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Gasp
http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2016/10/how-shock-therapy-is-saving-some-children-with-autism/505448/
How ‘Shock Therapy’ Is Saving Some Children With Autism
Electroconvulsive therapy is far more beneficial—and banal—than its torturous reputation suggests.
Apoorva Mandavilli, 9:00 AM ET
For a boy who needs routine, this day is off to a bad start. It’s early, just before 8 a.m., and unseasonably warm for June. Kyle, 17, has been up since 6:20 a.m., which isn’t all that unusual. But already, enough has happened to throw him off balance. His mother has driven him to Johns Hopkins University, in Baltimore, as she does every week. But today she is wearing makeup and fancy clothes rather than her usual exercise gear. When they get to the hospital, the hallway is not empty as it usually is, and his mother walks away from him to talk to someone else.
Kyle starts to bounce on the balls of his feet. Just a small bounce at first, but higher and faster and louder as the minutes pass. He twirls the long shoelace of his toy, a tiny teal Converse sneaker speckled with white stars. When his mother comes back to check on him, he’s too agitated to even look at her. He walks away, turns his head and nips at the underside of his upper arm, then bounces some more, winding and unwinding the lace. He jiggles the handle of a door labeled “ECT Suite,” trying to get in, but it’s locked.
Finally, it’s time. Melinda Walker, the nurse he adores, comes out of the room and gives him a hug. After a brief conversation with him, she says softly, “Come on in, Kyle.”
And with that, Kyle’s routine is restored. He goes into the room holding Walker’s arm. Once the door shuts, he slips off his soft, gray shoes, as he always does, and hands his glasses to his mother. He lies down on the bed. Walker kneels by his feet, holding his hand. His mother stands behind his head, covers his eyes and whispers, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” over and over, as an anesthesiologist Kyle knows inserts an intravenous line into his right arm. Kyle’s left hand clutches his sneaker. Another nurse places an oxygen mask on his face.
Kyle, 17, used to hit, pinch, and bite himself hundreds of times a day.
(T.J. Kirkpatrick / Redux Pictures / Spectrum)
Once Kyle is under, his mother leaves the room. A psychiatry resident places electrodes on Kyle’s temples and a brown bite block in his mouth to protect his tongue. A nurse compresses a green bag, sending oxygen into Kyle’s lungs and pushing carbon dioxide out—essentially hyperventilating him to lower his seizure threshold. Then, Irving Reti, the chief psychiatrist in the room, presses an orange button on a small machine in the corner, sending an electric pulse of 800 milliamps at a frequency of 30 hertz into Kyle’s brain for eight seconds. A few seconds later, Kyle’s chin clenches, his lips quiver, and his index finger starts to vibrate. A minute in, the nurse suctions some fluids out of Kyle’s mouth. Exactly 107 seconds after it began, the seizure is over.
<>
How ‘Shock Therapy’ Is Saving Some Children With Autism
Electroconvulsive therapy is far more beneficial—and banal—than its torturous reputation suggests.
Apoorva Mandavilli, 9:00 AM ET
For a boy who needs routine, this day is off to a bad start. It’s early, just before 8 a.m., and unseasonably warm for June. Kyle, 17, has been up since 6:20 a.m., which isn’t all that unusual. But already, enough has happened to throw him off balance. His mother has driven him to Johns Hopkins University, in Baltimore, as she does every week. But today she is wearing makeup and fancy clothes rather than her usual exercise gear. When they get to the hospital, the hallway is not empty as it usually is, and his mother walks away from him to talk to someone else.
Kyle starts to bounce on the balls of his feet. Just a small bounce at first, but higher and faster and louder as the minutes pass. He twirls the long shoelace of his toy, a tiny teal Converse sneaker speckled with white stars. When his mother comes back to check on him, he’s too agitated to even look at her. He walks away, turns his head and nips at the underside of his upper arm, then bounces some more, winding and unwinding the lace. He jiggles the handle of a door labeled “ECT Suite,” trying to get in, but it’s locked.
Finally, it’s time. Melinda Walker, the nurse he adores, comes out of the room and gives him a hug. After a brief conversation with him, she says softly, “Come on in, Kyle.”
And with that, Kyle’s routine is restored. He goes into the room holding Walker’s arm. Once the door shuts, he slips off his soft, gray shoes, as he always does, and hands his glasses to his mother. He lies down on the bed. Walker kneels by his feet, holding his hand. His mother stands behind his head, covers his eyes and whispers, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” over and over, as an anesthesiologist Kyle knows inserts an intravenous line into his right arm. Kyle’s left hand clutches his sneaker. Another nurse places an oxygen mask on his face.
Kyle, 17, used to hit, pinch, and bite himself hundreds of times a day.
(T.J. Kirkpatrick / Redux Pictures / Spectrum)
Once Kyle is under, his mother leaves the room. A psychiatry resident places electrodes on Kyle’s temples and a brown bite block in his mouth to protect his tongue. A nurse compresses a green bag, sending oxygen into Kyle’s lungs and pushing carbon dioxide out—essentially hyperventilating him to lower his seizure threshold. Then, Irving Reti, the chief psychiatrist in the room, presses an orange button on a small machine in the corner, sending an electric pulse of 800 milliamps at a frequency of 30 hertz into Kyle’s brain for eight seconds. A few seconds later, Kyle’s chin clenches, his lips quiver, and his index finger starts to vibrate. A minute in, the nurse suctions some fluids out of Kyle’s mouth. Exactly 107 seconds after it began, the seizure is over.
<>
RELATED: http://www.ageofautism.com/2016/10/dr-joshua-gordon-appointed-iacc-chair-autism.html
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