Friday, July 4, 2025

Boquete: Answer to Prayers!



According to old Chinese advice, it is wise never to discuss politics or religion even amongst best friends.  

Religious belief can often blur judgment in the wisest of people.

Forty plus years ago, a patient of mine was unconscious for 23 days and it was mother's belief that it was through prayer that her daughter was saved. I did not argue with her then.

But perhaps God works through his people in his own way. Discoveries in Medicine should therefore enhance our faith rather than the other way round.

It took nearly 30 years for the real answer to her prayers to really emerge.

 ©2012 Am Ang Zhang
I was staying at our resort in Boquete and was having dinner with three friends all of them with medical connections. One was in hospital administration and one a nurse. The husband of the nurse was a pharmacist. Somehow the conversation drifted into medical topics and knowing that I am a Child Psychiatrist the pharmacist started talking about his nephew who was nearly sent to a mental institution as he suffers from catatonia and doctors eventually diagnosed schizophrenia and put him on antipsychotics. Luckily the catatonic symptom probably saved him as some bright young thing just read the book Brain On Fire and gave him the Clock Test. That led to the NMDAR antibody testing that proved positive. He responded well to the treatment regime that has been developed and is off all antipsychotic medication.

My Teratoma patient was lucky as she belong to that group that improved without further treatment once the Teratoma was removed. She eventually had a baby.


The Power of Prayers & Teratoma: Brain & NMDA!


Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis

NEW ORLEANS — A mysterious, difficult-to-diagnose, and potentially deadly disease that was only recently discovered can be controlled most effectively if treatment is started within the first month that symptoms occur, according to a new report by researchers from the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. The researchers analyzed 565 cases of this recently discovered paraneoplastic condition, called Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis, and determined that if initial treatments fail, second-line therapy significantly improves outcomes compared with repeating treatments or no additional treatments (76 percent versus 55 percent). The research is being presented at the American Academy of Neurology's 64th Annual Meeting in New Orleans.

565 cases! Not so rare!

The condition occurs most frequently in women (81 percent of cases), and predominately in younger people (36 percent of cases occurring in people under 18 years of age, the average age is 19). Symptoms range from psychiatric symptoms, memory issues, speech disorders, seizures, involuntary movements, to decreased levels of consciousness and breathing. Within the first month, movement disorders were more frequent in children, while memory problems and decreased breathing predominated in adults.

My patient was under 18 and presented with catatonia symptoms. She later lose consciousness and was ventilated.

"Our study establishes the first treatment guidelines for NMDA-receptor encephalitis, based on data from a large group of patients, experience using different types of treatment, and extensive long-term follow-up," said lead author Maarten TitulaerMD, PhD, clinical research fellow in Neuro-oncology and Immunology in the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. "In addition, the study provides an important update on the spectrum of symptoms, frequency of tumor association, and the need of prolonged rehabilitation in which multidisciplinary teams including neurologists, pediatricians, psychiatrists, behavioral rehabilitation, and others, should be involved."

The disease was first characterized by Penn's Josep Dalmau, MD, PhD, adjunct professor of Neurology, and David R. Lynch, MD, PhD, associate professor of Neurology and Pediatrics, in Annals of Neurology in 2007. One year later, the same investigators in collaboration with Rita Balice-Gordon, PhD, professor of Neuroscience, characterized the main syndrome and provided preliminary evidence that the antibodies have a pathogenic effect on the NR1 subunit of the NMDA receptor in the Lancet Neurology in December 2008. The disease can be diagnosed using a test developed at the University of Pennsylvania and currently available worldwide. With appropriate treatment, almost 80 percent of patients improve well and, with a recovery process that may take many months and years, can fully recover.

Teratoma: finally!

