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Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 889e896

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Social Science & Medicine

journal homepage: www.elsevier.com/locate/socscimed

A disorder of anger and aggression: Children’s perspectives on attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder in the UK

Ilina Singh London School of Economics and Political Science, BIOS Research Centre, London, UK

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 18 May 2011

Keywords: United Kingdom Attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder ADHD Diagnosis Stigma Aggression Bullying Mental capital Children

E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536 � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.03.049

Open access under CC BY

a b s t r a c t

This article investigates the social and moral dimensions of Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) diagnosis, asking what ADHD means in UK children’s everyday lives, and what children do with this diagnosis. Drawing on interviews with over 150 children, the analysis examines the influence of a UK state school-based culture of aggression on the form and intensity of diagnosed children’s difficulties with behavioral self-control. Diagnosed children’s mobilization of ADHD behaviors and their exploitation of the diagnosis shows how children’s active moral agency can support and compromise cognitive, behavioral and social resilience. The findings support a proposal for a complex sociological model of ADHD diagnosis and demonstrate the relevance of this model for national policy initiatives related to mental health and wellbeing in children.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. Open access under CC BY license.

Introduction

Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) has been a ‘hot’ sociological and ethical topic now for over a decade. The ambiguity of core symptoms e inattention, hyperactivity and impulsiveness e the international inconsistency of diagnostic processes and guidelines, and the growing global use of psycho- tropic drugs to treat ADHD mean that this disorder remains one of the world’s most debated childhood psychiatric diagnoses. A controversial but authoritative meta-analysis of ADHD preva- lence rates by geographic region estimates that the world-wide prevalence of ADHD is approximately 5% of school age children. By this estimate ADHD is the most common child psychiatric disorder in the world (Polancyck et al., 2007).

In the increasingly intersecting literatures of sociology and bioethics, the debate over ADHD has covered a range of themes, including medicalization (Conrad, 1976), neurochemistry and identity (Rose, 2007), the DSM (Kirk and Kutchins 2003), big pharma (Healy, 2002), and neuroenhancement (President’s Council Report, 2003). This is a diverse but distinguished literature, in which ADHD generally serves as a case study illustrating potential social and ethical consequences of psychiatric diagnosis and treatments; or macro-level analyses of corporate, governmental

license.

and institutional interactions that inhere in the take up of psychi- atric diagnosis and drug treatments.

These analytic approaches make substantial contributions in their own right. However, they frequently misrepresent the phenomenological ground of ADHD, and bracket discussion of its biological dimensions. Although there have been important efforts to deal theoretically with the biological dimensions of complex human behaviors in sociology (eg Hacking, 1999; Horwitz, 2002; Rose, 2007), neither bioethics nor sociology has yet managed to fully take on the complexity of ADHD that is now widely accepted in the world of developmental and clinical child psychiatry (Singh, 2008). Here, ADHD is a ‘complex heterogeneous disorder’ charac- terized by different gene-environment-gene pathways (eg Sonuga- Barke, 2005). But in sociology and bioethics, ADHD is still surrounded by a discourse of suspicion fueled by worries about social construction and medicalization.

Recent health economic data indicates that ADHD diagnoses are increasing rapidly around the globe, a phenomenon which offers rich opportunities to diversify and to localize analyses of ADHD diagnosis (Scheffler, Hinshaw, Modrek, & Levine, 2007). But inter- national sociological perspectives on ADHD offer little relief from the discourse of suspicion; indeed, in the few published analyses of ADHD in non-US contexts, there is much analysis of medicalization, biopower, and the role of schooling in fostering medicalization (eg Graham, 2008; Johnanesson, 2006; Maturo, 2009; Timimi, 2009; Vega Balbas, 2007). There is little attention to ADHD as a lived

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experience in local contexts, or consideration of how interactions between individual biology and particular environmental inputs might give shape and meaning to symptomatic behaviors, and to the success of interventions. This is a significant gap in the litera- ture on ADHD especially, given that children carry this diagnosis in the midst of complex and highly contested social, political and medical territories. The phenomenology of diagnosis is likely to contribute important insights to some very basic concerns about the consequences of diagnosis for children’s overall wellbeing.

As Margaret Lock’s seminal work has shown, analyses of ‘local biology’ (Lock, 2001) problematize assumptions about universal, natural health phenomena without falling back into dichotomous nature-nurture arguments. Understanding the dialectic between features of particular contexts and biological dispositions also has significant policy implications, in the sense that knowing more about how this dialectic contributes to behavioral outcomes can help guide interventions to promote children’s overall functioning and wellbeing in particular social and cultural contexts. A further value of attention to this dialectic is that is opens up the possibility of children’s agency and resilience in the face of state and institutional practices. Most of the sociological and bioethics literature on ADHD diagnosis paradoxically silences children, even while arguing for their liberty, because children’s experiences and voices hardly ever enter the frame. From this position, children are made ‘docile bodies’ (Foucault, 1975) ripe for both intellectual and clinical manipulation.

This docility has also meant that analysis of the moral dimen- sions of diagnosis e which have been articulated in the sociological literature through important concepts like labeling theory, stigma and analyses of agency (eg Goffman, 1961; Scheff, 1974) - has ten- ded not to integrate children’s lived experiences of ADHD. Indeed analyses of the moral subjectivities of diagnosed children have to a great extent bracketed the possibility of children’s active nego- tiation of stigma, labeling and agency. Less surprisingly, the bioethics literature on the moral dimensions of ADHD diagnosis has similarly avoided discussion of children’s lived experiences, drawing instead on autonomy arguments to articulate the dangers of learning behavioral self-control via a diagnosis that reduces self- control to biology and offers a pill to force children into obedience with social norms (Fukuyama, 2002).

As I have argued elsewhere, analyses of the moral dimensions of ADHD diagnosis that include no understanding of how children live with ADHD are inevitably short-sighted (Singh, 2005). As a growing number of ethicists and sociologists argue, morality is “essentially social” (Lindemann, 2010), and “our capacities for moral judgment do not track truths in the world independent of us.” (Walker, 2009:2). The development of moral subjectivity “emerge(s) in the context of relations to others” (Butler, 2005:20). Self-control, which is the key behavioral node in ADHD diagnosis (Barkley, 1997), is arguably also a central mechanism of moral capacity, and essential to moral agency. If we theorize the capacity for self-control to emerge out of a negoti- ation between biological dispositions and social factors, then there can be no good understanding of the moral dimensions of ADHD diagnosis without empirical research among children.

The analysis in this article is informed by an empirical bioethics approach, which integrates the empirical and theoretical tools of social science with bioethical concerns (Haimes, 2002) in order to deepen and to specify analyses of the social and ethical impacts of biomedical styles of thought and biomedical technologies in context. Two major questions organize the analytic sections in this article: What do ADHD diagnosis and symptomatic behaviors mean in the spaces and relationships that make up children’s everyday lives; and, what do children do with an ADHD diagnosis, and how do the spaces they inhabit e physical spaces, social spaces and national spaces e help to create and to constrain those possibili- ties? I am specifically interested in uncovering the social and moral

dimensions of ADHD diagnosis, as manifested in the interplay of self-control, stigma and agency. In the concluding sections I use the empirical findings presented to propose a childeenvironment interaction model of ADHD diagnosis, and I demonstrate the importance of this model for UK policy.

The attention to ADHD diagnosis in this article complements two smaller studies that focused primarily on the implications of stimulant drug treatments for UK children (Singh, 2007; Singh, Kendall, Taylor, & et al, 2010). By putting children’s experiences in the analytic center, this body of work contributes to a process of, in effect, de-victimization of children diagnosed with ADHD, and allows for discovery of where children are truly vulnerable in relation to ADHD diagnosis, and where they are resilient.

The VOICES study and research methods

The experiences of children described in this article were gathered as part of the VOICES study, an international project broadly interested in the social and ethical impacts of ADHD diagnosis and stimulant drug treatments for children. Between 2007e2010 the research team interviewed over 150 children ages 9e14 in the US and the UK. Children fell into one of three groups: children diagnosed with ADHD and treated with stimulants; chil- dren diagnosed with ADHD but not taking stimulants; and children without a psychiatric diagnosis.

Diagnosed children were recruited via university clinics in the US, and NHS Trusts in the UK; efforts were made in both countries to achieve geographic variety, within the limits imposed by time and budget considerations. Children without a psychiatric diag- nosis were recruited using a variety of methods, including news- paper adverts, a market research company, posting flyers in schools and libraries, and word of mouth. We matched children broadly by age, gender and socio-economic status (measured using the Hol- lingshead 2-factor index of social position (Hollingshead, 1957)) within and across national cohorts, but we were unable to obtain matches for all the girls in the study, due to difficulties identifying and recruiting UK girls into the study.

We recruited children through clinics and physicians because we wanted to achieve a group of diagnosed children whose diag- noses were of a high standard e quite possibly higher than in a non- clinically recruited cohort. Still, the resulting group of diagnosed children represented behavioral difficulties across a spectrum of intensity and impairment, thus verifying many clinical researchers’ claims that ADHD is a heterogeneous and dimensional disorder. Ethics approvals were obtained in the UK through the NHS Clinical Research Ethics Committee and in the US through relevant university IRBs (Institutional Review Boards).

Methods and data analysis in the VOICES study were in- formed by Urie Bronfenbrenner’s model of the ecological niche (Bronfenbrenner, 1979). The model suggests that children’s behav- ioral development must be seen as a fundamentally situated and relational process inwhich there is an ongoing and mutual process of shaping and of transformation between child actors and their immediate and proximal social and physical spaces.

Data collection, analysis and management strategies aimed at collecting sufficient information on each child to enable building an accurate portrait of the child and his or her ecological niche. In addition to interviewing children, the research team spoke to many parents, clinicians and teachers. We visited parent support groups, schools and clinics, both to give talks and to learn from the people present. Notes of these discussions were taken, and questions and comments were sometimes followed up in the case of discussions with professionals. Information about local services and commu- nities was gathered during these conversations, as well as by site visits, and visits to children’s homes and neighborhoods.

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Parents filled out standardized questionnaires about their child’s behavior and diagnosis; and completed a demographic questionnaire. Children filled out the Harter’s Self-Perception Questionnaire at the end of the interview (Harter, 1985) which provided a quantitative account of a subset of the topics raised in the qualitative interviews.

Children took part in a one hour, semi-structured one-on-one interview, which was comprised of questions, a guided drawing task, a vignette, standardized pictures, a sorting task and sentence completions. All these elements were intended to prompt and guide conversation with children around different topics; the interview guide had been developed during a pilot study (Singh, 2007).

In all, four different female interviewers conducted the inter- views in this study, thus diversifying the researcher-participant dynamics and contributing to the reliability of findings. Inter- viewers received training and were observed conducting at least two early interviews in order to ensure that they had a compre- hensive understanding of the tasks and questions outlined in the semi-structured questionnaire. Interviews were digitally recorded and transcribed using a transcription service; standardized ques- tionnaires were coded following manualized instructions and will not be discussed in this article. Each interview was read several times and then coded thematically by the primary investigator. Themes were further broken down into categories, and the rela- tionships among categories were specified (Strauss & Corbin,1990). An integrated approach (Bradley, Curry, & Devers, 2007) was used to develop both a ground-up coding frame, and a deductive ‘orga- nizing framework’ for the kinds of codes used. A coding frame had been drawn up earlier, and discussed in a team of 3 other coders (none of whom had conducted interviews in the study) who each coded the same 6 transcripts independently. This process allowed for the verification and differentiation of codes through group discussion, and resulted in a coding frame that achieved high standards of agreement and transparency (Miles & Huberman, 1994). NVIVO and SPSS were used to manage the data streams.

ADHD in the UK

By the end of the VOICES study, each folder on a child participant included the qualitative and quantitative data, notes on discussions with the child’s caregivers, any notes taken during or after the inter- view, and any relevant memos. For a subset of children we inter- viewed, this material was transformed into a case presentation, with an introduction crafted from the qualitative information we received, and a narrative of the child’s experience, using the child’s words as recorded at different points during the interview. To illustrate key characteristics of a dominant ecological niche we encountered in the UK, as well as common experiences of children within this niche, I present an abbreviated version of such a case below.

Shaun

Shaun lives in a large village on the outskirts of a city in the middle of England, with his mother and father and two younger siblings. He is 12 years old, White, lower-middle class (Class III as measured by the Hollingshead index), and attends a state school. Shaun was diagnosed by a consultant psychiatrist with ADHD three years ago, and he has been taking extended release Concerta for the past 2 ½ years. Shaun’s mother gives him Omega-3 supplements and has experimented with dietary modifications to manage his symptomatic behaviors.

ADHD is like behavior, just anger, like, temper; it’s like sometimes I feel really cross with other people and I just want to go lashing, lashing out. I’ll like kick or punch kids. [Other kids at school] know

they can wind me up easily so they do it again and again and I can’t walk away that easy. [My dad says] not to throw the first punch, but if I get punched, I have to fight back. Teachers are not effective. They don’t help. They’re always shouting, but no one listens to them.about half of them forget that you’ve actually got ADHD when you’re in their classroom. My mates look out for me. If I’m running toward somebody they would either tackle me or hold me down or something. That’s what good mates do for each other. They know what I’m like. I’ll see them after school sometimes. Depends on whether I think I should do my homework. [My friends and I] play X-box and sometimes we’ll get out to a field to play footy.

To understand Shaun in the context of the ecological niche model, it is important not to focus solely on his demographic char- acteristics, eg. ethnicity, social class and gender. Shaun represents a dominant ecological niche rather than a dominant type of indi- vidual child, and individual demographic variables do not define the niche. Family, neighborhood and broader social dynamics are equally important to understanding an ecological niche.

Family and community From the perspective of the children we interviewed, even larger

village neighborhoods like Shaun’s are still rather intimate geographic and social settings. Children are more likely to be allowed to walk or bike the streets in order to get from one place to another; and they have access to local parks, high streets and playgrounds to hang out. We often hear about visits with grand- parents and other relatives, or that relatives regularly help with childcare. Reports on familyand community life from children in our study find support in larger studies, which document a continuing active exchange of support within the extended UK family and suggest that ‘the character of family life and of the relationships’ within UK communities has remained largely unchanged in 40 years (Charles, Davies, & Harris, 2008, xii).

Such intimacy and support can be beneficial for a child’s feeling of safety and belonging in a community. However, it also reflects a problem of low social mobility within UK society (Aldridge, 2003); and correspondingly low aspirations for social mobility among some young people (Nunn, Johnson, Monro, Bickerstaffe, & Kelsey, 2007). University attendance e which often generates both geographic and social mobility e is not considered the natural next step after secondary school if parents do not have a network of university-educated peers (Morris & Rutt, 2005). Shaun’s mother attended the same high school that he now attends; and his father attended high school in the next town. Neither of Shaun’s parents attended university. Shaun is also unlikely to attend university, although he will probably go on several courses in order to receive certifications necessary for skilled work and he may one day own his own business, like his father does.

Schools The relative lack of academic aspiration, combined with the

relative lack of social movement within Shaun’s ecological niche, means that longstanding social patterns are more difficult to shift, even if they are not encouraging individual and social flourishing. Schools, as repositories for community values, can have embedded negative social patterns (Sutton, Smith, Deardon, & Middleton, 2007). At least this is one way of understanding the pervasive and apparently pernicious presence of a state school-based culture of aggression we hear about from children like Shaun:

I got in a fight with someone and gave him a nosebleed because. I was in PE and I think someone was taking the mickey out of a kid [making fun of him] and I thought it was me. so I decided to punch him.at my last school that happened most days. Lionel, age 12

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Parents who struggled through the same schooling system tell us that they feel little agency in tackling these negative social patterns; but they do instruct their children on the rules of engagement:

My dad was like my age, he got in a fight and got kicked in his privates so bad that he needed an operation. Last week this boy did the same to me but not as bad. My dad says don’t start a fight but fight back if you get hit. Aaron, age 12

Bullying is widely reported to us by children in UK state schools. In our interviews bullying includes fighting, name-calling, pushing, shoving, stealing and ridiculing; it takes place in person or on the internet (cyber-bullying). About three-quarters of the diagnosed children we meet have been involved in physical fights at school, either as aggressor or as victim, or in both roles. Being a girl does not protect against bullying involving physical aggression; indeed, several of the diagnosed girls we meet in the UK have been severely bullied but are also aggressive.

[This boy] he keeps pushing me, pushing me to be, make me angry. And he hits me, he bribes me, he takes money from me. He does anything to annoy me. He knows I’m easy to wind up and he knows I’m easy to get my anger up. I just start hitting him like he hits me. Charlotte, age 11

The experiences of children in the VOICES study intersect with national trends. Bullying has been a key UK national health and education policy agenda item for at least the past decade, but there are no official government statistics on the problem and national survey data is sparse, contentious, and limited in scope. The Tack- ling Bullying Report, which in 2003 surveyed just over 1000 students, found that 51% of Year 5 students (ages 9e10) and 28% of Year 8 students (ages 12e13) experience bullying during a school term. A substantial proportion of students in both age groups report bullying involving physical aggression, including pushing, hitting and kicking. Among Year 8 children, bullying is less frequent, but experiences of physical aggression as part of bullying are more common. The survey found no significant differences between male and female students in terms of frequency of bullying, although it found that reports of psychological bullying were higher among girls (Oliver & Candappa, 2003).

A further peculiar and troubling feature of the culture of aggression in UK state schools is that it extends into the classroom, where it can involve teachers. An occasionally harsh, disengaged teaching style in state schools is targeted in recent policies that aim to transform UK schools into a less conflict-oriented, less punitive culture (Layard & Dunn, 2009). At the same time, the UK govern- ment has recently sanctioned the use of force on disruptive pupils by teachers, in an effort to provide teachers with more tools to manage what are viewed as unacceptably high levels of ‘violence’ in state schools (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/6519455.stm). In the course of our interviews, children without diagnoses of ADHD frequently comment negatively on the extent to which loud arguments between teachers and ‘naughty’ or ‘rude’ children take up teachers’ energies:

There’s kids that just do really rude stuff, like arguing with teachers. they’ll just do it for fun, or to get people wound up, like attention seekers. There’s a lot of shouting. Luka, age 13

I wish people would notice that I’m, like, behaving well, but most people concentrate on bad behavior. Like teachers.they are too busy sorting out the naughty kids. Salma, age 10

For children with ADHD diagnoses, shouted arguments with teachers are an everyday experience:

It’snormalforkidstogetupsetandshoutatteachers.Nicholas,age14

My teacher shouts quite a lot. It’s a bit scary. Pablo, age 11

I get stood up in front of the class and well, stand there, and he start shouting at me. Jared, age 11

In such classrooms, ADHD behaviors become part of an ongoing struggle between students and teachers over appro- priate behaviors, with students alleging that teachers behave in ways that are disrespectful, aggressive, and out of control, leaving them little incentive to manage their own behaviors. Indeed, the intense focus on negative behaviors in UK state school classrooms may mean that behavior, not learning or academic performance, becomes children’s primary concern. Children like Salma, who are well behaved, feel ignored. Diag- nosed children feel overwhelmed with loud, aggressive negative attention; they too long for praise for good behavior. As Shaun puts it, good academic performance under these circumstances is not a priority; it’s ‘a bonus’:

I feel good about my behavior if I’d been, like, good all that time and if someone’s like rewarded me at school, like and said how good I am, or they write on their own to my parents saying how good I’ve been, something like that would make my day. It’s just like normal praise really. Like if I do good on tests and everything that is a bonus, but if I’ve been good because I’ve not been, like, disrupting or anything all day, because I’ve controlled my ADHD, that’s like, even better.

Like many diagnosed UK children we interviewed, Shaun even responds to a question about his future aspirations in terms of behavior:

In the future I guess I want to be less naughty.

UK children with ADHD diagnoses, who share the key charac- teristics of Shaun’s ecological niche, worry less about doing well and more about behaving well. As a point of comparison, doing well is a primary preoccupation in a dominant ecological niche repre- sented in our US sample. This is a performance-focused niche in which children infrequently experience physical or verbal aggres- sion from school peers or teachers, due in part to institutional prohibitions on such behaviors. These US children tend to view ADHD in terms of academic performance, associate good behavior with good grades, and they generally answer future-oriented questions in terms of their professional aspirations:

In the future I, like, umm, I want to be a chef. Graham, age 11

While it is possible to associate academic aspirations and levels of aggressive behavior in schools with social class, the overall niche ‘ethos’ seems more important to children’s experiences of ADHD behaviors, and to the expression of these behaviors, than any single demographic variable. For example, in a different US ecological niche, where economic and familial resources are more scarce and there are limited supports in place for young people, children report higher levels of aggressive behavior and bullying among peers and in schools. Children in these niches are more likely to experience their ADHD behaviors in the context of aggressive altercations. Still, in our limited sample, children from such US niches also reference the importance of school performance and future aspirations in relation to their ADHD behaviors.

Similarly, UK students inhabiting well resourced, highly educated niches are more likely to mention the importance of school performance when discussing their ADHD behaviors. However, the small number of students we interviewed from such niches also report regular incidents of bullying and some

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participation in aggressive altercations at school. These students interpret their ADHD behaviors in light of these experiences, as well as in relation to academic performance expectations.

‘Wound up’: A disorder of anger and aggression

A cultural pattern of bullying and aggression in UK state schools (Cawson, Wattam, Brooker, & Kelly, 2000) provides a social channel for expression of a child’s difficulties with self-control, such that ADHD is widely known by its colloquial definition: ‘anger.’ Among UK school children, ‘anger’ in relation to ADHD does not refer to an experience of feeling outraged in response to a real or imagined injustice. Instead, ‘anger’ refers to a struggle with self-control in aggressive situations. A poorly controlled short fuse is probably the most common understanding of ADHD that we encountered in the UK; and children who exhibit apparently uncontrolled aggressive behaviors will be suspected of having ADHD by other children.

IthinkIknowonepersoninmyschoolwhohasADHD. He’s a bit mad, like, he gets really angry.. He like, if somebody teases him.he like, he can’t get it out of his head. He jumps on people’s backs and squeezes the backs of their necks. Olli, no diagnosis, age 10

Children with ADHD diagnoses also experience their disorder in terms of poor self-control in response to taunts:

At birthday parties I think, ‘well I’m a normal person like everyone else’. But then when someone’s being horrible to me that’s when I know that I’ve got it. because I get wound up so easily. My heart starts to beat faster and like I go red and clench my fists. Char- lotte, age 11

It is significant that ADHD is associated with a lack of emotional self-control in the UK. ‘Anger’ is, after all, not a behavior. This lack of control over emotions is arguably the most stigmatizing dimension of UK ADHD, in part because emotional self-control is highly valued in the UK. Children’s implicit understanding of the value of self- control is illustrated by a common, and unique (as compared to US children) experience among UK children with ADHD diagnoses: Other children go out of their way to ‘wind them up.’ The game is to get children known for having a short fuse to lose control and start fighting:

Because I told [peers] about my ADHD, they thought if they could wind me up I’d get really upset and they love to do that. I thought if I just ignored it then they would get really bored of doing it and stop. But they didn’t. [Teachers don’t help]. They just say ignore it.[They] know what I’m like but I don’t think they really know how hard it is for me to cope. Heidi, age 11

While bullying involving some level of physical aggression is common in UK schools, children with a diagnosis of ADHD are especially likely to be drawn into aggressive altercations, more often as victims but also as victimizers. Not only are they more likely to be drawn into these situations, they are also more likely to experience a distressingly rapid escalation of anger and loss of self- control in the process. It is this loss of self-control e rather than aggressive behavior per say e that marks diagnosed children, both to others, and, as Charlotte says above, to themselves.1

This interplay of individual behavioral dispositions and envi- ronmental factors may also explain why ADHD symptoms in the UK are such an intensely e and again uniquely, as compared to most US

1 In my experience, UK clinicians readily recognize how a school-based culture of aggression complicates understanding of children diagnosed with ADHD. The ‘naughty child’ stereotype is widely seen to undermine the validity of ADHD diagnosis in the UK.

children e somatic experience. UK children are often quite literally engaged in fight or flight scenarios:

My brain beats really fast and that’s why I mess around and get in fights. I get really bad headaches when it’s happening. It’s not meant to go that fast. Simon, age 9

My body starts feeling really rough and hot. it feels sort of really aggressive. Laurence, age 10

When I’m angry my body feels like it’s going to explode. I just go around hitting anything I see. James, age 11

Among UK children occupying a dominant ecological niche, ADHD is not just a cognitive problem of focus and attention, it is a significantly impairing, highly somatized difficulty with self- control in the context of an actively hostile environment. But despite the stigmatizing association of ADHD diagnosis with uncontrolled anger and aggression, diagnosed children should not be seen as victims of their environment e or of their poor capacity for self-control. In the next section I turn to an investigation of what children do with an ADHD diagnosis e specifically, how diagnosed children negotiate moral agency in the complex terrain of the UK school playground.

ADHD on the playground: engaging and avoiding fights

Self-control and moral obligations

UK children learn most of what they understand about their ADHD diagnosis on the school playground. Here children are left largely to their own devices when encountering and resolving conflicts; children tell us that there is little direct supervision by teachers while they are outside, and teachers who are there appear powerless or unwilling to interfere with bullying and aggression:

I’ll go and tell a teacher but the teacher says, ‘You keep telling us and it’s getting annoying.’ So there’s nothing really very much we can do. So it really just leaves us to sort it out. And then it just sorts it out over a fight. Ned, age 12

In the absence of strong normative limits on interpersonal behavior, children depend on friendships to resolve playground conflicts. Because of their difficulty with self-control, children with ADHD rely particularly on their friends to stand up for them in a fight, or to talk them down from one:

[My friends will] jump on me and hold my arms back and just restrain me, a bit. And in the end I just end up just calming down. but sometimes I can’t and I break away. Pat, age 11

The frequency with which UK children reference the importance of friendships in helping them manage their behavior suggests the extent to which behavioral self-control, in reality, is rarely a matter of autonomous decision-making on UK school playgrounds. Sometimes fights can be prevented. Sometimes they cannot be. It depends on medication. It depends on mood. But it depends most heavily on friendships; and on what the bullies say.

Sometimes what the bullies say means that it’s not possible to avoid fighting. If the bullies say, You’re a twat and your mum’s got a big fat ass; or if they say, What’s wrong little boy? Are you upset that your mum is dead? then a boy must fight; he has no choice. Girls do not seem beholden to this particular rule of engagement. For boys, however, mothers are off limits; and invoking her triggers a moral obligation to fight. This is true even if boys do not have good relationships with their mothers: I don’t let anyone curse her off; only I’m allowed to. All boys know this, so if winding up a boy with ‘anger problems’ is not working, this will be the final resort. Even

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boys who know they would end up on the worst end of a fight, or those who hate fighting, will fight under these circumstances, and hope that their friends will come to their defense.

Mobilizing ADHD diagnosis

Children with ADHD diagnoses do not just rely on their mates to come to their assistance in conflict situations. They also actively protect their friends. Although an ADHD diagnosis can invite bullying, we frequently hear that children use ADHD diagnosis to help avoid fights and protect friends:

If they’re really bothering me, or bothering one of my mates, I’ll just go into my ADHD. I’ll flip on them and get really scary. They know not to mess with me; they know I’ll go mental and really hurt someone. Lionel, age 11

When a child ‘goes into his ADHD’ he consciously inhabits the label and mobilizes the behavioral and the social resources of the diagnosis. Lionel himself exploits the stigma of ADHD, and he draws upon his somatic capacity to ‘go mental’ and ‘to flip.’ He hopes the result will be that he and his friends will be left alone.

Such conscious habitation of the ADHD label by children tells us that tools such as ADHD diagnosis, developed to help manage and make sense of unruly and unproductive biology, are not hegemonic over identity or, indeed, over somatic experience. In fact I would argue that in the UK, children with ADHD diagnoses currently come to know and to control their behavior not primarily through the language, or even the tools, of psychiatry, neuroscience and genetics, but through the moral obligations conferred upon them by the bonds of friendship and loyalty. Those bonds are a primary motivation, and a primary vehicle, for modulating their capacity for self-control:

My mates look out for me. If I’m running toward somebody they would either tackle me or hold me down or something. That’s what goodmatesdo foreach other. They know what I’m like. Shaun, age 12

Under this ‘relational regime,’ the reflexive space is open to moral decision-making that is motivated by care for self and others, and by relationally-informed ideals of justice. In this space, children with ADHD can mobilize self-control creatively to resolve play- ground conflicts without aggression, and to protect friends:

I had a mate who was always getting picked on, and you know, he wasn’t really strong enough to fight so I would like go in there and use my ADHD to get them to leave him alone. Aaron, age 12

Mobilizing ADHD in this way is prosocial; it fosters bonds between children who then ‘have each other’s backs’; they watch out for each other. Indeed, Aaron reminds us that excusing an individual child for aggressive behaviors on the basis of reduced capacity for self-control elides the social and relational processes that both incite and help to prevent that child from fighting. Self- control is indeed a finely tuned interaction between individual and environmental factors; and among UK school children, friendships help children make a mental space for moral deliber- ation, discover their moral and behavioral boundaries, and estab- lish a framework for social justice.

Exploiting ADHD diagnosis

Playing up the stigma of ADHD diagnosis is a double-edged sword: when used for prosocial ends it is a positive form of agency; when used for selfish ends, it ultimately diminishes agency. UK children report exploiting their ADHD diagnosis, primarily as an excuse for bad behavior:

I don’t get punished for nothing. It’s easy to get away after fights because I have ADHD. I just make puppy eyes and it gets me round everything with my teachers. Alan, age 10

Unlike US children, who rarely admit to using ADHD as an excuse for their behavior (because they believe it is wrong, but also because niche dynamics strongly encourage them to keep their diagnosis a secret), almost all UK children say they have used ADHD as an excuse. Frequently, it works, at least to a degree. From chil- dren’s perspectives, many teachers and headmasters seem to have categorical views about ADHD: either they believe the disorder is not real and they make no allowances for a child with ADHD; or they believe it is real and excuse diagnosed children’s aggressive behaviors (but fail to enact effective educational supports for the child). Children report that school personnel tell other children to stay away from them because they have ADHD, and they give lesser punishments to students with ADHD diagnoses.

Children have ambivalent feelings about the practice of ADHD exploitation: they are glad for the opportunity to get out of punishments, but they know this practice encourages the narrow, stigmatizing conflation of ADHD, anger, and aggression: The head- master just thinks ADHD means we’re violent. These ambivalent feelings are one reason why some children do not want to tell their friends about their disorder. Laurence explains:

I’m afraid that if I tell my friends about ADHD they’ll use it as an excuse to like, help me get off after fights or something. But maybe I could control how I behaved. Laurence, age 10

As Laurence suggests, the more ADHD is socially available as an excuse for behaviors, the less control a child with ADHD has over how he is seen, and indeed, how he sees himself. Even well- meaning friends threaten a child’s capacity for self-determination when they use ADHD as an excuse on his behalf. Exploiting ADHD fuels the short fuse stereotype, and may encourage a rather remarkable social phenomenon we encountered several times at particularly ‘hard’ schools – ADHD-adoption:

Yeah, I have like told people I got ADHD cos it makes them leave you alone. They’re nervous that you might really hurt them if you get wound up. Paul, age 13, no diagnosis

ADHD-adoption is when undiagnosed children spread the word that they have ADHD in order to build up their personal armament against harassment, thereby further instantiating the stereotype. In the process, ‘real’ ADHD is increasingly diluted in meaning and in value, while the short fuse stereotype is empowered.

Children with ADHD diagnoses complain that .kids will just pretend that they have [ADHD] to get out of stuff. Such pretense also means that teachers’ suspicions about the validity of ADHD diagnoses have traction, given that ADHD is actually being used as an excuse by children who do not have a diagnosis. The practices of ADHD- adoption and ADHD exploitation translate into a perpetual discourse of suspicion in some UK schools, about who might have ADHD, whether diagnosed or undiagnosed, and who might be pre- tending to have it. It is difficult for children to know the true diag- nostic status of other children in the school, even though many children are forthcoming about their diagnoses with other children. As Freddy, age 11, says: My friend says he has it [ADHD] too but I’m not really sure that he’s telling the truth. Maybe he just thinks he has it.

What is ADHD?

Given the controversy over the validity of the ADHD diagnosis, it is tempting to argue that this presentation of what ADHD means in the UK, and children’s exploitation and mobilization of those meanings, suggests that ADHD diagnosis represents not a ‘real’

I. Singh / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 889e896 895

disorder but rather a de-valued set of behaviors. For example, one might say that in a context where self-control in response to aggressive situations is highly valued, a lack of self-control is more likely to be interpreted as a disorder e just as in contexts where school success is highly valued, poor school performance is more likely to be interpreted as a disorder (a common critique of ADHD diagnosis in the US).

A further objection to the validity of ADHD diagnosis based on the data presented in this article, could be that in a different context, the aggressive behaviors of UK children would be associ- ated not with ADHD but with Conduct Disorder (in the US, for example), or with heroism (in ancient Greece, for example). This too suggests that ADHD does not refer to a stable, universal disorder; rather it is a convenient catch-all category.

I take it as a given that behavioral interpretation is to some extent culturally relative and that diagnostic practices index social values. But this does not necessarily invalidate ADHD diagnosis; it does mean that diagnostic practices should pay close attention to the environment and acknowledge, in a systematic and reflexive way, the substantial traces of context and culture that behavioral interpretation, and behavior itself, carry. To assist this, sociological models of diagnosis should move beyond reductive arguments that locate disorder either in the child or in the environment, towards more complex models that allow for the interplay between the two, and view diagnosis as part of that interplay, not separate from it.

The discussion in this article suggests the following model: A child’s difficulty with behavioral self-control finds its expres- sion in, is shaped by, and gives shape to, a normative behavioral channel. In the UK state school environment, one of these channels is aggression, which can intensify symptomatic behav- iors and can inspire behaviors in diagnosed children that inflame the environment. Clearly environment plays a critical role in shaping children’s behavioral capacities e and children’s behav- iors in turn shape the environment. In a modal US school envi- ronment, where peer aggression is low but pressure to perform well in school is higher, we found that difficulties with self- control were more likely to be expressed in the context of a ‘performance’ channel.

Identifyingthese channelsin themodelilluminates theembodied nature of symptomatic behaviors themselves and suggests why a difficulty with self-control can look behaviorally (and feel) quite different across different contexts. For example, recent research in the US suggests the presence of another channel through which a difficulty with behavioral self-control can be expressed: food. In a US population study, ADHD symptoms were associated with an increased risk of obesity (Fuemmeler et al, 2010). Presumably further sociological investigation of the ‘food channel’ would highlight the role of social and cultural factors in the work this channel does to engage behavioral dispositions and environmental factors and to help shape a distinctive phenotype.

Even this primitive articulation of the ‘channel model’ motivates more comprehensive thinking about intervention. A diagnosis of psychiatric disorder is meant to predict course and outcome, and to suggest the best treatment. If ADHD diagnosis refers to patterned relationships between behavioral dispositions and environmental factors, then it is possible to ask where early interventions and treatment should focus. What needs adjusting in order to ensure good outcomes? A child-focused model of ADHD often closes off environmental avenues of intervention and implies a causal logic that propels a series of psychotropic drug treatments. Children tell us that drug treatments work, at least in the earlier stages of treatment. But treatment adherence and effectiveness would surely be amplified if physicians were given more resources and incen- tives to also facilitate relevant environmental adjustments by working, in the UK example, with families and schools.

Conclusion: policy matters

Moving to a sociologically informed model of ADHD is impor- tant in the UK. Recently, a conceptually coordinated series of UK policy reports has framed ADHD specifically as a deficit in ‘self- regulation skills’ and as a threat to national prosperity:

[ADHD] produces an estimated lifetime earnings cost of £43,000, suggesting that substantial benefits would accrue to the individual (and to the economy) from interventions that would reduce these problems. (Foresight Report on Mental Capital & Wellbeing, 2009:101)

Painting a picture of a generation of alienated, unmotivated and anti-social youth, these UK policy reports focus on ‘character’ building as a necessary component of interventions. Character development is seen as part of the science of cognitive develop- ment, and not a moral issue: ‘character represents a set of life skills rather than a moral disposition’. (Lexmond & Reeves:2009:12)

As this article has shown, for many UK children self-regulation is not only a cognitive skill but also a moral behavior; and a child’s cognitive and behavioral capabilities e and thereby his moral potential - are intimately linked to relational obligations. Indeed, these obligations can motivate behavioral self-control: children report making a priori decisions to fight when morally obliged, and they report mobilizing their ADHD to avoid fighting in conflict situations. It is important that policy interventions capitalize on the available social mechanisms that potentiate children’s ‘character capabilities’. This route of capitalization is more likely to inspire behavioral change within communities by encouraging children to build on their capacity for agency, and their social and moral wisdom. At the same time, policy-makers should work to dismantle the school-based culture of aggression that is arguably a generative, and surely a sustaining ground for UK-style ADHD: a disorder of anger and aggression.

The symptoms of ADHD do not emerge, grow and take shape solely, or even predominantly, as a consequence of primary bio- logical deficits. The tools of social science in general, and of sociology in particular, can help to develop complex models of psychiatric diagnosis that deepen scientific and public understanding and promote relevant, dynamic and effective interventions.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to the VOICES team, to the UK Mental Health Research Network (MHRN) for recruitment support; to the writers’ group; to the referees; and to all the children, families and clini- cians who gave so generously of their time. VOICES is funded by a Wellcome Trust Biomedical Ethics University Award to the author.

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  • A disorder of anger and aggression: Children’s perspectives on attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder in the UK
    • Introduction
    • The VOICES study and research methods
    • ADHD in the UK
      • Shaun
        • Family and community
        • Schools
    • ‘Wound up’: A disorder of anger and aggression
    • ADHD on the playground: engaging and avoiding fights
      • Self-control and moral obligations
      • Mobilizing ADHD diagnosis
      • Exploiting ADHD diagnosis
    • What is ADHD?
    • Conclusion: policy matters
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

Patchwork-diagnoses--The-production-of-coherence--unce_2011_Social-Science--.pdf

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Contents lists avai

Social Science & Medicine

journal homepage: www.elsevier.com/locate/socscimed

Patchwork diagnoses: The production of coherence, uncertainty, and manageable bodies

John Gardner a,*, Kevin Dew b, Maria Stubbe c, Tony Dowell c, Lindsay Macdonald c

a Centre for Biomedicine & Society, King’s College London, King’s Building, The Strand, London WC2R 2LS, United Kingdom b Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand c University of Otago, New Zealand

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 18 January 2011

Keywords: Diagnosis Material semiotics Biopolitics Power Cardiology Pain Multiplicity New Zealand Body Risk

* Corresponding author. Tel.: þ44 7895547635. E-mail address: [email protected] (J. Gard

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2010.12.010

a b s t r a c t

Using a material semiotics methodology, this paper explores the link between diagnostic practices, patient awareness of the body, and biopolitical governance. We collected video and audio recordings of a patient with chest pain involved in three medical interactions (a general practitioner [GP] consultation, an electrocardiogram stress test and a consultation with a cardiologist) in Wellington, New Zealand. Following the work of Annemarie Mol, we argue that each of these diagnostics interactions bring together a range of material and non-material entities that enact the body and disease. Consequently, we note how the diagnostic practices associated with cardiovascular medicine enable and prompt an awareness of the body based on uncertainty, and thus promotes the self-management of cardiac health and risk. This paper illustrates that a material semiotics methodology makes important contributions to the sociology of diagnosis. Firstly, it draws attention to the relationship between humans and material entities in rendering the body intelligible. Secondly, it illustrates that different diagnostic procedures can produce multiple, potentially conflicting, forms of self-awareness. Alongside these practices generating multiplicity, however, are those that presuppose and produce singularity and coherence. We illustrate how the cardiologist “patches” two potentially conflicting diagnoses together in order to provide a sense of coherence to the interactions. Thirdly, material semiotics illustrates how various diagnostic practices can reify risk, and produce bodies that lend themselves to particular forms of governance.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

In The Birth of the Clinic (1963), Foucault illustrates how a change in medical perception produced a novel set of conditions for human beings to understand themselves, and thus govern and manage their activities. As the potential source of their own disease, the individual acquired the status of an object, becoming the possessor of a body with concrete form, shape, color and various tissues with particular textures, functions and cell-arrangements: the medical gaze allowed the “opening up of the individual, for the first time in Western history, to the language of rationality” (Foucault, 2003, p. xvi). Foucault later elaborated on this new set of conditions with the notion of biopower. Biopower refers to the technique of governance of the modern state, where populations are governed through various practices that subjugate bodies (Foucault,1998, pp. 141e143). The practices of medicine and science lend themselves to this form of governance by producing a body that is equated with

ner).

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a life that must be “maximized” through self-surveillance and self- management. Governance therefore involves promoting individual self-responsibility, and “freedom” is understood in these terms. Subsequently, biopower and the relationship between biomedical practices, identity and governance has become the subject of considerable work in the social sciences (Armstrong, 1983; Dew, 1999; Harvey, 2010; Lupton, 1995; Petersen & Bunton, 1997; Reventlow, Hvas, & Malterud, 2006; Turner, 1987).

Foucault illustrates that the practices of medicine, particularly diagnostic practices, are inextricably linked with wider political and social phenomena. Medicine has understandably become the focus of a great deal of attention in the social sciences, and Fou- cault’s work has supplemented literature in sociology which has similarly explored the social organization of medical care. With his notion of the sick role, Parsons (1951) argued that diagnosis is the means by which the authoritative medical professional legitimates what would otherwise be seen as deviant behavior. The process of diagnosis, then, represents an asymmetrical relation of power where the medical professional is a gatekeeper: to be deemed “sick” is to be granted access to sick leave, specialist care and restricted medicines. But as has been shown by the literature on

J. Gardner et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 843e850844

medicalization (Conrad, 1975; Schneider, 1978; Scull, 1975; Zola, 1972), to be deemed “sick” can have restrictive consequences. As Zola put it in 1972, diagnosis can act as a means of social control, where the medical labels “healthy” and “ill” are made “relevant to an ever-increasing part of human existence” (1972, p. 487). Deviant behaviors are defined as medical problems requiring medical intervention, thus allowing the perpetuation of various norms. Jutel gives the example of the term “overweight”: once being “an adjectival descriptor of corpulence, a physical sign or a symptom”, the media, laity and the medical profession is increasingly framing “overweight” as a disease in need of treatment and expensive weight management interventions (Jutel, 2006, p. 2268). Diagnosis is also linked to powerful commercial drives, and medical and social ideas of the healthy body feed into a multi-billion dollar weight loss industry (Jutel, 2006). Another contemporary example is Female Hyposexual Desire Disorder, appearing in recent medical and marketing literature as a potential disorder in need of treat- ment. Jutel notes that representatives of the pharmaceutical industry have been involved in the development of the medical classification of this “disorder”; an industry that has the potential to gain significantly through the marketing of the diagnosis and selling the cure (Jutel, 2010).

The process of diagnosis, then, is not simply the deciphering of symptoms and the application of objective medical categories. It is, in many ways, a point where the individual is exposed to various, intertwining forces: clinical protocols and medical authority, social norms and commercial interests. But diagnosis is also a point where the individual body is exposed to various material forces. To use Foucault’s terms, it is where the medical gaze delves into a body with concrete form, shape and colour. This has best been illustrated in Mol’s (2002) The Body Multiple. Here, Mol undertook what she referred to as an ethnography of lower limb atherosclerosis. Drawing on a material semiotics approach popularized in Actor- Network Theory, Mol sought to reveal how atherosclerosis was made intelligible in different locations within a hospital. Rather than granting atherosclerosis with an a priori set of characteristics, Mol noted how, in each location, various material and not-material entities were brought together to “enact” the disease. Atheroscle- rosis, then, was rendered intelligible through various practices in different parts of the hospital. In the pathology lab, once a slide of a blood vessel cross-section has been carefully prepared and stained, atherosclerosis is the thickening of the intima visible under a microscope. But this form of atherosclerosis means little in the consultation room. Here, atherosclerosis is the inability to walk a certain length on flat ground without pain (Mol, 2002). And in the vascular clinic, atherosclerosis is intelligible as the restricted blood flow and a loss of blood pressure in the lower limb, as enacted by the pressure cuff and the ultrasoundeemitting Doppler apparatus.

Mol’s ethnography illustrates several key points concerning the diagnosis of disease. Firstly, she draws attention to the practicalities of diagnosis: diagnosis is something that is done with the body. In other words, it is only by very carefully cutting, dicing, manipu- lating or exercising the body that diagnoses can be made. This involves the establishment of material relations that enable particular aspects of the body to become intelligible and diagnosis to take place. Secondly, and this point corresponds with the wider literature on diagnosis, Mol illustrated that social considerations were often vital to the intelligibility of the disease and determining whether or not a patient should be treated: in the case of athero- sclerosis, a patient’s occupation, hopes, sources of enjoyment, can be used by surgeons to assess the appropriateness of treatments for atherosclerosis (Mol, 2002). Disease and diagnosis, then, could not be unraveled from social phenomena. Thirdly, since the intelligi- bility of the disease is the product of diagnostic practices, multiple practices enact multiple forms of the disease: the pathology lab, the

outpatient clinic and the vascular lab all produced distinct atheroscleroses. What may be considered the same disease, then, tends to multiply into various forms in various parts of the hospital. But as Mol demonstrated, alongside this multiplicity are practices that attempt to provide an overall coherence: stories linking cellular etiology of the formation of plaques with a lack of blood flow to pain in the lower limb. These multiple forms hang together, not as a coherent whole, but as a “patchwork singularity” (Mol, 2002, p. 71).

In this paper, we employ Mol’s material semiotics methodology to the study of diagnostic practices used in cardiology. We collected video and audio data of medical interactions involving a middle- aged male with chest pain, in various medical settings in Wellington, New Zealand. This patient, Simon, was involved in three interactions aimed at uncovering the cause of his chest pain: a General Practitioner (GP) consultation, an Electrocardiogram treadmill stress test (ECG stress test), and a consultation with a cardiologist. By closely analyzing the video recordings and tran- scriptions of these interactions, we explore how Simon and other individuals involved were able to make sense of pain, the heart, and the body, so that further courses of action could be decided upon. This set of interactions was collected as part of a larger project Tracking health care interactions: patienteprofessional communica- tion carried out in New Zealand between 2006 and 2009. This study recorded the interactions of eight individual patients with health professionals as they moved through the primary and secondary care systems in New Zealand.

We will demonstrate that the material semiotics approach provides several contributions to the sociology of diagnosis. Firstly, it draws attention to the role of non-human and material objects in making diagnoses possible: the intelligibility and diagnosis of many diseases is predicated on the careful arrangement of instruments and machines. Secondly, it also demonstrates that diagnosis of a disease may involve several distinct diagnostic procedures, enacting multiple “diseases” that do not always form a coherent whole. In interaction one, the GP consultation, both Simon and the GP are actively involved in establishing a series of relations that enables Simon’s chest pain to become intelligible. Consequently, Simon himself is configured as an accounting, expressive agent, capable of contributing to the production of a reliable account of his chest pain. In the second interaction, the ECG stress test, the cardiologist and a technician carefully arrange a material assem- blage that produces an account of Simon’s heart. In this interaction, Simon is a compliant, material body with a functional (and healthy) heart, and he himself is not permitted to contribute to the forma- tion of the assemblage other than managing his physical body, as instructed by the cardiologist.

We suggest that for the patient, these distinct practices can also provide multiple conditions for experiencing the body that influ- ence self-governance. We can make sense of this with reference to Foucault’s notion of ethical practices of the self (Foucault, 1985). Foucault illustrates that throughout antiquity and history, philos- ophies have tended to encourage an understanding of the body that prompted particular forms of self-governance. Part of the self is identified as being potentially problematic and in need of regula- tion. Christianity has tended to reify desire as being problematic, requiring constant vigilance, inquisition and purging, commonly in the form of a confession (Foucault, in Rabinow, 1991). What we will illustrate here is that diagnostic procedures can do something similar: they prompt particular understandings of the body and delineate potentially problematic areas that require treatment, surveillance and management. We believe this allows us to demonstrate, as Timmermans and Haas have put it, that “biology and social arrangements are continuously recreated as intertwined entities”, and thus illustrate that different diseases foreshadow

J. Gardner et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 843e850 845

different trajectories that are ‘“simultaneously deeply clinical, social, therapeutic, iatrogenic, political and bureaucratic”’ (2008, p. 665). In other words, the biomedical substance of a disease configures specific patient experiences that cannot necessarily be accounted for by recourse to broader sociological themes such as “chronic illness” (Timmermans & Haas, 2008, pp. 663e64).

Furthermore, the procedures involved in diagnosis may not always form a coherent whole: in the course of undergoing diagnosis, patients may be prompted to experience their body in potentially conflicting ways. We will illustrate, however, that alongside diagnostic practices that generate multiplicity, are those that seek to provide overall coherence. In the process of undergoing diagnosis, a patient may be enacted in multiple ways, but these are coordinated to form a patchwork patient. In interaction three of the case study of this paper, the cardiologist attempts to make sense of a potential contradiction between the account of chest pain produced in the GP consultation and the healthy heart enacted in the ECG stress test. The cardiologist employs two techniques to do this. Firstly, he stipulates another cause for chest pain. Secondly, he suggests that the ECG test may be misleading: Simon may, in fact, have a diseased heart, or be at risk of developing cardiac disease. Consequently he encourages Simon to self-monitor his body for particular sensations and self-manage his day-to-day activities by engaging in cardiac-healthy activities and avoiding cardiac- hazardous behaviors. At a more theoretical level, therefore, a material semiotics approach allows us to reveal, in Foucault’s parlance, the relations that constitute biopower. By drawing attention to the specific entities involved in the enactment of disease and the body, it enables the analyst to trace the relationship between diagnostics practices and wider social and political forces.

In many ways the material semiotics approach used by Mol and employed in this paper is significantly different from more tradi- tional approaches. In the following section, therefore, we will outline the theoretical underpinnings of material semiotics and the method of approach that follows on from this.

Theoretical background

There are two essential tenets of material semiotics. Firstly, ontology does not represent an a priori order of things. Rather, ontology is the effect of associations between entities that can be either material and non-material. Various practices, such as those in the science laboratory or the medical clinic, bring entities together, and through this association, these entities become intelligible. This point can best be explained with reference to Manual DeLanda’s assemblage theory of society outlined in A New Philosophy of Society (2006). DeLanda argues that an entity on its own does not have intelligible qualities. Instead, entities have innumerable capacities for interaction which are only perceptible when they become associated with other entities. Each entity molds or jostles the other, and the intelligible affect of this asso- ciation cannot be reduced to either one of the entities. All entities, then, have noticeable qualities or characteristics that are the result of being assembled with certain other elements, as well as numerous, indefinite, unactualized capacities which will poten- tially be realized when the element becomes part of a novel assemblage (DeLanda, 2002). Material semiotics, then, stresses that ontology is the consequence of these assemblages between entities. In the vascular lab, atherosclerosis was intelligible as a loss of blood pressure that could only be identified by the careful alignment of a pressure cuff and the Doppler apparatus with specific locations on the lower limb. This allows the ultrasound waves of the Doppler apparatus to bounce-off moving blood, creating a temporal change in echo that is used to determine atherosclerosis.

Mol argues that such assemblages enact atherosclerosis. Unlike the term “construct”, which tends to suggest the creation of something that becomes stable and fixed, “enact” alludes to the potential fragility of assemblage. Atherosclerosis in the vascular lab is enacted as a loss of blood pressure, but this may mean very little for the patient outside of the hospital, where atherosclerosis is experienced as the inability to climb a flight of stairs to a daughter’s apartment, for instance (Mol, 2002). Material semiotics, then, stresses that ontology is not fixed and certain, but is often transitory and fluid: entities assemble, disassemble, and new assemblages form (Mol, 2002). Indeed, one of the goals of material semiotics is to illustrate how particular assemblages become durable enabling some enactments to endure over time and space. Latour has argued that “scientific facts” are enactments that have been incorporated into a durable chain of academic journals, textbooks, laboratory apparatuses and scientific protocols (Latour, 1987). A common means by which a diagnosis might become durable is through its inclusion on patient medical records.

The second tenet of material semiotics is that both humans and non-human entities are instrumental in enacting the social world, and that neither can be privileged over the other. In effect, the notion of “social” is reformulated. Rather than referring to a specific domain or episteme of social norms or human beliefs and behav- iors, “social” simply refers to the formation of associations between any entities or concepts (Latour, 2005). In this respect, the inter- action between the ultrasound waves of the Doppler apparatus and the blood flow of the lower limb is as “social” as a face-to-face consultation between a general practitioner and a patient: both involve the formation of assemblages and both produce enact- ments. The point of the reformulation is to bring into sharper relief the materially situated nature of the world so as to resist culturally or socially deterministic arguments. The material world prompts, facilitates, constrains, and transmutes human action in ways that cannot be reduced to the activity or beliefs of other humans.

Method of approach

With this theoretical framework, an analysis employing mate- rial semiotics must commit to what could be described as an ultra- relativist, empiricist method. Firstly, the analyst must describe how particular practices bring certain entities into association. This will allow the analyst to trace the formation of assemblages and reveal how such assemblages enact entities of interest. In this paper, we will analyze the video recordings and transcripts of each of the three interactions, noting how particular diagnostic practices assembled a range of entities that enabled Simon’s chest pain, and Simon himself, to become intelligible. We will pay particular attention to the key actors in each interaction: these are the indi- viduals or instruments that are vital in initiating and arranging the assemblage. Ethical approval for the collection of this data was obtained from the New Zealand Central Regional Ethics Committee.

In tracing the assemblage, it is vital to withhold from making any a priori assumptions about what sort of entities classify as actors and thus what sort of entities, material, or non-material, can participate in the formation of assemblages (Latour, 2005): it is in this respect that the analyst must maintain an ultra-relativist position. Following suit, we will stay attentive to the way in which terms and concepts, and also material instruments and technolo- gies, are assembled during diagnostic practices. In interaction one, we will illustrate that it is largely through conversation and the use of terms and verbal description that Simon’s chest pain becomes intelligible. In interaction two, it is largely through the use of an elaborately constructed material assemblage that a diagnosis is achieved.

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It is necessary here to identify a shortcoming in the application of this methodology. It is not practically possible to undertake such empirical work without making some sort of ‘a priori’ judgments. It is necessary, at the very least, to delimit beforehand a point of focus. Without this, there is almost a near-infinite amount of detail that could be included in the analyst’s account (McGrail, 2005). While Mol focused specifically on the various atheroscleroses of the hospital, our empirical gaze will be anchored on one patient, Simon. We will consider noteworthy only those entities that are directly involved in delimiting his chest pain. It would be possible to have an alternative focal point, such as the cardiologist, or some diag- nostic tool, but by focusing specifically on the patient, we hope to demonstrate most clearly the relationship between diagnostic procedures, the body, and biopolitical governance.

In short, material semiotics prescribes a detailed empirical analysis of particular case studies. This paper presents one case study. While certain aspects of Simon’s foray will be unique to his case, the protocols, techniques, medical instruments and technol- ogies used in these diagnostic procedures are common to cardi- ology. We believe, then, that the overall findings of this case study, particularly the illustration of the relationship between diagnosis and biopolitical governance, have wide applicability.

Interaction one: the GP consultation

Interaction one takes place in the GP’s consultation room. The room is much like any consultation room: the GP’s desk is against the wall, upon which sits a computer, some medical reference books, a couple of ring binders and some paper notes; two chairs for patients are next to the desk; alongside is an instrument for measuring blood pressure; and on the other side of the small room is a narrow bed with a pillow. This arrangement allows the GP to swivel easily from his patient to his desk and computer. The consultation begins as the GP welcomes Simon into the room and indicates that he should take a seat. He and the GP then begin to discuss the pains he has been experiencing. The result of this discussion, as will be illustrated, is the formation of an assemblage which enables Simon’s chest pain to become intelligible in such a way that a further course of action can be decided upon.

Initially, Simon does most of the talking as he explains his pain to the GP. He begins by qualifying the pain as “tightness across the chest”, and then goes on to provide further detail:

Simon: At times when I’m under stress I get this tightness across my chest and it’s quite uncomfortable. It is slightly complicated by the fact that about three weeks ago I was going to shift a fridge. But I didn’t notice any, like, I had damaged myself, but I wondered at that stage whether I had kind of pulled some muscles. In fact, just this last night I woke up in the middle of the night and was angsting about something and it felt kinda tight and uncomfortable and its not shooting pains or anything. It tends to move around a bit, but probably tends to be this side [Simon places his hand on the right side of chest].

This is the account given by Simon prior to any leading or questioning by the GP. The pain is granted a rough location: the chest, predominantly towards the right, but it does move around. And it has also been described as a certain type of sensation: “tightness”, rather than “shooting”. But the pain that Simon is enacting is not just a somatic entity. Broken sleep, anxiety and stress are also used to delineate his pain. Here, Simon is producing a range of relations between himself, his body, states of mind, activities that occurred prior to this consultation (shifting the fridge), that provide his pain with intelligible qualities. These are associations that delimit his pain.

In response to this, the GP begins a line of questioning in an attempt to further discern the nature of Simon’s pain:

GP: Going back to your family history is there anything you think we need to know about? Simon: Mum had heart attacks. It would have been at probably a similar age to me. My Father lived till eighty-five or six. It wasn’t a heart problem for him. GP: Okay. Between last time you saw a doctor almost a year ago, you have had some other episodes as well. Simon: Yeah, yeah. It could have been maybe two or three in that period of time. GP: What about with exertion and exercise, any problems there? Simon: No. Well, I don’t get a lot of that [exercise], no more than walking or going down my steps. I don’t run or anything. My ankles are knackered, I can’t run anymore. GP: Okay. Associated with the discomfort, is there anything else like nausea or feeling of your heart beating fast, or sweating? Simon: No, none of that. It’s just discomfort. GP: Any discomfort spreading to the right arm, or into the neck and throat area? Simon: No.

Through the GP’s line of questioning, more associations are made between Simon’s pain and other elements, such as family genealogy, exertion, and nausea. As more entities are introduced in the assemblage, Simon’s pain becomes more intelligible: it is known to have some qualities, and to lack others.

Both Simon and the GP are actively involved in the production of an assemblage that enacts Simon’s pain as a clinical entity. Obviously Simon has pain, as a bodily sensation, prior to the interaction, but it is the pain that is enacted within the interaction that becomes the source of further action. We can make here a division between pain as a bodily sensation and pain as a clinical entity. Obviously the latter is in large part informed by the patient’s description of the former, but it is distinct in that it is also the product of new associations formed within the consultation. It is this clinical pain, that is both the product of an interaction between Simon and the GP, and it is also the entity around which the consultation is subsequently structured. As it becomes intel- ligible, it prompts certain actions, such as the GP’s specific line of questioning, and a subsequent request (not shown in these excerpts) to have a blood test for Tropinin T. As the interaction progresses, Simon continues to introduce associations and further delimit his pain, sometimes of his own accord, and sometimes through the answers he gives to the GP’s questions. In this inter- action, Simon is an accounting, expressive agent: a reliable source of information regarding the nature of his chest pain. This point can be verified on examination of the GP’s referral notes (sent to the cardiologist) where the GP’s description of chest pain utilizes the relations made by Simon.

For the GP there is still some uncertainty about Simon’s chest pain, however. The exact cause is unknown: it is probably caused by anxiety and stress, but it may be caused by heart disease.

GP: Obviously, the pain, we worry about it. You worry about whether it is coming from the heart and obviously that’s the important thing to rule out because some people only get so many warnings. So, slip your sleeve up there. [Here the GP begins to check Simon’s blood pressure.] What I think we need to look at doing regardless of what I find, the chances are the examination will be normal, is to send you off to run on a treadmill for a while, wired up to an ECG and do a stress ECG, which is a cheap and easy test to do and which has a pretty good pick up rate for a heart that’s not getting as much oxygen as it wants.

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Interaction two: the electrocardiogram (ECG) stress test

The “cheap and easy” ECG stress test, which has a “pretty good pick up rate for a heart that’s not getting as much oxygen as it wants” is conducted several weeks after the GP consultation. Immediately prior to the test, Simon has a quick briefing with his cardiologist who outlines the basis for the test:

Cardiologist: The heart’s a muscle pump and it has three arteries that supply blood. and what we are trying to do is see if there is any chance you have got a narrowing or a blockage to one of those three arteries that is restricting the blood flow down the artery to the muscle beyond, so that when you stress the heart it doesn’t get the blood it needs and you get angina, you get chest tightness. Now in some respects it sounds like it could be angina, but in others, mainly that it is not regularly occurring with exertion, it doesn’t sound like angina. So what we are going to do is head down to the treadmill and we will get you wired up and we will check things over and then I’m afraid I’m going to crack the whip and we are going to stress the heart and see if you get any chest pains, if we see any ECG changes to indicate there is a problem and we will really go from there depending on what we find. So, shall we adjourn to the treadmill room?

Simon is told that his chest pain may be angina: a lack of blood flow to the heart, brought about by a narrowing of arteries. The ECG stress test can reveal the presence of any blockages. It is a means of creating an account of the heart, of making it intelligible, without having to physically open-up the body.

The testing room contains a narrow bed for the patient, the ECG equipment and instrumentation for measuring blood pressure, and placed in the center of the room, taking up a great deal of space, is a large, bulky treadmill. Simon sits on the bed while being prepared for the test by a medical technician. Simon has been instructed to remove his shirt and the technician begins to swab parts of his upper torso with alcohol. This, she states, cleans the skin to ensure the electrodes make “good contact.” She attaches, one-by-one, ten electrodes to Simon’s torso, each at specific locations: one is placed either side of the center of the chest, and five more are attached towards his left side, arranged in a curve towards the armpit; two are attached to the front side of each shoulder, another just above the belly-button, and the remaining electrode is attached just to the left of the abdomen. The technician issues some advice on how to use the treadmill:

Technician: So, once we have hooked you up to the computer, we will give the specialist a call. He will put the blood pressure cuff on you and take your blood pressure and have a chat to you and get the test underway. The treadmill starts off quite slow on a slight incline and it increases every three minutes. If we find that your heart rate isn’t increasing fast enough we’ll just accelerate the protocol and go a little bit faster. Have you walked on a treadmill before? Simon: No Technician: There are a few things to remember when you are walking on a treadmill. One is to keep your toes at the front when you’re walking. Now, could I ask you to just stand there on the carpet for me? I’m just going to pop this belt on. and that’s not too tight? Technician: So if you would like to come and stand on the treadmill for me. So as I was saying before, when you walk on the treadmill just try and stay nice and close to the front. Just try and only use this bar here for balance. Try not to grip too tightly. The main thing is to feel like you are walking on a normal flat surface. Simon: Okay, fine.

At this stage, Simon is standing on the treadmill with wires attached to the electrodes on his torso, which, via his belt, are attached to the ECG device. The Technician calls the cardiologist, informing him that the test is ready to begin. The cardiologist enters the test room, places the blood pressure cuff around Simon’s arm, and takes a measurement.

Technician: Excellent. So I’m just going to start the treadmill there Simon. Nice long steps. Cardiologist: Just longer steps and slower steps. There, that’s good. And maybe move a bit closer to the front. Nice and slow and steady.

After a minute the speed of the treadmill is increased and Simon’s strides become quicker.

Cardiologist: We’re going to go a little bit faster. Slightly longer steps there, just feet forward at the front. Slower, longer steps. Just relax, help the ECG tracing. So how are you feeling, alright? Simon: Alright.

After another minute, the treadmill speed is increased again. The cardiologist is standing next to the treadmill and takes another measurement of Simon’s blood pressure. Another two minutes pass and the treadmill speed is increased for a third time. By this stage, Simon is noticeably breathless and producing a sweat. One minute later the cardiologist concludes the test and shuts down the treadmill. Simon is given a chair to sit on.

The setting up and conducting of the ECG stress test is a matter of physically aligning various objects to create an assemblage. Firstly, the electrodes are attached at very particular locations on Simon’s body. These locations are standardized electrode placement points, and are said to be ideal for detecting electrical activity in particular parts of the heart. Secondly, Simon’s body is aligned very carefully with the treadmill. This interaction is closely monitored and coached by the technician and cardiologist. Simon is instructed to feel like he is “walking on a flat surface”, keeping his strides long and slow, with toes reaching towards the front of the treadmill. The pace of his strides is controlled by the speed of the treadmill and the duration of the test is determined by the cardiologist and technician. The co-ordination of Simon’s body, and thus how it aligns with the treadmill, is therefore regulated. Thirdly, the various components of the ECG device are aligned. The wires are attached to the electrodes, and these are subsequently connected to a print-out machine which records the ECG data. The alignment of these objects brings about a material assemblage that enacts the body and thus makes the heart intelligible. The careful placement of these elements regulates which other elements, or affects, will be included in the assemblage; it ensures that no unwanted, unpredictable, or unaccounted objects have an effect on the assemblage. For example, the technician informs Simon that the alcohol swab will “clean the skin” and ensure the electrodes “make good contact”. Cleaning the skin is a matter of removing any particles that might interfere with the registering of electrical impulses by the electrodes. Particles may interfere with the capacity of the ECG equipment to detect heart function, producing an incomprehensible or misleading result. Carefully placing and aligning the elements is a protection against noise; it is an attempt to silence as much complexity as possible and allow only those associations to form that enable the production of an intelligible signal. The treadmill stress test, as a regulated align- ment of elements, is a means of ensuring that certain other entities within the body, the electrical impulses of the heart, can be deci- phered, while many other entities are left silent through their deliberate or unintentional but necessary exclusion.

The construction of the assemblage is brought about by the activities of the technician and the cardiologist, and as actors they

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utilize their training and past experience in order to create an intelligible account of the heart. Simon is a compliant body. His body and body-parts are involved in the aligning of elements, as coordinated by the technician and cardiologist. But Simon as a potentially subjective, emotional being, plays no role in producing an account of his heart.

Simon is subject to more corporeal associations, aside from those of the ECG device. He is made to sweat, to feel his heart beat and experience the pain of prolonged exercise. He is therefore in a position to become intimately aware of his corporal, physical, sensitive body. This is just after he has been told that his heart is a muscle that pumps blood, and that it is being stressed to deter- mine whether or not it is doing this effectively. Simon is therefore part of an assemblage that enacts a physical, material body with a functional, beating, susceptible heart.

As it turns out, the cardiologist declares that the ECG results indicate that there is no problem with blood flow to the heart:

Cardiologist: Okay, well, that all looks very good. You did a really good stress test, we got you over a hundred percent maximum heart rate so it means we really stressed the heart. there’s been nothing on the ECG, so that’s a normal stress test. Simon: Okay. Cardiologist: So therefore I don’t think the chest tightness and things you’re getting is angina and from that point of view I don’t think we need to worry about doing the other types of tests or anything. Basically the treadmill test has gone fine.

This finding is perhaps not surprising for Simon, given that the GP had earlier stated his pain was more likely to be caused by anxiety and stress. In the next interaction, the cardiologist coordi- nates the account of chest pain produced in the GP consultation with the account of the healthy heart produced by the ECG device.

Interaction three: the cardiologist consultation

So far, two distinct interactions have produced two distinct accounts. Conceivably it could be left at this and each account could be seen as the product of two discrete sets of practices producing two discrete assemblages. However the two interactions are linked: both the GP and the cardiologist have provided an explanation that links Simon’s chest pain to a potential restricted blood flow to his heart. There are also medical records, circulating between the two interactions, where symptoms, test results and past illnesses are listed under the one name: Simon. Simon himself, with a persistent physicality also moves between the various sites, and if he has listened to the GP and cardiologist, he expects the findings of the ECG test to shed light on his chest pain. These are some of the practices, as Law puts it, “insisting on, presupposing, and producing singularity” (2004, p. 65).

In this third interaction, the cardiologist employs two tech- niques in order to coordinate the two previous accounts, which are potentially in conflict: there is chest pain, but there appears to be no blockages interfering with blood flow. This potential contra- diction is resolved by postulating another cause, such as stress or anxiety, and this is the first technique employed by the cardiologist:

Cardiologist: You might find that that’s. muscular skeletal sort of tension, chest wall discomfort that we can all get if we worry or get stressed about something. We can sort of over-breathe a little bit and that can bring on the tension and chest discomfort in the chest wall, so I suppose in a way I’m putting it down to that maybe being a cause for your chest pain.

