Outmoded Diseases: Neurasthenia

Have you ever read a book where someone had pleurisy, or gout, or hysteria, and wondered…how come I never hear about anybody getting that anymore? Well, you’re in luck: It’s Outmoded Diseases Week at LWON, and we’re going to tell you. About some of them, anyway.  We’re starting off with neurasthenia, a disease suffered by the famous: Teddy Roosevelt, Virginia Woolf, Marcel Proust, and all three James siblings (Alice made a career of hers).

14732076526_d7bcddd134_c1867: 53-year-old female, no occupation
Diagnosis: neurasthenia
Talk very nervous and excitable.  Complains of mistiness of vision and palpitations and of general weakness, chiefly of both arms and right leg, right foot is very numb.  Does not drag leg when walking.  Has been unable to do any work for a year.

The nerves of a neurasthenic are weak, (“-asthenia” meaning incapacity, as in the muscle weakness of myasthenics).  That is to say, the nerves are incapable of carrying enough energy, they over-react to the senses, they provide insuffcient motor force.  Afflicted patients present with a number of diverse and vague symptoms but in general, have lost control over their sensations, thoughts, impressions, and muscles.  This varied but general debility has no physical explanation; it is solely a matter of the body’s inability to function.  Neurasthenia is a morbid condition of the brain.

1900: 25-year-old female, husband a laborer
Diagnosis: neurasthenia
Complaint: headache, backache, palpitations, indigestion, shortness of breath, pricking and jumping pains all over.  Duration 3 years.

Neurasthenia was named in 1869 by an American neurologist, George Beard, and is treated by specialists in neurology.  It occurs in intellectuals with refined nervous systems and in masters of men and captains of industry under great nervous strain and in women whose naturally sensitive nervous systems are burdened with the necessity of reproduction and overwhelmed by education.  It has become a fashionable disease and is widely diagnosed, especially among members of the upper classes who consult physicians in private practices.  Neurologists working in public charity hospitals also record many neurasthenics among the lower classes.

The neurasthenic patients are advised to take rugged vacations or calm vacations, are treated with rest cures, prescribed nerve tonics, administered electric therapy and hydrotherapy.  None of these treatments work except those that do.

1930:  34-year-old male clerk
Diagnosis: neurosis
After the war age 30, patient went back to work as a clerk. Afraid of meeting people. Had to give up work. It was as if he had lost all his power and he could not walk more than fifty yards. After 2 months of bed rest, he felt much better and kept at work about 2 years before he got the next bad attack of nervous exhaustion.  He felt immensely tired and used all his spare time and weekends to lie down for rest.

Somewhere around 1930, neurasthenia disappeared; no one was diagnosed neurasthenic any more.  Explanations vary.  Maybe the neurasthenics themselves disappeared: Freudians say that greater understanding of the unconscious led to more effective psychoanalytic treatments; feminists say that women’s emancipation decreased women’s need to express frustration by getting sick.   Or more probably, neurologists, unable to find a physical basis for their patients’ ills, moved the diagnosis from the brain to the psyche, from neurology over to the field of psychology.

And sure enough, according to a study of records of a public hospital in Queen Square, London, the disappearance of the diagnosis of neurasthenia coincided with the appearance of a diagnosis of neurosis.  Neurosis was split first into 4 sub-categories, then into 11; and if all sub-categories were added together, the fraction of neurotics was the same as the earlier fraction of neurasthenics.

1934:  59-year-old female, lace cutter
Diagnosis:  anxiety neurosis
She feels weak all over and occasionally the use seems to go out of her left foot.  Her legs feel numb and heavy and her hands and feet tingle and occasionally ‘go all scarlet.’  Two years ago she had what she described as a ‘stroke.’  She went black and seemed to lose all power in her arms and legs for a few moments.  She was completely restored by a little brandy.

So neurasthenia went away but the neurasthenics didn’t.  They are variously diagnosed with chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia, post-traumatic stress syndrome, and depression; and are variously treated by psychologists, psychiatrists, rheumatologists, and infectious diseases specialists. The psychiatrist who did the Queen Square study ends her article with a conclusion so obvious and sensible it almost doesn’t need saying.  It should nevertheless be written across the top of every science writer’s computer:

  • that physicians have always seen patients with vague but related and unexplainable symptoms,
  • and that their diagnoses have changed names and have been shifted around various medical fields;
  • but the people with these symptoms still have the symptoms,
  • and their treatment isn’t much more effective than it was in the 19th century.  Sometimes something works, sometimes it doesn’t.