In earlier reports, 59 percent of patients had tumors, most commonly ovarian teratoma, but in the latest update, 54 percent of women over 12 years had tumors, and only six percent of girls under 12 years old had ovarian teratomas. In addition, relapses were noted in 13 percent of patients, 78 percent of the relapses occurred in patients without teratomas.
As Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis, the most common and best characterized antibody-mediated encephalitis, becomes better understood, quicker diagnosis and early treatment can improve outcomes for this severe disease.
The study was presented in a plenary session on Wednesday, April 25, 2012 ET at 9:35 AM at the American Academy of Neurology's annual meeting.
[PL01.001] Clinical Features, Treatment, and Outcome of 500 Patients with Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis

Anti-NMDA-receptor encephalitis: case series and analysis of the effects of antibodies

Of 100 patients with anti-NMDA-receptor encephalitis, a disorder that associates with antibodies against the NR1 subunit of the receptor, many were initially seen by psychiatrists or admitted to psychiatric centres but subsequently developed seizures, decline of consciousness, and complex symptoms requiring multidisciplinary care. While poorly responsive or in a catatonic-like state, 93 patients developed hypoventilation, autonomic imbalance, or abnormal movements, all overlapping in 52 patients. 59% of patients had a tumour, most commonly ovarian teratoma. Despite the severity of the disorder, 75 patients recovered and 25 had severe deficits or died.

Who knows, I would not be surprised if Dr. Dalmau is eventually awarded the Nobel.

Related paper:

Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis: Diagnosis, Psychiatric Presentation, and Treatment


Chapter 29  The Power of Prayers

The following is extracted from The Cockroach Catcher: Chapter 29 The Power of Prayers.

According to old Chinese advice, it is wise never to discuss politics or religion even amongst best friends.  

         Religious belief can often blur judgement in the wisest of people. In psychiatry it is sometimes not easy. This is particularly true in cases of florid psychosis, which often presents with symptoms of hallucination, delusion and even vision.

         I remember my early days of psychiatry in a mental hospital in Hong Kong. Yes, it was the days of 2000-bed hospitals. Yes, it was the days of Medical Superintendents who had supreme power and all doctors of whatever rank and experience were Mental Health Officers with special authority to sign papers for compulsory admissions. The forensic unit was contained within the same complex.         Those were the days when we encountered psychosis in the raw so to speak. All the colony’s really mad people were admitted to this one place set in the furthest corner of the colony. In our year seven of us decided without much discussion that we all wanted to go into psychiatry. That was over 10% and all had quite idealistic reasons. It was perhaps a bit of a disappointment to our parents that we did not pursue a more conventional specialty that might provide us with more status and financial reward. Then there was the fear of contamination that somehow one might become mad too. Recent day medical students are said to shy away from psychiatry for these same reasons.         Education seems to have little effect on superstition.
                                     ......................................….read the full Chapter: HERE

Brain on Fire   



Scientific America: https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/brain-on-fire-my-month-of/

Tuesday, July 1, 2025

The Cockroach Catcher II: Attempted Living.---The Answer---Brain on Fire!

 

My mysterious lost month of madness

I was a happy 24-year-old suddenly stricken by paranoia & seizures. Was I going crazy?



Teratoma: One Patient One Disease?

Hospital Medicine: Pride & World Class Costs!

Nov 29, 2012

·                                 By SUSANNAH CAHALAN
·                                 Last Updated: 6:01 AM, October 4, 2009
·                                 Posted: 3:49 AM, October 4, 2009

