Do Good to Feel Good, Part I

Here it is (again), this time via the NYT: Scientific evidence that giving works.

And let's face it, we know this. We all know it, from the inside. Giving promotes health. Thinking about others promotes health. (Thanks again, Prof K, for your insightful reminder).

The article's examples there are numerous. Here's a personal favorite:

An array of studies have documented this effect. In one, a 2002 Boston College study, researchers found that patients with chronic pain fared better when they counseled other pain patients, experiencing less depression, intense pain and disability.

Anyone who has been chronically ill, or who has spent time among the chronically ill, will readily note that a sick person does not want to be the focus of people's help and attention all the time; she wants to listen to others and be there for them. In other words, she wants to feel normal, and being able to help others restores our sense of normalcy.

Unless you're a celebrity, being the constant focus of others is not a normal state of existence. I'm not convinced it does much good for celebrities either, with their constant complaints of telephoto lenses sneaking ou from behind the trash cans, and all those pop songs lamenting the paparazzi. But heck, it's a living.

Turns out that being stuck in your own misery can lead to somatic harm.

By contrast, being self-centered may be damaging to health. In one study of 150 heart patients, researchers found that people in the study who had more “self-references” (those who talked about themselves at length or used more first-person pronouns) had more severe heart disease and did worse on treadmill tests.

I believe it.

I don't usually do this, honest, but I'm even going out on a limb and referencing Dennis Prager's take on happiness, flippant as it sounds, since I think he's got something too.

(I do take issue with his use of the term moral obligation. I don't usually view the use of antiperspirant as a moral obligation either.... a social obligation, maybe, but moral? An exception might be when working with people, such as those on chemo, who may be exceedingly disturbed or nauseated by strong smells. And on Egged buses during the summer months -- OK, that might just be a moral obligation).

Call it CBT, call it common sense, call it a serotonin-inspired warm fuzzy feeling -- the evidence has long been out there. Actions determine mood, and not the other way round.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Long Overdue -- A Day in Their Life

(This piece is from back in August. My apologizes for the lengthy post gap, and my thanks to you, loyal readers, for bearing with me).

When in London, we like to visit friends, and one family in particular who we're pretty sure we won't be able to see on our side of the world, since they rarely travel outside of England.

Their first-born, D, is a handsome, dark-haired boy with huge brown eyes, who came into the world with an exceedingly rare condition that has left his mind stranded in early infancy, even as his body continues to grow. On our last visit, when D was five, they shared with us one of his recent accomplishments -- reaching forward to push a large button on a musical toy. Now he is seven and he is much the same, only bigger and heavier.

Our time with them this afternoon was brief, which was really too bad, but during that two-hour visit I began to understand a little more about a few aspects of their lives. Here are some of the "simple" things, things I'd barely thought about before now.

Recycling. I offered to take a couple of glass bottles out to the curbside bins, and casually remarked that I wished Israel also had a curbside recycling program. Our friend, D's mother, pointed out that since cardboard was added to their borough's list, only a few months before, their lives had gotten a bit easier. Previously, they disposed of all those carton containers housing D's special feeding and care supplies only by dividing them among their neighbors' waste bins, since London's notoriously strict waste collection laws require that all items fitwithin the bin, or else forgo collection.

Shabbat. As D's body grows, he gains weight but not strength, and his parents can no longer lift him with ease. Several rooms in their house have been fitted with ceiling tracks for an electric hoist system to aid them in day-to-day care for D. But the hoists cannot be operated on Shabbat, nor can they be fitted with a time switch, since their control requires precise adjustments in real time, or D could be crushed. If they exchange the electric hoist for a hydrolic one (their health plan will only fund one), they solve the Shabbat problem but are stuck with an awkward manual one seven days a week. (One potential solution? Ebay...).

