Wednesday, October 14, 2020

Collection: Empathy & Fragile Lives

Fragile Lives: How Stephen Westaby's untried surgery saved ALCAPA baby Kirsty

"We shall never surrender."

Winston Churchill, during the Battle of Britain, 1940

Monday 15 February 1999, 3.45am. No one calls with good news at night. I'd been in Australia for just thirteen hours after a twenty-hour flight. In pitch darkness I scrambled across my hotel bed and knocked the receiver to the floor. The call was lost. I swiftly slipped back into sleep, courtesy of melatonin tablets and the bottle of Merlot I'd drunk at dinner. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. This time I fielded it successfully, but I was irritated.

Professor Stephen Westaby, a British heart surgeon at John Radcliffe Hospital. Supplied

"Westaby? This is Archer. Where are you?"

"Nick, you know I'm damned well in Australia. It's the middle of the f***ing night – what's the problem?""Steve, I'm sorry, but we need you to come back. We have a sick baby with ALCAPA. The parents know you and want you to do the surgery."

Oh joy. "When?"

"As soon as possible."

I really had no other choice.

Kirsty was a beautiful six-month-old baby girl in whom fate had installed a lethal self-destruct mechanism, a miserable detail that seemed destined to end her life before her first birthday. ALCAPA is an abbreviation for Anomalous Left Coronary Artery from the Pulmonary Artery, an isolated and exceptionally rare congenital anomaly in the overall complexity of human anatomy.

Simply put, it's bad wiring. Both coronary arteries should rise out of the aorta and supply the heart muscle with well-oxygenated blood under high pressure. They should never be attached to the pulmonary artery, as this has both low pressure and poor oxygen content. Early survival with ALCAPA therefore depends on the development of new "collateral" blood vessels between the normal right coronary artery and the misplaced left coronary artery. But these eventually are insufficient to sustain blood flow to the main pumping chamber.

Muscle cells deprived of oxygen die and are replaced by scar tissue, leaving baby to suffer what are in effect repeated, painful heart attacks. Scar tissue stretches, causing the left ventricle to dilate, then the heart progressively fails and the lungs become congested with blood, leading to breathlessness and exhaustion. Even during feeding.

Kirsty Collier with her mum Becky before her operation. After having a third of her heart removed in pioneering surgery Kirsty astounded medical experts by making a ''miracle'' recovery.  SWNS.com

But because ALCAPA is exceedingly rare, the diagnosis is seldom made until the infant is terminally ill. Fortunately, her parents were intelligent, had recognised that there was a serious problem and were persistent in finding help for her.

Kirsty's story was particularly harrowing. Her mother Becky already had a three-year-old son and was an experienced and responsible mum. All antenatal checks and ultra-sound scans had appeared normal. Kirsty was born on August 21, 1998, by elective Caesarean section with a spinal anaesthetic and at first everything seemed normal. But not for long.

In the womb, the pressures and oxygen content of the aorta and pulmonary artery are the same, so Kirsty's tiny heart was safe. After birth, the circulations to the body and newly expanded lungs separate, and both pressure and oxygen content in the pulmonary artery fall. So, in cases of ALCAPA, both blood flow and oxygen content in that critically important left coronary artery fall precipitously, too.

Kirsty was grunting even during the first attempt to breastfeed in the hospital, and Becky noticed beads of sweat trickling from the bridge of her baby's nose. The effort of feeding repeatedly made her fractious and distressed.

Kirsty Collier two months after her operation in February 1999. Kirsty had a third of her heart removed when she was just 4 months old.  SWNS.com

This was distinctly different from how her son had been, so Becky asked for a paediatrician to review Kirsty. She was told that there was absolutely nothing to worry about but the truth was that no one had bothered to find out what was wrong.At this stage, Becky had little choice but to take her irritable but precious little bundle home.

Within weeks Becky was certain that something was seriously amiss, because during every feed there was sweating and vomiting. Kirsty struggled for breath, clenched her little fists and screamed until she was puce in the face. Together they made many visits to the GP, sometimes as many as three times a week, but they always received the same non-committal reassurance – tense, unpleasant encounters, as Becky was deemed neurotic and unable to cope.

Despite Kirsty's rapid breathing she had no temperature. Chest infections were ruled out, and her belly was soft, with no signs of stomach or intestinal blockage. All of the common paediatric problems were excluded. Becky became more and more anxious. Kirsty wasn't gaining weight. She had a pasty, washed-out look and a cough like a dog's bark.

In reality this baby was suffering repeated small heart attacks with excruciating chest pain that she could neither communicate nor understand. The human body can be outlandishly cruel.

Kirsty as a 10-year-old with her mother Becky Collier.  SWNS.com

Eventually, after a meltdown in the GP's surgery, Becky insisted that Kirsty should be referred to the local hospital. Twice she had chest X-rays, only to be diagnosed with bronchiolitis – inflamed breathing tubes – on both occasions. Then one day during her afternoon nap Kirsty turned a terrible slate-grey colour. She was barely rousable and limp. Becky snatched her up and rushed to the surgery. But by the time they presented themselves at the receptionist the baby was awake and pink again.

Becky was told to stop fussing and that there were children to be seen who were actually sick. On this occasion mother and child were acrimoniously dispatched, once more with a prescription for antibiotics. Kirsty's enormous heart remained undetected.

This time, Becky drove directly to the accident and emergency department of her small local hospital. They were seen by a sympathetic female doctor who had children of her own. Recognising that a mother's instinct was usually correct, she referred them on to a larger city hospital for review by the on-call paediatrician.