This is not surprising since this was in accordance with the earlier statement made by the GP: “is not heart related. I suspect

its coming from the chest wall”. By employing this technique, it appears that both accounts are seen as producing reliable infor- mation about one, coherent, singular body, and a diagnosis has been tentatively made. But the cardiologist proceeds by employ- ing a second technique in order to make sense of the two accounts.

Cardiologist: A precaution: the treadmill test is just the basic screening test and there is a chance it’s wrong.

It is suggested that the ECG stress test may have produced an inaccurate account of Simon’s heart that may, then, have block- ages or narrowings causing his chest pain. So while both the GP and the cardiologist do reach the same conclusion (that the heart is most likely fine, and that the pain is caused by stress), the cardiologist does not settle for a diagnosis that the pain is simply stress related. There is still considered to be a risk that the heart is unhealthy: the ECG test is not, as the cardiologist states, 100% accurate, and the pain may be indicative of some problems with the heart. So while the GP and cardiologist may agree, there is sufficient uncertainty generated by the two interactions to warrant caution.

By discrediting one of the accounts, the potential contradiction between the two accounts can be explained and this has the effect of reifying the notion of a singular coherent body. But there are consequences to employing this second tactic: although Simon is told that anxiety and stress is the most likely cause of his pain, he is also made aware of the possibility that he may have heart disease. There is risk, and the cardiologist goes on to explain how Simon can best manage and reduce this risk.

Cardiologist: .and so if you find your symptoms changed, in particular if you start getting, as you’re walking up those steps at home, if you start finding you do get chest tightness or chest pain in that situation, then come back and see us, because there are other more accurate tests we can do to look and see whether this is a problem. Simon: Yep, okay.

Simon is instructed to be vigilant and monitor his body for particular sensations. He is being encouraged to remain aware of his corporal body and susceptible pumping heart. The cardiologist goes on to make some further suggestions:

Cardiologist: So, just moving onto the preventative side of things. The best thing you did for yourself was to stop smoking, that halves your chance of coming back with a cardiac problem, so we don’t have to worry about dwelling on that. Simon: Yep. Cardiologist: And, in terms of preventing cardiac disease, the other thing that is important of course is your cholesterol. Your GP has given us that your cholesterol is four point three. .Your blood pressure is another risk, that’s fine, so I don’t need to start you on anything there. A small dose of aspirin reduces your chances of stroke or heart disease so I’m happy with you to carry on with that. .Your diet was good, so yeah, really it comes back in terms of just thinking about your lifestyle and things. It’s just a matter of trying to encourage you to do more exercise, you know, maybe park further from work. you know, just go for a walk everyday, forty five minutes. Doesn’t matter if its gym, walking, swimming, whatever, cycling. Simon: What about an exercycle at home? Cardiologist: Absolutely fine, whatever. Cardiologist: .forty five minutes a day is good for you. And don’t forget the fish either. Two fish meals a week. Simon: Yes, I must try and find some new recipes. Cardiologist: It is good for you.

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In addition to monitoring his body, Simon is instructed to manage his day-to-day activities so that he can decrease the like- lihood of cardiac problems. In the process of becoming aware of his heart as a susceptible, potentially diseased organ, and attentive to particular bodily sensations, Simon is also made conscious of a cardiac-healthy world.

This is a world where particular activities should be undertaken (exercise, eating fish, a daily dose of aspirin), while other, hazardous activities (smoking, consuming foods that may raise his choles- terol) should be avoided. Simon is being persuaded to pay attention to particular entities that may have previously been just a part of an indiscernible mess, an ignorable background to his everyday activities. If he adopts the cardiologist’s advice, these things have now become essential components in a healthy life. Simon is being encouraged to be a self-responsible individual, to monitor and manage his own life: but by delimiting the very conditions in which choice can be undertaken, it is the cardiologist that is configuring what it means to be self-responsible.

Discussion

In the process of undergoing diagnosis for his chest pain, Simon has been involved in three distinct but interlinked medical inter- actions. In the GP consultation, Simon was actively involved in establishing associations between himself and other entities that enabled his pain to become intelligible, and thus he himself was configured as an accounting, expressive agent. The experience provides him with the possibility of modeling himself as such an agent: a reliable purveyor of information about himself, and an agent in his own healthcare. Simon was enacted differently in the ECG test however. Again, Simon’s active involvement was necessary for the diagnostic procedure to produce intelligible information, but this required managing his body according to the directions of the cardiologist and technician: Simon was not permitted to speak of his heart or his body. The cardiologist and technician carefully arranged a material assemblage that was coordinated with Simon’s compliant body. The rigid construction of this assemblage ensured that certain desired associations were formed, allowing the heart’s electrical impulse to become intelligible from the messy, noisy depths of the body. Meanwhile Simon was coaxed to run and to experience his sweaty, pained body containing a beating, blood- pumping heart. Here Simon could reflect on this experience and the bodily sensations, and think of himself as a corporal, sensitive body with a functional, susceptible heart, the true nature of which can only be perceived by medical instrumentation.

The diagnostic procedures involved in the GP consultation and the ECG test could provide quite different experiences for the patient. On the one hand diagnostic practices can provide spaces for individuals to engage in the active production of representations of their illnesses and their body, albeit via the mediation of a medical professional. On the other hand, as it has been demonstrated, biomedical practices are often alienating experiences for patients (Daly, 1989; Rhodes, McPhillips-Tangum, Markham, & Klenk, 1999; The, Hak, Koeter, & Wal, 2003). When diagnosing and treating illness and disease, the views, opinions and experiences of patients are ignored in favor of the images produced by instrumentation, the results of laboratory tests, and the opinions of medical profes- sionals. Previous studies on specific healthcare practices have also identified this variability within medicine (Berg & Mol, 1998; Blaxter, 2009; Frankenberg, 1992; Hirschauer, 1991; Lindenbaum & Lock, 1993; Mol, 2002; Mol & Law, 1994).

The variability in diagnostic practices could prove a confusing or fragmentary experience for a patient, but as we saw with the cardiologist consultation, there are practices that aim to provide a sense of coherence and unity. In order to avoid an apparent

contradiction, the cardiologist, aside from restating another, quite likely cause for the pain (anxiety and stress), questions the reli- ability of the ECG stress test. The effect of this is to reify a sense of a singular, coherent order of things, where different but linked aspects of the same body have been investigated by two separate diagnostic practices. This reification is aided by cardiologist’s explanation that links the blockages and narrowings of the heart’s arteries to chest tightness and chest pains, and the circulating medical record which lists various test results and previous illnesses under the one name: Simon. Here, then, we have an example of two different diagnostic interactions producing two possible experiences of the body, patched together, and it is in this respect that such diagnostic procedures produce a patchwork patient.

In the process of patching together the two interactions, uncertainty has been reified. Despite anxiety and stress being the most probable cause of pain, the cardiologist suggests that Simon’s heart may still be diseased, or at least at risk of becoming so, and proceeds to encourage Simon to engage in self-monitoring of his body, and self-management of his day-to-day activities to limit the risk of cardiac arrest. The cardiologist has created an additional means of experiencing and managing the body based on the rational management of uncertainty and risk. Here we can see that diagnostic procedures do not necessarily reduce or eliminate risk: by creating an intense awareness of the material body and delin- eating potentially problematic areas, diagnosis can increase the sense of risk. Simon is being encouraged to think of himself as the possessor of a material body which houses, and is sensitive to, a vital, functional, heart that is susceptible to various elements in his surroundings (various foods, for instance), and thus, he is being encouraged to govern himself accordingly. This is the outline for a life that must be “maximized” through the management of risk.

Importantly, the material body of Simon and his pumping, and susceptible heart were the product of these interactions between material and non-material entities, and not some a priori starting point. The biomedical substance of Simon was a product of diag- nosis, but as it became intelligible in this way, it also became the source of further decisions. In other words, it was an effect of associations that came to have an affect, bringing about further associations. In this sense, it constitutes what Bruno Latour has defined as an actor (Latour, 2005). In agreement with Timmermans and Haas (2008), we propose that specific diseases entail very specific trajectories, configuring particular forms of self-awareness. Specific diseases involve specific and often multiple disease diag- nostic practices, which, in turn, can generate particular experiences of the body: in the process of becoming aware of the susceptibility of his heart, Simon has become aware of a particular world of cardiac-healthy and cardiac-hazardous elements. How he governs himself will differ to the way in which, for instance, someone with diabetes mellitus experiences their body and its relationship to the surrounding world. Following Timmermans and Haas, we suggest that recourse to broader sociological categories such as “chronic illness”, may be useful in some projects, but it may also lead social scientists to miss that which is most important to patients and health care providers (Timmermans & Haas, 2008, pp. 663e64), such as the experience of the patient and their ongoing, day-to-day management of the material body.

It should be emphasized that what we have illustrated here is how diagnosis can prompt particular experience of the body and thus promote various forms of self-governance. Obviously Simon is immersed in many more associations outside of the three practices that have been articulated here. The day after his consultation with the cardiologist, he may have forgotten his experience, or he may treat the experiences as irrelevant, ignoring the cardiologist’s advice, and instead adopted another means ofself-identification(an example

J. Gardner et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 843e850850

of this is the case of Gino, as illustrated by Callon and Rabeharisoa (2004)). Unfortunately Simon was unable to participate further with this study, and it is unknown whether or not, in a moment of reflection and in an act of arrogation, he incorporated these experi- ences into his self-awareness. But despite this limitation, we argue that diagnosis is a means by which the medical gaze perpetuates forms of self-awareness that lend to biopolitics. We suggest that by using a material semiotics methodology, the careful examination of various diagnostic practices will illuminate the role of biomedical technologies, instruments, medical protocols and concepts in producing forms of self-awareness and self-governance that, in some cases, may elide other potential forms of self-awareness.

Acknowledgments

This research was supported by grants from the Royal Society of New Zealand Marsden Fund and the University of Otago. The authors would like to thank the following for their support: all the research participants for so generously contributing their data; other members of the ARCH Group who have contributed to col- lecting, logging transcribing and analyzing the data, especially Rachel Tester, Sue Vernall, Elizabeth Plumridge and the research assistants who transcribed the recordings; the department of Primary Health Care and General Practice, University of Otago, Wellington; Dr Mike Lloyd of Victoria University for his input into supervising aspects of the analysis reported here. The authors would also like to thank the reviewers for their comments on earlier versions of this paper.

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  • Patchwork diagnoses: The production of coherence, uncertainty, and manageable bodies
    • Introduction
    • Theoretical background
    • Method of approach
    • Interaction one: the GP consultation
    • Interaction two: the electrocardiogram (ECG) stress test
    • Interaction three: the cardiologist consultation
    • Discussion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Constructing illness: How the public in eight Western nations respond to a clinical description of “schizophrenia”

Sigrun Olafsdottir a,*, Bernice A. Pescosolido b

a Boston University, United States b Indiana University, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 13 July 2011

Keywords: Mental illness Schizophrenia Culture Public attitudes Help-seeking Cross-national research

* Corresponding author. E-mail address: [email protected] (S. Olafsdottir).

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.06.029

a b s t r a c t

According to classic and contemporary social theory, the community is crucial to how individuals respond to the onset of health problems. Cultural response to symptoms provides the foundation for lay diagnosis; offers a gauge for marking individual and societal health literacy; and reflects the cultural embeddedness of modern medical knowledge. Using data collected between 2004 and 2007 from the Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study (SGC-MHS) on the recognition of schizophrenia from vignettes describing individuals meeting DSM-IV criteria, we examine the nature and correlates of lay diagnosis. Focusing on Western societies in the SGC-MHS, we ask three questions regarding problem recognition in Bulgaria (N ¼ 255), Cyprus (N ¼ 253), Germany (N ¼ 382), Hungary (N ¼ 352), Iceland (N ¼ 291), Spain (N ¼ 327), Great Britain (N ¼ 289), and the United States (N ¼ 449): (1) What is the cross-national variation in recognition of schizophrenia as a mental illness? (2) Is lay diagnosis associated with individuals’ socio-demographic characteristics and/or their evaluation of underlying causes? (3) Are lay diagnoses likely to shape the nature and direction of the illness career? We find lay diagnosis of “mental illness” to be high across these Western nations with some, though modest, difference across countries. Variation for the more specific diagnosis of “schizophrenia” is greater, though fairly consistent in country ordering. Lay diagnoses are shaped most consistently by attributions, inconsistently by socio- demographics, and generally associated with respondents’ treatment recommendations and expected outcomes. In light of assumptions about public beliefs and knowledge that often underlie research, community efforts, clinical programs, and health policy, these findings suggest that a greater under- standing of the complexities of lay diagnosis is warranted.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Diagnosis is a key tool in medicine. It allows physicians to understand symptoms as a “disease,” and consequently to shape treatment plans for those under their care. On a theoretical level, the power to classify and diagnose health problem into formally designated categories represents a mechanism whereby expert knowledge is legitimated and social control exerted (Zola, 1972). However, medical diagnoses have an equally important lay coun- terpart. Responses to illness are first constructed in the community by individuals experiencing symptoms as well as by those around them. In fact, most symptoms individuals experience are evaluated and dealt with outside the formal health care system (Dean, 1986; Stoller, Forster, Pollow, & Tisdale, 1993). Lay diagnoses, embedded in a broader social context, allow individuals to assign meaning to and make sense of deviations from usual health status in

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themselves or others (Freidson, 1970; Olafsdottir & Pescosolido, 2009; Pescosolido, 1992, 2011). The lay counterpart represents a first step in whether individuals cast “life’s experiences as medical in nature” (Jutel, 2010: 1084).

Attention to broader social issues results in a focus on the cultural context of mental illness. The debate of the impact of culture has a long-standing tradition within the social sciences (Kleinman, 1977). On the one hand, some argue that attitudes toward help-seeking are largely or even exclusively based on need; and in fact, large-scale quantitative studies have frequently failed to capture cultural impact of attitudes toward mental illness (Pescosolido & Olafsdottir, 2010). On the other hand, specific cross- cultural accounts continue to show the profound impact of culture on individual responses to health and illness (Kirmayer, 2001; Kleinman & Good, 1985; Marmanidis, Holme, & Hafner, 1994; Papadopoulos et al., 2004; Silveira & Allebeck, 2001). As Rogers and Pilgrim (2005) point out, for example, emotional distress is observed across multiple cultural contexts, yet interpretations and responses vary. It is precisely this cross-cultural variation that we

S. Olafsdottir, B.A. Pescosolido / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 929e938930

are interested in examining. Though cross-cultural research on lay understandings of illness frequently relies on qualitative data embedded within one context, we argue that carefully constructed surveys across multiple contexts can provide additional insights into cultural understandings of mental illness.

The Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study (SGC-MHS) provides a unique opportunity to examine lay diagnosis, specifi- cally, public recognition of schizophrenia (www.indiana.edu/ wsgcmhs/index.htm). We focus on eight Western countries: Bulgaria, Cyprus, Germany, Hungary, Iceland, Spain, Great Britain, and the United States. Based on nationally representative samples and standards set by the International Social Survey Program (www.issp.org), the SGC-MHS collected data in face-to-face inter- views designed to investigate the public’s understanding of and response to mental health problems. Importantly, rather than providing respondents with a stimuli labeling a condition as a general mental illness or a specific category like schizophrenia, they are given a description of symptoms and asked to interpret the situation, assigning meaning to what (if anything) is wrong with the individual in the vignette.

Here we focus on one “case,” schizophrenia, and a subset of SGC- MHS countries, limiting our analysis to respondents residing in advanced, industrialized nations. While much research on cross- cultural psychiatry has focused on differences between the devel- oped and developing world, we argue that diagnosis categories or responses cannot be taken for granted within Western contexts (Kleinman,1977). Relatively little is known about possible variation among countries that, at least in theory, are thought to share similar notions about mental illness. A cross-national evaluation of countries that stand in relatively similar positions with regard to the rise, dissemination, and nosology of allopathic medicine represent a finer-grained understanding of the role of culture in shaping public attitudes toward issues of health, illness, and heal- ing. While our key interest is in cultural differences, we acknowl- edge that there are multiple other important differences between the countries (e.g., political and economic) that shape public responses. Nevertheless, we argue that public attitudes are able to capture the overarching cultural climate surrounding lay diagnosis of schizophrenia across the eight countries, although our findings are embedded in the broader social context of each country. In a further attempt to capture cultural differences regarding similar sets of behavior, we limit our analysis to schizophrenia. We examine three questions: 1) Is there cross-national variation in lay diagnosis of a set of behaviors that meet Western psychiatry’s diagnosis of schizophrenia across the eight countries; 2) What are the key determinants of lay diagnosis across the eight countries; and 3) What are the consequences of a “correct” diagnosis of “mental illness” and “schizophrenia” across the eight countries?

Our paper proceeds in five steps. First, we review approaches to understanding lay diagnoses, its correlates and consequences. Second, the SGC-MHS data on the public response to the schizo- phrenia vignette, as a mental illness, in general, and schizophrenia, in particular, are presented. Third, we evaluate factors associated with lay diagnoses. Fourth, we consider whether the label assigned to the situation is associated with recommendations for different informal and formal sources of help. Finally, implications of our findings for socio-medical and public health research, policies and practices are discussed.

Theoretical background

Framing lay diagnosis

When individuals are confronted with an illness, they do not enter into an exclusive relationship with their physician. As Jutel

(2010) notes, diagnosis takes place at a salient juncture between illness and disease. It also takes place at the interface of community and treatment systems (Pescosolido, 2006). Symptoms individuals experience are, most often, evaluated and treated outside of the formal medical system before any formal diagnostic label is applied.

These community-based processes have been conceptualized in two ways. Some have argued that help-seeking outside of the formal sector represents delays in treatment (Dean, 1986), with the potential consequences of prolonged suffering (Kart, 1981), higher cost or even death (Haug, Wykle, & Namazi, 1989). Alternately, researchers have shown that self-care and informal practices are often helpful in alleviating symptoms, can reduce the duration of illness and are rarely dangerous (Grimsmo & Siem, 1984). However, regardless of whether lay diagnosis and treatment is complimen- tary or potentially harmful to formal medical care, the fact remains that most people rely on resources available in the lay community before ever entering formal treatment (Stoller et al., 1993).

This point is clearly reflected by social scientists interested in responses to illness. All major theories on help-seeking, service utilization, and health behavior change begin with a clearly speci- fied role for the lay construction of illness. From Parson’s (1951) rights and responsibilities of the sick role, to Freidson’s (1970) conceptualization of the lay referral system, to Pescosolido’s (1991, 2011) theory of the critical role of social networks, lay diagnosis represents a key initial point in an illness career. Further, in Prochaska’s Trans-theoretical Model (1979), the ability to change health and illness behavior (e.g., protected sex, smoking cessation, weight loss) depends on individuals’ problem recognition and cannot occur without it. In addition, empirical research has shown that understanding the lay explanations of the causes, effects, and appropriate sources of help improves the communication between health providers and patients (Cohen, Tripp-Reimer, Smith, Sorof- man, & Lively, 1994; Gray, 1995; Gregg & Curry, 1994; Kleinman, 1980; Okello & Ekblad, 2006).

Thus, understanding lay beliefs is important for at least two reasons. First, they have a clear role in guiding individuals toward different formal and informal sources of help (Olafsdottir & Pescosolido, 2009). Individuals are embedded in a community that provides them with general ideas of what may be wrong as well as specific insights from family and/or friends who may have a wide array of opinions of what may be happening. Early on, Freidson (1960) pointed out that researchers over-emphasized the relationships among professionals and between professionals and the state, leaving the relationship between doctors and their patients relatively unexamined. More recent work emphasizes the importance of mental health literacy e the ability to gain access to, understand, and use information in ways which promote and maintain good mental health (Jorm et al., 1997). Here, research reveals that the public has low levels of recognition of depression and schizophrenia across Western nations including the U.S. (Link, Phelan, Bresnahan, Stueve, & Pescosolido, 1999), Germany (Gaebel, Baumann, Witte, & Zaeske, 2002), Switzerland (Lauber, Nordt, Falcato, & Rössler, 2000) and Australia (Jorm, Mackinnon, Christensen, & Griffiths, 2005). However, explicit cross-national comparisons are rare. Jorm, Nakane et al. (2005) compared public beliefs in Australia and Japan, finding that the Japanese are more reluctant to use psychiatric labels, and while they generally believe in treatment, they are less optimistic about recovery. In contrast, Australians are more positive about the benefits of professional help, but strongly prefer lifestyle interventions over psychiatric medication.

Second, lay beliefs may vary systematically from professional scripts and categorizations of physical and mental illness in advanced, industrialized nations. For example, Gregg and Curry

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(1994) described how cancer beliefs held by African American women were significantly different than those of physicians, specifically regarding the effectiveness of treatment. Similarly, despite clinicians’ beliefs that public stigma is the main reason for patients being unwilling to disclose emotional problems to their physicians, a more recent study in Wales suggested that individuals tended to view the condition as a social problem, an inappropriate reason to seek out help, and not amenable to effective treatment (Prior, Wood, Lewis, & Pill, 2003).

As Kokanovic (2011) notes, multiple factors impact our concepts of mental health and illness, including traditional cultural philos- ophies, medical discourse, popular culture, and the lived experi- ences of individuals experiencing the illness. Responses to illness, then, must be understood in the context of at least three distinct, yet inter-related parts. They are shaped by the medical view of what constitutes a problem, the individual experience of the illness, and cultural meanings in the community. Culture not only shapes responses to illness, but shapes our explanation of illness and what, in fact, constitutes an illness.

Attempting to use the pre-existing categories of illness from contemporary psychiatry masks the impact of culture on responses to illness (Kleinman, 1977). Further, reducing cultural differences in cross-cultural psychiatry to those between the developed and developing world downplays the profound impact of culture on shaping understandings and responses to mental illness within countries that share similar notions about mental health. While Western-based research has most frequently considered how culture plays a role in help-seeking among various racial and ethnic minority groups (Alegría et al., 2004, 2002; Takeuchi, Uehara, & Maramba, 1999; Vera et al., 1998), all individuals hold and access cultural beliefs to interpret and respond to symptoms (Olafsdottir & Pescosolido, 2009). As Prior et al. (2003: 2198) note, “we need to be aware that people in the West are as subject to cultural influences as are people in the Orient.” For example, the U.S. media is more likely to portray mental illness as an individual problem requiring individual solutions, compared to Icelandic media, which tends to describe mental illness as a social problem requiring social solu- tions (Olafsdottir, 2011). Although a limited comparison, it illus- trates that the overarching cultural logic about mental illness can be quite different across two nations which share a similar over- arching medical landscape.

We use these insights to frame our first set of questions: Is there cross-national variation in public constructions of a set of symptoms matching contemporary psychiatric criteria for schizophrenia, both in terms of a general recognition as a “mental illness” and a specific recognition of the condition as “schizophrenia?”

Capturing culture: social location and cultural beliefs

Focusing on the nature of lay diagnosis in terms of individuals’ “own logic, knowledge and beliefs” is not divorced from “the social context and circumstance in which people carry out their daily activities” (Calnan, 1988: 929). Individuals in the community construct their understandings of emotions in relation to their life history and social situations (Pilgrim & Bentall, 1999). Our attempt to understand influences on lay diagnosis is guided by the idea that factors can be local and global, as well as social, cultural and technological (Nettleton, 2007). Individuals assign their own labels to the problem (e.g., mental illness and/or schizophrenia), the underlying cause, and appropriate actions. In order to understand the factors that impact general recognition of the case as a mental illness and the specific recognition as schizophrenia, we focus on two sets of explanation: 1) characteristics of the respondent and person being evaluated; and 2) the cultural beliefs individuals hold about the condition.

Prior research focusing on the impact of social location has not provided consistent results. In some cases, women are more likely to report greater knowledge about health-related issues, and to correctly identify depression (but not psychosis), and translate this into a higher use of services (Kessler, Brown, & Broman, 1981). Yet, even for individuals described with serious depressive symptoms, neither sex, age, education, income nor insurance coverage were associated with problem recognition in some studies (Yokopenic, Clark, & Aneshensel, 1983). As Littell and Girvin (2006) conclude for recognition of child abuse, only a small portion of variation could be accounted for by individual and case characteristics. Perhaps the most consistent influence on individuals’ lay diagnoses is experience, whether their own or that of others with similar health situations (e.g., Furnham & Wardley, 1991; Gum et al., 2009; Yokopenic et al., 1983). In fact, families with a history of psychotic illness were more likely to recognize a problem for a family member even prior to the onset of manifest psychotic symptoms (Norman, Malla, & Manchanda, 2007).

Without dismissing the potential impact of social location characteristics, it appears that a focus on whole cultural systems of values, expectations, and beliefs may provide greater insight (Olafsdottir & Pescosolido, 2009). This point finds resonance with Gieryn’s (1999) argument that it is impossible to capture differ- ences in culture exclusively with social location. Instead, the beliefs, values and attitudes that individuals hold about the causes of mental illness are likely to shape their understanding of any particular situation. For example, past research makes a strong case for the lay assessment of symptom severity e the more serious the symptoms are perceived by individuals, the more likely a lay diagnosis will translate into problem recognition and align with medical constructions (Gum et al., 2009). In addition, causal attri- butions thought to underlie scenarios are likely to trigger different responses. The two dominant beliefs about the causes of mental illness in advanced, industrialized nations focus on biological and social sources. While individuals tend to endorse both social and biological causes for mental health problems (Estroff, Lachicotte, Illingworth, & Johnston, 1991; Furnham & Henley, 1988; Kuyken, Brewin, Power, & Furnham, 1992), only causal biological attribu- tions are likely to have a distinct influence on public attitudes and recommendations (Angermeyer, Matschinger, & Riedel-Heller, 1999; Fosu, 1989; Furnham & Henley, 1988).

At this point in time, it is premature to dismiss examination of the potential influences of social location. Yet, we expect that the cultural values that respondents hold are more likely to impact recognition than socio-demographic characteristics. In sum, we ask: Is lay diagnosis associated with individuals’ socio-demographic characteristics, their previous experience with mental illness, and/or the cultural values they harbor regarding mental illness?

The consequences of lay diagnosis

Physicians and other mental health professionals (e.g., psychologists, social workers) hold the power to define appropriate responses to schizophrenia, but “consulting status” (Freidson, 1970), granted by the public, is critical. Current realities only increase the importance of understanding social processes in the community. As Wilkinson (1994) notes, all advanced, industrialized nations have experienced an epidemiological transition where the prevalence of acute, infectious illnesses has been replaced, to a large extent, by chronic physical and mental health problems. These disorders require more active participation by individuals and make the doctorepatient relationship more complex (Lutfey & Freese, 2005). Further, the movement to community-based care, the shrinking of hospital stays, and the resurgence of alternative etiological and healing systems all increase the visible role of those

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outside of the canopy of medicine (Pescosolido & Kronenfeld,1995). According to Dixon-Woods, Anwar, Young, and Brooke (2002), community participation and individual preferences are increas- ingly valued in shaping and evaluating clinical decision-making (also Bendelow & Williams, 1996). Finally, as Conrad (2005), among others, argues that “patients” are increasingly behaving like “consumers,” are less likely to accept what the doctor orders, and draw independent “advice” from internet information sites and interactive discussions (Gray, Klein, Noyce, Sesselberg, & Cantrill, 2004; Nettleton, Burrows, & O’Malley, 2005; Pandey, Hart, & Tiwary, 2003).

Consequently, which solutions the public embraces forms a critical part of pressing concerns of medicine and public health e low utilization rates, unmet need, and delay in help-seeking and poor outcomes. The process of assigning meaning and labels has been repeatedly shown to have important consequences for indi- viduals living with health problems and existing research tends to support the hypothesis that lay diagnoses matter (Link et al., 1991; Markowitz, 2001; Martin, Pescosolido, & Tuch, 2000). Most salient among these is recognition of need (Gum et al., 2009). For example, among Chinese speaking individuals in Australia with anxiety disorders, the most frequently endorsed reason for seeking out formal services was problem recognition (Ho, Hunt, & Li, 2008). Mismatches between “lay” and “expert” diagnoses have been associated with the length of untreated psychosis or other mental health problems (Bergner et al., 2008) and for postpartum hemorrhage documented in rural India (Sibley et al., 2005). While not fully consistent, this research suggests the need to consider controls. Unmet need appears to be greatest in traditionally underserved groups including the elderly, racial-ethnic minorities, and those with low incomes (Wang et al., 2005).

As a final research question, then, we ask: Do lay diagnoses shape the nature and direction of the illness career, such as recommenda- tions for formal and informal sources of help, as well as beliefs in the effectiveness of treatment?

Why focus on schizophrenia?

According to the DSM-IV, schizophrenia is a class of disorders that involve both positive (e.g., hallucinations, delusions) and negative (e.g., loss of affect, speech) symptoms. Along with bipolar disorder and major depression, it is classified as one of the three most serious mental illnesses. Initial stigmatizing beliefs from medical and psychiatric professions held that schizophrenia was caused by child rearing (particularly the notion of the schizo- phrenogenic or “refrigerator” mother) or that the inevitable course was degenerative. These expert assessments have been replaced by current notions that target genetic or epigenetic causation, the possibility of “recovery” and the critical role of early identification and pharmaceutical intervention (Farooq, Large, Nielssen, & Waheed, 2009). However, despite efforts of the mental health disciplines and advocacy communities, the use of services for those with symptoms of schizophrenia and other serious mental health problems is surprisingly low. For example, in New Zealand, considered to be a very progressive nation regarding mental health literacy, stigma reduction, and innovative services, the World Mental Health Survey (WMHS) found that only 58% of individuals with symptoms of serious mental disorder had visited any health care service (only 25% of Pacific people; Foliaki, Kokaua, Schaaf, & Tukuitonga, 2006). In the U.S., the National Co-Morbidity Study documented that 41% of those with clear need received some treatment (Wang et al., 2005).

The co-occurrence of strong professional recommendations and low levels of service use make schizophrenia an ideal case for examining lay diagnoses. From the psychiatric point of view,

schizophrenia represents one of the most serious mental illnesses that require early identification and treatment. Local, national and global efforts have been mounted to increase public awareness, improve services and utilization of those services, and reduce the prejudice and discrimination associated with it (Sartorius & Schulze, 2005). However, there are no “signs,” only “symptoms,” which are reported by individuals and subject to cultural interpretation.

Data and methods

Data

We use data from the Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study (SGC-MHS), the first theoretically and methodologically coordinated cross-national study designed to evaluate public atti- tudes, beliefs, and predispositions toward mental illness. To help increase comparability, the recruitment and fielding platform for the SGC-MHS drew survey organizations from The International Social Survey Program (ISSP), an on-going, annual research program that brings together an international cadre of leading social science survey researchers with a history of cross-national collaboration, comprehensive training for face-to-face interviewers, and elabo- rated procedures for ensuring data comparability. Ethics approval was granted by Indiana University IRB.

Not surprisingly, researchers have pointed out the problems inherent in capturing meaning in surveys across contexts (Kokanovic, 2011; Lutz, 1985; Werner & Campell, 1970), making simple back-translations somewhat problematic. Consequently, in addition to the standard ISSP translation protocol (back trans- lation), an in-house “cultural” review recruited a native speaker who provided an oral translation and interpretation of the full instrument (including instructions). These three-to-six hour ses- sions were led by the SGC-MHS P.I.; all questions and suggestions were recorded by item and sent to the relevant ISSP team; and negotiations concluded when both the P.I. and the country team agreed on each point. Vignettes were taken from the U.S. General Social Survey in 1996 (Link et al., 1999) and revised for cross- cultural applicability during an initial meeting in Madrid which included representatives of all country teams, and a cross-cultural psychiatrist who had been central to the WHO study (Hopper, Harrison, & Wanderling, 2007).

All country samples were based on multi-stage sampling protocols and were nationally representative. Data collection spanned three years, with Spain fielding in 2004; Cyprus, Germany, Hungary and Bulgaria in 2005; the United States in 2006; Iceland in 2006e2007; and Great Britain in 2007. Eligible respondents were non-institutionalized adults (i.e., eighteen years of age or older). Respondents were selected and recruited in a way most appro- priate for each country (for example, some nations have national registries while others do not), using methods that conform to ISSP standards. In addition, all sampling decisions and strategies were approved by the SGC-MHS research team. Although the ISSP allows multiple modes of data collection, the SGC-MHS required countries to administer data in face-to-face surveys. Within each nation, sample weights were computed to offset potential biases; however, analyses of the weighted and unweighted data revealed few systematic differences. We use the unweighted data here to increase interpretability. Response rates for our countries were following: 75.4% for Bulgaria, 74.6% for Cyprus, 63.2% for Germany, 58.8% for Hungary, 70.8% for Iceland, 98.4% for Spain, 50.6% for Great Britain, and 67.3% for the United States.

Here, we focus only on those respondents who randomly received the schizophrenia vignette, one third of respondents. Sample size, with cases with missing values on the independent

Table 1 Descriptive statistics for independent variables: Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study (SGC-MHS).

Bulgaria Cyprus Germany Hungary Iceland Spain G.B. U.S.

Vignette Characteristics Female .48 (.50) .50 (.50) .53 (.50) .51 (.50) .49 (.50) .47 (.50) .55 (.50) .51 (.50) Outgroup .48 (.50) .50 (.50) .47 (.50) .49 (.50) .50 (.50) .47 (.50) .52 (.50) .53 (.50)

Respondent Characteristics Age 50.91 (16.85) 44.51 (14.57) 48.20 (16.76) 47.42 (17.66) 42.43 (16.32) 42.98 (17.07) 48.97 (19.13) 47.21 (16.97) Female .57 (.50) .49 (.50) .52 (.50) .58 (.49) .46 (.50) .49 (.50) .58 (.49) .52 (.50) Married .64 (.48) .74 (.44) .56 (.50) .56 (.50) .50 (.50) .55 (.50) .42 (.49) .51 (.50) College Education .18 (.39) .15 (.35) .07 (.26) .05 (.21) .23 (.42) .09 (.29) .21 (.41) .27 (.44) In Labor Force .49 (.50) .63 (.48) .51 (.50) .44 (.50) .71 (.45) .51 (.50) .54 (.50) .65 (.78) Mental Health Contact .50 (.75) .18 (.46) .74 (.90) .63 (.85) .98 (.85) .46 (.72) .93 (.94) 1.01 (.93)

Attributions Seriousness 3.57 (.75) 3.85 (.42) 3.65 (.58) 3.43 (.73) 3.77 (.44) 3.46 (.70) 3.71 (.57) 3.86 (.41) Brain Disease 2.92 (1.04) 2.91 (.90) 2.60 (1.04) 2.35 (.96) 3.18 (.81) 2.87 (.98) 3.06 (.87) 3.17 (.74) Genetics 2.69 (1.00) 3.04 (.79) 2.26 (.94) 2.37 (.91) 2.72 (.76) 2.34 (.99) 2.65 (.81) 2.94 (.76) Way Raised 2.08 (.98) 2.30 (.92) 1.84 (.88) 2.02 (.89) 2.05 (.81) 2.04 (.90) 2.24 (.88) 2.20 (.90) Stressful Circumstances 3.58 (.60) 3.08 (.86) 2.60 (.92) 3.21 (.72) 2.92 (.73) 2.90 (.83) 3.21 (.69) 3.12 (.73)

N 255 253 382 352 291 327 289 449

Note: Numbers show the mean for each variable and numbers in parenthesis show standard deviations.

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variables deleted, are 255 for Bulgaria, 253 for Cyprus, 382 for Germany, 352 for Hungary, 291 for Iceland, 327 for Spain, 289 for Great Britain, and 449 for the United States. In the multivariate analysis, we also delete cases with missing values on the depen- dent variable (e.g., Table 2 deletes respondents who did not answer the question on whether it is mental illness; Table 3 does so for the schizophrenia question). Sample sizes are reported in respective tables (with the exception of Table 4, full results for each analysis available upon request). Due to the randomization procedure, the data represent nationally representative samples of each nation but the focus on a subsample will underestimate statistical significance.

Measures and analysis

The dependent variables

Lay diagnoses were elicited using a vignette meeting DSM-IV criteria for schizophrenia with no clues as to what or whether “a problem” was being described. Within vignettes, the vignette

Table 2 Ordered logit regression of lay diagnoses of vignette case as “mental illness” on selected i

Bulgaria Cyprus Germany Hunga

Vignette Characteristics Female �.25 (.93) .29 (1.04) .24 (1.14) �.20 Outgroup �.15 (.57) �.73** (2.61) �.21 (1.00) .01

Respondent Characteristics Age .02 (1.67) .01 (.63) �.01 (1.25) .00 Female �.77** (2.71) �.21 (.73) .21 (1.01) .29 Married .14 (.48) �.23 (.66) �.23 (1.06) �.27 College Education .48 (1.30) �.35 (.83) �.46 (1.15) �.54 In Labor Force .09 (.30) .35 (1.02) .09 (.39) �.13 Mental Health Contact .07 (.35) .25 (.74) .24 (1.90) .07

Attributions Seriousness .42* (2.43) 1.04** (3.01) .63** (3.47) .54* Brain Disease .91** (5.83) �.14 (.75) .56** (4.72) .57* Genetics .28 (1.73) .31 (1.53) .25* (1.97) .31* Way Raised �.16 (1.04) .28 (1.75) �.35** (2.86) �.40* Stress .06 (.27) �.42* (2.42) �.08 (.65) .65*

Cut 1 1.85 .47 �.43 1.65 Cut 2 3.03 3.58 .97 3.11 Cut 3 4.99 e 3.27 5.92 Pseudo-R2 .32 .17 .24 .27 LR-c2 (13) 81.96 p � .01 37.65 p � .01 91.29 p � .01 93.11 Observations (251) (253) (381) (343)

Notes: Numbers represents coefficients, numbers in parenthesis are z-values; * ¼ Signifi

person’s race/ethnicity and gender were randomly varied. As noted above, the SGC-MHS schizophrenia vignette was based on a 1996 U.S. national study of stigma, but reviewed and revised for cultural, medical, and survey accuracy (Pescosolido, Olafsdottir, Martin, & Long, 2008). The vignette description for a white male is shown below (the names and the race/ethnicity was randomly varied).

John is a white man. Up until a year ago, life was pretty okay for John. But then, things started to change. He thought that people around him were making disapproving comments, and talking behind his back. John was convinced that people were spying on him and that they could hear what he was thinking. John lost his drive to participate in his usual work and family activities and retreated to his home, eventually spending most of his day in his room. John became so preoccupied with what he was thinking that he skipped meals and stopped bathing regularly. At night, when everyone else was sleeping, he was walking back and forth in his room. John was hearing voices even though no one else was around. These voices told him what to do and what to think. He has been living this way for six months.

ndependent variables: Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study (SGC-MHS).

ry Iceland Spain G.B. U.S.

(.92) �.17 (.68) .32 (1.40) .69* (2.44) �.04 (.19) (.05) �.35 (1.38) .49* (2.14) �.17 (.61) .62** (2.82)

(.59) �.04** (4.07) .01 (1.65) �.01 (1.42) �.01 (.87) (1.28) �.02 (.07) �.21 (.88) .85** (2.87) .04 (.17) (1.20) .29 (.97) �.66** (2.68) .26 (.88) .06 (.29) (1.06) .50 (1.60) �.18 (.47) .49 (1.32) .70* (2.54) (.52) �.26 (.89) �.18 (.71) �.19 (.53) �.28 (1.12) (.50) .27 (1.75) �.04 (.24) .43** (2.74) .27* (2.05)

* (3.35) .30 (1.02) .94** (5.46) .67** (2.80) .80** (3.17) * (4.46) 1.03** (6.00) .53** (4.10) .81** (4.74) 1.19** (6.89) (2.28) .68** (3.83) .51** (3.81) .01 (.08) .77** (4.79) * (3.06) �.42** (2.60) �.11 (.81) �.27 (1.72) �.38** (2.99) * (3.78) �.10 (.53) .31* (2.14) �.18 (.88) �.11 (.69)

�1.44 2.97 �1.35 3.16 .70 5.07 1.05 4.54

3.94 7.46 3.64 7.75 .37 .34 .28 .40

p � .01 110.67 p � .01 117.87 p � .01 72.86 p � .01 178.23 p � .01 (290) (324) (288) (448)

cant at the .05-level, ** ¼ Significant at the .01-level; Pseudo-R2 is Cragg-Uhler R2.

Table 3 Binary logit regression of lay diagnosis of vignette case as “schizophrenia” on selected independent variables: stigma in global context e mental health study (SGC-MHS).

Bulgaria Cyprus Germany Hungary Iceland Spain G.B. U.S.

Vignette Characteristics Female .40 (1.12) .16 (.51) .20 (.66) �.10 (.32) �.32 (1.14) .02 (.09) �.40 (1.37) .16 (.73) Outgroup �.45 (1.26) �.58 (1.81) .08 (.28) .35 (1.06) .06 (.21) .44 (1.66) .17 (.58) .41 (1.85)

Respondent Characteristics Age �.01 (.77) .01 (.92) �.02 (1.65) �.01 (.99) �.02 (1.95) .01 (1.03) �.02 (1.75) �.01 (1.59) Female �.07 (.18) �.11 (.33) .20 (.67) �.70* (2.01) .26 (.94) �.03 (.11) .29 (.95) �.31 (1.38) Married �.60 (1.59) .34 (.85) .34 (1.10) �.63 (1.88) �.21 (.65) �.34 (1.21) .51 (1.67) .02 (.07) College Education .74 (1.70) �.07 (.14) .50 (.89) .30 (.43) .36 (1.10) .11 (.24) �.04 (.11) �.20 (.75) In Labor Force .13 (.32) .30 (.75) �.07 (.21) .24 (.66) �.34 (1.08) .62* (2.09) �.12 (.33) .12 (.48) Mental Health Contact �.41 (1.51) �.32 (.90) .02 (.09) .28 (1.46) .14 (.81) .12 (.65) .22 (1.34) .29* (2.23)

Attributions Seriousness .88** (2.60) .99* (2.19) .20 (.66) .43 (1.59) �.06 (.18) .70** (3.29) 1.00** (2.68) .83* (2.41) Brain Disease .50* (2.35) �.01 (.05) .75** (4.33) .48** (2.63) .75** (3.71) .60** (3.91) .93** (4.46) .66** (3.80) Genetics 1.20** (4.92) .57* (2.43) .41* (2.46) .44* (2.22) .44* (2.20) .53** (3.49) .61** (2.95) .29 (1.73) Way Raised �.41* (2.10) .41* (2.21) �.63** (3.23) �.29 (1.47) �.39* (2.20) �.09 (.59) �.49** (2.81) �.40** (3.13) Stressful Circumstances �.39 (1.40) �.91** (4.13) �.43* (2.57) �.32 (1.33) �.17 (.87) .05 (.28) �.58* (2.44) �.73** (4.38)

Constant �5.93 �3.41 �2.54 �3.17 �1.75 �6.52 �5.39 �3.10 Pseudo-R2 .41 .27 .31 .17 .23 .29 .36 .26 LR-c2 (13) 77.09 p � .01 52.18 p � .01 79.23 p � .01 35.37 p � .01 50.87 p � .01 74.08 p � .01 87.47 p � .01 93.15 p � .01 Observations (226) (246) (349) (335) (284) (309) (279) (426)

Notes: Numbers represents coefficients, numbers in parenthesis are z-values; * ¼ Significant at the .05-level, ** ¼ Significant at the .01-level; Pseudo-R2 is Cragg-Uhler R2.

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Two dependent variables tap into lay diagnosis of schizophrenia. The first examines whether respondents label the person as having a mental illness (“How likely do you think that [NAME] is experi- encingamentalillness?”;responsecategories areverylikely;notvery likely; somewhat likely; not at all likely; with more likely recoded to a higher value). The first two categories are collapsed for descriptive results; original coding is used in multivariate analyses. The second examines the specific label respondents assign to the scenario. They were asked whether they thought the situation was caused by five different options, including schizophrenia (other options were depression, asthma, stress, and other). A binary variable codes respondentswhocorrectlyidentifiedschizophreniaas1;otherwise0.

The potential influence of lay diagnoses is examined with a question assessing whether respondents believe the situation would improve with treatment (response categories recoded from (1) not at all likely to (4) very likely); and six variables asking about the importance of seeking various formal and informal sources of help (doctors, psychiatrists, counselors, family, friends, religious leader). We use the importance of consulting with each source (response categories range from 1 to 10, with higher values indi- cating greater importance).

Table 4 Ordered logit regression of improvement with treatment and OLS-regressions of the perc of “mental illness” and schizophrenia: Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study

Bulgaria Cyprus Germany

Mental Illness Improve with treatment .14 �.07 .02 Doctor Important .15 �.64* .38** Psychiatrist Important .50** .36 .62** Counselor Important .64** .11 .44** Family Important .11 �.52* .10 Friends Important .19 .20 .23 Religion Important �.27 .04 .37

Schizophrenia Improve with treatment �.34 �.71* �.72* Doctor Important �.62 �.68 �.35 Psychiatrist Important .48 .84** .21 Counselor Important .57 .40* .19 Family Important .15 �.29 �.24 Friends Important .19 .09 �.61* Religious Leader Important .65 �.11 �.48

Notes: * ¼ Significant at the .05-level, ** ¼ Significant at the .01-level; All models control status, education, employment status and mental health contact of the respondent, the p caused by brain disease, genetics, the way the individual was raised, and/or stress.

Independent variables

Three sets of independent variables tap characteristics of the vignette person. Two characterize the vignette person (male/ female and the key racial/ethnic divide based on country team input in concert with the SGC-MHS team; e.g., blacks in the U.S., Turks in Germany). Six variables measure respondent characteris- tics. Age is a continuous variable measured in years. Gender, college education and work status are binary variables (1 ¼ female or college or in the labor force). Two variables are combined to create a measure of mental health contact e whether respondents know someone who has experienced mental illness and whether respondents themselves have experienced mental illness. The contact variable is coded 0 if the respondent answers negative to both; 1 if the respondent knows someone but has not experienced mental illness; 2 if the respondent has experienced mental illness, but does not know anybody else who has; and 3 if the respondent has experienced mental illness and knows somebody else who has.

The responses to the severity question, “How serious do you think [NAME]’s situation is?” are recoded to range from 1 (Not at all serious) to 4 (Very serious). Attributions for the vignette case are

eived importance of various sources of formal and informal help on the lay diagnoses (SGC-MHS).

Hungary Iceland Spain G.B. U.S.

.40* .55* .12 .48* .37*

.37* .36 .09 .04 .27

.31* .42** .79** .51** .59**

.10 .38** .65** .81** .51** �.02 .13 .10 �.22 �.14 �.19 �.13 �.09 �.01 �.26 .54* �.30 �.71** �.47 �.28

�.79* �.02 �.74** .02 �.08 �.31 .02 �.17 �.04 .10 �.03 .29 .54* .18 .18 .52 .24 .24 .23 .52*

�.60* .13 �.31 �.48* �.13 �.64 �.10 �.08 �.61* �.28 �.95* �.29 .16 �.82* �.19

for the gender and minority status of the vignette character, the age, gender, marital erceived seriousness of the condition, and whether the respondent believes it to be

Fig. 1. Percentage of respondents in each country who identify the schizophrenia vignette as “mental illness,” Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study.

Fig. 2. Percentage of respondents in each country who identify the schizophrenia vignette as “schizophrenia,” Stigma in Global Context e Mental Health Study.

S. Olafsdottir, B.A. Pescosolido / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 929e938 935

measured with four questions: “How likely do you think that [NAME’S] condition is caused by a brain disease; genetics; the way the individual was raised; and stress. All questions have four recoded response categories, ranging from 1 (Not at all likely) to 4 (Very likely). The descriptive statistics for each variable are provided in Table 1.

Analytical strategy

Simple descriptive statistics and graphics are used to display lay diagnoses by country. We match different types of regression models to the level of measurement of the dependent variables. Ordinal logit regression provides estimates in models for labeling schizophrenia as mental illness, believing that the condition will improve with treatment, and beliefs in the effectiveness of treat- ment. This choice is particularly appropriate for cross-national comparison because it does not assume equal spacing of response categories, homoscedasticity, normality, or linearity of functional form (Long, 1997). Binary logit regression is employed in the analysis of lay diagnoses of schizophrenia. Finally, given the 1e10 coding of respondents’ assessment of the importance of sources of help, OLS-regression provides our estimates.

Results

Cross-national variation in the labeling and recognition of schizophrenia

Figs. 1 and 2 provide data on lay diagnoses of the case scenario meeting DSM-IV criteria for schizophrenia. Fig. 1 indicates some, but not great, variation across the eight Western nations (ranging from 79.7% responding very likely or somewhat likely a “mental illness” in Spain to 95.9% in Cyprus).

Fig. 2 reveals much greater cross-national variation and lower lay recognition regarding “schizophrenia.” Respondent lay diag- noses in Cyprus are highest (68.2%) followed by approximately 47% in the U.S. and 40% in Spain. In other countries, respondents’ assessments are lower (38% in Great Britain, 35% in Iceland, approximately 31% in Bulgaria, roughly 22% in Germany). Respon- dents in Hungary are least likely to offer a lay diagnosis of schizo- phrenia (15.7%).

Correlates of lay diagnoses

Table 2 presents results of an ordered logit regression analysis of lay diagnosis of “mental illness” in each country and reveals both general and unique patterns. Characteristics of the vignette person do not play a consistent nor critical role across countries. For example, gender of the vignette character matters only in Great Britain e those who receive the female character are more likely to label the condition as “mental illness.” Gender of the respondent is significant in only two countries. However, in Great Britain, women are more likely to assign the label of mental illness; they are significantly less likely to do so in Bulgaria. Whether the character is a racial/ethnic minority is significant in Cyprus, Spain and the U.S. Again, however, the directions of effects are not consistent (i.e., in Cyprus, less likely to a member of a racial/ethnic minority as having “mental illness”; more likely in Spain and the U.S.). Similarly, respondent age is significant only in Iceland, where older respon- dents are less likely to label the situation as mental illness. Both marriage (Spain) and college education (U.S.) are only significant in one context. Finally, contact with mental illness only increases lay recognition of mental illness in the United States and Great Britain. Overall, respondents’ and vignette persons’ characteristics appear to play a minor role in labeling the condition as “mental illness,”

and, the findings are inconsistent. Given the number of coefficients estimated, we are reluctant to draw too heavily on the implications of these scattered socio-demographic effects.

Lay attributions appear to play a greater role in assigning a mental illness label across countries. Evaluated seriousness increases the likelihood of assigning this label in all countries but Iceland. Believing that the scenario is caused by a “brain disease” also increases the likelihood of a lay diagnosis of mental illness in all countries but Cyprus. Other attributions matter less consistently, but still do so across a number of countries. Reporting that the scenario is caused by genetics increases the likelihood of a mental illness label in Germany, Hungary, Iceland, Spain, and the United States. A social attribution, on the way the individual was raised, decreases the likelihood of a lay diagnosis of mental illness in Germany, Hungary, Iceland, and the U.S. Finally, citing stress as an underlying cause decreases the likelihood of a label in Cyprus but has the opposite effect in Hungary and Spain. Overall, cultural values associated with mental illness play some role in all countries with the most consistent effect of medical or biological attribution associated with assigning the mental illness label.

Table 3 reports results from binary logit regressions of the more specific lay diagnosis of “schizophrenia” across countries. Ironically, given the greater cross-cultural variation in lay diagnosis, the results indicate that vignette and respondent characteristics play even less of a role here. Of all the possibilities, only three rela- tionships are significant (i.e., men in Hungary, labor force partici- pants in Spain, those with greater contact in the U.S.). Again, however, cultural values have more consistent effects. Perceived seriousness has a significant, positive relationship on lay diagnosis in five countries. Respondents who evaluate the condition as

S. Olafsdottir, B.A. Pescosolido / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 929e938936

serious are also more likely to identify a “schizophrenia” diagnosis in Bulgaria, Cyprus, Spain, Great Britain, and the U.S. Finally, respondents who attribute the underlying cause to neurobiological explanations are significantly more likely to assign a schizophrenia label. In all countries but Cyprus, brain disease has a positive association, while genetic attributions do so in all countries but the U.S, where it approaches significance for a two-tailed test. Social attributions, such as child rearing, reduce recognition in most countries (Bulgaria, Germany, Iceland, Great Britain, and the U.S.), but increase it in Cyprus. Similarly, those who cite stress as the cause (Cyprus, Germany, Great Britain, and the U.S.) are also less likely to align their diagnoses with psychiatric classification.

The influence of lay diagnoses

Table 4 reports the consequences of lay diagnoses of “mental illness” and “schizophrenia” on general beliefs in treatment efficacy, as well as recommendations for six sources of formal and informal help, controlling for all factors included above. Lay diagnosis of “mental illness” has a significant influence on reporting that the condition will improve with medical treatment in Hungary, Iceland Great Britain, and the United States. However, lay diagnosis of “schizophrenia” is associated with more pessimistic views of medical efficacy in four countries (Cyprus, Germany, Hungary and Spain).

A lay diagnosis of “mental illness” has an inconsistent rela- tionship with respondents’ views of the importance of consulting “medical doctors.” The relationship is negative in Cyprus, but positive in Germany and Hungary. More consistent effects of lay diagnoses of “mental illness” are found for the importance of seeking psychiatric help. In all countries, but Cyprus, the influence is positive. A similar pattern is observed for viewing “counselors” as important in all countries but Cyprus and Hungary. Further, assigning a mental illness label matters less for recommending the help of informal sources, while endorsing the scenario as a “mental illness” decreases the likelihood of suggesting family in Cyprus and religious leaders in Spain. However, it increases the likelihood of suggesting religious leader in Hungary.

Lay diagnoses of “schizophrenia” appear to matter less, overall, than the recognition of “mental illness” for treatment recommen- dations. There is some evidence that assigning a lay diagnosis of schizophrenia steers respondents toward endorsing the mental health system. Those who see the scenario as “schizophrenia” in Cyprus and Spain view the help of psychiatrists as more important than those who do not (also for counselors in Cyprus and the U.S.). This appears to matter more regarding informal sources, where it lowers support for these options (e.g., decreasing support for family in Hungary and Great Britain, for friends in Germany and Great Britain, and for religious leaders in Hungary and Great Britain).

In sum, these findings suggest that respondents across our eight nations appear to translate a lay diagnosis of “mental illness” into prescriptions toward use of the specialty mental health system, but this has little influence, either way, on informal sources of help. The results for lay diagnoses of “schizophrenia” are less clear but tend to reflect a negative assessment of the potential utility of either the formal or informal health care systems.

Discussion and conclusion

Lay diagnoses matter for at least three reasons. First, from a medical and public health perspective, when lay diagnoses do not align with expert ones, the failure to seek health care can lead to long delays which, in turn, produce prolonged suffering, higher costs to individuals and societies, and even premature death. Lay diagnoses hold the potential to impact diagnostic categories themselves (Conrad, 2005). Second, from an indigenous system

perspective, lay diagnoses lead to behaviors which are rarely life- threatening and can alleviate symptoms, reduce the duration of illness, and activate positive health behaviors. Third, from a theo- retical point of view, the public response to scenarios that match formal diagnoses of allopathic medical systems tells us about the medicalization of culture, the nature of support for formal and informal healing options, and cleavages in the adoption of domi- nant, Western belief systems. The fact remains that people rely most often on their own or others’ assessments of the onset of symptoms. Based on those evaluations, they rely on community resources before ever considering whether they will seek out formal medical care (Stoller et al., 1993). As such, lay diagnoses reveal important information about cultural systems, particularly judgments on cultural beliefs regarding social problems and the potential response pathways that those cultural beliefs lay out.

Here, we describe how individuals within and across eight Western countries responded to a scenario which met criteria for a DSM-IV diagnosis of schizophrenia, one of the most serious of the mental illnesses. For our set of questions, three key findings emerge. First, a majority of respondents across our eight advanced industrialized nations is able to recognize schizophrenia as a mental illness, but much less likely to be able to provide the specific label of schizophrenia. It appears that the description allows the public to recognize that something is wrong and that it is related to mental health, but the overall health literacy across the countries has not reached a point where a specific lay diagnosis accompanies the symptom description. Second, recognition is not strongly associated with who people are (the evaluator or the person being evaluated), but appears to be embedded within their larger cultural beliefs about mental illness. Across the countries, we observe a strong pattern where those who attribute the condition to medical or biological causes are more likely to recognize the description as a mental illness in general or schizophrenia in particular. We also find a more inconsistent tendency that a belief in social causes decreases the likelihood of lay recognition. Consequently, it appears that lay diagnosis corresponding to a medical view is embedded within a larger medical context endorsed by the individual. Conversely, individuals who appear to take a more social approach to mental illness are less likely to endorse a medical label of the condition. Third, the public across these countries appears relatively optimistic regarding mental illness, but less so for schizophrenia. In particular, we find that respondents see a utility in various mental health providers when the problem is mental illness, but these relationships only rarely reappear when the schizophrenia label is assigned. This indicates that public campaigns regarding mental illness recovery have been somewhat successful in general, but that lack of hope may still surround the most serious diagnosis across multiple developed countries.

What do these findings, and in particular, the differential appropriation of “mental illness” and “schizophrenia” diagnoses among the public imply? Do they reference differing degrees of health literacy? A resistance to medical constructions of reality (Jutel, 2009)? The fear of the stigma attached to a more specific diagnostic label (Franz et al., 2010)? More research may be able to separate out these possibilities. In all likelihood, however, delving into cultural meanings of illness and the authority of medicine will lead us to a more nuanced understanding of social, political, economic, and cultural systems. Our findings suggest that even as problem recognition matters, the usual policy response (i.e., to improve education about symptoms) (Ho et al., 2008) will likely have both expected and latent effects on lay diagnosis and advice.

Of course, our study has limitations. While careful attention was taken in the SGC-MHS to develop culturally appropriate and comparable surveys, other cultural differences, not considered,

S. Olafsdottir, B.A. Pescosolido / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 929e938 937

could matter. The findings do provide a broad overview of public attitudes toward mental illness in these countries and do offer initial finding on how social location and cultural values shape lay diagnoses. However, we reiterate our concern about interpretations on fine-grained cultural differences. In addition, while we strate- gically limited our countries to developed SGC-countries to decrease differences in health care systems and medical views, there still is a wide array of political, economic, and social differ- ences across the countries. Finally, our analysis here is limited to one mental illness, schizophrenia. Results may differ for other mental health problems.

In the end, however, our findings support a critical conclusion of other recent research. A more complex approach to understanding the role of community-based culture and their influence on health and health care is essential to the understanding of unmet need, delay, and low utilization rates that trouble providers and policy- makers. As Marie, Forsyth, and Miles (2004) conclude in New Zealand, the “assumed” relationship between “categorical ethnicity” (e.g., in their case, Maori/non-Maori) and mental health literacy that undergirds public social policies appear to be funda- mentally misdirected. For major depression, most majority and minority-identified individuals in their study could correctly identify the “disorder” from a vignette. However, the response to a “correct” lay diagnosis did not necessarily translate into similar response pathways. Our findings lead to a similar, but more general conclusion.

Continuing to rely on assumptions, rather than empirical evidence, about what individuals in the community think, what information they have, and how they will interpret and use that information can only produce weak efforts in community and institutional initiatives to improve the health of the population (Olafsdottir & Pescosolido, 2009). While we may disagree with Calnan’s early assessment (1988) that our knowledge gaps result from using particular methodological approaches, we agree with him and others that creative, complex and conceptually driven research on culture will assist us in understanding the community, the medical system, and most importantly, the interface between the two.

Acknowledgments

Support provided by the Fogarty International Center and the National Institute of Mental Health, Grant No. 5R01TW006374; the Icelandic Foundation, and the National Science Foundation support to the General Social Survey. We thank Jason Beckfield for comments on earlier drafts of this paper.

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  • Constructing illness: How the public in eight Western nations respond to a clinical description of “schizophrenia”
    • Introduction
    • Theoretical background
      • Framing lay diagnosis
      • Capturing culture: social location and cultural beliefs
      • The consequences of lay diagnosis
      • Why focus on schizophrenia?
    • Data and methods
      • Data
    • Measures and analysis
      • The dependent variables
      • Independent variables
      • Analytical strategy
    • Results
      • Cross-national variation in the labeling and recognition of schizophrenia
      • Correlates of lay diagnoses
      • The influence of lay diagnoses
    • Discussion and conclusion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Talking about colds and flu: The lay diagnosis of two common illnesses among older British people

Lindsay Prior a,*, Meirion R. Evans b, Hayley Prout b

a Centre of Excellence in Public Health, QUB, Belfast, Northern Ireland, BT7 1NN, UK b Cardiff University, Cardiff, UK

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 24 November 2010

Keywords: Colds and Influenza Co-occurrence relations Expert patients Lay diagnosis Lay expertise

* Corresponding author. E-mail address: [email protected] (L. Prior).

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2010 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2010.09.054

a b s t r a c t

This paper reports on a study of the ways in which 54 older people in South Wales (UK) talk about the symptoms and causes of cold and influenza (flu). The study was designed to understand why older people might reject or accept the offer of seasonal flu vaccine, and in the course of the interviews respondents were also asked to express their views about the nature and causes of the two key illnesses. The latter are among the most common infections in human beings. In terms of the biomedical paradigm the common cold is caused by numerous respiratory viruses, whilst flu is caused by the influenza virus. Medical diagnosis is usually made on clinical grounds without laboratory confirmation. Symptoms of flu include sudden onset of fever and cough, and colds are characterized by sneezing, sore throat, and runny nose, but in practice the symptoms often overlap. In this study we examine the degree by which the views of lay people with respect to both diagnosis and epidemiology diverge with that which is evident in biomedical discourse. Our results indicate that whilst most of the identified symptoms are common to lay and professional people, the former integrate symptoms into a markedly different observational frame from the latter. And as far as causation is concerned it is clear that lay people emphasize the role of ‘resistance’ and ‘immunity’ at least as much as ‘infection’ in accounting for the onset of colds and flu. The data are analyzed using novel methods that focus on the co-occurrence of concepts and are displayed as semantic networks. As well as reporting on its findings the authors draw out some implications of the study for social scientific and policy discussions concerning lay diagnosis, lay expertise and the concept of an expert patient.

� 2010 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

The lay diagnosis of colds and flu

Colds and flu, collectively referred to in biomedical terms as upper respiratory tract infections or URTIs, are the most common infections in human beings. Adults may have between two and five episodes of the cold in a year, and schoolchildren from five to seven episodes (Eccles, 2005). During the twentieth century biomedical understanding of URTIs was primarily focused on the identification of the viral agents that are regarded by medical professionals as their main cause. Influenza virus was first identified during the 1930s, and during the 1950s and 60s numerous viruses including rhinovirus, coronavirus and adenovirus were associated with the common cold (Heikkinen & Järvinen, 2003). By the beginning of the current century over 200 serologically different virus types had

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been implicated in the aetiology of the cold (McChlery, Ramage, & Bagg, 2009, p.151). In parallel with the identification of viral agents, the public health effort from the latter part of the twentieth century was concentrated on delivering effective vaccines to reduce the prevalence of seasonal and pandemic flu variants e the most recent global attempt relating to the winter of 2009e2010. However, despite the fact that URTI’s have been progressively taken into the laboratory and systematically ‘Jennerized’ (c.f. Latour, 1988), the main site for their diagnosis is in the community or the world of everyday life. And in that world the understanding of respiratory infections is mediated through a web of concerns e about the origins and interconnection of symptoms, the maintenance of personal health and the distribution of illness among relatives, friends, and neighbours. This paper focuses on such concerns and in particular how colds and flu are spoken about and diagnosed by lay people in ordinary, everyday, non-clinical settings. The data are drawn from a qualitative interview based study (N ¼ 54) of older people’s understanding and acceptance of seasonal flu vaccine that was undertaken in South Wales during the earlier part of the current decade.

Fig. 1. Symptoms of cold and flu and the connections between them.

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From the work of Stimson and Webb (1975) onward there has been an increasing recognition of the role played by lay people (as patients) in the diagnostic process (see, for example, Beach, 2001; Frankel, 2001; Gill & Maynard, 2006; Gill, Pomerantz, & Denvir, 2010; Heath, 1992; Peräkylä, 2006). However, the overwhelming majority of relevant studies look at doctorepatient activity in clinical settings e mostly using techniques of conversation analysis. Interestingly, some of those who research into lay engagement with the diagnostic process argue that the word diagnosis should be reserved solely for categorizations of disease by doctors (e.g., Gill et al., 2010, p. 17). The research reported on here is somewhat different from the work just referred to in that it examines how lay people identify and categorize groups of symptoms in the ‘life- world’ (Mishler, 1984, p. 104), or the world ‘grounded’ in everyday life, rather than the world of the clinic or the consulting room. In the context of common respiratory symptoms, it is also worth noting that there has been a long tradition of looking at the ways in which lay people understand the symptomatology of URTI’s, and especially ‘colds’ (see, for example, ; Baer, Weller, Garcia, 2008; Baer, Weller, Pachter et al, 1999; Helman, 1978; McCombie, 1987). However, most of that work examines the range of symptoms lay people associate with cold e and to a lesser extent flu - and how they explain respiratory illness. Such studies are not overly con- cerned with how lay people differentiate between or how they diagnose colds and flu e a topic that is the focus of this paper.

The study of lay diagnoses of illness and infection is important for a number of reasons and not least because the manner in which ordinary people understand infection and its origins is directly relevant to the spread and control of disease in populations - the health of the public (McCombie, 1987). It is also a topic directly relevant to discussions concerning the display of expertise by lay people in matters of health and illness more generally (Fox, Ward, & O’Rourke, 2005; Prior, 2003). While in policy terms, the topic connects to a growing ‘acknowledgment’e especially with regard to chronic conditions e of patient expertise in health care and the ways in which such expertise can be drawn upon in the delivery of services to the public at large (Donaldson, 2003; Lindsay & Vrijhoef, 2009; Rogers, Bury, & Kennedy, 2009; Wilson, 1999). In an age of threatened pandemics these discussions acquire an unusually clear resonance.

Background and methods of study

The data in this paper are drawn from a qualitative study on the views of primary care staff and older people concerning the uptake of the seasonal flu vaccine in rural, urban, and semi-urban areas of South Wales. The study was carried out during 2002-03 and the main objectives were to understand why a large percentage of individuals in high risk groups failed to seek or accept vaccination and what could be done to improve immunization rates among older people. Respondents were selected from a previous age- stratified random postal survey of people in the area aged over 65 who had reported on their immunization status. In light of those reports we chose to sample across a range of status groups. Eigh- teen people who had refused immunization, 15 who had previously accepted immunization but had since ‘relapsed’, 5 people who claimed that they had never been offered immunization and 16 people who had accepted the vaccine (including 5 ‘first timers’) were eventually included in the study. The work was funded by NHS Wales Office of R&D, and ethical approval granted by the local (Bro Taf) research ethics committee. Findings relating to the orig- inal objectives were published in Evans, Prout and Prior (2007).

Data were gathered using a semi-structured interview schedule that contained a list of key topics for discussion. As well as focusing on the reasons why people might accept or reject the offer of a flu

vaccine, the interview schedule contained questions asking: ‘What do you think are the symptoms of colds and flu’? ‘What do you think is the difference between cold and flu? ‘How do you think people catch flu?’ Qualitative interviews of this kind have previ- ously been categorized as a genre of conversation (Kvale,1996, p. 5) in which respondents tend to reply to questions in a free-flowing style. In our case, for example, that style led the research partici- pants to talk about the causes of upper respiratory tract infections in general and not merely the causes of flu. The current paper is based on an analysis of that talk, and in that context the exercise might be seen as constituting a secondary analysis of an existing data set.

For the purposes of this paper the 54 interview transcripts were initially analyzed using ‘Text-mining for Clementine 12.0’ (SPSS, 2007). There are various advantages of using such automated text-mining techniques for data analysis. One offshoot is that the data set can be trawled for instances of co-occurrence between two concepts (such as flu jab and side-effects). The programme in use is capable of calculating a coefficient for all such co-occurring concepts and can display the results of such connections dia- grammatically. Following the exclusion of terms with fewer than 5 citations, the programme identified some 119 concepts (flu, flu jab, side-effects, colds, etc) in our data set. The coefficients of co- occurrence between these concepts naturally varied in strength. In some cases the strength of the links was unsurprising (e.g. the co- occurrence coefficient for the link between cold and flu was unity since the two terms occurred in all interviews); in other cases the link was considerably weaker (e.g. the link between ‘virus’ and flu was only 0.15).