Unplanned "surprises." D and his family have known many good days in a row, days in which D can enjoy his classmates' company, bang away on his keyboard, and lie peacefully while his siblings play around him. And then comes the now long-expected unexpected: nonstop seizures that can last through day and night, leaving D exhausted and confused, and his parents feeling exhausted and helpless. It is just awful watching your child suffer, his mother writes me, and D clearly suffers.

Food and drink. D has dysphagia and struggles to swallow. All his liquids must be mixed with starch until they form a paste, to prevent them ending up down his windpipe. All foods must be pulverized, and even then he struggles to consume enough calories, and there are days when he suffers seizures and cannot eat at all. During these times he receives his nutrition via a PEG directly into his stomach, up to four times a day.

A day off. If our friends want to go away for the weekend, or even for the day, they must book hospice care for D in advance. Since hospice costs £400 - 1000 per diem, they must remain within their sponsored allotment of 20 days a year. (Last year it was 30; just another microcosmic fall-out of the market implosion). Twenty days of respite sounds like a lot, until you start to do the math:

One weekend = 3 days of hospice

Since any trip they take requires setting up D at the hospice care (half a day, plus/minus) and picking him up (another half a day), that's nearly one full day, already gone. One short trip abroad would use up half their annual allotment. (And yes, each of them has family abroad).

I haven't even touched on their morning routine --morning time, school travel, bath time, bed time -- since I don't know much about those things. Our conversation touched on other, "regular" issues, like our satisfaction level [medium-to-low] with our respective kids' education systems. (They have other, "normal" children and work hard to make sure these children lead "normal" lives, inasmuch as the siblings of special children live normal lives).

These friends are some of the brightest people I know. They are well-educated, balanced, hard-working, and kind. They have family for moral support, some extra help at home, and a hard-earned familiarity with "the system." But this is their reality, every day, and it is exhausting. Sometimes, when I feel my own exhaustion at the end of a long morning of work and an even longer afternoon of whiny children, I think of them. I don't know how they do it. But they do it.

If, despite the crash, you still have a few shekels / dollars / pounds to spare and would like to donate them to a worthy cause, please consider a respite program such as Shalva, a rehab hospital such as Alyn, or any similar organization -- there are hundreds -- you feel is worthwhile.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Verlyn on the Familiar

Today's piece is on the geography of familiarity. Here's a taste:

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the geography of familiarity. By that I mean something like a map of my habitat, the paths I travel most often, the places I feel most comfortable, the routines embedded in the rural and urban landscapes I know best. Most days, familiarity seems inherent in the world right around me, but every now and then I remember that it’s really an artifact of consciousness, a form of perception that can be lost, say, in someone with Alzheimer’s. (New York Times online, June 3, 2009)

What can I say.... I'm inspired, yet again. His thoughts speak to my mind and soul. I hope you feel the same.

Thank you yet again, Mr. Klinkenborg, for getting it so right.

ALN

Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA

Since beginning pediatric hospital work over a decade ago, I've shown a tendency to divide circumstances -- that is, reasons for hospitalization -- into two artificially neat categories:  Man-made, and G-d-made.  

Examples of the former include falls from upper-story windows, hot-water burns, and car "accidents."  The latter run a spectrum, from "less serious," (i.e. dangerous but curable) illnesses like RSV, Hanoch-Schlein and cellulitis, to acutely life-threatening maladies like Crohn's, SCID, CF, and acute myeloid leukemia.  

Believe it or not, in many ways I had a much harder time in Pediatric Surgical, working with kids injured as a result of the "man-made" stuff.  Why?  I was constantly troubled by the thought that most of the injuries there were preventable;  Falls resulting from unsupervised climbs along an unfenced roof edge or an unbarred third-story window.  Shabbat kettle burns?  See Prof K's posts, here and here, for more on that.  (Yes, I've referenced these before, and I'll probably keep doing it until the problem is no more).  Car-related injuries?   I won't start ranting here about street safety or seat belt use, but please pretend I did.

As for the G-d-made part -- we can't prevent that stuff.  It's just not our jurisdiction.  We can only try to cure it.  And if we cannot cure a child's illness, we can still try to help that child find comfort and meaning until the end.