It was a bitterly cold, frosty night and they were left sitting in an unheated hospital corridor for several hours. Becky frantically struggled to keep Kirsty warm but she became progressively more limp and grey. Eventually, late into the night, they were seen. The first junior doctor suggested bronchiolitis and intended to dismiss them without investigation.

Beckyrefused to leave without a chest X-ray. She was told off for her unreasonable attitude – how thoughtless to inconvenience the hard-pressed duty radiographer at that time of night. So the sad pair were dispatched unescorted down poorly lit corridors and icy outside walkways to find their own way to the X-ray department. It was well past midnight when they returned, clutching the tell-tale picture, which Becky presented to a nurse. They were parked once more.

Another thirty minutes passed, then a dramatic shift in attitude from the hospital staff. Now there were hushed voices, grave expressions, and nurses bringing drips and drugs. The previously mean, now embarrassed nurse took Becky aside to explain that Kirsty was being transferred to the specialist children's heart unit in Oxford. By ambulance this time.

So what did the X-ray show to trigger this frenzy of activity? Kirsty had a massive heart. Her problem was immediately obvious on the X-ray film. When the staff were pressed about her previous X-rays at the same hospital, Becky was told that the heart shadow had been misinterpreted as fluid. Some mistake!

In Oxford, the paediatric cardiology registrar met the ambulance and took them directly to a ward packed with children with serious heart problems and beeping monitors – a hive of activity in the depths of night.

Kirsty with her parents before her school prom. Kirsty made a full recovery and aside from a feint scar on her chest has little to show for the surgery. Supplied

Nick Archer arrived at 3am. An ECG and blood tests were done quickly, then the echo machine was brought in to image Kirsty's heart chambers. First it seemed like good news. All four chambers were there, with no holes between them. But worryingly the left atrium and ventricle were both enlarged, the ventricle dramatically so. This explained the heart failure and accounted for the striking chest X-ray.

In little more than an hour, the cardiology team established that Kirsty had severe heart failure from multiple heart attacks. Parts of the left ventricular wall now consisted of thin scar tissue interspersed with poorly contracting muscle, a rare condition in an infant but one that provided the likely diagnosis. One further test was needed. A cardiac catheter would confirm the diagnosis but would require a general anaesthetic, so she'd have to be in much better condition before proceeding.

It was a full five weeks before Becky's baby was considered fit enough for the cardiac catheter. The evening before the operation, the anaesthetist came round to talk. Normally a jolly and optimistic character, on this occasion he didn't have much to smile about. That night, Kirsty was christened in her cot by the hospital chaplain, the doctors, nurses and other families gathering around the bed to support them.

That morning, Becky dressed her baby in her best pyjamas and tied a bow in her hair for her trip to the catheterisation laboratory. Ironically it was Valentine's Day. As Becky put it to me later, "A girl has to look her best, even when she's poorly.":

Once I was on the plane home I started to sketch the anatomy of Kirsty's aorta, pulmonary artery and abnormal left coronary artery. I knew that the current techniques in operations for ALCAPA had limitations and a substantial failure rate, so I used my time during the flight to work out an alternative. By the time we were cruising high above Java, I'd designed my new operation.

I called my colleague Takahiro Katsumata when I got back to Oxford and asked him to bring Kirsty's parents to my office with a consent form. The cardiac catheter had shown precisely what Archer had suspected. Kirsty needed surgery as soon as possible.

Becky looked tired and drawn when I saw her.

I don't do transmitted anxiety if I can help it. But it's much more difficult for my anaesthetist colleagues who have to deal with the agonising separation when the patient is given over to them.

FRAGILE LIVES Illustrations labeling and depicting elements of the heart and cardiovascular systems. Heart Surgery Prodger, Isabel

I described my planned operation to the team and explained why I felt it would be an improvement on existing techniques. The new left coronary artery would be constructed with a flap of aortic wall that would sit below a corresponding pulmonary flap to make a tube, the latter containing the misplaced origin of the left coronary artery at its apex. The product would be a new coronary artery delivering high-pressure, well-oxygenated blood directly from the aorta, where it should have come from in the first place. Blood fully saturated with oxygen would then supply the failing heart muscle and prevent further heart attacks. Katsumata was intrigued and excited by my proposed approach, so much so that he rushed off to call the hospital's film crew.

The risks of the operation were substantial. Becky's shaky hand signed the consent form and I walked back with them to the children's ward. When we reached the cot, Kirsty's heart failure was worse than I imagined. She was emaciated, her heaving ribs and rapid breathing a consequence of her congested lungs, and her abdomen swollen with fluid. Without immediate surgery she'd be dead within days. Although a voice in my head screamed, "Oh shit," my mouth correctly said, "I'll go to theatre now."

The anaesthetist knew the score, having already anaesthetised Kirsty for the cardiac catheterisation, and some of the monitoring lines were still in place.

"Do you really think you can get this baby through?" was his opening line.

I didn't reply, bidding a cheery "Good morning" to the nurses and perfusion team in the operating theatre, then went straight to the coffee room. I wanted to avoid seeing Becky leave her baby with strangers, always an excruciating event.

When I returned, Kirsty was already on the operating table, covered in green drapes held in place with an adherent plastic drape. All that was visible were her bony little chest and swollen abdomen. Heart surgery needs to be an impersonal, technical exercise.

I joined Katsumata and my six-foot, six-inch Australian colleague Matthew at the scrub sink. While we scrubbed in silence, the film camera was carefully positioned next to the operating lights. There was a palpable buzz of excitement. We were about to do something novel, esoteric and risky.

There was no bleeding as I drew the scalpel blade along the skin over Kirsty's breast bone. In shock, her skin capillaries had shut down to divert blood to vital organs. Next, the electrocauter cut through the thin layer of fat onto the bone, producing its characteristic buzzing noise accompanied by a whiff of burning as the current cauterised the oozing blood vessels, although this time there were few of these. Then the electric saw cut through the length of her sternum, exposing bright red bone marrow.

