“The Fruitcake Factor”: Dr. Bell on the Neurologic Nature of ME/CFS

by Dr. David S Bell, MD, FAAP*

This ME/CFS patient case history is one of 10 that Dr. David Bell included in his book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, published in August, 2000. Each case illustrates a different aspect of the illness that he has studied in patients affected by the ‘Lyndonville Outbreak’ over the years. 

Reprinted with the kind permission of Prohealth: 3/2/11

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THE FRUITCAKE FACTOR

“Neurologic symptoms appear to me to be the most direct window into the heart of this illness; they both define and explain CFS.” – David S Bell

When I was a child, I lay in a field one sunny day, puzzling over something that was brand new. Staring at the sky, I noticed what seemed to be an object of unknown identity hovering in my left field of vision. When I turned my head in its direction, however, it seemed to slide away and disappear. I realized I could also see a similar strange shape in my right field of vision. If I directed my gaze ever so slightly away, it might remain still for a moment, delicately balanced, but it slid away, too, when I turned my head to focus on it. They were shy, transparent objects, and they were not really in the sky. I studied the problem for an hour or so, then I fell asleep.

During my medical training, I learned that these curious objects are called “floaters” by neurologists and eye specialists. They are white cells that have collected in the anterior chamber of the eye. Almost everyone will notice them from time to time.

I have decided that floaters are very like CFS since, whenever you try to look directly at them, they skitter off to the periphery and then disappear. If you pretend not to really look at them, they may hold still just long enough for you to get some sense of their shape and size. Certainly, the illness I study in Lyndonville is like that. The harder you look at a specific aspect of CFS, the more whole disease slides off to one periphery or another, hiding itself just beyond your line of sight.

Let me give you an example. Nearly 80% of people suffering from CFS will have joint pain at some point in their disease, and many will have it as a chronic symptom. Yet, this pain is by no means a true arthritis.

When these painful joints are subjected to X-rays, the image looks normal; there is no joint damage or deterioration. I am able to rule out rheumatoid arthritis, a more severe disease than the common osteoarthritis, in CFS patients, as well, because the blood tests used to diagnose rheumatoid arthritis are negative.

I have noticed that the typical rheumatologist seeing a CFS patient may end up – as I did once as a child studying curious objects in the sky – falling asleep before the patient even comes to the end of his symptom list. Whatever the root cause of CFS, joint pain is some distance away from it.

Still, there are a few symptoms a doctor notices in CFS sufferers that I believe are crucial to understanding the disease.

Amanda Lewis was nearly 40 when I first saw her, and she had been ill with CFS for years. She had all the typical symptoms: unending fatigue, joint and muscle aches, headaches, trouble concentrating.

As her years of illness wore on, she had learned ways to cope with these unpleasant sensations, but there were a whole category of symptoms, which came under the heading of “neurologic,” from which she rarely found relief or escape, nor could she hide them from others.

• Lights hurt her eyes, and certain high pitched noises caused her to experience pain just behind her ears.

• Sometimes her fingers hurt when she touched objects.

• Amanda also described a burning sensation in her arms, as if they were in flames, and occasional episodes of either numbness, or tingling, in her arms.

• On occasion, she would also experience tremors in her upper arms, which would shake and begin to rise involuntarily. If Amanda had lost consciousness at such times, one could say she was suffering a seizure, but these were not true seizures because she was fully conscious throughout the ordeal.

• Amanda discovered, too, that on occasion her arm and hand muscles were so weak objects like empty coffee cups would just slip out of her hand.

Most distressing to her, Amanda’s intellectual capabilities seemed to have been shattered.

Sometimes she got lost – in her house. When she cooked, she sat by the oven until her food was ready in order to make sure she remembered to turn off the burners. She was utterly helpless when it came to managing two simple tasks simultaneously; she simply lacked the ability to concentrate.

She felt her brain’s gears had gone rusty.

I was hardly the first doctor Amanda had consulted. Among those few doctors who took her complaints seriously, a few had suggested her intellectual difficulties were the natural result of aging, a worrisome suggestion, as she was young.

In addition, although all the symptoms she described to these doctors could be huddled together under the umbrella of neurologic disease, they had been unable to find evidence of muscle wasting or atrophy, nor had they been able to measure any abnormal degree of weakness, using standard neurological tests. (They did detect a slight tremor in her arms and hands, however.)

In addition, Amanda failed what’s known in medicine as the Romberg test, named after its inventor. When she stood in a relaxed stance with her arms outstretched, she wobbled and usually fell backward and to the right.

When Amanda came to see me and described these problems, I decided to test her reflexes.

Everyone who has ever had a physical exam remembers the doctor tapping a rubber hammer on their knee, and watching their lower leg jerk forward. That’s a normal reflex.

When doctors test reflexes, they are checking a “reflex arc,” a nerve circuit or pathway that travels from a tendon in the leg to the spinal cord and back to the leg muscles. Diseases that interfere with the nerves of the leg will suppress that reflex to kick your doctor in the groin.

I was startled when I tapped Amanda’s kneecap tendon. She didn’t kick me – her whole body shook.- In fact, she almost jumped off the table. I then tested her vibratory sense with a tuning fork, the ability of her leg nerves to detect vibration. Her reaction was more muted, but similar to the first response by being exaggerated. It seemed to me as if Amanda was very much like a set mousetrap that was ready to trip given the tiniest nudge. I think this was the first time I was worried about hurting someone by tapping a tendon with a rubber hammer.

• I sent Amanda to a specialist, a neurologist. His diagnosis: Huntington’s chorea, a fatal disease of the central nervous system. Amanda was hardly cheered by the news, and I was dubious because her tremor was unlike the jerking motions of “chorea.”

• I arranged for another neurologist to see her in an effort to get a second opinion. The second neurologist suggested that Amanda might have multiple sclerosis, but seemed unwilling to test his own hypothesis by conducting the standard diagnostic tests for the disease.

• A third neurologist insisted that all of Amanda’s symptoms could be ascribed to depression. He prescribed antidepressants.

When I asked him, in a telephone conversation afterward, about Amanda’s remarkable response to tendon tapping, he assured me that her response was phony. Nobody jumps off the table when you tap their reflexes, he noted with a degree of confidence I found chilling.

I realized he was telegraphing to me some basic information he believed I needed to know: Amanda was a fruitcake. Amanda’s exaggerated reflex response became “the fruitcake factor.”

Neurologic symptoms appear to me to be the most direct window into the heart of this illness; they both define and explain CFS.

The reluctance of neurologists to be interested in CFS mystifies me. Perhaps it is too difficult; perhaps it is because they prefer the classic symptoms of seizure, isolated headache, and the shaking of Parkinson’s disease.

CFS is a unique blend of numerous neurologic symptoms, none of which are well understood today.

• The fatigue (not tiredness) must be generated somewhere in the primitive midbrain;

• The sleep center is nearby and clearly does not work correctly.

• Cognitive problems, pain, and headache are clearly neurologic.

• Even the immune system problems of CFS may be neurologic as we know that brain injured patients display immune system abnormalities.

But right now it is too complicated. Physicians can be very interested and scientific when it regards any other organ of the body, but the thing that sits atop the shoulders remains the “black box” of medicine and is largely ignored.

I have no problem with not understanding the exact mechanism of the symptoms of CFS. I was never good in the two week neuroanatomy class in medical school. I do have a problem with the lack of respect given patients with poorly understood neurologic disease.

Science has created a false aura of mastery, and if there is an area where mastery does not apply, it is an area to be disregarded, ignored, and even ridiculed. And this injury by the medical profession and society hurt almost as much as the symptoms of CFS.

I routinely see patients with CFS who are disappointed when an MRI scan does not find a nice big brain tumor. At least that is real. Ultimately, the neurologic symptoms of CFS will gain a foothold in the thinking of neurologists and garner respect. The brain is the Rodney Dangerfield of medicine.

It was a colleague who first described to me a possible mechanism for the fruitcake factor in CFS. Paradoxically, this symptom is prominent in only a small minority CFS sufferers, always the most severely ill; it may even be the medical marker for the degree of severity.

When I look for it, however, I can see traces of it, or at least very subtle myoclonus, in up to half of all patients.