But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.

I am, of course, referring to the February 1, 2009 decision of the Palestinian Authority to cease nearly all payments to Israeli hospitals, thereby cutting off hundreds of Palestinian children (and adults) with life-threatening illnesses from the medical care they need. 

  

Let's not turn this situation into another political discussion.  Because for me, and so many others, this is not a theoretical situation involving some unnamed, unknown enemy.  This is a new reality, where over fifty children, all of which I know personally on one level or another -- some for several years now -- have been given a death sentence by way of a governmental policy of collective medical neglect.

When I let myself think about it, or when circumstances force me to think about this new reality, sadness creeps in and hits me, literally, in the face.  Our department is half empty, which for us staff members could be viewed as a glass half-full, since we've been working at a slower pace these past few weeks and can take a few minutes to breathe now and then.

But then someone like A -- a beautiful, bright and sensitive teenage girl whom we have been treating for a leukemia for the past four months -- suddenly shows up in our department with a nearly lethal systemic infection because she no longer had a commitment from the PA to pay for her treatments.

What about all the others?  Some of them are in touch with us by phone, while others have been so difficult to contact, it's as if they have disappeared into thin air.   All are pleading desperately, crying at the desks of the PA bureaucrats who have the power to make a life-changing decision but choose not to.  These officials have claimed they will sponsor parallel treatment in an Egyptian, Jordanian, or even Europe -- anywhere but Israel -- but with very few exceptions, we've yet to encounter evidence that our patients are receiving any treatment whatsoever.   

Every once in awhile a rumor flits through the department -- that so-and-so has died of a deadly infection in some PA hospital somewhere.  So far these rumors have proven false, but it's only a matter of time before they are not.  Chemotherapy protocols are measured in days and hours.  A lost week is an acute risk;  a lost month, or even a fever, is a death sentence.  

If we could treat for free, we would.  But we can't, because the funding would come out of our department budget, such that within a month even one patient's treatment would empty the coffers and shut down the department.  A few of our staff have even dug into their pockets so that certain individual patients could have this one medical test or that course of life-saving antibiotics.  A few miniscule drops into a very deep bucket.

This past Monday we were all relieved to learn that A's family managed to confirm her East Jerusalem resident status, allowing us to continue the treatment that will, most likely, save her life.  This morning, the Palestinian Authority's Committee of Medical Exceptions purportedly met to review the list of children requesting funding in to continue treatment in Israeli hospitals for long-term, life-threatening illnesses.  

I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

While this situation has affected patients in hospitals throughout the country, for whatever reason most of the (limited) PR refers to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.  See the NY Times piece here, and the JTA piece here.

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 3

(This is a continuation piece of last week's post, Perception and Creation Beyond Sight 2).

Immaterial Elements and Tactile Shades.  Light.  Color.  Texture.  Composition.  For most artists, these are key concepts, central considerations in all their work.  With closed eyes, color becomes irrelevant, as does all but the brightest light.  

Sharon Karni's works, so rich in scope and layering (as well as color) showed me that textural nuance and material variety can be experienced as colorful, in and of themselves.  With eyes closed and color no longer a consideration, I was able to appreciate and enjoy the depth of Karni's tactile expression via her use of varied materials and textures, from wood relief to netting to nails.  

(An internet search led to one Hebrew explanation of her tendency to incorporate natural elements, such as beach sand and seawater, to her pigments, further adding to their sense of tactility.  The Biblical title of this work refers to words contained in a line of Moshe's Song of the Sea describing the Red Sea's waters as standing "frozen" on each side).

Sharon Karni, Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004.  Mixed technique on wood.

Cathedral, a medium-sized sculpture in plywood by Israel Hadany, could be mistaken for simplistic in shape, a smooth, nearly organic form that -- in contrast to the surging interior of an actual cathedral, sags toward the middle, only to soar upward at each end.   To run my hands over its surface, eyes closed, was to flow down and up again, along its rounded exterior into the space created within.  But the temptation of actually seeing this work wedged itself into my tactile experience after only a few seconds.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005.  Plywood.

