Tag Archives: therapy

UNEARTHING

  • An excerpt of an essay by Lou Cook

There is no known way to dredge up the memories created by a baby. But I have one such memory, a precious image forged when I was four weeks old. When it first surfaced, I had no doubt it was a memory. But only a year later did I finally recognize the source.

It is very specific: Above all, I am hysterical with panic. A few feet above me, a merciless light blazes. Arms reach from a female body. Her form casts shadow in the pitiless light behind her. She is a stranger with a shape, but she has no hair, no chin, no nose, no mouth. Just eyes. It is horrifying. She watches my desperation in silence.

I shrink and twist and struggle. I stop my breath. I arch up. I turn my head. To the left I see a shadowed wall with smooth wall tiles, chrome carts lined up against it. There are shapes on the cart shelves. A linoleum floor. A closed door. And full-body panic.

Before this memory materialized, my earliest memory came from when I was just over one year old. The Shepaug River flooded our town and many other towns along its length in late September 1955. Many buildings were damaged or destroyed in the flood, but our ‘new’ place, the old Milk Depot across the road from the river, survived. Temporarily, the building was no longer across the road from the river because the river had flowed into the basement. But the stone foundation held steady.

It was a curious and thrilling event, having water in the basement, lapping near the top of the steps. Strict rule: I could not go down, even when Dad did. When he went down to check on the progress of the receding waters, I had to stay at the top of the stairs. I leaned over as far as I could and listened to the water lapping inside our house. On sunny days, a little ray of light snuck down ahead of me and reflected off the ripples covering the steps. Against orders, if no one was around, I would crack the door open and sneak a peek.

I loved the anomaly of water in the basement, and desperately wanted to go down to see it for myself. Finally, Dad said yes, when the water was down, I could go with him, so long as I had my boots. Immediately, I got my red rubber neigh boots (‘neigh boots’ because there was a horse head on the side) and tucked them under the window by the basement door, handy when the big day came.

Every day, Dad would open the basement door and check the waters. Slowly the steps reappeared. As the water got toward the bottom, he would walk down to measure the depth of the remaining water with a stick. Finally the water was down. Dad laid big planks on the floor in the last few inches of water. He put on his big, black boots and started down.

I quickly put my boots on and started down behind him. Casually he turned and said, no. I couldn’t go. Still too dangerous, he said. Stunned and furious, I went back to the top. Plainly it was not dangerous. If planks could be laid down across the floor, it was NOT dangerous. I watched his flashlight beam bounce around, and heard the water slosh against the planks. He muttered darkly at the damage. He abused my heart.

But now I have found, many years after the flood, that the flood is not my first memory. An earlier memory has unfolded. I know it is a memory because I felt the back of my brain crack open right before I was drowned in panic and the blazing light.

For months, as I thought about it, the panic would burble up every time I brought it to mind. What event could have brought on such alarm and desperation? With no other clues available, I constructed scenarios that such a memory might be fit to. I tried to make the figure into my mother or my few years older sister. Was I picking up on a tense mother with too much to do, newly moved from city living to a small country town where she knew few people, and had two small children? That didn’t make sense. I was too panicked for something like that. Did my older sister tease me in jealousy when Mom wasn’t around? I didn’t think so, and besides, the shadowy figure was too large for a four year old, and did not have her curly hair. There was no hair. Why no face, no hair? What room was I seeing? Why was I so utterly panicked? I could make no sense of it.

At some point I realized that during the original explosion of the memory, there had been just the images. No words were attached. This was interesting. Then the day arrived, with that gut feeling when you know you have the answer, and I realized. I was remembering the hospital room I was in when I was three or four weeks old.

But was it even possible to remember something that early? The mantra had been intoned my whole life by my parents: You were too young to remember. But here’s the thing: at three weeks old, I returned to the hospital where I had been born, for a pyloric stenosis operation. At that age, I had no words. So after some struggle, I accepted the only thing that made sense: I now had a memory of my hospital visit, a treasure I had given up on long ago.

The doctor who operated on me was a woman. She had a surgical mask on, so no face. Her hair was wrapped up, so no hair. The light would have been so offensive, for the operation. Carts of equipment and tile walls are in operating rooms.

There is another reason this would be an operation memory. At the time the memory appeared, I was at Jane’s. I had been getting acupressure massage from Jane for several years. She worked, in particular, on my numb hands and on my constant back pain, pain I had endured since my early 20’s. So it was another Thursday at Jane’s. I had slipped into that deep massage state that is not sleeping, not meditating, not dreaming, but is somewhere beyond simple consciousness or unconsciousness.