And here I will reveal my hunch: The fruitcake factor not only represents a fundamental process of the disease, it probably exists in every patient to some degree, however minor, and expresses itself as pain.

Amanda’s violent reaction to tendon tapping was a manifestation of what doctors call “myoclonus.” Neurologists define myoclonus as a sudden and generalized jerking contraction of the muscles. You may have noticed your sleeping partner in the early stages of sleep either jump or jerk, sometimes kicking you quite fiercely without once offering an admission of guilt or regret.

So called “sleep myoclonus” is sometimes violent enough to wake you just as you’re falling asleep. Sleep myoclonus is perfectly normal, but – with few exceptions – it is the only kind of myoclonus that is normal.

Sadly, although myoclonus is a markedly abnormal finding, it is also the ultimate humiliation for the patient with CFS. Although this finding may be one of the most important signs of neurologic disease during any clinical exam, doctors most typically dismiss it as “hysterical” when they are examining CFS sufferers. What they mean by this is that the patient is going for dramatic effect.

In my view, this is like calling an epileptic patient a drama queen when he has a seizure.

Epilepsy is not due to “evil humors,” as seventeenth century healers once decreed, and the fruitcake factor – myoclonus – is not hypochondria.

Of course, muscle tension can cause the tendon reflex to be increased, and anxiety certainly increases muscle tension. But an abnormal reflex due to mere muscle tension would never cause someone to jump off the examining table.

This response is due to the fact that the reflex travels up the spinal cord, not just the isolated arc back down the leg.

Anxiety could not possibly explain Amanda’s reaction. Some experts on the subject consider myoclonus to be a form of epilepsy, because it originates in the brain. But whether myoclonus is a seizure or not, in a sane world, the neurologists Amanda visited should have recognized her abnormal response to their sensory stimulation for what it was: a highly abnormal neurologic sign.

Amanda had seen three neurologists over a one month period. She has been told:

• That she will either die soon, maybe in a while,

• And that she was a fruitcake and will probably never die.

She is in a bit of a dilemma; and I, as her doctor, am also in a bit of a spot. As primary care physicians, we suggest specialty examinations to offer patients the “real doctors”, who will solve their problem, perhaps verifying an opinion to instill confidence. However, as a first line clinician, one who sees the patients who walk off the street, I am now in a bad spot. I admit to bafflement at this juncture.

My patient was diagnosed with Huntington’s chorea, but if the neurologist who announced that dramatic news had really believed his own diagnosis, he should have conducted additional tests to confirm the diagnosis, as well as offered genetic counseling, since the disease is passed from generation to generation within families.

My patient was then diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, but if the neurologist who rendered that diagnosis had really believed Amanda had MS, he should have offered to perform the standard tests that MS experts use to confirm the presence of the disease, and told Amanda about some of the new MS drugs on the market, which are considered most effective when prescribed early in the disease.

My patient was then diagnosed as an hysteric, but if that doctor really believed his diagnosis, he should have written me a collegial letter explaining his theory about Amanda’s myoclonus response.

I guess few self-respecting neurologists, especially if they thought she was seriously ill, would call Amanda’s disease by its absurdly trivial and unscientific name: ‘chronic fatigue syndrome’.

As it turns out, this name not only debases the patient who suffers from it, this name also seems to chip away at the self-esteem of the doctor, especially if he is a highly paid specialist with a reputation to protect. I suspect that’s why people suffering from CFS are showered with myriad vaguely outlined diagnoses, or no diagnosis at all, despite having prominent abnormalities during examinations and on a number of lab tests.

Very few medical schools teach young doctors about this illness, and as medical students move into specialty training, their opportunities to learn about CFS from senior doctors who have actually studied the disease become even more rare. Publishing scientific papers about CFS has become so difficult in the last decade, a group of researchers decided in 1995 to establish a journal specifically for the disease, one that would afford clinicians and scientists a forum in which to report on developments in the field. [The Journal of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, now discontinued, but succeeded by the Bulletin of the IACFS/ME.]

I sat down with Amanda in my office soon after the third specialist rendered his opinion. We had been offered a less than appealing choice by these men, all of whom were well respected: Either Amanda was going to die, or she was a great actress.

I suggested to Amanda that rather than arbitrarily choosing one of these diagnoses out of a hat, or choosing the one we liked best, that we throw them all out.

• I told her that her central nervous system symptoms were part of a disease that none of these highly regarded specialists really knew anything about.

• I told her she had CFS.

Over the next few years, that diagnosis has proven correct. Her symptoms abated somewhat except for a marked worsening when we tried a mild stimulant drug because of the fatigue. At that time the myoclonus became worse, but, fortunately quieted down when the drug was stopped.

She has not gone on to develop Huntington’s chorea nor has she developed the typical findings of MS. The symptoms persist; she has good years and bad years. So that means that she has either CFS or is a consistent fruitcake.

How do you go about diagnosing someone as a fruitcake; what, exactly, are the diagnostic markers?

Actually, while I know that many of my colleagues consider my patients fruitcakes, I am not really sure what a fruitcake is, exactly. It is a sweet pastry filled with nuts. Neurosis was defined by Carl Sandberg as the denial of legitimate suffering, and therefore most of my patients are surely neurotic as hell. But fruitcakes?

It turns out there is a diagnostic test for the diagnosis of fruitcake: time.

I have now known Amanda for several years. I have seen her during crises and during relatively good times, and the symptoms and signs persist. I have shared her sadness and anger – normal, healthy emotions that anyone should have. And as time passed I have come to admire her courage to get by despite the illness and the society’s contempt. And I respect her wishes not to be referred for further neurologic opinions.

– Dr. David S Bell, MD, Lyndonville, New York, August 15, 2000
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This article is excerpted with kind permission from Dr. Bell’s classic book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome; © David S Bell, MD, 2000,

“Maggie’s Panic”: When Fibromyalgia & ME/CFS Symptoms Gang Up

Reprinted with the kind permission of ProHealth: April 13, 2011

This case history of a patient with CFS and fibromyalgia, plus panic attacks fueled by the autonomic dysfunction that is common with both, is excerpted from Dr. Bell’s book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,* published in August, 2000. “Maggie’s Panic” illustrates one aspect of the illness he has studied in patients affected by the ‘Lyndonville Outbreak’ over the years.

MAGGIE’S PANIC

I do not think a hidden neurosis or other psychiatric condition was lurking in Maggie’s subconscious. Her panic was organic in nature; it came on as a result of physiologic, not psychiatric, factors.

Maggie came into my office about two years ago. By then, she had been ill with chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS) for ten years. She was fairly classic for the disease: joint and muscle pain; night sweats; a headache that would not end; severe fatigue. Despite the latter, she could barely sleep at night.

Naturally, the doctors she had seen in the past were unable to explain the strange combination of symptoms that seemed to possess her like some demon from a haunted past. Maggie, in fact, had been to so many doctors, including two psychiatrists, that she had lost count.

Doctors grow suspicious when patients tell them they already have seen several doctors for the same problems; they assume such patients are looking for a medical opinion they like, as opposed to a medical diagnosis. This is called, in the trade, “doctor shopping.” Maggie knew she had been typecast as a shopper, but she was searching for a diagnosis that made sense.

The symptoms that distressed Maggie the most had to do with her heart.

If she took a walk, she developed chest pain and become short of breath. Once, she told me, after taking a very long walk, she had seen a doctor the next day. She looked ragged, as if she run a marathon and come in last. Her resting pulse was too fast – 110 beats per minute. She told the doctor that she was afraid she was having a heart attack, but the doctor surprised her with a diagnosis of panic attack, instead. Panic disorder has long been viewed as a bona fide condition in which the patient experiences panic at inappropriate times.

Chest pain and shortness of breath were just part of Maggie’s ‘heart’ symptoms, however.

• She often had episodes when her heart would race. Her heartbeat wasn’t merely rapid, it felt as if her heart was flopping around in her chest, as if she had drunk a gallon of coffee, but she had given up caffeine years ago.

• Her face would flush and her palms would sweat.

• Her lips would quiver, her hands would tremble, and one of her eyelids would twitch.