FRAGILE LIVES Illustrations labeling and depicting elements of the heart and cardiovascular systems. Heart Surgery Prodger, Isabel

We used a small metal retractor to crank open her tiny chest, bending and stretching the joints between the ribs and the spinal column. In babies, the fleshy thymus gland lies between the sternum and the fibrous sac around the heart, but by now it had done its work producing antibodies for the foetus so we removed it.

The electrocauter continued its messy but vital work, cutting through the fibrous pericardial sac to expose the heart, straw-coloured fluid pouring out and being drawn away by the sucker. Meanwhile the other members of the team worked on silently. The anaesthetist gave heparin to stop Kirsty's blood from clotting in the heart–lung machine, the perfusion team set up the complex array of tubing, pumps and oxygenating equipment to keep Kirsty's body alive when her heart was stopped, and the scrub nurse concentrated on having the correct surgical instruments ready to slap into my palm. I rarely had to ask for anything.

As we pulled up the edges of the pericardial membrane to display the heart, Katsumata – in a moment of wry Japanese humour in times of stress – involuntarily uttered what now had become our surgical catchphrase, "Oh shit, don't mention the war." Back from his first cigarette, the anaesthetist popped his head over the drapes in response to Katsumata's comment. Others could see it all on the video screen.

What should have been a walnut-sized heart was revealed to be the size of a lemon. The enlarged right coronary artery was obvious, its many inflated branches crossing over towards the left ventricle. While the right side of the heart pumped vigorously against raised pressure in the lungs, the left ventricle was hugely dilated and barely moved.

Batches of newly necrotic muscle merged with areas of white, fibrous scar tissue, the result of the many small, painful heart attacks endured by Kirsty during her first six months of life. But Kirsty had survived to this point and it was our job to keep it that way.

Having exposed this heart I began to question the wisdom of attempting such a complex operation having come straight from a day-long flight.

But urgent heart transplants were virtually impossible in babies; this replumbing of her heart's blood supply was her only chance of life.

Tiny pipes were inserted to connect her to the heart–lung machine, and I then gave the signal to continue. The perfusion technician turned on the roller pump and Kirsty's heart gradually emptied. At this point, technology had taken over, diverting blood away from her lungs and into the synthetic oxygenator.

FRAGILE LIVES Illustrations labeling and depicting elements of the heart and cardiovascular systems. Heart Surgery Prodger, Isabel

With her empty heart still beating I cut through the pulmonary artery above the origin of the anomalous coronary, which sat there like the pearl in an oyster. Now we had to connect it without tension to the high-pressure aorta that lay an inch away. The conventional method was simply to trying to stretch and re-implant the origin of the vessel into the side of the aorta. But this could result in thrombosis and blockage, so I pressed on with my new technique.

This delicate exercise could only be achieved by clamping the aorta and temporarily stopping all blood flow to the heart. We'd protect the muscle by infusing cardioplegia fluid directly into both coronary arteries, flushing all the blood out and collapsing the ventricle like a punctured football. This induced state of inactivity, common in heart surgery, is reversed simply by removing the clamp on the aorta, which allows blood from the heart–lung machine to flow back into the coronary arteries.

For the reconstruction of this tiny vessel, the stitching had to be precise, accurate and watertight. The procedure went well. Just thirty minutes after the heart was stopped, the conjoined flaps restored Kirsty's coronary artery anatomy to what it should have been.

As the clamp was removed, bright red oxygenated blood – rather than de-oxygenated blue blood – flooded the left ventricular muscle. Her heart changed from a pale pink colour to deep purple, then became almost black in parts. Before re-constructing the pulmonary artery we checked that there was no bleeding from the lines of stitching behind it. Soon the electro-cardiogram showed uncoordinated electrical activity, and the heart stiffened with renewed muscle tone.

Unusually for a child, her reperfused heart kept writhing and squirming in ventricular fibrillation. We used an electric shock directly through the muscle to restore normal rhythm. Ten volts – zap! The heart defibrillated and stopped wriggling. It was now motionless but we expected a normal rhythm to resume at any moment.

But it didn't. The purple ball fibrillated and squirmed again, and the anaesthetist's head popped over the drapes to request the obvious – "Shock it again!" We did and the same thing happened. It wasn't coming back.

This was serious electrical instability caused by the scar tissue, so we gave the appropriate drugs to stabilise the muscle cell membranes.

"Let's give it more reperfusion time," I told the anaesthetist.

"OK, I'll go out for a fag then," he said.

Twenty minutes later we tried again. Twenty volts – zap! This time her whole little body levitated from the operating table and her heart defibrillated. Although it slowly began to beat, it was barely more than a flicker. Ominous, but we had drugs in reserve to make it pump harder.

I asked the anaesthetist to start an adrenaline infusion and told the perfusionist to cut back on pump flow to leave some blood in the heart. This was operating theatre protocol, and it's just like the military. You make a request to a medical colleague but give orders to the technical staff. If you start giving orders to an anaesthetist they'll tell you to piss off, and will go off and do something different.

My gaze remained fixed on Kirsty's pathetic little heart. The new coronary artery was fine – there was no kink in the tube and no bleeding. For the first time, the left ventricle was receiving well-oxygenated blood at the same pressure as the rest of the body. But her heart still looked like an overripe plum and was barely beating at all. What I was thinking was we're stuffed, this heart's had it; great operation – dead baby.

