They took my father to the hospital early last week with tightness in his chest. He'd had some heart trouble before and it was a tense few days for my family as we waited to find out what the real story was. On Friday, he had a procedure to clear two clogged arteries. The experience gave me a new-found appreciation of modern technology: the wireless heart monitor he wore, the clear picture of the arteries, the special microscopic drill that spun at 140,000 times per second inside his heart, wielded with incredible dexterity by a cardiologist.
It all turned out very well, and Dad is already home and feeling terrific. But the few hours spent waiting in the hospital Friday night - and a couple of other items that I'll deal with in a second - had me thinking about the nature of modern medicine and privacy. You see, I really don't believe much in privacy in the modern world, although I continue to value it, much like my own youth, which has also vanished, ne'er to return.
The privacy wars are over; indeed, we're living in a new age where almost everything we do - what we buy, what we read, what we watch - is tracked in vast databases. Despite the hype over the Federal HIPAA privacy act, all you have to do is spend a few hours in the cardiac unit of a busy medical center to understand that it's really just that: hype. It was all too easy to learn the medical details on half a dozen heart patients just during the visit.
Yes, patient records are protected in theory. But there are unintentionally hilarious exceptions that prove that, well, you really can't legislate privacy any better than you can morality. Frequent commentator Tom K. sent me this link, the story of a man who lost his driving privileges after his doctor reported to police that he drank a six-pack of beer a day. According to this poor guy, "The only crime I committed was getting sick and telling the doctor the truth.''
There is evidence as well - anecdotal of course, but supported by the actions of people I respect - that Americans tend to value privacy less then we, collectively, believe we do. Just this week, both Jane Pauley and Jason Chervokas revealed publicly their struggles with bi-polar disorder. As many of you know, Jason is my former business partner and particular friend; indeed, we've conversed nearly daily for more than a decade. I think you'll find his confession eloquent:
It was easy for me to accept that I was depressed, in fact, it was impossible for me to deny. But it was hard for me to accept the notion of bipolar disorder. First of all, if I was hypomanic, the hypomania seemed to represent the best of myself. Yes I experienced flying ideas and periods of increased energy, "mental binges" I called them, but those were some of the most productive, best parts of my life---like the spring of 1999 when I sold my business, wrote and recorded a thematically coherent song cycle in my basement playing half a dozen instruments and doing all the engineering myself, and spending hours at the gym getting into the best shape I had been in since the age of 18. These weren't debilitating parts of my life at all. An inflated sense of self? You mean I wasn't the voice of reason in a deluded world during the years when my extreme skepticism and self-confidence made me a top-of-the-market journalist? Excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences? What was wrong with buying thousands of dollars worth of audio gear, CDs, books, or the like at a pop or splurging on porn (other than incurring the wrath of my wife on both accounts)? This "hypomania" seemed to contain everything that was good about being me--sheer mental voltage, a continual quest for the new, a torrential outpouring of creative work.
Do me a favor: read the whole post and comment. Because the feedback, the reaction, is the reason for the writing. In Jason's case, as in Jerry's, and others who speak out publicly, privacy matters far less than taking another step on the journey - and that step demands some form of congress (emotional, intellectual, whatever) with other human beings. Jason asks: "Isn't the world already lousy with carping, first-person tales of depression and mania?" Well, yeah. And being the witty critic (and lapsed Catholic) that he is, Chervokas usually savages the confessional. But he's right, because the world is lousy with human beings. Weakness is not worthy of a confession; it is our lot, our existence. The road's the thing. The destination is, for all of us, roughly the same. And privacy is an abstract.