Most doctors, if not all, would diagnose what I have just described as panic disorder.

But Maggie also suffered from a constellation of symptoms that were diametrically opposed; in fact, they were remarkably akin to the state of being comatose.

• She was exhausted to the point of being unable to walk. She showered seated on a lawn chair because she could not stand, for instance; she slept on the couch in her living room because she was unable, at times, to climb the stairs to her bedroom.

• Another coma-like symptom had to do with the way her intellect was dulled. While driving, she sometimes couldn’t remember whether green meant stop or go. Nor could she recall the names of members of her family, or remember a seven digit telephone number – even if it happened to be her own. She found the dialogue on afternoon soap operas incredibly confusing, like a foreign language. Everyone spoke so fast!

• Her body felt leaden, and curiously toxic; she felt a certain kinship with Chernobyl’s radiation sickness victims.

• Her bowels couldn’t decide between coma or panic; they alternated between constipation and diarrhea.

In truth, her entire body couldn’t decide whether it was in a panic or a coma.

At night, when she awoke drenched in sweat, her heart pounding, it was as if panic was awakening her from her coma. There seemed to be no middle ground. Her doctors told her all these symptoms were ‘due to stress.’ To one such doctor, Maggie commented that, aside from the fact that she had lost her job and her husband, that she was bankrupt, and that she was often too weak to climb the stairs of her house, she really had no stress at all.

Our bodies respond to stressful events with the release of adrenaline from the adrenal glands. Adrenaline activates the body’s primal “fight or flight” response. It is a natural stimulant, resulting in a sudden rush of energy to deal with the crisis at hand. Panic is appropriate in times of danger, and adrenaline will give someone the strength to run, if that’s the best choice, or fight. A cave man confronted by a saber tooth tiger might choose to run; the student faced with final exams might choose to knuckle down and study.

Of course, after the adrenaline rush, we are left exhausted and weak, but the crisis is over and with a little rest we are good as new. This, in fact, is the key difference between panic disorder and CFS. Patients who have panic disorder may have relatively normal activity and energy when there is no panic. CFS patients never achieve a normal level of activity, no matter how much they rest or what measures they take to relieve stress. Take a person with CFS and put them on a sunny beach for a day, and their fatigue will not go away, nor will their panic-like symptoms.

Doctors and researchers have long experienced difficulty differentiating CFS [or the dysregulated autonomics of fibromyalgia (1,2,3)] from simple anxiety.

It is true that many persons with CFS experience anxiety. But because CFS patients tend not to have obvious, diagnosable psychiatric illnesses, I suspect that when panic occurs in CFS patients, the cause is physiological, not psychiatric. Whatever else this disease does to the human brain, it includes agitation in its repertoire.

That first time I evaluated Maggie, I realized her medical history was consistent with both CFS and panic disorder, however. In fact, if I were to follow the strict guidelines that the government has laid down regarding CFS, I would not diagnose Maggie with CFS. That’s because research criteria in use today are designed to create a homogeneous population of CFS patients for research purposes.

From clinical experience, however, Maggie’s tender lymph nodes, sore throat, endless headache, and intellectual difficulties were not consistent with a diagnosis of panic disorder. From a clinical point of view the most accurate diagnosis I could render for Maggie was both panic disorder and CFS.

Maggie didn’t really care about the label; she wanted to get at the basis of her symptoms.

Together, we decided to try some of the newer tests for CFS, tests involving the autonomic nervous system. In particular, we would look at the blood vessels and the heart’s ability to pump blood throughout the body. By the time I met Maggie, I had already learned that many CFS patients had low levels of circulating blood in their bodies, an abnormality sometimes accompanied by pulse and blood pressure changes when standing.

The medical term used for this is “orthostatic intolerance,” meaning, simply enough, a worsening of symptoms when in the upright position.

In many medical illnesses, the patient will feel ill regardless of whether he or she is lying down or standing up. With CFS, patients will say, “I feel so exhausted I have to lie down.” For 15 years, nearly every patient with CFS has said this sentence, and I, as well as most other doctors, have misinterpreted it. No wonder this illness is so poorly understood. People should not be tired from standing up for 15 minutes.

We have concentrated on the word “exhausted,” but the key words are, in fact, “lie down.”

The terms “fatigue” or “exhausted” don’t even really describe the unpleasant sensation experienced. “Collapse” is more accurate. What the patient with CFS is really saying is “If I don’t lie down, I am going to collapse.” Medically, the appropriate term is “pre-syncopal,” meaning the state which occurs prior to fainting.

Maggie agreed to allow me to test her orthostatic tolerance, her ability to function during quiet standing.

During a physical exam, she had two abnormalities:

• Fibromyalgia tender points in her muscles

• And difficulty maintaining her balance standing with her eyes closed, a common finding in patients with CFS.

The practical expression of this finding is that patients with CFS are frequently unable to stand for periods in a hot shower. The heat of the water in the shower makes standing more difficult than normal, and often patients will have to go to bed after a simple shower. Sometimes, persons with CFS will put a chair in the shower even though they may be able to walk around the kitchen for ten minutes. A curious, but important detail that Maggie related, implying that heat somehow worsened the process.

The first test we did was very simple, a test of concentration done on two different days, once while standing for 15 minutes and once after lying down for the same length of time.

One of the most prominent symptoms of CFS is the cognitive impairment. Patients will have difficulty with confusion, short term memory, doing simple calculations, and remembering names or telephone numbers. Sometimes this is so severe that concern is raised about dementia or senility. The hardest thing for a patient with CFS is “double tasking.”

My son has amazing powers of concentration. He can be in his room doing his homework, listening to rock-and-roll music while the TV, without sound, shows a football game. I made many vain attempts to inform him that it is not possible to do his homework that way, but his grades were good, and studying this way seemed to do little harm. He was able to “multiple task,” just like I do when I talk on the car phone, drive, and find a quarter for the toll booth, all at the same time. For my son, he probably used 80% of his brain studying, 19% enjoying the music, and 1% watching the football game. Most shows on TV, the sitcoms, can be enjoyed with even less dedicated brain function.

Double tasking is one of the first things to go in CFS.

The test we gave to Maggie was the coding test of  the WISC, a standard intelligence test. In this test, a series of simple codes are made for numbers between 0 and 9, the code printed at the top of the page. The test involves finding, or remembering, the codes for a list of numbers, and scoring is done by adding up the correct coding accomplished in two minutes. It is an annoying little test.

After lying down, Maggie did the test, getting 55 right in two minutes, a normal amount. A week later we repeated the test after standing, and she was able to get only 40 correct, a 20% drop. We have been testing this with healthy persons, and found that, in general, they do as well standing as after lying down.

Maggie’s cognitive problems are related to the position she is in before the test. When horizontal, she does well; after standing, she is dull as a melon. This correlates to another curious detail often found in the history taking of someone with CFS – they read lying down. Most healthy persons prefer to read sitting up.

We measured Maggie’s circulating blood volume at a nearby hospital, and like 80% of our CFS patients, she was low, or as she would later say, “down a quart.”

This finding seems to mesh with the difficulty standing; gravity makes it difficult for blood to get up to the brain, and if the circulating blood volume is low, it should affect brain blood flow. And the mechanism of CFS may be that simple: decreased blood flow to the brain. We don’t know if animals can get CFS, but if they do, giraffes would be in big trouble.

The next test was the most exciting for me, the most unpleasant for Maggie. We call it “orthostatic testing” and it can be done in any doctors office.

It is a simple test, perfected by Dr. David Streeten (4), and described in Andrea Thompson’s case. The patient lies down for 10 minutes during which the pulse and blood pressure are taken. Then during a half hour of quiet standing the pulse and blood pressure are measures every five minutes along with observations of what the patient is experiencing.

Maggie’s blood pressure and pulse were normal while lying down, and she was feeling relatively well – it was a good day for her. We measured the amount of adrenaline in her blood while lying down and it came back at 350, a normal level. The first ten minutes standing were not bad for Maggie, although she started feeling tired. Then she described pain in her legs, lightheadedness, and spiraling fatigue. Her palms were sweaty, and I saw her grow visibly pale. Most significantly of all, she became agitated, and, eventually, she became panicked.