Text-mining results provide a visible means of checking the veracity of interview analysis. For example, the number of instances a concept appears is given, as well as a visual representation as to how that term links to related concepts. Using the text-mining results it is also possible to identify exactly which of the 54 respondents associated the various concepts together and how they combined them. These data form the basis for the information displayed in Figs. 1 and 2. Unfortunately, text-mining software uses

Fig. 2. The causes of upper respiratory tract infections (URTI’s) and the connections between them.

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the document (interview) as the basis for all its calculations and so it is not immediately clear whether the interviewer or the inter- viewee makes the connections between concepts. In our case we have restricted ourselves to looking at explicit links made only by the respondents, and for that reason we have extracted the text- mining results and re-incorporated them into semantic networks using social network software (De Nooy, Mrvar, & Batagelj, 2005) rather than the original text-mining software. Our focus is of course more on the concept networks than on social networks, and the figures provide a graphic indication of the nature and strength of the co-occurrence relationships between the basic terms and concepts in the 54 interviews.

Colds and flu: a view from the clinic

“Cold. A contagious viral infection of the upper respiratory tract usually caused by a strain of rhinovirus. It is characterized by rhinitis, tearing, low-grade fever and malaise and is treated symptomatically”.

“Influenza; a highly contagious infection of the respiratory tract caused by the orthomyxovirus and transmitted by airborne droplet infection. Symptoms include sore throat, cough, fever, muscular pains and weakness . onset is usually sudden, with chills, fever, respiratory symptoms, headache, myalgia and extreme fatigue.” (Mosby’s Dictionary of Medicine, Nursing, and Health Professions, 2009).

The view from the laboratory would suggest that colds and flu are viral infections, and indeed over 200 different virus types have been associated with the common cold. Around 30e50% of all colds are said to be caused by rhinoviruses, followed by coronaviruses (10e15% of all colds), and influenza viruses (5e15%) (Heikkinen & Järvinen, 2003; McChlery et al., 2009). It is not surprising perhaps that in biomedical literature cold and flu are regarded as syndromes rather than as clear cut ontological categories, and the preferred contemporary biomedical designation is ‘URTI’ or upper respiratory

tract infection. As is also implied above, colds and flu are diagnosed clinically, though laboratory findings are regarded as necessary for the confirmation of any diagnosis. Studies that compare the two forms of diagnosis highlight disjunction in a high proportion of cases (Call, Vollenweider, Hornung et al, 2005).

The symptom pattern for colds and flu is far from agreed upon. Sudden onset of fever and cough are regarded as good predictors of influenza being present, but in general there is a variable list of symptoms associated with the two syndromes in the medical liter- ature. Eccles (2005) for example, lists sore throat, sneezing, rhinor- rhoea, nasal congestion, sinus pain, cough, headache, chilliness (for cold) and fever (for flu), anorexia, psychological effects and muscle aches and pains. During the recent (2010) pandemic alert the UK Department of Health information (http://www.direct.gov.uk/ swineflu) stated that, “the symptoms of swine flu are a fever or a high temperature (38 �C) and two of the following symptoms: unusual tiredness, headache, runny nose, sore throat, shortness of breath or cough, loss of appetite, aching muscles, diarrhoea or vom- iting. The same symptoms were listed by the CDC in the USA (http:// www.cdc.gov/flu/about/disease/symptoms.htm) with an added remark that diarrhoea or vomiting were more likely in children than in adults. Eccles (2005) makes no mention of either diarrhoea or vomiting, and nor do Call, Vollenweider, Hornung et al, (2005).

Diagnosis of flu, in particular, is not therefore a straightforward or clear-cut business. Clinicians, if necessary, can combine reported symptoms, information derived from clinical examination, together with laboratory and radiograph evidence, and data about current circulating strains from flu disease surveillance systems so as to arrive at a firm diagnosis. Lay people generally have access to only the first of these.

Flu, colds and the sniffles: A view from home

As stated in our introduction, lay talk about colds and flu is set within a mesh of concerns e about causes, symptoms and conse- quences. Such talk comprises the base elements of what has at times been referred to as the ‘explanatory model’ of an illness (Kleinman, Eisenberg, & Good, 1978). In this section we will focus almost entirely on the identification of symptoms and views con- cerning the causes of colds and flu. We do so by relating such views to a wider rhetoric of complaint in which the understanding of colds and flu is embedded.

The semantics of symptoms

The diagnosis of colds and flu in the lay population concentrates, as one would expect, on the symptom pattern. In that respect the procedure differs little from that of clinicians. For diagnostic purposes, of course, clinicians have ultimate recourse to a labora- tory identification of a causative agent e though that is rarely used in routine consultations. Lay people have no recourse to such data and one might guess that even if they did they would interpret findings in a distinctly colloquial manner. Indeed, from our data set it is clear that lay people understand symptoms in a markedly different frame from that of medical professionals. In particular they report not only on symptoms relating to the body (especially the head), but also on behavioural correlates e and to a lesser extent on some psychological factors. In addition, lay people mention symptoms that are not ordinarily associated with flu in the medical literature, and they also connect the body itself to colds and flu in ways that can run counter to a prevailing western medical cosmology that seeks to connect pathology to specific anatomical sites.

Fig. 1 shows in diagrammatic form the key symptoms that lay people associate with colds and flu respectively. The thickness of

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the lines between the concept nodes express the value of a coeffi- cient of co-occurrence between a reference to any given symptom (in 54 interviews), and any other symptom mentioned. The diagram also displays links between the symptoms and the two key entities of ‘cold’ and ‘flu’. The calculation of the coefficient is based on that used in text-mining software (SPSS: 2007, p. 183), except that here the links are confined to those that are explicitly made by the respondent between the various concepts in the course of the interview (rather than the words merely appearing anywhere in the document). The size of a node is proportional to the total number of references to each concept in the 54 transcripts.

Looking at Fig. 1, we can see that there are a range of entities deployed for the purpose of diagnosis. These include parts of the body affected (nose, throat, eyes); physiological processes (cough- ing, eating, sneezing, vomiting, and fever); behavioral processes (being bedridden); and to a lesser extent psychological processes (feeling down). Note that most (but not all) of the symptoms are common to both conditions. Lay people naturally weave these entities into their accounts in idiosyncratic ways, but this diagram contains all of the elements that our respondents required to distinguish between a cold and the flu e in short, all that is required to make a differential diagnosis.

Essentially, the diagnosis of a cold focuses on symptoms in the head and colds are associated almost entirely with the head (Head- ache, however, is viewed primarily as a symptom of flu e as is evident from the detail in Fig. 1). So when respondents were asked to distinguish between colds and flu they would say such things as: ‘Well I think colds is (sic) just in the head and runny nose and stuffy nose.’ (Respondent (R): 44), or refer simply to “a head cold” (R:16). Unsurprisingly, and as is also evident in Fig. 1, the nose (and sneezing) is particularly prominent in the symptom pattern for cold, though associated sites such as the sinus, the throat and the eyes also figure in the diagnostic frame. This is in marked contrast to flu which is invariably viewed as a whole body illness e char- acterized by whole ‘bodyache’ (Fig.1). Interestingly, a number of respondents also referred (usually in a dismissive manner) to a third category of illness ‘the sniffles’ e which seemed to relate to very mild forms of rhinorrhea and associated nasal symptoms. The following data extracts illustrate some of the key ways in which lay people differentiate colds from flu.

(R:24) “Well, flu, you get all your aches and pains. You feel lethargic, that type of thing, but with a cold, it’s usually a head cold and plenty of coughs, sneezes and such like that you don’t always get with the flu. I feel the flu is more in the whole of the body.” (R:30) “Always the question is, I mean my daughters about 44 but I said, um, is your body aching all over? Yes, or no? ‘Yes’. You’ve got flu then. If it’s not, you’ve got a heavy cold and that’s it.” (R:23) “Well, I think with flu you’re aching all over aren’t you, you go, you get hot and then you get cold and you’re aching all over whereas if it’s a cold you’re sneezing. You have a sort of a heady cold. I think it’s a big difference isn’t there?” (R:7) “Well. Well the influenza usually affects your stomach. It usually affects aching all over the body. And, you usually have a higher temperature. You feel a lot worse with flu, obviously”.

As is suggested by R23 above, flu is stronglyassociated with fever. In addition, it is predominantly associated with myalgia, and exclusively related to being bedridden or to an inability to undertake routine and normal duties. It is sometimes associated with vomiting and co-related stomach pain (R:7). Above all, to have flu is to be ‘really ill’ (R:46); flu is ‘more of an illness than a cough or a cold’, (R:17). And, ‘when you’ve got the flu, you’re really ill. When you’ve got a cold you can manage you know’ (R:35). Indeed, it is possible to ‘shake off a cold’ (R:48), but not the flu; flu ‘knocks you for six’ (R:10).

“Well, a cold you can really master” (R:25), but the flu, ‘puts you right off your feet’ (R:23). It is often the severity of the discomfort that enables a person to diagnose the one from the other. So, ‘flu is woof, bang wallop, out, you’re gone’ (R:31). In short the flu necessitates withdrawal from normal and routine social intercourse.

Respondents also made clear that, on occasion, colds can develop into flu e which is why the behavioural features can be so crucial in diagnosing one from the other. And perhaps it is this unique capacity of flu to remove an individual from everyday affairs that warrants the invariable use of the definite article in discussions of the one (the flu) - as compared to the more probable use of the indefinite article (a cold) in discussions concerning the other. In any event, the possibility of a cold metamorphosing into flu serves to highlight the dynamic, ‘wait-and-see’ and emergent aspects of lay diagnosis with respects to both URTI’s and L(ower)RTI’s such as pneumonia.

In sum, then, flu is not ‘just in the head’, but rather affects the entire human frame. As such, and as well as having corporeal symptoms e in the head, stomach, or muscles - flu affects one’s routine activities and especially the capacity to function in daily affairs. Flu in that sense is more ‘serious’. We return to examine some of the implications of the analysis in the discussion section of the paper. For now we turn to an exploration of causation.

Semantics of causation

Fig. 2 is based on the talk that our respondents made in response to the question, “how do you think people catch flu?” As we have already stated, semi-structured interviews of the kind used for this study are often characterized as akin to ‘a conversation with a purpose’ (Kahn & Cannell, 1957, p. 97); as such they are designed to generate data rather than just to collect data. In our case and even though our focus was on the causes of flu, our respondents spoke extensively about the causes of both cold and flu and even of pneumonia (see extracts below). Their responses led to the iden- tification of a wide range of factors associated with the onset of the two key conditions; we can see virtually all of these referenced in Fig. 2. Therein are mentioned items such as ‘bugs’ (and ‘germs’) as well as viruses; but the most commonly referred to causes invoked ‘the air’ and ‘atmosphere’. The interview data also pointed toward means of transmission as ‘cause’ e so coughs and sneezes and mixing in crowds figure in the causal mix. Most interesting perhaps is that lay people make a nascent distinction between facilitating factors (such as bugs and viruses) and inhibiting factors (such as being resistant, immune, or healthy), so that in the presence of the latter, the former are seen to have very little effect.

In general, it is not easy to unravel the web of talk about causation that occurs in the interview data. Causal agents, inhib- iting agents and means of transmission are very often conflated by the respondents e as will be evident in the quotes that follow. In addition, a large proportion of our respondents pointed to the ‘flu jab’ as a cause of flu. We have not included inoculation as a causal agent in Fig. 2 because it was rejection (or acceptance) of a flu jab that formed the focal point of the interviews - and therefore given undue attention.

(R:32) “How do you catch it [the flu]? Well, I take it its through ingesting and inhaling bugs from the atmosphere. Not from sort of contact or touching things. Sort of airborne bugs. Is that right?”

Indeed ‘the air’ (and atmosphere) in particular were spoken of both as a cause of infection in its own right and as the key means of transmission between one person and another. Thus;

(R:3) “I suppose it’s [the cause of flu] in the air. I think I get more diseases going to the surgery than if I stayed home. Sometimes the waiting room is packed and you’ve got little kids coughing

L. Prior et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 922e928926

and spluttering and people sneezing, and air conditioning I think is a killer by and large I think air conditioning in lots of these offices. I know in the last years of when I was working, we had air conditioning in offices and I had more coughs and colds more during that period than I ever had”. (R:46) “I think you catch flu from other people. You know in enclosed environments in air conditioning which in my opinion is the biggest cause of transferring diseases is air conditioning. Worse thing that was ever invented that was. I think so, you know. It happens on aircraft exactly the same you know.”

While, the following respondent connects the air to flu’s ‘own little germs’:

(R:17) “I think it’s [the flu] in the air with people who’ve got it. I don’t really know. I know the old saying goes, coughs and sneezes spread diseases, but whether it’s the flu or not or whether that’s just colds or coughs. I don’t think you catch it off someone else, I think you do it all by yourself. Quite clever. I don’t really know. I think it probably does come with the environment if you’re working in an office and everybody’s snuffly and .I think possibly flu can be more dangerous than people think. It’s not just a cold plus. It has it’s own little germs”.

As previously stated, being, cold, wet, or damp can also be viewed as a direct cause of flu.

Interviewer: “OK, good. How do you think you catch the flu?” R:39 “Ah. The 65 dollar question. Well, I would catch it if I was out in the rain and I got soaked through. Then I would get the flu. I mean my neighbour up here was soaked through and he got pneumonia and he died. He was younger than me: well, 70. And he stayed in his wet clothes and that’s fatal. Got pneumonia and died, but like I said, if I get wet, especially if I get my head wet, then I can get a nasty head cold and it could develop into flu later.”

Despite the presence of bugs and germs, viruses, the air and wetness or dampness, ‘catching’ the flu is not a matter of simple exposure to causative agents. For within each person there is a measure of immunity or resistance or healthiness that comes into play and is capable of counteracting the effects of external agents. For example being ‘hardened’ (R:14) to germs and harsh weather can prevent a person getting colds and flu. Being ‘healthy’ (R:27) can itself negate the effects of any causative agents, and healthiness is often linked to aspects of ‘good’ nutrition and diet (R:35, R:16), and not smoking cigarettes. These mitigating and inhibiting factors can either mollify the effects of infection or prevent a person ‘catching’ the flu entirely. Thus, (R:45) argued that it was almost impossible for him to catch flu or cold “Cos I got all this resistance”.Interestingly respondents often used possessive pronouns in their discussion of immunity and resistance (‘my immunity’, and ‘my resistance’) e and tended to view them as personal assets (or capital) that might be compromised by mixing with crowds (see R:5 below).

(R:45) “Because I’m fairly healthy. As a matter of fact, I nearly said to you now, no, I don’t want [the flu jab] now because I had shingles two years ago and I think I’m protected against the plague even. I have the full range of antibodies having recovered from shingles.” (R:54) “Because you and I can do exactly the same thing and be in exactly the same place, and you can have flu and I won’t. Your immune system you know plays a tremendous part in all this isn’t it, so I think you know, if you’re immune to it then you’ll sail through it”.

Equally, having a weak immune system (R:22) can sharpen the risk of contracting cold and flu and might therefore spur one on to

take preventive measures such as accepting a flu jab. There are some, of course, who believe that it is the flu ‘jab’ that can cause the flu and other illnesses. The three extracts below illustrate the general idea, and we cite them not so much for what might be called their lay ‘epidemiology’ (Davison, Davey-Smith & Frankel; 1991), but to illustrate the operation of what might be called a lay surveillance system - a system that is more often than not based on information derived from intimate knowledge of ‘small worlds’.

(R:4) “Well, now it’s coincidental you know that [my brother] died after the jab, but another friend of mine, about 8 years ago, the same happened to her. She had the jab and about six months later, she died, so I know they’re both coincidental, but to me there’s a pattern”. (R:33) “I told him. I was awful poorly last week. I had that bloody flu injection. And next to me in the butchers. was a husband and wife, my age group, near enough. And she said oh, we’re not having it any more either. Yes, she said, we had a terrible time last year . there’s a lot of people complaining”. (R:5) “I’m nearly 87. I’ve had flu four times in my life. And I think I’ve developed a sort of immunity. And I don’t want to spoil that immunity. And that is why I don’t have an injection. Int: Right. So you think that because you’ve had flu four times, you probably won’t have it again? R: Well, it’s a good record, isn’t it and I’ll be 87 in July. Plus, I’ve got two other reasons why. I know somebody that’s had GBS from it. Int: GBS? (R:5) Guillain-Barré Syndrome. You’re paralyzed. He was para- lyzed from there down. Int: Really! (R:5) Yes, and I’ve got a friend, up Grange Road, here, who has flu every 21 days for 9 years because of a flu jab. Yes. She has flu symptoms every 21 days. She’s one, the doctors have told her. She’s one in I don’t know how many million. So that’s another reason.”

What we can see in Fig. 2, then, is not so much an ‘explanatory model’ for either cold of flu, but the ingredients out of which a variety of explanations can be built. Naturally, specific individuals weave these common elements into their own web of causation in distinctive ways. Thus R:5 (above), for example, wove ‘resistance’; ‘immunity’ and good health as well as the flu jab into his explan- atory model; while R:4 placed emphasis on viruses, coughs and sneezes and ‘resistance’ in addition to the inoculation. Indeed, people who refused inoculation proved highly likely to assert that the ‘flu jab’ caused the flu (which is partly why they avoided it). In the following section we highlight and discuss some of the impli- cations of these observations.

Discussion: the semantics of common illness

Lay or ‘folk’ understandings of cold and flu have constituted the topic of investigation for a number of studies e especially cross- cultural studies. However, the attention of such studies has nor- mally been on the symptomatology of either cold or flu, rather than on the ways in which lay people differentially diagnose cold from flu (e.g. Baer, Weller, Pachter et al, 1999; Baer, Weller, de Alba Garcia, & Salcedo Rocha, 2008). In health service research litera- ture also, there are numerous symptom surveys that concentrate on the reporting of symptoms for ‘the cold’ in particular (e.g. Barrett, Brown, Mundt et al, 2009). Again, none of the latter looks explic- itly at the process of lay diagnosis, or the ways in which lay people integrate observations of individual symptoms of cold into diag- nostic procedures. In this paper, however, we have intentionally focused on describing the ways in which older lay people e as non- medical professionals - assign clusters of symptoms to one of the

L. Prior et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 922e928 927

two common disease categories (The views of younger people and of parents of young children may be different).

Symptoms

It is relatively clear that while lay and professional knowledge of colds and flu intersect at various points, they diverge significantly when assessed as a whole. For even where there is apparent agreement on symptoms e and most of the symptoms mentioned by our sample also appear in the biomedical literature - it is evident that lay people assess such symptoms in a different frame from that used by clinicians.

We know from cross-cultural studies that the symptoms for cold appear to be similar in many different linguistic and social cultures (Baer, Weller, Pachter et al, 1999) and most, if not all, social groups seem to draw a distinction between cold and flu as separate illnesses. However, there are important differences to note. For example, members of the sample reported on here associated ‘fever’ with cold as well as with flu, and a number of people asso- ciated vomiting with flu (though not with cold). Other populations e such as Latin American populations - do not seemingly associate gastric symptoms with respiratory disease. More importantly, perhaps, it seems that the ways in which members of our sample integrated the symptom pattern into an understanding of cold and flu is quite different from that which appears in professional medical discourse. In particular, lay people place a heavy emphasis on behavioural correlates as distinguishing features of flu e being bedridden and therefore unable to function normally is exclusively associated with flu and constitutes a defining feature of flu. There is no consistent reference to causative agents here as a means of demarcating cold from flu. Furthermore it is clear that flu is inter- preted as a whole body illness characterized by an aching body (rather than just aching muscles) while colds are mainly confined to the head e head cold. It is not merely that in cases of flu people suffer with aching muscles (and of course they do), but that they, as homo totus, are ill. In medical anthropology the concept of a whole body illness is far from unknown. However, such illnesses are usually spoken of in the context of culture-bound syndromes and disorders with psychiatric symptoms. They are also reported on almost exclusively in studies of people living in countries outside of the advanced industrial world - see, for example, Oths (1999) study of ‘debilidad’. Yet from the talk of informants in our study it seems plausible to suggest that, among this group of older white English speaking people at least, ‘the flu’ is essentially regarded as a whole body illness in which psychological symptoms (feeling low or down) play a very minor role (None of the respondents associated feeling low or feeling down with colds).

In the discussion section of their 1999 paper, Baer, Weller, Pachter et al, argued that in English speaking populations in the USA there was common reference to a ‘folk flu’ that differed in its symptomatology from the biomedical version; the key difference being an emphasis in folk flu on gastrointestinal symptoms, espe- cially vomiting. The concept of ‘folk flu’ was a particular focus for McCombie (1987), who placed a heavy emphasis on references to vomiting and diarrhea as symptoms of folk flu, and argued that such beliefs hampered the investigation of outbreaks of food-borne diseases. It is clear from our data that an association between flu and vomiting exists among some of our informants. In addition we have noted that it appears as a symptom of ‘swine flu’ in both UK and US health information sites.

Causes

Our respondents pointed to a wide range of causative agents e especially in their discussions concerning flu, but also in their talk

about colds. Extraneous causes of the flu can involve viruses, bugs and germs; the environment in general and ‘stuffy’ air in particular; being wet and wearing damp clothes; the flu jab; and coughs and sneezes of other people. However, any systematic understanding of the role of these factors has to take into account a series of coun- tervailing factors such as a person’s robustness, immunity, resil- ience and healthiness (attributes that, in turn, are often related to a regime involving ‘good’ nutrition and diet).

Colds and flu are ‘caught’, and the predominant notion of causation is one involving an infectious agent - usually referred to as a ‘bug’ or a ‘germ’, a ‘virus’ or merely ‘it’ - transmitted via coughs and sneezes through the air and ‘atmosphere’. It’s, “a germ that’s floating around in the air” (R.17); it’s ‘airborne’ (R.19); “you breath it in” (R.7), it’s “a spray” (R.54); “germs in the atmosphere, that go through people” (R.35). There is no apparent recognition of transmission of infection via contact with infected surfaces (see, for example, the extract from R:32 in the previous section) e consequently hand washing does not figure at all in the armoury of preventive measures. More significantly, for a large proportion of people, ‘bugs’ and germs are believed to be capable of producing little more than the ‘sniffles’ in the presence of individual (bodily) ‘resistance’ or ‘immunity’; a resistance that can be built up over a lifetime e rather like financial capital - through conscious self-care and a ‘good’ diet.

There is, of course a parallel and alternative theory of causation that emphasizes factors such as getting wet, keeping warm and staying dry. In this frame, wearing damp clothes, getting wet feet, or simply getting chilled or cold, can in itself cause flu (and lead into pneumonia). Thus, people catch flu by “getting wet, damp and neglecting themselves” (R:23); wearing “light clothes” (R:4); “staying damp too long” (R:15), while “ a wind chill can kill as good as anything” (R: 51). These notions of catching cold and flu’ from getting wet have been observed in UK populations previously (Helman, 1978). Baer, Weller, & de Alba Garcia (2008), noted their existence across all their lay (and some of their Spanish speaking professional) populations, and refer to it as the hot-cold classifi- cation system. Helman (1978) examined it in the frame of a ‘hot- cold’, ‘wet-dry’ matrix. Interestingly, according to our informants, the potential for the hot-cold causation mechanism to bring about illness is often neutralized by a healthy constitution and is readily over-powered by the natural resilience of immune and resistant individuals.

Finally it is useful to note that lay people as well as professionals can call upon a nascent surveillance system. In the case of the former group it is a surveillance system reliant on anecdotal evidence and anchored in knowledge of small worlds e worlds composed of near neighbours, friends and close relatives. One implication of living in small worlds is that one (or two) reports of an adverse reaction to medication or vaccination can carry enormous weight in deciding, for example, whether to accept or reject the offer of immunization.

Conclusions

The status of ‘layperson’ or ‘expert’ is dynamic and situated a one. To be an expert is to be positioned as an expert e via, say, an expert patient programme (EEP) for chronic disorders, or by virtue of holding professional ‘license’. According to Rogers et al. (2009), the expert patient is one who can, among many other things, recognise, monitor and respond to symptoms in terms of an effective programme of self-management, and they note how the EEP as described in UK policy documents extends to encompass ’70e80 per cent of patients’. In that context it is clear that our informants are expert e especially in the management of colds and flu. Yet the ways in which the lay people in our study integrate their recognition and monitoring into an explanatory model suggests a different kind of comprehension from that contained in

L. Prior et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 922e928928

professional text-book discussions of such infections. In the case of flu, as we have seen, there is more emphasis on it as a whole body illness than there would be in professional discourse, and there is much more emphasis on ‘the air’ and the ‘atmosphere’ as a causa- tive factor than one might find in professional epidemiological discussions of the flu. In this paper, we have explored such points of emphasis and pointed to such contrasts using relatively novel methods of data analysis and display.

Most interesting perhaps is the fact that lay people seem to assess information about disease and illness in the context of small worlds of family, friends and neighbours. We have pointed to that context by reference only to lay discussions concerning inoculation, wherein it certainly seems to be the case that, using Popperian logic, a sighting of one sick but vaccinated ‘swan’ can be sufficient to reject the hypothesis that all vaccinated swans are healthy (c.f. Popper, 1959, p. 27) e or that all vaccines are benign for all people. Such reliance on small ‘N’ and anecdotal evidence about associa- tions between specific causes and particular effects is apparent in relation to the public understanding of many medical debates (Moore & Stilgoe, 2009). In some circumstances it can prompt new lines of research and investigation about the causes of illness (Brown, 1990). Under other circumstances it can hamper efforts to eradicate disease or establish ‘herd’ immunity (Petts & Niemeyer, 2004). How lay knowledge is acquired, structured and deployed is seemingly central to public health efforts whichever direction we approach it from. One of our aims has been to demonstrate how a study of lay diagnosis and lay epidemiology can play a part in such a project.

Acknowledgements

The empirical work on which this paper was based was funded by the Wales Office of Research and Development; Grant R00/1/ 028. The analysis of the data was facilitated by the resources of the Northern Ireland Centre of Excellence in Public Health at QUB. The authors wish to record their appreciation for the funding and the support.

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  • Talking about colds and flu: The lay diagnosis of two common illnesses among older British people
    • Introduction
      • The lay diagnosis of colds and flu
    • Background and methods of study
    • Colds and flu: a view from the clinic
    • Flu, colds and the sniffles: A view from home
      • The semantics of symptoms
      • Semantics of causation
    • Discussion: the semantics of common illness
      • Symptoms
      • Causes
    • Conclusions
    • Acknowledgements
    • References

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a b s t r a c t

Carers of cancer patients’ emotional responses to cancer diagnoses have been a central focus within psycho-oncology. Some of this literature asserts that the maladaptive coping strategy denial is prevalent amongst carers. Using semi-structured, longitudinal interviews with 32 Australian Capital Territory carers of a spouse with cancer and an interactionist sociology of emotions framework to understanding their emotions, this study aimed to both contribute to the literature on cancer carers’ coping strategies and provide a richer sociological depiction of carers’ emotional reactions to a cancer diagnosis. The results raise questions about the value of singularly examining denial in cancer carers. Instead, these data suggest that carers use a range of coping strategies in the short-term and do emotion work to adapt to a challenged temporal orientation. The term temporal anomie is offered to describe carers’ disrupted orientations in time and facilitate further discussion on the link between time and emotion work. Findings also show the importance of medical professionals’ casting of the prognosis, from imminent death to certain future, to this temporal re-orientation and emotion work process. Instead of ‘managing hope,’ as much of the cancer communication literature describes it, findings suggest that physicians address cancer carers’ and patients’ temporal anomie. Future research might benefit from moving beyond individualistic conceptualisations of carers’ emotions to include the cultural, temporal and interactionist influences.

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Introduction

In a recent review article on diagnosis, Jutel (2009: 294) writes,

The idealised clinical encounter is a cooperative interaction which brings patient and doctor together in a kind of hand- shake agreement about what ails the former and what the latter can do in response. [But] it is not always so simple.

Developing a sociology of diagnosis seeks to explore what ‘is not so simple’ in the process of communicating a diagnosis. An explo- ration of informal carers’ experiences of their spouse’s cancer diagnosis provides distinct insights into the social, cultural, emotional, temporal and professional factors that are played out in the interactive and often ongoing delivery of a cancer diagnosis.

Background

In much of the cancer communication and psycho-oncology literature the coping strategy of denial is depicted as widespread

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amongst cancer patients and carers. Furthermore it is often depicted as an unhealthy psychological response that should be countered in clinical encounters (Stiefel & Razavi, 2006; for exceptions, see Norberg, Lindblad, & Boman, 2005; Toseland, Blanchard, & McCallion, 1995). Coping strategies are conceptualised in psychology as the “internal mechanisms” that serve to moderate emotional responses to threatening events such as illness (Frijda, 2000; Remennick, 1998: 6). They are used to decrease the stress of the response through either changing the environment (problem- focused coping) or changing feelings about the situation (emotion- focused coping) (Folkman & Lazarus,1980; Maex & De Valck, 2006). Emotion-focused coping strategies may include denial, detachment, restraining feelings or avoidance (Carpenter & Miller, 2005; Toseland et al., 1995). Problem-focused coping might include seeking information, assessing the problem, getting guidance and acting or preventing action (Braithwaite, 1990; Folkman & Lazarus, 1980). Studies of carers find that emotion-focused coping strate- gies are linked with negative psychological outcomes such as higher rates of anxiety, depression and burden, while problem-focused coping is linked with positive psychological outcomes (Braithwaite, 1990; Carpenter & Miller, 2005; Chambers, Ryan, & Connor, 2001; Saad et al., 1995). Denial in particular has been found to be

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problematic to doctor-patient communication and open commu- nication between patients and their families (Bard, 1997; Gear & Haney, 1990; Rose, Webb, & Waters, 1997; Sabo, 1990; Stiefel & Razavi, 2006).

However, the extent towhich denial has been found to be used by cancer carers is inconsistent in the literature. Some research emphasises denial as the central coping strategy employed by husbands of wives with breast cancer (Sabo, 1990). Other psycho- logical studies suggest that carers use a number of coping strategies, such as denial, problem-focused coping or normality maintenance, to reduce the impact of a life-altering diagnosis (Nathan,1990; Rose et al.,1997; Saad et al.,1995). Thus, the prevalence of denial amongst cancer carers in the psycho-oncology literature is unclear.

To make a contribution to this contradictory literature on denial in cancer carers, carers’ reported coping strategies are analysed in this study. However, an interactionist sociology of emotions approach to analysis is also taken to provide a richer understanding of carers’ responses to cancer diagnoses. In providing this alterna- tive account Hochschild’s (1990) concept of “emotion work” is central. Her work, developed within the interactionist branch of the sociology of emotions, refers to the manipulation of emotions that people perform on themselves and others to comply with feeling rules or basic cultural norms of how a person should feel in terms of emotional intensity, direction (positive or negative) and duration in a particular situation (Hochschild, 1990; Turner & Stets, 2005). Thomas et al. (2001), in taking this approach to studying carers’ emotions found that the work carers do for cancer patients is largely emotional. Their focus on emotion work also allowed them to perceive patients and carers not as “passive victims,” but as active creators of their cancer experiences (Thomas & Morris, 2002: 181). Thus, carers’ emotional responses to their spouses’ cancer diagnoses are examined here using both the concepts of coping strategies and emotion work.

Carers’ temporal orientations are also explored in this study, as another important aspect in understanding patients’ and carers’ emotional responses to a cancer diagnosis. Diseases like cancer challenge the taken-for-granted nature of time-orientation in a person and family’s lives (Adam, 1992; Sontag, 1991). Usually, the young, the middle-aged as well as those in the middle- and upper- classes are future-oriented. They are more likely to abstain from indulging in the present to save up their time and money for future enjoyment (Coser & Coser, 1990). The resulting financial security allows them a sense of control and predictability. A cancer diag- nosis, however, confronts this sense of control, interrupting the linear perception of a person’s biography. Therefore, carers’ orien- tations towards the future are also analysed here.

In this study, I examine carers’ emotional responses to their spouses’ cancer diagnoses using coping strategy, interactionist sociology of emotions and temporal frameworks. Further, I analyse carers’ depictions of the diagnosis delivery process and the impact this has on carers’ orientations in time.

Methods

Using questionnaires distributed through local Australian Capital Territory cancer services as well as snowball sampling, a purposive sample of 32 participants was recruited for interviews. This sample included 18 husbands and 14 wives at various stages of caring for a spouse with cancer. The selection of spouse carers was seen as necessary given the differing experiences of spouses, parents and children as caregivers (Thompson, 2005). Seven interviewees were aged 30e49, 22 were 50e69 and the remaining three were 70e89. Nineteen interviewees were actively providing care to their spouse. The remaining 13 had been cancer carers in the past and their spouses’ cancer was now either in remission or the

cause of their spouse’s death. The types of cancer affecting inter- viewees’ spouses included breast (12), prostate (5), neurological (3), haematological (3) and bowel (2) cancer. The remaining six spouses were caring for a person affected by rarer cancers such as a bladder, glandular or oral cancer. Demographically, participants were similar in age, relationship and cancer type to the cohort of carers surveyed in a U.K. cancer caregiving and emotions study (Thomas et al., 2001; Thomas & Morris, 2002), indicating that the sample was not unusual.

All carers were interviewed by the author, a sociologist with no experience as a cancer patient or carer. As per the guidelines from the Australian National University Human Research Ethics Committee, who approved this study, all participants were provided with a one page information sheet detailing the purpose of the study and all participants signed an informed consent form before the first interview. All but two carers were interviewed twice, roughly six months apart between May 2007 and May 2008 to allow for longi- tudinal comparison. The initial interviews moved from a narrative to semi-structured focus and lasted approximately 1 h. Follow-up interviews were focused on validation of interpretations from the first interviews. These interviews lasted around 30 min. Most carers were interviewed alone at a cafe or in their home. One interviewee’s wife joined the interview halfway through the second interviewand six carers were interviewed as (three separate) couples who had taken turns as cancer carer and patient.

Verbatim transcripts of interviews, based on digital voice recordings, were thematically coded by the author using Nvivo software. Interviewer bias is always a concern, so an interactionist quasi-grounded theory methodology was used to facilitate the development of participant driven themes. Longitudinal compar- ison allowed for the validation of interpretations at the second interviews. Changes in carers’ emotions and emotion work between the first and second interview were only typically apparent when dramatic changes in their spouse’s wellbeing occurred, such as the presentation of debilitating side-effects, a new prognosis or death. Thus, data from the first and second interview are not presented chronologically, but thematically with a ‘1’ or ‘2’ following inter- viewees’ pseudonyms to indicate the interview from which the quote was taken (see Appendix A for a summary of referenced participants’ interview and demographic details).

Findings

The findings can be categorised into four sections. Carers’ coping strategies are examined first and their emotion work second. The importance of time to their emotion work is provided third and finally, carers’ accounts of medical encounters are presented to show links between medical professionals’ approaches to diagnostic communication and carers’ temporally guided emotion work.

Coping strategies

Analysis suggests that spouse cancer carers may not use denial as a coping strategy as often as some of the literature suggests. The carers in this study experienced a range of emotions that denial would circumvent: anger, anxiety, depression, fear, guilt, frustra- tion and sadness. Further, the accounts of Mitch, Anne, Blake and Bernard illustrate carers’ awareness of their spouses’ liminality.

Mitch (1) told me about his rarely articulated, but clear aware- ness that his wife’s future was uncertain.

This year we were watching the [rugby] game and I said how about next year we go and she looked up and said I could be dead by then.we don’t talk a lot. I just give Melanie time and I am here.

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Anne (2) said she and her husband work to not think about a recurrence or the possibility that he may die.

We try very hard to.say we can’t think about it.because then you don’t focus on everything else day to day. You don’t focus on the good things.

She and her husband were both clearly aware of the gravity and uncertainty of her husband’s diagnosis, but to reintegrate with the living, working and parenting world, it was necessary to control their anxiety by bracketing off their thoughts of his cancer.

Blake’s wife had metastatic breast cancer before our first inter- view and died a month before our second interview. He said during our first meeting,

You don’t want to think about it, we hope that she doesn’t die.no one wants to die, but we don’t [know]. We are just hoping for the best. I am trying to keep her spirits up and just hope.

Like Anne, it was clear to Blake that the future was uncertain, but focusing on the possibilities and the present made it easier to function.

Bernard (1), whose wife died a month prior to our first inter- view, explained outright that he was not in denial.

I don’t believe it was denial of what was happening because that was very clear, so I think it was just to try and keep it out of the major thoughts.

Instead of denial he said it was about consciously focusing on “the positives” and the present. He said he was a

.spin doctor that [wa]s trying to put the best spin on the little positives - you would emphasise those and ignore the big negatives.

So it is clear that these carers, whether their partner’s prognosis was certain or uncertain, were well aware and acknowledged the gravity of their circumstances and, thus, were not in denial. The positive approach adopted by many carers, which could be mis- interpreted as denial, was actually a direct response to a carer’s awareness of the disease’s gravity and the uncertainty of their spouse’s future.

Instead of denial, carers seemed to use a range of coping strat- egies. Distraction was the one most widely employed. More than half (18 of 32) reported using this technique to push their mind onto other thoughts and away from their fears and anxieties surrounding their spouse’s diagnosis. To keep from always focusing on the cancer, these carers plunged into “busy work” (Judy 2), paid work, housework, holiday planning or exercise. A quarter (8 of 32) of carers interviewed compartmentalised or “shelved” their thoughts and worries while caring, for fear that focusing on the resulting feelings would inhibit their ability to provide care (Fiona 1). Sally (2), for instance, said

I don’t do a lot of talking about emotions.I don’t consciously think about it.I don’t spend a lot of [time on emotions].. It’s partly that.if you delve into the emotional and it doesn’t resolve in a way, then you are in a mess.

Four of the 32 interviewees reported using escapist coping strategies such as drinking to help them momentarily forget the diagnosis and corresponding uncertainty. Leo (1) said, “I drink more. I started smoking a few times again.self-indulgences.” Other strategies, reported by only a few carers, included taking anti-anxiety medication, meditating, expressing emotions to friends and family, avoiding information on the disease, distancing oneself from the patient, taking action to address problems and finding “happy outcomes to things that are distressing” (Kyle 2), what Hochschild (1983) refers to as cognitive emotion

management. These strategies were not mutually exclusive. Most carers reported temporarily using more than one coping strategy throughout their caring careers, in different situations. What was consistent, however, was the effort to manage their own and their spouses’ emotions to be positive.

Emotion work

Coping strategies varied, but all participants, to differing extents, reported doing emotion work. Carers actively tried to change not only their own emotions but also their spouse’s emotions to conform to culturally defined “feeling rules” and “good patient” display rules (Small, 1996: 267). Carers’ definitions of the good patient centred around being positive and stoic. Carers were proud of spouses who were emotionally “strong” instead of down (Sally 1; Tyler 1). Carers regarded highly those spouses who showed bravery during medical procedures, in facing the public and in facing death. Anne (2), for example, spoke with awe about her husband’s bravery at returning to work, despite his ongoing radiotherapy and being disfigured. Tyler (2) said his wife’s “strength of mind,” approach to patient-hood and her matter of fact decision to stop dialysis and die was impressive and a relief. He said she never showed any “histrionics,” she was “realistic,” “coura- geous and dignified.” Leo (2), a medical doctor and carer, spoke about this in the most depth.

When she was really really sick in the hospital everybody was saying what a nice lady she is because.she was so polite and pleasant and cooperative. Model patient. So, I was proud of her, we all were..if you [the patient] are really hideous.it would be harder. That would separate the saints from the mortals.

A ‘bad patient’, as Leo indicated, was one who did not cooperate, show bravery or positivity; one who “throws in the towel and gives up hope” (Joe 1, Judy 1, Cindy & Frank 2), “gives up the ghost and lies in bed or moans about things” (Joe 1) or “throws their bum in the corner” (Judy 1) (a boxing euphemism). Frank and Cindy (2), for instance, an older couple who had taken turns as carer and patient, repeatedly said that patients should not dwell on the negatives; they should not “drop their bundle” and become reclusive “voluntary vegetables” who wallow in their depression and watch television all day. Bad patients were the ones who focused on their fears and remorse, did not manage their own emotions and cried loudly in despair.

One reason for defining bad patients this way was because of the amount of emotion work involved for the carer. Brave and positive patients were said to be easier to care for. As Tyler (1) explained, “90 percent” of caring is emotion work. In other words, when a patient manages his or her own emotions to comply with social and hospital feeling rules, a carer’s job is a lot easier. When patients accepted cancer and uncertainty bravely, this was considered a particular relief for carers and family.

However, not all patients were able to stay this positive and brave. Mark (2), who had experience as both a patient and carer, illustrates this point. He was a patient who vacillated between periods of depression and outbursts where he flew “off the handle” at his wife Fiona because he was frustrated about his incontinence. “Scan anxiety” was another commonly cited reason for patients’ angry outbursts. Several carers, whose partners were required to get scans every few months to monitor the status of their tumours, said their partners had severe anxiety before their scan results which prompted their anger. Linda (2), for instance, said her husband,

Gets really cranky and hard to live with during that period when we are waiting for a result..you think.you are being

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absolutely ridiculous. I would quite happily strangle you. That would solve everything. Of course you don’t mean it, and he is sweetness and light the minute he gets the result, if it’s a good result.

Therefore, carers saw the bulk of their role as helping their spouse to work at being a model and stoical patient. Rodney (1), for example, said, “It is the emotional part that becomes the greater challenge.” To manage their spouse’s emotions, carers employed a number of techniques. These included: distraction, pep talks, listening, acting, lying and blocking undesired communication. Carers distracted patients by getting them to “focus on something else” such as travel plans or facilitating speedy treatment to curtail any prolonged uncertain introspection (Fiona 2). They emotionally buoyed patients during depression, difficult treatment and even difficulty in eating by giving pep talks, saying “we can beat this” (Jane 1; Marian 2) and “you can do this” (Anne 2). They helped their spouses to “deal with [their] fears” by encouraging the patient to talk to them and/or a counsellor or support group (Rodney 1).

Many carers reported concealing feelings of distress from their spouse or leading the patient to believe that the family was financially and emotionally stable when this was not the case to keep the patient from worrying about anything other than him or herself. A couple of carers even blocked communication from friends and family who were perceived to be too negative or not sufficiently focused on the patient. Matthew (1), for example, said,

Some ring up with their personal problems and unload onto [my wife]..I filter these people.

It became clear that in the views of the spouses in this study, a carer’s role was to help their partner to be positive and brave again when patients deviated from the emotional displays expected of a model patient. Carers varied, however, in their approaches to being positive at a time when there were so many reasons to be negative. Bernard (1) became a “spin-doctor” focusing on positives from the day, but acknowledging his wife’s limited future. Other carers felt optimistic and wanted their friends to be optimistic. Blake (1), for instance, asked of a friend who did not know what to say during a phone call, “can’t he say she’s going to be alright?” He wanted his friends to help him to be positive. Linda (1), however, got annoyed when friends were overly optimistic about her husband’s future. She wanted friends to “acknowledge” that “things aren’t going to be alright”; that her husband was not likely to survive. To understand why carers’ approaches to emotion management were so varied, I examined the data with the following question in mind: how do carers and patients maintain hope? I found that carers’ and patients’ orientations towards time were key elements in how they managed.

Temporal anomie

Many spouse carers of cancer patients in this study reported a lack of control and lost direction in time as a consequence of the diagnosis. Matthew, for instance, said “it is not winning or losing the battle against cancer, its learning to live with it.” Their spouses’ diagnosis curtailed their ability to plan for holidays, future careers and financial decisions. Mitch (quoted earlier) was unable to make plans to see a rugby game the following year. Linda was unable to make career plans because it involved thinking too far into an uncertain future. During our first interview she said,

When I got back to work last year..The facilitator did this exercise.she said..I would like you to fill in what you think your goals will be for the next year, for the next three years, for the next five years, and also write down what you think will be happening then. Now that was too painful for me because I had

stopped looking ahead I was too busy enjoying the here and now. For someone to say to me what will your life look like in three years time was something I didn’t want to think about.

Financial planning was also difficult for carers. Rodney (1), for example, said,

I found in making sort of investment decisions, well hang on we can’t really rely on Chloe’s income and then feeling guilty for even thinking that.

This hindered ability to plan left many carers feeling confused and guilty, in a temporal position of stasis. I refer to this as temporal anomie: a challenged orientation towards time based on Dur- kheim’s use of the word to describe the sense of normlessness and lost direction that people experience after major events such as an economic depression (Collins & Makowsky, 1998: 110).

To overcome this temporal anomie many carers adopted an alternative temporal perspective. To address their sense of inter- ruption and purposelessness towards time, patients and carers either (1) readjusted their temporal orientation to be present- oriented or (2) performed cognitive emotion work to reinterpret their perception of the cancer diagnosis and maintain a future- oriented perspective.

Positive but realistic

Couples who became present-oriented called this being “posi- tive but realistic.” These or similar words were repeated (in 17 interviews) by carers or couples where the cancer patient was facing a terminal prognosis. Bernard (2), for example, talked about:

.managing this gap between being positive and being realis- tic..When you know that you have got three months to live at best, that’s realistic..But again, we didn’t sit there with 90 days and mark them off one at a time, right?.You should be positive. But, [being] positive.[was not] necessarily in terms of the outcome of things, they were about a range of peripheral - they were about all the good things that actually happened in the day.

These carers focused on the uplifting or pleasant occurrences each day instead of focusing on the loss that lay ahead. They were well aware and accepting of their spouses’ (potentially) limited futures, but felt compelled to be positive about something: the time they had with their spouse in the present. Linda (2) described being positive but realistic as the best approach because if she were to go too far in either direction (being sure of a cure and optimistic or being sure of the loss and depressed) she thought it would be too difficult to change her direction. She did, however, have occasional doubts, saying “it’s a bit like correcting course in a sailing ship..Do I need to correct my course a little bit?” She sought confirmation from a nurse that this was “the correct” approach for her to take.

I said to her.I am not sure if my perspective is the right per- spective..She said no you have actually got the right perspec- tive, unlike many of the other people we deal with. You have got two extreme reactions a lot of the time. One is there is no hope no matter what we do..Then you have got the other ones who think because they have had this treatment that it’s a guaran- teed miracle cure..She said you have got the right perspective, you know we are not giving you any guarantees.you are just forging ahead and.enjoy[ing] what you have now. That’s where we would like our patients [and carers] to be.

While only one participant in this study adopted the “no hope” perspective presented by the nurse educator, just over half adopted the “right perspective”: being positive but realistic. Several others took on what the nurse described as overly optimistic.

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Optimistic

Instead of adapting to a present-focused orientation, six carers remained focused on the future by believing they would beat the cancer, typically as part of a complementary or alternative medicine (CAM) regime that emphasises the “interdependence of the organism’s biological, mental, and emotional manifestations” (Capra, 1982: 380). Marian (1), for example, followed CAM recom- mendations: spending hours in the kitchen making organic foods and buying Chinese medicine. Taking this approach, however, was not easy for her.

If you go down that path you have to truly believe that you can beat it, which for me was a general dichotomy because.all my sort of logic is to go with the odds.my background was in Science..But the other part of you.goes down the [optimistic path], gets the Chinese medicine, we went to Ian Gawler’s meditation for healing workshop.

To maintain their future-orientation, Marian had to do cognitive emotion work to stay optimistic and convince herself and her husband that he would survive.

Carers who incorporated these CAM recommendations into their future-oriented and optimistic approach explained that it allowed them to feel more in control and gave them “something to do” (Anne 2). For Rodney (1), however, agreeing to be optimistic with his wife was a source of guilt. While he was consciously trying to believe his wife would survive, thoughts about her possible death crept into his subconscious. He would often wake up dreaming of her funeral, causing him to feel unfaithful. It also negated his desire to talk about death with his wife, making it impracticable for him to ask questions that would challenge his wife’s positive determination.

Normalcy

Eight carers did not change their time-orientation, nor did they start believing they would beat the cancer. Instead, these carers did cognitive emotion work to counter their fears that anything was different. Two carers who adopted this approach were facing a prognosis that was not terminal, where high success rates had been predicted. For two much older couples, the likelihood of death was becoming a reality, and little cognitive emotion work was required. For the other four, the threat posed by the cancer was years in the past. Along the way they had done emotion work to rejoin the future-oriented, “normal” world. Patrick (1), for example, did this by continuously describing death as a certainty of life.

Get on with the treatment and see what happens. If it don’t work, well [she] was out for the count anyway, so that would be it..Death is inevitable..At the end of the day, what people would like to know is cancer is slow; a bullet is very quick.

Using the premise that death is inevitable, he argued that his wife’s cancer diagnosis did not change anything. He and his wife encouraged each other and their children to carry on as usual and continue “looking forward” and making plans.

Medical professionals’ influence

Carers and patients seemed to select these frameworks (positive but realistic, optimistic or ‘normal’) in conjunction with or in opposition to the way their spouse’s diagnosis and prognosis were delivered. Diagnosis and prognosis are often conflated in cancer studies because statistics are inexact (Gould, 1985; Little, 1995). This leaves room for medical professionals to frame carers’ and

patients’ perceptions of their uncertain future. Carers talked about the delivery of their spouse’s cancer diagnosis and other conver- sations with doctors and nurses as important in shaping or evalu- ating their outlook. Linda (quoted above), for instance, asked a nurse educator if her positive but realistic approach was the right approach. The delivery (or ongoing deliveries in the cases of remission, recurrence or metastasis) of the diagnosis and prog- nosis, in particular, seemed to be influential in shaping a couple’s approach to the future. Hearing the diagnosis was said to be very visceral and memorable. Carers and patients vividly recounted how they reacted to the diagnosis using words like “shock”, “shook” and out of body experience. Thus, it was the opportune time for medical professionals, knowingly or otherwise, to frame and guide patients’ and carers’ temporal orientations and subsequent emotions. Medical professional’s casting of a diagnosis was said to range from certainly bleak to gradual to probably survival.

Certainly bleak

Anne and her husband, for instance, were given a bleak prog- nosis in a startling manner. They went to see their GP after months of putting it off and they were referred to a surgeon, who may have consequently felt obligated to berate Anne and her husband into taking his cancer more seriously. The surgeon did so by repeatedly telling them that they were too late, there was nothing more to do. As Anne (1) explained,

We went into the office and [the surgeon] looked at all the test results and just sort of said to us, well you are too late. That is it; there is nothing you can do. You are going to die rah rah rah..He said it is very very bad and asked us if we had life insurance for him and, he just wrote him off.

Thus, in Anne’s experience, the surgeon not only delivered the statistical prognosis information but did so in a way that challenged their future-orientation. Although Anne said that this way of framing the diagnosis had the effect of blaming them for the cancer’s advanced stage, their subsequent re-orientation to be present-focused helped them to be positive about smaller achievements such as surviving surgery (after they found a surgeon who would operate), eating and drinking normally and with- standing radiation.

Graduated prognosis

For Sally (1) and her husband, the prognosis and re-orientation process was less abrupt, more gradual and less certain. She said,

There is a trickle feed of information..They tell you so much at one stage, and then when the results aren’t good, the wording subtly but significantly changes and it’s a consistent change- ..[Phrases like] ‘muscle invasive’.it’s just this new phrase that you weren’t entitled to before.

For Sally’s husband, medical staff started with a more optimistic approach, neglecting to mention the statistical likelihood of a recurrence and abstaining from talk about the patient’s increased risk of recurrence elsewhere after radiation. Sally concluded that this approach did keep her husband positive before surgery and radiation, possibly increasing his chances of success, but, it left her to “pick up the pieces” afterwards. She had to continually (re) manage her husband’s outlook and associated emotions. Unlike Anne’s experience, where their positive outlook on the future was immediately rejected, but slowly reintroduced, Sally’s experience was one of ongoing temporal anomie. Because medical staff were positive to the point of withholding information until negative

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results forced doctors to slowly present a less positive outlook, Sally subsequently lost trust in medical staff and was unsure of what approach to the future she should take. The surgeon told her after removing the cancerous organ that cancer “should be a thing of the past.” But, as a result of the changes in their roles and priorities and as a result of the multiple temporal orientations they had adopted, Sally (2) was sceptical, saying, “I don’t know if it can ever be that sort of thing.”

Positive

Other carers talked about doctors encouraging patients and carers to adopt a more positive outlook. For those patients whose prognosis was terminal, doctors tried to help carers and patients to be more positive, not about their future, but about their time in the present. They said things like “she is not dead yet” (Blake 1) or organised for scans to be postponed to allow the patient and the carer to travel and enjoy “the now” (Linda 2). One oncologist said “try to forget that you have got it, try to carry on with your life” (Judy 2). For those patients whose prognosis was survival for the foreseeable future, doctors were said to have helped the carer and patient to take a “normal” approach and be more positive about the future. To this end, they relayed statistics on the combined treat- ment’s higher success rates and encouraged carers and patients to live as usual, that is to live and plan with the future in mind.

These findings show that carers do emotion work that is directly linked to diagnostication and prognostication. Carers do not just cope or perform ongoing emotion work of their own volition; they do so in response to cultural feeling rules, CAM guidelines and the way medical staff frame diagnostic and prognostic information.

Discussion

The insights presented here regarding the social nature of carers’ temporal and emotional orientations contribute to the growing bodies of research on the sociologies of diagnosis and cancer caregiving. This study (1) demonstrates that denial alone does not fully represent carers of cancer patients’ emotional responses to a cancer diagnosis; (2) shows that carers do emotion work and offers a clearer distinction between the concepts of coping and emotion work; (3) illustrates the centrality of time to understanding cancer carers emotion work and offers the concept of temporal anomie to facilitate further discussion of the relation- ship between time and emotions; (4) shows the importance of the casting of the diagnosis, imminent death, gradual or survival, to carers’ temporal orientation and emotion work; and (5) raises questions and recommendations for future research.

First, these findings show that denial does not fully encapsulate carers of cancer patients’ emotional experiences. It is possible that some carers are in denial, and these carers chose not to participate in this study. The findings presented here, however, suggest that interaction norms of not focusing on death may have been mistaken as denial in past research. The experiences of Mitch, Anne, Blake and Bernard indicate that carers who avoid talking about cancer may be adhering to interaction norms where discussions on death are categorised as taboo (Elias, 1985; Jalland, 2006; Wilkinson & Kitzinger, 2000). Preferring to avoid the awkwardness, emotional eruption and interruption that might follow (Kellehear, 1984), many carers in this study actively silenced these conversa- tions. Further, carers in this study reported employing a range of coping strategies and did emotion work to adhere to a new temporal framework. Thus, future studies should move beyond de- contextualised examinations of denial or coping in cancer carers.

An interactionist sociology of emotions approach to under- standing emotions and in particular the temporal aspect of

experiencing emotion provides a much deeper insight and under- standing of carers’ and patients’ reactions to cancer diagnoses. Diagnosis does not solely lead to denial or coping but to an active engagement with emotions over time: to understanding the impact of the diagnosis (or diagnoses) and shaping emotions to deal with it. Thus, an interactionist sociology of emotions approach may complement if not replace the individualistic psycho-oncology focus on coping strategies (Thomas et al., 2001).

Second, the insights into cancer carers’ emotions presented here show that in addition to coping, carers also manage their own and their spouse’s emotions to comply with ‘good patient’ feeling rules of being stoical and positive. Based on analysis of this finding, I offer a clearer distinction between the psychological concept ‘coping strategy’ and the sociological concept ‘emotion work.’ Coping strategies, such as distraction and escapism, are employed in the short-term. Many are used, not just one consistently, to temporarily avoid the emotions, such as fear and anxiety, surrounding the cancer diagnosis. Emotion work, in contrast, is performed on oneself and others (Emslie et al., 2009). Unlike coping, carers together with their spouses, do ongoing emotion work to conform to (‘good patient’ and ‘good carer’) expectations, feeling rules and a specific temporal-orientation.

Third, these findings demonstrate the centrality of time to understanding cancer carers’ emotion work. Planning is a “key modern organisational and psychological feature,” particularly for the young and middle-class (Lewis & Weigert, 1990: 94). It allows for a sense of control and predictability. The temporal disruption of a cancer diagnosis can prompt a person to lose their ability to plan and lose their sense of control, what I refer to as temporal anomie. Adding to the few sociology of emotions studies that link time and emotion (Fung & Carstensen, 2006; Hochschild, 2000), these find- ings show that this biographical disruption intersects with a couples’ attempt to manage emotions, producing a complex situation where carer and patient perform emotion work to rede- fine their focus or temporal orientation. To address their conse- quent sense of interruption and purposelessness towards time, carers either adjust their temporal scope to be present-oriented or perform cognitive emotion-work to reinterpret their perception of the cancer diagnosis and maintain a future-oriented perspective. This redefinition is prompted by the cancer diagnosis and the context in which it is delivered by medical professionals. Thus, this study provides the sociologies of cancer and diagnosis a more refined interpretation of what patients and carers experience as a consequence of hearing a diagnosis: temporal anomie.

Fourth, this study shows the importance of the casting of the diagnosis to carers’ temporal orientation and emotion work. Giving a grim, gradual or probable survival prognosis shaped carers’ temporally guided emotion work. Maintaining ‘hope’ currently dominates the oncology diagnosis communication literature (Surbone, 2006), but the insights presented here offer a more specific conceptualisation of what medical professionals do when they deliver a diagnosis. Hope is quite ambiguous. Reviews of the literature show multiple and conflicting definitions (Kennedy & Lloyd-Williams, 2006; Miller, 2007). Some link hope to goals (Dufault & Martocchio, 1985), others to life purpose (Owen, 1989), “time refocusing,” “spiritual beliefs,” “uplifting energy” (Herth, 1993: 542) and a sense of “inner strength” (Benzein & Saveman, 1998: 10). Instead of using the term “hope,” I suggest that addressing a patients’ and carers’ temporal anomie more directly communicates what physicians, and a few nurses, in this study were said to do in clinical narratives: re-cast or encourage patients and carers to assume certain orientations to time (Frankenberg, 1992; White, 2006).

Finally, this study offers recommendations and questions for future research. Findings presented here suggest that emotion work

Carer’s pseudonym

Carer’s age Cancer type Time between initial diagnosis and first interview

Months between interviews

Anne 30s glandular 2 months 6 Bernard 50s breast 3 years 6 Blake 40s breast 2 years 6.75 Cindy 60s prostate 2 years 6 Fiona 60s prostate 2.5 years 6.75 Frank 70s haematological 15 years 6 Jane 60s prostate 2 years 6 Joe 60s ovarian 21 years 5.75 Judy 60s asbestos related 3 months 4 Kyle 40s breast 4 years 6.5 Leo 60s breast 3 years 6 Linda 40s bowel 2.5 years 6.25 Marian 50s neurological 3 years 5.75 Mark 60s breast 11 months 6.75 Matthew 30s breast 1.5 months n/a Mitch 50s breast 4 months 5 Patrick 50s breast 5 years 6.75 Rodney 30s breast 6 months 5.75 Sally 40s bladder 6 months 5.75 Tyler 60s haematological 2 years 6

R.E. Olson / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 904e911910

and carers are central to diagnostication. To gain more complete interactionist conceptualisations of the diagnostic process, diag- nosis sociology should continue to move beyond dyadic percep- tions of medical care and include family and carers. Carers’ accounts also suggest that temporal re-orientation is most effective when it is fatalistic or positive. Future research on cancer communication should more closely examine the impact of progressive disclosure on carers’ and patients’ temporal and emotional adaption.

Another topic for future research within the sociology of diag- nosis is the possible connection between professionals’ catego- risations of patients and carers as in denial and professionals’ diagnostic delivery styles. Despite the contradictions in the litera- ture on the prevalence of denial amongst cancer patients and carers, Zimmermann (2007) asserts that medical professionals in palliative care settings regularly perceive denial and actively work to counter it. It might be that medical professionals are perceiving denial where little to none exists, as a lack of evidence also ‘proves’ the existence of denial. When patients and carers do not talk about grave possibilities implied in their cancer diagnosis they are perceived by medical professionals to be in denial (Zimmermann, 2007). Carers’ accounts suggest that Zimmermann’s findings may be transferable to oncology settings: a topic for future investigation. Further, perceptions of denial may shape oncology professionals’ approaches to delivering diagnoses. Anne’s account, for example, raises questions. Their surgeon may have perceived them as in denial after they delayed seeking professional advice for months. This perception may have inclined the surgeon to provide Anne and her husband with a more dire prognostication, so as to undermine their denial. Future studies should expand the scope of inquiry to include physicians’ perceptions of maladaptive coping in carers and patients and the potential impact this has on the casting of cancer diagnoses.

For future psycho-oncological research, findings presented here also suggest that it might be fruitful to widen the scope of inquiry. There is little understanding in this literature of cancer carers’ and patients’ experiences as the result of many interactions, internal, financial, social, medical and otherwise. Future studies should include the influence of medical professionals’ categorisations of emotional responses, the impact of prominent (CAM and other) literature and of social support on carers and patients’ emotional and mental health, instead of continuing to examine carers’ or patients’ coping strategies alone. As it has been demonstrated here, emotions are interactive. Carers’ and patients’ emotions do not just exist in a “dyad” (Rose et al., 1997: 131) or even a “triad” (Kearney, Hubbard, Forbat, & Knighting, 2007: 21) that includes the patient, carer and doctor. Nurse educators (as Linda’s experience shows), nurses (Hunt, 1991), psychologists, other members of a multidisci- plinary care team and the power relations between these members (Allen, Griffiths, & Lyne, 2004), as well as family, friends, and culture (Emslie et al., 2009; Surbone, 2006) all influence patients’ and carers’ emotional experiences of diagnosis and cancer.

Conclusion

On the whole, this study shows that neither ‘hope’ nor ‘denial’ fully depict carers’ emotional responses to their spouse’s cancer diagnosis. Cancer carers cope using a range of strategies and do emotion work, not necessarily to maintain hope, but to change their temporal orientation. Further, this temporally specific emotion work is guided by cultural feelings rules, medical professionals’ advice, literature (such as the CAM literature) that counters this advice and medical professionals’ casting of the diagnosis. This study also offers the concept of temporal anomie to facilitate further discussion on the link between time and emotion work.

Limitations

It should be kept in mind, however, that the conclusions of this study were made from contact with a limited number of infor- mants. Thus, the findings presented here should not be taken as indicative of all carers’ experiences. Nonetheless, they are a source of insight into these carers’ experiences and a valuable foundation for future study.

Acknowledgements

This research was supported by a collaborative grant from Cancer Australia and Cancer Council ACT as well as The Australian National University. I am indebted to participants for so generously giving their time to this study. I am grateful to Kevin White, Dorothy Broom, Sudeepa Abeysinghe, James Connor and the anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments on earlier drafts.

Appendix A. Summary of referenced participants

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  • Managing hope, denial or temporal anomie? Informal cancer carers’ accounts of spouses’ cancer diagnoses
    • Introduction
    • Background
    • Methods
    • Findings
      • Coping strategies
      • Emotion work
      • Temporal anomie
      • Positive but realistic
      • Optimistic
      • Normalcy
      • Medical professionals’ influence
      • Certainly bleak
      • Graduated prognosis
      • Positive
    • Discussion
    • Conclusion
    • Limitations
    • Acknowledgements
    • Summary of referenced participants
    • References

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Contents lists avai

Social Science & Medicine

journal homepage: www.elsevier.com/locate/socscimed

‘Get with the Program!’: Pharmaceutical marketing, symptom checklists and self-diagnosis

Mary Ebeling*

Drexel University, Culture & Communication, 3141 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, USA

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 26 July 2011

Keywords: USA Direct-to-consumer advertising Self-diagnosis Disease state awareness Drug marketing and branding Diagnostic tools

* Tel.: þ1 917 733 0008. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.05.054

a b s t r a c t

During more than a decade of direct-to-consumer advertising (DTC) of pharmaceuticals in the United States, several highly controversial and contested disease states have been promoted to affect diagnostic and prescribing outcomes that are favorable to a company’s branded drug. Influencing medical diagnosis is essential to the branding of a disease, which helps to protect pharmaceutical intellectual property and assures higher profits for drug companies. Enormous marketing as well as medical resources are deployed to ensure that new diagnoses of disease states are recognized. While much work has been done investigating the marketing processes necessary to shape and define diagnoses for many of these new disease states, such as Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), the promotion of self-diagnosis within pharmaceutical marketing campaigns garner little sociological attention. This article reviews and analyzes branded disease awareness campaigns sponsored by pharmaceutical companies that employ self-diagnostic “tools”. By using the example of one specific disease state, PMDD, I illustrate how the marketing of self-diagnosis transforms the patient into a consumer in order to achieve the aims of a drug company. This example is contextualized within the larger theoretical framework on the sociology of diagnosis. Consideration is given to how the marketing of self-diagnosis goes beyond Jutel’s (2009) description of diagnosis as being the “classification tool of medicine” and becomes a marketing tool to construct a well-educated consumer who will demand medical diagnoses inline with a drug company’s objectives.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction: the pharmaceutical marketing imperative for self-diagnosis

While much research within the sociology of diagnosis field has delineated the social processes necessary to shape and define diagnoses for new disease states, such as those that appear in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) and other similar categorization instruments, less attention has focused on the powerful role of marketing strategies that encourage self- diagnosis by patients (Aronowitz, 1998; Bowker & Star, 2000; Brown, 1995; Caplan, 2008; Conrad, 1992, 2007; Fishman, 2004; Healy, 2002; Rosenberg, 2002). Self-diagnosis as a social phenom- enon mediated through medical relationships has more recently garnered interest, especially in regards to patients’ experience of illness and the inclusion of their bodily experience and expertise in the diagnostic process (see, for some examples: Clarke & James, 2003; Copelton & Valle, 2009; Prior, 2003; Prior, Evans, & Prout, in press; Stockl, 2007). The phenomenon of self-diagnosis that

All rights reserved.

increasingly exists within a cultural context where disease is commercialized and diagnosis is pharmaceutically shaped warrants further consideration of its role in pharmaceutical marketing.

The marketing of self-diagnosis should also be understood within the larger context of diagnosis as a locus of struggle over power and agency (Jutel, 2009). As many social scientists of medicine have shown, diagnosis is often a highly contested social phenomenon, embedded within it relationships of power, control and contending interests (Aronowitz, 1998; Brown, 1995; Conrad, 1992; Jutel, 2009). Since the marketing appeal to patients to self- diagnose is the basis of most direct-to-consumer (DTC) promo- tional campaigns, and a patient’s recognition of the branded affliction is vital to any successful pharmaceutical marketing campaign, it seems essential to turn our attention to the commer- cial promotion of self-diagnosis.

Enormous marketing, as well as medical, resources are deployed to ensure that new diagnoses of diseases are recognized by the medical professionals, regulatory bodies such as the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, and patients. These disease marketing campaigns often begin years ahead of regulatory approval for

M. Ebeling / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 825e832826

a company’s drug, and are used to sell a given disease to doctors, to the larger health industry and to the public (Fugh-Berman & Dodgson, 2008; Sismondo, 2007, 2009). Fugh-Berman and Dodgson (2008) have revealed, for instance, that within the life- cycle of a drug, promotional planning begins in the pre-clinical development of compounds in the laboratory, years before regu- latory approval and legal marketing begins.

Most pharmaceutical marketing efforts target doctors and health care professionals, through such strategies as detailing visits by sales representatives, promotional educational events at resorts, free samples, and targeted advertising, and account for the bulk of promotional budgets (Consumers Union, 2006; Donohue, 2006; Gagnon & Lexchin, 2008; Greene, 2007). Notwithstanding the comparatively smaller budgets, spending on direct-to- consumer marketing to patients is considerable, in the first six months of 2009 alone DTC expenditures reached US$2.3 billion (Arnold, 2009). Since the focus of this article concerns prescription drugs marketed directly to American consumers, it is important to understand the highly consumerist context of the American medical establishment. Americans spend the largest percentage of real gross domestic product (GDP) on healthcare compared to any other country, 17.5 percent compared with the global average of 6.6 percent (Vassoler, 2010). Out of the total that American patients spend on health care costs, $792 per capita is spent on prescription drugs, well above the average $401 that patients in other OECD countries spend, and with 45 percent of total global drug sales, the United States is by far the world’s largest phar- maceutical market (OECD, 2008; VFA, 2010). The high cost of drugs in the United States is the primary factor for why Americans spend the most, American consumption rates, while behind both France and Spain, is a secondary factor contributing to spending. For drug makers, the highly marketed and medicalized cultural context in the United States is too significant as a profit center to ignore, and thus more resources are dedicated to marketing rather than to the research and development of new compounds (Gagnon & Lexchin, 2008).

