of religious belief as the Orthodox Jews and the strict Roman Catholics, one does not see as many patients from them as from their numbers might be expected, especially when it is remembered that Jews as a whole are very nervous people and that the Roman Church includes in this country among its members numbers of the most emotional race in the world.
Of only one sect can I recall no example. It is not in my memory that a professing Quaker ever came into my hands to be treated for nervousness. If the opinion I have already stated so often is correct, namely that want of control of the emotions and the over-expression of the feelings are prime causes of nervousness, then the fact that discipline of the emotions is a lesson early and constantly taught by the Friends, would help to account for the infrequency of this disorder among them and adds emphasis to the belief in such a causation.
Prof. Münsterberg, who may be fairly taken to represent the German school, but whose long years of residence in America have made him a cosmopolitan, is quite as positive in his declaration of the place that religion may hold in making human suffering less. In his "Psychotherapy" he devotes considerable attention to the subject. The religious discipline, that is, the training of human beings from their earliest years to recognize that there is a higher law than their own feelings and that they must suppress many of their desires and take evil as it comes as a portion of human life, is of itself, he insists, an excellent preparation to enable the individual to bear up under the physical and mental trials of life and to make many symptoms that would otherwise be almost intolerable, quite bearable. It is from earliest years that this training must make itself felt, and Prof. Münsterberg insists that from early childhood the self-control has to be strong and the child has to learn from the beginning to know the limits to the gratification of his desires and to abstain from reckless self-indulgence. A good conscience, he says, a congenial home and a serious purpose, are, after all, the safest conditions for a healthy man, and the community does effective work in preventive psychotherapy whenever it facilitates the securing of these factors.
Self-denial has always been one of the main elements of religious training, and indeed was declared a chief source of merit for the hereafter. The modern psychotherapeutist, however, preaches self-denial almost as strenuously as the religious minister of the olden time, only now not for any religious [{780}] merit or reward, but because it makes life more pleasant and by that much happier. When men and women have learned to deny themselves in their younger years, it is not hard to stand even pain when they grow older, and pain is inevitable in every human life and the training to stand it is therefore worth while. Pain borne with equanimity is lessened by one-half if not in its intensity then at least in its power to disturb, and since religion will do this it possesses an important remedial value. Here is where religion is particularly valuable and the passing of it from many minds has thrown them back on themselves and left them without profound interests, so that they occupy themselves overmuch with the trivial incidents of life within them and disturb the course of many of their functions by giving exaggerated thought to them. Religion adds a great purpose to life and such a purpose keeps men and women to a great extent from being disturbed about trifles.
Of course, it would be too bad if religion should do no more than this. This, however, is the only phase of it with which we are concerned here. We may think very strongly with Prof. Münsterberg, that it would be quite wrong to assign to it only this place in life. He says: "The meaning of religion in life is entirely too deep that it should be employed merely for the purpose of lessening the pains and aches of humanity and the dreads that are so often more imaginary than real." He insists that "It cheapens religion by putting the accent of its meaning in life on personal comfort and absence of pain." He adds, "If there is one power in life which ought to develop in us a conviction that pleasure is not the highest goal and that pain is not the worst evil, then it ought to be philosophy and religion." Present-day movements, however, tend to subordinate religion to this-worldliness rather than to other-worldliness, and by just that much they take out of religion its real significance. We are here on trial for another world is the thought that in the past strengthened men to bear all manner of ills, if not with equanimity, at least without exaggerated reaction. It has still the power to do so for all those who accept it simply and sincerely.