Of course, I didn't let the others know my thoughts but I was starting to fade. I suggested that the cameraman should stop filming for a while because nothing was going to change and asked Katsumata to come to my side of the operating table while I took a break.

I removed my gown and gloves, and went to make a call in the anaesthetic room. Mike followed.

"Can you repair it?" he asked me.

"Don't think so."

"I'll get Archer to warn the parents, then."

I slumped on a stool and picked up the phone. One of the lovely nurses put a coffee and doughnut in front of me.

In five minutes, Archer was down from his outpatient clinic at the theatre door. He didn't need to ask.

My bladder was full and I wandered off to the loo. When I got back, my brain had regained control without that distraction and I now really needed to focus. What, if anything, could I do to make things better? I was running out of ideas.

The left ventricle was scarred, dilated and now globular – not the normal elliptical shape. This distortion had pulled open the mitral valve and prevented it from closing. As the left ventricle tried to pump blood around the body as much as half of it flowed backwards to the lungs. Heart function is always temporarily worsened during surgery, but in Kirsty's case it seemed terminal. I'd hoped that resting the heart on the bypass machine would help it to recover. It hadn't.

I went back to the operating theatre, scrubbed up again and switched with Katsumata. He said nothing, but looked crestfallen – a clear message. I asked the anaesthetist to start ventilating the lungs and told the perfusionist to prepare to slowly ease off the machine. At this point, Kirsty's heart needed to take over and support the circulation, otherwise she'd die on the operating table. We all stared at the traces on the screen, hoping to see her blood pressure rise. It briefly reached half normal, but then fell away rapidly as the pump was switched off.

"Shall we go back on?" asked Katsumata.

Watching the left ventricle flicker on the echo, the perfusionist questioned whether it was worth it.

I wasn't yet ready to call it. Failure would mean death for the little girl and a life of torment for the parents.

"Let's go back on, give it another half hour."

This in itself was problematic, as a long bypass time always lessened the chance of recovery.

Kirsty's parents were waiting in the children's ward – Archer had gone to warn them. When we called him back, Becky insisted on coming to the doors of the operating theatre complex with him. Should I tell her that the heart was too badly damaged, that the diagnosis should have been made months ago and that Kirsty had been let down by an overburdened system?

On the very rare occasions that a child died on the operating table I always talked to the parents myself. It was something I dreaded, the very worst part of my job.

The entrance to the theatre complex opened automatically onto the hospital corridor. I was immediately confronted by eyes full of grief and desperation. I remember Becky saying, "Please save my little girl." I was pole-axed. I turned back to the sombre theatre, put on a new mask and scrubbed up again.

The anaesthetist had finished yet another cigarette, and said, "Things are no better. Can we turn the pump off?"

"No, I'm going to try one more thing. Turn the lungs off. Run the camera again."

This was my last-gasp attempt. It was something that could only be justified by invoking the laws of physics and had never been done before in a child. The tension on the wall of Kirsty's scarred left ventricle was elevated because of the size of the cavity. From a recent conference, I knew that a Brazilian surgeon had made a series of failing adult hearts smaller when a tropical infection, Chagas disease, had weakened the muscle. The operation had been attempted for other types of heart failure patients in North America but was quickly discredited and abandoned. In my view, this bold approach was Kirsty's last hope.

I was not going to risk stopping the heart again, so I took a glistening new scalpel and cut the beating left ventricle wide open from apex to base, just like unzipping a sleeping bag. I began in an area of scar, carefully avoiding the muscles that support the mitral valve, and the filleted heart immediately fibrillated in response to cutting. This was fine because there was no risk of it pumping air.

Frankly, I was stunned by the unexpected appearance of the inner lining of the heart. It was covered in thick, white scar tissue. To reduce the diameter of the ventricle I cut away the scar tissue on either side of the incision until I reached bleeding muscle and then removed one third of the circumference of the chamber.

In an attempt to stop the mitral valve from leaking I sewed the central point of its two leaflets together, turning it from an oval to a double orifice structure resembling a pair of spectacles. Then I simply sewed the muscle edges together with a double row of stitches to close the heart. In the end, this much smaller heart looked like a quivering black banana. Not for a moment did I think it would ever start again – and nor did my colleagues. Most of them thought I was crazy.

Word of the bizarre operation in Theatre 5 soon spread. The curious gathered to watch and the camera kept on filming. We had to ensure that all air was removed from the heart, otherwise it could be ejected into the blood vessels of the brain and cause a stroke. After that, all that remained was to defibrillate and try to restore normal heart rhythm.

"We're done," I announced. "Try 20 volts."

Zap! The heart stopped quivering, and for what seemed like an age there was no spontaneous electrical activity. I poked the muscle with forceps and it contracted in response. This time there was a flicker on the blood pressure trace. Miraculously, the black banana had ejected blood into the aorta.

The anaesthetist looked again at the echo. "It certainly looks different. Shall we try using the pacemaker?"

I was already sewing the fine pacing wires into place. We arbitrarily set the pacing box rate at 100 beats per minute and switched it on. I told the perfusionist to cut back on the pump flow rate and leave blood in the heart to see if it would eject consistently. It did. What's more, the echo showed that the mitral valve no longer leaked. At this point I felt that we were in with a chance. Life really does depend upon physics and geometry.

It was now after midday. Kirsty had been on the bypass machine for more than three hours and we needed to get her off it. As if timed to perfection, her own heart rhythm suddenly broke through the pacing. Coordinated natural heart rhythm is much more efficient than electrical pacing, providing much better blood flow and pressure.

It was like switching on a light in the operating theatre. Gloom changed to elation, adrenaline kicked in and my fatigue suddenly lifted. We gave Kirsty an infusion of adrenaline to help her heart take over from the bypass machine. Finally I gave the instruction to"'come off slowly". We still expected her blood pressure to fade, yet the curiously reconfigured little heart kept on pumping.