Marketers have an array of tools at their disposal to promote drugs directly to consumers and these marketing practices extend well beyond the television advertisements that most Americans are familiar with. In a 2008 survey on DTC advertising in the United States, for instance, 91 percent of those surveyed said that they had seen or heard at least one drug advertisement (Kaiser Family Foundation, 2008). Consumer promotional efforts can include sponsorship of disease awareness campaigns including disease informational websites that are not obviously sponsored by a drug company–often called “unbranded websites” by the marketing industry–the creation and support of patient advocacy groups, the placement of ghostwritten articles in news media, and the under- writing of large spectacles and sporting events, such as the Olym- pics. Following a well-established branding strategy for drugs, for instance, Johnson & Johnson subsidiary medical device maker DePuy Orthopaedics Inc. partnered with the 2008 Olympics as a corporate sponsor and aired commercials during American broadcasts of the games promoting its knee and hip replacement devices, among other promotional and branding activities. These sponsoring campaigns and other financial support of unbranded events help to create “buzz” for drug makers and the disease states as well as the cures that they market.

This article is a study of marketing intent: I delineate the pharmaceutical marketing strategy to induce patients to self- diagnose in order to ensure sales revenues for drug companies. These instances reveal industry efforts to reconfigure patients into consumers who actively seek out diagnosis and treatments based upon their self-assessments of symptoms. A consumer, in contrast to a patient, may demand a certain drug, especially a name-brand

drug, or a specific diagnosis from her doctor, and this is precisely the type of customer pharmaceutical marketers seek to enroll.

Methods

My analytical focus for this article is on a marketing strategy that often draws less scholarly attention than television commercials: symptom checklists. These checklists frequently appear on branded websites for specific drugs, on unbranded websites for disease states, in doctors’ offices, on pamphlets dropped off during detail- ing visits by sales representatives, and increasingly, as mobile phone applications, that can be downloaded and completed by patients, and presented to their doctors during office visits. My attention in this article centers on the development of diagnostic guidelines and symptom checklists developed for both branded and unbranded marketing campaigns for an anti-depressant and synthetic progesterone and estrogens used for birth control but marketed as a treatment for Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD).

In order to address these issues, I first describe the process of how a drug company helped to develop the diagnostic category of PMDD, which created a new market for its blockbuster anti- depressant through the telling of the rebranding story of Prozac and Sarafem. I examine how another pharmaceutical maker mar- keted this newly developed diagnostic category as a self-diagnostic tool to promote its birth-control pill, YAZ, as a treatment for PMDD. The checklists analyzed here originate from the branded website for YAZ, accessible to residents of the United States, since the U.S. is one of only few countries where direct-to-consumer marketing campaigns are legal. New Zealand is the only other country that allows DTC advertising comparable to the U.S., and Bangladesh and South Korea have recently changed regulatory rules to allow limited DTC advertising within those markets. Data was collected and analyzed over an eight-month period, from October 2009 to June 2010. When one visits the drug website, the visitor must select whether or not one is in the United States, and this site makes it clear that the site is intended only for residents of the U.S. In order to analyze the checklists, I registered with the YAZ website for U.S. customers, downloaded the “Body Diary” checklist tool and completed the diary every day for the full 56 days as required by the checklist tool. I then coded the data collected from the checklist along with data collected from the YAZ website. In what follows, I will address patient agency, the distinctions made between patients and consumers by marketing, and how these distinctions are enrolled by symptom checklists and other self-assessment tools in order to promote branded drugs.

The creation of a “branded” disease

After more than a decade of DTC advertising and marketing of pharmaceuticals in the United States, the power that drug marketing possesses to exploit the uncertainty surrounding con- tested disease states and to influence prescribing outcomes that are favorable to a company’s branded drug is evident. The promotion of disease awareness is central to DTC campaigns, which are sup- ported by years of behind-the-scenes pharmaceutical industry influence on shaping diagnostic categories (Healy, 2006; Mintzes, 2006; Moynihan, 2005; Moynihan & Henry, 2006; Payer, 1992). The power to “brand” a disease early in the drug development process is essential to the branding of treatments, the patented drugs that pharmaceutical companies seek to protect from competitors, and to ensure high revenues for their brand-name pills. In order to brand a disease, pharmaceutical marketing often exerts influence over diagnostic categories by the outright construction of new disease states, or as drug marketing thought

M. Ebeling / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 825e832 827

leader Vince Parry advises “[i]f you can define a particular condition and its associated symptoms in the minds of physicians and patients, you can also predicate the best treatment for that condi- tion” (Parry, 2003: 43).

Pharmaceutical marketing claims of patient empowerment through self-diagnosis are made within a broader context of disease marketing (Dyer, 2006). Drug marketers recognize that in order to foster a conducive marketplace for their medications, the promotion of indications and symptoms is far more profitable than selling a cure; if symptoms are universal enough, virtually anyone can be rendered a patient in need of treatment (Healy, 1997). Through the creation and expansion of new disease categories, based on symptoms by those who are also developing treatments, pharmaceutical companies trade on the mutability of diagnosis (Lakoff, 2000, 2005).

The determination of diagnostic categories through the brand- ing and marketing imperatives of drug makers is not a recent phenomenon, but it has intensified with the increase in DTCA. Greene (2007) has traced the historical relationship between pharmaceutical compounds, the development of diagnostic cate- gories as well as the construction of chronic disease states based on these categories, and the marketing of symptoms as diseases to both physicians and to patients. Through a careful delineation of three drugs developed in the later part of the twentieth century: Diuril, a diruetic; Orinase, an antidiabetic taken orally; and Meva- cor, the first statin on the American market, Greene shows how drug marketing drove expanded diagnostic screenings to appar- ently healthy patients, and thus in an “infinitely expandable universe of chronic disease” the pharmaceutical industry can realize unlimited market growth (2007: 84).

Pharmaceutical giant Eli Lilly’s top-selling anti-depressant Pro- zac, rebranded as Sarafem, a treatment for premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD), demonstrates how drug promotion creates new diagnostic categories to expand into potential markets. The Sar- afem case also serves as an exemplar of the marketing endeavor to encourage patients to become consumers: through transforming the identity of a patient who has medical needs into a consumer with culturally significant desires to take control of one’s health. The case also demonstrates quite clearly how, through the enroll- ment of medical authority, a drug company can brand and “own” a disease or a condition, thus protecting its market share and leveraging this market position to market directly to patients.

Sarafem and Prozac are chemically identical. The only differ- ences between the two drugs are branding and for which condition each is FDA-approved as treatments, either for depression or premenstrual symptoms. Under the brand-name Prozac, the chemical is used as a remedy for symptoms associated with depression, while the Sarafem-branded drug is used to treat a highly contested and little recognized condition, PMDD (Bhatia & Bhatia, 2002; Caplan, 2001; Ebeling, 2008; Greenslit, 2005; Mintzes, Morgan, & Wright, 2009; Offman & Kleinplatz, 2004). In order for a new market for an existing branded drug to be created, new indications must be identified, which often requires the recognition of novel conditions or diseases.

In late 2000 Eli Lilly, faced with the prospect of looming competition from generic alternatives when the company’s patent on Prozac would run out in a few months time, launched a DTC marketing campaign for Sarafem in the United States. Generic drugs are a threat to a branded drug in two ways. Firstly, they create a cheaper, chemically identical alternative to more expensive branded drugs, and it is often feared by brand-name manufacturers that most consumers would choose generics if given the choice. In his research on Sarafem, Greenslit (2005) found in the marketing literature produced by Eli Lilly to address perceived consumer safety fears of generic alternatives to Prozac, the company argued

that the “generic prescription you pick up at the pharmacy won’t look like brand-name Prozac. Receiving medication with a different color or shape may be unsettling or cause concern” (p.480). Inter- estingly, this concern for consumers’ comfort levels in regards to the shape or color of pills did not appear to enter into the rebranding of Sarafem (although Sarafem, of course, was being promoted to treat a different condition).

Secondly, and perhaps more significantly, health insurers, including Medicaid and Medicare, will often not cover the costs of branded drugs when a generic alternative is available. It would therefore have been essential for Eli Lilly to protect its patent and produce new sources of revenue on a drug that had proven to be the company’s most profitable drug. One way to do this would be by foreclosing a consumer’s preference for generic drugs through rebranding both the drug and the disease. Eli Lilly, both through its rebranding efforts for Prozac and by enrolling sympathetic doctors and researchers who study the premenstrual symptoms some women experience, heavily influenced the codification of PMDD as a disease state (Greenslit, 2002; Mintzes, 2006; Moynihan & Cassels, 2005). Prior to the launching of the Sarafem campaign Eli Lilly helped to get PMDD successfully recognized as a distinct disease state by the FDA in 1999. The company retained a Columbia University clinical psychiatrist who conducted clinical trials on SSRIs as a treatment for PMDD for Pfizer, and who served on the DSM-IV PMDD Work Group that was tasked on developing and approving the new disease state for the 1994 edition as well as advised the group for the text revision published in 2000 (Daw, 2002; Yonkers et al., 1997).

The classification of PMDD in the DSM-IV as “a depressive disorder not otherwise specified” opened the pathway to FDA reapproval of Eli Lilly’s drug to be treated for a new cluster of symptoms that were now labeled PMDD. Eli Lilly again hired the same Columbia University clinical psychiatrist to provide expert testimony to the FDA’s Psychopharmacological Drugs Advisory Committee (PDAC) on both PMDD as a disease entity and on the use of fluoxetine, the main ingredient in Prozac, as an effective treat- ment for PMDD. PDAC recommended FDA approval for the new treatment category in late 1999 (Mechcatie, 1999). By gaining FDA approval for Sarafem, Eli Lilly was not only able to extend the life of its patent but created a completely new market for its top-selling drug. For another 12 years, under the rebranded Sarafem, Eli Lil- ly’s patent on fluoxetine was protected from generic copies of Prozac, because the new application for ostensibly premenstrual pathologies guaranteed the drug’s continued coverage under health insurance, through the development of a previously untapped market. The approval was accompanied by Eli Lilly’s creation of a new diagnostic framework in the service of its drug, and the related DTC marketing campaigns that promote symptom- based self-diagnosis for prospective patients. Currently the Sub- work Group on PMDD and the Mood Disorders Work Group propose that PMDD be moved from the appendix to the Mood Disorders section as a category in of itself in the forthcoming DSM- V, as further recognition of the once contested condition as a medically recognized disease entity (Fawcett, 2011).

Patient agency in the diagnostic relationship

In order to trace how symptom checklists become self- diagnostic tools for marketing, it may be helpful to understand checklists in the social contexts, marketing as well as medical contexts, where symptoms are employed in the construction of new disease categories. Diagnoses are socially instrumentalized to perform functions beyond the simple categorization of symptoms and disease for medicine. The “right” diagnosis will ensure that a patient’s health insurer will either cover a needed treatment, or

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conversely, if perceived as too costly a disease, will not. A diagnosis can validate a patient’s perception of her symptoms by giving her experience a name, and equally, it can pathologize everyday, lived experiences, such as fluctuations in one’s mood. Diagnosis as a potent social instrument underlines the authoritative role of medicine and doctors, and as I will show, this tool is deployed by the pharmaceutical industry to influence medical expertise in favor of its own marketing agendas (Jutel, 2009). Diagnosis, through the marketing of self-diagnosis, becomes a potent marketing tool for pharmaceutical companies. As Brown (1995) and Conrad (1992) have both demonstrated, diagnosis codifies and embodies the expertise and authority of powerful groups, and positions the patient relative to doctors, to treatments, to the labels that are deployed to define pathologies, and by extension, to define the patient. Many examples of this social power are evident in debunked diagnoses of pathologies, such as homosexuality as a mental illness or hysteria as a distinct disease afflicting women. New disease states that are highly contested and controversial, PMDD or female sexual dysfunction (FSD) being just two examples of many, tend to be stark examples that highlight the normalcy of diagnostic power. As Rosenberg (2002) has delineated, there is immense social power embedded in the ability to name a disease, the ability to give a narrative and a level of certainty to what a cluster of symptoms mean. There is often a distinction made between symptoms and diseases, and depending on who is explaining an array of symptomsda doctor, a pharmacologist working within the biomedical industry or a patientdthe process of defining disease, especially based on inexplicable symptoms, can be fraught with conflicting agendas and contending interests. This is most evident in the construction of new disease states or diseases that are either not recognized or slow to be accepted by the medical establishment, as Aronowitz (1998) has shown with Lyme disease and chronic fatigue syndrome. Diagnoses are often taken up by medicalized and bureaucratized systems of control, and not to provide a patient with a name or the most efficacious treatment for the symptoms but rather to redistribute resources, control healthcare costs (by cutting out certain patients that do not fit the diagnostic category) and deny health insurance coverage (Conrad, 2007; Rosenberg, 2002).

At the root of the definitional struggles over diagnosis is the difficulty in discerning, interpreting and translating the meaning of symptoms. Aronowitz shows that by the 20th century symptoms were largely considered subjective criteria independent of a particular disease by medical practitioners, and as advances in biomedical technologies had progressed, signsdalterations in organs and biochemistry, for instancedhad become the “objective” data that a doctor would use to constitute a disease (Aronowitz, 2001). Medical practice began to rely upon the biochemical data collected from a patient rather than on outward manifestations of symptoms as embodied by the patient as proof of a particular disease. Many symptoms could indicate any variety of illness, a persistent headache could indicate an endless list of diseases, but it is the biochemical information collected from bodily fluids and tissue that contemporary medical practice increasingly relies on to pinpoint a disease category. These diagnostic distinctions construct disease broadly as “functional” and “somatic” diseases: functional diseases are those cases where a patient experiences symptoms but there is no physical evidence to explain the symptoms, whereas somatic disease presents physical evidence that is shown to be the cause of symptoms. Continued innovations of seemingly more precise diagnostic tools helps to legitimize both the lay and medical perception that “mechanism- or anatomy-based diagnoses as progress” while symptom-based diagnoses, such as chronic fatigue syndrome, are stigmatized (Aronowitz, 2001: 804). This distinction among bodily experiences can often prompt sufferers of functional

diseases to seek out diagnoses to uncover the assumed underlying physical causes of their symptoms. This is a pursuit not only after an answer or a name for a patient’s suffering, but more importantly, a biomedical treatment for ailments, and it is this instance of patient agency that pharmaceutical marketing seeks to enroll through its promotion of self-diagnosis. These self-diagnostic campaigns opportunistically exploit the ambiguity of what the symptoms of functional diseases mean physiologically. In the case of female sexual dysfunction, for example, symptoms as promoted by self-diagnostic checklists are codified in a physical failure rather than the result of cultural and social norms or relational pressures impinging upon a woman’s sexual response. If symptoms have an underlying physiological cause then a medical, and often a phar- maceutical, intervention can be applied. Through the marketing efforts to universalize symptoms through self-diagnostic checklists, disease marketing campaigns define a new normal and narrow the diagnostic field down to one answer: the branded drug.

Many analysts recognize that diagnosis is not a unilateral phenomenon, that authority does not lie solely with those who make a diagnosis, but rather in a relational process where patients, doctors, and medical institutions negotiate the meaning of a given diagnosis. It may appear that it is the patient who originates the relationship when she seeks out a diagnosis, and hopefully treat- ment and relief, from the symptoms that she experiences. Yet a patient’s activism in advocating for her health can be threatening or subverted once she enters into the diagnostic relationship with the medical industry, especially within the context of an intensely consumerist industry that has developed in the United States, one of the two countries worldwide that allows direct-to-consumer marketing of drugs. The origins of the consumer-corporate rela- tionship are notoriously hard to pinpoint. As Lupton (1997) and others have argued, the transformation of patients into consumers by neoliberal ideology about the free market and deregulated drug promotion means that the patient-cum-consumer becomes a “rational and autonomous” agent through marketing who can challenge the paternalism of the medical establishment, who can shop around for and demand to purchase medical treatment just as any other commodity and who, as a consumer, no longer has to accept “the way things are,” including diagnosis (see also: Applbaum, 2006; Busfield, 2010). This is the type of patient- consumer, at least, that drug marketers seek to develop through promotional work. What does it mean, though, for the patient when she self-diagnoses herself within a “web of consumption” (Arvidsson, 2005)?

“Get with the Program!” the pharmaceutical promotion of self-diagnosis

The marketing appeal to self-diagnose is not new; as long as mass marketing has existed patients have been encouraged to self- treat and to determine the physiological meaning of their symp- toms. In the history of drug advertising, for example, patent medicines, those available without a doctor’s prescription, during the late 19th and early 20th centuries were advertised directly to consumers and emphasized self-treatment (Donohue, 2006). Before the FDA loosened regulations on directly marketing prescription drugs to patients in 1997, there was great public concern and debate over what implications that advertising may have for self-diagnosis. In the lead up to DTC marketing deregula- tion, the U.S. House Subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations requested input on DTC advertising from 37 drug companies in 1984. A majority of the industry responses were against directly marketing prescription drugs to patients (Conrad & Leiter, 2008). Conrad and Leiter note that, at the time, most of these negative responses pointed to industry fears that DTC advertising would

M. Ebeling / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 825e832 829

unduly promote patients’ self-diagnosis and jeopardize the rela- tionship of trust between a doctor and her patient (2008). Inherent in the fear was the threat that lay expertise could encroach upon medical authority.

After more than ten years of DTC marketing in the United States, the industry viewpoints on both fears have reversed entirely and are considered some of the most important outcomes of marketing pharmaceuticals directly to patients. In an interview with the trade journal Medical Marketing and Media, vice-president and global business manager for Wyeth Inc.’s anti-depressant Pristiq, Andreas Eggert, explained the company’s goal behind the drug’s new marketing campaign:

The [Pristiq] ads are aimed particularly at patients who don’t seek treatment or who have given up on treatment. They say, “Maybe I need to accept the way it is.” We want to motivate them to talk to their physician and not give up, and facilitate that dialogue (Arnold, 2009: 8).

Self-diagnosis has been transformed from a threatening enact- ment of patient agency to a conveyance of pharmaceutical ideology in the guise of patient self-knowledge and empowerment to take action. In her examination of the relationship between the patients’ rights movements in the United States in the 1970s and consumer health information, Donohue (2006) shows how pharmaceutical marketers often claim that drug advertising and marketing is a tool of empowerment for the patient, rather than the industry being motivated by increasing profits. Self-diagnostic tools, such as symptom and risks checklists found on branded drug websites, are always accompanied with a doctor discussion guide that lists the points that a patient should raise with her physician, and are intended to be accompanied with the symptom checklist. Table 1 serves as an example of the potential patient autonomy inherent in self-diagnosis being limited by the marketing intention of the tool. Listed are the top 10 selling drugs and shows that each companion website for the drug offers either a symptom checklist, a risk assessment checklist or a doctor discussion checklist that all can be completed online by the patient, downloaded, printed out and taken to her next doctor’s appointment. For drugs that treat more severe or more complex disease diagnoses, such as bladder or lung cancer, self-diagnosis is downplayed on these websites, and doctor discussion guides that focus on the branded drug are emphasized. When printed, all of the checklists or guides are emblazoned with the company’s logo and other branding associ- ated with the specific drug.

As we have seen with the rebranding of Prozac into Sarafem, women’s bodily experiences can be cast as problematic symptoms in need of pharmaceutical intervention and in accordance with marketing goals. A new generation of birth-control pills have been reapproved by the FDA for treatment indications for PMDD and rebranded specifically for this new market. One such birth control

Table 1 Top Ten best selling drugs and use of self-diagnostic checklists.

Brand-named drug and condition for treatment Drug maker

Lipitor (cholesterol) Pfizer Plavix (anticlotting) Sanofi/Bristol Advair (asthma/COPD) GlaxoSmithKline Remicade (arthritis) Merck/J&J Enbrel (arthritis) Pfizer/Amgen Humira (arthritis & Crohns’s disease) Abbott Avastin (cancer) Roche Rituxan (cancer) Roche Diovan (hypertension) Novartis Crestor (cholesterol) AstraZeneca

List adapted from “FACTBOX-World’s top-selling drugs in 2014 vs 2010,” Reuters, April

pill, YAZ, is marketed for the treatment for symptoms associated with PMDD and severe acne. The YAZ body diary, subtitled: “Get with the Program!” is a checklist tool found on the branded website for the Bayer Healthcare Pharmaceuticals’ birth control pill YAZ and its intended use is for the self-diagnosis of PMDD. Chemically drospirenone and ethinyl estradiol, YAZ is a slightly different formulation from other birth control pills on the market. The drug has been approved by the FDA for the treatment of PMDD but has not been evaluated on its effectiveness to alleviate PMDD symp- toms for more than three menstrual cycles (Division of Drug Marketing, 2008, p. 8). YAZ has been tested only for three menstrual cycles of 82 clinical trial subjects (Freeman et al., 2001). The drug’s indications are, first and foremost, for birth control, and for women seeking treatment for PMDD who use YAZ as their primary birth control choice. The branding and marketing surrounding YAZ, however, promote the drug as a treatment for PMDD.

The website itself is targeted to young women and the initial experience of the home page is of the consumerist lifestyle that it promotes. There are images of fresh-faced, smiling young women, slender and fashionably dressed, engaged in various pursuits: applying makeup, playing an electric guitar, typing on a laptop. Among the safety information for YAZ, there are also tabs, labeled “The Works: Fashion & Style” and “Front Row: Hollywood Buzz,” which feature links to articles on the latest trends in fashion, tips on hair care and styling, and celebrity news. Within these sections, there is co-branded content from women’s magazines, cosmetics companies and high-end fashion designers. On the YAZ website, ostensibly an informational website on a birth control pill, the health information becomes trapped in a web of aspirational consumerism, which elides the patient and the consumer into one. The checklist can be found under the “YAZ Tools” section and can be completed online or downloaded as a widget on a patient’s computer. A woman using the diary indexes her mood, emotional and physical symptoms on a daily basis for two consecutive menstrual cycles. She is to use a rating scale on which she indicates the appropriate rating choice for a given checklist item.

The checklist is both vague in its description of symptoms and rigidly clear in the intent of its purpose: the checklist must lead the user to self-diagnose the DSM-IV category for PMDD. Going down the list of 11 symptoms associated with PMDD as delineated in the DSM-IV, the YAZ body diary checklist includes the same first 11 symptoms as the DSM-IV category in precise order. Symptom 1 in the DSM-IV, for instance, defines the presence of “[m]arkedly depressed mood, feelings of hopelessness, or self-deprecating thoughts,” while symptom 1 in the YAZ body diary lists that the patient may have “[f]elt depressed, sad, “down”, or “blue” or felt hopeless; or felt worthless or guilty.” The YAZ checklist’s rephrasing of the DSM-IV category appears to be a recasting of psychiatry’s descriptions of symptoms into vernacular terms. Within the

Estimated revenues for 2010 (US dollars, in billions)

Self-diagnostic, risks, or doctor discussion guide checklist

$11.7 Yes $9.6 Yes $9.0 Yes $7.4 Yes $7.1 Yes $6.8 Yes $6.7 Yes $6.1 Yes $6.0 Yes $5.8 Yes

13, 2010.

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checklist there is no room for ambiguity in regards to the chosen rating, it is not possible to register a 1.7 or a 4.3, nor is there any space where a woman can record her mood in her own words. For example, Item 3 on the checklist asks the user to rate on a scale from 0-5dzero being not at all, 5 being extremedwhether she experienced mood swings on a given day, whether she suddenly felt tearful or sad, or her feelings were easily hurt. Mood swings where a woman feels, say, joyfulness, hopefulness, blissfulness or exuberance cannot be registered. Yet Item 9 on the checklist exemplifies ambiguity, which tasks the user to categorize on the rating scale whether she “slept more, took naps, found it hard to get up when intended; or had trouble getting to sleep or staying asleep.” Both the length of the diary and the symptom checklist fall inline with the diagnostic category for PMDD as listed in the DSM- IV (see Tables 2 and 3 for a comparison). Aside from the FDA’s Division of Drug Marketing, Advertising and Communications (DDMAC) regulating all direct-to-consumer marketing communi- cations, it is not a coincidence that the YAZ checklist follows an almost verbatim, line-by-line reiteration of the DSM-IV entry for PMDD. The checklist was co-authored by the same clinical psychiatrist retained by Eli Lilly in the case of Sarafem, and who helped to author the relevant DSM-IV category.

As the YAZ diary serves as a pathologizing checklist for women’s emotional and bodily experience of menstruation through its construction of the experience to fit the PMDD diagnostic category, it is also a standardization instrument to categorize what is bio- logically normal and what is not. The checklist can only record a 28- day cycle, considered an average for women’s menstrual cycles, since most women never experience a 28-day cycle each and every month, even if a woman has no other complicating factors such as endometriosis or polycystic ovarian syndrome. If a woman expe- riences a menstrual cycle outside the “standardized” 28 days, say 31 days one month and 27 days the next, this information cannot be captured by the checklist. At the end of 56 days, or two consecutive 28-day menstrual cycles, no more entries can be made into the diary and a printable report is generated. In order for a doctor to make a diagnosis of PMDD, 11 of the 13 symptom categories must be present for two consecutive menstrual cycles. As it has been designed, the YAZ diary functions as a technology of self-regulation that disciplines the patient’s bodily experiences into a marketing diagnostic framework (Foucault, 1988). The YAZ body diary is

Table 2 PMDD diagnostic criteria.

Premenstrual Dsyphoric Disorder (DSM-IV categorization)

A. In most menstrual cycles during the past year, five (or more) of the follow last week of the luteal phase, began to remit within a few days after the o postmenses, with at least one of the symptoms being either (1), (2), (3), o 1. Markedly depressed mood, feelings of hopelessness, or self-deprecating 2. Marked anxiety, tension, feelings of being “keyed up” or “on edge” 3. Marked affective lability (e.g., feeling suddenly sad or tearful or increase 4. Persistent and marked anger or irritability or increased interpersonal co 5. Decreased interest in usual activities (e.g., work, school, friends, hobbies 6. Subjective sense of difficulty in concentrating 7. Lethargy, easy fatigability, or marked lack of energy 8. Marked change in appetite, overeating, or specific food cravings 9. Hypersomnia or insomnia 10. A subjective sense of being overwhelmed or out of control 11. Other physical symptoms, such as breast tenderness or swelling, heada

B. The disturbance markedly interferes with work or school or with usual so social activities, decreased productivity and efficiency at work or school).

C. The disturbance is not merely an exacerbation of the symptoms of anothe disorder, or a personality disorder (although it may be superimposed on a

D. Criteria A, B, and C must be confirmed by prospective daily ratings during made provisionally prior to this confirmation.)

Adapted from the American Psychiatric Association (1994). Diagnostic and stat Psychiatric Association, 717-8, and Bhatia, S. C., & Bhatia, S. K. (2002). Diagnosis and Treatment of Premenstrual Dysphoric. Disorder. American Family

useless as a self-diagnostic indexing tool in of itself, as it must be accompanied with the printable physician’s report that a patient can hand over to her doctor. It is the doctor who interprets the patient’s self-collected data to make the final diagnosis of PMDD and prescribe a pharmaceutical treatment. Since the physician’s report is emblazoned with the YAZ brand, it is ultimately a marketing appeal to the doctor to make the obvious, branded choice. The self-diagnostic tool, whilst portrayed as being a tool for patient empowerment, is also an indexing instrument for phar- maceutical marketing to determine the field of diagnostic possibilities.

While my analysis of symptom checklists concludes that the intent of such tools is to shift the initiation of diagnostic determi- nation to the patient and to determine the scripting choices of doctors, how effective are these marketing self-diagnostic tools and doctor discussion guides in generating sales of brand-named drugs? While the marketing industry seeks out evidence of a causal relationship between a marketing campaign and increase revenue for a client, the hard data that would prove that are much more elusive to pin down and are often contradictory. Mintzes et al. (2003) found when they surveyed patients and their doctors in the U.S. and Canada, that patients exposed to a trifecta of DTC adver- tisements for branded drugs, patient educational campaigns on “branded” diseases or conditions, and the use of pharmaceutical marketing as an information source were twice as likely to request a brand-name drug from their doctors than patients who were not exposed to DTC advertising. A recent marketing study that exam- ined more than 12,000 patient-doctor interactions, however, found that far from marketing’s attempt to influence the conversation, in only 3 percent of conversations did a patient mention a drug advertisement or marketing information by name, and in only .002 percent of patient conversations was a request made for a brand- name drug (Verilogue Inc., 2009). In the instances where branded drugs or DTC marketing campaigns were mentioned by patients, it was often to discuss with a doctor the negative side effects raised in advertising, or the relative expense of a brand-name drug and generic alternative. This one study indicates perhaps that patients are highly sophisticated consumers of marketing information, and are quite cynical about it. Far from the intended purpose of checklists to shape the patient-doctor conversation positively for pharmaceutical makers, perhaps the outcome should be

ing symptoms were present for most of the time during the nset of the follicular phase, and were absent in the week r (4): thoughts

d sensitivity to rejection) nflicts )

ches, joint or muscle pain, a sensation of “bloating,” or weight gain cial activities and relationships with others (e.g., avoidance of

r disorder, such as major depressive disorder, panic disorder, dysthymic ny of these disorders). at least two consecutive symptomatic cycles. (The diagnosis may be

istical manual of mental disorders. 4th ed. Washington, D.C.: American

Physician, 66(7), 1239-1249.

Table 3 YAZ body diary rating scale.

Daily record of severity of problems

Your rating on a scale from 0 to 5:(0: NOT AT ALL 1: MINIMAL 2: MILD 3: MODERATE 4: SEVERE 5: EXTREME) 1.Felt depressed, sad, “down”, or “blue” or felt hopeless; or felt worthless or guilty 2.Felt anxious, tense, “keyed up” or “on edge” 3.Had mood swings (i.e., suddenly feeling sad or tearful) or was sensitive to rejection or feelings were easily hurt 4.Felt angry, or irritable 5.Had less interest in usual activities (work, school, friends, hobbies) 6.Had difficulty concentrating 7.Felt lethargic, tired, or fatigued; or had lack of energy 8.Had increased appetite or overate; or had cravings for specific foods 9.Slept more, took naps, found it hard to get up when intended; or had trouble getting to sleep or staying asleep 10.Felt overwhelmed or unable to cope; or felt out of control 11.Had breast tenderness, breast swelling, bloated sensation, weight gain, headache, or joint or muscle pain, or other physical symptoms 12.At work, school, home or in daily routine, at least one of the problems noted above caused reduction of productivity or inefficiency 13.At least one of the problems noted above caused avoidance or less participation in hobbies or social activities

Adapted from the physician’s report for the YAZ Body Diary. Copyright Jean Endicott, PhD and Wilma Harrison, MD.

M. Ebeling / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 825e832 831

understood in more general terms, that the checklists help the patient recognize the branded disease in her symptoms and to get the conversation going with her doctor.

Conclusion

Symptom checklists developed collaboratively by drug marketers and medical practitioners have become the mainstay of virtually every branded and unbranded marketing campaign for pharmaceuticals. Checklists are efficient tools that, in tandem, universalize and personalize the bodily experience of symptoms and translate that experience into a need for treatment and action by the patient. Much like diary-keeping espoused by the authors of self-help books as a “corrective intervention on the past,” symptom checklists are deployed by marketing to be a proactive intervention on the present (Giddens, 1991: 72).

The power of diagnosis lies within the social power to name a disease, to define and frame symptoms as pathologically indica- tive of a disease state, to codify what is normal and what is deviant, and to provide social order to chaotic bodies (Foucault, 1984; Jutel, 2009; Rosenberg, 2002). Diagnosis in every case is, of course, a cultural phenomenon, a system of identification and categoriza- tion, embedded within it cultural beliefs and meanings about the self and others, identity, normalcy and deviance, health and infir- mity. Through the pharmaceutical promotion of the instruments of self-diagnosis, diagnostic power is removed from the exclusive purview of medical authority and placed by marketing into the hands of patients. Self-diagnosis has the potential to redistribute power within medically mediated relationships, such as the rela- tionship of power and trust between a patient and her doctor. Yet in this subversion of power, the pharmaceutical marketing ideologies are distributed seamlessly while appearing to put decisions and determinations about health and optimized action into consumers‘ hands. If the health consumer does not take responsibility for her own health, and participate in these promotional efforts to self- diagnose, she has failed to be a good consumer. It is a rhetorical sleight of hand reminiscent of what Wacquant (2009) might say is the neoliberalization of the less powerful through the individuali- zation of responsibility. Direct-to-consumer marketing of self- diagnosis offers particularly clear evidence of drugmakers’ inten- tions and receptions: symptom checklists position patients as active participants in the construction of the branded drugs and in the branding of highly contested disease states. The aim is for patients to recognize the disease for the symptoms and to become brand advocates for drugs that are marketed to treat those disease states. Symptom checklists are tools of consumer recruitment for marketing, where consumers perform self-diagnosis that is harmonized with the symptoms that the sponsored drug is

approved to treat, and through this self-diagnosis, are empowered to demand a diagnosis that will call for a treatment option that points to a branded drug from their doctors. The checklists are also a marketing subversion of patient agencydmarketing enrolls a patient’s agency in relation to her health to direct her to the “right diagnosis”: the diagnosis that will be treated by a branded drug.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the editors of this special issue, Annemarie Jutel and Sarah Nettleton, for all of their efforts in the organization of this publication. I would also like to give my gratitude to the readers of the various early drafts of this article for their guidance, input and, above all patience, these include Cati Coe, Kathryn Howard, Timothy Portlock, Inmaculada Garcia-Sanchez and Amy Slaton. Finally, I would like to thank the anonymous reviewers of my article for their insights and suggested changes.

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  • ‘Get with the Program!’: Pharmaceutical marketing, symptom checklists and self-diagnosis
    • Introduction: the pharmaceutical marketing imperative for self-diagnosis
    • Methods
    • The creation of a “branded” disease
    • Patient agency in the diagnostic relationship
    • “Get with the Program!” the pharmaceutical promotion of self-diagnosis
    • Conclusion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Making sure. A comparative micro-analysis of diagnostic instruments in medical practice

Cornelius Schubert*

TU Berlin, Insitute for Sociology, FR 2-5, Franklinstr. 28/29, 10587 Berlin, Germany

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 13 June 2011

Keywords: Technology Diagnosis Phenomenology Pragmatism Germany Australia

* Tel.: þ49 3031473679. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.05.032

a b s t r a c t

This article conceptualises diagnosis as ongoing practical judgement in medical care. Based on pragmatist and phenomenological considerations of tools in use, it uses a comparative approach to analyse simi- larities and differences in the use of diagnostic technologies. In the first part of the paper, a historical perspective on the innovation of the stethoscope is used to highlight the transformations in diagnostic practices occasioned by novel diagnostic instruments. In the second part of the paper, ethnographic accounts of contemporary anaesthesia are presented in order to sketch out the manifold variations of using diagnostic instruments in daily practice. Both cases are analysed on a micro-analytical level, emphasising the interrelations of bodies, tools and knowledge in concrete situations. The analysis shows how diagnostic instruments become embodied in the perceptual habits of physicians and how diag- nosing becomes an ongoing activity in the course of managing an illness trajectory.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

In addition to physical examinations or patients’ descriptions of their symptoms, physicians rely on diagnostic instruments to check for signs of disease. Ever since the invention of the stethoscope, diagnostic instruments appear to permeate medical practice to the point of completely replacing physical examinations or patient accounts. This article seeks to understand the role of diagnostic instruments in medical care not by emphasising them as an autonomous determining force, but by tracing the similarities and differences of technically mediated diagnosis in line with inter- actionist studies of medical work (Strauss, Fagerhaugh, Suczek, & Wiener, 1997). More generally, it conceptualises diagnosing as ongoing practical judgement, based on pragmatist ideas on the relation of knowledge, tools and action (Dewey, 1930). This view is complemented by phenomenological ideas on tools in use and the relations of bodies and technologies (Heidegger, 1996).

The comparative perspective takes a cue from Hughes (1951, p. 320) and his suggestion of seeking out a “frame of reference applicable to all cases”. Such common themes, as Hughes noted, may be “routine and emergency” or “mistakes and failures” (Hughes, 1951). This article will focus on the theme of technical mediation, i.e. how aspects of diagnostic activities become

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objectified in diagnostic instruments and how these instruments are then used in medical practice. For these purposes, it takes on a process perspective of diagnosis (Jutel, 2009) by focussing on the micro-level of diagnostic activities. The focus on the situation is well suited for comparing the specific activities found in different places and to analyse the complexities of everyday medical work (Wiener, Strauss, Fagerhaugh, & Suczek, 1979). From this perspec- tive, diagnosis is part of the articulation work that is necessary to manage an illness trajectory (Star, 1991). The following arguments are situated within the numerous areas cohabited by the sociology of medicine, technology and science, which cannot be discussed here in detail (cf. Berg & Mol,1998; Casper & Morrison, 2010; Clarke & Star, 2003; Elston, 1997; Heath, Luff, & Sanchez Svensson, 2003; Lock, Young, & Cambrosio, 2000; Star, 1995; Timmermans & Berg, 2003).

In a broader sense, diagnosing can be understood as a type of classification work (Bowker & Star, 1999). From this perspective, medicine figures as an information infrastructure that not only contains an individual diagnosis, but rather a plethora of primary and subsidiary diagnostic activities subject to continual matching and evaluation as the treatment evolves. Traces of the diagnostic activities e reports, printouts, pictures and letters e are assembled in larger scale information systems, including patient records, which organise both the treatment of the disease and the work of the nurses and doctors. Thus, classifications are ways of ordering the social world. Bowker and Star see a lack of research when it comes to systematically addressing how “the new technological

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and electronic infrastructures” (Bowker & Star, 1999, p. 5) are constitutive of social and moral order. From an interactionist stance, they see the need for a detailed analysis of classifications as a specific work practice. This emphasis in studying the use of technologies in practice is taken up in the following sections.

Especially micro-studies of work and information systems drawing from the workplace studies (Luff, Hindmarsh, & Heath, 2000) have revealed how technologies shape and are shaped by daily work. There are many propositions as to how to conceptualise the mutual shaping of tools and users. The comparative approach described below looks for specific configurations of humans and artefacts (Suchman, 2007) and seeks to trace the mutual trans- formations of physicians and instruments to the point at which they constitute a stable diagnostic ensemble. It understands diag- nosing e first e as a form of “situated action” Suchman, 2007, p. 69), thus highlighting the contingent nature of routine action in line with Dewey’s notion of “practical judgement” (1954, p. 214). Situ- ated action is e second e viewed as fundamentally embodied. This assumption allows different diagnostic ensembles to be analysed in terms of different perceptual habits (Merleau-Ponty, 2002). As Merleau-Ponty pointed out: “every perceptual habit is still a motor habit and here equally the process of grasping a meaning is per- formed by the body” (Merleau-Ponty, 2002, pp. 176e177).

The following sections highlight different aspects of technical mediation in medicine. The historical reconstruction of diagnostic practices traces the transformations in the doctorepatient rela- tionship that have often been identified as the roots of subsequent technisation and objectification in medicine. Using Dewey’s ideas on the relation of means and knowledge (Dewey,1958), it conceives medical diagnosis as being fundamentally mediated by technology. Also in line with Dewey, technical means are considered neither neutral, nor an autonomous force (cf. MacKenzie & Wajcman,1999), rather, they must always be understood as transformative agencies. Such transformations are most visible in the controversies that emerge when new tools are introduced. Conversely, the trans- formations become less visible once the technology has been integrated in routine use. Therefore, the ethnographic part aims at comparing contemporary routine medical diagnoses by tracing the peculiarities of “machine work” (Strauss et al., 1997, p. 40) in routine anaesthesia. A phenomenological perspective on tools in use (Heidegger,1996), on the functioning and the malfunctioning of instruments, can help to identify the perceptual habits associated with diagnostic instruments. The ethnographic study of routine anaesthetic practice shows that technisation is not a simple process of de-skilling, but that medical work contains a rich repository of skills for using, repairing and bypassing technology.

Contrasting two diverse cases, the historic reconstruction of a diagnostic innovation and the ethnographic account of routine medical work, helps to identify common lines of enquiry for a micro-sociology of diagnosis in a field which is characterised by a plurality of diagnostic practices (Berg & Mol, 1998). The concep- tual discussions will also be helpful in building a comparative framework and they are therefore tightly interwoven with the empirical cases.

Using new diagnostic instruments

Many of the transformations in medicine have been attributed to advances in technology. Even though we are all aware of the technological achievements over the last 200 years, critical authors have identified an excessive reliance on technology within medi- cine (cf. Reiser, 1978, 2009). Their arguments state that techno- logical progress is not harmful in and of itself, but that a hazardous dominance of objective (technical) data over subjective (human) perception and interpretation characterises modern health care.

Historical studies of medicine have repeatedly shown that the use of tools is influenced rather by social context than by technical necessity (cf. Howell, 1995). Earlier works on the relation between medicine and technological progress did, in fact, highlight the resistance of medical practitioners towards novel technologies (Stern, 1927). I will now draw on pragmatist ideas of Dewey (1930; 1954; 1958) in order to sketch out an understanding of medical diagnosis as a form of practical judgement which is fundamentally mediated by technical means. This will help to situate medical diagnosis within a general framework of pragmatist ideas on the relation of action, tools and knowledge.

Dewey (1954, p. 214) highlights the importance of “practical judgements” as part of his broader critique of idealist philosophical reasoning. The critique itself is not central to the following argu- ment; however, Dewey’s conception of practical judgement provides a useful framework for thinking about medical diagnosis. As a form of practical judgement, medical diagnosis starts with an “incomplete situation” (Dewey, 1954, p. 215). The situation is unfinished in the sense that its open nature is not resolved by a single isolated judgement, but one “in which a multitude of other factors external to the self are included” (Dewey, 1954). The choice to see a doctor instead of, say, a healer will influence subsequent events. Similarly, a physician’s choice to use a diagnostic procedure or to pursue a specific treatment will also affect the course of treatment. Dewey emphasises that practical judgements always trigger a series of contingent events.

Therefore, performing a medical diagnosis and initiating subsequent treatment is not considered to be a steady flow of well known sequences, but rather as the continuous work of turning indeterminate situations into manageable problems. This must be understood as a fundamental feature of medical practice, just as it is fundamental to all practical activities, as Dewey points out: “The distinctive characteristic of practical activity, one which is so inherent that it cannot be eliminated, is the uncertainty which attends it” (1930, p. 10). It is hardly surprising that the inherent uncertainty of medical practice has been a central topic in socio- logical reasoning, at least since Parsons (1951). What is more important is that Dewey not only highlights the fundamental uncertainty of practical action, but that he also closely relates the corresponding practice of experimental enquiry to the use of tools and instruments: “The important thing in the history of modern knowing is the reinforcement of these active doings by means of instruments, appliances and apparatus devised for the purposes of disclosing relations not otherwise apparent, [.]” (1930, p. 85).

Concerning diagnostic instruments, Dewey’s emphasis on the use of tools for resolving uncertainty deserves further attention. Most importantly, Dewey emphatically renounced the idea of “mere” instruments (Dewey, 1958). Hence, his concept of instru- mentality does not involve utilitarian notions of mere means that are subservient to ends. Rather, means must be seen as trans- formative agencies in the process of experience. Consequently, processes of “inference” (Dewey, 1958, p. 138) or “discovery” (Dewey, 1958, p. 152) are fundamentally influenced by the instru- ments used. Furthermore, the experimental methods of modern science entail that “[.] in the practice of science, knowledge is an affair of making sure, not of grasping antecedently given sureties” (Dewey, 1958, p. 154) e hence the title of this paper. By using the example of the map as a representative artefact, Dewey concisely sums up the transformative agency of instruments: “Discovery of America involved insertion of the newly touched land in a map of the globe. This insertion, moreover, was not merely additive, but transformative of a prior picture of the world as to its surfaces and their arrangements” (Dewey, 1958, p. 156).

We must therefore understand the use of new diagnostic instruments as transforming previous diagnostic practices and bear

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in mind that from Dewey’s perspective, tools are neither neutral, nor are they autonomous. As previously mentioned, this position has been taken up by studies of science, technology and medicine for many years (cf. Casper & Morrison, 2010) and for the following micro-sociology of diagnostic instruments, it serves as the baseline of argumentation. However, even though Dewey often refers to medical practice, his arguments pertain to practical activities in general. For the sociology of medicine, the specifics of inventing the stethoscope will be spelt out in more detail, since it is regarded as a turning point in the transformation of medicine from traditional practice to modern healthcare (Davis, 1981; Lachmund, 1999; Reiser, 1978).

The main transformation accompanying the introduction of the stethoscope has been identified in the shift of attention from the subjectively voiced symptoms of the patients to the objectified signs of diseases made available through instrumentation (Reiser, 1978). The stethoscope was also a driver in standardising medical practice and creating an overarching infrastructure of medical knowledge (Lachmund, 1999). Historically, the new schemes of classification (Bowker & Star, 1999) and the emergence of the “clinical gaze” (Foucault, 1973), transformed the relations between doctors, patients and instruments.

Let us first consider Reiser’s account of the shift from subjective interpretation to objective data. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, doctors saw patients mainly in their own homes, sur- rounded by their families. These patients were typically wealthy and well educated. During extended bedside conversations, patients delivered narratives of their symptoms which formed the basis for the doctor’s diagnosis. Then, in 1816, the French physician René Laennec rolled some sheets of paper into a tube in order to diagnose a young woman’s heart condition. As for the motives behind his action, Laennec felt that the established methods of diagnosis were poorly suited to the situation; the patient’s obesity rendered percussion useless and her age and sex made direct auscultation seem ill-mannered. To his surprise, he could perceive the sounds of the patient’s heart much more loudly and clearly through his proto-stethoscope, and he proceeded to experiment with other instruments of “mediated auscultation”. But stetho- scopes did not simply augment hearing, they also occasioned a new relationship between physician and patient in which the formerly “talkative” patient was now required to remain quiet and conform to the doctor’s orders. In this novel diagnostic ensemble, physio- logical signs became the major source of diagnostic information. Coming back to Dewey’s argument, this transformation does not represent a simple addition of more data, but new ways of looking at disease that correspond with large-scale shifts in medical para- digms from “bedside medicine” to “hospital medicine” and “labo- ratory medicine” (Jewson, 1976).

But let us look at the changes in diagnostic practice in more detail. It would be too simplistic to conceptualise bedside medicine as non-technical and modern medicine as technical only based on the invention of a diagnostic instrument. Bedside medicine may not have implemented a large number of tools, but it was familiar with a wide variety of techniques, including early verbal and visual techniques and later the adoption of manual techniques (Reiser, 1978). Especially manual techniques shifted the focus from the verbal narrations of the patient to the explorative actions of the physician, including more frequent physical examinations. The introduction of the stethoscope reinforced this transition. Typically, this story is told as one of a growing distance between physician and patient, with the stethoscope effectively creating a barrier between the two. However, it is also possible to see it the other way round: the introduction of the stethoscope would then fuse the bodies of the physician and the patient into a new diagnostic ensemble. From the perspective of technical mediation, the

stethoscope does both. On the one hand, it creates distance by creating new aspects of medical knowledge that are no longer negotiated in doctorepatient dialogues. Diagnostic instruments then become a means of professional control and a focal point of the asymmetry between doctor and patient. On the other hand, the stethoscope closely links the bodies of the physician and the patient. From the biomedical perspective, it in fact offers “direct” access to bodily signs. Comparing the narrative practices of bedside medicine with the instrumental practices of stethoscope use, both must be seen as being embedded in larger systems of knowledge and the organisation of healthcare. Yet they differ in the specific configurations of bodies and tools and techniques.

Using the stethoscope especially required new bodily skills from the physicians (Lachmund, 1999). Only through extended training in hospitals could the doctors learn to distinguish between the sounds they heard in the patient’s chest cavity, i.e. between sibilant, dry, or wet rales. Compared to diagnostic instruments which produce numerical outputs, such as the thermometer, the sounds from the stethoscope are more difficult to interpret and therefore “the precision of diagnostic judgements resided primarily in the physician’s ability to make a range of significant distinctions between acoustic phenomena” (Lachmund, 1999, p. 425). One could argue that it is actually not so much the stethoscope itself, but the “trained ear” of the doctor which constitutes the diagnostic instrument, the stethoscope being a mere extension of the ear. But this would fall short of thedelicateinterrelations between the tool and the body. Instead, the physician and the stethoscope are mutually configured in the practice of mediated auscultation.

Looking beyond the close relation between instrument and physician, the rise of mediated auscultation is not an isolated event, but one aspect of the larger transformation in the medical systems of disease classification. To start, the physicians practicing mediated auscultation needed to create a shared terminology for the sounds they heard. In addition to a shared terminology, they required a classification of the sounds in relation to diseases (Lachmund, 1999). This classification could only be created within the organ- isational structure of hospitals which granted doctors access to large numbers of comparable cases and allowed them to validate their diagnoses using autopsy results (Foucault, 1973), and which subsequently became the hubs of organised medical care (Rosenberg, 1987).

However, the rise of diagnostic technologies was no straight- forward matter. Many physicians mocked the new instruments and emphasised their unreliability in comparison to the narrative methods (Reiser, 1978). At the time, scepticism and resistance to new technologies were the norm rather than the exception (Davis, 1981; Stern, 1927). Studies of other diagnostic instruments like the thermometer (Hess, 2005), x-ray (Pasveer, 1989), or magnetic resonance imaging today (Burri, 2008; Dumit, 2004) all show that the introduction of new diagnostic instruments is accompanied by a large degree of ambiguity and uncertainty. Diagnostic procedures then cannot create certainty by themselves, but certainty must be created through practices of “making sure”. To conclude this discussion of medical diagnosis as practical judgement and the invention of the stethoscope as a transformation of diagnostic arrangements, I will point to two relevant aspects concerning technical mediation.

First, the stethoscope does create distance between the physi- cian and the patient. But compared to the x-ray and the ther- mometer, the stethoscope constitutes a highly embodied and close physical relation between physician and patient. In the words of Jewson (1976), the arrangement of stethoscopic diagnosis belongs to the cosmology of hospital medicine rather than that of labora- tory medicine, in which “medical practise became an appendage to the laboratory” (Jewson, 1976, p. 230). Second, the stethoscope is

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not an instrument that results in bodily de-skilling, since the bodily senses of the doctors, especially hearing, have to be highly trained. Such skills and experience must be seen as embodied, biographical and situational achievements which are not dispensable in modern medical treatment, even under the dominance of laboratory medicine.

In the next section, I will shift the focus from a historical analysis of medical innovation to the routine use of diagnostic instruments in contemporary settings. Whereas the historical reconstruction set the invention of the stethoscope within the larger transformations in the arrangements of organised medical care and in medical knowledge, the ethnographic focus lies on concrete situations. In these situations, we find diagnostic ensembles, which, like musical ensembles, consist of prevalent configurations of instruments and actors, but which also display a range of local variations. The micro-analytical focus will high- light the ongoing creation of certainty in daily medical practice rather than the issues of professional dominance or the trans- formation of medical institutions. The reasoning behind this shift in focus is that, first, diagnostic practices do not stop after the identification of a disease. In fact, managing an illness trajectory (Star, 1991) consists of continuous monitoring and intervention activities. Second, diagnostic instruments cannot completely reduce ambiguity and medical work, like patients’ symptoms and diseases, can never be completely mapped by and neatly embedded in larger systems of classification (Bowker & Star, 1999; Timmermans & Berg, 1997).

Using diagnostic instruments in daily practice

Similar to social institutions, enduring diagnostic arrangements frame, but do not determine, medical practice. Strauss, Schatzman, Ehrlich, Bucher, and Sabshin (1963) highlighted the need for a conceptualisation of social order as an ongoing achievement by introducing the concept of “negotiated order” into medical soci- ology. They argue that the division of labour in a hospital is not held together by a pre-planned bureaucratic scheme, but by constant activities of negotiating the course of treatment, which arise out of competing professional and lay perspectives. Such tensions, like those between professional and administrative control (Freidson, 1970), will not be addressed here. Just as social structures do not determine medical practice, neither do technical artefacts. Rather, the use of tools and machines unfolds as “situated action” (Suchman, 2007, p. 69). Especially in the case of anaesthesia, the situated use of tools must also be understood as embodied action in which activities shift between humans and artefacts. As Suchman points out: “Over the course of an anaesthesia, agencies involved in the sustenance of vital bodily functions are progressively delegated from ‘the patient’ as an autonomously embodied entity, to an intricately interconnected sociomaterial assemblage, and then back again” (Suchman, 2007, p. 264).

Many ethnographic studies of anaesthesia and surgery have highlighted how such intricately interconnected sociomaterial assemblages of bodies and technologies are constituted in practice (Berg, 1996; Fox, 1994; Goodwin, 2007; Hindmarsh & Pilnick, 2002; Hirschauer, 1991; Mol & Law, 2004; Moreira, 2004; Mort, Goodwin, Smith, & Pope, 2005; Pope, 2002). In line with the pragmatist understanding of medical diagnosis as practical judgement, I will now concentrate on the daily contingencies associated with the practical use of diagnostic instruments which lie beyond the grand transformations associated with novel instruments. Because daily routines often obscure the delicate relations of bodies and tech- nologies, I will briefly call to mind phenomenological ideas about tools in use in order to accentuate the everyday contingencies of diagnostic instruments.

The following argument centres around Heidegger’s tool anal- ysis (Heidegger, 1996). Like Dewey, Heidegger stressed that tools can only be analysed in practice, e.g. in his example of hammering: “The less we just stare at the thing called hammer, the more actively we use it, the more original our relation to it becomes and the more undisguisedly it is encountered as what it is, as a useful thing. The act of hammering itself discovers the specific “handi- ness” of the hammer” (Heidegger, 1996, p. 65). In the relation between bodies and tools, the “handiness” of diagnostic instru- ments becomes an important aspect of tools in use. Heidegger calls this characteristic of technology being “ready-to-hand”. To be ready-to-hand, tools have to “withdraw” in use, i.e. they need to be incorporated into the body, like the blind man’s cane becoming an extension of the hand (Merleau-Ponty, 2002). Similarly, the invention of the stethoscope can be analysed as a process of embodiment and withdrawing, essentially fusing the doctor and the instrument, until the stethoscope is no longer perceived by itself. Of course, withdrawing must not be considered a simple functionality of tools, rather it requires the highly trained and embodied handling of instruments. Even with contemporary information and communication technologies, bodily skills remain central to medical practice (Mort & Smith, 2009; Twigg, Wolkowitz, Cohen, & Nettleton, 2011). Similarly, our interactions with computers remain embodied (Dourish, 2001).

But Heidegger’s analysis does not stop with the withdrawal of tools to a ready-to-hand condition and uninterrupted routine use. Instead, he emphasises the ways in which previously withdrawn tools become “conspicuous”, “obtrusive” or even “obstinate” through non-usability (Heidegger, 1996, p. 68). In the study of technology, the shift from simple tools to complex machinery is often regarded as bringing about additional problems of moni- toring and controlling technology (Wynne, 1988). And, as previ- ously mentioned, this theme is common to the analysis of technology and medicine as well. From Heidegger’s perspective on tools in use, this shift must also be analysed not only in theory, but in practice. In a first step, we would assume that in a highly tech- nicised work environment, many instruments can be found that become conspicuous, obtrusive or even obstinate. Second, we would also assume that the users of such technologies competently deal with daily technical disruptions or breakdowns (Barley & Orr, 1997) and generally with “mistakes at work” (Hughes, 1951). In contrast to the innovation of novel instruments, an analysis of routine diagnostic practices therefore focuses on analysing the way in which the instruments may withdraw in the hands of competent physicians and which forms of “error work” (Strauss et al., 1997, p. 242) they use when dealing with unusable instruments.

The phenomenological perspective also highlights the relation of tools and bodies in use. Instruments like the stethoscope constitute “embodiment relations”, whereas instruments like the thermometer constitute “hermeneutic relations” (Ihde,1990, p. 72). These relations constitute the respective differences between hospital and laboratory medicine. In the first relation, we find the close physical relation between doctor and patient; in the second, we find a multitude of displays and readouts representing the state of the patient. In modern anaesthesia, both sets of relations can be found in varying degrees and we must then look for the local differences in the diagnostic ensembles to account for the manifold arrangements of bodies and technologies.

The following empirical situations were observed during a comparative ethnographic study of surgical operations from 2001 to 2003. In total, 67 routine operations were observed in three hospitals. The majority of the observations were conducted in a large German university teaching hospital. For comparative purposes, a small German rural hospital and a large Australian university teaching hospital were selected. In addition to the

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ethnographic fieldwork, video recordings were made and qualita- tive interviews conducted with anaesthetists. The research was part of the interdisciplinary project “Cooperation and Safety in Operating Theatres” funded by the TU Berlin from 2001 to 2003. Within the interdisciplinary project, further studies were con- ducted by colleagues in hospitals in China, Italy, Switzerland and Turkey, although these findings will not be discussed in the present context. Ethical approval for conducting participant observations and video recordings was obtained from the respective hospital administrations, operating room personnel, and patients.

In part, anaesthesia during surgical operations can be under- stood as an ongoing diagnostic activity in which the anaesthetist monitors the patient’s vital functions by observing a number of visible bodily signs and technically defined parameters. He controls the depth and length of the general anaesthetic by administering different anaesthetics and adjusting the content and dosage to the course of surgery. He may also warn the surgeon if the state of the patient becomes critical. In order to do so, the anaesthetist must be constantly aware of the patient’s state and regularly check vital signs and parameters.

Let us consider mechanical ventilation during general anaes- thetic as a first example. General anaesthesia requires mechanical ventilation, because it numbs the breathing reflex and paralyses the lungs through controlled medication. Mechanical ventilation in turn requires constant monitoring of the oxygen level in the blood. There are two routine methods of monitoring. The first is direct visual observation. Red lips indicate sufficient blood oxygenation; blue lips indicate a lack of oxygen. The second method is technically mediated observation. Instruments like pulse oximeters measure and report the percentage of oxygen saturation in the blood. In the case of direct observation, the bodily signs are used to subjectively infer oxygenation, i.e. the anaesthetist judges lip colour based on experience. In the case of mediated observation, a digital readout objectively represents oxygenation. Normal levels range between 97% and 99%. Each method of monitoring is embedded in and depends on a specific configuration of tools, knowledge and actors: Whereas direct observation combines perception and inference mostly within the doctor, technically mediated observation includes an array of tools. In practice, anaesthetists use both sour- ces of information and constantly cross check for plausibility.

Anaesthetists often described the relation between direct and mediated observation in biographical terms. Novice doctors were said to focus on the readout from the monitoring systems; with more experience, their attention would shift from the monitor to the patient. As one anaesthetist phrased it: “At first, everybody looks to the monitor, as though they were spellbound. This is automatic; I did the same. And only after that comes experience” (anaesthetist A., translation by author). Thus, direct and mediated observations exist side by side in medical practice; however, their relative importance shifts according to experience. In general, anaesthetists carefully weigh the available information, so as not to become dependent on a single source, or overconfident in their own experience. In addition to checking lip colour to determine oxygen saturation, they check body temperature by touching the patient’s forehead. Sufficient pain relief is inferred by the absence of sweat and a deep sleep is deduced from the small pupil size caused by opiates. Anaesthetists also use the diagnostic instruments at their disposal.

A closer look at simple (manual) and more advanced (auto- matic) mediations of doctors, tools and patients reveals different configurations of mechanical ventilation. Manual ventilation is often conducted at the beginning and end of an anaesthetic and is replaced by automatic ventilation during the operation. With manual ventilation, an anaesthetist compresses the supple air-filled rubber anaesthetic bag in his hand, pumping the air from the bag

into the patient’s lungs. The collapsible bag is then refilled by the anaesthetic machine. Automatic ventilation follows the same physical principle, but here a motorised bellow inside the anaes- thetic machine operates depending on the frequency and volume set by the anaesthetist. During routine automatic ventilation, the anaesthetist does little more than read the dials on the monitoring screen, evaluating the digital output and carrying out possible interventions by pushing buttons on the anaesthetic machine. This way, both of the anaesthetist’s hands remain free.

In the small rural hospital, an interesting variation could be observed. During the course of relatively short routine operations (lasting about 1 h), the anaesthetists did not use automatic venti- lation at all. They argued that a trained anaesthetist can ventilate manually with the anaesthetic bag for hours without tiring and, in the mean time, they used their free hand to fill out the anaesthetic reports and operate the machines. Also, they explained that the tactile feedback from the ventilation bag enabled them to accu- rately judge the depth of the narcosis: When patients slowly wake from anaesthesia, spontaneous breathing sets in and experienced anaesthetists feel a resistance to their manual ventilation. Essen- tially, the anaesthetic bag is then used as a diagnostic instrument, similar to the stethoscope. The coupling of lungs, tubes, rubber anaesthetic bags, hands and air constitutes a direct physical rela- tion between the patient and doctor, with the soft rubber facili- tating delicate tactile perception. The anaesthetists who preferred manual ventilation also trusted their own senses over technical monitoring. They were in their late 50s and stated in the interviews that they were trained decades ago without many tools, and that they still preferred a direct connection to the patient and reading bodily signs rather than digital values. In contrast to the small hospital, automatic ventilation was the norm in both larger hospitals and manual ventilation was used only at the beginning and the end of the general anaesthetic. When questioned about the difference between manual and automatic ventilation, the doctors in the university teaching hospitals stressed the need to be able to expertly perform both methods and pointed out the importance of reading both bodily signs and digital values.

How can we account for these differences in the configurations of bodies, tools and knowledge? In the above case, manual venti- lation is deeply interrelated with biographical experience, the professional valuation of this experience, a distinct perceptual habit and the organisational conditions of short routine operations in small hospitals. In the university teaching hospitals, the operations took longer and the novice doctors were supposed to learn both kinds of ventilation. But the deliberate choice not to use certain machines must not only be the result of individual preferences. For example, technological monitoring in the recovery room of the university hospital in Australia was reduced to pulse oxymetry and blood pressure measurements in order to train the staff’s clinical skills and to focus their attention onto the patient rather than the machines. Thus, we can see that technological advances are simultaneously accompanied by reflexive discussions of their use within medical practice.

Even though the ethnographic findings do not permit general- isations, we can draw some conclusions through comparison. First, more experienced doctors seem to prefer direct observation and rely on their embodied skills to a greater extent than novices. This may be because they have learnt to critically evaluate machine readouts, but it may also be a way of preserving their experience as a source of power which may become obsolete through novel diagnostic technologies. On a small scale, this tension reflects the controversies surrounding the invention of novel technologies as described in the case of the stethoscope. Second, we can see that the body of both the patient and the doctor remain central entities in the diagnostic ensembles. And, in each ensemble, we find

C. Schubert / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 851e857856

specific configurations of bodies, tools and knowledge, which are reproduced in everyday medical practice. The phenomenological perspective allows us to trace how the skilled use of instruments, both simple tools and complex machines, is incorporated into the perceptual habits of doctors. Third, and in line with Dewey’s arguments, the ethnographic cases show how medical diagnosis as practical judgement is fundamentally mediated by instruments. A general view of medicine as sociomaterial practice allows us to direct our attention back to the differences in diagnostic ensembles (Berg & Mol, 1998).

The case of mechanical ventilation was chosen to compare different ensembles in which tools successfully withdraw in use. In contrast, the following example of total intravenous anaesthesia (TIVA) considers the close relations of diagnostic instruments, anaesthetic drugs and bodies for cases in which the tools do not operate according to plan. The main point here is that it becomes increasingly difficult to pinpoint the source of a symptom as the entities and their relations within a sociotechnical ensemble increase (cf. Perrow, 1984).

Total intravenous anaesthesia exclusively uses intravenous narcotics, which are continuously infused into the bloodstream by programmable machines called syringe pumps. The narcotic agents of TIVA are highly potent, selectively acting drugs that are quickly metabolised. TIVA employs different anaesthetic agents in order to maintain general anaesthetic: a hypnotic agent for inducing sleep, an analgesic agent for relieving pain, as well as a muscle relaxant to facilitate surgery. TIVA is largely considered to offer a better control over the anaesthetic than conventional gas methods by using drugs with a rapid onset and recovery. In practice, the tools of TIVA may, however, interfere with the course of planned events. An anaes- thetist commented on the tight coupling of bodies, drugs and technologies in an interview: with older syringe pumps, as he explained, the motor which pushes the drugs into the patient’s body may sometimes not work evenly. As a consequence, the potent anaesthetic drugs are not consistently administered and may lead to a slight rise and fall in blood pressure or heart rate over the course of the operation. These small alternations are in turn picked up by the monitoring equipment and displayed as wavelike patterns and digits on the monitoring screen. In this case, the digital readouts correctly represent the physiological state of the patient; however, he or she is not the source of the alternations. Pinpointing the motors in the syringe pumps as the source would only provide an abbreviated perspective. Rather, all the compo- nents of TIVA, including the drugs and monitoring systems, constitute a specific ensemble in which the uneven movements of the pump are made visible to the anaesthetist through the patient, the drugs and the monitoring system. Because such opaque inter- ferences are hard to detect in daily practice, narrative accounts, such as anecdotes or war stories circulate widely among physicians (Montgomery Hunter, 1991). Such stories also include proverbs emphasising the delicate relation between knowledge and action. After commenting on these problems with syringe pumps, the anaesthetist concluded by quoting the favourite saying of a former superior: “you have to know a lot to do nothing”.

The above examples show that anaesthetic monitoring tech- nologies do not simply reduce contingencies, but that new contingencies may emerge out of the multiple interrelations of tools and bodies. If we take a broad notion of diagnosis as practical judgement, this implies that diagnostic activities are not exclusively focused on the patient, but rather extended towards machines in order to create “machine-body safety” (Strauss et al., 1997, p. 78).

Comparing the different ensembles of stethoscopic auscultation, manual and automatic ventilation, and total intravenous anaes- thesia, we can see that they all are technically mediated. However, we can also draw some general conclusions concerning the

differences. First, technical progress is no straight forward process of universally replacing human action with machine activities. Using more advanced diagnostic tools necessitates increased articulation work in managing an illness trajectory (Star, 1991). Hence we can observe an increase of diagnostic activities that extends towards the tools themselves. Second, the differences can be mapped along some empirical characteristics. For instance, with the invention of the stethoscope, the close bodily relation of patient, doctor and instrument was practised by young doctors in large hospitals. In the ethnographic cases, such relations were mainly found with older anaesthetists in the smaller hospital. Thus, experience, perceptual habits, tasks, and organisational settings are important factors along which the use of diagnostic instruments differs. Third, the different practices of balancing information can be addressed along analytical terms. For instance, diagnostic instruments increasingly penetrate the living body of the patient while at the same time creating a certain distance between the doctor and the patient. We may then distinguish along different degrees of doctoretool and patientetool relations. In line with Dewey, we might also look at how the daily contingencies are matched by manifold practices of “making sure”. We can then distinguish in which way diagnostic instruments render the patient accessible, in which way they may create new contingencies and in how far this constitutes specific diagnostic ensembles.

Conclusion

This article drew on several lines of research in order to sketch out a micro-sociological approach for studying the interrelations of bodies, tools and knowledge in medical diagnosis. These relations were traced by combining historic and ethnographic accounts of medical practice. The historical account of the stethoscope revealed how diagnostic instruments first lead to an increase in bodily interaction between doctor and patient as medical practice moved from the bedside into the hospital. Today, close physical proximity is increasingly delegated to and substituted by advanced technol- ogies, e.g. in the case of automated artificial breathing; nonetheless, there are still many instances of direct sensory contact in medical practice. With each new instrument, we can observe the formation of a specific diagnostic ensemble in which bodies, tools and knowledge are mutually configured, i.e. in which diagnostic knowledge becomes embodied in doctors and patients, as well as built into instruments.

Micro-sociological approaches help to trace such particularities in medical practice and to understand the resulting differences in diagnosis and treatment (Berg & Mol, 1998). Fitting the cases into a comparative framework allows us to put the particularities into perspective (Hughes, 1951). For this article, the emphasis was placed on the relations of bodies, tools and knowledge in order to sketch out common lines of enquiry for a micro-sociology of diagnosis.