This was one of the few works for which, once I had opened my eyes, I could not limit myself to touch alone.  The contrast of light and darkness, spilling over, around and within the form, had me mesmerized.   An orderly row of small windows along its upper surface created a captivating sun-spot effect within.  Experiencing the sculpture by touch alone sharpened my awareness of the piece's richness and depth of form, as well as the visual beauty a sightless person misses.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005 (interior).  Plywood.

Compensation, Exaggeration.   It is commonly believed that those lacking one sensory ability tend to deepen their other sensory abilities -- namely, hearing and touch -- in compensation.  This makes sense to me, and I understand that magnetic imaging of the brain has proven it true on a neurological level as well.  

During my visit, I cannot say that my neurological abilities shifted in any meaningful way, but my attention certainly did.  The gallery, closed off only partially by short walls within the university's echoey, chamber-like corridor, had the opposite effect of that reflective, austere silence typical of most public art venues.  After only a few minutes I was intensely, almost painfully aware of the volume of sound entering the venue.  Previous wanderings through those halls, with my only goal to get from one end to the other, had not focused my awareness on the noise level, but here in the gallery I found it an almost overwhelming presence which disturbed my concentration.  In this context, an "enhanced" ability to hear became a limitation.

Closed In, Exposed Outward.  Last month, at a professional convention, I had the privilege of attending a presentation by several blind adults who shared some thoughts on their experiences before and after receiving dog guides.  One man, a psychologist by profession, had lost his sight as a result of a war injury.  He related his original refusal to have a dog guide, based on his fears of becoming dependent, and the many benefits he now credits to his canine companion, including a facilitation of his social connections with others.  Instead of standing out as an objectified, dependent person, he and his dog now share the limelight, and a sense of healthy interdependence.

I remembered this man as I made my way around the exhibit, eyes closed, hands roaming over the artwork.  I was acutely aware of the gallery's glass walls, and how ridiculous I must have looked to those who were unaware of the exhibit's focus.  I felt exposed, and this bothered me.  But I also felt strangely free, an unfamiliar sensation of being alone with myself, asking, If I can't see others, how much do I care how they see me?

In Conclusion.  I am so visual a person, I find it extremely challenging to even imagine a world in which my sense of sight does not play a dominant role.  Here in the Stern Gallery, I was reminded that my sight, for all its advantages, can limit my perception and my appreciation by its tendency to dominate my other senses.  I came to learn that approaching art up close can, with all the irony implied, create a distance.  

I credit this exhibit, its artists and curators, with providing us a particular opportunity to experience art -- and our own selves, experiencing the art -- anew.

* * * * *

Feeling and Meaning:  Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman 

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva Passow-Whitman.

* * * * *

Keep the balance, 

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 2

I have just spent half an hour with the exhibit “Feeling and Meaning – Seeing Art Through Touch,” now open  in the Stern Gallery, a glass-walled pair of narrow rooms carved out of the wide, multi-angled hallway of the Humanities Wing of Hebrew University, Mt. Scopus. Although it is a small exhibit, featuring only twenty or so works, I easily could have stayed there an hour or more.  

I took advantage of what I knew would be an abridged visit by passing fairly quickly from one work to the next, noting my reactions to the new and often surprising discoveries that came with experiencing a body of art in ways beyond the visual.  Here are some of my impressions.

Here, You Can Touch.  I entered the gallery completely aware that these objects, all of which had three-dimensional aspects, were on display to be touched as well as seen. Yet I had to consciously stop myself from asking the security guard to confirm that yes, I really was allowed to touch everything.  This, in and of itself, was a freeing prospect, breaking a social convention while opening doors to a new way of perceiving the artwork.