1995:  47-year-old female, university faculty
Diagnoses:  depression, chronic fatigue syndrome
Maintains a career of writing and teaching but it completely exhausts her; is unable to drive a car or open a bank account, can hardly cook her own meals; finds social engagement difficult and often asks her husband to break dates for her.  Treatment with blood pressure medication and regimen of fast walking is unsuccessful; as is long-term treatment with anti-depressants and psychotherapy. Eventual divorce seemed to help.

_________

Sources: except where otherwise indicated, most of the information, some of the wording, and all-but-one of the case studies came from Death of neurasthenia and its psychological reincarnation by Ruth E. Taylor, published in the British Journal of Psychiatry in 2001.  It’s both readable and sensible.

The subject of neurasthenia was also covered last year in Smithsonian, and more recently in The Atlantic.  Appropriately, given the subject, those articles and this post are all about different things.

Photo credit:  Irina, James Whistler’s Symphony in White, via Flickr

 

The Last Word

The logical endpoint of Manifest Destiny is...RadioShack? A mural in Vale, Oregon. Photo by Sarah Gilman.

March 14-18, 2016

This week at LWON we ask five pressing questions:

Sprickets, cave crickets, roach spiders, camel crickets. No matter what you call them, they are a form of hunched, evil popcorn that will leap toward you. We build them basements, they sproing in our faces. How is that adaptive?

Interest in science seems to be an innate predisposition, so how heritable is it?

If there is epidemiology around disease and social unrest, mustn’t there be similar mechanisms at work around compassion and enlightenment?

Is human encroachment a more fitting tribute to the pioneers’ journey through Oregon than any preservation of their pristine view along the way?

Curling stones should curl in the opposite direction from what we observe. Why is that?

 

Photo: Sarah Gilman

Men with Stones

curlingThey have us singing O Canada! – but it fails to produce the effect of a rousing round of The Star-Spangled Banner in Yankee Stadium. Far from riled up, we feel like children at school again, trying to remember how the French bits go. Then the rocks hit the ice.

It is the world’s premier curling bonspiel – the Brier – where more prestige is attached to a win than a gold medal from the World Championships, at which the Brier-winning team will represent Canada. More than a hundred thousand well-behaved spectators have gathered over the course of the week to watch four-man teams from most provinces and territories vie for the title.

If you’ve ever tried your hand at curling in a rec league, struggling to maintain balance as you throw a stone, there is growing incredulity here as the professionals put that stone where they want it, at exactly the right speed, bending around obstacles, time after time. All of the cruel chaos of almost-universal incompetence is gone, and what remains is pure science. But elements of that science are in dispute. Continue reading

The Oregon Trail Game

Oregon Ouroboros small LWONThe first time I played the Oregon Trail computer game – a parody of American westward expansion inflicted on countless school kids – was this winter. I was snug in bed, as befits a prospective pioneer facing one of history’s largest human migrations. Up to 500,000 settlers set out along the Oregon and California Trails in the mid-19th century. For my own treacherous 2,000-mile trip, I chose to be a banker from Boston, because I had just seen The Big Short and longed to inflict virtual revenge on the financial sector. I named this banker Beverly, since the game gave me no option to be a woman. Beverly’s sundry family members would be Pot Roast, Potato, Death, and – improbably in this bunch at least – Steven.

Predictably, Death was first to die. She drowned along with two oxen not long after we embarked from Missouri, when I tried to ford a river instead of paying the toll for a ferry. Steven, meanwhile, was plagued by misfortunes that will be familiar to all who’ve played this game. First he was exhausted, then broken-armed, then grappling with dysentery, then lost, then down with cholera. I finally ended his misery by crashing the raft bearing our covered wagon into a rock on the Columbia River, drowning us both near the end of the line in Oregon.

The game is a culty 1970s simplification of a complex historical event that contributed to the violent displacement of indigenous people and laid the foundations for today’s urban Northwest. But Americans have been preoccupied with valorizing and simulating the pioneer experience almost since the United States began colonizing the West Coast. Continue reading

Contagious Compassion

2015_0312_18471000On February 29, after having lunch in Hood River, Oregon, Kozen Sampson drove to a quiet neighborhood to take his dogs for a walk. He was getting out of his car, he says, when a man with brown hair approached and kicked his car door. The door smacked Sampson in the ear, knocking his head against the door frame.