Phenomenological ideas were used in order to highlight two aspects concerning the embodiment of tools and knowledge. The first aspect involved the way in which tools withdraw in use by becoming part of embodied perceptual habits. In these cases, physician and instrument become interdependent, like the fusion of doctor and stethoscope in the practice of mediated auscultation. The second aspect concerns the disruption of such routine activities when instruments become unusable. This points us towards the practical knowledge that comes to the fore when dealing with technical breakdowns. Routine medical work consists of constantly compensating and repairing smaller technical problems, and medical diagnosis consists of routinely cross-checking the plausi- bility of objectified readouts against subjective perception and experience. Different diagnostic ensembles can then be compared

C. Schubert / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 851e857 857

with respect to different perceptual habits as well as the ways of dealing with technically created ambiguities.

On a more general level, medical diagnosis was conceived as a form of practical judgement, based on pragmatist ideas on the relation of tools, knowledge and action. This reminds us that it is not only embodied perceptual habits which are fundamentally mediated. For instance, how doctors and patients generally expe- rience and evaluate disease is fundamentally mediated by diag- nostic technologies as well as social institutions. Conceiving medical diagnosis as practical judgement also highlights the process character of medical work and knowledge. Diagnosis is then not just the starting point for planning the treatment, but an ongoing activity of “making sure” throughout the course of an illness trajectory. And of course, the representations created by diagnostic instruments influence and transform the perception and classification of disease in broader contexts outside of specific diagnostic ensembles or illness trajectories.

Last not least, the general notion of practical judgement allows for a comparison of medical and non-medical diagnostic activities. We can assume that diagnostic tasks exist in many fields of work and that those tasks are technically mediated. There, we will also find contingencies and negotiations. This way, the notion of prac- tical judgement helps to relate the sociology of medical diagnosis with broader sociological issues and may in turn be used to sketch out the peculiarities and variations of medical diagnosis.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their valu- able comments on earlier versions of this paper. Also, I am indebted to the staff and patients for allowing me to observe and to the anaesthetists who took the time to be interviewed.

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  • Making sure. A comparative micro-analysis of diagnostic instruments in medical practice
    • Introduction
    • Using new diagnostic instruments
      • Using diagnostic instruments in daily practice
    • Conclusion
    • Acknowledgements
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 866e872

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Social Science & Medicine

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“Morphology is a witness which doesn’t lie”: Diagnosis by similarity relation and analogical inference in clinical forensic medicine

Gethin Rees*

Sociology, University of Edinburgh, 15a George Square, Edinburgh EH8 9LD, UK

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 10 March 2011

Keywords: Scotland Forensic Medicine Injury Diagnosis Experts Training UK

* Tel.: þ44 (0)131 651 1325. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.02.032

a b s t r a c t

In this paper, I utilise semi-structured interviews with Forensic Medical Examiners (FMEs) in Scotland in order to investigate their diagnostic work. Drawing upon classic medical sociological work on diagnosis (for instance, the work of Paul Atkinson and Michael Bloor), my understanding of diagnosis is as a subjective, but socially-constructed activity whereby medical practitioners are taught to identify (in this case) injury types, initially by ostension, then also by examination. I then extend the analysis postulated within the classic studies by outlining a mechanistic method for the actual cognitive process of diagnosis, drawn from a sociologically informed reading of the historian of science, Thomas Kuhn. It is argued that diagnosis is achieved by similarity relation (comparing new cases to those previously observed), and analogical reasoning (drawing inferences based on the analogy with previous cases). Given that new cases subtly alter the individual FME’s classificatory schema, resulting in potential differences in diagnoses, the FME community are required to conduct much reparative work in order to construct their evidence as consensual and factual, as is required by law. The paper will conclude with some brief comments on the future of forensic medical examinations, particularly concerning the fact/ opinion distinction.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Evidence of physical injury is one of the strongest predictors, internationally, of whether a case of rape will secure a criminal conviction (Du Mont & White 2007). Mock-juror studies have demonstrated the level of entrenchment of the belief that a “real rape victim” will appear at a medical examination with significant physical injury (Ellison & Munro 2009a, 2009b). Given the power that the diagnosis of injuries holds over the pursuit of justice in rape and sexual assault cases, it is surprising that there has been little sociological investigation into this process. This is of further interest given that previous work in the sociology of diagnosis, for example the work of Paul Atkinson (1995), Michael Bloor (1976), and Knafl and Burkett (1975), has emphasised its subjective aspects, which appear to sit in contradistinction to the law’s requirement for facts and objectivity. While diagnosis in death certification has been investigated previously (Bloor (1994), Smith (1989), and Timmermans (2006) for instance), I am unaware of similar work in the clinical medico-legal context.

All rights reserved.

In order to rectify this omission, I have drawn upon the classic sociology of diagnosis mentioned above. These authors’ collectivist understandings of medical work chime with my own approach; however, this paper will extend their analysis in two ways: first, I will apply the analysis of the way that medical practitioners are trained to “see” in the appropriate communitarian manner, via the multiple interactionist processes of textbooks, lectures and rounds, to the clinical medico-legal practitioner. Secondly, I will postulate the cognitive mechanism by which Forensic Medical Examiners (FMEs) actually diagnose injuries. The proposed mechanism draws upon a sociologically informed reading of the work of the historian Thomas Kuhn, exemplified by Barry Barnes and David Bloor. The mechanism will focus specifically upon the “learned similarity relations” between kind types (in this case injury types), previously observed cases and new phenomena under investigation. Once a previous case is found to be sufficiently similar to the new phenomenon, an analogical inference from that previously observed case to the new one is made, resulting in the diagnosis.

As already mentioned, my analysis emphasises the subjective nature of diagnosis, as all classifications become similarity judge- ments based on an individual’s previous experience. While it is true that it is the prerogative of experts to provide opinion evidence, it is the case that such opinions must be based upon facts. In the latter

G. Rees / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 866e872 867

part of this paper I will explore how FMEs ensure that certain classificatory acts are collectively managed, and that their disagreements are policed, in order that they may claim that some of their statements are not merely opinions, but rather incontro- vertible facts. Such “morphological accounts”, as I will call them, become the factual basis that the law requires in order for the FME to provide opinion evidence. I will conclude by remarking on the effects of such fact construction, relating particularly to rape cases themselves and the future of the forensic medical examination.

Methods

Semi-structured interviews with thirteen FMEs were conducted between October 2006 and December 2007 as part of a larger study investigating the forensic medical examination of rape and sexual assault survivors in Scotland. Access to interviewees was generated via gatekeepers (well-respected FMEs in three constabularies, the forensic manager in another), enabling access to respondents in four out of eight constabularies. The study was ethically approved by the University of Edinburgh’s research ethics committee. Moreover, as one constabulary’s FMEs had recently come under the governance of the National Health Service, ethical approval was also received from the NHS’s Local Research Ethics Committee for that area. Each interview lasted between 50 minutes and 2 hours, was digitally recorded, and was transcribed verbatim. Data was analysed via the Framework Method (Ritchie & Lewis, 2004), wherein it was reviewed, resulting in the development of core and subsidiary themes; it was then indexed in accordance with those themes and input into a matrix. The development of this matrix enabled the comparison of results within themes and amongst respondents. The eventual matrix consisted of four main and 35 subsidiary themes. The quotations have been chosen as most representative of the themes I wish to address in this paper: namely, the training of FMEs in the methods and process of iden- tifying and classifying injuries. I will commence with a brief outline of who FMEs are and the work they do.

The forensic medical examination in Scotland

After a person has reported a sexual assault to the police they are usually examined by an FME. Any healthcare practitioner can train to become an FME, although trainers usually recommend that a person has worked in various therapeutic roles, thereby having gained considerable experience (I will discuss the training in detail below). The aim of the forensic medical examination is to observe, record and treat any injuries of medico-legal importance and collect any trace material for forensic scientific analysis (if relevant). I will concentrate on the diagnosis of injuries in the following. Injury diagnosis begins with a “top-to-toe” observation of the body, which is separated into the “general” and “genital” examinations. The general examination normally involves a macroscopic obser- vation, while the genital examination requires some form of magnification (in two of the constabularies researched, the gynaecological instrument, the colposcope, was employed). In both examinations, the aim is to identify evidence of injury that could corroborate the account provided by the complainer (the preferred noun in Scotland for the person reporting the assault). When they find an injury they record it in terms of its descriptive character- istics: its location, size, color and type.

Number one, you identify what you are looking at, you describe it appropriately, bruise, abrasion, laceration, size, etc. because some of that determines causation or corroboration of what she says has happened. So obviously identify what it is and then pretty much describe it clearly, it’s three by two centimetres,

brown yellow bruise, overlaying the lateral aspect of the left upper arm, six centimetres above the elecron, bracket, elbow, close bracket. (Dr. C)

Along with injury type, the age of the injury (although not mentioned in the above quotation) is another descriptive classifi- cation that FMEs may decide to make, as that can indicate whether the observed wound actually relates to the assault. Once the injury has been identified and described, it is photographed and recorded on a body diagram. While assessing a particular injury, or alter- natively after the examination, the FME will decide the cause of the injury. Following this, they will prepare a report for the police and prosecution outlining the identified injuries, their causes, and sometimes a statement about whether the physical evidence is consistent with the rape allegation. If the case proceeds to trial, the FME may be asked to present their report if the prosecution or defence feel that it would benefit their narrative (for more on the role of the FME in the criminal justice system, see Rees, 2010).

Given the brief summary of the medical examination, in particular Dr. C’s statement about corroboration, it is clear that when producing the report, diagnosing physical findings (e.g. injuries) is vital. In the remainder of this paper I will explain how FMEs are taught to diagnose injuries, and in doing so will postulate a mechanism by which to make the “invisible” process (Bowker & Star, 2000) of medical diagnosis visible.

Experience and developing an assemblage of cases

FMEs noted two factors that allowed them to present them- selves as “experts”: experience and qualifications. In the earliest stages of training, the trainee is required to “learn the books” and shadow a more experienced FME as they go about their work. During shadowing, as the name suggests, the trainee follows their experienced counterpart; if a phenomenon comes up that is new to the trainee, the trainer will point to it and explain what it is and how it is likely to have been produced (see Crozier & Rees, 2011 for a history of the introduction of such classifications). Following Thomas Kuhn (1977), I will label the process by which a word signifies some phenomenon after it is physically pointed out learning by ostension (see also Barnes, 1982 and Barnes, Bloor, & Henry, 1996). An important aspect of this approach is the role that authority plays in the development of an assemblage of cases. The authority figure (in this case the experienced FME acting as trainer) points out the novel phenomenon to the neophyte, informs them how to label it, and explains which inferences can be drawn from it, e.g. its cause. The trainee, who may herself have experience working in a range of medical roles, will not have the requisite medico-legal knowledge and so defers to her trainer on matters of injury interpretation and potential causes. On experiencing the new case, the neophyte logs all the details in her casebook (while also collating cognitively, as I will explain shortly).

There are problems with learning by ostension, however; notably, no singular act of observation and description can teach the trainee the correct application/inference. To this end, trainee FMEs must observe multiple examples of the same injury type in order to truly experience it in their trainers’ eyes. Textbooks and lectures are one means of overcoming this problem. For the first part of the Diploma in Medical Jurisprudence (DMJ e the preferred qualifica- tion for FMEs), trainees must attend a year of lectures and read textbooks on a range of medico-legal aspects. These textbooks and lectures include photographs of various phenomena. As Law and Lynch (1988, see also Lynch, 1985 and Lynch & Law 1999) make clear, images chosen for a textbook are generally considered the “best” for demonstrating a specific phenomenon. They display the object with a clarity that may not be present in everyday practice (it

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must be noted that this is also true of images used in lectures). Moreover, in addition to providing a clear image, the authors of the textbook also use lines to highlight the phenomenon of interest, similar to the pointing finger of the trainer. Finally, images within medical texts are accompanied with a legend explaining what the image is representing, and, in particular, to what the reader’s attention is drawn by the lines (for a history of the construction of scientific atlases see Daston & Galison, 2007). For example, the textbook on female genital injury advocated by the examiners of the DMJ, the Color Atlas of Sexual Assault (Girardin, Faugno, Seneski, Slaughter, & Whelan, 1997) includes the following legend:

FIGURE 2e8 Labia minora tear. Bilateral linear lacerations [injury type] on lateral margin of the labia minora [location] from nonconsensual penile vaginal penetration in a supine position [cause]. Redness [injury type] on the right at 7 o’clock to 9 o’clock [location]. Lacerations result from the force of the unlubricated, penetrating object pushing the labial tissue inward [cause]. (Girardin et al., 1997: 28)

Given that the textbook is advocated by the DMJ examiners, and the authors have been “frequently. called as expert witnesses in liti- gated cases of sexual assault” (Girardin et al., 1997: vii), the legends have a similar authority to the trainer or the lecturer, providing images with the same ostensive power as other forms of learning.

This early combination provides the neophyte with an elemen- tary assemblage of cases. Multiple forms of ostensive learning increase the possibility that the observer will attach the appropriate classification to the observed phenomena. This practice is insuffi- cient for competent classification, however; that is established via exercises and examinations.

Exercises and evaluating safety

There is a strong degree of normativity in FME diagnosis of injuries, and this becomes clearer in the second half of the training process. During shadowing and within the textbooks there are a series of formal exercises. For example, the textbook mentioned above, Color Atlas of Sexual Assault, devotes a chapter to exercises. These consist of photographs of injuries taken from actual cases, alongside the complainers’ accounts of events. The trainee observes the photographs and the account and, drawing upon their previous experience of cases: a) labels the injuries; b) identifies the age of the injuries; and c) concludes whether or not the injuries are consistent with the account offered. Once the student has completed this they can turn the page and compare their conclu- sions to the way the case was actually reported, assuming the closer the match between their own interpretations and the actual find- ings, the better. Likewise, during the second half of the shadowing process, the trainee is shadowed by their trainer (i.e. the neophyte performs the medical examination while the trainer observes). The experienced practitioner compares the trainee’s diagnoses with their own interpretations of the case, with correctness determined by the similarities between the trainee’s classifications and those of the trainer. After the medical examination, the trainer and trainee discuss the case as they construct the forensic medical report, and any corrections required by the trainer are made at this stage. It should be noted that, as with the assembly of cases, there is no disagreement between the trainer and the trainee (or for that matter the trainee and the answers in the textbook); the trainee defers to the trainer’s experience and amends her own classifica- tions accordingly.

This focus upon exercises is similar to Kuhn’s analysis of exem- plars in physics pedagogy. Kuhn (1963,1977,1996) noted that while students claimed to understand a textbook chapter, they encoun- tered difficulties when answering the end-of-chapter questions. By

repeating the exercise multiple times, the physics students learnt the correct way to manipulate the tools and concepts that they were applying, and in doing so became just as acquainted with the concepts as other members of the physics community. Importantly, these end-of-chapter exercises were not checks to identify whether the student had absorbed the meaning of the text; rather it was only via their successful completion that the student mastered said concepts (Barnes,1982; Warwick & Kaiser 2005). In other words, the student’s perception and cognition were disciplined through the exercises to conform to that of their peers. Kuhn’s analysis of physics exercises appears to fit with the role of exercises in clinical forensic medicine: the trainee performs the examination (or completes the chapter exercise) and may at first make numerous errors when identifying injuries or drawing conclusions from those injuries. However, through a dialogic process of correction with the trainer and numerous exercises, the student’s vision of injuries is disci- plined to fit with the trainer’s, and, by extension, the rest of the clinical forensic medical community (see Atkinson,1995 and Sturdy, 2007a for further examples of this process). Having begun to develop that similar perception, the trainee draws closer to becoming a “safe” practitioner, capable of conducting forensic medical examinations independently.

For FMEs, the aims of the training process were: 1) to ascertain who should not be an FME:

I think, I think they [trainees] should be shadowing for a couple of months minimum. Depends on the experience of the indi- vidual and of the impression someone makes, sometimes they can easily get the work on their own, be a free examiner, whilst others need support and some of them will never learn it. That’s the scope, between zero and one hundred, some of them are very keen, of the students and the trainees are very keen, some of them need training for ages. They’ve simply got the wrong job. (Dr. D)

2) to provide the trainee with experience; and 3) to ensure the “safety” of the practitioner:

[A]re [the trainees] as wesay, “safe” to appearas expert witnesses in the court, that’s it, that’s the acid test, are these people safe to appear as expert witnesses in a criminal court. (Dr. B)

As already mentioned, exercises play a significant role in shaping the neophyte FME’s perception and cognition, bringing them into harmony with their peers. When the neophyte’s interpretations match those of their colleagues, they are said to be “safe” practi- tioners, capable of providing probative evidence to the court. Safety is identified in several ways; initially, it is determined by the casebook that trainees complete during their training. Once the trainer believes that the neophyte has experienced enough cases and that their conclusions are similar to the trainer’s own, then the trainee’s casebook is reviewed and a decision made about whether the trainee can perform medical examinations independently.

A lot of shadowing. and I’ve prepared that they [trainee] should keep a logbook of what they’ve seen and what they’ve done, and every person that’s shadowed, the trainer will sign off and then we see, and I will review at the end of the month and say where are the gaps and what we need to. [If] someone does need extra, I don’t have any hesitation in saying to them [trainee] you’re not [ready]. (Dr. A)

If the trainee is ready to practice independently, they have three years to collect ten cases which are assessed for the second part of the DMJ. The DMJ casebook provides an opportunity for the trainee to demonstrate their range of skills to the examiners. For each case, they record the complainer’s account, the procedures employed,

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the phenomena found upon examination (including photographs), and the FME’s findings.

You present, in a book, ten cases where you have really done the work yourself and will have discussed these in terms of what the courts, what they would have wanted to have heard from you. (Dr. B)

On receiving the casebook, the FME appointed as assessor evaluates the range of cases, then assesses whether the appropriate proce- dures were employed and whether the FME has written the report in an appropriate manner (with supportable interpretations and adequately detailed and clearly written discussions). In order to complete the DMJ, the trainee must also pass a formal examination. As with the textbook exercises, the candidate is given particulars relating to a number of real cases (sets of photographs, complainer’s account) and asked to draw conclusions about the cases. In contrast to the casebook, where the assessor has to assume that the candidate has recorded all relevant information, the DMJ examiner knows what to look for when marking the examination script; the candidate’s remarks and comments should be congruent with the original forensic medical report. The examiner’s job is to evaluate the similarity between the answers given by the candidate and the real forensic medical report. In assessing both the casebook and the examination, the assessor looks for consistency of diagnosis with the rest of the FME community. The use of the word “safe” connotes that the examinee’s interpretations fit within the parameters of acceptable practice, and that they are unlikely to make any outlandish or unsupported claims that may be contra- dicted by their peers, thereby undermining the FME community’s claim that they produce incontrovertible evidence.

In essence, behaving appropriately and thus passing the DMJ means that the candidate’s work has become similar to that of the rest of the forensic medical community. “Safety”, in this context, concerns the ability of the practitioner to make similar claims to their peers, and is related to the correlation of the candidate’s classifications to those of other members of the community. The examiners of the DMJ praise examinees whose diagnoses are similar to their own, and by extension those of the community of clinical forensic medics.

Analogical reasoning and learned similarity relations

The preceding account of FME training has served to con- textualise clinical forensic medical diagnosis, particularly the prac- titioner’s experience of cases and the disciplining of the neophyte’s perception to fit with that of the clinical forensic medical commu- nity. What has thus far not been addressed is the precise mechanism bywhich FMEs actuallydiagnoseinjuries; as Iwill explain, theydo so by analogising their previous cases to the new one under forensic examination. An illuminating insight was provided by Dr. D; when asked how he diagnosed injuries, he answered:

That’s from experience, from experience because we’ve got lots of cases of perhaps bruises at the head, especially in the mortuary, and sometimes the police are very concerned about these people, this deceased, but it’s nothing, they died and they hit the table as they fell and you must know about this and knowledge is the basis of all thing. So you only see what you know about, if you don’t know about it, you don’t see it and this makes the work much easier, to avoid unnecessary work and investigations and that’s the same whether you have a young woman with an alleged assault, sexual assault perhaps, she has injured herself. when you have the experience to see it, and you have seen cases before, just in your experience then you can say that’s self-injurious behaviour. (Dr. D)

To take Dr. D’s first example, a hypothetical body with bruises at the head, he states that due to his previous experience of this kind of injury, he could ascertain that the injury was caused by the person falling and hitting their head on a table. It is important to note here that no two wounds are identical, and so while Dr. D has not actually “seen” these exact injuries before, he can classify them as a particular kind, and they are similar to ones that he has previously diagnosed as being caused by falling against a hard surface. In essence, Dr. D is drawing an analogy between a previously observed case and the new one (see Sturdy, 2007b for a historical example of analogical inference).

Ascertaining that diagnosis relies upon analogical reasoning does not take us much further beyond the start of this section in terms of the way that FMEs diagnose and classify cases; another step is necessary, an exploration of the way that FMEs determine which cases can be extended to diagnose the new case. To explain this process, I will draw upon what Kuhn labelled “learned similarity relations” (Kuhn, 1977, see also Barnes, 1982). This refers to the relationship between different kinds of objects within a classifica- tory schema, for example between injury types: bruises, abrasions, lacerations and incisions. When the trainer ostensively identifies a bruise during training, the trainee adds that case to their cognitive assemblage of bruises. In the unlikely event that it is the first bruise the trainee has ever seen, that singular case would signify all examples of bruises, and all future classifications of injuries would be analogically compared to that individual instance; however, FMEs are likely to have significant existing experience of bruises, and so when observing a new one, they tacitly notice the similarities and differences between presently observed bruises and past cases. By doing so, they form associations between different types of wounds, e.g. between the laceration and the incision, two types of wound that are often confused by those not regularly involved in clinical forensic medicine (Jones, 2003). Lacerations are cuts or scratches to the epidermis caused by blunt instruments; incisions are, as their name suggests, caused by incising implements such as knives and razors. Macroscopically, what differentiates lacerations from incisions is that in contrast to the rough and torn edges of the laceration, the incision is sharp and precise. The distinction between the laceration and the incision becomes more complicated when dealing with a blunt incising instrument, as the blunter the weapon, the more likely the wound will look like a laceration even though it should be classified as an incision (Crane, 2000; Rogers, 2004). Making this diagnostic error could prove troublesome to a criminal investigation, as the police might search for the wrong type of weapon. We can understand the various types of injuries as knots upon a net (Barnes et al.,1996; Bloor,1998; Hesse,1974), with the distances between the injury types representing the similarity relation between types. The introduction of new cases repositions the injury kinds upon the net; for example, the similarity relationship will decrease between inci- sions and bruises (i.e. the distance between the knots on the net will increase) as the FME observes more cases of each kind, as bruises and incisions have limited resemblance. On the other hand, the similarity relationship between incisions and lacerations will initially increase (the distance on the net will decrease) with the first observations of injuries produced by blunt incising weapons, but will then decrease with experience of further cases of incisions and lacerations, as the FME learns to distinguish between incisions caused with blunter weapons and lacerations.

Let us apply this process to Dr. D’s second example, a case he identifies as self-harm. We can now understand that when he says “when you have the experience to see it, and you have seen cases before, just in your experience then you can say that’s self-injurious behaviour”, he means that he has observed previous cases of self- harm and in his judgement, the marks on the body bear greater similarity to self-injurious wounds than to any other kinds of

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wounds in his classificatory schema. With this similarity relation made, he extends the classifications from the earlier cases to the new one in front of him, and claims that the examinee has con- ducted self-injurious behaviour.1

Judgements, facts and opinions

While it is clear from the analysis of diagnosis that inferences about the cause of an injury (weapon used, etc.) are a necessary part of the similarity determination, some FMEs expressed discomfort and difficulty with making these inferences. For example, Dr. F recounted an experience where he found it difficult to infer the cause of a collection of injuries:

Mostly I am quite happy to say yes, this is the case, or no, this is not the case, but in this case that I have already mentioned.- there was a constellation of injuries, I couldn’t say for sure what could have brought these injuries about. (Dr. F)

Dr. F was examining a complainer who had a constellation of injuries for which he could not provide a cause. Although he could distin- guish between and diagnose a number of the individual injuries, he had difficulty explaining what caused the injuries to form in the way they did. Drawing upon the heuristic of similarity relations, we can claim that while the individual injuries observed by Dr. F resembled previously experienced cases, their simultaneous collection did not have a corresponding case within his classificatory framework, and so he was unable to infer from it. In order to resolve this dilemma, Dr. F requested the assistance of a more experienced practitioner who was able to diagnose a cause. The case served to extend Dr. F’s assemblage, and so if he were presented with a similar constellation of injuries, he would be able to infer from this case to the new one; at the same time, however, given the interdependence of injury kinds (as exemplified by the net analogy), such an amendment to the classificatory schema could refute previous classifications made by Dr. F (Barnes et al., 1996; Bloor, 1982). Additionally, this example demonstrates the important role of authority and community in the maintenance of similarity relations and the expansion of classifica- tory schemata. As with the process of educating trainees, it was only after the intervention of the experienced authority who informed Dr. F of the appropriate judgement that he was able to broaden his personal collection of cases.

It would be incorrect to conclude that at some point in the future Dr. F would have experienced every possible injury type and know their mechanisms. While I have presented the case of Dr. F as an example of limited experience, it is not my contention that there ever exists a time when the FME has such experience that she can classify injuries unproblematically. Due to its dependence upon experience of cases, clinical forensic medical knowledge will never

1 I am grateful to the anonymous reviewer who noted the similarity between the preceding analysis and Michael Bloor’s (1994) study of Scottish police doctors and other medical professionals involved in the production of death certificates. Bloor, drawing upon Schutz’s (1970) work on relevance, argues that the medico-legal production of death certificates is an “habitual” practice, which police doctors perform with limited reflection, basing their decisions on their “familiarity” with the various causes of death. It was not Bloor’s aim to deconstruct “habit”, and his use of Schutz was appropriate given the different medical professionals involved in death certification, as it enabled him to identify the varying responses (motivational relevances) to problematic cases. Conversely, I do consider my present task as identifying the way FMEs diagnose injuries, and so endeavour to explain “habit”. I am reminded of the debate between David Bloor and Michael Lynch (Bloor, 1992, Lynch, 1992a, 1992b) concerning diverging analyses of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s account of blind rule-following. There is not space to discuss the debate, but Lynch’s ethnomethodological analysis is similar to Michael Bloor’s “habit”, whereas, my position is closer to David Bloor who is more interested in explaining habits (Bloor, 1992). To this end I maintain my preference for the analysis utilised in this paper, as it offers a mechanical explanation for diagnosis.

be complete; it will always be built on a finite number of cases, and so, as with Dr. F, any practitioner could encounter an injury that they cannot explain.

There are times when we can’t, we really can’t say and that’s the bottom line. We look at the injuries and say it was blunt force but whether it was a finger caused it, a penis caused it, some- thing else caused it, an instrument caused it, we can’t say. Sometimes we can and when we can we are quite distinct, we’ll say diagnostic of such. (Dr. A)

Dr. A is a highly experienced and well-respected FME. Despite the large number of cases observed throughout her career, she can still come across injuries from which she is unable to draw analogical inferences. The chief reason for this uncertainty is that the injuries presented have multiple potential causes, and Dr. A’s personal assemblage of cases is not discriminatory enough to distinguish between them. While Dr. A is able to identify an injury as the result of blunt force trauma, she is sometimes unable to suggest a more detailed cause. In contrast to Dr. F, Dr. A does not request a second opinion from a colleague; as she is an experienced FME, she chooses to limit her claims-making to “blunt-force trauma” in order to protect her epistemic authority.

[B]ecause that is when we lose our credibility, because we have to be absolutely. what we know and how much we know, and I do not stray out of that, and I think, you know, how do, a lot of times two people were there and nobody else, and if I can, and I’m absolutely confident and I say what caused it, then I am certain that this would happen. (Dr. A)

Explicit in Dr. A’s justification for her caution is the understanding that her diagnostic and claims-making practices are not only medical but also legal, and there is potential for her evidence to be challenged in court. It is also clear that she understands certain types of claims to be more problematic than others. In the earlier quotation she stated that she could identify the injury type as blunt force trauma, but that the cause was more complex; that is to say, some of her claims are uncontentious while others pose more difficulty. Simi- larly, Dr. D had significant confidence in some of his judgements:

Stating the reconstruction: so we’ve got hmmm an alleged assault and there is a victim and there is an accused and both of them give different versions of the incident but morphology doesn’t lie, um, so I take the morphologyas a basis, what does the morphology tell me and many of the pathologists are not experienced and that’s a real deficit. So they [police] ask us, I can tell you that there was a cut,orsuperficialwound,orincasesofrape. Sothat’stheaccount based on the morphology, because the morphology is a witness which doesn’t lie, that doesn’t lie. (Dr. D)

Dr. D is stating here that his judgements of injury types can be elevated to objective facts, i.e. his morphological account constitutes “a witness which doesn’t lie”. This elevation is possible because diagnosis of injuries is considered unproblematic by the FME community; “safe” FMEs trained via the mechanisms mentioned earlier have learnt to identify injuries in the same manner. Such “factual” judgements can be compared to other interpretations that FMEs make which are not treated in the same manner, such as severity of injuries or associated inferences. Dr. F explained how he diagnosed the level of force applied during an assault:

Well if there are patterns of injuries, for example grip marks, um punch marks, if someone’s been punched around the face or if there are bruises around the face suggesting strangulation, um anything around the face, then that in itself is very pertinent. Finger mark bruising to the inner thighs, because you’ve got 5

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bruises on the left and 5 on the right, then that tells its own story, doesn’t it. (Dr. F)

Clearly, the diagnostic process used for identifying injury types is also applicable here: according to Dr. F’s cognitive schema, cases that display finger mark bruising have previously been classified as severe, and so he can apply the diagnosis of “severe” to new cases with such marks. Although the process is very much the same, severity does not hold the status of fact amongst FMEs. Likewise, inferences relating to whether sex was consensual or not are highly contentious. For instance, in a case reported by O’Keefe (2008), the FME examining the complainer reported “[t]he fourchette showed a graze and superficial laceration, which was bleeding” (O’Keefe, 2008: 43), and stated that this finding was consistent with “forced intercourse” (O’Keefe, 2008: 43). O’Keefe, who was the defence expert in the case, criticised the prosecution’s FME for drawing too strong a conclusion, arguing that intercourse in the standing position (which both defence and prosecution agreed it was) generally produced injuries at that location in both consensual and noncon- sensual intercourse. Clearly, judgements of location, injury type and cause (penile-penetration) constituted facts in that case (demon- strating that facticity is itself case-specific), but the examining doctor’s inference that the injury connoted forced intercourse was open to question. This example is illustrative of the issues FMEs choose to challenge when requested to do so; however, the actual process of diagnosing injury type and other FME judgements (depending on the case) are not open to question, as in legal parlance they constitute the facts of the case. Conversely, severity and the issue of whether the injuries are consistent with rape are considered legitimate areas of challenge, and thereby constructed as opinions.

FMEs’ explanation for their response to disagreement further evidences this distinction and also emphasises the extent to which they believe they have a shared praxis. When asked about disagreements, Dr. C blamed the criminal justice process:

Nine times out of ten nobody bothers their backside to speak to you about your evidence in advance, you turn up on the day, you’re presented with the fact that an expert report has been produced that nobody has bothered to give you in advance, you can’t, you know, you are supposed to respond to it there and then, and then people wonder why evidence is not of the quality that it might be. Do I sound cynical? (Dr. C)

Reviewing the defence expert’s report, or discussing the expert evidence with a member of the prosecutorial team, are strategies advocated by FMEs as a means to assess alternative interpretations before appearing upon the witness stand. With these strategies, FMEs could develop justifications for potential differences of opinion and incorporate them into their testimony, locating any disagreements within the realm of “opinion”. This would ensure that the community of FMEs’ authority and credibility is not tar- nished by public disagreement amongst practitioners. Smith (1989), in his study of forensic pathologists, made a similar finding:

[B]elief among forensic pathologists that there is a potential consensus of opinion even if doubts are visible in court, enhances their group self-confidence and hence ability to project a sense of authority. (Smith, 1989: 67)

Potential differences in diagnosis (even the identification of injuries, which is a result of differing experiences), are subsumed by FMEs’ determination to maintain collective legitimacy and epistemic authority. A belief in the unanimity of their identification of injuries (a result of their shared training) justifies the claim that they can provide facts to the court, from which opinions can be formed (see also Cole, 2002 for another example of forensic unanimity).

Morphological accounts and the future of forensic medical examinations

The analysis of FME diagnosis as a combination of similarity relations and analogical inferences emphasises the judgemental aspect of classification. Practitioners cannot simply read a descrip- tive rule in a textbook and classify injuries; they learn by viewing examples and being advised on their appropriate interpretation, thereby constructing a cognitive framework based upon similarities between injury types, observed exemplars and new cases. Once the trainee’s judgements of similarity are consistent with those of other members of their community, they are considered “safe” and allowed to classify independently. However, it is not necessarily the case that “safe” practitioners will maintain the same similarity relations between injury types; in fact, given the analysis I have proposed, each new case will subtly alter each practitioner’s clas- sificatory framework, resulting in different assessments of simi- larity. Experienced practitioners are more likely to have divergent similarity relations than the newly-trained. However, where expert evidence is involved, clinical forensic medicine must demonstrate that it is based upon, and can produce, factual knowledge. To this end, FMEs have developed a series of practices that facilitate the public perception of consensus amongst practitioners: the shared training process is one, and during their independent practice FMEs are advised either to consult another practitioner or to limit their claims-making to matters on which there is considered to be general consensus. In this manner, FMEs both draw upon and co- produce the belief that their judgements are matters of fact.

Of course, at times the consensus begins to crumble and there are examples of disagreement amongst practitioners. Their exper- tise, based upon the perception of collective agreement, is prob- lematised by demonstrations of public disagreements; to this end, strategies have been adopted to repair breaches to their episte- mological authority wrought by disunity. FMEs explain that their disagreements are legitimate interpretations of the evidence, but that diagnoses of physical evidence are facts. The use of photo- graphs of injuries and audio-visual recordings of genital examina- tions could potentially result in differences of opinion amongst FMEs on injury type; however, I did not find any such disagree- ment. This is partly because such representations are accepted by FMEs to be decontextualised, but also (I would argue) due to the necessity to maintain the appearance of community agreement.

For each case, the FME produces a morphological account that outlines in detail the judgements considered appropriately “safe” (however, as we have seen, some of these inferences may be challenged). As an account that focuses upon physical evidence, it fails to address the question that the court has been convened to answer, i.e. whether or not an act of sexual intercourse was consensual, and therefore supports neither party in the criminal trial: it is a “Neutral Report”. As I have argued elsewhere (Rees, 2010), although such a report maintains the epistemic authority of the clinical forensic medical community, it undermines their evidential significance, and hence FMEs are invited to provide testimony only in cases with significant signs of injury. While I do not foresee a time when medical examinations of rape complainers are not performed (they provide evidence that sexual intercourse has taken place, shortcutting defences that claim otherwise), due to the expense of hiring doctors and their limited value to the pros- ecution in the vast majority of cases, it may only be a matter of time before another professional group takes over their role. Sexual Assault Nurse Examiners already provide evidence in the United States of America and parts of Canada, and constabularies in England are currently piloting Forensic Nurse Examiners, albeit with the proviso that nurses are limited to “factual reports”, with FMEs offering “opinions” based on the nurses’ reports. However,

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given the analysis provided in this paper, such a fact/opinion dichotomy is arbitrary and conceals the extent to which all medico- legal diagnoses are subjective judgements.

Acknowledgements

This work was supported by the Economic and Social Research Council [PTA-030-2004-00457, PTA-026-27-2108]. The author wishes to thank Sarah Nettleton, Annemarie Jutel, Steve Sturdy, Stefan Timmermans and the three anonymous authors for com- menting upon earlier drafts of this article.

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  • “Morphology is a witness which doesn’t lie”: Diagnosis by similarity relation and analogical inference in clinical forensic ...
    • Introduction
    • Methods
    • The forensic medical examination in Scotland
    • Experience and developing an assemblage of cases
    • Exercises and evaluating safety
    • Analogical reasoning and learned similarity relations
    • Judgements, facts and opinions
    • Morphological accounts and the future of forensic medical examinations
    • Acknowledgements
    • References

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Risk, significance and biomedicalisation of a new population: Older women’s experience of osteoporosis screening

Charlotte Ingrid Salter*, Amanda Howe, Lisa McDaid, Jeanette Blacklock, Elizabeth Lenaghan, Lee Shepstone Norwich Medical School, Faculty of Medicine and Health Sciences, University of East Anglia, Chancellors Drive, Norwich, Norfolk NR4 7JJ, United Kingdom

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 1 August 2011

Keywords: UK Biomedicalisation Predictive medicine Illness experience Risk Bone health Osteoporosis Older women Screening

* Corresponding author. Tel.: þ44 1603 591532; fax E-mail address: [email protected] (C. I. Salter).

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.06.030

a b s t r a c t

This article explores the illness experience associated with being diagnosed at risk of a long term chronic condition and discusses the implications of an emergent form of predictive medicine. We report on findings from a study involving 30 older women between the ages of 73e85 years of age recently screened for osteoporosis and informed that they are at a higher than average risk of breaking a bone in the next 10 years, but not formally diagnosed with osteoporosis. Data were gathered by the Adherence to Osteoporosis Medicine (ATOM) study using in-depth interviews with women in their own homes in Norfolk & Suffolk, UK in 2009e2010. We analyse and discuss the significance participants give to their new fracture risk status and consider the practical, physical and existential consequences of this ‘diag- nosis’. The findings are discussed under three broad themes: Predictive technology, meaning and the risk- of-illness experience; knowledge, understanding and the embodiment of fracture risk status; and, social implications of biomedicine for an ageing population. We argue that screening for osteoporosis and assessment of fracture risk can be understood as a process of biomedicalisation of ageing and bone health. This article offers insight into the meaning of risk status as an illness experience for older women. We conclude by discussing how biomedicalisation of a new population through diagnosis of fracture risk status has significance and consequence at both the individual and the societal level expanding the population of older women labelled at risk and increasing demand for biomedical tests and prescribed medication for the prevention of disease.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

This paper discusses the implications of an emergent form of predictive medicine offered to older women in order to screen for osteoporosis and fracture risk using bone mineral density (BMD) scanning and a calibrated risk assessment. Drawing on data from 30 in-depth interviews with older women given a fracture risk status as part of their participation in a multi-sited MRC funded trial looking at screening for osteoporosis for the prevention of fracture (SCOOP), we explore participants’ experiences of receiving their risk status. Our findings suggest that biomedical technology in the form of screening, risk assessment and potent pharmaceuticals have implications for a new pre-diseased older population.

Recent developments in clinical risk assessment for the proba- bility of fracture when combined with dual energy X-ray (DXA) scanning to measure BMD open up an interest in predicting and

: þ44 1603593752.

All rights reserved.

treating an individual patient’s absolute risk of fracture and possible osteoporosis. This is despite lack of evidence and consid- erable debate that DXA scanning actually reduces morbidity or mortality caused by fractures. Such dispute is not uncommon when a new area of diagnosis is emerging or expanding (Jutel, 2009). Furthermore this process of pre-disease identification has created a new category of patient whose risk status contributes to a ‘new source of social identity’, which is potential rather than actual, and is created by risk status rather than illness status (Novas & Rose, 2000).

From a sociological perspective diagnosis is both a classificatory practice and a process. Discovery and classification lead to labelling of identified pathology embedded in social processes involving the application of labels or categories to individuals or groups. In the case of screening for osteoporosis controversy exists regarding the application of the technology and the labelling of new categories of risk. Diagnosis or ‘category expansion’ contributes to medical- isation (Jutel, 2009). Furthermore, screening for osteoporosis and fracture risk enables biomedical technology to predict older women’s absolute risk of fracture over a ten year period and

C.I. Salter et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 808e815 809

contributes to a process identified by Clarke, Shim, Mamo, Fosket, and Fishman (2003) as biomedicalisation which we discuss in the body of this paper.

In the field of ageing the effects of predictive medicine for older people are as yet unknown. Unsure whether affected by the disease osteoporosis, these women may well be symptom free and perhaps have never experienced bone related ill-health but rather ‘a disease in waiting’ (Blaxter, 2010). We discuss the implications of this technological development both at the individual and the broader social level. We will do this by considering both the subjective experience of the participants and the implications of advance- ments in medicine and biotechnology for the wider social body (Crossley, 1998). The analysis draws on several linked theoretical areas in the literature that relate to the field of biomedicalisation including technological and biomedical advancements in screening and risk assessment in predictive medicine, as well as the illness experience from the perspective of older people given a pre-disease risk assessment.

There is no clear history of diagnosis of osteoporosis and frac- ture risk only a site of contest and compromise. Labelled an impending epidemic and considered a major public health concern (WHO,1999) osteoporosis is a controversial, contested and ethically complex disease (Moynihan, 2011; Moynihan Heath & Henry, 2002). The prevention of bone loss in relatively healthy older women has been described as tantamount to treating a population ‘at risk of being at risk’ (Godlee, 2008), where a risk factor has been turned into a disease thereby increasing demand for tests and drugs (Alonso-Coello, García-Franco, Guyatt, & Moynihan, 2008). Brown (1995) observed that it is this conflict in the process of diagnosis that allows the analyst ‘a window into some of the most pressing issues of power in medical experience’ (Brown, 1995:39). However, concern with the effect of decreasing oestrogen levels in women as they age is not new. For example, in the 1980s menopause was the socially unacceptable face of ageing for women linked to ‘oestrogen deficiency’ and ameliorated via hormone replacement therapy (HRT). HRT encouraged doctors and women to view health and ageing in terms of risk and promised to resist ill-health and old age via biomedical technology (Hunter, O’Dea, & Britten, 1997).

Brown’s (1995) thesis on the social construction of disease identified a series of stages to the process of diagnosis and illness. We focus on what he called the disease discovery phase and the illness experience.

Technological and biomedical advancements in screening and risk assessment for osteoporosis

Healthy bodies are increasingly the focus of medical interven- tion and technology (Beck, 1992). Screening for fracture risk using BMD and clinical risk assessment seeks to find evidence of disease where no outward biological or bodily manifestation of that disease is present and frequently where no personal experience of illness has occurred. The last decade has seen considerable advances in the development of technology for the diagnosis and management of osteoporosis including: new technologies for measuring bone mineral density; biochemical indices of change to measure bone resorption and formation; enhanced clinical tools involving a computerised algorithm for assessing risk; and, new potent pharmacological treatments developed to help in the prevention and treatment of osteoporosis. Symptom free and therefore not experiencing bone related ill-health, these individuals are not yet actually affected by the disease osteoporosis but fall into a biomedical definition of ‘at risk of fracture’ and deemed eligible for prophylactic treatment. Similar to the case of recommended blood cholesterol levels for health cited in Lambert and Rose (1996), the BMD level regarded as optimal has both been contested and shifted

over the last 30 years with a pre-disease stage of osteopenia now considered treatable (National Osteoporosis Guideline Group, 2009).

While the experts are still unclear and even disagree about what constitutes fracture risk, increasingly sophisticated scanning equipment means that science allows us to see the risk and a new potentially treatable or preventable category or pre-disease state emerges. Biotechnology enables increasing surveillance of older bodies encouraging bodily awareness and self-governance (Vertinsky, 1991). In a study of biomedical uncertainty around breast cancer, Sulik (2009) found this uncertainty and scrutiny led to a new form of ‘technoscientific’ illness identify. Declining bone strength linked to loss of oestrogen after menopause is defined as a medical problem and it is this process of medicalisation (Conrad, 1992) that Armstrong (1995) first labelled as the problematisation of the normal. This biological view of the human condition is dependent on pharmaceutical and biotechnological remedies (Estes and Binney, 1989). It is this augmentation of medical authority over health that is essential to biomedicalisation and is where medical technology and bioscience converge in modern healthcare environments to create an increasingly technoscientific culture:

Biomedicalization describes the increasingly complex, multi- sited, multidirectional processes of medicalization, both extended and reconstituted through the new social forms of highly technoscientific biomedicine (Clarke et al., 2003:161)

Biomedicalisation processes increasingly frame older people’s physical, mental and emotional states of wellbeing as diseases (Joyce & Loe, 2010). Increasingly ageing is seen as a preventable and curable disease.

Predictive technology and the illness experience of being at risk of ill-health

A substantial body of literature exists relating to the illness experience of people living with long term chronic conditions. Bury (1988) describes the concept of biographical disruption following symptom onset and diagnosis that can release a chain of distur- bances affecting conceptions of self and body as well as the broader social context (Bury, 1991; Pierret, 2003). The meaning given by patients to the chronic illness experience has what Bury coined both significance and consequence for patients and their lifeworlds. Significance concerns the weight and connotation attached to the meaning of that condition and can lead to a ‘devaluing of personal worth’ and to fear and depression (Bury,1988:91). Consequences are the physical and practical disruptions that arise. In their work with older peoples’ experiences of osteoarthritis, Sanders, Donovan, and Dieppe (2002) found considerable consequences including pain and unpleasant treatment regimen. However, they reported that the experience of the condition had less significance for the indi- viduals interviewed. The symptoms of osteoarthritis were viewed as a normal and integral part of the participants’ older selves, in other words, as something to be put up with. In the literature on the illness experience older people are alleged to be more able to accept and to be familiar with ill-health and disease and deemed less likely to resist the onset of ill-health because it is ‘biographi- cally anticipated’ (Lawton, 2003; Sanders et al., 2002 etc). These assumptions link socially accepted norms and expectations about the inevitability of illness and decline to old age apparently making it easier for older people to cope with frailty and debilitating conditions.

Little is known about older people’s experience of being at ‘risk- of-illness’ or more specifically about the relationship of biomedical knowledge made available through DXA scanning to lay embodied

Table 1 Demographic details and self-reported adherence status.

IV Self-reported adherence status

Age Social class GP practice

Adherent 02 Adherent 76 IIIM Urban (9) 03 Adherent 80 IIIM Rural (5) 04 Adherent 73 II Urban (8) 07 Adherent 74 IIIM Rural (7) 10 Adherent 73 II Rural (2) 11 Adherent 76 IIIM Rural (2) 12 Adherent 82 II Rural (2) 15 Adherent 83 I Rural (1) 16 Adherent 84 IV Rural (1) 17 Adherent 75 IIIM Urban (12) 24 Adherent 80 IIIN Rural (11) 27 Adherent 74 I Urban (13) 29 Adherent 74 IIIM Urban (13) 01 Intermittent 75 IIIN Rural (3) 08 Intermittent 73 II Rural (7) 14 Intermittent 82 IV Rural (1) 19 Intermittent 81 IIIM Urban (4) 06 Partial 78 II Rural (7) 13 Partial 74 IIIM Urban (8) 18 Partial 79 IIIM Urban (12) 20 Partial 73 IV Urban (6)

Non-adherent 25 Non-persistent 75 II Urban (10) 05 Non-adherent 83 IIIN Urban (8) 09 Non-adherent 85 IIIN Rural (9) 22 Non-adherent 84 II Rural (11) 26 Non-adherent 77 I Urban (10) 28 Non-adherent 79 IIIM Urban (13) 30 Non-adherent 75 IV Rural (11) 21 Non-starter 73 IIIN Urban (6) 23 Non-starter 81 IV Rural (11)

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knowledge that might be associated with fracture risk status and diagnosis. However, it is this important interface between illness and disease where diagnosis happens and in describing the illness experience as an important stage of the social construction of diagnosis Brown (1995) encourages the exploration of the social alongside the biological.

Thinning bones and osteoporosis are silent conditions that are almost always symptomless (unless the individual experiences a fracture), and therefore until diagnosis through DXA, rarely manifest either biological or physical evidence. In more established fields of predictive medicine, such as genetic testing and HIV counselling, research highlights the complex association between biomedical knowledge and understanding and the embodied ‘risk- of-illness’ experience (Carricaburu & Pierret, 1995 see also Kavanagh & Broom, 1998). Citing the example of genetically transmitted familial hypercholesterolaemia, Lambert and Rose (1996) refer to these symptom-free states as ‘disembodied disor- ders’ where the asymptomatic nature of predicted conditions mean there is ‘no subjective awareness’. This in itself can have an effect on individual risk perception by lowering or contradicting them. Being given a risk status during a symptomless pre-disease state may change an individual’s self perception as healthy into that of a patient. Scot, Prior, Wood, and Gray (2005) identify this as an uncomfortable ‘liminal world betwixt health and illness’ causing patients to worry and seek out further health surveillance and support. In this state the individual is neither one thing nor the other having not the status of a patient and concomitant entitle- ment of sick-role nor the pre-screened status of the fit and healthy person they thought they were.

Study methods

The ATOM study gathered data using in-depth interviews with older women in their own homes in Norfolk and Suffolk, UK in 2009e2010. Approval from North West NHS Research Ethics Committee was secured. Participants were purposively sampled from the SCOOP trial. SCOOP’s aim is to discover whether a community based screening programme for osteoporosis is an effective method of reducing the risk of fracture in women between 70 and 85 years of age. The screening programme involves detec- tion of a 10-year probability of fracture for women using an adapted WHO algorithm to assess clinical risk factors including age, smoking history, alcohol intake and parental history of hip fracture, and a DXA scan for selected participants. In summary, having been randomised into either an intervention or control arm, SCOOP study participants in the intervention arm deemed to be ‘at a higher than average risk of breaking a bone in the next 10 years’, on the basis of their combined results from their study questionnaire and the DXA scan, were informed by letter. The letter advised they ‘arrange an appointment’ with their GP to ‘discuss the value of starting treatment to slow down loss of bone and prevent fractures’ (SCOOP, 2007a). Simultaneously the patient’s GP was informed that the patient was at ‘high risk’ of fracture and that ‘intervention for the treatment and/or prevention of osteoporosis is recommended’ via a consultation as soon as practical (SCOOP, 2007b).

Thirty SCOOP participants in the intervention arm who had previously indicated they would be interested in follow-up studies and identified as ‘above average risk of fracture’ were recruited within 6 months of receiving their risk assessment. The sample was purposively constructed to include at least as many women reporting they were adherent to those reporting they were non- adherent to their osteoporosis medication. Participants were selected to include a range of criteria including age, social class and GP practice (see Table 1). The age range was 73e85 years. The interviews were carried out by JB and lasted an average of 74 min.

The interviews were based on a topic guide that had been devel- oped to explore women’s understanding of osteoporosis, feelings following screening results, current usage of preventive medicine, motivators and detractors from taking treatment, relationships with healthcare professionals, and attitudes to ageing. Participants were prompted for their personal experience of ageing and changing health status, along with their experiences of ill-health and their personal responses to being told their risk status.

Interview recordings were transcribed verbatim and anony- mised using an interview number (IV). Familiarisation, data management, coding and categorisation were carried out by four members of the research team including LM, CS and AH. Iteration between the data and the research literature helped inform the analysis at the explanatory level. Using the principles of framework analysis to order, chart and search the data both manually and using NVivo, MSWord and Framework, this paper will report on the findings that emerged (Ritchie and Lewis, 2009). The findings dis- cussed here relate to the women’s experience of receiving their risk status. All 30 women were prescribed prophylactic treatment for the prevention of fracture and all bar two commenced treatment (see Table 1). The core findings relating to their experience of adhering to treatment are being reported elsewhere although adherence status at the time of interview is included in Table 1.

These data are unique because participants were not formally diagnosed with osteoporosis. They report women’s experience of being diagnosed as ‘at risk’ rather than certain osteoporosis. Using empirical data from interviews with older women about their experience, the next section will show how participants reflected on and embodied their newly acquired risk status. We discuss the significance participants gave to their above average fracture risk status by considering the practical, physical and existential conse- quences of this diagnosis. We offer insights into the meaning of a risk status as an illness experience, and suggest that the risk-of-

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illness experience is not necessarily biographically anticipated. The findings are discussed using three overlapping thematic headings: Predictive technology, meaning and the risk-of-illness experience; knowledge, understanding and the embodiment of fracture risk status; and, social implications of biomedicine for an ageing population.

Predictive technology, meaning and the risk-of-illness experience

The personal lived experience of being at risk had an immediate meaning for participants in this study both in terms of significance and consequence. When asked about their response to being given their risk status we encountered a combination of what we have labelled ‘personal responses’ that included confusion and accep- tance, as well as strong emotion such as surprise and concern. These were not mutually exclusive responses, neither were they static as some participants were able to reflect on these initial responses. The screening results were often contrary to their stated expectations and many were clearly surprised by their prognosis. These responses were typically accompanied by a number of emotive expressions including astonished, gobsmacked, annoyed, miffed and cross. For example, IV10 stated being:

..quite offended too that I should have thinning bones when I’ve been so active. And with kids you never keep still. I was always active with the kids. (IV10)

IV13 described being ‘frightened’ by her scan results and had wished, with hindsight, that she had not been for the scan and felt she would have been fine not knowing. Furthermore IV18 expressed her astonishment in terms of understanding her existing health status:

I mean I’ve never smoked and I hardly ever drank and when I was gonna have the DXA scan, I felt sure that I’d be OK. I was absolutely totally gobsmacked when I got the letter to say that I was at higher than average risk and I still feel, ‘cos I mean, I do quite a lot I do my garden and all that sort of thing. (IV18)

The analysis found a level of confusion and bewilderment among participants. Some women were unclear about what their results meant and others had interpreted that they had a diagnosis of osteoporosis. Participants used words such as moderate and marginal to describe their new health status. One lady described how she had “not got it badly” and that it was “on the borderline” (IV3). The following extract captures the confusion:

I don’t really know what mine is. I don’t know. Am I prone to osteoporosis? Whether I have osteoporosis? I have no idea. (IV26)

The literature describes the doctor’s role in sanctioning patients’ expectations, and the participants talked of their own GPs ques- tioning the results and the need for medical intervention. When recounting such interactions where the results of their fracture risk assessment were given, most of the participants were like IV26 and unclear about their fracture risk status and the meaning of the information they were given. In the following extract IV28 was adamant her GP had stated that she did not have osteoporosis according to her results letter. However, she was given a fracture risk status of above average and therefore prescribed preventive medicines:

I went round to the doctor’s and I told her about that [letter]. So she said you haven’t got [osteoporosis] according to this you haven’t got osteoporosis. So I said no I know, I’m not, I said as far as I know I’m not. Oh! She said I can assure you you haven’t. I said oh that’s good, and that was that you know. (IV28)

This confusion in turn led some of the women to question whether or not there was anything wrong with them and to reflect on the likelihood of falls or fractures occurring, against taking preventive medication for osteoporosis. One participant stated that her GP told her the results were marginal: ‘yes well the GP said the bone density was sort of marginal . it wasn’t too bad’ (IV25). Consequently, there appeared to be confusing messages regarding whether participants had osteoporosis or were ‘at risk’ of osteo- porotic fracture according to the screening results:

I said ‘have I actually got osteo?’ He said well ‘no, you haven’t got it bad, but you’ve got it, and you’ve been advised to go on these tablets and that was it’. (IV29)

Previous research suggests that patients’ perception of being at risk of fracture was strongly linked to whether or not they actually had been diagnosed with osteoporosis (Giangregorio et al., 2009). However, such findings avoid confronting the complex levels at which the voices of bioscience, medicine and the patient’s lifeworld interact, translate and combine to produce knowledge and understanding.

The presence or existence of symptoms is fundamental to our understanding of illness and recognition of illness classically involves symptoms (Williams, 1993). Symptoms do not have to be present for an individual to be either ill, at risk-of-illness or able to embody a new health status. However, the symptomless nature of the condition played a considerable part in partici- pants’ struggle with their new biological definition. For most it did not fit their experience to date of living with an illness. Fracture and the associated pain and rehabilitation were the only potential manifestations of the condition women identified; although some spoke of expecting symptoms, and assumed there would be ‘aches and pains’ (IV03) and of expecting ‘more discomfort’ (IV01). IV08 went on to encapsulate this disem- bodied feeling as follows:

I would think, maybe quite a few people feel that way, that they don’t in themselves feel that it is necessary because they’ve got no symptoms of any kind. Nothing to tell them. No, their own body is not telling them is it. (IV08)

The lack of prior symptoms also contributed to women’s shock at the results. This was compounded in those instances where there was no prior history of fracture or where the women perceived they had a low risk of falling and therefore no concern as explained by the following participant:

I don’t have that much problem and if it hadn’t been for this letter coming through, and me having the scan, I would never have known anyway. (IV13)

Thus, the fracture risk assessment had challenged the women’s perception of self, as they had not previously considered their own personal vulnerability to osteoporosis. IV08 went on to explain:

I have never broken anything in my life and it surprised me that there was any risk there at all. It is not something that I would ever have thought about in any other way and if it had not been for having the scan, I would still be saying well, there‘s nothing wrong with me. (IV08)

Another participant who claimed total disbelief justified this in terms of her strong boned family:

There’s nobody in our family. I said I got 4 brothers and I said my father and mother when they were alive, I said nobody ever fell down and broke any bones in the whole family. And none of my grandchildren and 7 great-grandchildren. Yeah so we are a sort of firm boned family. (IV09)

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IV12 echoed this robust sentiment saying she was astonished and annoyed about receiving the results and appeared to regret her decision to be scanned in the first place saying:

I was rather annoyed to think that I had actually volunteered for something which very likely will never affect me in any case because I don’t intend to fall down and break anything. And I am very light I always have been, so if I fall down there is not a great deal of weight coming down on my bones, and I’m careful. (IV12)

This apparent contradiction between beliefs about symptoms and diagnosis is supported by other studies which look at women’s experiences of bone density scans and susceptibility to osteopo- rosis (Gerend, Erchull, Aiken, & Maner, 2006; Richardson, Hassell, Hay, & Thomas, 2002). In addition, these findings did not predict adherence to prescribed treatment as participants could have strongly negative responses to their fracture risk status and be adherent (and vice versa).

The significance of being at risk of fracture did not just relate to the present and anticipated future; it also caused participants to re- evaluate the past, potentially challenging accepted norms and values. In particular, many participants held firm assumptions about the adequacy of their past lifestyle and self-healthcare routines. This was particularly relevant in terms of protecting themselves from disease but was challenged by this new prognosis. For example, participants frequently spoke of their good diet, use of exercise as well as having strong bones. Like IV10, numerous participants spoke of their levels of physical activity both current and past:

I was surprised that having done so much exercise I should have thinning bones because I’ve done keep fit for years and years. When the kids were small I could leave them with my husband and do keep fit in the evening. And then of course we didn’t have a car in those days. (IV10)

IV29, in describing her shock at receiving her letter, had expected that it would tell her she was fine and said she ‘couldn’t believe it because I’ve always had a balanced diet’. She went on to explain:

Oh when I read the letter I was shocked. I thought well I can’t have it. I’ve always drank milk. I was just shocked to think I’d got it cos (sic) Frank was one of the old fashioned type you always got to do a cooked meal for seven days a week, and that’s got to have veg and all that in it. (IV29)

Biomedical technology challenged taken for granted assump- tions about the protection offered by past diet and lifestyle. The following extract demonstrates how participants grappled with the meaning of this new knowledge:

Because I’ve always taken calcium you know. I’ve always had a lot of cheese a lot of yoghurt and I drink a certain amount of milk. I have calcium and I have a lot of vegetables particularly the brassicas which are supposed to have vitamin C. I have fruit. So it’s a bit irritating to find that your bones are thinning in spite of the fact that you have been eating reasonably well. That’s really what erks me I suppose. I don’t understand why you should suddenly lose so much from your bones when you’ve been pretty active all your life, and I was very active until I was about 30. So you would have thought it would carry you over that time. (IV10)

The situated nature of the illness experience was important for participants. For example, on first hearing of their fracture risk a small number of participants expressed less significance, as they felt that osteoporosis and thinning bones was an inevitable and

therefore a natural part of ageing rather than a significant medical problem. Like the work of Sanders et al. (2002) this kind of ‘decline’, albeit invisible in this case, was something to be expected and ultimately accepted. Furthermore IV21 and IV01 felt that to have got to their age without musculoskeletal problems was lucky and they should expect thinner bones at their age. However, it was also possible to hold both views in parallel: thinning bones as both a personal affront and as inevitable (IV29, IV10). A significant number of women appeared to reach this rationalisation with time. IV10 encapsulated it as follows:

Well [laughs], well because I’m really fit I have to stop to think to myself I must remember that I am coming up to 74. So therefore I suppose I start to wear out. We do wear out there’s nothing you can do about it. Well, you can do a certain amount you can do by keeping your exercise up and I just sort of felt, oh dear, age is catching me up. (IV10)

While there were some women who reported little emotional response to the results, seeming to accept the condition as a natural part of ageing, there were also those who appeared to have already deemed themselves to be ‘at risk’ primarily based on personal or family history or to have ‘accepted it as part of getting older’ (IV01). As IV14 put it despite being initially surprised she accepted it rationalising that having the knowledge ‘saves falling and breaking’. IV06 said she ‘wasn’t worried about it’:

I was less surprised than I would have been having a family who obviously had it but we didn’t know what it was called then you see. (IV06)

Furthermore, IV11 described how she suspected she would be told to have a scan:

The minute I ticked the box [in her risk assessment question- naire] that my mother had broken her hip, I had a feeling that they would ask me to go and have a density scan. (IV11)

Sanders et al. (2002) reported similarly that a family history of osteoarthritis signalled ‘less significance’ for her older study participants. These women were far less surprised and were even accepting of their risk status and more readily embodied the health promoting interventions created by epidemiologists and biostatistics.

Knowledge, understanding and the embodiment of fracture risk status

Ageing is an embodied experience. The body has personal, instrumental, cultural and symbolic value and the meaning indi- viduals attach to their bodies as they age will be emergent, nego- tiated and contingent and involve different costs. What these costs are for older women in particular remains a neglected area of investigation which these findings only glimpse at.

Many of the participants had fallen but not broken a bone. Being labelled with ‘fracture-risk’ or diagnosed with osteoporosis does not automatically mean that a fracture will happen. Many people without osteoporosis still risk having a fracture and there is no way of knowing who will have fractures later in life and who will not (Reventlow, Hvas, & Malterud, 2006). Fear of falling is a powerful metaphor for decline and loss of independence in old age linked to notions of dependency, decline and death (Kingston, 2000). Research has shown that fear of falling and fracturing is associated with reduction in recreational and physical activity (Bruce, Devine, & Prince, 2002) and yet lifestyle advice to women with thinning bones is to increase weight bearing activity. In our data there was an elision between participants’ conception of notions of fracture

C.I. Salter et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 808e815 813

risk, osteoporosis and being inclined to fall. IV07 reveals this in the following extract:

I was shocked shocked when I found that I had got it. I thought all this falling over and I haven’t broken a bone yet, touch wood. And I as I say I would have thought somebody with osteoporosis would have fallen over and broken their bones. (IV07)

Another area of confusion embodied by participants linked osteoporosis to concerns about stability. There was conflation between risk of falling and high risk of fracture or fragility. One participant explained her results in terms of a letter ‘saying I had a larger than average possibility of having a fall’ (IV24). We found a strong desire expressed to not become dependent on other people as a result of a fall or fracture or a burden to others and to retain autonomy through action. When prompted for feelings following the scan results and risk assessment participants described these feelings in terms of fear of dependency, loss and a restricted lifestyle as the following extract captures:

Well it is just the independence. I don’t want to be a nuisance to the family at all if I can help it, and if I haven’t done something that might have helped I’d feel a bit guilty. Oh it’s difficult [pause] well when you’re on your own you feel threatened when things go wrong, and if you can do anything to prevent that happening it does help a little bit. (IV03)

Participants embodied received wisdom on osteoporosis including fear, stigma and anxiety concerning bodily functioning. Embarrassment, dread and shame of both the anticipated and realised need for walking sticks and frames and of not being able to do gardening, shopping and housework were common among participants. IV03 talked of being ashamed of her walking trolley. These negative social discourses contributed to participants’ perception of the significance of osteoporosis.

Images in society of the stooped ‘crumbly’ older woman on road signs and in cartoons are common and participants demonstrated how these visible external consequences of poor bone health interact with impressions of biological deterioration. Osteoporosis was something that the participants believed you could see in others. IV13 talked of women stooping a bit and IV25 said she had observed women with the widow’s hump. Another participant expressed her image as follows:

I mean you know that if they’re a bit hunched, if their back is a bit hunched, you know that could be a sign that they have got a problem. (IV18)

In our study women’s descriptions of osteoporosis were char- acterised by discourses around structural weakness including crumbling, brittle bones, thinning, and a growing awareness of the condition amongst other older people. These were coupled with more vivid descriptions of the clinical consequences and decrepi- tude which arise from osteoporosis such as stooped, hunched, widow’s hump, dowager’s hump, old crock and painful fracture. One participant spoke of being made fearful and frightened of the future:

Oh bloody ’ell my bones are going to crumble away. I didn’t like the thought that I was going to be incapacitated weren’t I. I didn’t want to be sitting about here doing nothing or trailing one leg behind me. (IV19)

It appeared that for some of the women interviewed, the detection of fracture risk brought to the fore socially resisted representations of ageing bodies. One woman even went as far as to use the term rotting in relation to her own body:

Well, because it’s more or less why when these things start happening isn’t it. It’s when you hear of old people falling over

and breaking bones you know. So yes that’s really what it was so yes a bit upset. I am growing old, rotting. (IV10)

Social implications of biomedicine for an ageing population

The process of assessment, identification, labelling and treat- ment that enables the giving of fracture risk status to patients encourages the biomedicalisation of older women and their bone health. It demonstrates the power of biomedical classification to create a newly diagnosed population at risk rather than actively living with disease. However, whilst diagnosis as an administrative event can apparently impose order a further consequence of the risk-of-illness experience shaped by biomedicine is the propaga- tion of ambiguous scientific knowledge and uncertain medical practice. This can translate into confusion for women’s under- standing of their fracture risk status and create an ambiguous patient experience with bewilderment about illness status and future outcomes, including the need for possible medical inter- vention and implications for lifestyle change. Although one participant talked of her increased exercise regime including power walking, keep-fit classes and training at the local gym, the majority of participants talked about being more careful and a few had reduced their physical activity since the scan. IV07 talked about her increased care in daily activities she had hitherto loved:

Since I was told that I had, whatever I’ve got osteoporosis is it? I’ve been much more careful in what I do, much more careful. As I said, that’s why I take my stick with me because I don’t want to fall over and break my arm. I don’t do digging like I used to, I mean I used to dig, so I don’t do these things. So I am very cautious, very cautious, but as long as I can get about I’m healthy as far as I am concerned. (IV07)

Another participant reflected on the difference in her behaviour in the past and since knowing about her fracture risk status:

’Course I mean it can be nasty can’t it, if you and of course once you, once you break a hip or something like that, that causes so many other problems doesn’t it. So I try to be careful. I do try to be careful. I mean I must admit that I’ve, in the past, not now, I’ve had one or two falls but not recently. (IV18)

Existing research has demonstrated the pros and cons of this approach to fracture risk whereby fear of possible negative consequences leads older women to restrict their exercise and physical activity levels counter to medical advice (Doheny, Sedlak, Estok, & Zeller, 2007). Reventlow, in a Danish study of women in receipt of DXA scanning, found that knowledge of thinning bones ‘reinforced women’s uncertainty about activity and exercise’ and created confusion about ‘what their bodies could endure’ (2007:160). Yet weight bearing exercise is prescribed to increase bone density. Older women have been charged with putting on the ‘mask of ageing’ earlier than men and giving up exercise and sport at a younger age particularly at or soon after menopause (Vertinsky, 1991). Research suggests there is pressure on women to conform to socially derived bodily expectations that increase at the time of menopause which is seen as a stage of decay and redundancy. These negative cultural expectations continue into old age where the norm has been to consider oneself vulnerable, dependent and at risk (Featherstone & Hepworth, 2001; Scott et al., 2005; Vertinsky, 1991). Participants spoke of their new risk status inten- sifying their withdrawal from physical activity, encouraging further caution and restriction:

I am very very careful now. At one time I’d just get the step ladder out and clean the windows but I’m very very careful .. I think it makes you more careful when you get a letter like that. And of

C.I. Salter et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 808e815814

course this is it, age does as well. You only need something like that as a warning and you would take more care. (IV13)

The most obvious and immediate consequence for women deemed at ‘higher than average risk of fracture’ was the recom- mendation to start treatment in the form of prescribed medication for osteoporosis. Blaxter (1978) observed that the diagnostic process is ultimately ‘a prescriptive one’ where the presence or absence of a treatment option is key to satisfactory diagnosis. From a biomed- ical perspective fracture risk is treated prophylactically using potent pharmacological products. Like preventive chemotherapy, recently recommended for healthy women following breast density scanning (Cuzick et al., 2011), the same treatments (in the form of tablet therapy) can be prescribed to prevent as well as to treat the condi- tion. Thus ‘risk status’ can be seen to mimic ‘illness status’.