The pulse and blood pressure measurements began to change. When Maggie said she could no longer stand, we terminated the test, I did not want her to pass out on the floor. Her pulse had risen to 140 beats per minute, 80 more than when she had started, and her blood pressure had skyrocketed, almost to levels that could cause a stroke.

As soon as Maggie lay down, we drew a second blood sample to measure her adrenaline again. I also gave her an infusion of saline water. Normally, saline is the last thing you want to give someone with high blood pressure, but I already knew Maggie had abnormally low circulating blood volume.

The elevation of her blood pressure had to be due to a constriction of the blood vessels, a compensation mechanism that would help circulate the blood to her brain. The fast pulse reflected the same problem: Her autonomic nervous system was trying to make her heart beat faster in order to circulate blood.

While standing, Maggie began to fall apart because her brain was deprived of blood.

A healthy person has several compensatory mechanisms that automatically keep blood flowing to the brain indefinitely. Maggie might look healthy to a casual observer, and the private disability company she had paid into for many years prior to becoming ill said that she was just fine.

But imagine Maggie trying to work an eight hour day when she had such dramatic changes in pulse and blood pressure after just 20 minutes standing. I would definitely not want her to be my bank teller trying to make change after standing for two hours.

Maggie’s compensatory mechanisms were impaired. All but one, that is: adrenaline production.

The body produces adrenaline to compensate for impaired blood flow to the brain. In fact, it is one of the body’s most effective ways of improving circulation, which is why it is called the “fight or flight” mechanism.

Perhaps the most significant finding we made that day had to do with Maggie’s adrenaline. Her adrenaline level had risen to 1450, way above normal, when she had been forced to stand for 20 minutes. Maggie’s body was pumping out adrenaline like mad just to compensate for the crisis of quiet standing.

Adrenaline has one drawback: It causes anxiety.

I believe now that Maggie’s panic was simply due to elevation of her adrenaline levels in an attempt to compensate for impaired blood flow to the brain. I do not think a hidden neurosis or other psychiatric condition was lurking in her subconscious. Her panic was organic in nature; it came on as a result of physiologic, not psychiatric, factors. Panic is appropriate during a crisis, but not during quiet standing.

The surge of adrenaline has several drawbacks. First, it doesn’t work very well. If it had, Maggie would feel wonderful, like the burst of energy after having a cup of coffee in the morning after a good night’s rest. It may be that the adrenaline keeps her up longer, but the price is fatigue. A healthy person will notice that after a crisis, a near car accident for example, the surge of adrenaline is followed by profound exhaustion. Chronic stress will leave a person drained and tired, but recovery occurs quickly once the stress is removed and good rest is supplied.

Maggie’s fatigue is due to a combination of decreased blood flow to the brain and the surge of adrenaline her body produces to attempt to remedy the problem.

Suddenly, there were several medical diagnoses I could give Maggie.

Technically speaking, she had chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia pain and tender points, idiopathic hypovolemia (decreased blood volume), postural orthostatic tachycardia, orthostatic narrowing of the pulse pressure, orthostatic diastolic hypertension, and hyperadrenergic orthostatic intolerance.

Maggie was not displeased; literally overnight, she had gone from being a hypochondriac to having seven medical diagnoses.

Research into blood volume and brain blood flow is in its infancy. Nevertheless, while we are still in the dark as to what initiates these problems, breaking CFS down into its many parts may allow us to develop specific diagnostic tests for the disease.

Moreover, Maggie’s testing results inspire theoretical treatment options. If we could somehow increase blood flow to the brain and deliver more oxygen to brain tissue, the symptoms of impending collapse should improve. The need for the adrenaline surge would be removed, so the postadrenaline exhaustion would also disappear. In concept, that is.

The co-existence in CFS patients of simultaneous coma and panic symptoms is no longer paradoxical.

Doctors and researchers who assume panic disorder is caused by psychiatric problems exclusively have been looking at the phenomenon in an overly simplistic way. The same chemical mediators that are present in emotionally stressful situations are also the same chemical mediators that help circulate the blood. A test would be to find a way to improve the blood circulation in the brain.

We started with a drug to expand her blood volume, and Maggie’s response to treatment made me so excited that my socks started rolling up and down all by themselves.

Peter Rowe and his colleagues at Johns Hopkins made an important discovery in 1996 after discovering that patients with CFS would faint when tilted upright on a tilt table. They treated their patients with a drug called fludrocortisone (Florinef™), which works by increasing salt and water retention by the body, thus raising blood volume.

I had tried Florinef in many of my patients, and it improved their symptoms about one-third to one-half the time. In my experience, adolescents and those with milder illness responded best to this treatment. The drug helped Maggie: her rapid pulse slowed down, her sleep improved, and she felt slightly more energy. Her panic nearly disappeared.

The concept that a presumably psychiatric symptom – panic – would be helped by a drug which increases circulating blood volume is hard to believe. But it happened to Maggie. Her panic was clearly caused by CFS and its concomitant blood volume deficits, not the other way around. I was encouraged by these changes, but my socks had not yet started rolling, the surprise was yet to come.

Maggie and I talked almost every day during this trial, and we decided to push the therapy a little further by adding salt tablets, hopefully to augment the response.

Two days after adding salt tablets, Maggie returned to “normal.”

At first, I didn’t know what Maggie meant by “normal.” Did she feel a bit better? No, she was reporting complete recovery, normal for the first time in ten years. It was as sudden as a switch being thrown; she described her transformation as “awakening from a dream.” Her thinking was crystal clear. She walked for two miles that first day, smelling the flowers of spring. The whole feeling of illness, the malaise, was gone.

Unfortunately, her recovery was brief. Thirty-six hours later, she began slipping back to her former state, minus the panic, and she has remained in that particular jail cell since then.

We have tried 20 different treatments, raising and lowering doses of this and that, but she has not regained her freedom. In retrospect, the memory of 36 hours of freedom remains a cruel reminder of how nice it feels to be healthy.

The importance of Maggie’s experience to me is a confirmation of a long held belief that CFS is a reversible state, even after ten years.

Not just treatable by reducing some of the symptoms, but reversible. Her return to health was short lived, but it occurred. If she had permanent damage to her brain, I do not think the 36 hours would have been possible.

What is so frustrating is the fact that this state could not be maintained, even though we tried treatments that pushed so much blood into her brain that her skull was ready to explode. Maggie has been a good sport about all of this. Each treatment attempt was discussed in detail and she was eager to take the steps.

While disappointed that we have not been successfuI I see the problem a little differently now. By expanding blood volume it is possible to make some improvements, but not all the time. Even with Maggie’s dramatic 36 hours, the response cannot be maintained even if the blood volume is returned to normal or even elevated levels.

The problem must be in the blood vessels themselves. They must be constricted so tight in the brain that little blood gets through. Perhaps it is one of the hormones that constricts blood vessels. Perhaps an infection of the blood vessels. Perhaps it is an excessive sensitivity of the blood vessels to adrenaline.

Hopefully, this story will soon have a new and more encouraging ending. CFS is a devastating physiologic process that undermines the body’s energy and the brain’s cognitive ability, but I believe that full recovery will someday be possible.

We await the next step, the step that will make Maggie’s precious 36 hours stretch into days, months and years. There is so much to study in this illness, and so much to be gained. Science needs to recognize the importance of CFS, embrace its difficult paradoxes, and get to work.

• CFS is not an isolated, rare illness nor is it an illness behavior for lazy people.

• The consequences of this illness weigh heavily on not only the victim, but also on family, community and society.

• Its tentacles seem to reach across boundaries, blurring the lines between other neurological and immunological disorders.

CFS, and the patients who suffer from it, have a great deal to teach those of us who have made medicine our life. Once researchers unravel the physiologic mechanisms of this illness, the discoveries will help unravel basic mechanisms of unnumbered other diseases.

– Dr. David S Bell, MD, Lyndonville, New York, August 15, 2000

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* This article is excerpted with kind permission from Dr. Bell’s classic book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome; © David S Bell, MD, 2000.