IT was a cold March day as I walked to work from my Hell's Kitchen studio. The weather was clear, people were out in their coats and scarves, but something did not feel right. The sky was so blue, it hurt my eyes. The billboards in Times Square assaulted me with violent reds, yellows and purples. It was like the world had become brighter, louder, more painful.
When I got to the Midtown newsroom of the New York Post, where I was a year into my first full-time reporting job, I asked a friend, "Have you ever not felt like yourself? Have you ever felt completely off?"
"Sure," she laughed. "Of course. I hardly ever feel like myself."
I laughed, too, but inside I worried. Lately, there had been more and more days like this. I had started to feel numb on the left side of my body. My arm and leg on that side tingled. Until recently, I had been a healthy 24-year-old, happily starting a career in the Big Apple with a new boyfriend. Now I spent sleepless hours wondering what was happening to my body and my mind.
Then, one Friday at my desk, I cracked.
I had just finished an interview, was starting to write, and for no reason I began crying hysterically. Co-workers gathered, wondering what was wrong. Moments later, I brushed it all off, and skipped down an office hall, giddy with excitement.
Later, at home, I panicked. Was I going mad? Was I mentally ill?
I contacted a neurologist. He sent me to a litany of tests, including two MRIs. Nothing.
"Maybe it's mono," he suggested. "Or a virus."
He promised to follow up with more tests. In the meantime, I curled up with my boyfriend to watch the PBS show "Spain -- On the Road Again." I remember thinking how much I disliked Gwyneth Paltrow. Then, he would tell me later, I started grinding my teeth, moaning and biting my tongue, until I finally passed out.
It was my first seizure. And the last thing I would remember for a month.
THROUGH interviews with family, my boyfriend and friends, I'm able to cobble together the darkest moments of my life. My father kept notes in a spiral notebook, details of what was happening that he could pass along to my mom as they took shifts caring for me.
From my boyfriend, I know that I awoke after the seizure at St. Luke's Hospital next to a puking man.
Doctors ordered a CAT scan that came up clean -- but my behavior was becoming increasingly bizarre.
"I'm dying of melanoma," I told my boyfriend. (I had been diagnosed with the skin cancer five years ago and was convinced that was the cause of my seizure.) I started ranting about suing the doctors and believed that they were out to get me.
But even after the seizure and the paranoid delusions, the neurologist didn't seem worried.
"It's probably alcohol withdrawal," he told my stunned mother and me. He was convinced I was an alcoholic; I barely drank.
My family packed up my clothes and took me to my mother's home in New Jersey, where I continued to deteriorate.
I stopped sleeping. Refused to eat. Paced the halls. Couldn't control my rambling thoughts, and ranted to my mother. I convinced myself that I was bipolar and that I was having a nervous breakdown.
Then I had a second seizure. Blood and foam spurted out of my mouth onto the Oriental rug in my family room.
Overwhelmed by my erratic behavior, my mom dropped me off at my dad's house in Brooklyn Heights for one night before my doctor's appointment. My paranoid delusions got worse. I refused to sleep and started banging on the locked door, screaming, "Get me out of here!" I imagined that my father had murdered his wife.
The next day, my mother, stepfather and boyfriend took me back to the neurologist for an EEG, which records the electrical activity of the brain. On the ride there, I opened up the car door and tried to jump out. My boyfriend held me down and my stepfather child-locked the car. I screamed hysterically until we got to the doctor.
Horrified by my increasing paranoia, and despite my neurologist's hesitations, my mom and stepfather took me immediately to the hospital. They demanded that I not be placed in a psych ward.
There I had my third grand mal seizure while waiting for a hospital bed, and was whisked up to the epilepsy floor of New York University's Medical Center.
For the first three days, I shared a room with three other people, mostly suffering from epileptic seizures.
Technicians glued EEG wires to my head, which snaked into a child's pink backpack on the side of my bed. I was monitored 24/7 by two video cameras mounted on the ceiling.
Two times, I successfully ripped the electrodes off my head, tugged at my IV as blood erupted from my veins, and ran shrieking down the halls, trying to find an exit. Nurses tackled me and stuck me with a sedative. An imposing Jamaican nurse even sat watch with me for 24 hours so that I couldn't escape again.
I had to wear an orange wristband that said "flight risk."
"The physical discomfort of not being able to shower or wash her hair coupled with the fact that she was tethered electronically to a monitor started to take its toll," my dad wrote in his notebook. "She told me she was dying a little bit every day. I told her to trust me and I would get her out, but we had to find out what was wrong with her. She said, no -- get me out now."
It's hard for me to hear about the things that I believed during my madness. When I turned on the TV, I imagined I was on the news and that satellite trucks from all the major networks were camped out outside of my hospital room waiting to interview me.
I imagined the woman beside me was tape-recording my conversations and talking about me in Spanish to her family. I was convinced that I could speak Spanish and interpret her words.
Multiple times a day, residents, doctors and nurses would ask me: "What day is it? Where are you? What's your name?" Though it would take me over a minute to answer, I did so correctly, albeit a little pissed off.
One night a nurse came by to do my vitals and ask the inane questions in the middle of the night. I had finally fallen asleep and was less than pleased. As she bent down to take my blood pressure -- which was spiking due to the illness -- I wound up and slapped her across her chest. She gasped in disbelief and fear.
TWO weeks pass. Every day a new doctor comes to visit. There are internists, infec tious-disease doctors, immune-system specialists, psychiatrists, psychopharmacologists. They send me to MRIs, sonograms, X-rays, CAT scans, PET scans, multitudes of blood tests. All come back negative. No one could give my parents an answer.