Then Sampson, stunned and bleeding, heard his assailant say: “F—ing Muslim!”

Sampson has been a Buddhist monk for many years, and he was wearing his customary plain brown robes. He’s the founder of the Mount Adams Zen Buddhist Temple in Trout Lake, Washington—about 30 miles from Hood River, and not far from where I live in Washington state—and after his attacker ran off, he managed to stop the bleeding and drive home to the temple.

Sampson initially decided not to report the incident, but a friend convinced him that it needed to be made public, so on March 2, he called the Hood River police. (The police have not yet identified any suspects.) Later that week, Sampson told the Hood River News:

I am happy it happened to me and not to a Muslim. My biggest concern is for how anyone has to live with the fear and the distrust and the possibility of an assault.

I am happy it happened to me and not to a Muslim. I’d like to think that’s how I’d react to a whack on the head from a bigot, but I’m not sure I have it in me. Continue reading

Redux: Is passion for science a heritable trait?

This post first ran on August 24, 2011. My dad and I share an obsession with endurance sports. We don’t just love to get outside and ride our bikes, we actually feel antsy and anxious if we go too many days without working up a sweat. As I’ve written elsewhere, our compulsion for exercise has a genetic basis. Dad and I probably have an exercise inclination gene (or genes) that my mom and sister —who think we’re crazy— don’t.

On a recent visit to my parents, I wondered if a passion for science might also have some inherent basis. The thought occurred to me as Dad showed me some old photos. In one of them his parents, Mennonite wheat farmers who never went to college, are standing with Dad at his graduation from Taylor University. How did a farm kid from Kansas who grew up without ever knowing a single scientist end up with a master’s degree in physics, I wondered. Continue reading

Kill the Sprickets, Kill Them All

304068392_f7cc464f13_bHELEN: I like bugs. I started a Ph.D. in ants (and quit, but still think ants are awesome). I have blogged in this space about butterflies. I think the coming of the 17-year-cicadas is one of the most exciting things that happens in the world. My record is quite clear on this: me and bugs, we have no dispute. But I make an exception for camel crickets. They are horrible. Just horrible.

ANN:  They’re horrible.  They’re poop-brown, have way too many legs, and they jump exactly whatever height you are.  They jump on your body, you make involuntary noises.  They were in my basement, hordes of them.  I used to love finding them dead in the bucket of plant fertilizer or drowned in the basement toilet.  Wikipedia says they live in damp, dark places and in Japan they’re called toilet crickets.  In Baltimore, we call them sprickets.  Do they call them that in DC too?  

HELEN:  I haven’t heard them called sprickets down here in DC, but it’s possible that I just haven’t had enough conversations about them. Which is why I’m so glad we’re doing this.

CASSIE: I never saw a spricket or heard of a spricket until I moved to Baltimore. I rented this awesome apartment on St. Paul Street. The first time I went into the basement to do laundry, there they were. I hated them immediately, but it was months before I realized that they are a real thing with a name that exists places other than my basement. A real species.

It’s their stupid leaping that gets to me. Footsteps make them explode into the air like leggy popcorn kernels in a too-hot pan. But often as not, they would crash into me, not leap away from me. WTF, evolution. Go home. You’re drunk. This might not sound like such a grievous offense, but try walking into a dimly lit cement room where insects are ricocheting off every surface, including your body. It’s the stuff of goddamn nightmares. Continue reading

The Last Word

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What a week! Is there a theme? Sort of. Something about things that have power over our behavior. Some are real, some are tricks of a sort. Some are Andy Kaufman (again).

Guest poster Ann Garvin tells us that we are doomed to eat all the M&Ms because they come in so many pretty colors (the point being, manufacturers know how to affect our behavior when it comes to nutrition).

Erik looks at the fascinating history of homeopathy and the famous rebels who made it a thing. His piece is Part One in a “series” of two.

Sally, in Part Two, grabs the homeopathy baton and runs with it to the UK where she’s sure that the government’s support of this non-medical medicine is a sneaky and grand test of the good-old placebo effect.

Jenny (that’s me) says goodbye to winter by considering fire: Why is its raw power so intriguing to some but mundane to others?

And Erik started out the week with more political ranting…let’s just say Donald Trump, Andy Kaufman, and Berkeley Breathed walk into a bar. Don’t miss this one.