“Arnie’s Story”: A Child’s CFS, Misdiagnosed as Munchausen’s by Proxy

This ME/CFS patient case history is excerpted from Dr. Bell’s book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, published in August, 2000. Each case illustrates a different aspect of the illness that he has studied since the ‘Lyndonville Outbreak’ of 1985-1987. 

Reprinted with the kind permission of ProHealth: 4/27/11

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ARNIE’S STORY

A chronic disease robs children of many things, but it should never destroy the life-affirming refuge children find in their home, as it did with a boy named Arnie… because everything about Arnie was typical of CFS – a disease his doctor did not believe existed.

Karl Friedrich Hieronymus Baron von Munchausen was a German “soldier, adventurer, and a teller of tales,” according to one description, who lived from 1720 to 1797. His fantastic lies about his daring and conquests were so notorious that their memory survives to this day as German lore.

Medical science has borrowed from this ancient character’s name to categorize the patient who engages in equivalently tall tales, all having to do with physical illness. When a parent or caretaker makes up bizarre tales concerning the health of their child, doctors call it Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy.

Sometimes the parent intentionally harms their child, by poisoning for example, to create the symptoms. Experts suggest the parent is motivated by a need for attention, and get it they eventually do, one way or another.

Although it was the Baron who proved himself capable of such outrageous falsehoods, women are more vulnerable than men to being suspected as having Munchausen’s syndrome. And women are suspected of Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy when doctors are unable to find a simple answer to a child’s ills.

This is because women typically take the dominant role in helping children through the maze of doctor’s visits, hospitalizations, and treatments when children fall chronically ill.

Every year, parents in this country and abroad face court hearings before judges and juries in which they are subsequently found guilty or innocent of intentionally harming their child due to Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy.

Depending on the circumstances, the prosecutor, representing the state, may add fraud to the charges. Usually, the mother’s psychological competence becomes an issue of enormous significance in such a trial. If a child has been judged to have Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy by a psychiatrist serving as the state’s expert witness, the mother may face the removal of her child from her household, usually into foster care, as well as criminal charges.

The notion of a mother deliberately hurting her child is difficult for most of us to comprehend. Nevertheless, for some years now, Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy has been accepted by the medical profession as bona fide, if somewhat baffling. And there is no question that it occurs. Hidden videotapes in hospital rooms show parents either injuring their children, or doing things that make it appear that a child is ill. What a world….

But, because this does occur, physicians have grown suspicious, particularly when confused by symptoms in the patient they treat.

With this in mind, imagine what might happen when a mother whose child suffers from an extremely complex, misunderstood – even overlooked – chronic disease, becomes an outspoken advocate for that child, struggling to explain her son’s illness to unsympathetic doctors and suspicious school officials.

Imagine the situation from the perspective of the sick child, who can barely articulate to his friends, much less to an attorney or a psychiatrist, what ails him. Imagine how, over time, these quiet struggles can escalate, thrusting mother and child into a firestorm of accusations by authorities of all stripes, as they attempt to salvage their dignity and even their right to remain a family.

A chronic disease robs children of many things, but it should never destroy the life-affirming refuge children find in their home, as it did with a boy named Arnie.

Arnie was ten when he experienced the onset of CFS, but for much of his brief life he had suffered a seemingly endless succession of colds, allergies, sore throats, stomach aches, and headaches.

The doctors his parents took him to see somehow failed to notice a pattern of minor infections that, in retrospect, strongly suggested Arnie may have had a medical problem for some time before the symptoms suddenly escalated.

Instead it was attributed to an over-anxious parent worried about trivial illnesses. In July, 1990, Arnie’s heightened level of exhaustion, hitting him hard after an intestinal flu, heralded the onset of full-blown CFS.

By the time school began that September, Arnie was too weak to stand and was confined to bed. His mother took him to see a pediatrician numerous times, but the doctor was unable to explain Arnie’s profound fatigue.

Months passed, a period during which Arnie failed to receive either a diagnosis, or an education. By law, school systems are required to provide home tutoring to students who are too sick to come to school, but school systems also require that the child carry a diagnosis before they hire a private tutor using state dollars. Arnie had no diagnosis.

The school year ended, and another began.

Arnie was still house-bound because of the exhaustion. In every respect, he was absolutely typical of a child with CFS.

• He suffered from sore throats, headaches, sensitivity to light and blurred vision, pain in his muscles, joints, and lymph nodes.

• His ability to learn was diminished because of difficulties with memory and attention.

• He could not remember what he had read.

• His attempts to exert himself physically uniformly resulted in relapse, or worsening of his fatigue.

Eventually, doctors ruled out thyroid disease, lupus, multiple sclerosis, rheumatoid arthritis, HIV disease and hepatitis.

Some of these doctors did find immune abnormalities that suggested that Arnie was suffering from an on-going viral infection.

But the doctors believed that the abnormalities failed to fit a pattern associated with any particular disease – at least, any disease with which they happened to be familiar.

• Neurological tests revealed that Arnie suffered from vertigo and lacked the kind of fine motor control in his hands that might be expected of a boy his age.

• Other tests of intellectual capability demonstrated that Arnie’s short term memory and concentration skills were impaired.

All in all, everything about Arnie – his long history of illness, his physical exam, his laboratory tests – were typical of CFS, a disease his doctor did not believe existed.

It was just eight months after Arnie had become severely ill, however, that his parents began arguing about whether or not he was really sick.

Arnie’s father sided with the child’s pediatrician and other specialists, who had suggested that there was nothing medically wrong with the boy. Arnie’s father was particularly tired of paying for medical exams that failed to provide definitive answers. He believed his son needed psychiatric care.

Arnie’s mother felt differently. She did not believe the doctors. Instead, she began to explore unconventional treatments for her son, embracing, for a time, the “fringe” medicine offered by “ecologists,” naturopaths, and acupuncturists, each of whom seemed confident they understood Arnie’s problems, yet each of whom had a different explanation for them.

Arnie’s father thought these alternative healers were a bunch of loonies.

In time, the boy found himself at the hub of an escalating battle between his parents.

Large conflicts and petty complaints that had smoldered for years between the two adults erupted in a war centered on their son. Naturally, the boy tried hard to feel better in order to bring an end to the war. When his illness continued, in spite of his best efforts, he became withdrawn. And when Arnie’s father moved out of the house, Arnie assumed he had caused the break up.

A child sees the world from a simplistic, egocentric point of view. By the age of ten, children are better able to assess the relationship between cause and effect than they were at five, but the tendency to believe in a magical connection between one’s own actions and unrelated events has yet to vanish entirely at Arnie’s age.

Arnie’s parents made a mistake, too. They were unable to separate their private conflicts from their son’s illness, leaving him caught in the crossfire. What followed was probably inevitable: a kind of chain reaction in which a sick child became a battleground, fought over not only by his parents, but by the local school system, and, eventually, the state of New York.

As far as Arnie’s pediatrician and his teachers were concerned, the issues were clear.

Arnie seemed to be incapacitated with a slew of mysterious symptoms, just as his parents were in the process of divorce. These authorities believed Arnie was suffering a kind of psychiatric meltdown because of his parents’ acrimony.

According to the law of the land, if parents are causing a child’s illness – whether psychiatric or medical – then the parents are guilty of child abuse. In such cases, the law decrees that the appropriate social institutions intervene on behalf of the child, even removing the child from the destructive environment if necessary. In Arnie’s case, the vultures were beginning to swarm.

The principal of his school made several visits to the boy’s house during the first year he was absent, acutely aware that neither his parents nor his doctors had been able to offer the school a diagnosis. Each time she visited, Arnie was in the living room, seated, and watching television. He did not look sick to her.

The principal assigned a truant officer to the case.

The officer saw Arnie in his back yard one spring day, resting in a lawn chair, sipping lemonade. Finally, the school filed a truancy petition with the local court in order to force Arnie to return to classes. In addition, the local social services department launched an investigation of Arnie’s parents to determine if they were guilty of child abuse.

At the court hearing on the matter of truancy, the judge listened to the attorney representing the school argue that Arnie had been absent without good cause.

Arnie’s mother, representing herself, told the judge about her son’s medical condition. She called it chronic fatigue syndrome. She also described the holistic-style therapy of vitamins and herbs and acupuncture she had embarked upon to cure her son.