And I felt my brain crack open like a geode. The light floods out and I am filled white-hot with terror and panic. There were no words to mediate. Just those images, burned into my brain.

Then Jane is there, at my head, quietly bringing me back. I lie still, too raw to move, afraid I might fly apart or collapse or start screaming. I remember where I am. The panic fills me like a monster, completely at odds with the quiet massage room and Jane’s knowing hands.

On the table, I am afraid to move. I can feel the entrenched place in my skull that has wrenched open, loosing this thing. It is a place low down in my brain, toward the back, on the right. It felt stiff, cracking open as though it had not stirred for years. I am stunned. Unbalanced. I turn the scene over and over, try to place such consuming terror in time. I sit up carefully and dress. I don’t want to lose this strange knowledge. I want to know what it is.

As always, Jane is waiting in the entry hall, to say goodbye. I am speechless. I need to come down from this panic before I can walk out her door. Can she see that? No, she is smiling. I describe the scene to her. I need a comforting hug, some support. It is difficult to find words. My jaw is stiff as I search around for them. She listens and then tosses back her head and laughs, a big, open laugh. I am confused. How can she laugh? Suffering from shock, I almost collapse to the floor. Telling her took such effort, to talk past the panic still bubbling in my blood, to find proper words to recount the event. At the time, I thought the struggle was a result of the engulfing panic.

But in the laughter I hear her knowing, her delight. She tells me she was working around my scar just before the end of the session. I get tense. If she had asked, I would not have allowed it. My private scar—nobody goes there. It must be protected. It is for me alone. My panic demands to know how could I not perceive she was near the scar? Jane tells me that she had never worked there before. Neither had I.

This scar across my middle is the only visible reminder that in late August or early September, 1954, I was sliced open. For pyloric stenosis. For my own good. This scar has been with me my whole life. Almost. No one remembers the exact date of the operation, but I was three to four weeks old.

There was so much drama at that time, it is still fresh. Growing up, when I asked questions about my scar, three stories were trotted out, recited like a hero cycle. There was the projectile vomiting, the screaming so loud in the hospital that my parents had to leave. And the car stuck in the mud as they drove to escape the screaming. Then the mantra: but you were too young to remember.

The complete version of this essay by Lou Cook can be found on MEDIUM at: https://medium.com/@lou4cook/unearthing-5dfca9f8a4d2

Reflecting on my 70th

Birthdays and anniversaries are times for celebration, and reaching “three-score years and ten” years is certainly worth a big three cheers! But they are important for reflection as well.

150926-25 sml

Renmark Reunion September 2015

Gratitude to God and to the most important people in my life over these 70 years are features I’d like to be emblematic of me.  I am still surrounded with so many loving and kind people, I have enjoyed wonderful peace and excellent health, and my contribution in several circles is still wanted and apparently appreciated.

Ten days ago Helen and I gathered to celebrate my 70th birthday with our 4 children, their spouses and our 11 beautiful grandchildren.  A wonderful 5 days . . .

October 6th is ten days after my birth-day and  marks the 70th anniversary of the life-saving surgery I had in the Netherlands.  I would not be writing this but for that day in my life!

Together with the country of my birth and background, my weary and expecting parents were struggling to emerge from the ordeal of World War 2.  And then I arrived, their long-awaited first child, but soon clearly defective: scary, uncontrollable and life-endangering vomiting (infant pyloric stenosis – “PS”).  And these were times when medical science was pretty rough and ready by today’s standards and when people didn’t dwell on what they’d rather forget.

Pic 12

Mother with me – October 1945

So October 6th marks what I now realise was the gift of a new and wonderful second start in life, but also the beginning of a life-shaping journey of exploration and discovery – outside of me and within.

Outside, my parents were unwilling or unable to answer my reasonable questions about the 10 cm scar on my belly, and this drove me to look for information elsewhere.  But until the advent of the web, this search yielded only cold textbook medical data about PS and the then 33 year old surgical fix for the condition.  And explanations of my deeper issues were nowhere to be found: there were no pointers to where these might be unearthed and no ways of identifying people who could help me to realise (as I do now) that my pain was by no means wacky.