My dad came in the mornings, sat with me and fed me breakfast. My mom would come in the afternoons, and my boyfriend came in the evenings and stayed with me until I fell asleep. They never missed a day.
Two comforts for me were apples -- which I inexplicably craved, eating three a day -- and my boyfriend's iPod, on which he made a mix of mostly Ryan Adams tunes, which helped me sleep through the night.
My father prayed. "I would walk across town on 33rd Street to catch the subway on Park Avenue South. There is a chapel between 1st and 2nd Avenue that is dedicated to Jesus and Mary. Each time I walked by I begged God to help Susannah," he wrote. "I even tried to make a deal. I asked God to take me right there on the spot or do anything he wanted with me if only Susannah could be helped."
The paranoid delusions started to wane as the medications, anti-anxiety drugs Geodon and Ativan, increased. But I was losing the battle. I could no longer read. My tongue curled, making it hard to speak. I had difficulty swallowing. It took me a whole minute to answer the simplest questions.
Day after day passed with no answer. I became more withdrawn. I found it hard to walk with my father and mother around the hospital floor. Close friends were alarmed at my passive and incoherent state. Doctors secretly feared that they were losing me.
The head doctors started speaking of a mythical miracle man named Dr. Souhel Najjar. "He would find out what it is," they would say. They even nicknamed him "Dr. House."
My mom requested that we meet this Najjar in person. And after two spinal taps came back with high white blood cell counts -- an abnormal occurrence that signifies brain swelling -- the case was officially passed on to Najjar, a Syrian-born neurologist, neuro-pathologist and epileptologist at NYU Medical Center.
When he came to speak with us, my family was buoyed by his confidence.
He grasped my hands and said, "I'm going to find out what this is and fix it."
Then he handed me a pencil and a piece of paper.
"Draw a clock," he said.
I grasped the pencil and made a circle. Feeling a little confused and put on the spot, I drew in the clock face.
My mother and father gasped.
All the numbers were written on the right side of the clock face, and no numbers were on the left side.
NAJJAR now had five clues as to what was overtaking me: the seizures, the catatonia, the high blood pressure, the high white blood cell count in my spinal taps and the bizarre clock. It was preliminary proof that the right side of my brain (which controls the left side of the body) was inflamed. He believed it was some sort of autoimmune encephalitis, or the swelling of the brain caused by an attack by rogue antibodies.
He decided to send my blood and spinal fluid to a well-respected neuro-oncologist from the University of Pennsylvania named Dr. Josep Dalmau to test to see if rare antibodies were present.
But we had to wait two weeks for the results.
In the meantime, a brain biopsy would be necessary, Najjar said. They would need to cut out a piece of my temporal lobe, my horrified parents learned.
"I can remember being alone in her room when she began to cry," my dad writes in his diary. "I went over to her on the bed and hugged her when I began to cry. Next thing I knew, Susannah was laughing. I asked why. She told me it was the first time she ever saw me cry and I must have looked pathetic."
The next day, I was taken to ICU for surgery. I remember opening my eyes as they sliced into my brain and saying something like, "I'm awake."
The anesthesiologist looked at me and said, "Oh, s- - -."
My mom thinks it was just another hallucination. It seemed so real to me, but I couldn't trust my own mind.
After the surgery, the blood work and spinal fluid came back positive for rare antibodies called anti-N-methyl-D-aspartic acid receptor, or anti-NMDAR encephalitis. The name signifies that the receptors in the frontal lobe, responsible for cognitive reasoning, and the limbic system, or the emotional center of the brain, are under assault by the immune system. My body was attacking my brain.
Penn's Dr. Dalmau had discovered these antibodies in 2003. Until then, people suffering from my madness were misdiagnosed, likely ending up in mental hospitals, if not dead. Experts aren't sure what causes it, though they believe it's genetic, not environmental.
According to his studies, the median age for the disease is 20. The youngest is 21 months. About 75 percent of those affected by it are women. All show forms of psychotic behavior, some show signs of catatonia. About 80 percent of patients have seizures and 70 percent of patients see psychiatrists before any other doctors, according to Najjar.
Najjar estimates that nearly 90 percent of those suffering from autoimmune encephalitis go undiagnosed.
"It's a death sentence when you're still alive," Najjar told me. "Many are wasting away in a psych ward or a nursing home."
I was the first person in NYU Medical Center's history to be diagnosed with NMDAR encephalitis.
Najjar wasted no time. He immediately hooked me up to an IV and started the treatments.
First came the intravenous immune globulin, which reduces inflammation of the brain. Then came high levels of steroids, which also reduce inflammation. And finally he hooked me up to a plasmapheresis machine, which flushes out the harmful antibodies from your system, through an IV in your neck.
The initial treatment took about a week, until I was well enough to be released from the hospital. Six months later, I'm still taking steroids, but I'm back at work, back at home, seeing colors clearly and not breaking down at my desk.
At a medical conference last week at NYU, Najjar presented my case and the wide spectrum of autoimmune encephalitis disorders, saying that I was back to "normal." A friend and co-worker laughed. "You're better, but you're not normal," she said.
My father reflected on my time in the hospital. "Najjar told me she could have easily ended up in a nursing home for the rest of her life. Najjar thought she was extremely lucky. He was saying, with time, she could get back 90 percent of her cognitive abilities," he wrote.
I'm happy to say that today I'm at 100 percent, and marveling at the lost month of my life, paging through my father's diary like I'm reading about a stranger.
"All I knew was that she was alive, and her spirit was intact," he wrote at the end, words that bring me to tears. "We had more hospital stays for treatments, doctor visits, and lots of medications to deal with, but my baby was on the way home."