I remained silent, but I looked over my mask at Katsumata. He knew that I'd had enough by now. "Let me finish," he said.

I took a last, disbelieving glance at the little black banana pumping away, then turned to the echo screen, where the incomprehensible flashes of white, blue and yellow were also reassuring, like a blazing fire. We could see blood streaming through the new left coronary and a double jet entering the left ventricle through the mitral valve – a curiously reconfigured baby's heart that finally worked.

Katsumata made certain that there was no bleeding, then meticulously closed the chest.

"Never been done before," he said, looking over at me. Soon afterwards Becky came down to the theatre in shock. After the encounter at the theatre door, she believed Kirsty had died. She put her hand on her baby's little foot and exclaimed, "It's warm. It's never been warm." When she started to cry I left. It had been a long day.

We followed Kirsty carefully over the following ten years, using echocardiography to watch her heart develop. She was a perfect little girl, happy, outgoing and energetic, the only clue to her extraordinary internal metamorphosis being the faint stripe up the middle of her chest.

When we felt she was mature enough to discuss it, we asked for her permission to carry out a magnetic resonance imaging scan to show us how the remodelled heart had developed. What we found was quite extraordinary. Apart from the double-orifice mitral valve her heart appeared normal, as did her new left coronary artery. Only the thin nest of scars showed the position of the line of stitches up the heart. Remarkably, all other scar tissue had disappeared. The whole inner lining of her left ventricle had been pure white scar tissue – now all gone.

This provided some of the first evidence that an infant's own cardiac stem cells can regenerate heart muscle and actually remove fibrous tissue. Adult hearts cannot recover in the same way. But what if we could identify and culture stem cells that could do just this for an adult heart? One day I'd find out.

Now aged eighteen, Kirsty is a vivacious and athletic teenager. Had she died we'd never have known about this exciting possibility for heart regeneration.

This is an edited extract from Fragile Lives by Stephen Westaby, published by HarperCollins, available from February 20, RRP$32.99.

 

Monday, October 12, 2020

Collections Autism

 

Collections Autism

                  Challenges & Entrenchment

 


It was early on in my training that I realised that parenting is often if shaped by the infant.  Cues from the infant and responses from the parents especially mother in many cases will help shape the child to be what it will be.   Much disturbance is seen in mother-infant coupling when mother for what ever reason insists on basically bull-dosing through a rigid way of upbringing the infant.  This is one of the reasons why despite popularities, parental guidelines do not work that well except in situations when the mother realised the need to follow her instinct.  

In the spring of 1975 I found myself in a psychotherapy supervision session dedicated entirely to autism and attended by all trainees in the centre.

 

The supervisor, Frances Tustin, wore a head of thick pure white hair. Very short and of rather solid build, she used to wear only trousers, which seemed to be the only sensible wear for a child psychotherapist, and a very simple pinafore. She spoke with gesticulating arms in front of her. She was basically a Kleinian. Like many of them, I think she adapted. She must have been in her mid 60s and by then and for a long time her patients were mostly severely autistic children, the ones most people would gladly send to some god-forsaken place on the other side of the planet, at great expense to the local authority to ease their own guilt of not being able to offer much locally. She was thus naturally cuddly – cuddly enough to counter the world’s most “un-cuddly”, the “autists”.  I have no doubt she cuddled many of them - those who became frightened as she led them session after session through the dark underworld of their closed and rather terrifying mind. Nor have I any doubt that if she needed to break rules she would. After all, offering psychotherapy to autistic children was rule breaking in itself.

Many of her patients were at the High Wick hospital, a unit set up just for autistic children. People think a race is now on to decipher the brains of autists. All I can say is that the race was on then for perhaps a different aspect of the brain, and as long as we have autists the race continues.

It was not until some years later that I realised the significance of Tustin’s influence, from the way she walked to the way she smiled. What is important is that she taught us not to be afraid. She was not afraid to challenge conventional views. She was not afraid because she did not think autism was such a terrible hopeless condition. She was therefore able to try all kinds of little tricks. She never went along completely with the tight defences of these little “autists”. She got them to know and love her and then she would begin to dismantle their defences so that they could begin to adjust faster to a changing environment, namely to cope with life. She really was the pioneer of therapies that build in step-by-step challenges for these children. It is a principle that can indeed be applied to other psychiatric conditions such as anorexia, other eating disorders and addiction. Through therapy these children learn to laugh at their own silliness. They learn to cope with little frustrations and modify their demands when they find the therapist not giving in to them. Being afraid of one’s child, whether normal or otherwise, is not a good idea. Strangely, many mothers found it hard to accept when their little “autist” changed.

Tustin’s other great ability was her innate talent of simplifying things. Some of the greatest teachers I have met had the ability to use the simplest language to explain the most complex things. By the late 70s most others seemed to revel at the use of complex words to throw us simple folks off balance. Not so our supervisor.

Once in Paris I was in the presence of many eminent psychiatrists who were all deep into psychotherapy.  I mentioned a few names - no real response.  Then in another bit of conversation I mentioned casually that I had about two and a half years of weekly supervision from Frances Tustin. Everybody suddenly wanted to talk with me to find out more.

When I eventually left the Tavistock and became a Senior Registrar, I had the good fortune of working in a set-up for children and parents with three inpatient units. One unit was for the admission of the middle age group children of age nine to fourteen. Another unit was for the admission of, wait for this, whole families. The last unit, named The Pavillion, was dedicated to inpatient work with autistic children.

It was at The Pavillion that I first formulated my own view on entrenchment.