Book coverWithin, I was tormented with private pain from the dawn of my self-consciousness until recent years.  Even now I am still working to piece my private pain-puzzle together, although the web has given me access to much information, clarification and to networking with fellow-survivors, all of which has enabled me to receive and share much healing.  Since 2012 I have blogged about my journey, and in 2014 a pediatric surgeon friend and I published a small book, in which he explained what many still regard as the elusive cause of PS and I outlined my personal experience of this condition. It so happens (in Australia at least) that October 6 falls in “Mental Health Week” – and my own story has certainly helped me to feel a sense of identity with people challenged by mental health issues.

Time changes things!  The past 70 years have taught us the value of openness in the home, the importance of both listening and speaking for healing, of collaboration in achieving goals, and (by no means least) we have learnt much about trauma.

70 years have also brought huge changes to surgical technique and to holistic care in the hospital and home.  Time seems to have done less to change the unhelpful attitudes of some in the medical profession – but that’s due to human nature being far from perfect.

What do these changes (and their lack in some respects) mean?

120327-07-WgHcThe kind of trauma symptoms I struggled with is rare among more recent PS survivors.  Their surgical scars are sometimes almost indiscernible, usually tidy and very rarely as gnarly.  Affected children’s and their parents’ questions are typically answered much more fully and sympathetically, and the children are helped to understand, “own” and even feel pride about their story.

As I see it, I have discerned this is the growth in myself.  I am indeed a survivor from a bygone era of medical practice and parenting, and my scar is an exhibit of mid-20th century surgery.  I know it’s not socially correct for a cultured older gentleman like me to proudly show off his scar as an 8 year old lad might… but I’m catching up on lost joys and enjoying it!

Coming out – about our scars after infant surgery

Many of us feel most comfortable conforming, not drawing attention to ourselves.  Many others pride themselves in being different, “standing out from the pack”.  I envy them!

I very much belong to the first lot: I totally hated my 9 cm (3½”) scar from a pyloric stenosis operation back in 1945 when I was just 10 days old.  My scar shame was quite apart from the symptoms of post-traumatic stress which (as far as I can discover) resulted from the story of my first illness.

This deeply felt sensitivity about my scar was probably not unconnected with the psychological effects on me of the surgery, but it mushroomed when I became conscious of wearing a scar that is “front and centre” and very obvious in the bath and at the beach.  Asking my parents about it clearly unsettled them, further intensifying my own discomfort.

The internet has shown me that my obsessive sense of shame is far from universal among those who have needed infant surgery, and that many flaunt their scar with pride and think up fantastic stories about having been stabbed, or attacked by a shark.

But I have also been greatly comforted to learn that many have felt as I did:  my emotions and inner pain are hardly freakish or unique.

yay1One of the things that has helped me to find peace with myself is the number of people who have used the web to share their own struggle towards the self-acceptance of their disability or disfigurement.  Often their life was much more difficult and their blemish more severe than mine

I have also joined the many who have also gone online to “objectify” their scar: to post a photo of it or of them wearing it in public, empowering us to break through what is very much a self-imposed complex and to see ourselves as others do.

Again and again the posts and comments on social networking sites like Facebook express gratitude at the opportunity to network and share something that in the past was all too often a lonely and endless ache.

For those interested, here are some links to blogs that others and I have found liberating –

Angella Dykstra – Scarred for life

David Fetterman’s story about Father and son

Maggie Van Buskirk’s story

Nathan Long – Forced to fast for peace

Enjoy!  Grow!  Share!

Pyloric stenosis then and now

Medical science has made huge progress in the past century.

  • If I had been born 30 years earlier my infant pyloric stenosis (“PS”) would have given my parents a horrible choice: Submit your long-awaited 10 day old firstborn son for major and horrific surgery (probably without an anesthetic) that killed around 75% of babies, many of shock, blood loss or infection – or see your little one die of thirst and starvation.
  • Modern medicine01My father suffered from mild diphtheria and tuberculosis – diseases that are now virtually unheard of in developed countries.  My family is thankful that Dad does not seem to have been seriously affected.
  • One of my grandmothers was almost blind for the last decade of her life and although my father was able to have his cataracts removed, it meant several days in hospital and wearing thick and heavy glasses for the rest of his life.  My eye problems were solved with three day-surgery procedures: a retinal detachment restored 95% of sight in that eye and my 2 cataracts were replaced by lens implants that make life much easier than having to wear glasses.
  • My mother-in-law had 4 children, then suffered post-natal depression and never recovered, dying at age 90; in this sad and dark condition she had another 5 children.  My wife and I have been able to manage our fertility and enjoy life as well as loving the family we planned.