Eyes Down, Hands Up.  I did not want to fall into an impossible attempt at closing my eyes and "pretending to be blind;"  as a seeing person -- however myopic -- I know that I am habituated to experiences my world "eyes first."   By closing them, I understood that would only be scraping the surface of taking in my surroundings via additional senses.  I chose instead to touch the work with eyes open, but limiting their use, either beginning with a brief glance, to get a general impression of the size, shape, color and subject of the work, or else fixing my gaze downward, until after I had first gotten to know the art through my hands.

The Same Work, Twice.  This duality, seeing the work only peripherally while allowing my sense of touch to dominate my sensory intake, led to a feeling of intense sensory dichotomy. Through touch alone I could not identify a small sculpture which afterwards, by sight, I effortlessly recognized as a bust of Chaim Weizmann.  But it wasn't just a matter of finding something recognizable;  the sculpture as perceived by my hands, was nothing like the one my eyes claimed to see.  In all but those two or three works containing exceedingly clean, straight lines and clear-cut materials, I was never able to reconcile what I looked at with what I touched, effectively turning every piece into two -- or more -- completely different works of art.

How Big, and How Wide?  

The first thing I did when approaching a piece was to run my hands along its edges, trying to establish a tactile understanding of the size of the work.  

Sharon Karni.  Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

For many of the larger pieces, such as Sharon Karni's Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), this process took time and required a certain effort -- reaching up, around, crouching down.  It struck me, the amount of time and effort that would be required to understand the scope and size of an image without the help of my eyes.

A Feeling for the Whole Picture.  It only got more difficult when I tried to create an overall internal picture of the work in front of me.  With information coming in from only two hands, I could take in about 100 square centimeters at a time, and only slowly, bit by bit.  I ended up trying -- unsuccessfully -- to assemble a disjointed collection of data into one coherent image, but found I could do so only afterwards, using my eyes.  My sensory experience lacked wholeness and continuity.  

Sharon Karni.  Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

Zohar Ginio, the lawyer/artist, and only blind artist participating in the exhibit, noted in his interview with The Jerusalem Report that he limits his works to a small scale since it is difficult for blind people get a feel for a large work that they cannot feel all at once. Indeed, his stone sculpture The Laborer, a self-portrait of his hand, is large in impact but small enough (approx. 80 across) to allow both sighted and sightless people to take in the work as a whole.

To be continued...

Keep the balance,

ALN

______

Feeling and Meaning:  Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman 

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva.

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight

I wish I could include here some of the amazing paintings by artist John Bramblitt, although when you see them, you might be tempted to believe he is not blind.  He is featured here in a recent NYT, as well as here in Tara Parker Pope's Well blog.  

His loss of sight became an ironic source of new courage, and a his painting, a way of communicating his perceptions.

"It wasn’t until I lost my sight that I became brave enough to fail,” he said. “Even if the paintings didn’t look good, I didn’t have to see them."

Wow.  To go back to painting, after blindness.   His ability to reframe his (and his environment's) outlook toward his limitation, into one of abilities, is powerful of itself.

On the subject, a current exhibit at the Stern Gallery on the Mt. Scopus campus of Hebrew University features artwork by, and for, blind and visually impaired visitors.  Read about it here, and in the February 16 edition of The Jerusalem Report (no web-based article available, as far I know), which includes a piece on artist Zohar Ginio, a lawyer by profession, and the only blind artist to have artwork -- a sculptural self-portrait of his hand -- featured at the exhibit.   

I have walked by this exhibit several times after-hours, on my way back from evening class.   The gallery has glass walls, allowing some works to be viewed from the outside, but I have not yet had the opportunity to wander in and experience the work tactically.  That needs correction, and since I happen to have class today, I am now going to log off, get up off my tush and head over to campus early, so that I have time to enjoy this exhibit.   Stay tuned for impressions.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Now We're Off to Nauru

The Rebbetzin's Husband does a wonderful job summing it all up in HH #121... and your next Micronesian vacation is on him.  Meanwhile, there's some good reading.

