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Inspiration
Acu. | Issue #28 | Autumn 2020
Embracing uncertainty Janice Booth Member: Wiltshire ‘The early bird gets the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese’ I am a prevaricator and don’t usually make quick decisions. If there’s a fence I will sit on it. If there is no fence I will I go and find one. But is indecision a character fault? Can it sometimes be strength rather than a burden? In his book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, Malcolm Gladwell maintains that there is a virtue in a quick two-second decision. Why? Because of what he calls the ‘adaptive unconscious’ which he claims can quickly process all that has gone before, to inform and give us what he calls ‘hunch power’. By comparison, Frank Partnoy in Wait: The Useful Art of Procrastination cites the uselessness of quick impressions, using the example of speed dating. He argues that a hasty decision will lead to mistakes, forcing us to prioritise before we have gleaned all the necessary details needed for an informed decision, in this instance a life partner! I’m writing this in 2020, when we have all experienced much uncertainty about the presence and transmission of Covid-19, and witnessed the fast shifting decision-making of our politicians and scientists, based at each juncture on partial and changing information. But let’s get to Chinese medicine. Our diagnostic craft is predicated on asking key questions and allying responses to patterns of disharmony. Recognising these patterns will drive and determine the nature and choice of ongoing questions. Persistent ‘drilling down’ enables us to exclude as well as include patterns. We link our verbal interrogation to what we see, feel, and hear in the ‘presence’ of a patient; we keep an open mind. Asking questions is a great superpower! You only have to listen to the endless questioning by children, to take stock of our innate human curiosity and need for understanding. And it is widely accepted that our key areas of questioning still follow the broad lines of enquiry of the early Qing dynasty in China around 1600: aversion to cold and fever, sweating, sleep, stools and urine, pain, etc.
In clinic we find our way, piecemeal, with patients whose narrative is often incomplete, as therefore will be our interpretation. We make the best of what we have at the time, to formulate a diagnosis, then test the diagnosis with treatment. How often do we take a leap of faith? How certain do we need to be before acting? A patient of mine was walking home from lunch at a local pub, when she slipped, fell into a bush, and got an itchy skin rash, which resulted in her consulting her GP… who prescribed antihistamine cream. A week later, she came to me for her usual constitutional acupuncture treatment. She reported that the GP looked mystified when he inspected her skin and, as if plucked from the air – yet delivered with certainty – suggested she was suffering from ‘falling into a bush on a hot sunny day’ syndrome! My patient then asked the GP if he had encountered it before to which he replied no. Did he battle for a few minutes with uncertainty, I wonder, feeling it would be inappropriate to say to a patient, ‘I don’t know what this is’… leaving the patient with the feeling that having fallen into a bush, her GP was now beating about that bush... What does that tell us? Never to trust an expert, it’s all bluff? Perhaps her GP was just making the best use of what he knew at the time to offer an understanding. As acupuncturists we would have other ways of diagnosing – identifying wind heat perhaps. Henry Marsh, in Do No Harm, reflects with openness and honesty on his career as a brain surgeon; on having to take difficult decisions, often from a position of not knowing what the outcome of invasive brain surgery would be. He cites his ‘failures’ as well as successes. As practitioners of Chinese medicine, similarly, we don’t always ‘know’. But are we expected to? I wonder if more credit is attached to acting as if we know than for revealing that we don’t, unlike children who have no shame in asking endless questions whenever they hit up against their lack of knowledge. As a teacher of Chinese medicine, it’s easy to answer a question with
unearned confidence. What might change if we admit to not always knowing? Could it lead to more honest dialogue and shared understanding? The teacher, relative to the student, is an expert, bringing prior knowledge and experience. But we are not expert in everything. Often we are dealing, in diagnosis, with a range of possible interpretations. There are times when one has to act with certainty… a journey has to move to a destination. Mark Vanhoenacker, a BA pilot, gives fascinating insights into his working life in his book, Skyfaring. Relevant to this discussion, he talks of the last stage of every flight when ground control asks a pilot to ‘decide’ – are you ready to land or not? The plane has reached a point of no return. The pilot must bring their best possible knowledge to bear on a given situation. At risk of overplaying my hand here by bringing the aeronautical analogy into line with the certaintyuncertainty debate in the classroom: for the duration of our ‘flight’, if I am the pilot/teacher and you the travellers/ students, I would hope to facilitate a good journey – enable views, tease out any turbulence, share in speculation on the weather at our destination – but when the time comes, I know I have responsibility for landing that plane, for giving an opinion, for making a