The several PS Groups’ Pages on Facebook and other internet forum sites (e.g., BabyCenter, MedHelp, PatientUK, and Topix) make it clear that even today, the distress of having a baby with PS does not always end after the scabs from the surgery fall off.  Even in adult life, the long-term effects, although not universal, can be inescapable and extremely troublesome. But just think of the changes from what PS and its surgery were like when the older readers of this post (and their parents, most now passed on) experienced it…

  • General anesthesia, especially for a baby and even today, will always carry a small risk and may still be found to have long-term effects, but it is nevertheless always used and widely regarded as very safe.
  • breastfeeding1PS babies undergoing surgery no longer suffer maternal deprivation: the danger of infection is usually well-managed and hospital rules and staff are no longer as severe as they were.  Mother and baby only need to separate for only an hour or two.  In my case in 1945 it seems to have been some 2 weeks – and both Mum and I continued to feel it.  Today almost all babies can be held and nursed almost immediately after they recover from the operation, and most are cleared to return home within 2 – 3 days.
  • Single port pyloromyotomy scar

    Single port pyloromyotomy scar

    Surgical techniques have improved vastly.  PS surgery once involved an incision which left a scar that grew to an average of 10 cm (4 inches) and usually became quite indented and puckered.  The wound was closed with sutures that left significant additional dimple scars.  No wonder many of the generations who were disfigured by their life-saving surgery took years to come to accept their scar – if ever.  Single port laparoscopic surgery for PS has now become “best practice”: all the work is done through one port (or tube) which is inserted through the navel, and if it is well done and under the right conditions this leaves no visible scarring.

  • Parents and PSers now have access to information, networks and therapies that can help them to understand the physical long-term damage and the psychological and emotional effects that are possible after infant surgery.  When fully effective treatment healing is not possible, the availability of the above help and support will still give many benefits.

This blog, like many of the parents and adult PSers who subscribe to the online forums, wants to see PS becoming more quickly recognised more often, its immediate and long-term after-effects better understood, acknowledged and managed, and not a small number of the medical profession having a much better (more respectful, informative and honest) attitude to PS parents and patients. But I also want to take note of and celebrate the progress that has occurred in important aspects of this condition… in my next post.

“No brain, no pain”? That’s insane!

Can a baby remember trauma experienced in her or his first years?

In times past the answer was an insistent “No”.  Before about 1990 it was commonly believed that because virtually nobody can recall and describe any event from early childhood, be it happy or troubling, a baby makes and keeps no record of anything before what we can later recall and express in words.

This of course sounded very reassuring and comforting!

  • The serious mistakes some parents make when a baby is very young – no memory, no record, no damage.
  • Family, life and health dramas which a little one survives – no need to worry about it affecting baby.
  • Separation from mother, adoption, foster relationships – none of this will harm a little one.
  • Will we have our baby son circumcised “so he looks like his dad”?  “Go ahead, no worries!”
  • My baby needs life-saving surgery but anesthetising a baby is risky – “Just go ahead, she won’t really suffer.”
  • A baby’s screams under the knife upset a young theatre nurse – “Hey, he won’t remember anything.”

Evidence contrary to these soothing assurances must have been as clear and widespread as it is today.  If you dare, just check out one of the YouTube videos on what happens when an infant boy is circumcised without pain control.  Still more amazing to us today is that it was believed by many until recently that babies not only don’t remember pain – they don’t feel it!

Besides this, hospitals until recently were “holy places”, the word “holy” meaning “separated, inaccessible”.  Children under 12 were not allowed to visit, a husband couldn’t support his wife in labour, and the fear of infection meant many patients (even babies) were not visited (or touched) while in hospital.

arrogant doc4The health and medical community was fed these “no brain, no pain” mantras in class and then recited them with the absolute authority and firmness that came with their position, especially in earlier times.  Parents and patients would rarely question a doctor’s word.  Doubts, even those arising from observing the painfully obvious, were dismissed.  And doctors were only challenged by “difficult people”.

This situation was of course possible only in the simpler, more authoritarian, and much less informed times which today’s older generations remember well – but only Gen-X’ers and their seniors!

We must remember that there were few alternatives.  Pediatric medicine as a specialist field was not born until 1950, and even after that time anesthetics and pain control were often “basic” compared with today.  All anesthetics (even today) carry risk, and rendering a child under age 3 unconscious involves some additional and substantial risk factors.  In the past a baby’s surgery and pain relief were usually managed by people who did most of their work on older children and adults, so it is not surprising that general anesthesia was often avoided and that the surgery done with enough skill but often little finesse.