For the older women in our study the experience of the disease and of being at risk of fracture converged (Aronowitz, 2009) with health status considered primarily in terms of ‘risk of future ill- health’ (Armstrong, 1995). Biomedicalisation feeds lifestyle indus- tries concerned with prophylactic care and self-monitoring in ‘normal biological processes’ such as menopause and thinning bones. Awareness of one’s risk status can lead to loss of indepen- dence and anxiety or to empowerment (Bury,1988; Crossley,1998). Griffiths found in her study of women’s use of HRT that some women spoke of ‘a real need to keep themselves well’ and of the control gained from biotechnology through freedom from unpleasant symptoms (1999:475). Furthermore, Loe (2010) described the nonagenarian women in her study as agents and the everyday technologies at their disposal as weapons in their fight to remain independent. However, others question whether the apparent choice offered by ‘intensification of the bio- medicalisation of old age’ opens up new ethical fields where the technological imperative becomes a moral one (Kaufman, Shim, & Russ, 2004:732). However, it is unlikely to be a simple dichotomy as there are no ‘one-way-arrows’ only

‘new forms of agency, empowerment, confusion, resistance, responsibility, docility, subjugation, citizenship, and morality’ (Clarke et al,, 2003:185).

Needless to say surveillance is one of the key processes engen- dered and produced by biomedicalisation. The computation of risk into more exacting calculations and algorithms shifts our under- standing of what is normal whilst expanding diagnostic categories. Biotechnology fosters discourses of risk leading to an emphasis on regulation, vigilance and moral self-transformation (Foucault, in Clarke et al., 2003). The development of sophisticated screening mechanisms to detect fracture risk has led to the creation of a set of population based statistical parameters with which to measure an individual’s apparent absolute risk of fracture. Furthermore, indi- vidual awareness of the need for self-government via biomedical technology contributes to altering the ‘relationship between what could be termed a normal biological process and the experiences and expectations of individuals and communities’ (Griffiths & Green, 2003:210).

Conclusion

Screening for osteoporosis and assessment of fracture risk is a form of predictive medicine that contributes to biomedicalisation of ageing and bone health creating a new patient population and new diagnostic category. This paper looked at the risk-of-illness experience and found uncertainty and confusion in terms of understanding and meaning associated with a new risk status. The pre-disease state had considerable significance as well as conse- quence for the older women in our study.

Biographical disruption in uncertain contexts can magnify older people’s experience of chronic illness and challenge already complex assumptions about later life (Salter, 2010). The apparent amelioration of one risk or symptom of ageing (thinning bones) often introduces a new one (unknown consequences of long term use of potent pharmacological products). Perhaps today 30 years on from hormone replacement therapy’s heyday, as the (same) pop- ulation ages, fractures and falls have replaced menopause as the unacceptable face and fear of late age. It is tempting to ponder whether the potential ‘blanket recommendation’ of bisphospho- nates and related drug therapies will replace universal promotion of HRT in the debate about medicalisation and women’s health and health risk. HRT was promoted despite the lack of knowledge and understanding of the long term consequences which turned out to include an increased risk of breast cancer, blood clots and cardio- vascular disease.

Biomedicalisation of new populations has significance at both the individual and the societal level. The combining of clinical risk assessment with DXA scanning has the potential to help reduce morbidity and mortality caused by fractures. It also has the potential to expand the population labelled ‘at risk’ and increase demand for biomedical tests and prescribed medication for the treatment and prevention of osteoporosis increasing the limits of treatable illness and swelling sales of treatments (Moynihan et al., 2002). The women in this study appeared willing to accept screening and assessment for osteoporosis and fracture risk and the majority initially accepted prescribed treatment. If we are moving towards the adoption of fracture risk assessment for the population at large for the management of osteoporosis the findings of this study have important implications for policy and practice. Currently, GPs still retain the ‘individual power of medicine’ to disagree with new assessment scales and thresholds in the treat- ment and prevention of fractures among their populations (Jutel, 2009). However, the likely possibility that the quality and outcomes assessment framework (QOF) will embrace the prescribing of osteoporosis medicines may lead to change in this element of individual practitioner freedom and discretion in the diagnostic process. Screening programmes can create dispute in the arena of diagnostic control by replacing individual case-based medicine with detached population health science.

Disclaimer

This article presents independent research commissioned by the National Institute for Health Research (NIHR) under its Research for Patient Benefit (RfPB) Programme (Grant Reference Number PB-PG- 0807-14068). The views expressed are those of the authors and not necessarily those of the NHS, the NIHR or the Department of Health.

Acknowledgements

The authors would like to thank the women who participated in this study and the ATOM Steering Group members.

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  • Risk, significance and biomedicalisation of a new population: Older women’s experience of osteoporosis screening
    • Introduction
      • Technological and biomedical advancements in screening and risk assessment for osteoporosis
      • Predictive technology and the illness experience of being at risk of ill-health
    • Study methods
      • Predictive technology, meaning and the risk-of-illness experience
      • Knowledge, understanding and the embodiment of fracture risk status
      • Social implications of biomedicine for an ageing population
    • Conclusion
    • Disclaimer
    • Acknowledgements
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Listening to Lyrica: contested illnesses and pharmaceutical determinism

Kristin K. Barker*

Oregon State University, Sociology, Fairbanks Hall, Corvallis, OR 97331, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 28 July 2011

Keywords: Contested illnesses Fibromyalgia Direct-to-consumer-advertising Medicalization USA Medications Gender

* Tel.: þ1 541 737 5375. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.05.055

a b s t r a c t

Fibromyalgia syndrome is a debilitating pain disorder of unknown origins and a paradigmatic contested illness. As with other contested illnesses, the reality of fibromyalgia is disputed by many physicians. Thus, millions of individuals who are diagnosed with fibromyalgia must cope with chronic symptoms as well as medical and public skepticism. In this context, the U.S. Federal Drug Administration’s approval of Lyrica, the first prescription medication specifically for the management of fibromyalgia, is of consid- erable interest. In this paper I examine the cultural logic whereby the existence (and marketing) of an officially approved prescription medication for a condition lends support to the biomedical existence of the condition itself. I label this logic pharmaceutical determinism and argue that it represents an important new phase in the proliferation of contested illness diagnoses. Using the case of Lyrica, I describe the role that pharmaceutical companies and pharmaceuticals themselves play in promoting and legitimating contested diagnoses and validating those who are so diagnosed. Through a narrative analysis of the Lyrica direct-to-consumer advertising campaign and the responses of fibromyalgia sufferers to the introduction and marketing of Lyrica, I demonstrate the symbiotic relationship between the interests of the pharmaceutical industry, contested illness legitimization, and medicalization. I also provide a gender analysis of this relationship, foregrounding how contested illnesses continue to be shaped by their feminization in a cultural context that equates women with irrationality. Finally, I address the consequences and limitations of relying on the pharmaceutical industry for illness validation.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Fibromyalgia syndrome is a pain disorder of unknown origins. In addition to chronic widespread pain, fibromyalgia is often charac- terized by a host of associated symptoms, the most common of which are fatigue, sleep irregularities, and cognitive and mood disorders. The condition is said to affect between 2 and 5 percent of the U.S. population, with a female to male ratio of approximately 9:1 (Neumann & Buskila, 2003). Fibromyalgia is not attributable to any known organic abnormality (Wolfe, 2009). It is not detectable using blood tests, x-rays, or other diagnostic tools. Instead, after ruling out other possible causes for a patient’s symptoms, fibro- myalgia is diagnosed using criteria established by the American College of Rheumatology (ACR) in 1990. The formal criteria include the patient’s report of widespread pain for at least 3 months and tenderness in at least 11 of 18 locations on the body, called tender points, to which pressure is applied during a physical examination (Wolfe et al., 1990).

Parenthetically, tender points do not correspond to any anatomical structure nor does tenderness in these locations correspond to any observable pathology (Milton,1999). It also bears

All rights reserved.

noting that in clinical practice the tender point criterion is not strictly observed. It has been suggested that patients who report fewer than 11 tender points be diagnosed if they also report a number of symptoms commonly associated with fibromyalgia (e.g., fatigue, sleep and mood disorders, bowel irregularities) even though the presence of these symptoms are not included in the formal diagnostic criteria (Csillag, 1992). In response to acknowl- edged irregularities associated with diagnosing fibromyalgia, new ACR guidelines were recently proposed, which are intended to compliment, not replace, the 1990 criteria (Wolfe et al., 2010). The new guidelines emphasize symptom severity and pain level rather than tender points.

Because fibromyalgia is determined by exclusion and inexactly, many physicians remain skeptical of the diagnosis and the patients so diagnosed. Not only are there concerns about the vagueness of the diagnosis, but there is also the nagging question about whether fibromyalgia is “real” (i.e., has organic biological origins) or not (i.e., is psychogenic). The feminization of the disorder intersects with cultural stereotypes about women’s emotionality and irrationality, leading some critics to claim that fibromyalgia is a form of modern day hysteria (Hadler, 1997; Showalter, 1997). Consequently, for millions of women, living with fibromyalgia requires managing

K.K. Barker / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 833e842834

a constellation of chronic symptoms while coping with medical and public skepticism. It frequently takes a protracted time and considerable tenacity to find a health care provider who believes in fibromyalgia and is willing to diagnose and treat fibromyalgia patients. Such providers are referred to as “fibro-friendly.” Although being diagnosed generally affords sufferers considerable peace of mind and some degree of validation (i.e., they are not dying; there is a name for their condition; it’s not all in their head), it rarely brings the experience of medical disparagement to an end (Barker, 2005).

In all these regards, fibromyalgia is a paradigmatic contested illness. In the last two decades there has been a dramatic rise in the number of contested illness diagnoses and contested illness sufferers (Barsky & Borus, 1999). Approximately ten million Americans, most of them women, are diagnosed with one of several syndromes characterized by a cluster of common and troubling symptoms (e.g., pain, fatigue, mood irregularities) that are not attributable to any organic abnormality (Manu, 2004; Wessley, Nimnuan, & Sharpe, 1999). In addition to fibromyalgia, some of these conditions include chronic fatigue syndrome, tension head- ache, temporomandibular joint disorder, irritable bowel syndrome, and multiple chemical sensitivity disorder. On the one hand, there is a lack of conventional biomedical evidence for the existence of these conditions. On the other hand, sufferers report significant reductions in functional abilities, health status, and quality of life, with little sustained improvement in well-being over time (Manu, 2004; Wessley et al., 1999). In fact, these conditions are called “contested illnesses” precisely because they represent a clash between biomedical knowledge and patient experience (Conrad & Stults, 2008; Moss & Teghtsoonian, 2008). Contested illness sufferers, including those with fibromyalgia, must therefore engage in an ongoing struggle to have medically unexplainable symptoms recognized in orthodox biomedical terms despite resistance from medical professionals and institutions.

In the case of fibromyalgia, the ongoing debate about whether the condition is a “real” biomedical entity entered a new phase in June 2007, when the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved the first drug specifically for its management. Patient advocates and a small handful of clinician-researchers with whom they are allied, heralded the approval of Pfizer’s Lyrica for fibromyalgia as a thera- peutic and symbolic victory. Two additional drugs have subse- quently received FDA approval for fibromyalgia. Beyond the potential therapeutic benefits, sufferers hope that the FDA approval of drugs specifically for the management of fibromyalgia will finally validate fibromyalgia in the eyes of the public and medical skeptics. Their hopes are not without foundation. A number of scholars duly note that the pharmaceutical industry (also known as Pharma) now possesses significant cultural authority when it comes to defining and legitimating diagnoses and disease entities (Conrad & Leiter, 2008; Greene, 2007; Loe, 2004; Williams, Gabe, & Davis, 2008). It is increasingly the case that the mere existence of a prescription medication for a condition is used to authenticate the biomedical existence and character of the condition itself. I label this phenomenon pharmaceutical determinism and suggest that it represents an important new phase in the proliferation of con- tested illness diagnoses.

Using the case of Lyrica, I describe the role pharmaceutical companies and pharmaceuticals themselves play in promoting and legitimating contested diagnoses. That is, I illustrate how the logic of pharmaceutical determinism plays out in the case of fibro- myalgia and suggest its applicability to other contested illnesses. Through a narrative analysis of the Lyrica direct-to-consumer advertising (DTCA) campaign and the responses of fibromyalgia sufferers to the introduction and marketing of Lyrica, I demonstrate the symbiotic relationship between the interests of the

pharmaceutical industry, contested illness legitimization, and medicalization. In addition, I provide a gender analysis of this relationship wherein I underscore how contested illnesses continue to be shaped by their feminization and a cultural milieu that equates women with irrationality. Finally, I address the limitations of relying on the pharmaceutical industry for illness validation.

Medicalization: fibro and pharma

Medicalization is the process by which ever more aspects of the human condition are defined and treated as medical in character. Although there have been a few notable instances of demedicali- zation (e.g., homosexuality and masturbation), medicalization has been a dominant trend. Many different types of human experiences and problems have been medicalized, including deviant behavior, natural life processes, and everyday problems of living (Davis, 2009). Although the trend toward medicalization is long- standing, the principal forces behind the process have changed. Campaigns on the part of physicians to expand their jurisdictional authority were a primary “engine” of medicalization during the first three quarters of the twentieth century (Conrad, 2005). Par- alleling a decrease in professional power more generally, however, physicians’ role in medicalization has declined in relative impor- tance while that of patient consumers and powerful corporate entities have increased. For example, it is increasingly patients rather than physicians who are eager to classify their “physical distress” and “uncomfortable body states.as diseases” (Barsky & Borus, 1995: 1913). Fibromyalgia and other contested illnesses fit this description.

The pharmaceutical industry, one of the most profitable sectors in the global economy, has also become one of the most influential players in contemporary medicalization. The means by which pharmaceuticals contribute to medicalization, or “pharmaceutic- alisation” (Fox & Ward, 2008; Williams, Seale, Boden et al., 2008), are complex and multi-dimensional, but one particularly effective route is through direct-to-consumer advertising (DTCA) (Moynihan, Heath, & Henry, 2002). Only two countries, the United States and New Zealand, currently permit DTCA. In the United States, televised DTCA took off in the wake of deregulations associated with the passage the FDA Modernization Act (FDMA) of 1997. According to an oft-quoted (and likely conservative) esti- mate, the pharmaceutical industry spent $4.2 billion on adver- tising directly to American patient consumers in 2004 d twice what it spent on research and development (Donohue, Cevasco, & Rosenthal, 2007).

Using sophisticated marketing techniques, televised DTCA campaigns encourage individuals to “ask their doctors” if a partic- ular medication is a solution to their problems (Frosch, Krueger, Hornik, Cronholm, & Barg, 2007). While there is the potential that DTCA can educate some consumers about beneficial medica- tions, many of the problems DTCA target are trivial (Conrad, 2007; Moynihan & Cassels, 2005). Others are exceedingly common and not life threatening (Mintzes, 2002). It would seem that all prob- lems, however small, common, or benign, can be marketed as a medical problem that can be mitigated with medication. The Viagra DTCA campaign is legendary and its relationship to medi- calizing healthy men’s sexual performance is widely recognized (Loe, 2004). The moderate inconvenience of frequent calls of nature associated with normal aging has morphed into overactive bladder for women and benign prostatic hyperplasia for men. Add to this list the DTCA campaigns for Paxil and Sarafem, which promoted the new diagnoses of social anxiety disorder and premenstrual dysphoric disorder respectively (Conrad & Leiter, 2008; Tiefer, 2006). The condition “Low T” (low testosterone), characterized by declining energy and “fun” in men over 45, is a recent illustration of

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how DTCA reframes common experiences as symptoms of specific disorders in an effort to increase consumer demand for products and, ultimately, corporate profits.

As these examples suggest, some DTCA campaigns focus on selling the diagnosis as aggressively as the medication designed to treat it. In some cases the campaign is selling a medication for which the diagnosis has been designed. This situation has led some critics to accuse the pharmaceutical industry of engaging in outright disease mongering (Angell, 2004; Payer, 1992). Whether these campaigns are educating and empowering consumers (Bonaccorso & Sturchio, 2002) or selling sickness (Moynihan & Cassels, 2005), the result is a dramatic increase in the market for these prescription drugs. The evidence is clear: DTCA campaigns increase prescription requests on the part of patients that result in physicians prescribing requested medications, even when they do not believe the drugs are clinically warranted (Mintzes et al., 2002). But, when DTCA encourages consumers to self-diagnose as a precursor to a prescription request, physicians may also comply with the patient’s requests for a diagnosis about which they are skeptical. In short, the pharmaceutical industry is increasingly an active party in the diagnostic process. The pharmaceutical industry, as noted by Jutel (2009: 291), is now an important “engine of diagnosis.”

DTCA encourages the belief that there is “a pill for every ill” and, increasingly, “an ill for every pill” (Mintzes, 2002). The latter sentiment is an outcome of the pharmaceutical industry’s growing cultural authority to define the object of medicine; that is, to define disease. In Listening to Prozac (1993) Peter Kramer reflects on “cosmetic pharmacology” (i.e., using anti-depressant medications to feel “better than well”). Kramer’s book also draws attention to the larger cultural tendency to emphasize pharmaceutical solutions for various painful aspects of the human condition, as well as the corresponding power we have bestowed upon prescription medi- cations to define what is biomedically real. Similarly, Jeremy Greene (2007: 227) chronicles how clinical trials for pharmaceuticals play an increasingly influential role “in propping up the ‘diseaseness’ of a putative pathological category.” The logic is as follows: if there is a prescription medication to treat a problem, then the problem must be a biomedical disease. Furthermore, as explained by Andrew Lakoff (2006), the specific pharmacological approach points to what type of thing the “disease” is. For example, if a condition responds to a drug that impacts the central nervous system, then the condition is a central nervous system disorder. As previously noted, I refer to this logic as pharmaceutical determinism and it is of considerable salience with respect to fibromyalgia.

Elsewhere I provide a detailed description of how the coming together of women with a host of distressing symptoms and a small group of rheumatologists (whom I refer to as “diagnostic entre- preneurs”) led to the diagnostic making of fibromyalgia syndrome (Barker, 2005). The result was the ACR diagnostic criteria for fibromyalgia adopted in 1990. Fibromyalgia is a diagnostic label given to medically unexplained symptoms that are widespread in the general public and particularly common among women. Compared to men, women report more chronic ailments, pain, and dysfunction; they experience more physical discomfort and corre- sponding limitations; they have higher rates of depression; they use more prescription and over-the-counter medications; and, they have higher rates of health care utilization (Bird & Rieker, 2008). These patterns represent the complex interplay of biological, social, and political realities (Doyal,1995; Lorber,1997). What is important for our purposes is to recognize that, in recent decades, women’s high rates of morbidity have increasingly become organized into contested illness diagnoses like fibromyalgia. That is, contested illnesses can be viewed as social constructions that transform women’s common symptoms into medical diseases.

At the level of experience, the fibromyalgia diagnosis provides sufferers with a framework for giving meaning to their distress. Among other things it gives women a name to tie together a dizzying array of otherwise disparate symptoms. However, insofar as fibromyalgia remains medically contested, the medical- ization of women’s distress under the rubric of the fibromyalgia remains incomplete. Herein lies the importance of pharmaceutical determinism to the story at hand.

Since the establishment of the ACR criteria, the treatment protocol for fibromyalgia has been a symptomatic approach. Patients are frequently given a prescription medication for each of their numerous symptoms (e.g., pain, sleep irregularities, mood disorders, bowel distress, etc.), and treatment outcomes are generally poor (Goldenberg, Burckhardt, & Crofford, 2004). Lyrica is approved as a systemic drug therapy for fibromyalgia. In clinical trials it was found to improve functioning among those diagnosed with fibromyalgia (Arnold et al., 2008; Crofford et al., 2008). In other words, the drug’s approval gives creditability to the notion that fibromyalgia is a discrete biological thing, rather than a collection of disparate symptoms that are poorly managed with a hodgepodge of existing medications. It is further suggested that Lyrica confirms what type of biological thing fibromyalgia is. Lyrica is an anticonvulsant medication, said to benefit fibromyalgia patients by binding to neurotransmitters in the brain and spinal cord, effectively reducing activity in the central nervous system (Crofford et al., 2005). Fibro-friendly clinician-researchers, including those working with and for Pfizer, maintain that Lyrica corroborates the theory that fibromyalgia is a neurochemical aberration wherein neurons become hyperresponsive to stimuli, a state referred to as “central sensitization” (Crofford et al., 2005). Since the approval of Lyrica, two anti-depressant medications (Cymbalta and Savella) have also received FDA approval for fibro- myalgia. Like Lyrica these medications are approved for the systemic management of fibromyalgia. Although they are anti- depressants, these drugs are said to improve functioning in fibro- myalgia patients, independent of depression, via mechanisms that shore up the theory of central sensitization (Recla, 2010).

The FDA approval of Lyrica for the management of fibromyalgia and subsequent DTCA campaign must be understood in the context of the disorder’s contested status, its feminization, and the cultural authority conferred upon pharmaceuticals to define biomedical reality. To that end, what follows is a close examination of the DTCA campaign for Lyrica and the response of fibromyalgia sufferers to the drug’s introduction and marketing.

Data and methods

The data I use in this analysis come from multiple sources. First, I examine the central feature of the DTCA campaign for Lyrica. This includes the six television commercials aired during network news programming in the United States from the time the first commercial appeared in November 2007, through May 2010 when this article was written. I also include an informal feature of the DTCA campaign, a television public service announcement created jointly by Pfizer and a leading fibromyalgia advocacy group. I accessed the commercials through the Vanderbilt Television News Archive (http://tvnews.vanderbilt.edu/). To analyze the commer- cials I used the schema developed by Frosch, Krueger, Hornik, Cronholm, and Barg (2007) as a template. As specified in this template, the basic story line of DTCA includes three elements: loss of control due to illness/condition; regaining control through use of medication; and concomitant social rewards. These elements represent a plot, or a series of incidents that are sequentially organized, and a plot is the hallmark of a narrative (Riessman, 2008). Accordingly, I analyze these commercials as narratives.

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Beyond identifying the basic story being told, narrative analysis focuses on why a particular narrative is constructed (i.e., what is the purpose of the narrative), emphasizing who is telling the story and who is thought to be listening (Riessman, 2008; Spencer, Ritchie, & O’Connor, 2003). The commercials were analyzed using NVivo, a computer-assisted qualitative data analysis software program. The analysis focused on how the commercials’ narrative elements are presented in relationship to the promotion and legitimization of the fibromyalgia diagnosis. As part of this undertaking I paid particular attention to content that directly or indirectly addressed the conflation of women’s cultural legitimacy and the legitimacy of the fibromyalgia illness experience.

The main data used to capture the response of fibromyalgia sufferers to Lyrica are electronic postings to a bulletin board run for and by fibromyalgia sufferers, which is given the pseudonym Fibro Spot. As part of an earlier research undertaking, I collected all the postings to Fibro Spot from February 1, 2004 through February 28, 2005 and February 1, 2007 through February 28, 2008 (Barker, 2008). In early 2007, Fibro Spot’s homepage was one of the top five online support groups listed in a Google search for “fibro- myalgia.” The analysis I present here takes advantage of this previously collected data, but I use only those posts that specifically address Lyrica (pregabalin). The electronic posts were analyzed using NVivo with an eye toward content that addressed the rela- tionship between Lyrica and the legitimization of the fibromyalgia diagnosis and illness experience. The study received a human subjects exemption from Oregon State University Institutional Review Board.

To supplement these data, and specifically to track the response to the Lyrica DTCA campaign after 2008, I conducted a Google search for “Lyrica commercial” on June 1, 2010. This search gener- ated nearly a half a million hits. I evaluated the most visible comments about the DTCA campaign (i.e., the highest ranked in this Google search) contributed by fibromyalgia sufferers to a variety of public forums, such as blogs and online newsgroups. This latter technique is not intended to be comprehensive. Rather I have used these comments to provide a snapshot of the most visible responses to the Lyrica DTCA campaign as expressed online.

Analysis

Pharmaceutical Opportunism: DTCA & making fibromyalgia real

Fibromyalgia is only the most recent indication for which Lyrica had been approved. The drug received FDA approval in 2004 for the treatment of neuropathic pain associated with shingles and dia- betes, and as a supplementary treatment for partial onset seizures in patients with epilepsy in 2005. Pfizer introduced Lyrica as a “follow-on” medication to its highly lucrative predecessor Neu- rontin (gabapentin). That is, the drugs are very similar to one another, but Neurontin was on the eve of losing patent protection. In fact, Pfizer was found guilty of fraudulent marketing practices and paid a criminal fine of $50 million for encouraging physicians to switch patients from Neuorontin to Lyrica on an off-label basis, which is the practice of prescribing a drug for a condition for which it has not been approved (O’Reilly & Capaccio, 2009). In the meantime, with Lyrica already approved for the management of other pain states, Pfizer sought and received an expedited approval for the management of fibromyalgia. The vast market potential for fibromyalgia drugs is well recognized. According to a report by Decision Resources, a leading research and advisory firm to the pharmaceutical industry, the use of Lyrica, Cymbalta and Savella will result in an eight percent annual growth in the fibromyalgia market over the next eight years in the United States, Europe and Japan (Hohenberg, Wilson, Daley, & Fam, 2007). As explained in the

report, “The arrival of drugs with regulatory labeling for fibro- myalgia and the attendant marketing and increased awareness of fibromyalgia will quadruple the size of this relatively new drug market.” The report then asks: “How might drug developers capi- talize on fibromyalgia patients’ need for drug therapy?” (http:// decisionresources.com/Products-and-Services/Report? r¼pcorpn0108).

Increasing public awareness of fibromyalgia and declaring its status as “real” have been major prongs in Pfizer’s plan to capitalize on the fibromyalgia market. In August 2007 Pfizer joined forces with the largest fibromyalgia advocacy organization in the United States, the National Fibromyalgia Association (NFA), to create a fibromyalgia awareness campaign. The Pfizer-NFA campaign included a televised public service announcement and an interac- tive website. The public service announcement featured a montage of people, most of them in tears, explaining their intense pain, after which the following voiceover is heard:

� Imagine feeling this kind of pain and no one knows what it is or believes you even have it. This is fibromyalgia. Very real chronic widespread pain and tenderness that affects millions. There is hope. There is help. If you’re suffering talk to your doctor and visit Fibrohope.org for more real stories (National Fibromyalgia Association, 2007).

In addition to real stories about fibromyalgia, Fibrohope.org provided visitors with the phone number to Pfizer’s call center where they could receive “information about a prescription treat- ment option.” In short, Pfizer’s sponsorship of the website and the company’s alliance with NFA is paradigmatic of what others have argued is in fact pharmaceutical marketing through apparent awareness education initiatives (Angell, 2004: 135; Moynihan and Cassels: 132) The FibroHope website is no longer active but it was online from June 2007 to July 2008 and is accessible on the Internet Archive (see http://web.archive.org/web/20080623213233/http:// www.fibrohope.org/).

The first television advertisement for Lyrica aired a few months later in November 2007. The commercial opens with an exceedingly thin middle-aged woman reading from her diary. She appears to be very much in distress, her face clenched as she reads the following diary entry: “Today I really struggled with my fibromyalgia. I had pain all over. My muscles ached, so tender to the touch.” She sets down her diary, sighs, looks directly at the camera, and proclaims: “Fibromyalgia is a real, widespread pain conditionwhich also makes daily activities difficult.” She continues: “But until recently there were no medicines approved by the FDA to manage fibromyalgia. Prescription Lyrica is the first and only FDA approved treatment that can help relieve fibromyalgia pain and improve function.” The commercial ends with the visibly less distressed woman encour- aging viewers to “ask their doctor” about Lyrica.

This advertisement ran for five months until it was replaced by two new commercials that aired during 2008. The first of these opens with a dark haired middle-aged woman sitting in her shadowy kitchen telling the audience that fibromyalgia pain made it hard to just do the little things she loved. “But then my doctor told me about Lyrica.” Next we see the woman happily tending her beautiful garden as she explains, “Lyrica helps me accomplish my daily activities and helps me feel better. So now I can start to think of something other than my pain.” The woman is warm and familiarly appealing. The commercial ends with a close up of her smiling and stating: “If you have fibromyalgia ask your doctor if Lyrica is right for you.” The next commercial to air depicted a stylish and slim, silver-haired woman strolling through a beautifully restored section of New Orleans while apparently vacationing with her attractive and attentive silver-haired male companion. The

Fig. 1. “Overactive Nerves” Lyrica Commercial (Pfizer Inc., 2010a)

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commercial opens with the woman explaining, “My fibromyalgia muscle pain wasn’t something you could see, but I felt it all over. Some days I had to push myself to leave the house and do everyday things. Then my doctor told me about Lyrica.” This commercial introduces one of the cardinal features of the fibromyalgia illness experience, namely the consequences of living with an illness that is not visible to others. Fibromyalgia sufferers hate being told that they don’t look sick, because such comments implicitly or explicitly suggest they are mentally unstable or malingering (Barker, 2005).

This is especially noteworthy in the relationship to another element of these commercials. The women characters in both of these advertisements emphatically state, “Lyrica is not an anti- depressant.” Pfizer must understand the importance of empha- sizing this point as a way of affirming fibromyalgia sufferers and validating the diagnosis (i.e., Lyrica is not an anti-depressant ergo fibromyalgia is not a mental illness). Additionally, Pfizer is dis- tinguishing itself from its new competition. By the time the second of these ads aired, Cymbalta had received FDA approval for fibro- myalgia and Savella’s approval was imminent. Perhaps to further distance the disorder from depression, these two ads are far less dark and distressing in mood than is the original commercial. In contrast to the suffering woman sitting and reading from her diary, these commercials are literally “sunny” and more strongly empha- size the women’s improved function. By linking use of the drug to pleasurable leisure activities, the positive emotional appeal (Frosch et al., 2007) is more strongly conveyed in these ads than is the case in the original commercial. The active woman with fibromyalgia becomes even more central in the next wave of Lyrica commercials.

Two new commercials appeared in 2009. In both of these advertisements the women who are portrayed with fibromyalgia are at work. One commercial centers on a woman who looks as if she either owns or manages a high-end bakery. It opens with the women saying, “My muscles ached all over. I felt this deep, lingering pain that was a complete mystery to me. My doctor diagnosed it as fibromyalgia muscle pain and then he recom- mended Lyrica.” She goes on to explain, “Fibromyalgia is thought to be the result of overactive nerves that cause widespread pain. Lyrica is FDA approved to help relieve the unique pain of fibro- myalgia.” The woman is then shown warmly greeting her public and working long hours in order to create elaborate and beautiful confections. Now that she takes Lyrica, she explains, she has less pain and can do more. Surrounded by pastries of her own creation, she asks, “How sweet is that?”

The other 2009 commercial portrayed a university professor in an empty lecture hall at the end of her class session. The professor tells the television audience, “I had chronic muscle pain all over, and I was so tender to the touch, but I didn’t know why. My doctor diagnosed it as fibromyalgia and then he recommended Lyrica.” Like the baker who found her pain “a complete mystery,” this commercial addresses the lack of public awareness about fibro- myalgia; even a university professor was bewildered by her pain symptoms. Now, however, the professor educates the audience, using the same lines as the baker regarding “overactive nerves” and Lyrica’s ability to relieve the “unique pain” of fibromyalgia. Also like the ad featuring the hard-working baker, this commercial empha- sizes the transformative potential of the drug. With the professor’s voiceover listing the drug’s side effects, she is shown walking across campus with her briefcase in tow, smiling and greeting students, and joining colleagues for espresso at an outdoor cafe. The commercial ends with the professor asking the viewing audience: “Could your pain be caused by Fibromyalgia? Ask your doctor about Lyrica today.”

Like the previous commercials, these two follow the narrative outlined by Frosch et al. (2007) (control lost, control regained, and concomitant social rewards). But unlike the earlier versions, these

advertisements emphasize identifying one’s mysterious pain as fibromyalgia as an intervening step toward regaining control over one’s life. Whereas the narrative in the earlier commercials is premised on the assumption that the viewers, like the women portrayed, already have a fibromyalgia diagnosis, the women in these two commercials describe how their doctors diagnosed their inexplicable pain as fibromyalgia. The simple statement, “My doctor diagnosed it as fibromyalgia” grants both the diagnosis and the pain validity. Additionally, instead of telling the audience that fibromyalgia is a “real” condition and that Lyrica is “not an anti- depressant,” the women in these ads provide a brief medical explanation for fibromyalgia and explain how Lyrica relives the “unique pain” of fibromyalgia in medical terms. Both women are shown in demanding jobs, rather than reading from a diary, vacationing in New Orleans, or gardening, which lends additional symbolic credibility to these women’s explanation and experience of fibromyalgia. There are additional symbolic benefits of featuring women at work. In the same fashion that the advertising campaign counters the notion that women with fibromyalgia are imagining or exaggerating the symptoms, it must also counter the related notion that fibromyalgia sufferers are malingers. As portrayed, these women are not using a diagnosis to skirt workplace responsibilities.

The career woman and the medical science of fibromyalgia are also narrative elements in the final Lyrica commercial to air during the period studied. This commercial, which first aired in the spring of 2010, expands on the account of “overactive nerves” introduced by the baker and the professor (Pfizer Inc., 2010a). The commercial features a very chic and attractive woman fashion designer in her fifties. She is shown sketching the design for a dress, selecting and cutting the perfect fabric, and carefully fitting the garment on a youthful model. Prior to this, the woman touches her shoulder and the viewer sees a visual presentation of her muscles tissue; then, traveling into the central nervous system, the viewer sees an image meant to depict “overactive” neural firing upon which the word “FIBROMYALGIA” is superimposed (Fig. 1). With these images on the screen, the woman narrates:

� I had ongoing pain; a deep ache all over. I found out that connected to our muscles are nerves that send messages through the body. My doctor diagnosed it as fibromyalgia, thought to be the result of overactive nerves that cause chronic widespread pain. Lyrica is believed to calm these nerves. I learned Lyrica can provide significant relief from fibromyalgia pain. So now I can do more of what I love.

The commercial ends with the woman telling the viewing audience, “I found answers about fibromyalgia. Then I found Lyrica. Ask your doctor about Lyrica today.” Along with depicting the pre- Lyrica limitations and the post-Lyrica freedoms, this commercial

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strongly emphasizes the importance of becoming aware of fibro- myalgia as part of this transformation. Among other things, this makes clear that, like the ads featuring the baker and professor, the principal target audience are individuals who are not yet diagnosed with fibromyalgia and may have never heard of the diagnosis before.

A particularly noteworthy aspect of this ad is its use of a visual image to depict the bodily mechanisms said to underlie the disorder. The image promotes the theory that fibromyalgia is a neurochemical aberration referred to as central sensitization. Using a visual image to represent a disease that in fact lacks any visible biomedical properties is a potent symbolic strategy. After all, scientific imagery and biomedical authority go hand in hand (Joyce, 2008). Although the image is merely a dramatization, it seems intended to look real (i.e., a high-tech image of disordered neural functioning) and viewers are likely to believe that they are actually looking at the organic basis of fibromyalgia. The important cultural association between biomedical visibility and reality is well deployed by Pfizer with the result that this 60-second commercial implicitly confirms the existence of fibromyalgia.

The DTCA campaign for Lyrica has evolved since the first commercial appeared in 2007. Nevertheless, some of the campaign’s elements have remained consistent. Without question, the pharmaceutical resurrection that allows the individual to become more active, is the dominant narrative thread in all six commercials. Applicable here is the concern of many clinicians and scholars that DTCA suggests that the ability to work and play hard and live a happier life is just a prescription away (Fox & Ward, 2008). Extrapolating from clinical trials, Lyrica does provide some symptom relief for some people. As observed in other DTCA campaigns, however, the Lyrica ads portray the best-case scenario rather than the average benefit to the average person (Frosch et al., 2007). Accentuating positive outcomes is likely to result in unre- alistic expectations on the part of some consumers and also to lead them to deemphasize potential adverse reactions. The use of slender women in all of the commercials, for instance, counters one of the most common side effects of Lyrica, significant weight gain. In the commercial featuring the professor, at the exact second that “suicidal thoughts and tendencies” are listed as a possible side effect, the screen fills with a burst of glorious sunshine coming through the trees engulfing the professor in a warm glow. This cannot be a coincidence and it seems troublingly manipulative given the desperation for relief among chronic pain sufferers.

The status of fibromyalgia as a “real” illness (i.e., not a mental illness) has also been a prominent feature of the DTCA campaign for Lyrica from the onset. In the earlier commercials Pfizer disassoci- ates Lyrica from anti-depressants in an effort to conceptually distinguish fibromyalgia from a mental illness designation. The later commercials promote the theory that fibromyalgia is a disorder of central sensitization, eventually using imagery to connote its organic nature. By having the women explain that their heretofore mysterious pain was diagnosed as fibromyalgia by their doctors, the later commercials add a new narrative element to bolster fibromyalgia’s diagnostic legitimacy. By featuring women in the workplace, the latter commercials also symbolically assert that fibromyalgics are not malingers. At each step, the process of legit- imating fibromyalgia in the DTCA campaign has been fundamen- tally tied to the feminization of the disorder. On one hand the very premise of the campaign, that fibromyalgia is a real disorder, vali- dates women’s experience, even if used as a tactic for tapping into a lucrative market. On the other hand, in an effort to portray the women as credible and the drug as effective, the campaign’s representation of fibromyalgia bears little resemblance to the reality of fibromyalgia for most sufferers. The gulf between fibro- myalgia as represented in DTCA and as a lived experience will be addressed in more detail later in the paper.

These efforts on the part of Pfizer to legitimate fibromyalgia in effect pick up where the ACR criteria left off with respect to advancing fibromyalgia toward a more fully accepted medical phenomenon. Whether or not Lyrica can complete what has thus far been a partial medicalization of the fibromyalgia diagnosis, sales of the drug shot up dramatically in the wake of the FDA approval. The 2007 revenues for Lyrica were $1.8 billion, an increase of 58 percent from the previous year (i.e., prior to the drug’s approval for fibromyalgia). Sales in 2008 and 2009 also increased dramatically ($2.6 and $2.8 billion respectively). In 2009, the only Pfizer drug with higher revenues than Lyrica was Lipitor. Lyrica sales even outpaced those of the company’s highly visible blockbuster Viagra (Pfizer Inc., 2008, 2009, 2010b). Industry experts predict continued robust increases through 2018, aided in no small part by Pfizer’s DTCA campaign (Hohenberg et al., 2007). These numbers are impressive but they only tell us part of the story. I now examine the response of fibromyalgia sufferers to Lyrica.

Pharmaceutical optimism: a drug of one’s own

One of the most important observations about posts to Fibro Spot concerning Lyrica (pregabalin) is that they began to appear several years before the drug received FDA approval for any indi- cation. There are posts, for example, summarizing a clinical trial of pregabalin for fibromyalgia in 2004; posts announcing the FDA approval of the drug for the treatment of neuropathic pain disor- ders in 2005; and then a flurry of posts from individuals reporting back to the group about their own experience taking the drug on an off-label basis prior to its subsequent approval for fibromyalgia in June 2007. This is an important observation because it makes clear that participants at Fibro Spot did not learn about Lyrica from the DTCA campaign. Instead, they had been eagerly following the development of this new drug option for years. This fact requires an appreciation of the overwhelming symptom experience of fibro- myalgia, the condition’s exceedingly poor response to existing medical treatments, and the desperation many sufferers feel for some symptom abatement. In this regard their interest in pre- gabalin was no different than their interest in any promising drug treatment option on the horizon.

Even though Lyrica was already on the radar of many Fibro Spot participants, they were nevertheless enthusiastic about the drug’s approval for fibromyalgia. In the eyes of most sufferers and advo- cates, the FDA approval represented a tremendous victory. Fibro- myalgia advocacy groups, like the National Fibromyalgia Association (NFA), marked the event as an important step toward destigmatizing the condition and those it afflicts. Lynn Matallana, the NFA President was quoted in the New York Times: “The day that the F.D.A. approved a drug and we had a public service announcement, my pain became real to people” (Berenson, 2008). President Matallana also posted the following statement on the NFA website announcing the FDA approval of Lyrica:

� The National Fibromyalgia Association has been working for over ten years to raise awareness of fibromyalgia and its debilitating chronic pain that affects the lives of 6 to 10 million people in the United States. During that time, we have also been hoping and waiting to have an effective drug treatment approved by the FDA specifically for fibromyalgia so that we no longer have to hear our health care providers tell us “there is nothing I can do for you,” or worse, the pain is “all in your head.” .[N]ow more than ever we are hopeful that public and medical awareness will improve and patients will have an effective treatment that could help reduce their suffering. The future is bright indeed (Matallana, 2007).

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Like Matallana’s NFA statement, posts on Fibro Spot similarly capture the felt significance of having a drug of one’s own. The following exchange is illustrative in this regard:

� A huge step for FM was made today. The NFA posted an article that today a drug was approved by the FDA for the treatment of FM, Lyrica. Progress is being made!

� [A]bout LYRICA, i tried it some time ago and it didn’t help me but hopefully it helps others. at least there is a drug being used to help some people with FIBROMYALGIA. may be people will now understand that it is real and not just in our heads.

� Thanks so much for the news about Lyrica. May be now that there is a drug for it, docs will take fibro more seriously.

These and other posts foreground the meaning of a fibromyalgia drug in terms of potential therapeutic progress, diagnostic accep- tance, illness recognition, and personal validation. Even individuals who know the drug offers them no therapeutic hope recognize Lyrica as a symbolic victory. As gleefully noted by one poster, the general public is likely to conclude that, “[i]f there is a medication for it then it MUST be real!”

When the first Lyrica television commercial aired it was an instant topic on Fibro Spot. Participants were quick to realize that the DTCA campaign could do more to spread the word about fibromyalgia than all their previous efforts to explain their invisible illness to doctors, family, and friends. The following post from Fibro Spot captures the reaction of many participants, as well as the general buzz at other online fibromyalgia communities.

� I just HAD to tell you all that in the last week I had 2, yes 2 people ask me about my fibro. They said they did not know it was a real disease until they saw the commercial about Lyrica! Its not enough for US to tell them. Noooooooo.they have to see it on TV. [.] We have been telling the truth to family and friends forever. [.] I think that Lyrica commercial is going to be one of the best things that ever happened to us.whether the med helps or not. It somehow validates us as human beings that have a debilitating illness not just the hypochondriacs they thought we were!

Lyrica commercials, it seems, are more capable of speaking authoritatively about the reality of fibromyalgia than are sufferers. Similarly hopeful, another participant applauded the advertise- ment for its ability to “help us with those who do not recognize our ‘silent illness.’”

These comments concerning the FDA approval Lyrica for the treatment of fibromyalgia and the ensuing DTCA campaign make clear that Fibro Spot participants hope that the approval and marketing of a prescription medication can do what has not yet been accomplished. Namely, legitimize the fibromyalgia diagnosis and corroborate their suffering. This route to diagnostic and personal validation hinges on whether the medical community and the general public will listen to Lyrica; that is, endow a prescription medication with the cultural authority to define what is medically real. In this regard, the actual force of pharmaceutical determinism remains to be seen. It is, however, already clear that the portrayal of fibromyalgia advanced by Pfizer is seen as problematic in the eyes of many sufferers.

Pharmaceutical Realism: the limitations of Lyrica and its DTCA representation

Shortly after these data were collected, Fibro Spot, which had been in existence for more than a decade, disappeared. Ironically, in a previous article I noted that Fibro Spot had remarkable staying

power among online illness support groups (Barker, 2008). Although the group membership was still strong, the world of online illness support has changed dramatically in the last several years. It has become more concentrated and corporately backed (e.g., Web M.D.) and has also moved onto social networking sites (e.g., Facebook). One can assume that some Fibro Spot members dispersed to better-financed forums and those hosted on newer technological platforms. Unfortunately, this makes tracking their responses to the evolving DTCA campaign for Lyrica impossible.

One can, however, readily gauge the reactions to the Lyrica commercials as expressed by fibromyalgia sufferers in a number of online venues. The early response shared the same optimism expressed at Fibro Spot that the commercials are getting the word out and increasing awareness about fibromyalgia. But this hope quickly gave way to heated criticism. As is plainly evident in the posts on Fibro Spot, sufferers want the commercials to do much more than sell a new drug to treat fibromyalgia through the use of glamorous images and exaggerated claims. Among other things they want the commercials to accurately explain the experience of fibromyalgia to the general public and silence medical skeptics. On this score the DTCA campaign is judged to be an utter failure. There is widespread anger that the women depicted with fibromyalgia in the commercials are too beautiful, too fit, too active, and too transformed by the medication. One fibromyalgia blogger captured the opinion of many when she asked, “So, where does the middle- aged frump (me) see herself in this ad?” (http://eclecticwoman. wordpress.com).

But, by far the most intense criticism of the advertising campaign emphasizes its perceived gross mischaracterization of fibromyalgia. The commercials, many bemoan, give the troubling impression that fibromyalgia is something akin to a headache; a minor ailment that is easily and fully remedied by a single pill. It takes only a few minutes of online searching to tap into the widespread outrage at the implication that Lyrica will miraculously restore their health and allow them to reclaim an active lifestyle. The following comments mirror those of many others:

� I hate the TV commercials on Lyrica because it makes it seem that ‘if you take Lyrica you can live a normal life’ What a bunch of crap!” (http://www.healthcentral.com/chronic-pain/c/ 365418/110033/comments/).

� It’s a horrible drug with a misleading commercial showing women still working and enjoying life when there is no enjoying life with Fibro (http://forums.commercialsihate.com/ forum_posts.asp?TID¼5825)

Posts and comments from a variety of forums suggest that the commercials should depict real fibromyalgia sufferers sharing their actual experiences with the drug. The following blog post uses humor to make the point:

� Let’s all get together and make a real Fibro commercial, it would take them months to videotape us getting out of bed, trying to open soda cans or jars, trying to go to work, do our hair or get dressed, trying to sleep. They would give up filming us after about a week of it!! (http://eclecticwoman. wordpress.com)

There were also a number of suggestions, some tongue-in-cheek, for commercials that portrayed the potential side effects of the drug, such as showing women made so fatigued they cannot get out of bed, so dizzy they cannot walk in a straight line, and so bloated and overweight they cannot move.

There is well-founded concern that when DTCA campaigns accentuate positive outcomes, as they invariably do, some

K.K. Barker / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 833e842840

consumers develop inflated expectations about what the drug can accomplish (Frosch et al., 2007). What stands out in this case is how strongly fibromyalgia sufferers resent that the commercials create an unrealistic public expectation about what both Lyrica and they themselves can do. The following comments describe the situation this way:

� “[H]ow many people believe those commercials. I hear that all the time. ‘Why don’t you just take that Lyrica pill, you will feel better in no time.’ Yeah, right!” (http://www.prohealth.com/ me-cfs/blog/boardDetail.cfm?id¼1257217).

� “I hate that commercial. It makes most of my friends/family think I can swallow a pill and be healed. Very misleading” (http://www.facebook.com/topic.php? uid¼321530056520&topic¼12165).

Of course what is so troubling to sufferers about this disjuncture is that it reconnects with their long-standing struggles to have their illness taken seriously. If Lyrica does not restore them to health, as seen on television, and in the vast majority of cases it will not, this could be used to confirm that their problem is all in their head, that they are hysterical, or that they do not want to get better. The following comments are illustrative of what sufferers think:

� I was saddened by these commercials because they hawk a “miracle” that just doesn’t exist, they give a false impression of what the pills actually do, they give the uninformed/ uncaring people in my life yet more misguided ideas about how I am “not really trying”.I agree that these ads are a complete and utter joke and do more harm than good (http://www. wearefibro.org/michellehamilton/discussions/837).

� These commercials are completely unrealistic and unfortu- nately people believe what they see on TV. My family sees a commercial like this and they believe this one little pill will fix me. And if it doesn’t then I either must be exaggerating or it’s somehow my fault that I’m not getting better (http://www. dailystrength.org/c/Fibromyalgia/forum/9639628-another- new-commercial-lyrica).

These angry comments reveal a critical stance toward pharma- ceutical advertising. Very few of the women, even among those who had not tried the medication, were passively or uncritically “buying” the advertised message.

Juxtaposed to these comments concerning the DTCA campaign, are the experiences of those who were taking or had taken Lyrica. As noted there were posts on Fibro Spot reporting individual results of pregabalin (Lyrica) use years before the drug’s approval for fibromyalgia. Motivated in no small part by the near total ineffec- tiveness of existing treatment options, a number of Fibro Spot participants started taking Lyrica on an off-label basis shortly after it was approved for neuropathic pain disorders in 2004. As is the custom at Fibro Spot, members reported back to the group about their new drug ventures. From the beginning the accounts of their use of Lyrica were fairly tempered.

Their stories can be summarized thusly: a very small number of success stories, some of which turned out to be short lived, a few reports modest lackluster benefits, more accounts of insignificant benefits, and numerous chronicles of side effects, most often resulting in discontinued use. One woman who had been taking the drug for a year said it worked better than anything she tried: “It isn’t a cure all” but, without it she continued, “I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the a.m.” The most positive testimonial came from a woman who described Lyrica as “a miracle drug.” Prior to taking the drug her pain was so severe she was unable to function even on high doses of narcotic pain medications. After being on Lyrica for

just over a month, she was able to bake bread with her grand- children and join a gym. Unfortunately two months later she reported that her miracle drug was no longer providing her with any relief. Others described the all-too-common experience of the drug working for a while, only to wear off:

� I’ve tried the Lyrica, it was like a miracle drug the first three weeks. Then the dragon symptoms slowly crept back in to the point where they were before. [.] That’s not saying it won’t help someone else. I pray that it does. At least the word is getting out there that FM is a real disorder, and not “all in our heads.”

A number of women reported significant pain reduction, but at the expense of side effects that they found simply too much to endure.

� I was just on Lyrica. Love it. No pain for weeks. So good I made all kinds of excuses as to why I was turning red and itching everywhere. Had bumps start showing up and becoming sores. Told everyone (including me) it must be the cats. Never allergic to them before but what the hell. Finally feet and hands swelled up and doc took me off med.

The views expressed on Fibro Spot concerning the drugs efficacy parallels that seen on other online venues. There are a small number of individuals who report benefits with Lyrica, most often in combination with several other drugs; and, even then, the gains sometimes come with significant side effects. There are a few reports of a modest reduction in pain, many reports of no improvement at all, and a catalog of complaints including fatigue, weight gain, vertigo, hallucinations, mental confusion, painful swelling of hands and feet, itching and rashes, and suicidal thoughts. Even taking into consideration the few individuals who describe Lyrica as “a miracle drug” or “life saver,” there is no evidence found online of lives transformed as radically as seen in the best-case scenarios portrayed in the televisions commercials.

Obviously the posts on Fibro Spot and a perusal of online chat is no substitute for randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled clinical studies. In general, these online comments are not incom- mensurate with the findings from the two clinical trials used to support the FDA approval of Lyrica. These studies, which were subsequently published in 2008, found non-dramatic but statisti- cally significant improvements in pain and other fibromyalgia symptoms between patients on pregabalin compared to those taking a placebo. In one study, the difference in self-reported pain ratings between these groups was 4.66 vs. 5.64 on a scale of 0 (no pain) to 10 (worst possible pain) (Arnold et al., 2008). This study also found that those on pregabalin had improved scores on a widely used patient scale or questionnaire designed to evaluate the impact of symptoms on overall level of functioning, but found no such improvements in scores on another commonly used patient ques- tionnaire. The other study’s primary outcome measure was the length of time patients reported some therapeutic response. The main finding: “[P]regabalin was associated with a significantly longer time to worsening than was placebo” in terms of reported pain level and some other fibromyalgia symptoms including fatigue and sleep disturbances (Crofford et al., 2008: 429). In other words, it took longer for any meaningful benefits of the drug to wear off than it took for any meaningful benefits of the placebo to wear off. Even these nominal differences between treatment and placebo groups in these studies, however, may be partly a methodological artifact. The first study excluded individuals who did not respond favorably to the drug in a short trial phase of the study prior to randomizing subjects into the treatment and placebo groups. The second study

K.K. Barker / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 833e842 841

excluded individuals who were “placebo responders” during a one- week phase of the study prior to randomizing individuals into the treatment and placebo groups. By removing the individuals not likely to respond to the drug in one case, and those most likely to respond to the placebo in the other case, researchers maximized the probability of demonstrating the drug’s efficacy compared to a placebo. Both studies were funded by Pfizer.

Discussion

Although the pharmaceutical industry did not play a central role in creating the fibromyalgia diagnosis, it has become instrumental in its promotion and promises to become even more so in the immediate future. After the establishment of the ACR criteria, pharmaceutical companies seeded peer-reviewed clinical research that resulted in the criteria’s propagation (Hadler & Greenhalgh, 2005). In addition, the pharmaceutical industry has supported fibro-friendly physicians and sponsored physician education about fibromyalgia. All of these efforts have been aimed at convincing physicians that fibromyalgia is a discrete disease entity. This strategy has met with only limited success; many physicians are not yet persuaded (Wolfe, 2009).

The DTCA campaign for Lyrica and the campaigns for other fibromyalgia drugs that will soon follow, represent the next phase in the promotion of the fibromyalgia diagnosis. There is much riding on Lyrica. Not just because fibromyalgia sufferers long for some symptom relief, but also because the very existence of approved drugs shores up a biomedical account of the disorder. Rather than a collection of pills for a collection of ill-defined symptoms, Lyrica contributes to the reification of fibromyalgia. As new drugs receive FDA approval for fibromyalgia and other con- tested diagnoses, the logic of pharmaceutical determinism will similarly reveal itself. That is, a central rhetorical feature in the DTCA campaign for these drugs is bound to use the existence of an approved medication to corroborate the existence of the contested condition itself. Pharmaceutical companies are likely to market medications targeted at conceptually peeling off many contested illnesses currently lumped together as functional somatic disorders in the medical literature.

Even though Pfizer’s promotion of the fibromyalgia diagnosis endorses its drug and increasing its profits, in the process it threatens to discredit the suffering of individuals with fibromyalgia. In this way, the DTCA campaign is both a blessing and a curse in the eyes of those already diagnosed. Getting the word out about fibromyalgia has long been seen as a necessary step toward legiti- mization, but getting the wrong word out is not what most would have hoped for. Although sufferers might have been able to over- look the fact that the women featured in the Lyrica ads are beautiful and bourgeois, it is more difficult to overlook the fact that the commercials portray fibromyalgia as a condition that is readily overcome. While it’s easy to understand why sufferers hoped that Lyrica could vindicate them, depicting their disease as an unre- lenting and encumbering condition, even when tempered by the medication, would not be a lucrative marketing strategy. So it is that the result of the DTCA for Lyrica is that it simultaneously medicalizes and trivializes women’s suffering. The gap between the DTCA portrayal of fibromyalgia and the reality of fibromyalgia can be discrediting. The commercials threaten to cast any individual sufferer who continues to be mired in her illness, given the avail- ability of this proven medication, as hysterical. Pharmaceutical determinism, therefore, may bolster the cultural creditability of a diagnostic category and still fail to validate an individual’s illness experience.

The Lyrica campaign is apt to contribute to medicalization by producing a new cohort of fibromyalgics. The more recent

commercials target those not yet diagnosed by encouraging primarily middle-aged women to indentify their common symp- toms as fibromyalgia. Symptoms do not a disease make; and, yet, when it comes to medically unexplained symptoms “society does not readily grant permission to be ill in the absence of disease” (Nettleton, 2006: 1167). The DTCA commercials for Lyrica d and those for future drugs targeting contested illnesses d will simply provide a new venue for access to diagnoses for which there is already considerable hunger. Because they have more health complaints then their male counterparts, women are more likely to identify with DTCA narratives that suggest that their pain, fatigue, and othercommon symptoms are signs of particulardisease entities. If asking your doctor for a specific diagnosis is akin to asking him or her for a specific prescription medication, physicians are likely to comply. Their compliance is even more likely given that the diag- nostic criteria are so accommodating that it is essentially impossible not to diagnose every patient who reports widespread pain of unknown origins with fibromyalgia (Cohen,1999). Furthermore, the fact of the matter is that these drugs are a boon to health care providers and institutions. Contested illness patients are notoriously time and resource intensive in institutional settings where time is a premium and resources are managed (Barsky & Borus,1995). New medications targeting this difficult population give clinicians something to offer their beleaguered patients that is relatively cost and time effective, even if it may not be particularly therapeutically effective. The approval of drugs for contested illnesses will thus encourage skeptical physicians and cynical managed care organi- zations to contribute to the propagation of these diagnoses. The analysis presented here strongly suggests such outcomes but research assessing the empirical relationship between DTCA and increases in contested illness diagnoses is necessary.

The above observations draw our attention to the complex character of pharmaceutical determinism as played out in this case. The logic of pharmaceutical determinism encourages sufferers to experience the FDA approval of Lyrica for the treatment of fibro- myalgia as an unambiguous victory; this, despite their anger at or critical stance toward the DTCA campaign, or their personal expe- rience of the drug’s limited effectiveness or concomitant side effects. Clinician’s interpretations and actions are likewise shaped by the mere existence of Lyrica as an approved drug for fibro- myalgia. In other words, the deterministic capacities of pharma- ceuticals (i.e., subsequent beliefs and actions are determined by the existence of a drug) are at work even when the key players e patient consumers and clinicians e have a host of misgivings about the pharmaceuticals and diagnoses in question.

The medicalization of women’s distress under the rubric of fibromyalgia has been woefully ineffective. Fibromyalgia has not responded well to medical management (Goldenberg et al., 2004; Wolfe & Michaud, 2009). It seems unlikely that any medical inter- vention, including pharmaceuticals, will offer significant relief to a considerable number of individuals diagnosed with fibromyalgia. This is not because those with fibromyalgia are hysterics or malingers, but because fibromyalgia is a conceptual label applied to so many common symptoms whose origins are varied and complex. I am not suggesting that women’s common symptoms are incon- sequently or insufficiently worthy of redress. The important point is to recognize the consequences and limitations of framing women’s common distress as a discrete disease entity. Fibromyalgia sufferers and advocates promote the theory that fibromyalgia is a neuro- chemical aberration and now point to the FDA approval of Lyrica to support this conclusion. However, this theory of fibromyalgia cannot account for the disorder’s overwhelming feminization (Barker, 2005). Here the insights of feminist scholars vis-à-vis medicalization are indispensable. When we define women’s problems as medical in nature, we disregard the fact that gender

K.K. Barker / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 833e842842

practices and gender inequality negatively impact women’s health in myriad ways (Doyal, 1995; Lorber, 1997; Ruzek, Olsen, & Clarke, 1997). Pharmaceutical determinism continues the trend of defining women’s distress in narrow medical terms and pharma- ceuticals will continue to be a poor remedy for the complex processes that translate into women’s high rates of morbidity. If the goal is to lessen the suffering that characterizes fibromyalgia, our failure to be attentive to these realities will be one of the most regrettable outcomes of listening to Lyrica.

Acknowledgments

The author thanks Tasha Galardi, Val Burris, four anonymous reviewers, and the guest editors of this special issue for their comments and feedback.

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  • Listening to Lyrica: contested illnesses and pharmaceutical determinism
    • Medicalization: fibro and pharma
    • Data and methods
    • Analysis
      • Pharmaceutical Opportunism: DTCA & making fibromyalgia real
      • Pharmaceutical optimism: a drug of one’s own
      • Pharmaceutical Realism: the limitations of Lyrica and its DTCA representation
    • Discussion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Cancer diagnosis as discursive capture: Phenomenological repercussions of being positioned within dominant constructions of cancer

Carla Willig*

City University, London Department of Psychology, School of Social Sciences, Northampton Square, London EC1V 0HB, United Kingdom

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 8 March 2011

Keywords: Cancer diagnosis Discourse Discursive positioning Phenomenological repercussions Experience of illness

* Tel.: þ44 2070408522. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.02.028

a b s t r a c t

This paper is concerned with the phenomenological repercussions of being positioned within widely available discursive constructions of cancer. One of the many challenges of being diagnosed with cancer is that it requires the person to make sense of the diagnosis and to find meaning in their changed circumstances. From a social constructionist point of view, such meaning is made out of discursive resources which are available within one’s culture. This paper critically reviews some of the dominant discourses surrounding cancer which are available within English-speaking Western industrialized cultures. It maps out the discursive positions available to those diagnosed with cancer and it traces some of their implications for how cancer may be experienced and how it may be lived with. As such, this paper is concerned with the social and psychological consequences of being positioned within dominant cancer discourses.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

In an earlier paper (Willig, 2009) I reflected on the process of meaning-making during the process of being diagnosed with cancer. In this earlier paper I described my own experience of the process of attempting to construct and maintain a serviceable narrative that made sense of what was happening to me in the midst of emotional turmoil and uncertainty. I reflected on the experience of being thrown into a new and unsettling discursive universe and the consequences of this for my experience of myself and my relationships with other people. One of the key points I made in the paper was that upon being diagnosed with cancer I quickly realised that not all available ways of making sense of my experience were helpful to me. I also noticed that during a time when I was still searching for meaning in my experience, other people’s comments on my situation (and the meanings around cancer which they invoked) could be extremely unsettling for me. It felt as though I had to work hard to resist and hold at bay proffered meanings which, to me, seemed unhelpful or even destructive.

In this present paper, I build upon, but also move beyond, my own experience. I aim to map out the discursive positions available to those diagnosed with cancer and to trace some of their impli- cations for how cancer can be experienced and lived with. As such, this paper is concerned with the social and psychological

All rights reserved.

consequences of being positioned within some of the dominant discourses associated with cancer diagnosis in contemporary English-speaking Western industrialised cultures such as those found in the United Kingdom, the USA, Australia and New Zealand.

The role of diagnosis

Jutel (2009: p. 278) argues that “[D]iagnosis is (.) a powerful social tool, with unique features and impacts which deserve their own specific analysis”. She observes that research into the social processes associated with diagnosis has explored the place of diagnosis in the institution of medicine, the social framing of disease definitions, the means by which diagnosis confers authority on medicine, and how that authority is challenged. In this paper, I am concerned with the effects of a medical diagnosis beyond the clinic. I focus on how a medical diagnosis positions the patient in relation to ‘healthy’ others in society rather than in relation to medical professionals which appears to be a more common focus in social research in this area (see Blaxter, 2009 and Jutel, 2009 for reviews of such literature). I examine the phenomenological repercussions of such positions for those who find themselves in them. I am also concerned with the narrative struggle (that is, the struggle over what constitutes a legitimate narrative), both internal and external, which takes place once a person has been thrown into the discursive space available to those diagnosed with cancer within a particular socio-cultural context. There is, of course, more to a cancer diagnosis than its social and discursive dimensions; my

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interest in these aspects of diagnosis co-exists with an under- standing of the importance of the material structures (biological, physiological) which shape our embodied experience of both health and illness.

It is also important to acknowledge that the experience of cancer takes the form of a trajectory (Wiener, Strauss, Fagerhaugh & Suczek, 1997 cited in Tritter, 2009) or ‘journey’ (National Cancer Alliance, 1995, cited in Tritter, 2009) which involves a series of moments, or “crisis points” as Coward (2000: 158) puts it, of which diagnosis is but one. Tritter (2009) points out that patients’ understanding of cancer changes as they move along their cancer trajectory and each ‘stop’ on the cancer journey involves a shift in their epistemological stance towards cancer. Tritter (2009: p. 164) argues that this results in “(.) a series of transformed identities based on particular understandings of cancer and what it is to be a cancer patient” and that patients’ needs change as their under- standing of cancer changes. Diagnosis, as one of the first stops on this epistemological journey, tends to give rise to a desire for information. It is a time when patients find themselves in a position where they have to construct an entirely new identity for them- selves (as ‘cancer patient’). This paper is concerned with the social process of diagnosis and as such it is concerned with the initial epistemological challenge which marks the beginning of the cancer journey.

While this paper is particularly concerned with the more problematic aspects of the discursive construction of being diag- nosed with cancer, I do acknowledge that there are also positive (social and psychological) consequences of diagnosis including a sense of validation of a complaint once it has been recognised as a legitimate medical condition (eg. Lillrank, 2003, with regard to chronic back pain) and access to a collective identity and a reduc- tion in social isolation (eg. Chiong, 2001; both of these cited in Jutel, 2009). This is particularly the case for those diagnosed with “rare, unfamiliar or ‘poorly understood’ disorders” for whom access to and identification with support groups can be very helpful (Fleischman, 1999: p. 18).

The role of discourse

The way we talk about something is important because people situate personal experiences within a social and discursive context. Foucault’s work on the relationship between the construction of meaning through language and the kinds of subjectivities which become available as a result has been highly influential in drawing attention to the importance of discourse in regulating social and psychological life (eg. Foucault, 1982, 1990). From a Foucauldian point of view, discourses make available to us particular (histori- cally and culturally specific) ways of ordering and making sense of the world including ourselves. They make available discursive spaces, or ‘positions’, which we can occupy and this has implica- tions for how others will perceive us and how we will experience ourselves. These positions also confer rights and responsibilities upon those who occupy them (see Harré and Langenhove, 1999). Discursive positions can be resisted or subverted, and it is impor- tant to acknowledge that although the discursive context we find ourselves in is a social given (that is to say, we are ‘born into it’), speakers are also active users of discursive resources.

Part of the discursive context within which people experience being diagnosed with cancer includes increasingly frequent media coverage of cancer ‘survivor stories’ of celebrities and ordinary people (see Wray, Marcovic & Manderson, 2007: p. 3 for examples), widely available public health/health promotion materials con- cerned with cancer prevention and lifestyle advice (Lupton, 1995) as well as popularizations of scientific articles in the media (eg. Williams Camus, 2009).

As early as 1977, in Illness as Metaphor, Susan Sontag (1991) explored the various subject positions contained within widely used cancer metaphors and their implications for those who are captured by them. She observed that “(.) it is hardly possible to take up one’s residence in the kingdom of the ill unprejudiced by the lurid metaphors with which it has been landscaped” (1991:3). Sontag argued that giving a disease moral meaning is a punitive process which positions those who are diagnosed with the disease as culpable, as tainted, as shamed. More recently, Stacey (1997) has presented a comprehensive account of how cancer is perceived, experienced and theorised in contemporary society. Unlike Sontag, who excluded biomedical discourse from her critical reading, Sta- cey’s analysis includes an examination of alternative/complemen- tary therapy, self-help as well as biomedical discourses. Through an exploration of her own experience of being diagnosed with cancer, Stacey demonstrates how various constructions of cancer con- tained within these discourses positioned her and shaped her experiences including her sense of self, demonstrating, as she (1997: p. 28) puts it “(.) some of the ways in which a person with cancer is subject to, if not bombarded with, powerful and contra- dictory discourses about the nature of their illness” and the “confusion and panic” that can result from this.

In what follows, I identify a number of dominant discursive constructions of meaning around cancer which those who have been diagnosed with cancer will almost certainly encounter and which are therefore likely to mediate the ways in which they are able to make sense of their experiences. My discussion draws on my own experience of being diagnosed with cancer (Willig, 2009), a range of recently published research papers as well as earlier work by Sontag (1991) and Stacey (1997). The phenomenological implications of being captured and positioned by these construc- tions will be explored and their social-psychological consequences will be considered.

As such, the method used in order to generate the analysis presented in this paper is a version of discourse analysis inspired by the work of Michel Foucault (see Parker,1992; Willig, 2008, chapter 7). It is based on the idea that discourse constructs the objects and subjects of which it speaks; it defines discourses as “sets of state- ments that construct objects and an array of subject positions” (Parker, 1994: p. 245). This approach makes a connection between available discourses and subject position on the one hand, and their implications for subjectivity and practise on the other. This is to say, it begins with the identification of prevalent discursive construc- tions of meaning around particular phenomena (in this case, ‘cancer diagnosis’) including the discursive construction of the human subjects who experience and enact the phenomenon in question. This is followed by an exploration of the implications of these discursive constructions for practice by mapping the possi- bilities for action contained within them. Finally, the analysis traces the consequences of being positioned within such constructions for a person’s subjective experience of themselves and of the world around them. This is to say, having asked questions about what can be said and done from within particular discourses, we consider what can be felt, thought and experienced from within available subject positions.