A mother was shocked on a lunch time visit to find her little Gerry eating peas.

“Darling, I thought you didn’t like peas.”

“I like them now.”

Mother, now finding it difficult to save face, turned to one of the nurses and said, “Honest – he would be sick.”

“He will be fine, he has been having peas for days,” said the nurse.

“These are good,” the autist added, without even looking up at mum.

Entrenchment is a trap into which so many parents can fall.  They do not need an autistic child. The healthier children try to break out and we have rebelliousness.  Others succumb and we have mental illness.

This is not the place to argue about the pros and cons of admitting autistic children as inpatients. The pea eating episode demonstrated to me the great value of inpatient observation. Many see separating the child from the family as cruel and yet I have seen many valuable changes in these children and their families that could not have been achieved by any other way.

 

Anthony

One day a referral came of a boy called Anthony Wordsworth.  He had just turned three.

“You will like Mrs Wordsworth.”  No reason was given. “Mr Wordsworth will probably not come to see you as he has a very important job in the City.  Anthony is such a handsome boy, a bit quiet, and I think you will like him too.”

The Wordsworths lived in one of these big houses and Mrs Wordsworth looked very young for a mother with two children, the older one being nine. I marvelled some years later how with all the hard work her two children put her through she still managed to look that young. The wonders of modern make-up together with smart dresses might have deceived.

Anthony was truly autistic. At that time one of my juniors had just returned to work with me after having her twins.  She sat through the first session.

She said to me afterwards, “I thought they do not make Kanner’s classics anymore.”  Anthony was a Kanner’s Classic.  Leo Kanner first described the classical autistic child in 1943 and there had not been a better description since.  Not many children have all the classical symptoms, but one finds the diagnosis of Autistic Spectrum Disorder (ASD) more and more common place[1].

I said, “Yes, even down to the good looks.”

I often wondered if our creator really has such a sense of humour or is everything just chance.     

One could not but feel sorry for the mother.  Later I found out that she came knowing that autism would be my diagnosis, and if I had come to anything different, I probably would have never seen her or Anthony again.

 She knew of the diagnosis from very tragic personal experience. Her own brother was diagnosed such in London by our very eminent Professor who was the world’s authority on autism.

In other words, she had lived, breathed and dreamed autism all her life and now her worst nightmare was realised. Her own child had turned out to be autistic like her own brother.

Perhaps her years of looking after her brother had prepared her for this day. Perhaps our creator made sure that for those who were going to have difficult children, they were made tough enough.      

Anthony’s older brother was smart and clever. She felt good then that perhaps genetics was not at play, and her worst fear was unfounded.

I was once consulted by a grandmother on a very tragic situation.  She had two daughters.  One was severely autistic, and the other was very intelligent and a high achiever. The latter became an academic, married and received the best genetic counselling from the same university where she was a professor. Minimal chance, she was told.  She went ahead and the first child was subsequently diagnosed as suffering from Retts Syndrome[2].  She was not really seeking any second opinion but wanted to know if Retts and Autism were the same.  This case reminded me of the old Yiddish saying “Men tracht un Got lacht” – If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

Anthony’s mother went on to tell me she was going to take matters into her own hands because she would not want her son to deteriorate like her own brother, who was thirty five and living in an institution.

“Mrs Wordsworth, I belong to that small group of doctors who believe that the brain is really capable of a good deal more. But we have to give it the right input.”

This principle has been applied to the treatment of autism over the last fifteen years and the results are really quite exciting. We do not pretend to know the cause or causes of autism but I have been with some great pioneer workers and I believe that the old thinking that things cannot change is not entirely true.

She started crying and Anthony came towards her.

Even with the best breeding there was only so much one could hold back.

It was a moving sight, more because Anthony moved towards mum. What a positive sign.

“I would like to arrange for Anthony to see the same Professor that saw your brother.  This is not because I do not trust my own diagnosis, but I think it may be what you would like but dare not request.  It would be good for our future work together if you do go and see him. 

“Before the appointment which could be a while, there is something you can start if you are not doing already. Do not stop talking to Anthony. Give him running commentaries on what you are doing even if it is about tidying the place, getting his dinner or doing his laundry.”

“Don’t wait for his response,” I emphasized.

Many new parents tend to parent by responding to cues given to them. There is nothing wrong with that. We talk to our kids when they talk to us and we leave them alone if they want to play on their own. Sometimes parents insist that quiet play is actually good for their children when they themselves want some peace and quiet.

With autistic children one may have to wait a very long time for those cues and they may never come.

“To be honest, I have been doing quite a bit of that, but I was not sure if it was right or wrong and I never dare tell anyone, not even my husband.”

It is always that much better to suggest something that a parent is already doing. First you are no longer instructing her and second you are more likely to succeed. She had been using her instinct and using it well.

She cried even more and told my secretary later that she was more moved because I seemed to know what she wanted and I saved her the embarrassment of having to ask me herself.  She was planning to pluck up courage to ask me for a referral to the Professor towards the end of the session.  It was not so much that she doubted my diagnosis but that she thought the Professor needed to know that there were now two cases in her family.

Mrs Wordsworth did get her appointment pretty quickly. No surprises. The diagnosis was confirmed.  The Professor thought some of my suggestions seemed interesting enough and Anthony would be best served attending the clinic locally.  He was grateful for the update on her brother’s family history.  He thought that Anthony’s major long term handicap would probably be his speech.

With the Professor’s blessing, we could now start.

We were aiming for very small changes but the feed would come from the parents and I wanted to get her husband involved if possible.

“I told him everything after our first meeting. It’s a good job you referred us to London. I think he will be upset for a while but he will come round.”

Denial is a useful if ineffectual defence, but now we needed to get results.

