16 revealing stories about the human brain Ever wondered how Scandinavians cope with 24-hour darkness, why we feel pain - or whether smartphones really make children stupid?Have you heard about the US army''s research into supercharging minds?You need some Brainology . Written for Wellcome, the health charity, these stories follow doctors as they solve the puzzle of our emotions, nerves and behaviour.Discover fascinating and intriguing stories from the world of science. Contents * Ouch! The science of pain - John Walsh* Why doctors are reclaiming LSD and ecstasy - Sam Wong* Inside the mind of an interpreter - Geoff Watts* How should we deal with dark winters? - Linda Geddes* Smartphones won''t* make your kids dumb (*Probably) - Olivia Solon* You can train your mind into ''receiving'' medicine - Jo Marchant* Charting the phenomenon of deep grief - Andrea Volpe* The mirror cure for phantom limb pain - Srinath Perur* Can you think yourself into a different person? - Will Storr* How to survive a troubled childhood - Lucy Maddox* What tail-chasing dogs reveal about humans - Shayla Love* A central nervous solution to arthritis - Gaia Vince* Could virtual reality headsets relieve pain? - Jo Marchant* What it means to be homesick in the 21st Century - John Osborne* Lighting up brain tumours with Project Violet - Alex O''Brien* The US military plan to supercharge brains - Emma Young EXTRACT Ouch! The science of pain John WalshOne night in May, my wife sat up in bed and said, ''I''ve got this awful pain just here.'' She prodded her abdomen and made a face. ''It feels like something''s really wrong.'' Woozily noting that it was 2am, I asked what kind of pain it was. ''Like something''s biting into me and won''t stop,'' she said.
''Hold on,'' I said blearily, ''help is at hand.'' I brought her a couple of ibuprofen with some water, which she downed, clutching my hand and waiting for the ache to subside.An hour later, she was sitting up in bed again, in real distress. ''It''s worse now,'' she said, ''really nasty. Can you phone thedoctor?'' Miraculously, the family doctor answered the phone at 3am, listened to her recital of symptoms and concluded, ''It might be your appendix. Have you had yours taken out?'' No, she hadn''t. ''It could be appendicitis,'' he surmised, ''but if it was dangerous you''d be in much worse pain than you''re in. Go to the hospital in the morning, but for now, take some paracetamol and try to sleep.
''Barely half an hour later, the balloon went up. She was awakened for the third time, but now with a pain so savage and uncontainable it made her howl like a tortured witch face down on a bonfire. The time for murmured assurances and spousal procrastination was over. I rang a local minicab, struggled into my clothes, bundled her into a dressing gown, and we sped to St Mary''s Paddington at just before 4am.The flurry of action made the pain subside, if only through distraction, and we sat for hours while doctors brought forms to be filled, took her blood pressure and ran tests. A registrar poked a needle into my wife''s wrist and said, ''Does that hurt? Does that? How about that?'' before concluding: ''Impressive. You have a very high pain threshold.''The pain was from pancreatitis, brought on by rogue gallstones that had escaped from her gall bladder and made their way, like fleeing convicts, to a refuge in her pancreas, causing agony.
She was given a course of antibiotics and, a month later, had an operation to remove her gall bladder.''It''s keyhole surgery,'' said the surgeon breezily, ''so you''ll be back to normal very soon. Some people feel well enough to take the bus home after the operation.'' His optimism was misplaced. My lovely wife, she of the admirably high pain threshold, had to stay overnight, and came home the following day filled with painkillers; when they wore off, she writhed with suffering. After three days she rang the specialist, only to be told: ''It''s not the operation that''s causing discomfort - it''s the air that was pumped inside you to separate the organs before surgery.'' Like all too many surgeons, they had lost interest in the fallout once the operation had proved a success.During that period of convalescence, as I watched her grimace and clench her teeth and let slip little cries of anguish until a long regimen of combined ibuprofen and codeine finally conquered the pain, several questions came into my head.
Chief among them was: Can anyone in the medical profession talk about pain with any authority? From the family doctor to the surgeon, their remarks and suggestions seemed tentative, generalised, unknowing - and potentially dangerous: Was it right for the doctor to tell my wife that her level of pain didn''t sound like appendicitis when the doctor didn''t know whether she had a high or low pain threshold? Should he have advised her to stay in bed and risk her appendix exploding into peritonitis? How could surgeons predict that patients would feel only ''discomfort'' after such an operation when she felt agony - an agony that was aggravated by fear that the operation had been a failure?I also wondered if there were any agreed words that would help a doctor understand the pain felt by a patient. I thought of my father, a GP in the 1960s with an NHS practice in south London, who used to marvel at the colourful pain symptoms he heard: ''It''s like I''ve been attacked with a stapler''; ''like having rabbits running up and down my spine''; ''it''s like someone''s opened a cocktail umbrella in my penis.'' Few of them, he told me, corresponded to the symptoms listed in a medical textbook. So how should he proceed? By guesswork and aspirin?There seemed to be a chasm of understanding in human discussions of pain. I wanted to find out how the medical profession apprehends pain - the language it uses for something that''s invisible to the naked eye, that can''t be measured except by asking for the sufferer''s subjective description, and that can be treated only by the use of opium derivatives that go back to the Middle Ages.