Discursive constructions of cancer and its meanings

The cultural imperative to ‘Think Positively’

My own experience of being diagnosed with cancer made me acutely aware of the presence of something like a cultural imper- ative to ‘think positively’. Thinking positively means demonstrating faith in the belief that things will turn out well and that every problem can be solved. In relation to a cancer diagnosis, it also

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seems to mean that death as a possible outcome is not to be acknowledged or talked about. I (Willig, 2009: p. 185) soon realised that to acknowledge death as a possible outcome was constructed as a morbid preoccupation, as “something unhealthy and illegiti- mate (or impossible), at least while death is a mere possibility rather than a certainty”. Similar observations have been made by other authors. In her recent book aptly entitled ‘Smile or Die’, Ehrenreich (2009: p. 45) argues that “[E]xhortations to think positively - to see the glass half full, even when it lies shattered on the floor (.)” pervade North American culture including ‘breast cancer culture’. She describes how her own experience of being diagnosed with breast cancer made her realise that “[P]ositive thinking seems to be mandatory in the breast cancer world, to the point where unhappiness requires a kind of apology” (Ehrenreich, 2009: p. 26). Ehrenreich draws on a wide range of material pos- ted on Internet-based cancer support group websites as well as other relevant publications (eg. first-person accounts, advice leaf- lets, books about how to live with cancer) demonstrating the pervasiveness of a cultural imperative to think positively about cancer. Within these texts, cancer is constructed as a ‘wake-up call’ to rethink one’s life, an opportunity to make a fresh start and to live a better, healthier life. Within this context, Ehrenreich (2009: pp. 27e29) cites descriptions of cancer as “a gift” and “the best thing that ever happened”. In a much earlier review of research into the social expectations encountered by cancer patients, Wortman and Dunkel-Schetter (1979: p. 134) already identified “[T]he assump- tion that the patient should avoid thinking or talking about the negative aspects of his or her situation, and attempt to remain as cheerful and optimistic as possible”.

Recent research into the social and emotional consequences of word choice (Mosher & Danoff-Burg, 2009) demonstrates how the cultural imperative to think positively about cancer is reflected in interpretations of linguistic classifications of individuals with cancer. Mosher and Danoff-Burg (2009) found that across two studies which compared reactions to the use of the terms ‘cancer survivor’ and ‘cancer patient’, a large sample of undergraduate students attributed consistently more positive qualities to someone described as a ‘cancer survivor’ (as opposed to ‘cancer patient’) and they expressed more positive attitudes towards them. In the second study, participants also expressed a significantly greater willing- ness to interact with “cancer survivors” than with “cancer patients”. This suggests that a ‘positive’ stance towards having cancer, one which focuses upon survival and active living (‘survivor’) as opposed to one which embraces passivity and suffering (‘patient’), is socially desirable and rewarded. Interestingly, Mosher and Danoff-Burg (2009) cite three recent studies which have found that people who are receiving health care themselves actually prefer the label ‘patient’ to alternatives such as ‘survivor’ or ‘consumer’ (see Deber, Kraetschmer, Urowitz & Sharpe, 2005; Lloyd, King, Bassett, Sandland & Savige, 2001; Nair, 1998).

One way in which the cultural imperative to take a ‘positive’ stance towards having cancer manifests itself is through a construction of cancer as war and the widespread use of military metaphors which instruct patients to ‘fight their illness’ (see Lupton, 1994; Ross, 1989). Williams Camus (2009) presents a comprehensive analysis of the use of metaphor in popularizations of scientific articles on cancer in the English press. ‘Cancer is War’ was found to be the most frequently used metaphor, a finding which is supported by earlier research (eg. Clarke, 1992; Seale, 2001; Van Rijn-van Tongeren, 1997). This construction is also something that Sontag’s (1991) early polemic against the use of metaphor in cancer discourse identified and challenged. ‘Cancer as War’ constructs cancer as an enemy who must be fought at all costs and by any means necessary. It instructs patients to not give up the fight, positioning the body as a battlefield upon which the struggle

between life and death is fought. Collateral damage (to the body, to the patient) is to be expected and must be accepted as an inevitable part of this process. Soldierly bravery and stoic acceptance together with an optimistic attitude and a belief in one’s ability to ‘win the battle’ are required attributes. The desirability of ‘positive thinking’ is implied by the construction of cancer as war since it is assumed that if the patient shows enough determination to win and fights hard enough they can win the war. ‘Not giving up’ is valued more highly than any other stance within this context. Obituaries and other references to cancer-related deaths in the media demonstrate this by almost inevitably constructing the death as a casualty of a ‘battle with cancer’. It seems as though it is not acceptable to simply die of cancer- one must first ‘do battle’ with it.

Another way in which ‘positive thinking’ manifests itself in cancer discourse is through the construction of cancer as a problem to be solved. Here, cancer is constructed as a challenge to the human intellect and to science which can potentially be tackled. Williams Camus’ (2009) analysis of popularizations of scientific articles in the British press identified the repeated use of meta- phorical themes such as ‘cancer is a puzzle’, ‘cancer is a riddle’, ‘cancer is a tangle’ and ‘cancer is an enigma in a detective story’ (Williams Camus, 2009: pp. 480e483). These metaphors invoke an optimistic narrative which implies that progress is continuously being made and that discovering a cure for cancer is only a matter of time because every problem has a solution- it just needs to be found. As with the other constructions of cancer which mobilise a discourse of ‘positive thinking’, the construction of cancer as a problem to be solved means that staying with the experience of cancer and attempting to relate to it as it is are not an option. All of these constructions imply that cancer can and must not be accepted- it must be fought, solved or otherwise changed into something else, something more benevolent and something which removes its association with death.

Cancer as a moral concern

My own experience of other people’s reactions to my cancer diagnosis included an encounter with the construction of cancer as a moral concern (Willig, 2009). It seemed as though my diagnosis called for an explanation which positioned me at the centre of the action. Once identified as a cancer patient, my lifestyle seemed to become a legitimate subject of interest and I was asked questions about what I might have been doing to bring cancer into my life (eg. was I still smoking ? Had I been sunbathing too much? Was I eating a balanced diet?). Both Stacey (1997) and Ehrenreich (2009) observe similar attributions of responsibility contained within contemporary cancer discourse. Stacey (1997) reviews both rele- vant literature and her own experience of a range of alternative treatment approaches to cancer, noting that cancer is frequently constructed as a sign of degeneration, corruption and decay, indicative of the cancer patient’s inner weakness and self- destructiveness. She (1997: 175) argues that a contemporary “model of cancer as a disease ‘occasioned’ by the self” is the product of a combination of current beliefs about the aetiology of cancer (eg. that it is ‘home grown’, the product of spontaneous cell growth; the role of lifestyle and behavioural factors), popular mind/body metaphors associated with complementary medicine and ‘New Age’ thinking (eg. the idea that a healthy body is the external manifestation of a healthy mind) and militarised immune system discourse (eg. the image of the immune system as the body’s army trained to fight foreign invasion which, in the case of cancer, has failed to recognise an internal enemy bent on self-destruction). The result is a construction of cancer as the patient’s own creation and, therefore, ultimately their responsibility. Thus, although one might expect those cancers which are more easily linked to individual

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behavioural choices (such as lung cancer, liver cancer and skin cancer) to be more likely to be subjected to this type of moral framing, it seems that cancer as such is being constructed as inti- mately connected with, as ‘occasioned by’, the self and, therefore, as a sign of some (moral) failing on the part of the patient.

One implication of this construction is the expectation that the cancer patient ought to accept this responsibility and declare ownership of ‘their’ cancer. Within this context, references to cancer as a “wake-up call” are common (Willig, 2009; Ehrenreich, 2009), implying that preceding their diagnosis the cancer patient had been lax and inattentive regarding their self-care and that the cancer diagnosis had been necessary to awaken them from their compla- cent state of disregard for their own health. High levels of vigilance and responsible behaviour are expected of the patient once a diag- nosis of cancer has been made. Stacey (1997) draws a link between this moral positioning of the cancer patient and a new form of moral citizenship associated with what has been described as a new ‘imperative of health’ (Lupton, 1994) and a remoralisation of health in the late twentieth century (Gillick, 1984).

Phenomenological repercussions

Having sketched the discursive context within which those diagnosed with cancer are positioned, I want to go on to explore some of the social and psychological repercussions of this posi- tioning. I want to move from the discursive to the phenomeno- logical by making links between the discursive positions available to cancer patients and the experiential world(s) they may give rise to. The second half of this paper is, therefore, concerned with experience: what is it like to be captured by dominant construc- tions of cancer and how may available subject positions shape the experience of being diagnosed with cancer?

The discursive constructions identified above (the cultural imperative to ‘think positively’; cancer as a moral concern) each emphasize particular dimensions of meaning around which the experience of being diagnosed with cancer is organised. At the same time, they obscure or exclude others. This has implications for how a cancer diagnosis can be experienced and for what is seen (and experienced) as a ‘legitimate’ way of being a cancer patient. The following discussion explores some of the repercussions of the discursive constructions identified earlier for cancer patients’ ability to engage with suffering and mortality, and for their expe- rience of managing responsibility.

Engaging with suffering and mortality

The cultural imperative to ‘think positively’ emphasizes the patient’s responsibility to do all s/he can to regain health. It privi- leges a ‘restitution narrative’ (Frank, 1995) which constructs illness as a temporary interruption of the ‘normal’ state of being which is health. This means that acceptance (of illness, of suffering, of mortality) is not a legitimate way of finding meaning in a cancer diagnosis. The cultural imperative to ‘think positively’ constructs acceptance as ‘giving up’ and it taints the patient who chooses to accept their fate with the undesirable qualities of the deserting soldier, the one who surrenders, who lacks the moral courage to continue to fight the enemy. Staying with the experience of suffering and finding meaning within it without attempting to make it go away, is not a socially acceptable option, certainly not as a response to an initial diagnosis and not before engaging in the obligatory ‘battle with cancer’. As discussed by Coward (2000) and Tritter (2009), being diagnosed with secondary cancer is often more disturbing to patients than the initial diagnosis because a recurrence of cancer means that the hoped for cure has failed to materialise and that a confrontation with mortality may become

unavoidable. The initial focus on understanding the diagnosis, choosing the treatment and undergoing the treatment positions patients within a restitution narrative, a position which becomes increasingly unsustainable when cancer recurs.

Upon being diagnosed with cancer in the first instance, then, a patient may find it difficult to attempt to come to terms with their mortality, to “mak(e) peace with death”, as Van Deurzen (1998: p. 12) puts it, because this is not encouraged by available discourses and the patient who wishes to engage with their mortality at this point will struggle to find a social space within which to do so. It also means that those whose cancer is clearly terminal may find themselves excluded from the dominant resti- tution narrative at a time when emotional and social support is most needed. Finding meaning in their experience is likely to become a major challenge when the dominant narrative fails to make sense. At the same time, the cultural imperative to ‘think positively’ implies that a ‘negative’ outcome (such as death) is simply too terrifying to contemplate and that, therefore, it must be denied until the last possible moment. This is likely to increase the fear of death and it means that those who have reached the point where ‘positive thinking’ does not make sense anymore may find themselves unprepared and very much alone in finally confronting their mortality, particularly if their experience of cancer remains medicalised and access of alternative discourses around death and dying is restricted.

Managing responsibility

The cultural imperative to ‘think positively’ instructs those diagnosed with cancer to fight back and not give up. It positions the patient as active agent in the cancer drama and it attributes ulti- mate responsibility to the patient for the outcome of their battle where, morally speaking, not giving up is as highly valued as winning (as demonstrated by the obligatory reference to the ‘battle with cancer’ in obituaries and media reports of cancer-related deaths). Similarly, the construction of ‘cancer as a moral concern’ also positions the patient at the centre of events. This time, responsibility is attributed retrospectively, by scrutinizing the patient’s psychological make-up and lifestyle in the search for aetiological factors. Foregrounding the patient’s individual responsibility for ‘their cancer’ leads to what Ehrenreich (2009: p. 43) describes as ‘victim-blaming’ which “(.) can weigh on a cancer patient like a second disease”. In addition, it can also divert attention from the role of external factors (such as environmental pollution or lack of speedy access to screening and medical treat- ments) in cancer aetiology and mortality. As Stacey (1997: p. 175) points out the construction of cancer as “a disease ‘occasioned’ by the self” implicates the very core of the cancer patient’s identity, their character and personality, in the aetiology of the disease. This means that it can be difficult for the patient to separate ‘self’ and ‘disease’ leading to a sense of overall corruption and inadequacy. The malaise then transcends the medical frame of reference and begins to require moral adjustments, the first of which is the acceptance of responsibility for the disease, followed by the promise to heed the ‘wake-up call’ and to change one’s ways. Experientially, this means that for the cancer patient to gain social approval, s/he needs to reject his/her former self and to engage in a process of moral renewal. Refusal to do this may mean losing social support and missing out on empathy.

Taken together, an exploration of the phenomenological impli- cations of being positioned within dominant discursive construc- tions of cancer suggests that engaging with suffering and mortality as well as managing responsibility may constitute particular chal- lenges for those diagnosed with cancer. It is interesting to note that in an early paper on the interpersonal environment of cancer

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patients, Wortman and Dunkel-Schetter (1979) identified a number of barriers to receiving validation and support from others which echo some of the observations made in this paper.

The struggle for meaning

Although much of what has been discussed in this paper so far has been concerned with the experience of being positioned within dominant cancer discourses in general (rather than the process of being diagnosed with cancer in particular), I want to argue that these general positionings and their phenomenological and social repercussions are intimately bound up with, and indeed dependent upon, the social process of diagnosis. Diagnosis marks the moment when a set of phenomena (such as an array of signs and/or symp- toms, a series of test results, episodes of ill health) are transformed into disease categories. Such categories constitute medical inter- pretations of experiential and social phenomena, and they usually offer both aetiological as well as prognostic meanings which orga- nise the illness experience including treatment options and proce- dures. A diagnosis also carries moral connotations particularly in relation to aetiology (eg. to what extent is the patient responsible for ‘bringing on’ the condition?) and contagion (eg. is the patient responsible for containing the disease?) Diagnostic categories, once applied to a person, position them as a ‘patient’ and as a ‘sufferer’ of the pathological condition that has been diagnosed. Diagnosis, therefore, marks the moment when the individual is inserted into the discursive field associated with the diagnosis they have received. Fleischman (1999: p. 10) draws attention to the “transformative power” which medical language has over patients whereby,

“[I]f a person is told ‘you have cancer’ (or any life-threatening disease) these words irrevocably alter that person’s conscious- ness, view of the future, relationship with family and friends, and so on” (italics in original).

Diagnosis initiates the struggle for meaning, both internally (ie. What does it mean to me to have been diagnosed with cancer ? Who am I now and how will I live?) and externally (ie. How do others see me now that I am ‘a cancer patient’? How will I be positioned in relation to (healthy) others and what role can I play socially, now that I have been diagnosed with cancer?). It also provides some of the discursive resources with which meaning can be made, and it limits and constrains the meanings which can be constructed by the individual.

The struggle for meaning after a cancer diagnosis is challenging and it can be painful. In what follows, I reflect on the experience of being inserted into cancer discourse, its emotional quality and the importance of the socio-cultural and historical context within which it takes place.

The experience of being constructed by and positioned within cancer discourse

Both Stacey (1997) and Ehrenreich (2009) powerfully evoke the sense of vulnerability and mortification that accompanies the experience of being constructed by and positioned within domi- nant cancer discourses. Both authors communicate a sense of loss of control over the story that they can tell about themselves and a struggle to regain control over the narrative which will, eventu- ally, make sense of their experience of being diagnosed with cancer.

It seems that at a time when narrative wreckage threatens, when an existing storyline ceases to make sense of our current experience, we are particularly vulnerable to what Frank (1995: p. 6) has described as ‘narrative surrender’. Being diagnosed with cancer requires adjustments and modifications to one’s sense of self e for example, by incorporating a stronger awareness of mortality, of

physical and/or psychological vulnerability or by changing one’s relationship with one’s body. Finding bearable meaning in a cancer diagnosis and coming to terms with its implications for one’s sense of self is not easy, particularly while powerful messages from loved ones and the wider society about what it means to be a ‘cancer patient’ are received at the same time.

In their interview study of 19 female breast cancer patients’ experiences of the impact of an altered appearance during chemotherapy treatment, Harcourt and Frith (2008) identified two key themes within the data: i) anxiety that chemotherapy would render them identifiable as a ‘person-with-cancer’, and ii) prob- lematic interactions with others. In particular, the loss of hair was feared as it was seen to impart information about their disease status to others and, therefore, to lead to them being identifiable as a ‘person-with-cancer’. Such an identification, in turn, led to a loss of control over how to define oneself and over how one was treated by others (eg. with unwanted attention, with sympathy or pity when they just wanted to ‘blend in’, with unwanted advice or unsolicited opinions about the causes of cancer). In other words, participants experienced a loss of control over who they were and who they could be within a social context. For some participants, their attempts to regain control led them to avoid social interac- tions. Being identifiable as a ‘person-with-cancer’ was experienced as stigmatising and the visible signs of being treated for cancer exposed them to invasions of privacy (cf. Goffman, 1963), a phenomenon which was also identified in a study of the experi- ences of women with gynaecological cancer (Wray et al., 2007).

The (social, historical, cultural) context in which meaning is made

It is important to acknowledge that the struggle for meaning after cancer diagnosis always takes place within a very specific socio- historical and cultural context. Such a context makes certain discourses more or less available, it highlights particular construc- tions of meaning and it obscures others. Fleischman (1999) draws attention to the role of language in this and she reminds us that languages differ with regard to the lexical and grammatical options they make available in order to construct meaning around the experience of health and illness. For example, languages differ in the way in which they construct the relationship between a person and their illness whereby some languages allow for the possibility of an existential identification with one’s health problem (eg. by saying ‘I am a diabetic’) whereas others do not, instead preferring a subject- object split between person and disease (eg. by using the construc- tion ‘I have diabetes’). Inaddition, in mostlanguages andcultures, the body and its various constitutive parts take on symbolic meanings, acting as metaphors for mental and physical states and conditions (eg. in English, ‘blood’ signifies transmission of qualities or charac- teristics via the notion of lineage as well as of contagion) which are activated when a body part or organ is diagnosed with a pathology.

Other authors, such as Ehrenreich (2009) and Klawiter (2004), have drawn attention to the role of the wider socio-cultural and ideological contexts which mediate the experiences of those diagnosed with cancer by making available particular socially and culturally specific disease regimes. Ehrenreich (2009) describes a US American ideology of ‘positive thinking’ fuelled and sustained by underlying economic interests. Such an ideology focuses on individual responsibility (for health, for success, for employment, for access to opportunities) and elides the influence of corporate forces and the political economy. Such an ideology constructs cancer as an opportunity to demonstrate one’s superior personal qualities including optimism, resourcefulness and resilience but does not allow for expressions of anger, sadness or hopelessness, and it does not encourage political action to tackle the environ- mental causes of increasing rates of cancer in the USA.

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Klawiter (2004) traces changes over time in the availability of illness experiences as they are shaped by social movements. In her analysis of one woman’s narrative of being diagnosed with breast cancer twice, first in 1979 and again in 1997, she demonstrates how changes in breast cancer regimes (including institutionalised practises, authoritative discourses, social relations, collective identities, emotional vocabularies, visual images, public policies and regulatory actions), facilitated by movements of breast cancer activism in the 1990s in the San Francisco Bay Area, made available two very different illness experiences at these two points in time. While the woman’s experience in 1979 was characterised by the sovereign power of physicians, isolation and disempowerment of patients, gender- and heteronormative assumptions about female embodiment, the invisibility of women with breast cancer and the lack of a group identity, her experience in 1997 offered a very different illness experience involving a more egalitarian relation- ship between patients and physicians, involvement of a wide variety of support staff, expansion of access to medical information, participation in medical decision-making, new specialist social services and resources, a growing visibility of women with breast cancer, new collective identities and the presence of a multi- stranded breast cancer movement. While the woman’s initial experience of breast cancer was “relentlessly individualised” and characterised by “stigma, isolation and invisibility” (Klawiter, 2004: pp. 865e866), the second regime of breast cancer had reframed the disease allowing her to experience herself as a participating, visible, supported and respected cancer patient. Klawiter (2004: p. 866) concludes that localised, historically specific ‘regimes of disease’ shape illness experiences and that an understanding of such regimes of practises “enhances our ability to historicise and con- textualise the structural shaping of illness experience”.

What is striking about the analysis of cancer discourse pre- sented in this present paper is the relentless and unforgiving individualism which characterises the positionings made available to those diagnosed with cancer within the various constructions of cancer identified here. From the assumption that the individual’s commitment to his/her ‘battle with cancer’ can make the difference between life and death, to the notion of cancer as a disease occa- sioned by the self in the first place, attributions of individual responsibility for cancer abound. This reflects the focus on the individual citizen and their rights and responsibilities (as opposed to the role of collectivities and the political economy) characteristic of a worldview shaped by capitalist principles in general and, more recently, by neo-liberal ideologies in particular (eg. Stephenson & Papadopoulos, 2006). There is also evidence of a preoccupation with control and the assumption that gaining control over events by shaping them and, ideally, directing them is always desirable. By contrast, accepting what is happening and staying with an expe- rience (rather than trying to control or change it) is not presented as a legitimate option. Such an orientation reflects Western values, in particular those associated with scientific progress and human control of the natural environment. It is particularly interesting to note that what may be described as ‘alternative’ cancer treatments associated with ‘New Age’ thinking construct the person with cancer in ways that are just as strongly shaped by Western capitalist ideologies as are the more mainstream, medicalised approaches (see Stacey, 1997).

Conclusion

In this paper I have attempted to integrate discursive and phenomenological perspectives by exploring the implications of discursive constructions of cancer and the positionings made available by them for the lived experience of those diagnosed with cancer. I have mapped out some of the dominant constructions of

cancer and I have explored the ways in which these foreground, and indeed privilege, particular versions of the cancer experience. The cultural imperative to ‘think positively’ and moral connotations of cancer as a disease occasioned by the self (cf. Stacey,1997) emerged as the central discursive structures identified in contemporary cancer discourse. I have reflected on what it may be like to be diagnosed with cancer within this discursive field, proposing that the positionings on offer would make it difficult to engage with suffering and mortality and that they would place the burden of responsibility for their cancer and its progress (or otherwise) upon the individual. I have also drawn attention to the relationship between available cancer discourses and practises (‘cancer regimes’, as Klawiter, 2004, puts it) and the specific socio-historical and cultural context within which a person experiences a cancer diagnosis. A pervasive individualism and the imperative to take (and maintain) control over events were identified as important ingredients of cancer discourse, demonstrating a link between cancer discourse and the wider social-political and ideological context within which it is produced.

This paper has emphasized some of the more problematic aspects of the discursive construction of cancer diagnosis, and at this point I want to return to a consideration of the possible benefits of receiving such a diagnosis (aside from the obvious medical benefits of treatment and potentially enhanced survival), and to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages of the social process of diagnosis. As indicated earlier in this paper, research has established that there are positive (social and psychological) consequences of receiving a diagnosis including a sense of validation of one’s medical condition, access to a collective identity and a reduction in social isolation, for example through access to support groups. Receiving a diagnosis entails an entitlement to take up the sick role with all its attendant social benefits and this, in turn, can lead to a reduction in stress for the patient (eg. Reid, Ewan & Lowry, 1991; Stewart & Sullivan, 1982; see also Radley, 1994). Within this context, being diagnosed, especially if this occurs after a long period of pre-diag- nostic health problems and health-related uncertainty, can come as a great relief. Crossley (1997) draws attention to the psychological benefits of being able to construct meaning around one’s experi- ence of ill health and argues that categories (and this must include diagnostic categories) can be helpful in this process.

Being formally diagnosed with a serious health condition can also be the starting point for what Calhoun and Tedeschi (2007) describe as ‘post-traumatic growth’, engendering enhanced personal relationships, a greater appreciation of life, a sense of increased personal strength, greater spirituality and a change in life priorities and tasks (see Morrison & Bennett, 2009, chapter 15, page 452). Thus, like all discursive identity constructions, diagnostic categories can both limit and constrain as well as open up and facilitate what those labelled with them can experience. On the one hand, embracing a diagnostic label can empower a person to join with others in order to request treatment and support, while on the other hand, it can severelylimit a person’s options within their social world, as has been discussed in this paper. Whether or not a partic- ular construction is desirable or undesirable depends on how it is used, by whom and for what purpose. Even individualistic constructions of cancer with their implicit moral culpability can be experienced as empowering if their deployment enables a person with cancer to re-claim control over some aspects of their health and well-being.

From a methodological point of view, my argument has been that an understanding of the discursive context within which people experience a cancer diagnosis can enhance our under- standing of the experience itself (see also Willig, 2000; Willig, in press). The publication of personal narratives of illness experi- ences including critical reflection on the social and discursive

C. Willig / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 897e903 903

contexts within which these experiences have taken place (eg. Blaxter, 2009; Ehrenreich, 2009; Fleischman, 1999; Frank, 1991, 1995; Stacey, 1997) has greatly contributed to our understanding of how illness experience is mediated. Such accounts demonstrate just how powerful the (social and psychological) effects of being positioned within dominant illness discourses can be and how strongly they influence our relations with other people and, indeed, with ourselves. Diagnosis, as the moment when we are thrown into a new discursive field (within which we will have to survive, socially and psychologically, from then on) is an essential part of the process of being captured by dominant constructions (of cancer, of illness). As such, personal accounts of coming to terms with being positioned within cancer discourse contribute significantly to the development of a sociology of diagnosis. Further research into the interplay between discourse and experience in relation to illness will expand this field and help us to develop our understanding of the meanings attached to and the (social and psychological) impact of diagnosis as a social practise.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the editors of the special issue, Sarah Nettleton and Annemarie Jutel, for their encouragement and for helpful feedback on an earlier version of this paper. I would also like to thank Peter Green and Susan Strauss for their encouragement and helpful comments.

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  • Cancer diagnosis as discursive capture: Phenomenological repercussions of being positioned within dominant constructions of ...
    • Introduction
    • The role of diagnosis
    • The role of discourse
    • Discursive constructions of cancer and its meanings
      • The cultural imperative to ‘Think Positively’
      • Cancer as a moral concern
    • Phenomenological repercussions
      • Engaging with suffering and mortality
      • Managing responsibility
    • The struggle for meaning
      • The experience of being constructed by and positioned within cancer discourse
      • The (social, historical, cultural) context in which meaning is made
    • Conclusion
    • Acknowledgements
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Medical residents’ use of narrative templates in storytelling and diagnosis

Nancy H.M. Davenport*

Institute for Social and Economic Research and Policy, Columbia University, 420 W 118th St., Suite 820, Mail Code 3355, New York, NY 10027, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 9 March 2011

Keywords: USA Diagnosis Expertise Narrative Hospital Fieldwork Storytelling Physicians

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0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.01.036

a b s t r a c t

This paper examines the diagnostic storytelling that medical residents perform in order to situate patients in a story trajectory with an imputed past and future. It is a study of “ordinary” expertise, as practiced by a family practice medical team in a small urban community hospital in the United States. Narrative storytellingdan activity that is at once cognitive and practicaldallows residents to identify the sort of disease, the kind of patient, and the likely outcome for this patient, based on what the resident knows about patients like these. Residents acquire a set of narrative templates, or rough outlines, that they deploy when they encounter a new patient or his or her information. Going into an admissions interview, a resident already has a set of “facts” about the patient and his or her complaint. In a process that is routine, habitual, and iterative, a resident starts from this set of facts and draws on his or her repertoire of narrative templates to pursue a line of questioning that starts to define relevance for this patient, a relevance that is revised as the physician begins to settle on a story. These templates make a first organizing pass at answering, “What’s going on with this patient?” They provide the preliminary structure, the warp and weft, for building a patient story that holds together long enough to diagnose, treat, and discharge the patient. Diagnostic stories are shaped by what residents think they can do for the patient, practically speaking, and by habitual hospital activity.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

This paper focuses on the diagnostic story that medical residents in the hospital tell, that answers the most basic question, What’s going on with this patient? Residents situate a patient within a story trajectory thatplaces his hospitalizationin the contextofan imputed past and future, built around a plan for discharge, the things to be done for the patient, and, most of the time, a diagnosis. The paper’s primary aim is to show that US medical residents tell stories built on narrative templates, stories that enable them to convey a patient through a hospitalization. Medical residents just starting their careers must develop this kind of expertise. They deploy this know- howdwhat Montgomery (2006) calls clinical judgment and Cassell (1997) calls experienced knowingdthrough a set of narrative templates that provides a new patient story with its cognitive scaf- folding. This know-how allows them to marshal information, circumstances, behaviors, and things; it lets them identify the sort of problem and the kind of patient, often at a glance. It enlists what the physician already knows about patients, diseases, treatment, and outcomes to make sense of this patient-with-disease. This story is inextricably entwined with what the resident can do for the patient and what paths the resident sees to patient discharge.

All rights reserved.

This paper, then, deals with the interactional nature of getting a patient through a hospitalization. Physicians pick up and use diag- nostic classifications (Brown,1995; Jutel, 2009), but the performance of diagnosis is a contingent, non-trivial problem. Residents rely on rough templates that make a first organizing pass at a patient story, which gets refined through a laborious admissions process. The story organizes a potential glut of information, so that only some things register as relevant medical information. Stories are shaped by labs, symptoms, signs, and the material, but also by institutional habit, treatment protocols, and the physician’s accumulated expertise. This work should be seen as complementing a literature that understands diagnosis and treatment as practical achievements (Atkinson, 1995; Berg, 1992; Casper & Berg, 1995; Clark, Potter, & McKinlay, 1991; Horton-Salway, 2002; Mesman, 2008; Mol & Elsman, 1996) that focuses on the contingencies of everyday practices (Latour, 1987, 2005; Latour & Woolgar, 1986 [1979]; Lynch, 1985), and that deals with physicians’ expert practice (Abbott, 1988; Gross, 2009).

Methods

This paper is a result of following “ordinary” medical practice in a small hospital, part of a larger study of in vivo medical training. For six months in 2007e08, I followed a family practice team doing in-patient care at Bellwether Hospital, an urban community- oriented teaching hospital associated with a medical school, with

N.H.M. Davenport / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 873e881874

around 225 beds. I followed residents on wards, in the in-patient setting where they spend much of their hands-on medical training, on their day-to-day business. At any given time, there were two first year medical residents, an advanced medical student, and a second or third year resident; another advanced resident acted as a “night float” overnight. I follow the conventions of Bellwether physicians, and call first year residents interns, and second and third year resi- dents senior residents. When I use residents, I mean all physicians in the residency program. Two attending physicians with supervisory responsibilities stayed with the team in the mornings, finished their notes and related work in the early afternoons, and then went to the outpatient hospital clinic or to private practice.

In the hospital, I began with the deceptively simple questions, How do new physicians practice medicine? How dothey decidewhat is going on with any given patient? I followed medical residents around and observed their interactions with patients, with nursing and social work staff, with other physicians, and with the other members of the family practice team. I sat next to them while they were working on computers, and followed them into supply closets and to the cafeteria. I walked with the team on rounds, sat in on meetings, and accompanied a resident around the hospital during individual work time. I took extensive notes via modified shorthand on what physicians said and did, and on what happened in the hospital. I entered those field notes into a database program. In an inductive and iterative process, I tagged field notes with keywords, themes, questions, and observations. I kept track of patients across the days of a hospital stay, and made daily notes on the team’s treatment and emerging understandings of a patient over the course of a hospitalized episode. In the tradition of what Becker calls “not- so-rigorous analytic induction” (1993; 1998, 207; cf. Ragin,1994) and in conversation with medical sociology, science studies, and medical education literatures, I wrote a series of memos on how residents understood what was going on (Atkinson,1996, 41ff.; Emerson, Fretz, & Shaw,1995,100ff.). From these, I developed a set of ideas about the problem at hand, what I came to understand over time as how resi- dents convey patients through the hospital (Ragin & Becker, 1992).

This study underwent review and approval by Columbia Uni- versity’s Institutional Review Board. Under the conditions of my IRB agreement, I obtained verbal consent from the physicians and patients with whom I came into more than passing contact. I collected no identifying information at all on any patient. Bell- wether and all other names and initials are pseudonyms, and I have also changed some identifying details about the hospital and the physicians I observed, to further protect their identities.

In-patient admissions: residents’ storytelling work

In Bellwether’s family practice team, an intern and senior resi- dent together admit new patients, usually transfers from the Emergency Department (ED), from the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), or from nearby nursing facilities. The charge nurse first tells the senior resident the incoming patient’s basic information (age, sex, chief complaint). The senior resident then swings by the patient’s room to “eyeball” him and do a quick interview. The patient’s experience of admission starts six or 12 or even 18 h before, being evaluated in the ED and getting transferred to a ward. He will have told his full story three or more timesdto nurses, to the ED physicians, to the night floatdby the time he reaches wards. The medical team, then, has a preliminary story even for patients with no medical records.

The intern and senior resident sit at a computer in the nurses’ station. Starting from the oldest documentation of this hospitali- zation and working forward, they review the handwritten notes and the electronic medical record, which at the very least has results from a routine preliminary set of tests (metabolic blood tests, an EKG, a urine workup, and a series of vitals). Since the

electronic medical record contains only final discharge notes and copies of tests, residents work from a medical history that has erased all but the most inescapable uncertainty (Berg, 1996). As they talk through the case, the intern composes her admission note on the computer, cutting and pasting between the medical record and the computerized physician order entry (CPOE) system, which at Bellwether are disconnected programs. Before the intern has met the patient, she will have written the bulk of the patient note, including the differential diagnosis and a proposed treatment plan.

This extended contact with the patient’s information means that residents know what to look for and what they will likely find coming into the admission interview. They have a sense of who this patient is, how the illness started, the likely diagnosis, and the probable course of treatment. (And treatment of some sort has likely been started already, in the ED.) In the admissions interview, resi- dents are confirming already-formed ideas, or paring down a number of parallel possibilities and choosing their front-runner. Even if they back the wrong horse (for example, that the patient has a urinary tract infection), they are identifying which races are being run (whether or not the patient has a UTI). From a preliminary set of “facts,” residents pursue a story, which points them toward a further set of facts. They screen patients with drooping eyelids for neuro- logical disorder; they ask patients with rashes about allergies and recent changes in soaps. Residents call this a “focused” history and exam. Furthermore, in the admissions interview theyare comparing what the patient says to what is documented in her record. Unan- ticipated answers are as likely to throw doubt on the patient’s account as to modify the story the residents are putting together.

The morning after a patient is admitted, the admitting intern introduces his case in a condensed 15-min presentation at attending rounds (cf. Anspach, 1988). These presentations belie the hours of work that go into situating the patient and making his disease something understandable as a case. It is not enough for the resident to present the minutiae of signs and symptoms. The resi- dent’s job at rounds is to present the story of the patient, and attending physicians will ask after a story if they find the intern becoming mired in detail. For instance, AB, a seasoned attending, interrupts an intern:

AB I love that you put in all the details. Now, in one sentence, who is this guy.

At rounds, attendings move with striking facility from a bare-bones story, often less than five mindand those minutes filled with auscultations and ABGs and LFTsdto the story of who this person is and what his prospects are.

Between the first encounter with a patient’s information and the formal presentation of that patient as a case, residents perform a great deal of storytelling work. In this paper, I focus on residents’ work for two important reasons. First, residency provides the new physician with a set of habitually-deployed templates, which condense within them institutional habits, notions of biomedical disease, and ideas about patients. The process of forming these habits is particularly visible when residents must navigate unfa- miliar situations. Second, residents are the core of the hospital’s “house staff.” They do the work of admitting, diagnosing, and treating patients. As an attending put it, residents are the attend- ings’ eyes and ears in the hospitals. It might be more accurate to say that residents are their hands and brains, too.

Narrative.

“Narrative” has become prominent in the examination of the patient’s lived experience of illness (cf. Frank, 1995; Hyden, 1997; Kelly & Dickinson, 1997; Robinson, 1990); in a critique of Western

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medicine’s scientific authority and biological universality (Haraway, 1993; Mattingly, 1998; Skultans, 2000); in work on a perceived divide between the worlds of doctor and patient (Cassell, 1985; Clark & Mishler, 1992; Kleinman, 1988; Mishler, 1984); and in narrative medicine’s emphasis on narration as a tool to enable the physician to elicit symptoms and build a rapport with the patient (Charon, 2004; Epstein, Franks, Fiscella, Shields, Meldrum, Kravitz et al., 2005). Here, I address not the patient’s story, but the story of the patient, as told by physicians to physi- cians. When doctors ask for details of baseline and timeline, they create not a narrative in the medical anthropological sense, but a narrative-based trajectory, a story-in-situation whose here-and- now is interpreted and reinterpreted in light of an imputed starting point and projected future direction. (Anselm Strauss described “illness trajectories,” but he focused on the work to be done by the patient to bring an episode of illness to a close (1987; Wiener, Strauss, Fagerhaugh, & Suczek, 1979).) Paul Atkinson has rightly argued that, “talk is not simply about the work of the hospital. It is medical work” (1995, 93). Talking about patients is part of the process of building a story about a patient-with-disease that gives any constitutive part its significance. Physicians through story- telling place any test or symptom in context; it is, in fact, how something gets cemented as a “symptom” at all. Story trajectories, then, are not by-products of the encounter; they are the work of the encounter.

.and narrative templates

The amount of information available about even the most sparsely documented patient would be overwhelming without some organizing filter that made certain things important, others unimportant. Residents faced with a new patient admission work from a set of narrative templates that proverbially taps them on the shoulder and points them in the “right” direction for a patient like this with a disease like this one. In the rest of this section, I focus more closely on the narrative template. I start from the at-a-glance recognition of a common illness. In the next section, I move to more complex examples. In an ordinary example, an intern begins an admission by finding the patient’s chart and flipping through it. Within seconds, he sings to himself under his breath:

Maurice It’s gastritis, gastritis and stress.

Maurice recognizes the man’s likely condition in an instantdthough, of course, he could be wrongdbut will spend the next few hours laboriously verifying and documenting it. How? Faced with a new patient admission, a resident does not start from cognitive scratch. From the first encounter with the patientdor the patient’s informationda resident starts trying on stories, seeing which story lines work for this patient, and discarding those that clearly do not. Over the course of their residency, in addition to the jarringly detailed knowledge they gain of diseases and doses, echocardiograms and chest x-rays, young physicians learn what kinds of patients have what kinds of diseases and what the likely outcomes will be. They develop a repertoire of rough outlines that they can plug a patient’s information into to start putting together a full story. These rough outlines provide ready- made possibilities for how serious the condition is, how to treat it, what to rule out, what could go wrong, and what tests and symptoms are relevant. They provide the background against which the problematic, the surprising, or the unexpected appears (cf. Czarniawska-Joerges, 2004). They also meet the cognitive needs of residents who are looking right away for patterns (cf. Garfinkel, 1967; Luhrmann, 2000, 41ff.). They are not frames, or “schemata of interpretation,” that constrain the story and exclude

possibilities (Atkinson, 1995; Gitlin, 1980; Goffman, 1974; Snow, Rochford, Worden, & Benford, 1986), although rendering things irrelevant is part of what they do. Instead, templates lay the groundwork for future inquiry, and thus determine what becomes doable and thinkable. They enable the creation of longer stories based on bare-bones information. They provide a set of possible answers to the question, What’s wrong with this patient, and what can I do for him?

Doctors likewise gather narrative templates for the types of people they see. This means that patients are “end stage renal” not only diagnostically, but as someone like these others who have had this problem and its related issues. When working up a new patient, residents recognize in this patient last week’s “leg abscess guy,” or the “frequent flier who refuses to take insulin” of the week before. These understandings of patients also separate for the resident the “system” from her role in it. For example, patients come and go, and when readmitted, become “frequent fliers” or “bounce backs,” whose multiple admissions can be attributed to their belonging to a class of chronic patients, rather than to physicians’ actions during previous hospitalizations. Mol and Els- man, writing on the interdependence of finding disease and designing its treatment, argued that “in the first encounter the question is already ‘what to do’” (1996, 627); the same is true of residents’ use of templates. The protocols for deciding who is end stage renal and for treating him, the template for that disease and its progression, and the template for who its carrying patient is, are inextricably bound together.

Knowing where to look strongly affects what residents can find. Crucially, narrative templates point to what is relevant (cf. Abbott, 1988; Batalden, Leach, Swing, Dreyfus, & Dreyfus, 2002). Rele- vance, though, is constantly revised, and is determined retrospec- tively. If a new bit of information comes to light, a resident rewrites not only the patient’s current condition, but also the past relevance as if that new information had been there all along. When doctors track the curve, for instance, of a patient’s fever, they can interpret the past through the lens of the present so that the increasing fever reaches back into the past to change the story as it was then, not only as it is now. A fever that spikes today could be an onset of a new illness, for instance, an opportunistic infection. But in a different story, a fever that spikes today, could yesterday have been about to spike; something was brewing so that the patient never really had a normal temperature, despite the readings of the thermometer. Goffman saw this in the moral career of the mental patient, who, even if his family and friends would not have thought so at the time, “all along. had been becoming sick” (1961, 145; cf. also Sacks, 1972).

From templates to stories

When Maurice recognizes gastritis after a glance at a medical chart, he is relying on a straightforward diagnostic template of what “gastritis” looks like. But templates can stack quite neatly together, as we see in this next example. The second example shows what happens when one template overrides another, less crucial one. The section’s final example shows an attending and a senior resident relying on different templates of “appropriate” treatment.

The process of putting together a story is iterative, as the physician gets new information and adds flesh to the story’s bones; it is habitual, as the physician follows paths she’s familiar with; and it is cyclical, as templates themselves are updated and modified. In this example, the presence of a strong diagnostic template miti- gates the problem that the patient is a “poor historian” who does not report her symptoms and medical history in ways that make her coherent to residents. Kelly, a medical student, introduces the patient at attending rounds with this disclaimer:

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Kelly Let me just say: It was a difficult history. Ariel [the senior resident] and I went in with a translator, and there was still ambiguity. Then we talked to the family, and there was still ambiguity. But I think I put a story together.. She had a toe amputated because of osteomyelitis [a bone infection], but this is a chest pain complaint. A second toe is on its way out, brown, dry, and gangrenous. She’s on a trial of antibiotics, to determine viability [of the toe] before assessing whether it will have to be amputated. It probably will be. Her PIC line [peripherally inserted central catheter] is no longer working, and she’s supposed to be on IV antibiotics [for another 15 days].

Kelly thinks the current problem is congestive heart failure (CHF). The patient has previously been diagnosed with diabetes and coronary artery disease, a common cause of CHF. DE, the attending, agrees emphatically.

DE So what do you think is the main thing going on with her, what’s your diagnosis?

Kelly CHF, I think.

DE Right, me too. What kind, diastolic or systolic?

Kelly Diastolic.

DE What’s the main treatment? Right, diuresisdyou have to get the fluid off. In this kind of patient, a little [excess fluid] goes a long way. Versus in systolic, you could diurese off 50 lbs..

DE This is a classic, classic little Hispanic lady, as wide as she is tall. She’s exquisitely fluid sensitive. It’s not compli- cated. She needs to be assessed for dialysis. She’s getting a lot of sodium, indirectly with her medications. You’re between a rock and a hard place with these patients: what you give for the heart is going to hurt the kidneys..

DE To what degree does she have ischemic heart disease [reduced blood supply to the heart muscle]? It’s the right thing to admit her, and to stress her [i.e., administer a stress test]. Whether to cath her [i.e., perform cardiac catheterization] will depend on the test results. We would like to avoid it, she’ll end up on dialysis. She’s got a stent, every possible risk factor, she’s a basket of risk factors. The question is, how reversible is it, and I don’t know that.

Despite the difficulty of getting a story from the patient herself, the team’s familiarity with multiple templates provides ample scaffolding, onto which the bits they get from the patient and her test results are easily attached. A CHFer, a “little Hispanic lady,” a patient who is going downhill and will probably lose a toe, a “basket of risk factors,” a poor historian: these are templates the team has seen before, many times. They know not only how to build her story efficiently, but how to treat her and get her discharged quickly. The patient’s inability to provide a neat chronology is here no hindrance to fleshing out the story of this woman and what the team needs to do next. The templates stack well together, allowing the team to put together what they see as a full story.

In this next case, though, a patient’s being “really sick” bumps out a template about mental illness, despite an intern’s best efforts to keep mental illness on the team’s radar as a central, story- defining issue. The man’s big and scary symptoms derail a psych template that the team might rely on in other circumstances. The patient, an HIV positive man in his late fifties, is a transfer from the ICU. He’s had a recent 15-pound weight loss, and can no longer

climb the stairs to his fifth-floor walkup. He has had a dramatic drop in his CD4 count, from a baseline of 700 to 100. The normal CD4 range is 500e1500; the Centers for Disease Control consider a count of less than 200 in HIV positive patients indicative of full- blown AIDS. To the radiologist, his lung x-ray suggests PCP (Pneu- mocystis carinii), a serious opportunistic pneumonia that is an AIDS-defining illness. His abdominal girth is expanding despite his weight loss, he can barely swallow, he has bright red blood in his stool, and his skin and eyes look yellow. This man has a marked and documented change in the seriousness of his condition. The attending asks the senior resident,

PN Does he have a history of OIs [opportunistic infections]? Emily His viral load has been undetectable since [three years

ago]. PN So something’s changed..

Several times during what turns out to be a lengthy and quite complicated case presentation, Lee, the intern presenting the case, stresses that the patient’s affect is off, and she attempts to keep an “unknown psych diagnosis” on the list of problems to deal with during the hospitalization. But the weight of the signs, symptoms, lab results, and disease clusters keep this patient’s story on a “very sick” trajectory. Lee brings up his psychiatric issues several times, but the story snaps back to that of an extremely sick man (not that of a very sick psychiatric patient) becoming rapidly sicker. The team is preoccupied not with his mental illness, but with pushing through his tests and getting him a diagnosis as quickly as possible. Lee points out,

Lee There’s obviously an unknown psych diagnosis here [based on his home meds, which she lists]..

Lee He’s alert and oriented, tachypneic [fast breathing], tachycardic [fast heart rate]. He has large tender parotid glands [she gestures to her lower cheek and chin]. He has pressured speech.. He’s delusionaldhe has fixed idea- tions that aren’t necessarily in line with reality.

As an aside to the attendings, she asks,

Lee Those are delusions, right? God is the Almighty healer, he cured me overnight?

They turn to his urine panel, which shows likely kidney dysfunction. The team also talks about running resistance panels, to test which antibiotics will work for the patient. Despite what Lee describes as the patient’s delusions, it seems that he takes his medications regularly.

PN So he’s not delusional about taking his meds. Lee I think we should take him with a grain of salt. I didn’t

think so last night, but this morning, with more of a manic appearance..

PN I think the priority is to talk to his PMD [primary medical doctor], she’ll have a better idea if this guy is someone who stops meds periodically.. This guy is really sick. This may be a non-progressor [i.e., someone who has been infected for seven to 12 years without developing full-blown AIDS].. Something is attacking those cells. .

They continue, talking about whether he could just have an acute infection. At the very end of this long presentation, Lee reiterates:

Lee I need to touch base with psych. I need a diagnosis from someone who knew him.

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While the attendings might agree that the patient has an as-yet- undiagnosed psychiatric condition, what concerns them primarily is the gravity of his illness, and the possibility that he may have developed full-blown AIDS. What PN is concerned with is whether he takes his medications, not whether he is manic or delusional in other ways. Although Lee admits this patient, her attempts to galvanize an unknown psychiatric diagnosis are undercut by the presence of such a strong storytelling template, that of a very sick man. The psychiatric template, then, gets edged out by the presence of a far more powerful one, that of HIV developing into full-blown AIDS. The team proceeds not by ordering a psychiatric evaluation, but by ordering a barrage of cultures to rule out other infections.

The section’s final example shows two physicians who have acquired different templates about “appropriate” treatment for HIV-infected youth. The acquisition of a narrative template means that the physician can locate the patient in a story quickly and efficiently; the more familiar the template, the more easily deployable it is. In this example, the attending has a particular interest in high-risk populations, in HIV, and in community medi- cine. He has, in other words, a developed set of templates, ready to deploy for an HIV positive youth presented at rounds by Kelly. The young man has been admitted with a groin (or inguinal) abscess. She comments,

Kelly His social history is interesting and a little vague. He’s living in a shelter, he dropped out of life when he was diagnosed [with HIV] in March.

LM So something’s up then.

Kelly Yes, definitely something’s up. There’s also the question of whether his sister knows he’s homeless.

LM So this isn’t a new [HIV] infection. His viral load is very high [it indicates he’s been infected for 5e10 years]..

Kelly The patient says the infection is a result of forced sex, that he’s always used condoms with his partners, who are both male and female..

LM What other lesions can look like abscesses? LGV [Lymphogranuloma venereum, a sexually transmitted infection].

Kelly He clearly has a history of STIs [sexually transmitted infections].. He’s in contact isolation, he has risk factors for MRSA [Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus].

She comments that there is an 18 times greater incidence of MRSA in the HIV positive population.

LM I don’t want to steal your thunder, but. when you have a high-risk youth like thisdI’m not sure if he’s plugged into [names hospital]dbut do a pan-STI on them. You grab them when you can, and let the Department of Health take care of the rest. He’s very high risk for anal carcinoma.. My feeling is that he’s either a sex worker or homeless and prostituting himself. This kid isn’t college-bound one day and then homeless the next. I’m not making any assump- tions, but my feeling is that it’s one of these.

LM has not yet seen the patient or his documentation. His only information about the patient comes from Kelly, who expresses, explicitly and through her tone, that “something’s up” with the patient. LM, although he makes the pro forma statement that he is not making assumptions, is able to move quickly and confidently from Kelly’s very brief presentation of the patient to a story of a homeless prostitute. The attending was not, in fact, making an

assumption in the simplest sense: he was sketching out what he saw, based on seeing many such youths, as the most likely trajec- tory. (Whether he is right is another matter.) The deployment of templates is a form of expertisedwhat experts dodthat LM can perform because he’s familiar with the disease, with patients like these, with HIV, and with high-risk populations. Over time, he has fine-tuned a set of templates, his own set of distinctions on which he can deftly build the patient’s story. This also means his template for what to do for such patients is different than his senior resi- dent’s. When Kelly checks in with the senior resident, she asks,

Kelly And the chlamydia and gonorrhea?

Ariel I’m not going to do that right now. [pause] I understand his [LM’s] rationaled

Kelly I know, I agree.

Ariel dbut it can be done on an outpatient basis. Dude, I’m not going and shoving a Q-tip up his penis right now.

Ariel and LM have two different templates here (and ongoing): LM, with his interest in high-risk populations, thinks that the team should “get them while they’re here,” for tests and vaccinations, as well as other (normally outpatient) preventive care. Ariel, the senior resident, thinks the only care appropriate is that directly related to what brought the patient here. As senior resident, the burden of performing and following up on these testsdand possibly delaying the discharge of the patient for another day or moredfalls on her. She holds to a more robust definition of what is appropriate for in-patient and what the patient should do once discharged. Thus they build slightly different stories, based on these different templates, about “what’s going on” with this patient.

Putting it together

What gets taken up, and what gets left behind, when residents draw on templates and put together a story? A story organizes a potentially overwhelming host of information, so that some things are pertinent medical information, while others are irrele- vant, or interactional difficulties, or altogether invisible. The bits likely to be taken up are pre-nominated by the resident’s use of narrative templates, more likely to be included than their less relevant brethren. They are not, however, predetermined. Take a pimple: In one story, a patient is “a real Lazarus,” and her pimple is part of a series of abscesses and thus immediately significant to the resident examining her. In most other patients, pimples do not register as medical data at all. As the resident puts together the patient story, she draws together a set of these bits, tying them progressively more tightly together. Then, in addition to the phys- ical and narrative trail left by the patient-with-disease, the resident may be guided by a host of institutional habits. Montgomery pointed out that in doctors’ collection of information from the patient, “. the events of the patient’s life may suggest a likely diagnosis: the illness of family members, intravenous drug use, 20 years’ work in a chemical plant, a visit to a region known for cholera, a recent vacation that ended with a celebrative dinner of barracuda steak” (2006, 63). Butdcruciallydthese events are pertinent only after their successful nomination into the patient’s story trajectory.

So a resident may ask a patient about recent travel, particularly if the patient has symptoms that suggest an infectious disease or parasite. But not until it has someone speak up on its behalf successfully is this travel successfully nominated or does it shape the patient story trajectory. When a 20 year-old woman is admitted to Bellwether with a fever and an urticarial (itchy hive-like) rash,

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the intern finds that she recently returned from a two-month stay in the Dominican Republic. At attending rounds, he summarizes her case.

Nate She had a rash starting at her ears and eyes, then throat swelling and difficulty breathing. Importantly, she denies any neck stiffness.. The ER doc came up and talked to us, he was considering an LP [lumbar puncture], but [she had] no neck stiffness, and the rash went away with epinephrine, and the headache went away with the fever.

To the ER doc, the headache, fever, and rash suggest meningitis, but because the patient “denies any neck stiffness” and the rash and headache are amenable to epinephrine and Tylenol, he decides against a lumbar puncture. This leaves the admitting team with an open set of possibilities; as Nate points out at rounds, rash and fever have broad differentials. Nate focuses on the fever and the head- ache that the patient complained actively about, and the lower back pain that they discover during the admissions interview. Nate lists dengue fever high on the differential, and says that a lot of people the patient knows have had it. The treatment for dengue is supportive care and watchful waiting, to see whether it develops into dengue hemorrhagic fever.

The team is enthusiastic about dengue fever as a diagnosis: beyond fitting the big symptoms, the fever and headache, the possibility of having a tropical disease on their service is, they say, “cool.” Furthermore, according to the Infectious Diseases specialist with whom Nate spoke yesterday, Bellwether has recently admitted a handful of dengue cases; this would be the fifth in several weeks. During rounds, LM, the attending, points out dengue is on the rise in urban areas. The fever, the headache, and the fatigue support dengue fever as a diagnosis; the rash is less clear, since it appeared after the patient took Tylenol and might be an allergic reaction, but it was a serious, “ugly” rash. Although the team will get a viral load on the patient to test for a new HIV infection, the dengue fever seems the likeliest possibility to the team.

The next day, Nate is talking with the senior resident, Vicky, about discharging the patient, whose fever is under control. He states that the patient’s platelet level is dropping, and adds

Nate I’m just worried.

They pause, and Vicky raises her eyebrows, suggesting “And?” Nate decides,

Nate I’ll just send her home, I’m sure she’ll be fine.

Starting from a set of templates (a young healthy woman, recent travel, ugly rash, not meningitis), Nate directs his inquiry toward dengue fever. In this case, several events were successfully nominated into the patient story: dengue fever, the recent travel to the Dominican Republic, the fever, the headache, the lower back pain, the rise of dengue in urban areas, the patient’s lack of neck stiffness, the ED physician’s disinclination to “head for” meningitis, the patient’s low-risk status for contracting HIV, the patient’s generally sympathetic appearance, and her “really ugly” rash. The rash has an interesting role: its ugliness convinces Nate that the patient’s disease is particularly serious, and even though it dis- appeared with epinephrine, it remains in the story as leftover scaffolding supporting a story of serious disease. The dropping platelets, on the other hand, do not successfully alter the patient’s trajectory. They are visible, certainly, since Nate notices them and is concerned about what they mean; but they are not picked up and woven into the story the way that the travel, the fever, or the rash are.

While the events of this patient’s life, including her recent travel, did “suggest” a diagnosis to the resident, it was only set against a set of templates that this information could be suggestive. Some factors are indeed hard to ignoredremember the unfortu- nate man who was “really sick.” Likewise, some templates are more obvious than others. Yet, for all this, putting together a story based on templates and drawing on the myriad factors of a hospitalization is an extraordinarily contingent process. Perhaps, had the Infectious Diseases specialist not suggested dengue to Nate early on, Nate would still have “gone for” the disease. But both the specialist’s recent experiences with dengue, and the hospital’s recent spate of cases, made the template easily available to the intern.

Practical achievement of a story

In the hospital, residents put together what they know about patients based not only on signs and symptoms, but what they can do for the patient in the hospital. The first example, of a man suffering from kidney failure, shows what happens when residents cannot find the right templates. A second brief example points to the role of habitual diagnostic activity in the hospital. Finally, dealing with contagion in the hospital shows that putting together a story is at once a practical achievement and cognitive activity. It also shows an attending physician attempting to provide his resi- dents with a template about opportunistic infection.

Residents build diagnostic stories according to what they can do for the patient, logistically and diagnostically, in the hospital (cf. Berg,1992). Very rarely, the team gets a patient for whom it fails to construct a diagnostic story trajectory. At table rounds, Sonya, an intern, reports on a 72 year-old man with gangrenous hands who is “end stage renal [i.e., he has kidney failure] on hemodialysis,” diagnosed in the Dominican Republic, a transfer from the ICU who was hospitalized after a missed dialysis appointment. The puzzle for the team is that he has diet-controlled diabetesdthe docu- mented cause of his renal failuredand “great” hemoglobin A1C test results (which measures blood sugar levels over time). JK, an attending, doubts that the renal failure is diabetes related, although she admits his gangrenous hands are compelling evidence. She is guessing it is hypertensive nephropathy, kidney damage caused by high blood pressure, instead. Emily, the senior resident, points out that the gangrene is only in his hands, not his feet, which under- mines a diabetes-related cause. Their stated treatment plan is to get him back on regular schedule of dialysis, but at the end of table rounds they have neither a diagnosis they are pleased with, nor a plan for getting a diagnosis, nor a course of treatment for the underlying cause of the gangrene. This is deeply unsettling for the residents, none of whom wants to take this patient on in the outpatient clinic.

When the team visits the patient, he is sitting in a chair with the table pulled up, clearly in pain; his hands are in his lap. One finger has been amputated, and four more are stiff and dry and whitedit looks like his hands have been dipped in white paint and only partially scrubbed off. There is no blood flow to them, and they are developing dry gangrene and the tissues are dying as they are deprived of oxygen. The attendings comment to each other that he’s never had a renal (kidney) biopsy, and they state again that they doubt that his renal failure was caused by diabetes, or now that they’ve seen him and his numbers, by hypertension either. It is probably some other thing that is causing his renal failure. JK spends some time feeling for his pulses in his wrists and ankles, and cannot find them. PN tells me,

PN We see these cases all the time, especially from developing countries, where they come in with something acute that’s

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been building for years, they’re just falling apart, and it started long before we see them.

This case is complicated by the residents’ visceral reaction to the patient’s hands. But the story is problematic, and the residents find it deeply unsettling, because there is no believable diagnosis, no clear way to get a quick diagnosisdexcept renal biopsy, which none of them thinks they can practicably pursuedand no intention of coming up with a “real” diagnosis before he is discharged. He is not situated in a story satisfactorily. They are discharging him because this is the “sort” of problem that does not need in-patient treat- ment. But they are extending the uncertainty of his story; they know his problem has “been building for years,” that the prognosis is likely bad news, but they do not know much more. His condition is not amenable to treatment or ruling-out algorithms in the same way that chest pain is. The only narrative template available to the team is one of an unknown, latent condition that has been “building for years,” a story of fundamental (but undefined) causes (Link & Phelan, 1995). The disease does not need to be treated in-patient, not because the patient would not benefit from their care (including a renal biopsy), but because there is no path they can see to making him the kind of patient who can be treated in-patient. They do not know what to do for him, other than continue to schedule him for dialysis. This means he carries his unbelievable diagnosis with him on discharge.

Diagnostic stories are shaped not only by what residents see as practicably possible, but also by habitual diagnostic activity. For instance, at table rounds the team discusses an elderly woman they admitted with what they originally thought were symptoms of a viral infection: vomiting, dizziness, and fatigue. The ED performed the first of a setof “serialtroponins,” which measures levels of a protein that, if elevated, signal damage to the heart muscle. The admitting residents ordered the second in the series of troponins, not because they sus- pected that the patient had had a heart attack, but because the first had already been sent by the ED, and they habitually complete series oftestsorderedbyEDphysicians.Thepatient’ssuspectedvirusturned out to be a heart attack. The senior resident comments,

Irene I probably wouldn’t have sent a troponin if it hadn’t already been sent.

Finally, contagion gives a particularly robust example of how narrative templates, the hospital’s routines for very contagious diseases, and even the physical parameters of the hospital building shape the patient’s diagnostic story. Julius Roth’s 1950s study of a Veterans Administration hospital TB ward offers a fascinating comparison to Bellwether. Roth thought that because no one knew quite how TB spread, the attempt to approximate “nature’s laws” led to irrational rules about wearing masks and inconsistent observa- tion of them (yes when getting an x-ray, no when visiting with family). Roth dryly noted that, “The rules suggest that the tubercle bacillus works only during business hours” (1957, 314). At Bell- wether, though, the transmission of MRSA and C.diff (Clostridium difficile)dtwo highly infectious and dangerous opportunistic infections spread in hospitals like Bellwetherdis well understood. Yet the procedures around isolation roomsare as magical as in Roth’s TB ward. Physicians routinely prop open a room’s outerdoor, pop out and then back in for some forgotten piece of equipment, touch the inner doorknob, gown up but do not mask up, gown up but do not fasten the tapes, use Purell but do not wash their hands, lean the top half of their bodies around the door, hold a gown in front of them but do not put their arms through the sleeves, use their stethoscopes on “contagious” patients without disinfecting them, or gown up on attending rounds but not during their work time. People serving meals go in and out of the roomsdall the time, every timedwith

neither gowns nor masks. Only physicians performing longer exams are structurally assumed to be disease vectors.

Certainly we could chalk these behaviors up to carelessness or residents being short on timedand certainly physicians neglect protocols like routine hand washingdbut doing so would miss two crucial and related points. In this final section, contagion shows particularly clearly that diagnosis is simultaneously a cognitive category and a practical achievement. Moreover, residents at Bell- wether have not acquired easily deployable sets of narrative templates for contagion like they have for other diseases and their carrying patients.

What does this mean? In practice, patients are not contagious until they are activated in the system as contagious. To be “conta- gious,” a patient must be in a special isolation room with a two-door vestibule. He must have signs on his door, reminding physicians to wash their hands and use Purell. He must have a cart stocked with disposable gowns and examination gloves outside his door. That is what it means, in practice, to be contagious (cf. Sudnow,1967). To be clear: it is not that patients without these precautionary measures in place are contagious-but-without-precautions-taken. Their stories do not contain potential contagion at all until such measures are in place. For instance, the residents admit a woman with diarrhea and a history of C.diff, which is both documented in the patient’s medical record, and which the patient’s daughter mentions during the admissions interview. Were an attending to ask the residents whether the patient should be on contact isolationdexactly what happened several days into the hospitalizationdthe residents would respond that, yes, she should be. But because the patient’s chief complaint is not the diarrhea, the C.diff did not make it into the initial story of the patient-with-disease. During the admissions examination, the residents were neither gowned nor gloved. The patient only becomes “contagious” three days later when the resi- dents, at the attending’s prodding, send stool cultures.

The second problem is that residents are still acquiring templates about antibiotic use and contagion, and these templates require greater discretion on the part of residents. Take the example of a 93 year-old man, a nursing home patient suffering from rectal cancer and dementia, who was just treated for C.diff with a ten-day course of Flagyl, a very strong antibiotic. He was brought to the hospital with a fever and urinary incontinence, and the team decides he likely has a UTI. He is now on “C.diff precautions,” which means he is in an isolation room. The problem is that if the team is not careful how they treat his UTI with antibiotics, he will likely have a C.diff relapse, potentially a very serious one. The attending admonishes the team,

DE Use as narrow an antibiotic as humanly possible, since he was just treated for C.diff. He’s at high risk for C.diff. Ideally, wait until the [stool] culture grows out, and find out what it’s susceptible to. If he’s septic, we won’t be able to wait. Get an ID [infectious disease] consult to figure out what antibiotics to put him on, and I would if at all possible not put him on antibiotics for the rest of his life. Don’t treat him with any.. You can’t mess around with C.diff. If he’s septic, you have to treat him with antibiotics, you have no choice, but if you treat him with Zosyn [a broad spectrum antibi- otic], I guarantee you he’ll get another C.diff infection, and it could be worse than the last one. In the nursing homes, they’re all colonized, C.diff is just waiting for an antibiotic to knock out the other flora. And they’re very patient, they’re spoors, nothing is more patient than a spoor.. Avoid antibiotics at all costs in these elderly patients.

Templates go hand-in-hand with the systematic thinking attendings try to equip residents with; as one attending put it, so

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that “when you hear x, you should already be thinking y.” Here, the problem is that residents do not have a template for elderly patients infected with C.diff. This mini-lecture is part of the attending’s efforts to create for the residents such a template. Unlike symptoms with easy-to-use protocols, like chest pain, the use of antibiotics with elderly patients is not offered in decision-tree form, and the attendings and ID specialist remind residents frequently to be careful with antibiotics, reminders that show that the residents do not deploy automatically the templates associated with elderly patients, antibiotic use, and highly infectious diseases.

Outside this patient’s room the team talks to the ID specialist, who walks them through exactly which antibiotics to prescribe for this patient, and for patients like him. When they visit the patient, the team pays meticulous attention to gowning, gloving, and hand washing, and they conspicuously leave pens and paper on the cart outside the room. The attending, choosing her words carefully, says to me,

AB You must be noting the ritual of this, but it is serious.

After all this, the patient’s story is tied strongly to his contagion. For the duration of his hospital stay, residents and attending physicians actually abide by the precautions, donning gowns and fastening them, washing their hands and carefully closing the vestibule’s outer door before opening the inner.

Concluding comments

How do residents decide what is going on with any given patient? The short answer is: through storytelling. It is through and within this story that residents convey the patient through his hospital stay. Residents need to learn how to gather the “facts” of the case. But beyond this, they must know what for a given patient is a fact. Most of the time, after all, a pimple is just a pimple. These facts must be situated within a story that lends them significance: it separates relevant from irrelevant, visible from invisible, essential from secondary. Residency is in part about the creation of habits that point the resident to the relevant templates and the “where to look” that affects so strongly what she will find.

On one hand we have residents telling stories, which are by their very nature chains of events that the resident has schooled into a chronology. On the other hand, we have residents practicing an expert knowledge that gainsays a temporal ordering of hypothesis- testing-diagnosis-treatment (cf. Mol & Elsman, 1996). In residents’ work with time and the patient story there is a kind of transitivity, of being able to move the “same” thing from monitor or patient telling to story of patient-with-disease (see Lynch, Livingston, & Garfinkel, 1983, 222ff).

This reliance on narrative templates is emblematic of Berger and Luckmann’s “economy of effort” (1966, 71). Narrative templates provide the scaffolding, the warp and weft, of a story. They make the problem visible as a problem. Starting from a set of narrative templates that they work hard to acquire and learn to deploy habit- ually, residents sketch out a story. They build the story of this patient- with-disease on the backs of the stories they already know, the things theyalreadyknowhowtodo,andtheroutestheyknowhowtofollow. (So, CHFers are exquisitely fluid sensitive, or, You have to be careful with these sodium imbalances, theycan move quickly.) As the patient story takes shape, the template gets refined and revised for this particular patient. The template itself will be modifieddat the very least, bolstereddby this patient’s association with it.

These narrative templates condense within them a systematic approach to diagnosis, a set of ideas about what patients are like, notions of biomedical disease, and institutional habits. This means that we candand indeed, shoulddtreat together the resident and

the “system” of which she is a constitutive part. This privileges no particular part of the story a priori, nor does it assume the preemi- nence of anygiven factor. It is notevident ahead of time which pieces will shape the story and which will become incidental. Still, as in the example of the “really sick” man, strong storytelling templates can overwhelm other, more mundane ones. Such templates are not inevitably what shapes the story of patient-with-disease, but they are easily galvanized, and excluding them would require sig- nificantdand likely prohibitivedeffort on the part of residents.