So the “no brain, no pain” mantras of past medical science not only suited the times but also served to help parents to cope better with a lot of the all-too-common dramas of family life, including infant surgery.

These beliefs also fitted well with another feature of those earlier times which many of the older generation may remember but still resent:

  • most parents had little or no understanding of their child’s or their own psychology;
  • children were “to be seen but not heard” and were too often “stonewalled” –“Just go and play!”
  • many parents were reticent to talk about uncomfortable things like inner feelings, painful experiences, and uncomfortable subjects.

Baby unhappy01In 1945 I had an operation when 10 days old to control pyloric stenosis, and the details of that were always kept from me. In other posts I have written about how the sad but understandable ways of the past have affected me and many others who had earlier infant surgery.  They did so in a variety of ways –

  • some were affected and/or traumatised as babies by the relative ignorance, inadequacies and failings of medical science and the hospital regime;
  • others were affected by the mantras I have discussed;
  • others again were disturbed by their parents’ inability to help them understand their story and inner being.

People like the “heroes” I have mentioned or discussed in several of the previous posts have been crucial and foundational in challenging some of the medical world’s beliefs and attitudes of the past.  They have researched the old shibboleths and shown them to be utterly wrong.  They have explained how trauma and pre-verbal memories can affect even tiny babies.  They have worked on effective therapies to manage the damage and bring healing and wholeness.

I am so thankful for these people’s skill, insight, courage and determination.  They have changed many lives very much for the better – including mine.

Recognising and treating the pain of long-ago infant surgery

Early this year saw the passing of someone I have never met but whose work has formed a very important landmark in my life, one I would not like to do without.

Dr Louis Tinnin

Dr Louis Tinnin

Dr Louis Tinnin was an American psychiatrist, therapist, medical school professor and reformer of the care of those affected by mental illness and trauma.  He died of congestive heart failure last February at the age of almost 82 years.  Interested readers can read an obituary online.

In 1992 Lou Tinnin began to research new approaches to the healing of trauma sufferers, and four years later, now retired, he set up the Trauma Recovery Institute (TRI) with his wife Linda Gantt.  This was a clinic based on his findings and new therapies.  In 2006 the TRI was closed and the two set up Intensive Trauma Therapy (ITT), an institute committed to the research of trauma, to its treatment and to training therapists.  Lou and Linda became known as “Ma and Pa Trauma”.

I have posted about Dr Tinnin on this blogsite several times in recent years.  For the countless people like me who have been affected by trauma but are unable to benefit directly from the ITT’s programs, the ITT’s website has been very informative and generous, and it was linked to Dr Lou’s blog – which I’m very grateful is still online.

This blogsite is not a large “read” but is a “must see” for anyone who has had infant surgery, especially if this was before 1990, and if they struggle with mystery symptoms which may have resulted from trauma.

Wendy P Williams is my blogging partner on the effects of infant surgery and the treatment of trauma-caused dis-ease; she has also posted a tribute to Dr Tinnin and it is well-worth reading.

How have I been helped by Dr Tinnin’s work?

Like many others, I developed infant pyloric stenosis (a form of stomach blockage) and had surgery, in my case just 10 days after my birth in 1945.  My parents must have been so traumatised by this that they would never talk about it to me.  Much infant surgery was shockingly crude before the transformational work and writing of Dr K J S Anand in the later 1980s about which I wrote (again) in my previous post.

Anesthetising under 2 year olds was especially hazardous before the advent of current materials and methods, and so doctors were taught and spread the mantra that “babies don’t feel or remember pain”.  It is now known that this rough-and ready surgery is indeed not remembered by the conscious memory, but is recorded as trauma by the sub-conscious or body-memory – in another way and by another part of the brain.

Added to that early operation, I was affected by some 2 weeks of maternal deprivation during the standard recovery period in hospital when mother and babe were kept separated to minimise the risk of infection, and by my growing up with my parents unable or unwilling to help me with my internal turmoil.

How this kind of trauma affects people in their growing and adult years is remarkably typical, and deeply troubling.  I experienced that.  Before the internet made it possible to share stories and compare notes, I and those like me were left to ourselves in isolation, feeling “different”, troubled, even wondering if we were crazy.

1          Dr Louis Tinnin’s blogsite tells of his “search for tell-tale characteristics of adult victims of infant surgery without anesthesia”.  Here at long, long last was a medical doctor who
(a) did not deny the past practice of infant surgery without anesthesia,
(b) described exactly all those troubling feelings and weird hang-ups with which I had struggled for most of my life, and
(c) gave hope: there were therapies, treatments and places where people like me could find a way forward.