In turn, the impassive judge inquired about the impending divorce, as well as the custody hearing. Arnie’s parents had begun arguing about which one of them would raise their son after the divorce.

Not surprisingly, the judge, who knew of CFS only as the rather flaky sounding “yuppie flu,” concluded the hearing by ordering a psychiatric evaluation of Arnie. He also ordered Arnie to return to school.

The next day, two things happened, both of which ended in disaster: Arnie went to school, and his mother hired an expensive attorney.

At school, Arnie found to his dismay that his old friends greeted him with poorly concealed contempt. They had heard the rumors: Arnie was faking it. On the second day, the gym teacher decided that Arnie could benefit from exercise; the teacher believed exercise would shake the boy out of his long “slump.”

On the morning of the third day of this new regime, Arnie discovered he was once again too weak to get out of bed.

In the meantime, the lawyer hired by his mother had obtained Arnie’s medical records and had read them closely, paying special attention to the variety of opinions from specialists suggesting Arnie’s problem was psychosomatic.

The attorney made a unilateral decision: Assuming the doctors were correct that family turmoil had caused Arnie’s psychiatric problem, she decided to put her energy into helping Arnie’s parents obtain their divorce.

At the court-ordered psychiatric evaluation, the doctor began by interviewing Arnie and his mother together. Arnie was dizzy, exhausted, and found it difficult to concentrate on the psychiatrist’s questions. His mother recognized her son’s distress, and consequently did most of the talking in order to help conserve his limited energy. Afterward, the psychiatrist asked to talk to Arnie without his mother present.

The exhausted child was slumped in his chair. It was flagrantly apparent to Arnie that the psychiatrist had believed very little his mother said, and, after her departure from the room, he became even more withdrawn, even hostile. He responded to the doctor’s queries in monosyllables. Finally, the psychiatrist talked to Arnie’s mother privately.

The woman tried to “explain” chronic fatigue syndrome to the psychiatrist, who eyed her warily.

Struggling to suppress her own feelings of despair, she spoke as enthusiastically as possible about the alternative medical treatments she was continuing to explore. She wanted the doctor to know just how hard she was trying to help her son get well. The psychiatrist concluded the interview eventually, leaving Arnie’s mother feeling uneasy.

Afterward, the doctor called her husband, who took the opportunity to tell the psychiatrist that his boy was fine. His wife was the sick one, he added.

A week later, the psychiatrist submitted his report to the court. At the end of a lengthy discussion, he unveiled his diagnosis: Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy.

Arnie ‘looked well’, the doctor had argued in his report.

In addition, Arnie was clearly depressed. He pointed out, too, that neither the boy’s father nor the boy’s doctors believed Arnie was medically ill, and that the child was at the center of a custody battle between divorcing parents. More critically, the psychiatrist noted, there existed an unusual degree of “enmeshment” between mother and son; Arnie’s mother had acted as his spokesperson during their interview.

Further, she had appeared enthusiastic, even cheerful. Clearly, she had created an environment of oppressive neediness that had driven Arnie to feign illness, and her subsequent “over-involvement” with her child’s illness stemmed from this deviant desire to be needed.

The judge ordered that Arnie be removed from his mother’s custody and placed in a foster home.

He ruled that the final determination of Arnie’s fate would be decided in the custody hearing. He also demanded, for a second time, that Arnie return to school and receive twice-weekly psychiatric counseling. In a small concession to the boy’s claim of illness, the judge ruled that Arnie could be excused from gym class.

One week later, Arnie swallowed a handful of aspirin and several sleeping pills he discovered in his foster mother’s medicine chest. He was admitted to a psychiatric hospital immediately afterward. Though it had never been Arnie’s specific intent, his suicide attempt had confirmed beyond all doubt the diagnosis of the court’s psychiatrist, school officials, and the judge who had presided over his truancy hearing: He suffered from a serious psychiatric illness.

Arnie’s incarceration and resulting isolation would have been considerably less had he robbed the corner grocery store.

• The psychiatric hospital administrators forbade his mother to visit him; after all, she had fostered the imaginary illness in her son, then encouraged his belief in it.

• Hospital doctors ordered him to submit to counseling sessions, sessions during which he found it hard to avoid confessing his depression. Such confessions only served to strengthen the prevailing view that his bizarre “illness” was psychiatric in origin.

• Arnie was given large daily doses of tricyclic antidepressant medications, a class of drugs that often increase fatigue in CFS sufferers. When Arnie complained that the drugs made him feel worse, staff at the hospital simply ignored the complaints.

• They further demanded that he participate in all the ward activities. Arnie followed the path of least resistance, dragging himself from project to project without comment, but he felt as if he was dying a slow death.

In short, Arnie was snared in a trap worthy of Franz Kafka’s imagination.

He would remain incarcerated and drugged until he was successfully rehabilitated, which chiefly meant renouncing his absurd belief that he was sick.

Doctors like to solve problems. They like to make people well. Nothing makes them happier. Sadly, when they fail, their universal fallback position amounts to blaming the patient for his or her own disease. Even when the evidence points in the opposite direction, doctors frequently come up with psychological diagnoses in the absence of clear answers.

Children may be the most vulnerable of all to such treatment. It’s hard for them to fight for their rights, or make the case for their own sanity. Pediatricians, when flummoxed by their small patients’ complaints, tend to cast a suspicious eye at the child’s home environment: If the parents are in distress, pediatricians are provided with a convenient explanation for mysterious symptoms in the child.

As a pediatrician, I recognize the legitimacy of including the status of a child’s home life in my differential diagnosis – the decision tree I work from as I search for the correct diagnosis. But I do not automatically exclude the possibility of medical illness in a child because his parents are on the verge of a divorce, or if a grandmother died.

Just as it is possible to have child with diabetes living within a family in turmoil, it is possible to have a child with CFS living within a family in turmoil. Family dysfunction has its own signature; it creates its own particular pattern of difficulties in children, and these problems are very different from the problems of CFS.

Demanding that a diagnosis of CFS may be made only in perfect families makes no sense at all.

In truth, family problems are common, and with the additional stress of a chronic illness in a family member, families can even fall apart. In my view, psychological diagnoses need to be made with the same specificity and accuracy as medical diagnoses. It is not enough to pull a psychological diagnosis out of your hat if you are stumped. It is necessary to be a good doctor. Of course, the attribution of the psyche to the cause of physical illness is hardly a new phenomenon, especially in children.

Autism is a severe neurologic disease of childhood, but for many years doctors ascribed autism to family dysfunction.

We now understand that autism has nothing to do with poor parenting; it is an organic disease.

Like medicine, psychiatry has a spotty history. Perhaps the most classic example of psychiatric miscalculation was the belief, in earlier centuries, that “shock,” – the dire condition we recognize today as the result of a dramatic loss of blood – was due to a “shock” to the emotions. Early psychiatric literature stated that the thready pulse, pale face, clammy hands, and drop in blood pressure – classic shock symptoms – are the result of an emotional shock, likely a reaction to the shock of the sight of blood.

During the American civil war, however, a doctor noted that this emotional condition called “shock” was quickly followed by death among soldiers who were mortally wounded on the battlefield. He reasoned and later proved that shock was a physiologic abnormality caused by blood loss. Imagine telling someone who has just been shot in the chest to snap out of their blues and pull themselves together.

I am not going to debate the legitimacy of Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy. It exists, a sad commentary on modern society. But the diagnosis of Munchausen’s is made by obtaining absolute proof of a parent inflicting conscious and active harm on their child. Frequently, hospital administrators who suspect a parent of Munchausen’s will install a videotape in the room of the young patient in order to acquire irrefutable evidence of a parent committing such harm.

In Arnie’s case, neither the court nor school officials bothered to offer proof of his mother’s intent to cause harm, or even actual harm, no doubt because they had no proof.

Their actions were based on conjecture.

Even putting aside medical arguments, common sense tells us that Arnie’s the activity limitation is not due to suggestions from his mother. Adolescents are known for being rebellious and not doing what their parents tell them to do. Sometimes I have a hard time getting my son to clean his room. How could a parent tell a child to be tired all the time and stay sitting in a chair?