It was time to have something for show.

“Do you think Anthony will have a speech impediment or handicap in that area?”

 “You’ve heard the Professor but we are not going to stop doing things just because problem was predicted. The best doctors do not mind being proved wrong now and again.”

  Mother produced a video tape.  A recording of a 90-minute period of her at home with Anthony.

  “At this rate he will speak before three and a half, don’t you think?” I joked.

  “Like my brother you mean.”  She has already told me that her brother had a serious speech problem.

At three years and four months Anthony spoke. He did not just speak. He was in full sentences.

I said to mother, you have delivered.

Father came to see me the following session. I listened and picked out as many positive aspects as I could and encouraged him to just get on the floor and play with him. It was easy for me as I was already on the floor helping Anthony sort out a complex rail system that we had just acquired.

In our work, you sometimes just have to have fun.

One little boy once observed, “Do you live here, Dr Zhang? It must be fun, with so many toys to play with.”

We worked on entrenchment and we worked on expectation. We also ventured into something newer – putting challenges and obstacles through play into Anthony’s life.

Then we tried something even more daring – introducing imagination.

 

Steven

About eight months after first seeing Anthony I had another full blown autism case referred to me at a different clinic.

Steven was the younger of two brothers. His older brother had been a bit of a model child who never gave mother any trouble. Father was a pilot.  Mother used to fly but had now switched to ground work.  They had help at home.

Mother realised that there was trouble when she found that Steven was counting lamp posts or rather reading the numbers on lamp posts.  If for any reason she deviated from his normal route he would become very upset.  Speech was otherwise minimal but he could read numbers from an early age, too early for mother to remember when.  One day he was counting as he was piling up building blocks, one of these early learning ones with alphabets on them.  He counted beyond twenty.  But not much of anything else, no interest in colour, only numbers.

He liked lining up his brother’s Dinky cars. The main enjoyment was in the counting. One day the parents realised that it was the way the two brothers communicated and they felt his brother was responsible for helping him with the counting.

But then reading the numbers – do we have a genius or what?

The answer was we had a boy who suffered from autism.

I tried to be frank and open with the parents, but I was probably a bit too frank for them. Both parents admitted later to the initial shock but felt that because I put it so confidently they might as well accept it. They said it would have been worse if I had suggested some tests to stall the time only to give them the diagnosis a week or two later. Those two weeks of “is he, is he not?” would have been more damaging.

What helped them was my positive attitude towards the future and they could not wait to get started.

One of Steven’s problems was coping with change and mother often had to endure two to three hours of crying until he fell asleep from the exhaustion, only to have him wake up two hour later to resume the crying.

By then I had developed various strategies and tactics with which I could bring the parents on board. Steven’s parents were exceptional, and they tried to come to appointments together, changing appointments if they clash with his flight schedule.

We had been working hard on imaginary things – of fake cups of tea that was too hot or too sweet; of food that burnt the baby; and of the hurt when a child fell.  He was beginning to buy into a lot of that.

Coming to the clinic still posed some problems for Steven. He found it difficult that the doctor needed to see someone else.  I was certainly responsible for his reluctance to leave. We had such fun together.

One day both parents arrived with big grins on their face. They told my secretary Marjorie that I had to wait till the end of the session but they hoped it would work.

I could hardly wait.

“Steven, five minutes,” mother warned him as per usual practice.

 No response.

 “Two minutes.”

 No response.

 The suspense was killing me.

 “One minute.”

 Steven went over to his school bag. He took out something. I could not see what it was as it was imaginary. How stupid of me.

He put in two batteries. I could not see those either.

With his other hand, he drew a big squarish thing in front of him that would have included most of me and my background. He aimed his thing and pressed.

 “Swish-swosh-swish .”

 “Ready. Mummy and daddy.”

 Steven had turned the session into a TV episode. He was now in control with his remote control. I was basically switched off.

Two very proud parents walked off very swiftly with Steven in tow.

“See you next time Marjorie,” Steven waved to my secretary. She approved. No crying from Steven.

I was left standing there shell shocked.

They have done it!

 

Monday, September 28, 2020

Collection Tragedies Manic-Depressive Suicide

 


 

 

 

We found them! We found them! There was great excitement in the police car as the news broke through the radio.

“Are they all right?” Mr. Tanner shouted from the back of the police car.

“Just checking. They are not moving….. Yes there is a pulse. Yes, older girl too. … mmmm mother. Yes! They are all alive. We are getting them on the helicopter.”

The high drama occurred on a Sussex beauty spot that is riddled with legend and stories of ghosts and the devil.

Chanctonbury Ring  was a truly man-made landmark.  In 1760, a crown of beech trees were planted on top by a young man named Charles Goring, who lived to eighty five and saw his trees grow to maturity.

Unfortunately it is also a spot where legend has it that you can trade your soul with the devil.  Mr Tanner was a very successful businessman who ran a number of very successful stores in the south of England. I was called to see his eldest daughter Tara following a massive overdose of painkillers. She survived because she took Aspirin instead of Paracetamol. There was perhaps some advantage in not being streetwise, namely not knowing which drug to take.   Or perhaps she did not really want to die.  It was not easy to tell after the event, as there is always an emotional rebound after an act like that.  The lack of a suicide note was a positive indication and in truth, young people often want to draw attention to something going terribly wrong by attempting suicide.

I realised straight away that this was different to the kind of overdoses that we saw two or three times a week on the wards. She had not been involved in drugs, alcohol or boyfriends. She was not really worried about her exams. She was not at the top but within the top few percentages. No. She said it was not her exams that worried her.

But she would not tell me what her fears were.

The meeting with both parents did not throw any light on the situation.