2          Dr Louis Tinnin’s blogsite also shows very clearly how he made himself accessible to people like me.  Just look at the 75 comments (to date) below his key post.  His patience, humility and faithfulness in responding to the questions and comments I and others like me had was truly exceptional, in fact unique!  As mentioned in my previous post, in recent years several people have shed valuable light on recovering from old-style and crude infant surgery, but only Lou Tinnin has made himself so available.

Thank you, Lou Tinnin!  We miss you but you have left a legacy that will not be soon forgotten.

Help with adhesions

Adhesions are the Number 1 problem people complain about long after many infant surgeries.  Adhesions are easily top-of-the-list for those who had surgery for infant pyloric stenosis (“PS”), judging by the “visits” to this blogsite and the online forums to which I subscribe.

Recently I corresponded with somebody whose post-PS adhesions were being treated by massage and physical therapy.

After this I was heartened to receive an email from Lawrence J (Larry) Wurn, who developed this treatment together with his wife Belinda; they now head up a network of six clinics in the U.S. offering this treatment.  I also visited their website and read some of the testimonials.  What could I do other than pass on this information that may be life-changing for some of our readers or their family and friends?

WurnLarry-headshot

Larry Wurn

I am deeply touched by your blog.  My physical therapist wife and I started studying adhesions after she underwent surgery and radiation therapy, just before we were married.  A year afterwards, she could not walk, move or breathe without significant pain.

Knowing that surgery would only make her worse, I quit my job, and we began studying adhesions – first in the USA, then attended courses at a French Medical School.

When we were able to cure her, we opened a private physical therapy practice – our only focus is on adhesions.  We were surprised when we found (and published data on the fact) that we could open adhesion-based blocked fallopian tubes.  From there, it was not long until we started opening adhesion-related bowel obstructions, both partial and totally blocked intestines.  We have recently published studies on all of these.  Basically, we pull adhesions apart with our hands, crosslink by crosslink.  It’s a bit like pulling apart the strands of a nylon rope, strand by strand.

Physio Therapist Belinda Wurn treating a "Clear Passage" patient.

Physiotherapist Belinda Wurn treating a “Clear Passage” patient.

I was touched by your blog because we have treated many people who have undergone infant surgery, and the post-treatment results have been very good.  In fact, we recently published a study in which we treated a gentleman whose first surgery was for small bowel obstruction – when he was less than a week old…  In his 70’s, he was still suffering from recurring adhesions and obstructions until we treated him.  We did ‘before and after’ radiology images which showed that we cleared his adhesions and obstructions, using just our hands.  His doctor says he will now no longer need surgeries 🙂

We have now grown into six clinics in the US, from Florida to California.  You are using one of our images [it’s in my first post on adhesions – Ed.]  Your blog is doing a wonderful service.  Check out our site, contact me if you like, and let’s continue to help people overcome their adhesions – hopefully without surgery.

Best wishes,

Larry Wurn

Director of Clinical Studies
Clear Passage Physical Therapy
www.clearpassage.com

In a follow-up email, Larry Wurn added some links that may well be of interest – and appealed for a suitable Australian physiotherapist who may be interested to join his team!

…  I very much appreciate your dedication, your work and your blog, and will check in when I can.

The following links from our website may be useful for some of your readers.  We have quite a bit of information including pages about adhesions, and about treating pain or dysfunction from early surgery.  They can also download free book chapters that explain adhesions by clicking here.

Belinda Wurn at work

Belinda Wurn at work

Regarding early surgery, here’s a link to the study that includes the gentleman we treated at age 69 who suffered complications from two childhood surgeries, and how we treated him non-surgically.  He had bowel obstruction surgery at birth, followed by an appendectomy in early childhood.  The adhesions that formed from these and other surgeries caused problems throughout his life, then became life-threatening (bowel obstructions) in his 60s.

Some day, I would love to train a physiotherapist or osteopath in Australia in our work – we do get patients who fly here to Florida from Australia for therapy.  It would be so much easier for them if I could train a physio in your part of the world.  Would be great if one of your readers could direct one to me.  Best would be a female physio or osteopathic physician, since we also treat adhesion-related female infertility.  Because our work is ‘hands on,’ those female patients sometimes prefer to be treated by another woman.

… Thank you again for your dedication and your life work.

Sincerely,

Larry Wurn