The Hippocritic Oath by Graham Bishop

Half a century ago I was periodically admonished for swearing, generally by my

grandmother, whenever I was imprudent enough to do so within earshot. I had yet
to learn that talking rough was not synonymous with being tough.

A decade or so later, when my admiration for the subtleties of the English language
had begun to mature, along with my sense of humour, I found a certain sardonic
amusement in the shop front signs along the main street proclaiming `MEN SWEAR’,
‘WOMEN SWEAR’, and even ‘CHILDREN SWEAR’. Clearly the community was then
unaware that swearing was intimidatory, threatening, and a symptom of “poor
impulse control”.

With the passage of more time and an increasing acquaintance with the complexities
of life, I discovered there were to be occasions on which I was actually required to
swear, (although not with four letter words), in order to validate statements such as
affidavits. Swearing is also a common form of acceptance of oaths and pledges. One
of the most famous is the Hippocratic Oath, sworn by doctors at the start of their
career.

Paradoxically few of them are able to recall it later with any degree of accuracy. ” I
swear….. I will…….. Abstain from whatever is deleterious or mischievous. I will
administer no deadly medicines……….

Following a stroke a few years ago I agreed to admit myself to hospital as a

voluntary patient under the Mental Health Act. I was well aware of the old soldiers’
caution – never volunteer for anything; advice which was to prove entirely
appropriate. Somehow, but by whom, and for no reason that I have ever been able
to determine or discover, the witch doctors soon had me converted to a compulsory
resident.

Then followed eleven nightmarish months of detention in a ‘Place of Safety’ where I

was physically and verbally assaulted by both staff and patients. Even more scary
was being administered various potent medicines, either unidentified or deliberately
misidentified, with little or no clinical justification. Punitive Psychiatry we called it.
It’s not new, and it’s well known that it occurs, but that doesn’t make it any more
acceptable to be on the receiving end, especially late at night when all of the other
staff seems to have evaporated or gone to sleep and there are two big bully boys
crowding you from either side.

I grew increasingly anxious about if or when I was ever to be discharged from this
unhelpful environment, especially when an advocate asked my psychiatrist, “Why
was I in hospital”? The answer was a pregnant silence. She was the fourth
psychiatrist I had had in about eight months, so perhaps she hadn’t been told. But
neither had the next one. He had to ask me! I began to worry that if they didn’t
know the reason why I was there, how would they know when I was cured? An
amazing report that some psychiatrists right here in New Zealand not only couldn’t
recognize that a colleague was bogus, but also couldn’t tell if he or she were male or
female, hardly inspired confidence!

I digress. Eventually I was discharged, but I was dismayed and also mystified to
discover that the hospital intended to apply for an ongoing treatment order. Such an
order would have allowed the psychiatric services to retain a draconian control over
every aspect of my life, including where I lived, and allow them to recall me to
hospital for any (or no) reason, without any right of appeal or review. Fortunately
the application must be made before a judge, and be accompanied by a sworn
affidavit from both sides.

The hospital affidavit duly arrived and my lawyer rang me in some concern.
“Graham, It’s just awful” she said. It was too, unbelievably awful. I could not believe
that a doctor concerned for the health, particularly the mental health, of a patient
could produce such an appallingly negative and emotionally destructive document.
There was not a single positive statement or glimmer of encouragement. It was a
document that left me feeling there was absolutely no hope, no future, and that I
was a significant and on-going menace to society. It left me, if the application was
successful, with a cliff top and a one-way trip as the only option. To be pushed that
far is an unlovely experience.

The affidavit didn’t even have my name right. Like most people I have two Christian
names, but unlike some, I am called by the second one. People who are entitled to
call me Graham, do; those that aren’t, like Telecom, Healthcare, and insurance
salesmen, call me David. It irritates the hell out of me, besides causing a lot of
confusion. After a year I would have thought the hospital would have worked out
who I was.

But that was trivial compared with the rest of the affidavit. The most distressing
claim of all, was one so awful that I cannot bring myself to repeat it even now. It
was sworn as true one day, but withdrawn as an ‘error’ on the next! I am not sure of
the legal niceties of unswearing an ‘error’, but anything seems possible under the
Mental Health Act, as long as it’s not in favour of the patient. The powers of the
psychiatric profession, despite their well-earned reputation for getting it wrong, are
awesome and frightening.

I was sure we wouldn’t have a chance at the hearing.

My abject fears went unrealized. In a matter of minutes the judge had thrown the
hospital application out of court and once again I had the same rights as anyone
else. I could live where I chose, including in my own house, I could eat what I chose,
I could un-revoke my driving license, or raise a mortgage, or go to the pictures, have
a shave, get married, travel overseas or go for a walk, all without asking. I could
even swear without the threat of a night in seclusion. These fundamental freedoms
had been returned so quickly and easily. Dazed and disbelieving, I emerged into the
watery sun of a winter afternoon in Dunedin, and was hard pressed not to cry.

But it took two years to recover from being cured, and some memories, like the
affidavit, and being injected or forced to swallow medication I had declined because
of it’s side effects, are scorched indelibly on my soul.

To put their wrongness in perspective, I have since lived thirteen, unsupervised,

unregulated, perfectly normal years, in the house they so nearly forced me to sell. I
am not an alcoholic, I am not impotent, incapable, incompetent or insolvent, and I
am not insane. I look good, I feel good, I am good, and I am still alive. But the credit
is mine, not theirs.

Months later I asked the psychiatrist the reason for the extreme overkill in his
statement. According to him it was because of the adversarial system. Truth or
patient welfare was not part of the equation. I raised the issue of the Hippocratic
Oath. He smiled weakly, “Oh yes, the H oath I I don’t remember it exactly, but
sometimes the rules don’t fit the situation” At least I think that is what he said. He
does speak quietly and weakly.

The moral would seem to be: - don’t swear what isn’t true.

Dr Graham Bishop
22 Erin St
Roslyn
Dunedin
New Zealand