ALN

The Price of an Education

This year Elder P began fourth grade in a new school.  While the dress code of her previous school (grades 1-3) permitted girls to attend school wearing trousers, her current school requires skirts. 

Over the summer Elder P received a lovely tunic that reaches mid-thigh, which she always wears with trousers.  I figured it was only a matter of time before she was told not to wear it to school, and I had even warned her, but left it up to her to continue wearing it or not.  

Last Thursday evening, right before bedtime (why do these things always come up right before bedtime?), Elder Princeski mentioned that her teacher had pulled her aside for The Conversation.  The tunic isn't long enough;  you need to wear something longer.  I was surprised it had taken this long.

* * * * *

Flashback.  Earlier in that same evening, Elder P and I are snuggled side-by-side on the sofa, huddling over my MacBook, reading aloud this article from the NY Times.

Afghan Schoolgirls Undeterred by Attack

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan — One morning two months ago, Shamsia Husseini and her sister were walking through the muddy streets to the local girls school when a man pulled alongside them on a motorcycle and posed what seemed like an ordinary question.

“Are you going to school?”

Then the man pulled Shamsia’s burqa from her head and sprayed her face with burning acid...

I first read the whole article to myself, then hesitated.  Should I share this with my daughter? Shamsia is 17 years old, the age of Elder P's Bnei Akiva madricha (youth group counselor).   Other, much younger girls were attacked as well, along with teachers --fourteen women and girls in all.   It's nearly always a dilemma for me;  How do we educate our kids, especially our girls, without tearing down their (mis)perception that the world -- their world -- is a mostly-safe place? 

I decided to begin by showing her the accompanying slide show, which pictures the girls studying, playing and walking around the Mirwais School for Girls.  In the photos, Shamsia's scars are visible but not overwhelming. Then we went over the article, which exudes optimism.  Reporter Dexter Filkins writes that since the attack, all but a few girls have returned to school, that their parents are eager for them to go, and that the girls experience their school as a haven.  I was struck by the way that Shamsia and her family seem acutely aware of what is at stake, for themselves and their society.

“My parents told me to keep coming to school even if I am killed,” said Shamsia, 17, in a moment after class. Shamsia’s mother, like nearly all of the adult women in the area, is unable to read or write. “The people who did this to me don’t want women to be educated. They want us to be stupid things...

“The people who did this,” she said, “do not feel the pain of others.”

After reading the article, Elder P and I reviewed some of the ideas mentioned.  I tried to explain the concept of the Taliban and their agenda.  I was curious what Elder P had absorbed from our reading and accompanying conversation, so I asked what she thought about the article, and why, in her opinion, the girls had been attacked.  

It's sad. They [the Taliban] don't want the girls to lead.  They don't want them to go to school.  They want [the girls] to stay at home and not learn how to be in charge.

Sounds like she got the gist of it.

* * * * *

To the teacher's credit, Elder P was not at all upset about the skirt-length conversation, and she breezily accepted the dress code requirement.  I was relieved that she had been pulled her aside, and not embarrassed in front of her class. During the first parent-teacher conference of the year, this teacher told us that she emphasizes interpersonal relations and positive midot (personality traits) in her teaching, and I felt that her approach toward my daughter only supported this.

I don't wish to exaggerate, or find connections that don't exist;  even so, I couldn't help but feel the irony that evening.  The Taliban know that to control their society, they have to control the women of their society, by limiting how they dress, where they go, and what they learn.  The families there understand and oppose the Taliban's hurtful agenda.  The understand that modesty does not equal ignorance.

My daughter loves to read -- in two languages.  She loves math.  She's learning how to do an internet search, and how to write a book report.  For now, her curriculum and that of the boys in her grade (who learn in separate classrooms within the same school) is pretty much identical.  In a few short years, it won't be.  The boys will continue to study Talmud for several additional hours a week, while the girls will not.  If my daughter does well enough in school, she'll be able to go on to study anything she likes --  medicine, law, teaching, science, computers. Unlike Shamsia.

Keep the balance,

ALN