Nobody ever claimed a visit to the doctor was a pleasant way to pass the time.
But if you’re timid about diving onto a psychiatrist’s couch or paranoid about popping pills, remember: It could be worse.
Like getting-a-hole-drilled-into-your-skull worse.
In 1927, a Viennese doctor used insulin overdoses to put patients in a coma and "cure" their drug addictions.
The coma-therapy trend began in 1927. Viennese physician Manfred Sakel accidentally gave one of his diabetic patients an insulin overdose, and it sent her into a coma. But what could have been a major medical faux pas turned into a triumph. The woman, a drug addict, woke up and declared her morphine craving gone. Then Sakel (who really isn’t earning our trust here) made the same mistake with another patient, who also woke up claiming to be cured.
Before long, Sakel was intentionally testing the therapy with other patients and reporting a 90 percent recovery rate, particularly among schizophrenics. Strangely, however, Sakel’s treatment successes remain a mystery. Presumably, a big dose of insulin causes blood sugar levels to plummet, which starves the brain of food and sends the patient into a coma. But why this unconscious state would help psychiatric patients is anyone’s guess.
Regardless, the popularity of insulin therapy faded, mainly because it was dangerous. Slipping into a coma is no walk in the park, and between one and two percent of treated patients died as a result.
Ancient cultures used to drill holes in peoples' skulls to get rid of "demons lurking inside." Some people still use this therapy today.
Ancient life was not without its hazards. Between wars, drunken duels, and the occasional run-in with an inadequately domesticated pig, it’s no surprise that archaic skulls tend to have big holes in them.
But not all holes are created with equal abandon. Through the years, archaeologists have uncovered skulls marked by a carefully cut circular gap, which shows signs of being made long before the owner of the head passed away. These fractures were no accident; they were the result of one of the earliest forms of psychiatric treatment called trepanation. The basic theory behind this “therapy” holds that insanity is caused by demons lurking inside the skull. Boring a hole in the patient’s head creates a door through which the demons can escape, and—voila—out goes the crazy.
Despite the peculiarity of the theory and lack of major-league anesthetics, trepanation was by no means a limited phenomenon. From the Neolithic era to the early 20th century, cultures all over the world used it as a way to cure patients of their ills. Doctors eventually phased out the practice as less, er, invasive procedures were developed. Average Joes, on the other hand, didn’t all follow suit. Trepanation patrons still exist. In fact, they even have their very own organizations … and Web sites! Check out the International Trepanation Advocacy Group at www.trepan.com if you’re still curious.
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Erasmus Darwin, Charles Darwin's grandfather, tried to spin the crazy out of his patients using "rotational therapy."
Charles Darwin’s grandfather Erasmus Darwin was a physician, philosopher, and scientist, but he wasn’t particularly adept at any of the three. Consequently, his ideas weren’t always taken seriously. Of course, this could be because he liked to record them in bad poetic verse (sample: “By immutable immortal laws / Impress’d in Nature by the great first cause, / Say, Muse! How rose from elemental strife / Organic forms, and kindled into life”).
It could also be because his theories were a bit far-fetched, such as his spinning-couch treatment. Darwin’s logic was that sleep could cure disease and that spinning around really fast was a great way to induce the slumber.
Nobody paid much attention to it at first, but later, American physician Benjamin Rush adapted the treatment for psychiatric purposes. He believed that spinning would reduce brain congestion and, in turn, cure mental illness. He was wrong. Instead, Rush just ended up with dizzy patients who were still crazy. These days, rotating chairs are limited to the study of vertigo and space sickness.
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