AMAZON-UK    The Cockroach Catcher II: Attempted Living


Scientific America: https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/brain-on-fire-my-month-of/

Friday, June 13, 2025

Little Red Coat: Chinese Version

Little Red Coat: 2nd half.

El Capitan, Yosemite

.........Dr. Friedman, the consultant paediatrician, was Jewish.

 

“Your consultant is the best Child Psychiatrist I have worked with.  No nonsense and no jargon, Freud or otherwise.”

He turned to his two registrars. Drs. Klein and Rosenthal, both Jewish:

“For anyone aspiring to be a paediatrician, a good understanding of child psychiatry is crucial.  Half our cases may have a psychological slant, and the other half may have problems created by the doctors!”

How insightful!

The round started with a seven-year old boy who had an accident in the school playground and suffered a fracture.

“Boys!”

The boy was in good spirits and had all sorts of drawings on his plaster cast.

“I bet he can’t wait to get out of here, but we need to make sure there is no concussion.”

It was the golden era of medicine.  There was no haste to discharge patients, and accidents were real accidents.

So I thought.

“Where does child psychiatry come in?” 

His two Registrars gave me a look as if to say: we agree with you!

Then, after a couple of fairly routine cases we came to this boy all bandaged up, except the face, which bore some bruise marks. The two paediatric registrars looked distressed and Dr. Friedman proclaimed:

“Mountaineering accident!”

“Mountaineering?” Their look turned from one of distress to one of bemusement. 

“In London?’

The 70s was a time of change in London. The Vietnam War and the hippies movement seemed like a psychotic mix.  With the explosion of hallucinogen use and the unexpected success of the daring musical Hair, a new social revolution was underway and the secure ways of the old world were to change forever.  It was not for me to judge if it was for the better.

In the mad world of drugs, nudity and profanity, we had dubious characters in charge, and the most serious corruption in high places.  Incredibly lessons were not learnt and we continued to witness the breakdown of decency: people in command of positions of influence abused their newly acquired power and supposedly finance experts eventually collapsed banks and even countries. This erosion was replicated also in families, in the form of unbelievable abuses, both sexual and physical.

We were by the bed of an injured boy in the paediatric ward.  The injury was said to have been the result of a mountaineering accident in London!

