knowledge, however, such a program had not been introduced in mental institutions.
After due consideration-we are an experimental hospital, after all-I asked Betty to instruct the kitchen staff to see that the kitten was fed properly, and decided to let it roam Wards One and Two to see what would happen.
It headed straight for prot.
A short time later, after he had nuzzled it for a while and 'spoken' to it, it went out to meet the other inhabitants of its new world.
One or two of the patients, notably Ernie and several of Maria's alters, stayed away from it, for reasons of their own. But most of the others were delighted with it. I was especially surprised and gratified to see that Chuck the curmudgeon took to it immediately. 'Doesn't stink a bit,' he averred. He spent hours tempting it with bits of string and a small rubber ball someone had found on the grounds. Many of the other patients joined in. One of these, to my amazement, was Mrs. Archer, who, I discovered, had owned numerous cats before coming to MPI.
But the most remarkable effect of the kitten was on Bess. Unable to sustain a relationship with another human being, she became totally devoted to 'La Belle Chatte.' She assumed the responsibility for feeding her and emptying her litter box and taking her for romps on the grounds. If anyone else wanted to play with the kitten, Bess immediately gave her up, of course, with a wise, sad nod, as if to say, 'You're right-I don't deserve to have her anyway.' But when night came, La Belle invariably sought out Bess, and the staff would find them in the mornings sharing the same pillow.
After a few days of this I began to wonder whether another kitten or two might not have an even greater salutary effect on the patients. I decided to get a tomcat later on and let nature take its course.
Session Ten
THERE are two probes available for penetrating the carapace of hysterical amnesia; each has its proponents, each has its place. The first is sodium pentothal, also called 'truth serum.' A reasonably safe treatment, it has met with some success in difficult cases, and is favored by many of our own staff, including Dr. Villers. Hypnosis, in experienced hands, offers the same possibilities, but without the potential risk of side effects. With either method events long forgotten are often recalled with amazingly vivid clarity.
When I learned hypnosis as a resident many years ago I was skeptical about its value in psychiatric evaluation and treatment. But it has begun to come into its own in recent years, and is the method of choice in the management of many psychopathologies. Of course, as with other methods, success depends not only on the skill of the practitioner but also, to a great degree, on the disposition of the patient. Thus, the hypnotizability of the subject is routinely determined before treatment is initiated.
The Stanford test is used most often for this assessment. It takes less than an hour and provides a measure of the patient's ability to concentrate, his responsiveness, imagination, and willingness to cooperate. Subjects are rated on a scale of zero to twelve, the higher numbers indicating the greatest hypnotic susceptibility. Psychiatric patients, as well as the general public, average about seven on this test. I have known a few tens. Prot obtained a score of twelve.
My purpose in using hypnosis in prot's case was to uncover the traumatic event which had led to his hysterical amnesia and delusion. When had this incident occurred? My best guess was August 17, 1985, approximately four years and eleven months earlier.
The plan was simple enough: to take prot back to his childhood and carefully bring him up to the time of the putative traumatic event. In this way I hoped not only to determine the circumstances that led to whatever catastrophe had apparently befallen him, but also to get some information on the background and character of my patient.
PROT seemed to be in good spirits when he arrived in my examining room and, while he went to work on a pomegranate, we chatted about Waldorf salads and the infinite number of possible combinations of fruit juices. When he had finished his snack I turned on the tape recorder and asked him to relax.
'I am completely relaxed,' he replied.
'Good. All right. I'd like you to focus your attention on that little white spot on the wall behind me.' He did this. 'Just stay relaxed, breathe deeply, in and out, slowly, in and out, good. Now I'm going to count from one to five. As the numbers increase you will find yourself becoming more and more drowsy, your eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. By the time I get to five you will be in a deep sleep, but you will be able to hear everything I say. Understand?'
'Of course. My beings didn't raise no dummies.'
'Okay, let's begin now. One...'
Prot was a textbook subject, one of the best I ever had. By the count of three his eyes were tightly closed. On four his breathing had slowed and his facial expression had become completely blank. On five his pulse rate was forty bpm (I was beginning to be concerned-sixty-five was normal for him though he looked okay) and he made no response when I coughed loudly.
'Can you hear me?'
'Yes.'
'Raise your arms over your head.' He complied with this request. 'Now lower them.' His hands dropped into his lap. 'Good. Now I'm going to ask you to open your eyes. You will remain in a deep sleep, but you will be able to see me. Now-open your eyes!' Prot's eyes blinked open. 'How do you feel?'
'Like nothing.'
'Good. That's exactly how you should feel. All right. We are going back in time now; it is no longer the present. You are becoming younger. Younger and younger. You are a young man, younger still, now an adolescent, and still you are becoming younger. Now you are a child. I want you to recall the earliest experience you can remember. Think hard. What do you see?'
Without hesitation: 'I see a casket. A silver casket with a blue lining.'
My own heart began to beat faster. 'Whose casket is it?'
'A man's.'
'Who is the man?' The patient hesitated for a moment.
'Don't be afraid. You can tell me.'
'It is the father of someone I know.'
'A friend's father?'
'Yes.' Prot's words came out rather slowly and sing songy, as though he were five or six years old.
'Is your friend a boy or girl?'
Prot squirmed around in his chair. 'A boy.'
'What is his name?'
No response. 'How old is he?'
'Six.'
'How old are you?' No response.
'What is your name?' No response.
'Do you live in the same town as the other boy?'
Prot rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. 'No.'
'You are visiting him?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Are you a relative?'
'No.'
'Where do you live?' No response.
'Do you have any brothers or sisters?'
'No.'
'Does your friend have any brothers or sisters?'
'Yes.'
