Reaching Down the Rabbit Hole: Extraordinary Journeys into the Human Brain

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Gilbert, the medical student who had made the initial exam, recorded this as "orientation times one." I've rounded up the book from a very precise 2.75 to a 3 because it wasn't a bad read, just not a very good one. Stories about a neurologist in an acute hospital. Tales of people with complex and often mind-boggling presentations, like the man who drove for half a day in circles in his car. Your co-authors must send a completed Publishing Agreement Form to Neurology Staff (not necessary for the lead/corresponding author as the form below will suffice) before you upload your comment. Arwen Cleary had been a professional figure skater as a teenager, had retired from the Ice Capades upon its dissolution in 1995, had then raised three children, gotten divorced, and moved with her two younger children to a ranch house in Leominster, a distant suburb, where she worked part-time at a local health club. Her medical history was unremarkable: once a smoker, she had quit ten years earlier. Her travels had taken her no place more exotic than Bermuda and no more distant than Orlando. Her only hospitalizations to that point had been in maternity wards. She was remarkably fit and in seemingly good cardiovascular health, if judged only by her appearance and vital signs. But shortly after a visit to a chiropractor, she had suffered a vertebral artery dissection, a form of stroke.

This book never engaged me entirely. It was supposed to be anecdotal--stories about neurology. I found the stories too brief, but that was largely because the author never had a chance to follow up on long-term outcomes. Once he had solved the problem, the patient either died or went home. The phrase A and O times three means "awake, oriented to self, oriented to place, and oriented to time." Some people add a fourth: oriented to situation. The problem is that everybody is "oriented times one" unless they are hysterical or dead. Hannah was in charge. Her service, the culmination of three years as a neurological resident, had started a week before I came on board. A "service" involves running the neurology inpatient ward, admitting and discharging the patients, and directing a team consisting of three junior residents, two medical students, and a physician's assistant—a cohort that could barely squeeze into Vincent's curtained-off half of the room. It’s one of countless intriguing medical titbits that Ropper and Burrell stitch together in a series of what the subtitle accurately calls “extraordinary journeys into the human brain”. Reading this is like being a fly on the wall in a neurology ward. There are some real characters, and some real highs and lows. It’s in part an eye opening education and part like watching a car crash.

Apropos of nothing really, but this reminds me of British game shows. It is very alien to the British to applaud oneself or one's accomplishments, whereas Americans jump up and down and shout out how proud they are of themselves, this makes British people cringe. However, it makes much more exciting television, so the producers now have got the British to run around arms in the air shouting out and generally looking awkard and embarrassed. Everyone feels the same inside, it's just a difference in expression and probably the one people prefer is the one of the culture they were brought up in.

A moderately interesting story of the life of a neurologist, marred by the gigantic ego of the author. I'm sure you need a gigantic ego to do the job and there are plenty of stories where he gets stuff wrong (at first, before getting it right obv) but the overall impression is of being sat next to someone at a dinner party who starts off seeming an absolutely fascinating and enthralling raconteur and by the third course you're wondering who you ought to stab in the eye with a dessert fork: yourself or him. If you do nothing, you will be auto-enrolled in our premium digital monthly subscription plan and retain complete access for 65 € per month. But those friends that were able to look into the ugly face of ALS and not turn away came to realize that the essence of George had survived this calamity, and for that they have been blessed with the ongoing gift of his love, his humor, his friendship, and an inspiration for life that comes from being around him.”

At East Shore Hospital an MRI showed an ambiguous blotch on the left frontal lobe of Vincent's brain, and at the suggestion of one of his sons, a pediatrician, the family requested a transfer to us. He arrived sometime around 10:00 that morning and was brought up to the ward. may not get this yet. They are focused on diagnosis and treatment, on technology, on scales, titers, doses, ratios, elevations, and deficiencies. All well and good, I tell them, but don’t forget to listen.” Full Book Name: Reaching Down the Rabbit Hole: A Renowned Neurologist Explains the Mystery and Drama of Brain Disease All went well for two years, until she returned to the hospital with sudden right facial drooping and difficulty finding words, sure signs of another stroke, but this time a stroke of a very different kind. A portion of one of the language centers of her brain had been deprived of its blood supply. Her speech was now noticeably impaired. Within a few days, she showed signs of improvement, and was again discharged on a blood thinner.

We started him on acyclovir, an antiviral medication, and he soon improved. Five days later, Vince was discharged, talking normally again, and, for better or worse, just like his old self.

Allan Ropper's new memoir, Reaching Down the Rabbit Hole, has the hard-boiled style of a Raymond Chandler novel. Like a real-life Dr House, Ropper follows hunches and has sudden startling insights. * The Times * Time and again, characters with boilerplate descriptions – “Lucinda H is a Latina female in her late teens … with short-cropped and spiky hair” – announce themselves with bizarre symptoms that arrive, often without warning, in the most mundane situations. But where ultimately do these journeys lead? What lies at the other end of the rabbit hole except the uncomfortable knowledge that who we are and all that we hold certain is precariously contingent? Yes, good, good, fine," Vincent replied. He was sitting up in bed, watching television with a smile of bemused innocence. Vincent Talma was a picture of contentment. His room on the tenth floor of the hospital tower commanded an outstanding view of Fort Hill Park in Boston's Roxbury section, but Vincent took no notice. Along with twenty-nine of our other patients, he had been waiting for a visit from the neurology team on their morning speed rounds. What Burrell and Ropper produce is a portrait of an immensely talented neurologist and teacher who is always the smartest man in the room. Almost every anecdote ends with Ropper emerging the hero of the moment. It’s too carefully written to be crassly boastful, but it’s not exactly an essay in professional humility.