Just as Dr. Friedman attempted to elaborate on the case, a short man in his sixties who was with the injured boy stood up.  As he was not in any uniform, I knew he was not hospital staff.

At the same time, Dr. C appeared behind Dr. Friedman.

“Sorry, the meeting about the tea-lady took much longer than I thought, but at least we can keep her for another year.” 

This was before the era of Nespresso and other coffee machines.  We did not have tea bags or instant coffee, but a lady whose job it was to make tea and coffee according to our individual preferences.    She knew exactly who the coffee drinkers and tea drinkers were and never made any mistake.  Today we seem to ignore the fact that health care professionals too need looking after and that some grandmothers need a job.

Despite trying to hide behind the two registrars, the strange man was noticed.

“Aren’t you the cinematographer?” Dr. C asked the tiny man who seemed to get tinier.

I did find it improbable that my consultant should know the cinematographer at her local cinema, not knowing the full story that unfolded later. 

The cinematographer was stocky with silver hair and fairly dark skin. He was not from the Caribbean, and his skin tone came from sun exposure as he was a devoted member of the nudist club.  He lived in a new age commune that Mark’s mother moved to after splitting up with his diabetic and impotent husband. This was way before Viagra, of course, and in this commune Mrs. Green found herself in different beds on different nights.  Her sexual needs were now much better serviced and my patient Mark had stopped soiling.

Mark was one of my twelve psychotherapy patients.  By then I had built up the case load and become at ease with the patients.  Each of the twelve cupboards was filled to the brim with their drawings and selections of toys.  Child psychotherapy was quite fun!

But a new problem emerged for Mrs. Green and who else would she turn to if not Dr. C?  Her daughter Ruth would not go to school or more specifically she did not want to wear her red school coat and refused to attend school.

“I do not know what her problem is. I even spent a lot of money to have it dry cleaned!”

“But that was what was used to wrap up the dead baby!”

One day the cinematographer had some altercation with one of the founding members of the commune because he thought some sexual activity went too far, even for a new age man like him. He was asked to leave immediately. He went into one of the children’s bedrooms to get his old suitcase when Ruth happened to be in the room. He opened the case and there was Ruth’s school coat.  Ruth reached out to retrieve her coat but found a dead baby wrapped in it.   She screamed!  Police was called.  Both parents were arrested and later sentenced for not reporting death and served three months of a one-year sentence.

A very lenient society it was, and no one looked into how the baby died.  Not only that, on release, these guilty parents were even allowed to become registered as foster parents!  The result was the child suffering mountaineering injuries.  He was in their foster care.

Need I say more? That was before Maria Colwell[1].  Fostering was good money then. 

“So you are allowed back?”

“Yes, doctor! They needed my money.”

Dr. Friedman’s registrars were shocked to hear the story from my consultant.

“We will call Social Service and this time we will make sure.” Dr. Friedman turned to his registrars, “Well, what did I tell you, the importance of Child Psychiatry input!”

 

Ruth

I started seeing Ruth at Mrs. Green’s request.

“The Chinaman did wonders for my Mark!”

“Dr. Zhang, please.”  There was an unwritten rule that the same therapist should not provide therapy for two children in the same family, but Dr. C relented in this case.  She must have thought that Ruth would be safe in my hands, despite my still limited experience.   I think she would have otherwise assigned Ruth to my psychotherapy supervisor, an Anna Freudian.  To be honest, even today, I have a lot of difficulties with the focus of Kleinian theories on good breasts and bad breasts. 

For me it was an interesting experience to find Ruth’s “mother” so different to Mark’s “mother”.  It just showed that psychotherapists were very much dealing with the subjective.  Being brought up in a 70s liberated flower-powered environment, Ruth might have some skewed perceptions and believed that dead babies were regularly wrapped up in coats rather than buried.  I tend to believe children do not lie, unless proved otherwise.

Ruth continued her therapy with me whilst attending our day unit up in Hampstead. One day, Miss W the social worker was in a very excited mood and told me:

“Ruth said she is going to school. Well done!”

The fact was it might not be my therapy that did it.  Miss W happened to be in John Barnes (the local department store) and she had the brain wave to buy Ruth a new school coat.