It was one of those meetings where you found yourself not being able to get anywhere inside the family.  Everybody was well spoken, courteous and indeed unemotional.  Mother was extremely pleasant and told her daughter that she would take her and the rest of the family on a Caribbean cruise after the exams.  Tara was quite happy to stay on at the hospital despite mother’s request for her to be discharged.

After the meeting, one of the nurses whispered to me that she knew the mother as she had seen her before on the adult ward when she worked nights there.  Our nurses often worked nights or weekends in order to earn extra money.  She went on to tell me that she in fact tried to jump onto the rail track a little while back but was somehow stopped.  She also told me that the father was a very successful and wealthy man.  She wondered why Tara was not in a private hospital.

I arranged to see father.  In a one-to-one situation, he was a good deal more lucid and forthcoming.

Tara’s mother came from a wealthy family and her own father was extremely successful.  She was very pretty when he married her, although recently she had put on quite a bit of weight. She had a rather tragic family history.  Her grandmother was in and out of a private psychiatric hospital where she eventually hanged herself.  Her mother was diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder and killed herself by jumping onto a railway track.  He felt that neither had the best treatment from the private hospitals.

His wife’s first breakdown was shortly after the second daughter’s birth.  There was only a year’s difference between the girls.  She did get into a short funny phase after Tara’s birth but she became pregnant again and the pregnancy seemed to settle her.  He said it was not the blues but that she was more manic.  She spent a lot of money on redecorating the whole house, decided she did not like the results and started all over again.  Then she stopped sleeping at night. He realised that something was wrong and went to the doctor.  She was admitted but was well after she was put on Lithium.  She did well for quite a while and he thought his nightmares were at last over.  She decided she was well enough and decided to try for boys.  Unfortunately the next baby was still a girl, followed by another baby girl a year later.  She was very upset and stopped her medication.  Not long after that she vanished from home and was seen to be behaving strangely at the local railway station.  She had seldom used the trains and when questioned by the railway police could not give a good answer.  She was brought home and he took her to the hospital where she confessed that she was going to kill herself.  She was put on some new medication that had just come onto the market and that seemed to have worked well, except that made her put on a lot of weight.

They always had a nanny since the eldest was born and with the arrival of the younger girls they increased the staff to two nannies and a house-keeper.  He admitted he was wealthy but he did not want to use private healthcare because he felt his in-laws were badly treated.  He thought his wife had been well cared for in the last ten years or so.

I am a traditionalist who believes that Lithium is still the drug of choice for Manic-Depressive Disorder.  Tara’s mother was well for ten years.  She was taking only Lithium and no other medication.

Father was now extremely worried that Tara either had the same condition or was heading that way.  He said he would have no problem with any treatment that I cared to recommend. He also told me that both his older daughters had phenomenal mood swings at the best of times and if they wanted something done it had to be done “now”.  He always thought that they were perhaps a bit spoiled and did not think much of it.  They were both like their mother.  He said he only mentioned to his wife that perhaps they could take the family on a Caribbean cruise and the next day she booked the cruise.  Now he was wondering whether he might have to cancel it.

In the last three to four years it seemed to have become fashionable and even desirable for somebody to have Bipolar Disorder (Manic-Depressive Disorder).

There was a touch of glamour to Bipolar Disorder too, as so many historical figures and modern day celebrities had been diagnosed either contemporaneously or posthumously with Bipolar Disorder.  A “coming out” of sorts. Many parents now are no longer satisfied with ADHD. They want Bipolar. It is helpful to de-stigmatise mental illness, but not so helpful that so many want to “catch” it.          

These parents seem not to be aware that there is a serious downside to Bipolar Disorder: a very high mortality rate mainly from suicide.

Father however was right.  Based on family history and current presentation, there was little doubt in my mind that Tara also suffered from Bipolar Disorder.  Convincing the nursing staff was perhaps more difficult. Luckily the nurse that knew mother helped.  Otherwise Tara would just have been branded a very spoiled child – spoiled seventeen year old and why, with such privilege, should she want to take her own life?

I started her on Lithium and within four weeks she was quite a different person.  She had another four weeks before her first examination and we started trying her for some week-ends at home.

It was during one of these week-ends when mother asked Tara if she would go shopping with her.  Tara declined as she was busy with her studies.  Mother decided to take the younger two. For a long time father had not allowed mother to go out without one of the nannies.  Somehow they were busy with other things and Tara was not really aware of the rule.  Mother put the little ones in her new SUV.

When father came home, he threw a fit.  Mother had been gone for three hours and was not answering her mobile.  Tara told me that she realised later when mother said goodbye to her it was like a final farewell.  She felt a bit strange but because of her exams she did not think twice about it.

They called the police and the Helicopter was summoned. Thanks to modern technology they were able to narrow the car down through the mobile phone signal transmission.

Mother had strapped the girls up, driven them up Chanctonbury Ring, attached a hose from the exhaust and put it through a narrow opening of one of the windows and left the car running.  She left a suicide note saying she was a burden and caused Tara to be ill with her own Bipolar. Worst, she could not give her husband his heir.  She took some gin and fell asleep at the back with the girls, who had probably been given drinks that were laced with gin as well.

Thank goodness for catalytic converters and mobile phones – they did not come to much harm.

Unfortunately, mother had to be admitted compulsorily to a secure mental hospital and it was likely she would be there for a long time. The cruise had to be cancelled.

Tara’s younger sister then took an overdose and she too was treated as a Bipolar Disorder patient. Tara managed to get the grades to get to the university she want.

I saw mother once walking in the garden of the secure wing of the hospital.  She thanked me for all that I had done for her family.

What a tragedy.  What a family tragedy!