Fatigue caused by Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy is a legitimate diagnosis only if the parent is secretly feeding their children barbiturates or poison, and this can be easily tested.

In my view, the mother’s so-called “enmeshment” in her son’s illness was an attempt to protect her child from the authorities in the school system, the legal system, and the medical establishment, who understood absolutely nothing about the disease from which he suffered. I believe she should have been guilty of child abuse if she had been indifferent to her son’s suffering.

It would be wonderful if I could report here that Arnie’s story is a singular one. Unfortunately, these events are becoming increasingly common as more and more children and adolescents fall ill with CFS.

The medical establishment and our federal health agencies are digging in their heels, so to speak, hewing with vigor to the mistaken belief that CFS is psychiatric in origin. As a result, more and more children who suffer from CFS are being diagnosed with Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy, and the courts are remanding them to foster homes.

Arnie’s attempted suicide attempt, under such conditions, is hardly uncommon, either. Too often, children with CFS who have been taken from their homes, told they are imagining their illness, and sent to live in strange homes with adults who refuse to acknowledge their symptoms and disability, find death to be a better option.

Like Arnie, these sick children frequently end up in psychiatric institutions, deprived of the comfort of the parent, or parents, who may be the only people who understand they are ill.

Failure to diagnose an illness is, in some circumstances, malpractice. Failure to properly diagnose Arnie resulted in a forced separation from his mother – his only advocate – and his subsequent suicide attempt and incarceration. For Arnie, failure to diagnose had serious consequences.

The existence of CFS has been confirmed by the National Institutes of Health and the Centers for Disease Control. There continues to be legitimate debate as to what causes the illness, but to deny its existence because of a collective failure to understand its cause is inexcusable.

The American Academy of Pediatrics has stated that at least one part of its mission is to act as advocates for children. On the contentious matter of CFS, which afflicts thousands of children and adolescents, however, the Academy has remained silent. I believe the Academy’s silence is equivalent to child abuse. Our court systems have an obligation to protect the young and the helpless. Our courts, however, take their advice from the medical profession.

There are many forms of child abuse: neglect, physical abuse, sexual abuse… I would like to suggest that the term “medical abuse” be used when children are directly hurt by apathy or ignorance of health care providers.

Not the ignorance expected prior to scientific discovery, but ignorance defined as refusal of accepted fact. We are not talking about a new religion here, CFS has been recognized and studied in this country for nearly 20 years [now 30].

In the villages of ancient Europe, citizens believed that hitching four widows to a plow and forcing them to labor through the night would ward off epidemics of plague and influenza. Some day, the current apathy, perhaps more accurately, the silence, that veils the existence of CFS, will be considered medical barbarism on a grand scale, and just as ridiculous as hitching widows to a plow.

Arnie is 19 years old now, and remains disabled by CFS.

His incarceration in the psychiatric institution lasted six months, after which he lived in foster care for another several years. He has reunited with his mother, and is at last receiving basic symptomatic care for his illness.

– Dr. David S Bell, MD, Lyndonville, New York, August 15, 2000
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* This article is excerpted with kind permission from Dr. Bell’s classic book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome; © David S Bell, MD, 2000.

“Anna’s Identity”: When Nobody Believes You’re Really Ill

This is the case history of a woman who suffered CFS symptoms since childhood but was never believed – until at age 35 doctors decided something ‘real’ was wrong. It is excerpted from Dr. Bell’s free e-book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,* published in August, 2000. “Anna’s Identity” illustrates one aspect of cases he has followed since the mid-1980’s. 

Reprinted with the kind permission of ProHealth: 9/14/11

ANNA’S IDENTITY

Where does self end and illness begin? When we are ill for years, or for a lifetime, what part of our personality is really our own, and what part has been shaped or even created by disease?

These questions are probably nowhere more pressing than in the realm of brain disease, in which the foundation of the personality – the physical brain itself – is under siege.

CFS, of course, presents a particularly difficult challenge to its sufferers because, unlike many brain diseases, CFS leaves the brain intact enough to sense its own difficulties. As a result, people who have CFS are forced to cope not only with unceasing physical pain and exhaustion, but with sorting out their real selves from the demon that has attacked their faculties as well as their body.

Adults have an advantage over children with CFS.

Adults have accrued years of personal history; they have a sense of who they are, a personality, against which they may compare their new, unwell selves. Everyone around them may be snickering and laughing, but the adult with CFS knows he or she is unwell, and that what is happening is anything but normal. Children, on the other hand, lack the requisite life experience and sense of self against which to measure a sudden development like CFS.

I am a pediatrician by training, and I have learned to see the world through the eyes of my youngest patients; I also frequently look into their eyes and see the adult world reflected there. I do not believe I am being disproportionate to state that, for children, CFS is among the very most difficult, if not the most difficult, disease to survive into adulthood.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of CFS in children is that poorly informed adults ascribe a false identity to the child, and that false perception of self is carried by the child into adulthood.

CFS has robbed far too many children of their identities, or more precisely, has robbed them of the chance to develop an identity – to grow into themselves. In the case of at least one patient I know, however, a true perception of self has emerged, despite the odds, but it took 35 years.

I am speaking of Anna, who became ill with CFS when she was probably four or five years old.

We often remember of our childhood that which was wonderful and beautiful, but when there has been little joy, memories are dimmer. Anna’s memories are cloudy, but she recalls that by the time she was six or seven, she was unable to keep up with her playmates.

• She could not skip rope because her balance was poor and the slightest exertion left her breathless.

• The bright sunlight that poured onto the playground left her feeling blinded.

• She found herself on the sidelines, inexplicably exhausted. Other children seemed to shy away from her.

Anna went to school every day, but she felt sick all the time.

She found it difficult to learn skills like reading and math. It was humiliating. She couldn’t remember her multiplication tables. Everyone else could, but Anna couldn’t. Anna began to devise tricks to help her remember, tricks so complicated she could not have explained them to anyone. For example: eight times seven. Add a zero to a seven, subtract seven, then subtract another seven.

For Anna, visualization was easier than memorizing. She could see numbers in her mind, for instance, and in order to solve the problem, she would look at them. She knew she did not think like other children. The world was a very confusing place.

She had trouble following directions. Her teachers were harsh with her; they believed she was either deliberately ignoring them, or preoccupied with private thoughts. But Anna was simply puzzled and tired.

The simple noise of the classroom distracted and perplexed her. It made her ears hurt, too. She had trouble finding words to describe how she felt. She once told her teacher that her brain seemed to “ache” because of the noise, and her teacher dismissed it with a wave of her arm.

“Pooh,” she said, “everything seems to bother you.”

Perhaps Anna’s greatest humiliation was the way her one of her legs would jump without warning, hitting the desk, or even kicking toward the child sitting next to her. Her classmates would burst into laughter, and her teacher would inevitably become angry, scolding her for being disruptive. Anna had no control over these muscle spasms, but her teacher never believed that.

Eventually, Anna learned that if she rested the legs of her desk on top of her feet during class, the weight of the furniture would diminish the force of her jerking legs. The desk was heavy, and hurt her feet, but the technique worked.

Anna wondered why her muscles behaved unlike anyone else’s muscles, and why she was unable to memorize facts, and unable to remember what the
teacher said to the class from day to day. She wondered why she lacked the energy to run or play games. She struggled to hide these aspects of herself, her deficiencies, from the girls in her class, because like any child she desperately wanted friends.

Yet, even though Anna privately wondered every day what was wrong with her, no one believed Anna was sick.

She recalls that during her early adolescence, she was stricken with a remarkable number of sore throats, fevers, stomach aches, swollen glands, and headaches. As time passed, and she went from child to teenager, her doctor began voicing his opinion that Anna’s “illnesses” were an obvious cry for attention.

Occasionally, she was hospitalized while a teenager, but the tests ordered by her doctor rarely showed any abnormalities. Her doctor, and eventually, her own parents, began to exhibit increasing frustration.

By the time she was 15, no one believed Anna was sick.

• Her parents’ frustration turned to anger. They were poor people, and the medical bills caused by Anna’s frequent trips to the doctor were beginning to overwhelm their resources.