“Ruth was really thrilled to see the little red coat and told me she wants to show it off to her friends at school.”

Ruth went back to school but continued to see me at the clinic.

The commune was disbanded and Mrs. Green moved back with Mark and Ruth’s father.

The guilty foster parents were later sentenced to three years each for child abuse and the injured boy was taken into care after his recovery.

I will not easily forget the kind act of a Quaker: Miss W, and the little red coat.



[1] http://mandyparrytraining.co.uk/spotlight-on-maria-colwell-the-cinderella-child/


3/5/2023

YK:

「小紅外衣」後半部說的故事

 

周志權兄,同學中之文藝人(紅學家)也。他說他很驚訝牧農大夫以蒙太奇編輯手法Montage editing style寫他的「傳記」。這引起我以看電影的心態來欣賞大夫作品的興趣,並以上引半章書作嘗試。當然,談電影,黃華麒兄才是專家 ,但我們未有機會聽他說話(我知道他最近在澳門大學講課,非常忙),希望他不介意我在這樣獻醜,並不吝𧶽教。

 

如果大家有書本,可看222頁至228頁,沒有的,如有興趣,也可聽我道來。

 

故事的角色,當然有大夫,此外,按出場序排列的有:

Dr Friedman(顧問兒科專科醫生、猶太人)

Dr Klein Dr Friedman徒弟、猶太人)

Dr Rosenthal Dr Friedman徒弟、猶太人)

受傷男孩攀山意外受傷個案主角)

Dr C (女、英格蘭人、顧問兒童心理專科醫生、大夫上司)

影院放映技師(約60歲、個子矮、皮膚黝黑、與受傷男孩同來)

Mrs Green(新紀元運動追隨者、離開丈夫、住在公社、認識放映技師、她的兩名孩子是MarkRuth

Mark(大夫的病人)

Ruth(經歷小紅外衣事件後也成為大夫的病人)

Miss W (主任醫院社工、基督教貴格會會友Quaker

 

故事發生主要地點是倫敦,London Tavistock Clinic,時為70年代。

 

大夫正以兒童心理專科醫生的身份陪同兒科專科醫生團體(Dr Friedman, Dr Klein, Dr Rosenthal)巡視兒童病房。開始前,Dr Friedman大讚大夫的師父Dr C說她是他夥拍過的最好的兒童心理專科醫生。轉過頭來,他向同是猶太人的兩名徒弟說:「想做好兒科醫生,就必要掌握兒童心理科的精要;兒童科病例一半可能是與心理科相關,另一半則可能是醫生們造成的問題。」語不驚人誓不休,戲劇効果強!

 

看過三幾個病人後 - 第一個是一名在學校操場跌斷骨的七歲小男孩,他興致勃勃,在石膏模上畫滿了東西,等醫生確定他沒有震盪傷害後他便可以出院  - ,便來到了攀山意外受傷男孩的榻前,那時先前仍被上一會議耽誤的兒童心理科顧問醫生Dr C也趕到了。「對不起,剛才的會議比我想像的長,但我們保住了我們的茶水部亞姐,她至少明年仍可在這𥚃工作。」電影中,凡是要角,出場總會有些意想不到的說話。

 

鏡頭霎時轉到今日時空中大夫獨呷著以咖啡機自製的一杯飲品,他懷念著那些與深知自己和其他同事飲用喜惡的侍茶亞姐和洽相處的日子,生活似是來得休閒些、雅致些。

 

眼前的男孩面有些瘀,全身繃上了繃帶,給醫院的說詞是在攀山意外中受傷。「在倫敦遭遇攀山意外?!」醫生們大惑不解,大夫對意外就真的是意外的信心也開始動搖了。醫生們發現了保持低調、與受傷男孩同來的皮膚黝黑的小老人,Dr C認得他是隣近影院的放映技師。

 

鏡頭模糊了,轉了去描繪當年英國寄養家庭的狀況和社會背景。提供寄養家庭服務往往是為了賺取可觀的收入,也無需經過嚴格甄辨,曾犯案者也會被接納。

 

鏡頭接著描繪故事幾個角色的生活,及他們彼此之間的關係:

 

放映技師是一位天體運動熱烈擁護者,住在一所新紀元運動公社內,並在那裏結識了Mark(大夫的病人)的母親,Mrs Green

 

Mrs Green自與她患有糖尿病及性無能的丈夫分開後,便搬進了公社。在那𥚃,她床無定處,但卻床第不虛,而Mark這小病人的弄髒情況這時侯停止了。但在這時,新問題卻出現了。

 

Mrs Green的女兒Ruth不肯穿著小紅外衣校服,不肯上學。「我真不知她有什麼問題,我甚至已不惜化費,把它乾洗!是的,我們在公社曾用小紅外衣包裹過一個死嬰。」

 

事情的經過是這樣的 - 有一天技師先生與公社的一名創辦者齟齬,因為他認為那𥚃的性活動太過份了,連他這樣的新紀元人士也忍受不了,結果越吵越大,被即時趕出公社。他匆忙收拾,在其中一間兒童睡房取回一個行李箱,Ruth正在那𥚃。打開行李箱,露出Ruth的校服。Ruth伸手取回,赫然發現紅外衣竟包裹著一個死嬰,驚聲尖叫!警察來了,嬰兒父母因無申報有人死亡被捕了,後來也被

判一年有期徒刑,坐了三個月監。

 

當時社會十分寬容,嬰兒死因無人追究,更離譜的是犯事夫婦竟被批准辦寄養家庭服務。前述攀山意外受傷的孩子就是寄養在這家庭的。

 

Mrs Green充份信任醫治Mark的大夫,央Dr C也讓大夫看RuthDr C便破例准大夫醫治同一家的兩名子女。小插曲 - 膚色歧視不會為個人恩惠或成就而轉移,大夫也無奈 :「那Chinaman為我的Mark作了奇事!」「請你尊重,那位是鄭醫生。」

 

鏡頭又再推遠,描繪當代的彎曲悖謬 - 越戰舆嬉皮士運動交織得像精神病的交集,迷幻藥被爆炸性地使用,音樂劇Hair意外地走紅,新的社會革命席捲而來,穩固的舊秩序從此改變.. 毒品、裸露、褻瀆充斥世間,社會輕看正派,位高權重者或其身不正、或瘋狂貪污,理應以新賦權力維護大眾權益者濫權,理應是財務專家者搞垮了銀行、甚至國家. 崩潰和腐蝕也入侵著家庭,展現在日益嚴重的性虐待和人身虐待中。畫面(文字)留有空間 - 導演(作者)似乎話中有話:究竟他是只話當年,還是也問今天,看官可自行演繹。

 

大夫繼續為Ruth治療,成長於以花為力量的70年代的小孩子可能有認知偏誤,以為死嬰不是被埋葬的,而例必被外衣包裹的。

 

有一天,素來夥拍大夫的社工Miss W興奮地宣佈: Ruth恢復上學了,恭喜你,鄭醫生!」「其實未必是我做了什麼,」大夫想,「只不過Miss W剛好在本地百貨店John Barnes,心血來潮,為Ruth買了一件新校服。」Ruth非常喜歡這件新的紅外衣,告訴Miss W她巴不得馬上穿上,返回學校給同學看。

 

故事的結尾亦反映著蒙太奇手法:

公社解散了,Mrs Green搬回與MarkRuth的父親同住;

受傷男童的寄養家庭父母被判三年監,男童痊愈後得到認真的照顧;

大夫不會輕易忘記貴格會會友Miss W的善行和那件小紅外衣。

 

其實,不只本章下半部的故事,「小紅外衣」整章書都不乏蒙太奇手法;不過,我功力和精力都欠缺,就此打住了。再者,大夫委實是寫書,不是拍電影。我想起在電影技巧叫蒙太奇的,在文學手法中,叫意識流stream of consciousness的應是與之相似。我不是搞文藝的,對這些只是畧有所聞,一知半解,認真考究還是留待其他同學吧!

More: 再寫了一篇,請大家指教。

此外,我有一問題想請教鄭大夫:為什麼心理學和心理專科醫學領域中有這麼多猶太人?


The Cockroach Catcher II: Attempted Living


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