Excerpts

1 The Big Mac Rule of Resuscitation and the Search for the Limits of Life When I was a kid, long before I contemplated going to medical school, the television in our living room was the sole source of all of my medical knowledge. Before I ever dissected a cadaver or listened to a heart, shows like M*A*S*H ; St. Elsewhere ; Doogie Howser, MD ; Chicago Hope ; and ER taught me how to be a doctor. Specifically, they taught me that doctors are firm, decisive, quick-thinking, and almost always successful. Television also taught me how to bring someone back to life. Fortunately, that was a simple lesson for an eight-year-old. The television version of resuscitation followed a script that was mercifully predictable, and that predictability was helpfully marked by several reliable guideposts along the way. First, someone's heart would stop. That cessation of a heartbeat was usually heralded by unmistakable signs, including but not limited to gasping, choking, eye rolling, and chest clutching. Next, and typically without any discernible delay whatsoever, everyone within hailing distance would descend on the newly dead character. One of these self-appointed rescuers would then place two hands on the character's chest and bounce up and down heroically. It was also at about this point that another rescuer--usually a tall, handsome doctor--performed a strange sort of kissy procedure with his mouth, guaranteed to provoke slack-jawed fascination in a boy not yet in middle school, especially if the victim was a woman. Finally, if the episode were really top-notch, someone would produce a pair of paddles, apply them to the victim's chest, and yell, "Clear!" (At some point, I developed the unshakable conviction that this shouted incantation had some ill-defined yet essential electrical effect on the victim's heart. I have a hazy recollection of standing over my freshly late hamster one sad morning and yelling, "Clear!" repeatedly in hopes of encouraging little Frankie to rejoin the living. Alas, Frankie was unfamiliar with the rules of televised resuscitations, and he remained persistently and unambiguously deceased.) Then there would be a strategic yet wholly incongruous commercial break, after which we'd be back in the thick of things. On cue, the victim would tire of being kissed by a tall, handsome doctor and would wake up. Or, occasionally--and just for variety's sake--the handsome doctor would tire of kissing a person who was becoming increasingly dead. Then he would stand up, say something solemn, and stride off purposefully toward the next crisis. It was thanks to these scenes that I developed a deep and lasting impression of how resuscitation works when people try to die. For instance, I came to believe that resuscitation works . Maybe not always, but almost always. It seemed as though even if you were dead, as long as there was a good-looking doctor nearby, you wouldn't be dead for long. I also became convinced that if resuscitation is going to work, it's going to work very, very fast. A perceptive watcher of these shows would conclude that the fate of a newly dead person is determined in the span of time that it takes to learn about the merits of cookies made by Keebler Elves or a sing-along of the McDonald's Big Mac jingle. Let's call this the Big Mac rule of resuscitation. By then, your victim is probably wide-awake and hugging the rescuers. If she isn't, then you might as well switch channels. So I persisted in my fantasies about resuscitation for quite some time. But then a girl named Michelle died. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Shocked: Adventures in Bringing Back the Recently Dead by David Casarett All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.