• Eventually, the doctor her parents took her to simply patted her on her head and told her she had a headache every day because she felt badly about doing poorly in school. The doctor told Anna she needed to stop “playing those games.”

Anna’s response to the anger and disbelief was hardly surprising: she learned not to complain.

She recognized that articulation of her sensations of illness only increased her isolation and actually invited ridicule. She vowed she would hide her symptoms and her feelings however she could from her family, her friends, and her teachers. She even learned to hide these things from herself.

In time, there were two Annas: the one who was sick, and the one who cleaned her room, performed her chores, and attended school every day just like everyone else her age.

• The first Anna would look at the second with a kind of astonishment; the second Anna was ashamed of the first.

• Neither of the Annas found any comfort at school or at home, but they got by.

By the time she became an adult, Anna had hidden her secrets for so long that she barely acknowledged them herself. In fact, by then, she had persuaded herself that her doctors had been right all along: if she had some dreadful illness, she reasoned, her doctors would have identified it, or she would have died.

She embraced fully what she had been told throughout her adolescence: She had made up her symptoms, although her reasons for having done so continued to remain mysterious to herself.

Anna finished high school, married, and began working as an aid in a nursing home. She also had four children. Most of the time, she could keep her secrets hidden, from her husband and children, and even from herself. She was not even being dishonest, because she was in agreement that all the sensations she felt – the weakness, the fatigue, the mental cloudiness – signified nothing at all. There really wasn’t anything wrong.

By then, the years of denial had worked their effect; her identity, her sense of herself, had been formed by the opinions of others. The part of her that felt and experienced was shut away from the part that reasoned. She was, she would tell herself, perfectly healthy, but in fact her identity was built on a foundation of silt, and had little to do with Anna’s true experience, the reality she lived day-to-day.

By the time she was in her early 30’s, Anna skills of self-deception and general deception were finely honed. She had become a master of covering up embarrassing intellectual gaffes with warm, genuine smiles that would put those around her at ease. No one could be expected to see through her smile to the memory loss, or the peculiar lapses in her speech, lapses in which she would jumble the order of her words in a sentence, or make bizarre mistakes in her choice of words.

She had learned to work despite her daily exhaustion and painful headaches. In fact, she felt weak all the time.

But if she had to help lift a patient at the nursing home, she found the strength, proving to herself and the other aids that she was as strong as any of them.

• Though she often experienced double vision, she never said a word about it to her co-workers.

• When she stood rapidly, she got lightheaded, and her hands and feet went numb.

• She developed a painful stomach condition – probably an ulcer, she decided. A doctor she consulted prescribed a drug for ulcers, but the pills did nothing to end the pain and Anna quit taking them.

She was disappointed in neither her doctor nor the drugs. Whatever the cause of this particular ailment, she reasoned, it was outside the doctor’s reach because, as she knew already, there was really nothing wrong with her. She could get by, she reasoned, just as she had always gotten by.

Of course, she never discussed these problems with her fellow workers in the nursing home, and no one around her ever suspected them.

One harsh, upstate New York winter after another passed. Anna acknowledged to herself a certain loneliness, familiar to her from earliest childhood. She had never quite rid herself of that. But her routines were well-established, her coping mechanisms firmly in place, her secrets tucked so deep inside that she barely thought of them.

Anna’s identity was a fragile construct, however, and vulnerable. One bitter day in March of 1988, it began to break up.

She suffered a seizure while working at the nursing home, an event witnessed by several people. She was taken to a local hospital. When the doctor informed Anna afterward that she had experienced a seizure, she found it extremely difficult to believe, despite the bite on her lip and the deep gash in her tongue.

In fact, she did not believe it – not really. After all, after a lifetime of feeling sick, this was the first doctor who had ever told her with any conviction that she actually was sick.

And so she fell back on the opinion of her condition that had been voiced by doctor after doctor from her earliest memories: she was just suffering from a little stress.

When the doctor prescribed medications for seizures, Anna nodded, as if accepting the diagnosis and the treatment. But she did not take the medication. Why should she? She knew there was nothing wrong. There never had been anything wrong.

For three decades, Anna had been able to secret away the ill woman she had been nearly all her life.

But things were starting to change. She continued to avoid the prescribed anti-seizure medication, and both her doctor and her husband insisted that she was having convulsions. Anna found their claims hard to believe. She was unconscious when these so-called seizures were reported to occur; how did she know they were really occurring?

It had been a life-long struggle, but Anna had achieved the ability to believe the medical profession, her parents, and her teachers, that nothing was wrong with her. Now her doctors and family were insisting something was wrong. In fact, her doctor arranged for her driver’s license to be revoked. Anna couldn’t even get to work.

The seizures were exposing the sick side of Anna to herself. They could not be hidden away or covered up with a charming smile and a little joke. The turmoil in her mind was like a hurricane. If she accepted that the seizures were real, she risked opening the long-hidden conflicts about everything concerning her poor health.

In short, if the seizures were real, maybe everything else – the exhaustion, the mental fogginess, the numbness in her hands and feet, the pain, the forgetfulness, the endless headache – were real, too.

The bedrock foundations of her assumed identity began to erode. For the first time in years, Anna began to allow herself to acknowledge her physical sensations of fatigue and pain. She realized that she felt awful. But experiencing the pain and exhaustion somehow seemed better than pretending it wasn’t there. She answered one question that most people are unable to: Is it better to feel suffering than to feel nothing at all?

One day Anna saw a segment on television about CFS. Her mouth hung open as she heard about daily exhaustion, headaches, pain that no one would believe. It was Anna, not a doctor, who recognized at last that her symptoms were characteristic with CFS. In fact, with the exception of seizures, she was picture perfect for the symptom complex that defines the illness.

Anna read everything she could find on the subject. She felt as if she was waking up after lifetime spent cut off from her own feelings and perceptions.

She began to remember painful incidents from her childhood – how she had felt, and how she had learned to deny those sensations not only to those around her but to herself. They were disturbing memories, but Anna, by then 35, was at last beginning to experience her own reality and to recognize herself as she had always been. She was not the healthy, energetic woman she had pretended to be for so long; she was sick.

I met Anna during this period. We talked a lot about these matters in my clinic, and we talked over coffee sometimes in the Tiger’s Den Cafe down the street. We both recognized that her identity was in crisis, because she was having trouble distinguishing real illness from false illness.

After so many years of believing herself to be “falsely” ill, how could she turn around and be herself? In this, she had no experience.

The perception of pain and illness is very simple from a physiologic standpoint. Primitive animals feel pain in their nerve endings, and struggle to avoid it. Electric probes of one-celled creatures like amoebae show that even these tiniest of organisms feel pain. But advanced creatures, specifically human beings, have learned mechanisms for denying some of the basics of biology.

Nevertheless, our denial hardly changes the mechanical impulses of our nervous systems; our nerve endings continue to be stimulated, and send messages to our brain that are registered as pain or discomfort. Our denial merely creates an emotionally confused response to the pain, or health identity confusion.

Anna’s biggest problem, at 35, was her confusion over her health identity. Her confusion had logical origins, but her management of it – to deny her symptoms -put her at risk. She had lost what healthy people would call common sense. Her confusion had cost her the right to drive, and subsequently, her job. She could have controlled her seizures with medication, if only she had been able to believe they were real.

But because she had denied her illness for most of her life, she probably would have been hard pressed to believe she was injured if she had been run over by a truck.

As the years passed, Anna gradually began to learn how to feel. She said it was better to feel pain than to feel nothing at all. It was better to experience the reality of her life, in all its facets, than to deny all of its reality. After decades of pretending, she began to acknowledge to herself the truth of her own experiences, and the place of her identity within those experiences.

I marvel at Anna’s courage. She has been one of my teachers in life. And I wonder if I will ever find the same courage to explore the hidden parts of my own soul.

– David S Bell, MD, Aug 15, 2000
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* This article is excerpted with kind permission from Dr. Bell’s classic book Faces of CFS – Case Histories of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome; © David S Bell, MD, 2000. This information has not been evaluated by the FDA. It is general information only and is not meant to prevent, diagnose treat or cure any condition, illness or disease. It is very important that you make no change in your healthcare plan or health support regimen without researching and reviewing it in collaboration with your professional healthcare team.