For any patient, a horde of facts and factors is potentially rele- vant: a patient’s “bizarre” affect, the needle tracks on his arms, whether he has previously visited this hospital, his “ugly rash,” what cases the resident has seen recently, his urine toxicology, his slurred speech, whether his has a “do not resuscitate” directive, or his inability to tell the same chronology to two different physicians. Laying out the patient’s story is the work of admitting a patient. Without a story, a physician does not know who this patient is. Without a story, she cannot make sense of a rash, bump, or fever, to see what it is a case of and how to treat it. Residents are in the process of developing a set of narrative templates, about what patients are like, about the nature of disease, and about what they, as physicians, can and should do to treat it. Over the course of their residential training, they develop a capacity to deploy these templates, the know-how of the seasoned physician.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Gil Eyal, Diane Vaughan, Peter Bearman, Bruce Link, Rayna Rapp, and Stefan Timmermans for providing valuable comments on earlier drafts. My thanks as well to the anon- ymous reviewers for their insightful comments and suggestions.

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  • Medical residents’ use of narrative templates in storytelling and diagnosis
    • Introduction
    • Methods
    • In-patient admissions: residents’ storytelling work
    • Narrative…
    • …and narrative templates
    • From templates to stories
    • Putting it together
    • Practical achievement of a story
    • Concluding comments
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Introduction

Towards a sociology of diagnosis: Reflections and opportunities

Introduction

In 1978 Mildred Blaxter declared in the pages of Social Science & Medicine that: ‘The activity known as “diagnosis” is central to the practice of medicine but is studied less than its importance warrants’ (p. 9). Thirty-one years later, she published a moving autobiographical article in the journal Sociology of Health and Illness recounting her own diagnosis of cancer (Blaxter, 2009). What is striking about this article, “The Case of the Vanishing Patient” is first the sociological impact which she assigned to diagnosis and second, the ways in which she has woven sociological theories through her data to make sense of her personal diagnostic process. She draws upon science and technology studies (STS), cultural soci- ology, illness narratives, sociology of professions, relations between practitioners and patients, the sociology of knowledge and finishes by offering analytic insight of and pragmatic implications for health care delivery. Diagnosis, she demonstrates, serves as a prism which absorbs and reflects a panoply of issues central to the experience and practice of medicine and health care. It also evokes collective responses, as Robert Aronowitz (1991) has written, providing an insight into the society in which diagnoses occur.

The sociological study of diagnosis both requires, and can contribute to, a diversity of sociological methods and theories, making the development of a sociology of diagnosis as a discrete field of study a viable exercise. The raison d’être for this Special Issue is to demonstrate the merits of such a sub-discipline by bringing together a collection of empirical pieces confirming this topic as an innovative vein of research and nudging forward the research agendas that it generates. In so doing, we build on a few isolated claims that a sociology of diagnosis can form a concrete body of work and can both deploy, and contribute to, the sociolog- ical understandings of health, illness and health care.

Calls for a sociology of diagnosis

Nearly two decades on from Blaxter’s plea that sociologists should pay more attention to medical diagnosis, Phil Brown (1995) emitted a similar call. It was he who first used the term ‘a sociology of diagnosis,’ and argued that it should form a central strand of medical sociology’s endeavour to articulate the social construction of health, illness and perhaps most crucially disease (more on his current views later in this article). Although the paper itself was influential, any attempt to forge a sociology of diagnosis was lost until the call was taken up in recent times by Annemarie Jutel (2009; 2011b), one of the guest editors of this issue. In her review paper published in Sociology of Health and Illness and in

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her book Putting a Name to It: Diagnosis in Contemporary Society, she argued that diagnosis constitutes a major classification tool for medicine and outlined the work such tools perform. Within the context of Western biomedicine diagnosis: validates what counts as disease; offers explanations and coheres patients’ symp- toms; legitimates illness, enabling patients to access the sick role; provides a means to access resources and facilitates their alloca- tion; and forms the foundation of medical authority. But close scru- tiny reveals that the picture is not a simple one. Medical diagnoses are also contested, socially created, framed and/or enacted. And while diagnosis of disease is ‘central to the practice of medicine’ as Blaxter put it (see above) and as the context of the practice of medicine has changed, so too has the play of social, political, tech- nological, cultural and economic forces which impinge upon diag- nostic categories and diagnostic processes.

In the decades between Blaxter’s two papers, post-industrial societies have undergone significant transformation. Most notable has been the rise of neo-liberalism, globalisation and marketisa- tion. This has meant that while diagnosis still forms the foundation of clinical practice, the day-to-day activity of diagnosing has become increasingly porous, permeated by commercial interests, consumerism and commodification. Diagnosis now represents much more than a patient consulting a practitioner with illness symptoms and coming away with confirmation of disease, if indeed it ever did. Diagnostic categories are less bounded, with the dualism of disease and non-disease collapsing in the face of new categorisations of potential disease and risk factors. Patients now bring expertise, knowledge, and expectations to the clinic. Their conceptualisation of cause and consequences of disease classifica- tion is taken more seriously by policy makers and care providers. Practitioners in turn, are extolled to position the autonomous lay person at the centre of their care, rather than the acquiescent ‘patient.’ But even at this micro level, diagnosing constitutes a socio-political process that begs scrutiny. These are some of the themes explored in the papers in this issue and to which we return in our discussion below.

Diagnosis – an absent presence

We can re-read the literature in the sociology of health and illness and see that diagnosis has not been neglected, and certainly studies of diagnosis as a social process are clearly present. Similarly the contestation and consequences of disease classification are evident. One could argue that diagnosis has had an absent presence in the sociology of health and illness. It figures in a number of important debates and literatures within the field, most obviously

Introduction / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 793–800794

in the history of medicine, medicalisation and the sociology of tech- nology. Here we see illustrative examples of how disease categories are: identified (for example, Alzheimer’s disease (P. Fox,1989), PTSD (Scott,1990), overweight (Jutel, 2006) and Lyme disease (Aronowitz, 1991)) and enacted (for example, atherosclerosis (Mol, 2002); breast cancer (Klawiter, 1999), and anorexia nervosa (N. Fox, Ward, & O’Rourke, 2005)). We also see, as Allan Horwitz has eloquently demonstrated, how both internal factors (interprofessional dynamics) and external (drug industry and advocacy groups) serve to configure and reshape diagnosis (in this case, Major Depressive Disorder), with dramatic impact on mental health, its practice, treat- ment, research and epidemiology (Horwitz, 2011).

Diagnosis is also evident in the sociology of illness experience and illness narratives. The naming of a disease can give rise to ‘bio- graphical disruption’ (Bury, 1982), a ‘loss of self’ (Charmaz, 1983) and ‘narrative reconstruction’ (Williams,1984), or a symbolic trans- formation (Fleischman, 1999). Diagnosis is the means by which we gain an insight into the biographical and temporal adjustments (cf Bury, 1982 and Williams, 1984). Empirical studies have yielded data demonstrating the impact and consequence of diagnosis on people’s lives, producing an important set of concepts to make sense of the diagnostic experience. Diagnosis organises disease, providing a name, a treatment, a direction to an ailment (Balint, 1964). It is an interpretative project involving a back and forth exchange between lay and professional to find a satisfactory expla- nation (Leder, 1990). And diagnosis can be a narrative surrender, where a lay person’s story of embodied experience is re- appropriated, and recast by medicine (Frank, 1995). Diagnosis is a starting point, the foundation from which sense-making and experiences are crafted.

Diagnostic processes are prominent in those studies which examine contested diagnoses; especially those where lay people or activists have contributed to the identification and confirmation of diagnostic categories. Social movements have debunked some medical diagnoses (for example homosexuality (Kirk & Kutchins, 1992), and hysteria (Shorter,1992)) and contributed to the establish- ment of others (for example, miner’s lung (Bloor, 2000) Lyme Disease (Aronowitz, 1991), Gulf War syndrome (Brown et al., 2001; Zavestoski, Brown, Linder, McCormick, & Mayer, 2002; Zavestoski et al., 2004), RSI (Arksey, 1998) and HIV/AIDS (Epstein, 1996)).

Diagnoses are an important foundation for some forms of med- icalisation (Barker, 1998; Conrad, 1975; Lee & Mysyk, 2004; Rosecrance,1985; Tiefer,1996): providing a label to which medicine can anchor its authority, and around which it can express its concern and set its agendas. Capturing, in a medical diagnostic label, unacceptable social conditions (shyness, unwanted childless- ness, inadequate feelings of lust, or ageing) lays them bare for exploitation by ‘engines of medicalisation’ about which Peter Conrad (2005) and others (Healy, 2006; Moynihan, Heath, & Henry, 2002; Phillips, 2006; Wolinsky, 2005) have written.

This Special Issue has papers that speak to these on-going socio- logical concerns: classification, illness narratives, lay epidemiology, sociology of science and technology, social movements and medi- calisation are all touched upon. A variety of methodologies too are deployed. But what transcends all the papers is the focus on diagnosis in terms of categorisation, process or consequence with most papers illuminating all three of these dimensions of diagnosis. Before we examine the papers themselves in terms of what they add to these on-going debates, let us reflect on what a diagnosis is, within the context of health and medical care.

What is diagnosis?

At its most basic, a medical diagnosis is both a category and a process (Blaxter, 1978). A medical diagnosis is perhaps most

readily recognized as the official label that classifies disease or a medically-related problem. Clinical practitioners are able to draw upon a range of nosologies, taxonomies and other authorita- tive classification systems for diagnostic guidance. The International Statistical Classification of Disease, Injuries and Causes of Death (ICD) the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), Read Codes, Systemized Nomenclature of Medicine (SNOMED) and dozens of other classification systems, with varying purposes, are amongst the array of resources available to clinicians, statisticians and hospitals and states (Jutel, 2011a). However, each classification system has its own history, and serves its own purposes. The ICD grew out of a political context in the early 20th century wherein European countries were extending their empires and their citi- zenry, traversing boundaries in ever quicker and more invasive ways, bringing, among other things, viruses and epidemics to new locations. It sought to track and compare disease patterns between populations (Bowker, 1996). The DSM, on the other hand, initially published in the early 1950s as a slim volume of psychopathology was, by its third revision in 1980 and henceforth, to become a tool by which psychiatry could assert its authority at time when many other professions were encroaching upon its domain (Mayes & Horwitz, 2005). These classificatory infrastruc- tures did far more than simply develop simple taxonomies.

The diagnosis finds expression outside of the classificatory infra- structure when an individual decides he or she is ill and presents this supposition to someone with diagnostic authority. Usually a doctor (but also a nurse practitioner, physiotherapist or others) examines the patient, assesses the evidence, and diagnoses their ailment. The diagnosis may (or may not) take into account a lay version of events; may (or may not) rely upon clinical judgment, or alternatively laboratory findings; and may (or may not) align with the patient’s own diagnosis of her symptoms.

Analytically separate, the category and process of diagnosis are of course inextricably interlinked and mutually constitutive. What is poignant here is the degree to which the diagnosis does ‘work.’ As soon as it is defined (category), or implemented (process), it categorises health realities in tangible ways, determining who has access to what resources, under whose jurisdiction the manage- ment of the condition will fall, and what the individual’s experience now means in terms of identity and prognosis. As classification theorists Bowker and Star (1999) point out, the diagnostic category, once formalized by its inclusion in a classificatory scheme (say ICD or DSM), cements a particular view of illness that will invariably privilege certain voices, and silence others. It is the expert consensus panel that tends to have the last word in the establish- ment of diagnostic categories. Robert Aronowitz has underlined that the evidence viewed by such panels to arrive upon their defi- nitions of disease cannot be easily separated from knowledge of who will benefit (or alternatively, suffer) from a disease being named in one way, as opposed to another (Aronowitz, 2001). And of course these are not static, but change over time not least as they are applied and implemented in a variety of contexts.

We are using Blaxter’s (1978) diagnosis-as-category and diagnosis-as-process as the starting point for introducing the content of this Special Issue. However, we have added classificatory decisions of our own and have a third rubricd‘consequences of diagnosis’dto describe the important papers which follow this introduction.

Diagnosis as category

While medical classification of the 18th century rested on symptom-based taxonomies, wherein there was a correspondence between the symptom and the disease; and the medical classifica- tion of the 19th century determined that diseases were based on

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observable pathological lesions; 20th century classifications became increasingly fuzzy. Blaxter’s (1978) paper took the case of alcoholism to demonstrate this problematic. It was an example of the vogue to reinsert the person in to the patient’s body. A ‘liberal- ising of the disease concept,’ that ‘represents a very fundamental switch of emphasis: an acknowledgement of the multi-causal nature of disease, an attempt to see illness as related to a host of environmental, constitutional, occupational, behavioural and psychological factors’ (p.10). Her case study shows that disease labels such as alcoholism can be difficult to assign in practice.

The patient-as-person whose actions were more difficult to tame than biological processes made doctors reluctant to apply the diagnosis of alcoholism. Once a person was diagnosed as an alcoholic, the doctor’s potential contribution became less clear. Blaxter demonstrated how the absence of a suitable medical prescription for a particular diagnosis led to doctors’ resistance to use this diagnostic category. Nevertheless, as Blaxter drafted her paper, a growing array of social taxonomies designed to capture both disease and behaviour were being developed for use in primary medical care and for statistical records of morbidity throughout the world. The diagnosis as category was becoming broader, encompassing more than the pathological lesion.

David Armstrong’s paper in this issue has some degree of over- lap with Blaxter’s thesis. He addresses the fundamental matter of classification structure through his analysis of diagnosis and nosology in primary care (Armstrong, 2011). Like Blaxter, he docu- ments how various classification schemas deployed by national governments, and more particularly the World Health Organisa- tion, aimed to capture the patients’ symptoms, and psycho-social background. Crucially, for his argument, they were intended to capture the reasons patients give for seeking medical help. Thus what we see is not a ‘patient as interlocutor for the pathology but the patient as reflective being’. Unlike the patient in the symptom-based classificationparadigmwho functioned as avehicle through which the doctor could access the patient’s problem, the contemporary patient is a reflective person with whom the medical practitioner must engage. Armstrong demonstrates how medical nosologies, through their application in the process of diagnosis, attempt to promote and maintain a certain medical reality. His review of modern disease classification systems underlines how diseases and diagnoses are made apparent through these systems which also construct the different identities that these systems crystallize.

The formation of medical identities is a point of departure for Charlotte Salter and her colleagues. In their paper, ‘Risk, signifi- cance and biomedicalisation of a new population: older women’s experience of osteoporosis screening’ they discuss how clinical risk assessments determine the probability of fracture when combined with dual energy X-ray (DXA) scanning to measure bone mineral density thus predicting and treating an individual patient’s absolute risk of fracture and possible osteoporosis (Salter et al., 2011). The focus of their piece is on the consequences for patients, but there is an important point here that relates to diagnosis-as-category. The example serves as illustration of the ways in which contemporary classificatory tensions exist between the clinical categorisations and a changing wider societal context. Citing the work of Novas and Rose (2000), Salter et al highlight how this pre-disease identification gives rise to a new category of patient whose at risk status comprises a novel source of social iden- tity. The well person is diagnosed as the person ‘at risk of illness’, not only through behavioural or social characteristics but increas- ingly through the identification of biological makers. This high- lights the blurry frontier between risk factors for a disease and the disease itself. Consequently, there is a temporal and spatial frac- turing of the diagnostic category (and the diagnostic process) that

contributes to the collapsing of the undiagnosed and diagnosed dualism. Diagnostic labels now go beyond disease itself to include risk factors for disease. In this case, the categories may be overshad- owed by diagnostic predictors. At the same time this gives rise to a new source of the social identity, namely a pre-disease (risk of disease) status.

Genomic technologies offer further opportunities to blur the distinction between risk and disease as has been discussed else- where (Finkler, Skrzynia, & Evans, 2003), and, it should be said, between category and process. As Patrice Bourret and his colleagues in this volume bring to our attention, genomic informa- tion brings a prognostic and predictive dimension to the picture of breast cancer (Bourret et al., 2011). Molecular diagnosis becomes a different form of diagnosis: one which takes diagnosis out of the doctor’s hands and into the laboratory, where a cellular config- uration replaces the clinical judgement as confirmatory. The locus of the clinical diagnostic process can be realigned by post- genomic technologies. Bourret et al focus on more than the labora- tory–clinical interface, but on the wider laboratory-clinical- commercial triad present in cancer genomics. Gene-expressing profiling tests are a point at which commercial, clinical, regulatory, and patient interests collide. Bourret and his colleagues’ paper on post-genomic medicine provides an insight into the shifting nature of diagnosis within the landscape of molecular technologies. The doctor’s judgement, one might speculate, is being superseded by the ‘truth’ of the laboratory finding. Certainly, it has been shown elsewhere that working in consumerist environments doctors are nervous about making decisions rooted in judgement and experi- ence. They feel bound to check out their diagnoses with confirma- tory tests (Nettleton, Burrows, & Watt, 2008). However, when test results and clinical observations are not compatible, the diagnosti- cian does not simply disregard her or his own assessment but undertakes repair work, at which point we begin to see the inter- face between diagnosis as a category and a process which we turn to in more detail below.

Disease risk is also critical to contemporary pharmaceutical marketing and has come to form an important component in the social framing of diagnostic categories. Recruiting the public to scrutinise their minds and bodies is of course a particular powerful marketing technique (Moynihan et al., 2002), one that has long been deployed by pharmaceutical companies and is evidenced in direct to consumer advertising. Mary Ebeling’s paper in this Issue, taking the example of premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD), reviews these practices through an examination of a number of symptom check lists placed on websites (Ebeling, 2011). These are a tidy means to encourage self-diagnosis and disease awareness, and of course a good example of the commodification of illness and disease and the co-construction of the medical consumer. Responsibility is individualised under the guise of empowerment. Her paper also serves as an example of the way medical knowledge has dispersed and is no longer contained within the traditional domains of institutionalised medicine but has escaped and is e- escaped throughout the virtual landscapes (Nettleton, 2004).

Pharmaceutical and biotechnology industries are primary movers of contemporary medicalisation. This thesis is explored by Kristin Barker in her paper on fibromyalgia, a pain disorder that is, as she notes, ‘a paradigmatic contested illness’ (Barker, 2011). In 2007, the USA the Food Drug Administration (FDA) approved the branded name Lyrica as a drug therapy for fibromyal- gia and in so doing, not only ‘[gave] credibility to the notion that fibromyalgia is a discrete biological thing’ but also ‘what type of bio- logical thing fibromyalgia is’. It is treated as and so confirmed as a neurochemical aberration. Perhaps most powerfully, its basis can be located within the body as the photographic image repro- duced in her paper of overactive nerves reveals. The legacy of the

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pathological lesion still holds great sway. Her analysis reveals not only lay and professional disputes over the diagnosis, but how the pharmaceutical industry serves to concrete and authenticate the existence of fibromyalgia via what she refers to as ‘pharmaceu- tical determinism.’ What is striking about her analysis is the way which the manoeuvres of pharmaceutical companies are mediated by various forms of media and information and communication technologies through advertising campaigns and the forging of alli- ances between the interests of advocacy groups or commercial enterprises. The salience of gender with women being encouraged to reassess everyday symptoms of life as possible symptoms of fibromyalgia adds to the interest of this reflection..

The social power of diagnostic classification is enacted by the process of diagnosis. We could describe the process of diagnosis as a kind of actualisation; once assigned to individuals, the diagnosis-as-category starts its classificatory work, and exerts its social functions. Given the important consequences that having a diagnosis can confer, the process by which the diagnosis is awarded to the individual warrants scrutiny. Whosoever holds the power to control this process is ascendant wrote Friedson in 1972. Even in our contemporary era, where a greater emphasis is placed on the lay person to play a more active role, the diagnosti- cian in the medical setting remains a key arbiter and thereby still holds significant jurisdictional authority. While the category and process are frequently indistinguishable in practice, their separa- tion offers useful analytic purchase and it is to the work and activity of diagnosis that we now turn.

Diagnosis as process

The activity of diagnosis is the result of negotiation, multiple investigations, and trial and error. As we have noted above, diag- nostic tests may be out of kilter with the observation of clinicians, just as those observations may fail to align with the experience of the individual, or the views of a second clinician. Reading and inter- preting the patient’s body is a complex business. How practitioners reconcile seemingly incompatible findings is demonstrated elegantly by John Gardner and his colleagues as they follow the clinical pathway of the cardiology patient whose diagnosis is enacted through various clinical and diagnostic settings (Gardner et al., 2011). The intellectual point of departure of their paper is Mol’s (2002) STS inspired study of atherosclerosis; they provide an excellent résumé of her book The Body Multiple. The diagnostic process reported by Gardner et al. involves multiple players in three locations: a consultation in primary care, an ECG and a consultation with the specialist in the hospital clinic. During the first consulta- tion, the doctor suspects heart disease, and yet during the second consultation results of the ECG indicate the all clear and all seems well with the patient’s heart. During the third consultation, the consultant explains away the test results and advises the patient that the ECG is not necessarily a comprehensive arbiter and the patient’s clinical profile now suggests he could be at risk from heart disease. And so we see here the power of the ‘at risk’ discourse that encourages the self-aware, self-managing, self-monitoring patient even in the absence of a technological truth. This paper also high- lights the fragile and continuous nature of the diagnostic process. These authors do not so much see disease as socially constructed but enacted through the various clinical and diagnostic practices. The importance of this distinction is that while the former implies the creation of a stable category, the latter alludes to the frailty of assemblages which in turn are contingent to the context, it the clinic, the laboratory, the home and so on.

The diagnostic instrument may become an extension of the diagnostician, as the diagnostic process shifts between the doctor and his or her tools: from the simple to the very complex. Working

within a pragmatist paradigm, Cornelius Shubert’s paper treats diagnosing as a ‘practical accomplishment’ (Schubert, 2011). From this perspective, the technical hardware is not treated as distinct from the practitioner but rather as a form of mediation between the bodies of the patient and the doctor. He illustrates his argu- ments through the use of two examples. First, he challenges the conventional view that the invention of the stethoscope led to the silencing of the patient in medical work, arguing instead that its use fused ‘the bodies of the physician and the patient into a new diagnostic ensemble.’ New medical skills in the form of ‘a trained ear’ that could make sense of what was heard through the stethoscope meant that doctors’ and patients’ bodies interacted in close physical and intimate ways. His second, contemporary example is modes of ventilation chosen by anaesthetists during operations. He describes how the tactile experience of the rubber, re-inflating ventilation bag by the experienced anaesthetist, informs and shapes their assessment of the patient, dragging them away from the digital read-outs of monitoring systems. Tech- nical mediation is replaced by the kinaesthetics of the soft rubber bag in the physician’s hands.

Shubert’s paper, like Gardner’s, is important, because they both show that diagnostic instruments do not exist independently of practitioners who use them. On the contrary they are embodied, embedded and transformed through their application. Diagnostic instruments alter the relations between doctor and patient as both are drawn into the diagnostic process. Although the tools are used to scrutinise the inner reaches of the patient’s body, they do not simply exist as neutral objective arbiters of signs and symptoms. With each new instrument, writes Shubert, a new configuration of contact, kinaesthesia and knowledge takes place, affecting the form diagnostic process will take (see also Maseide, 2011).

Furthermore, knowledge of medicine’s object becomes classi- fied within medical sub-disciplines. Michael Halpin explores the intricacies of specialisations in the example of Huntington’s Disease, an enigmatic condition which is frequently diagnosed in its early stages as a psychiatric, rather than a neurological disorder (Halpin, 2011). He highlights the tensions and ambiguities which can be present in a diagnosis drawing our attention to the ways in which diagnoses establish jurisdictional boundaries: Who owns the brain? The psychiatrist or the neurologist? Indeed, soci- ology of diagnosis speaks to the negotiated order of professional boundaries and organisational responses of formal care provision. The diagnostic category does not always fit neatly into professional domains, a problem which is especially pertinent as health care becomes increasingly fragmented and specialised. Doctors who become experts in their own field can soon become ignorant when dealing with areas beyond their specialism and can present difficulties when managing the care of patients with co- morbidities.

Learning to diagnose is of course central to becoming a doctor as Atkinson (1995) demonstrated in his classic ethnography of medical students that revealed how doctor are coached into con- structing and reconstructing medical realities. Building on this work, Gethin Rees explores training in forensic diagnosis (Rees, 2011). Here medical training is subordinated to juridical factors as is evident in the examination of cases of alleged rape. In this setting, diagnosticians must demonstrate, not so much what they believe to be medically correct, rather what they believe they can validate to a standard that will withstand the examination of a court of law. Diagnosis may be initially medical, but ultimately, it only counts when it survives the court challenge, thus providing an important demonstration of the way in which institutions other than medi- cine (in this case the law) can act to shape diagnosis.

Turning to medical training in hospital settings Nancy Daven- port’s article on medical residents’ use of narrative templates

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reveals how story telling is at the heart of the diagnostic process in this context (Davenport, 2011). Determining what narrative template will complete the patient story is how they extirpate the nugget of the clinical case. They ‘build the story of this patient-with-disease on the backs of the stories they already know’ to arrive at the diagnostic decision. However, their story telling is contingent, and often facile, capturing the most obvious, but not necessarily the most cogent, narrative.

We finally turn to the matter of consequence as we finish our description of papers in this Special Issue. In this section, we have placed the articles which describe the impact of the diagnosis, once awarded, on individual and on groups.

Consequence

The final set of papers in this Special Issue considers how diag- nosisdas well as the way in which it is organised, structured and delivereddresults in consequences for those to whom the diag- nosis applies. These papers focus on the consequences for patients and carers. They also reveal the contrasting implications of the absence and conversely, presence, of contested diagnoses. There are paradoxes inherent in medical diagnosis. A diagnosis can vindi- cate and blame, can legitimise or stigmatise, can facilitate access to resources just as it can restrict opportunities. A diagnosis can be welcomed or eschewed.

Catherine Trundle presents an ethnography of nuclear test veterans from the south Pacific ocean (Trundle, 2011). Exposed to high dose radiation in a non-combat setting, many of these veterans seek to establish political culpability for their current illnesses. The pursuit of a biomedical explanation for their ailments is inseparable from the acknowledgement of liability by the armed services. Without a diagnosis, state recognition and ultimately compensation are impossible. Diagnosis however, is politically charged, because it implies culpability. In the fraught debates over whether their ailments are the result of their exposure to over- whelming amounts of radiation, test veterans are denied the reality of suffering as they, and their families, experience it.

By contrast, other diagnoses can be (albeit ambivalently) welcomed. Ilina Singh’s study reports the accounts of children with a diagnosis of Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) (Singh, 2011). She demonstrates how children negotiate this label, consciously inhabiting it, exploiting it, but also fearing it (what does the future hold?). There is a delicate interplay, she writes between self-control, stigma and agency, but perhaps as well, legitimization and de-victimization (ADHD adoption/exploi- tation). The disorder resides not in the child or in the environment, but somewhere in the nexus of the two.

How we talk about diagnosis in relation to ourselves or amongst those close to us provides an insight into values, struc- tures and contexts. Once labelled with a particular diagnosis, the individual may develop an identity, or alternatively be identified in differing ways. Numerous discourses are available in Western industrialised countries to speak about the cancer, and in an auto- biographical piece Carla Willig describes how these framed her own experience of a cancer diagnosis (Willig, 2011). A strong moral tone infuses these discourses which focus on ‘thinking positively,’ and examining patient lifestyle for self-initiated carcinogenic behaviours such as sunbathing, smoking, and poor diet. They cast the patient as an active agent in the cancer drama with similar responsibility for the outcome. As we discussed earlier in this piece, diagnosis and identity become mutually constitutive but are, as we see here, contingent upon, and given shape by the cultural context.

Rebecca Olsen also explores the reaction to a diagnosis, in this case, carers’ responses to their spouses’ diagnosis of cancer

(Olsen, 2011). She offers a novel conceptual tool. Olsen develops a Durkheimian inspired concept that she calls ‘temporal anomie’, a notion designed to capture the salience of the disruption of time that is experienced when people are diagnosed with cancer. Hitherto, the literatures on the communication of cancer diagnoses have tended to be dominated by notions of hope, coping and denial. In taking a more sociological, rather than a psycho-social approach, and drawing on the sociology of emotions, Olsen demonstrates how carers reassess views of the future by focussing on the present and/or reassessing future expectations. What is striking from the data is the way in which the diagnosis is embedded in the context of the patients’ and carers’ everyday lives.

These findings are congruent with Karen Schaepe’s thesis, which is also based on a study of patients and their family’s accounts of disclosure of cancer diagnosis (Schaepe, 2011). The way they experience the news was found to be related to the nature and quality of their encounters within the health care system prior to disclosure. Confusion, poor quality interactions, misinformation and so on could mean that even in the presence of good news, the disclosure itself could be distressing. It is not individual health workers, the treatments or tests that are distressing but the way in which the medical care is orchestrated that can create difficul- ties. We are reminded here of Mildred Blaxter’s (2009) autobio- graphical piece (cited above) in which she concludes that it “is the system within which these hospital doctors worked which created alienation” (p. 776). In terms of the communication itself an important finding was the way in which certain types of phrases seem to endure or stand out from within the disclosure of the diag- nosis. Schaepe calls these ‘prognostic phrases,’ and include non- technical terms freighted with hope, such as: ‘very treatable’ or ‘a good kind of cancer’. What is notable is that the disclosure of the diagnosis does not take place at a discrete moment, but rather is part of a series of interactions and encounters with a variety of health care personnel. The diagnosis of cancer is mediated not only by the quality of this one-off social interaction but also by the quality of the preceding pathways through the health care system and subsequent care.

Jurisdiction over a diagnosis can also trouble lay-professional divides in classification structures as is evident in the work of Lindsey Prior and his team, who explore lay accounts of the differ- entiation between colds and influenza (Prior and Evans, 2011). Their exploration of older people’s descriptions of the difference between influenza and the common cold shows how their views contribute to lay epidemiology and surveillance: albeit not neces- sarily in line with public health initiatives. While there is a degree of congruence between lay and professionals’ listing of the symp- toms, the former tend to emphasise the behavioural correlates of the conditions. The study participants emphasised the way which flu affects the whole body and leaves a person bed-ridden whereas a cold does not. Lay talk about causation places significant weight on adverse effects, resistance and on lifestyle-as-prevention in a way that counters immunisation campaigns, and demonstrates the continuing importance, for this cohort at least, of beliefs that circulate amongst family and friends. Lay epidemiology explains causation in ways that it behoves public health to consider. We see again how diagnostic categories are context bound and malleable; there is no simple category that becomes a given and simply adhered to even though professionals and lay people ‘share a similar overarching medical landscape’ as Olafsdottir and Pesco- solido (this volume) would put it. Like other studies of lay views on illness causation and symptoms Prior and Evans rely on quali- tative interviews, however the data are analysed using novel text- mining methods that calculate the likelihood of co-occurring concepts thereby giving more than impressionistic interpretation of views.

Introduction / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 793–800798

Sigrun Olafsdottir and Bernice Pescosolido also focussed on lay understandings of disease, and rather unusually for this topic, relied on quantitative survey methods to investigate how lay people from eight different countries recognised and labelled mental illness (Olafsdottir & Pescosolido, 2011). Study participants were asked to respond to a vignette written to capture the symp- toms of schizophrenia. Cross-nationally, it would appear that people are able to identify the case as mental illness, but less likely to label it as schizophrenia. Indeed an advantage of their large data set is that it permits insight into cross-national differences that beg further analysis. It also reminds how very little we know about cross-national variations in the interpretation and construction of diagnostic categories. Such comparative work between countries and cultures should be an important strand of a sociology of diag- nosis as it progresses. Comparisons too with complementary and alternative practices merit attention.

Towards a sociology of diagnosis: issues and agendas

What this collection of articles presents is, we hope, a valuable insight about the social framing and consequences of diagnosis within Western medicine. But it is far from the last word. The assembly of these papers punctuates additional layers and complexities of this topic. If we see diagnosis as medicine’s classi- fication tool, and if the power of classification is, as David Arm- strong writes in this volume to both define and limit analytic possibilities then we can hardly group the contents unselfcon- sciously. How we present things as similar to one another, or conversely different, depends on the mental representations that we, as editors, have made of the subject (see Zerubavel, 1991). Our power to classify the subject constructs the categories as natural, rather than as the privileged vision of the individuals who happen to have, in this instance, editorial control. However, Thomas Arnold, in 1839, reflected that “We are not to suppose that there are only a certain number of divisions in any subject, and that unless we follow these, we shall divide it wrongly and unsuccessfully: on the contrary every subject is as it were all joints, it will divide wherever we choose to strike it, and therefore accord- ing to our particular object at different times we shall see fit to divide it very differently” (p. 4–5). We chose to divide the contents of this issue around a model about which one of us (AJ) has previ- ously written: the social framing of diagnostic categories, the process of diagnosis, and the consequences of diagnosis (Jutel, 2011b). We have been able to coax the papers in this Special Issue into these fields, bolstering our model, and by so doing undoubt- edly repudiating others.

Diagnosis as category as process and the consequences of both can form the object of sociological scrutiny. Working with diag- nosis as an object, we might examine impact and consequences of a diagnosis for patients, practitioners and societies. This might involve examining how the designation can have consequences for a person’s life, how it is communicated in the clinic, how disease categories can come to carry a symbolic significance and so on. But we might also usefully deploy diagnosis as an analytic tool which can prize open some of the central problem- atics of the experience of illness and the practice of health care. Diagnosis serves thus as an analytic device that can explore the way classifications and labels are constructed, framed and enacted. They can be deconstructed to reveal their social content (readers who haven’t already should take a look at Keith Wailoo’s (1997) fascinating history of blood disorders to see social shifts in diagnoses across time and place. What would, he asks, a 19th century scientist make of the human immunodeficiency virus? Certainly something very different from how scientists see it today).

Perhaps suitably, we return to comment on Phil Brown’s work to draw our editorial to a close (Brown et al., 2011). With his colleagues Mercedes Lyson and Tania Jenkins, he brings the conver- sation full circle. In 1995, Brown named the sociology of diagnosis. Today, in the commentary in this Special Issue, he along with his colleagues, proposes an integrated perspective of diagnosis which connects illness, diagnosis-as-category and diagnosis-as-process to numerous social, economic and political factors. This approach de-constructs the diagnostic category to connect illness and disease with a range of extra-medical factors influencing health and illness.

What Brown and colleagues suggest is that no medical diagnosis can be delivered “baggage free” (Brown et al., 2011) In the case of obesity amongst a group native Americans (from the Mowhawk Nation Akwesasne Reservation), the example they explore in their contribution, the disease (if it is indeed one), emerges from a context of post-colonisation and globalisation in which commer- cial and colonising factors present the social group with more phys- ical affronts than their waistlines or endocrine systems can handle. Suppression of native habitats, cultural practices and eating patterns; exposure to toxic wastes; Big Food and Big Farm lobbies all converge to produce increased disease frequencies amongst Indigenous peoples (similar observations could be made in the Pacific Islands). Even without refuting the materiality of adiposity or hyperglycaemia, we can see the limitation of conceiving of these diseases in the simple pathophysiological terms. Like “excited delirium” (the death in custody of an agitated inmate or patient held under restraint), it is an example of how a social locus of causa- tion may be shifted onto pathophysiology (Paquette, 2003), obliter- ating as it does, any external culpability.

The sociologist should see diagnosis as a kind of focal point where numerous interests, anxieties, values, knowledges, practices and other factors merge and converge. It is also a point from which emerges an increasingly widening set of social consequences. These go well beyond the individual stigma, entitlement or identity which comes from being diagnosed. It also imposes collective labelling: the obese Pacific Islander or diabetic Native American becomes a global liability, an undeserving citizen (or nation). The cultural group is tarred by global indignation as they are ranked and coded by fatness (World Health Organisation, 2009). And, its influence is felt not only by the diagnosee, but by the diagnostician as well, a consideration that hitherto has received little attention. Indeed, this issue is one of a number of matters that we think should drive the sociology of diagnosis (there are of course many more).

Whilst this Special Issue has discussed the consequences of diagnosis on the patient, it has not discussed the social conse- quences of diagnosing on the diagnostician. There is an important conversation to have about how diagnoses, and indeed specific diagnostic categories, impact those who apply the labels. The health professional experiences a different set of vulnerabilities to the lay person, but nonetheless is exposed to increasing pressure to diagnose in particular ways by administrative, commercial, professional, economic and patient forces.

How does the study of one diagnosis complement, contradict or modify studies of other diagnoses? Identifying how similar (or con- trasting) forces are at play in a range of diagnoses provides a more detailed canvas against which to understand disease and its impact. The importance of this perspective is easily revealed by the detailed historical and political work undertaken around contested and psychiatric diagnoses. The same analytic tools can be used to explore tangible, physical disorders (Wailoo’s (1997) work on hae- matological diseases, or Aronowitz (1991) on Lyme disease, for example) and to elucidate social processes of classification. Step- ping back to see a diagnosis in the plurality of diagnoses enables the identification of whose interests are served, and alternatively,

Introduction / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 793–800 799

whose are disappointed, when a given diagnosis is agreed upon: an important agenda item for the sociology of diagnosis.

Similarly, clarifying what social forces converge into and emerge out of any diagnostic label should be a high priority for the field. This includes exploring what institutions, other than medical are involved in disease causation and disease labelling. This is part of what Brown et al admonish us to do in the pages of this issue, and is demonstrated by many more papers herein. However, there is more to be done. We have not explored the role of insurance, candi- dates for high public office, educational institutions or state adminis- tration in the creation, maintenance ordenial of particular diagnoses.

It is worthwhile to consider how diagnosis creates and/or chal- lenge territorial boundaries: between professions, within medicine, and between lay and professional. Earlier in this paper we asked: ‘what is a diagnosis?’ And, our answer focussed on Western medi- cine’s diagnoses, their construction, enactment and impact. Clearly thecodificationofofficialdiagnoses isanimportantstrandofresearch for sociologists. However, it is also clear that diagnosis does not oper- atewithinacircumscribedboundaryasanyconsiderationof lay,unof- ficial, alternative and non-biomedical classifications of disease and illness would attest. The contemplation of diagnosis in non- Western medicine settings as well as in complementary and alterna- tive therapies is an essential direction for scholars of diagnosis. The topicoflayepidemiologyhas beenconsideredinmorethanonepaper in this collection, but is particularly salient in minority, marginalised and indigenous cultures, where divergent disease explanations often undermine health outcomes for the lay person.

We can pursue a sociology of diagnosis at the macro, mezzo and micro level. For example, diagnosis is implicated in the play of global politics, economic and commercial agendas when resources and multinational corporations work with stakeholders in health care to concretise diseases and conditions. Organisationally diag- noses are shaped by and provide a means for casting light on the interplay between medical care providers and professional territo- ries. In terms of social interactions, the application of diagnoses by the practitioner in the clinic reveals much about the nature of professional patient relations and how the wider societal contexts permeate the diagnostic process.

Therearemany more threadslike thesewhich shouldinterestthe sociologist of diagnosis, and which we expect will become the focus of the field. What ultimately should drive a sociology of diagnosis is the goal of defining how diagnosis fits into the wider structures of society and how these wider structures implicate diagnostic cate- gories, processes and consequences. Diagnosis can provide a means for understanding forms of knowledge, social structures, relation- ships and actions. It is central to medical and health knowledge and as such provides a not only a category and process but a neat analytic tool that serves as a prism that reflects and casts light on a multiplicity of issues in health, illness and medicine.

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Annemarie Jutel* Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand

Sarah Nettleton University of York, United Kingdom

* Corresponding author. Tel.: þ64 21 513 305. E-mail address: [email protected]

Available online 2 August 2011

  • Towards a sociology of diagnosis: Reflections and opportunities
    • Introduction
    • Calls for a sociology of diagnosis
    • Diagnosis – an absent presence
    • What is diagnosis?
    • Diagnosis as category
    • Diagnosis as process
    • Consequence
    • Towards a sociology of diagnosis: issues and agendas
    • References

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Biopolitical endpoints: Diagnosing a deserving British nuclear test veteran

Catherine Trundle*

Victoria University of Wellington, Anthropology, PO Box 600, Wellington, New Zealand

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 15 June 2011

Keywords: Britain Nuclear bomb tests Veterans Biopolitics Legal claims Contested illness Diagnosis Illness narratives UK

* Tel.: þ64 44635134. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.05.034

a b s t r a c t

This article examines recent claims for healthcare made by British veterans who participated in nuclear bomb testing in the 1950s. Specifically, it focuses on their claims for war disablement pensions, exploring how they seek and challenge medical diagnoses. Detailing three veteran case studies, the article offers an ethnographic analysis of illness narratives. It explores how sufferers attempt to recast and reject the evidential burdens that they face in pension appeals, and identifies three narratives strategies that they deploy aimed at linking somatic realities to political etiologies. I propose the notion of biopolitical endpoints to capture how test veterans narratively connect political and medical domains as they seek to enable state culpability and redress.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

In the 1950s the British government deployed thousands of Commonwealth servicemen to participate in nuclear bomb testing. Fifty years later many ‘test veterans’, now aged in their seventies, claim to suffer health problems due to radiation exposure. This article focuses on British test veterans’ quests for war disablement pensions, exploring how they seek, receive and challenge medical diagnoses. Recent literature on contested illnesses within veteran cohorts reveals that many veterans seek a medicalised, physical diagnosis for their illnesses (e.g. Brown, 2007; Scott, 1990; Young, 1995). Engaging with this scholarship, I argue that test veterans fight against the biological reductionism of the state’s diagnosis process in order to illustrate the social, moral and political origins of their illnesses. Test veteran narratives suggest specific conceptual tools for conceiving of and resisting biomedical reductionism that may prove analytically useful to wider social science critiques of the biomedical paradigm.

Background

Between 1952 and 1958, during the competitive politics of the Cold War, the British government detonated 21 nuclear bomb tests. These occurred first in Australia on Monte Bello Island and in the

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southern deserts at Emu Field and Maralinga. After concerns of nuclear fallout in Australia, the British government chose two Pacific atolls under their jurisdiction, Malden and Christmas Islands, (now part of the Republic of Kiribati), to continue the test programme under the military codename ‘Operation Grapple’ (Arnold & Smith, 2006; Crawford, 1989). The British government estimates that around 21,000 Britons took part, the vast majority armed forces personnel.Most servicemenwerepresent foronlyone test, but some witnessed up to eight tests. While most tests in Australia were mounted on 30 m towers, in the Pacific, the bombs were detonated two kilometres above the ocean (Muirhead et al., 2003).

Most test veterans did not become concerned about the effects of the nuclear tests until the 1980s. This awareness, many veterans reflected, was influenced by increased media coverage and public knowledge of the dangers of ionizing radiation. Furthermore, collective lay diagnoses emerged as veterans socialised together and tried to make sense of the physical demise of their friends, and the clustering of particular conditions from which they, their wives and children suffered, such as still births, eye problems, stomach and skin conditions, and cancers. In such a context the men’s memories of the tests were collectively re-evaluated to cohere with their emerging beliefs that they had been physically harmed (cf. Brown et al. 2001). After many test veterans were unsuccessful in gaining a military disablementpension,agroupoftestveteransandwidowsformedthe British Nuclear Test Veterans Association in 1983. In 2006 a smaller group of test veterans and widows forged the Combined Veterans Forum International, joining forces with New Zealand test veterans, to lobby government for policy change. In 2009 a group of around

C. Trundle / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 882e888 883

1000 test veterans filed a collective claim before the High Court of Britain against the Ministry of Defence (MoD), seeking millions of pounds in compensation. This case is still pending. In these legal and political fora British test veterans must utilize and challenge medical diagnoses in order to claim deservedness.

Diagnosing contested illnesses

Diagnoses are the foundational categories upon which therapies and strategies for wellness are built within biomedical systems (Davis, 2000). Diagnoses create order and expectation out of the flux of experience (Balint, 1964), and render pain and suffering socially visible (Jutel, 2009; Parsons, 1951). Crucially, diagnosis commonly acts as a bureaucratic tool used to determine those bodies deserving of assistance, regulation and care (Dumit, 2006). Illnesses become contested when a definitive diagnosis cannot be established and the etiology and symptoms of an illness cannot be traced through conventional epidemiological, clinical or toxicological paradigms.

Illnesses attributed to environmental exposure are commonly highly contested due to the complexities of such illnesses and the limits of current scientific knowledge. As Brown, Kroll-Smith and Gunter show (2000), patients claiming environmental illnesses struggle to gain recognition due to a range of factors. For example, patients’ histories of exposure are rarely recorded by the state or the medical establishment, and are rarely acknowledged as potentially dangerous to human health. Clinical research is only beginning to understand the effects of low-level exposure to toxins, or the synergistic effects of multiple toxin exposures. Moreover, the causes of many illnesses in the modern world, such as cancers, are difficult to determine using statistical or clinical methods, and doctors often lack the knowledge or diagnostic techniques required to link environmental toxins to specific diseases (Lipson, 2004).

In western settings, service personnel and veterans have expe- rienced a range of contested illnesses, due in large part to the experimental and risky nature of military action (Shriver, 2001). Veterans must overcome barriers in gaining recognition for uncertain illnesses not faced by other citizens due to the state sanctioned secrecy of military regimes (Brown, 2007), the signifi- cant power of Defence departments to shape medical research (Shriver, 2001), and laws that lessen veterans’ rights to seek legal redress (Scott,1988). Vietnam and Gulf War veterans have been two veteran cohorts to receive significant scholarly attention (e.g. Brown, 2007; Scott, 1988 & 1992; Shriver & Waskul 2006). Even with established veteran social movements in the US and UK, these veterans struggle to gain state recognition, healthcare and compensation. When patients and experts disagree over diagnosis, patients often resist medical authority and forge collective action aimed to decentre medical expertise (Brown et al. 2001). At the same time state mechanisms commonly objectify and bureaucra- tise the measures of illness and suffering, delegitimising the realms of self-reporting and assessment from which concerns arose and through which the contested illness became socially visible (Das, 1996; Petryna, 2002).

Because medical studies have not been able to corroborate personal and collective illness experiences, Vietnam and Gulf War veterans distrust the medical establishment, viewing it as biased and unresponsive. At the same time, studies show, it is from the realms of conventional biomedicine that veterans most desire a definitive diagnosis that will count as irrefutable scientific and legal proof. Such scholars thus frame veterans’ demands as fraught quests for biologized diagnoses within untrusted scientific and political territory (e.g. Brown, 2007).

This trend can be seen in studies of Vietnam veterans, which show that their advocacy for PTSD has proved crucial in moving troubling psychic and physical experiences from the ‘subjective’

body into ‘objective’ medical manuals of disorder (Scott, 1990; Young, 1995). In their quest to gain recognition for Agent Orange related illnesses, Vietnam veterans have focused on proving the biological causal links between the dioxins of Agent Orange and disease (Scott, 1992). Gulf War veterans have fought to shift diag- nostic categories from focusing on psychological domains toward the physical body. Gulf War veterans thus have rejected explana- tions of their illnesses as resulting from stress or PTSD. Such indi- vidualised psychological explanations, they argue, delegitimise their claims to collective toxic exposure, and negate their assertions of physical illness by implying suffering is ‘all in their minds’ (Brown, 2007; Shriver & Waskul, 2006; cf. Nettleton, 2006; Phillips, 2010).

The first empirical question that this article interrogates, therefore, is whether British nuclear test veterans also seek medi- calised and biologised diagnoses. In contrast to the literature reviewed above, this article examines how veterans’ beliefs regarding political culpability are grafted onto biomedical expla- nations of veteran illnesses; how the search for causation and the attribution of responsibility are inseparable acts in the daily work of seeking diagnoses. By focusing on subjective understandings of etiology, this article demonstrates that test veterans narratively seek to deny biologically reductive diagnoses of their suffering.

The article’s second question seeks to gain analytical purchase from the first by asking how this case study can advance our under- standings of the relationship between biomedical and political etiologies in lay diagnosis. Many scholars of contested illnesses demonstrate that the search for medical proof is tied up with demands for political recognition and redress. For example, in their study of Gulf War veterans, Brown et al. (2001) provide a useful model for under- standing contested illnesses and the medico-political process that veterans face in challenging dominant epidemiological paradigms. They distinguish several distinct stages inwhich sufferers: 1) identify an illness, 2) share their experiences and forge collective action, 3) search for treatment and a clear etiology, and 4) attribute responsi- bility and demand redress. This provides a useful overview model of the contested illness paradigm by categorising the strategies and actions of the actors involved into discrete yet interlinked stages. Yet in ethnographically distinguishing the search for treatment/causa- tion from the attribution of responsibility, medical and political manoeuvrings are treated as distinct logics and acts and the subjec- tive means by which participants draw connections between these domains is less visible for analysis.

Sufferers and advocates of contested illnesses do narratively draw links between biomedical and political arenas. For example, in his study of asthma advocacy in the US, Brown (2007) demon- strates how the asthma social movement places asthma within a social justice frame, casting it as the direct result of unequal social structures (see also Hamdy, 2008). By offering a close reading of participant narratives, this article builds on this approach. It iden- tifies several specific logics that link notions of power with bodily experience in lay explanations of illness, and which centre on notions of moral culpability. In a similar vein to studies that utilise and develop analytical frameworks of biopower and biological citizenship (e.g. Foucault, 1990; Gammeltoft, 2008; Petryna, 2002; Rabinow & Rose, 2006; Ticktin, 2006), this study explores how social inclusion and exclusion are linked to somatic experience through political configurations. In this case, the linkage is consciously propagated by participants themselves.

Methods

This article takes its data from an ethnographic study of New Zealand and British nuclear test veterans and their claims for compensation conducted from 2009 to 2011. I have interviewed 51 test veterans or their widows, and 11 scientists, medical experts,

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government officials, veteran advocates and legal representatives involved in test veterans’ claims. Participants were initially recruited through the leaders of test veteran groups, and then through a snowball technique. Interviews were in-depth and semi- structured, lasting between one and three hours. They were recorded and transcribed. Interview questions for veterans encouraged them to reflexively recount their life stories from their enrolment in the armed forces until the present, focusing on the bomb tests’ effects on their lives and health, and their experiences claiming medical and legal redress. Interviews were conducted in veterans’ homes or in officials and experts’ offices. The study also draws upon approximately 60 hours of participant observation at test veteran meetings and social occasions. Data was coded using categories that emerged from the participants’ own explanations and narratives, which has shaped an analysis based on emic meaning systems. In this article pseudonyms have been used to provide confidentially. This project has received ethical approval from the Victoria University Ethics Committee.

While this broader body of data informs this article, here I focus on three British veteran case studies and draw upon their inter- views. I have interviewed each of these veterans or widows twice and have spent further time informally with each of them in their homes, at gatherings or in veterans meetings. The veterans in this small sample cannot be robustly representative of the broader test veteran community. Yet I have selected them in part because their experiences resonate strongly with the perspectives expressed by the majority of interviewees, and they do provide a cross section of the types of actors involved: widows and veterans; servicemen from the Army and Air Force; those suffering from a range of illnesses; and professional servicemen versus those who served their compulsory national service. These three participants’ evoc- atively rich descriptions of experience also set them apart as suit- able for a narrative analysis.

This article arises out of a commitment to the ethnographic method that reveals the flux and flow of everyday lived experience (Brewer, 2000). The aim of providing only three case studies is therefore to provide sufficient space to bring participants’ subjective perspectives into sharp relief, to place interview extracts within the context of wider life histories and experiences, and to reveal the participants’ struggles for recognition as temporally anchored processes that build, transform and unfold over time. This article also engages with the realm of narrative. As Parkhill, Pidgeon, Henwood, Simmons, & Venables, (2010:45) argue, through the narrative method participants’ “judgements, and decision making processes, their values and subjective preferences.[are] rendered more visible by them being embedded in meaningful, contextually and morally rich, value-laden and affectively charged stories.” The narrative method also demonstrates the inter-subjective dimensions of experience, as it is through verbal and written speech acts that bodily experiences are discursively shaped into collective narrative forms (Kleinman, 1988). The narrative method is particularly potent when discussing contested illnesses as it reveals the multiple meanings that compete to define the body and its place in the world. As Henry shows, “the body itself is a site of contestation as those with competing claims over meaning try to inscribe their own versions of reality onto individuals” (2006:385). Sufferers thus often work to create a coherent illness narrative that places all of their experiences within one ordered explanatory framework (Cohn, Dyson, & Wessely, 2008; Kilshaw, 2009).

What makes a diagnosis count?

To be eligible for a war disablement pension, British veterans must prove that their injury was sustained or aggravated by service. A war disablement pension provides a tax-free weekly payment

and priority medical treatment. Gaining a diagnosis that enables such state support is a fraught process for test veterans, and very few succeed in easily meeting the states’ requisite levels of proof. Most test veteran interviewees were initially rejected in their application for a pension, and continued to fight on in pension appeal tribunals.

Test veterans must provide three levels of proof to gain state recognition for their illnesses. First, a test veteran needs to gain a biomedical disease label from sanctioned medical experts who write assessment reports and from state officials who list illnesses on their pension files. For many veterans, illnesses remained medically unrecognised and socially invisible. The second type of proof required is exposure. Test veterans need to demonstrate that they were individually exposed to harmful levels of radiation during their service. As this article’s case studies demonstrate, a lack of records that measured individual exposure rates for most veterans makes this impossible, and is a common complaint for contested illness suffers (Brown, Kroll-Smith & Gunter, 2000). The third stage of proof required is causation. Veterans must prove a link between the first two factors - exposure and disease - in the form of a scientifically legitimised and politically recognised etiology. Proving that their ill health is connected to their service is difficult for most veterans for reasons that affect many contested illness sufferers. Many of their disorders and diseases are latent, manifesting up to 50 years later. Furthermore, there are no distinct and clear biomarkers of radiation exposure (cf. Schuck, 1987; Scott, 1988).

Meeting these three levels of proof for many test veterans proves insurmountable. Yet even when veterans and their wives succeed in gaining pensions for certain illnesses, they regard the diagnostic process as flawed. As the three case studies below demonstrate, the explanations they seek and offer for their illnesses merge medical causation with stories of power, corruption and neglect in order to portray causation as a moral entity.

Three lives: living with contested illnesses and the search for proof

Adam

I interviewed Adam’s widow Kim in her small flat at a Royal Air Force (RAF) housing estate near London. She explained that it had seen better days, but she was grateful they provided it as a widow’s entitlement. Framed photographs of family members cluttered her mantelpiece. A black and white photograph of her husband e young, handsome and in crisp uniform e sat centre stage. Adam was squadron leader in the RAF. In 1958 he captained a flight that collected atmospheric samples from within the mushroom cloud of one Christmas Island test. He stayed in the fissioning vapour for six minutes, and received a radiation dose of 13,000 rad, the equivalent of 6500 X-rays she tells me. Kim took a crumpled photocopy from her wallet that shows a record of his dose that she explained took some persistence to acquire from the Public Office archives.

After his exposure, Adam was shortly sent home, but was delayed in Fiji for three days with severe vomiting, she explained. Despite being ill on his return he received no medical checks. He did not speak of his service to his family. Like all test veterans, he was bound by the Official Secrets Act (1911e39), which lasted until 1984. This meant that, as witness to a covert government operation, he and other test veterans were legally forbidden from disclosing details of the tests, even to their wives. By 1976 Adam was 44 and had been for 17 years suffering from acute sinusitis, mood swings, anxieties and depression. Despite a promising future career in the international Aerospace industry, he committed suicide. From her armchair Kim recounted the period leading up to his death as one in which Adam desperately sought answers to his psychic pain.

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He used to hold his headand say “Oh MyGod what ishappeningin my head.”.and I felt sohelpless and I said, “Darling the doctorcan help with the pain.” And he looked at me and he said, “You don’t understand it is agony, but it isn’t pain and I can’t explain it except that it is a like a dark cloud.it is as if it is coming from under the floorboards, it isencasing just me”. So wewent to a psychiatrist, an excellent one.and for the last session.Adam and I sat there and [the psychiatrist] said “Squadron Leader, I have to tell you that I have never felt so helpless in all my life.” And my stomach lining wentstraightdowntomyboots,becausehewasourlasthope.And hesaid.“Youseeinmedical terms you arenotamanicdepressive, you are not a psycho whatever it was, you are not a split person- ality.thereisno medicaltermforwhatishappeningtoyou. and I have no idea what is the matter with you, but I do know you are notmadand youarenot insane and I know you are suffering agony and I can’t help you.” And you see the awful thing is.even if it had occurred to me or him that this could be radiation damage that we hadn’t known about.we actually would not have been able to tell the psychiatrist because of the thirty year secrecy act.and the poor boy [Adam] came out of there and he went downhill very rapidly.there was no help anywhere.

Kim did not learn of the potential health issues surrounding radiation for two decades. When she began to question govern- ment officials about her husband’s exposure she was told that his suicide was in no way precipitated by his service. He had, they insinuated, been sickly and psychologically unwell since childhood, a diagnosis that contradicted family and friends’ memories of him, and the assessment he had received during the competitive entry tests for Air Force pilot training. While the MoD gave Kim a house and a pension without barrier, and admitted her husband had received unsafe levels of radiation (much of it at his head), they would not admit any liability for his death. Kim continues to believe that the level of radiation he received to his brain was lethal to his mental state. She suspects that he had a brain tumour or a disrup- tive chemical imbalance.

I think if we had known, if the MoD has said to us honestly and immediately, “look, you have been heavily irradiated, heaviest to the brain, if there are any problems, you know, we will watch you, we will examine you.he might have had enough ammu- nition from knowing what was causing it to have said.I am not going bonkers.and he might have lived.

The undiagnosed nature of her husband’s condition and the perceived mis-diagnosis of what caused his suicide was, for Kim, only one piece of the tragic puzzle. The loss of Adam devastated one of her daughters. “Within twelve, eighteen months of Daddy’s death.she just collapses really.she had become an alcoholic and then she became a drug addict.” For a long time Kim preoccupied herself with caring for her daughter’s children, the wellbeing of several she felt had now also been badly affected by the legacy of Adam’s death. For Kim, Christmas Island had ripple effects beyond that which a medical diagnosis would trace. The links of illness were seen to travel along intersubjective vectors, just as they were physiological in origin.

I will never forgive them. And I will never forgive them for fighting this case [in the High Court]. [We] knew nothing and trusted implicitly in the fact that our country would look after us, our MoD would take care of us. They wouldn’t let any harm come to us, but they did.and I am living with the effects on little Ann and Kate and Nancy [my daughter and grandchildren]. Our agony continues to go on. After fifty odd years it is still going on. And they will still not say, ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you and look, we are going to look after you.’

Kim’s story of her husband’s death illustrates her struggle to make sense of the tragedy, and reach a diagnosis that is meaningful within the context of her wider life narrative. Her diagnosis weaves together a range of factors beyond the medical and somatic, ulti- mately seeking to explain his death in relations to policies of denial and to cast moral blame and responsibility for redress on the state.

Peter

Peter’s home office was stacked with neat folders documenting the test veterans’ claims and his own medical history. From these he regularly drew information to write letters to MPs and newspapers. Prominently displayed above his computer was a framed photo- graph of a delighted group of test veterans, wearing their association blazers, outside the London High Court. Kim stood in their midst popping a bottle champagne. It was taken, he explained, just after the veterans won the right to sue the Ministry of Defence in 2009.

Peter’s personal narrative was polished and punctuated with injustices, one after the other, each linked by a clearly conveyed rationale of government conspiracy. From 1965e6, at the age of 19, he served at Maralinga for the Royal Air Force loading planes. While the British had concluded their major bomb tests by this time, he explained, the desert area of their base was now surrounded with radioactive sand that blew into every inch of their barracks and coated their bodies each day. Unaware of any potential harm, the men carried out their duties without any thought of danger. It was only years later, after meeting other test veterans, that Peter came to attribute his illnesses to Maralinga.

His personal narrative slipped easily into a collective story, as he wove into his account the injustices that other veterans have faced, linking them to his own. He expressed a sense of responsibility to account for social suffering beyond the confines of his own body. When asked about radiation exposure, he began with the stories of others. He explained to me that when seeking a pension veterans have struggled to demonstrate exposure on multiple levels due to a lack of record keeping of military service. For some veterans, he explained, the ‘MoD say, “Well, you weren’t even there.” They did it to someone who was in the Navy, they said “you didn’t go to the nuclear tests”! So he sent them a photograph of him on one of these Royal Navy ships, with a great big mushroom cloud in the back- ground!’ While some servicemen wore dosimeter badges, Peter explained that for rank and file servicemen these were never labelled and were routinely “thrown in a collective bucket” so that individual exposure was never traceable. Peter also believed that important evidence of exposure was not only left unrecorded, but actively manipulated. Peter explained that the British military worked hard to conceal the true extent of environmental radiation.

What the British used to do, they used to give the Australian people radiation field charts, to show what the radiation levels was at the test site, where the bombs went off, but they used to, before they used to give it to them, they used to let them hang around for a few days before they handed them over, so they didn’t really get an accurate reading from them. They were three or four days old by the time the Australian safety people and scientists were given the actual film things.They faded daily, so a lot of the radiation dose on those had dissipated.

Left with no clear evidence of exposure upon which they can rely, test veterans instead focus on the spectre of incorrect, destroyed or doctored documents that discredits any official claims of safe radiation exposure. Rather than treat the question of exposure as a medical and technical issue, it is refigured as a question of power and knowledge.

In the last months of Peter’s service at Maralinga, he was sent to a military hospital to receive treatment for an inflamed iris,

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a condition from which he has continued to suffer. In his pension claim, the timing of the onset of this condition was crucial in proving causation. The easiest way that the Veterans Agency understands, frames and accepts etiological responsibility has been a scientifically crude measure: if the illness arose during service, then it is often attributable to service. While this meant that Peter’s pension claim was successful, it did not enable the type of causation that he desired. Peter reflected that,

I’m one of the lucky ones. I put that down solely to the fact that.the health problem I had, actually started while I was there. So they couldn’t say that it wasn’t linked to there. They still deny it was anything to do with [the tests].I pestered them after I got it, I said, “Look, you say this is attributable to service, and you’re denying that it’s attributable to my service at Mar- alinga. That’s a load of nonsense.” So I wrote to them for another eight months. Letters to MPs, and eventually I got a letter back from . John Major. It went right up to the Prime Minister! [He said] the usual things, you know, ‘the fact that you were in the air forces at Maralinga from these dates doesn’t necessarily mean that your illnesses are attributable to your services in the British Nuclear Weapons Test programme’. The wall’s closed, and they won’t actually take the final step. That’s all I’m inter- ested in achieving is to get them to admit they caused it.

After his service in Maralinga, Peter experienced his health gradually ‘go downhill’. “I was medically, from being an A1 fitness, able to serve anywhere in the world doing heavy lifting.I was downgraded to just being able to do a desk job.” Unexplainable stiffness, swelling and pain plagued his health for the 5 years before his discharge in 1974. At this time his medial status was officially changed.

They miraculously, just before I went out, upgraded me medi- cally. Because they said the condition I was in had gone into a period of quiescence. And they said they’re now upgrading me. And they did that, as I found out later, to avoid medially dis- charging me, because they would’ve had to pay me more money. So I’ve really got it in for them, to be quite honest.It is the basic immorality of the whole thing. You know you think, why should they get away with it?

Never secure with the medical diagnosis of a recognised and explicable illness label and etiology, Peter struggled to control how the military categorised his body. As a consequence, he has felt vulnerable to the manipulation of a fiscally rational military bureau- cracy. When asked how veterans should proceed to gain recognition for their illnesses, he did not mention the medical system. “We’ve always believed that the solution to this.it is a political problem. We’ve beenpoliticallyexcluded from justice. And that is why we keep contacting, hammering the politicians all the time.” Like Peter, many veterans narratively frame both the etiology of and the solution to their ill health as firmly rooted in the halls of power.

David

I interviewed Sally at her home in the English Midlands a year after her husband David’s death. While now at peace with his passing, the injustice that she felt he endured in his final years rang clearly in her story. David was an 18-year-old barber from the Midlands, when he was called up for his compulsory national service on Christmas Island with the Royal Air Force. He left in late 1959, after the last British test and during the final ‘clean up’ phase of Operation Grapple. He returned home a year later after a week of hospitalisation in Hawaii with what his widow described as “very, very bad stomach cramps.” The doctors had diagnosed it as resulting

from salt loss through sweating. As time passed, David met other test veterans and joined the British Nuclear Test Veteran Association. In hindsight, David began to consider the diagnosis of salt loss for a week-long bout of severe stomach cramps as “farfetched”, con- necting it instead to the range of stomach problems suffered by other test veterans with whom he talked. Here the sharing of stories and memories acted to build a lay diagnosis based on an emerging collective ‘illness narrative’ (Kleinman, 1988). David’s widow, Sally, described to me his worsening health over time.

His skin problems increased. In that he got more over his body.it wasn’t nice.at first they just thought it was eczema.but then as time progressed, his skin became very thin.The derma- tologists.couldn’t or wouldn’t put a name to it. But the terms that the dermatologist actually said, “your skin has been cooked, and it’s not by the sun.”

In 2002 he received a lump sum one-off war pension payment of £4300. Sally read to me a letter from the Veteran’s Agency stating that, “We’ve accepted the following diagnosed conditions as being caused by your service. We call this attributable to service: Kera- tosis of the skin”. Sally explained that his condition had never been diagnosed as keratosis by their own dermatologist or GP. “At no point in this particular claim, do they link that to anything to do with the nuclear fallout. And in fact, there is a letter somewhere, that says the claim, ‘attributable to service’, was due to ‘over exposure to sunlight.’” This was a convenient and ill-fitted label, she believed, a necessary bureaucratic step in activating the release of his payment. By contrast the diagnosis that Sally and David sought was one that would indict the state for failing to protect its citizens from harm.

As detailed military records regarding the men’s exposure are not available, the veterans seek out medical and scientific studies that can, by proxy, prove a probable and theoretical link between exposure and illness. For some veterans - too ill to work, or retired - seeking this knowledge became a purpose for daily life. Sally reflected on how her husband had carried out, “an awful lot of research about cancers, about radiation fallout, ingested, all that sort of stuff”. When he found out about a study by a Japanese physics professor on illnesses in Hiroshima, “he got up in the middle of the night to phone this man at work.” At his final pension appeal for a rare form of pancreatic cancer, David presented the Professor’s study as evidence of probable cause. Sally explained that, “He hung on for this tribunal. And it was quite emotionally distressing to see that something that.for him was crucially important, life holding important.at this point he is struggling with walking, he was a very ill man.” Yet a bureaucratic mistake in the tribunal’s scheduling meant his case, which required a full day, had less than an hour to be heard. Moreover the Judge had never received the copy of the Japanese study that David had couriered to the tribunal, and felt unable to make judgement until he had time to carefully consider the evidence. Sally attempted to reschedule the tribunal at their home, as David was now on morphine and barely conscious. Despite a promise from the tribunal that it would be arranged, Sally did not hear back. David died several weeks later before the case could be concluded. “There was no compassion shown to David or to us at all,” Sally remarked. While the pension system had not offered the diagnosis that David sought, his death brought an uncertain confirmation.

The local GP did the death certificate and he looked on the back and saw that there was a box to tick which said: “Is this injury related to work?” So he ticked it. He had known David for a long time and had heard him talk about Christmas Island. He knew that David attributed it to Christmas Island. In a few weeks I got a call from the Coroner’s office and he said “I’m terribly sorry but

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there’s been a mistake with David’s Death Certificate.” And I found out that whenever someone ticked that box they have to have an inquest. So, they thought with the death being cancer, that it was a mistake. So, there was an inquest.the Coroner ruled an “open judgement”. He told me before had he was really sorry and he knew it was like sitting on the fence, but he would be setting a precedent if he agreed to accept that it was work related. Never before in the country had a Nuclear Test Veteran’s death on their certificate been attributed to work, and there was probably consequences for him doing that for his career because he is a public servant. But an open judgement means that it could be reheard in the future if new evidence came to light.

Here the medical system is intimately linked to the political sphere, and medical diagnoses seen as the result of a process that fuses biological evidence with practices of power. To conclude her interview, Sally reflected on what David had most wanted from the pension system, and the personal toll that such a quest took on her.

Before he died, David said to me, the words he used, “will you promise me you will carry on my fight for justice?”.All he wanted was for someone to say, “We got it wrong, and yes, we now know the effects.” And so, so our lives were very, my life at times was almost unbearable, unbearable because of his fight for Christmas Island.

For David, and Sally who now carries on his case posthumously, gaining the right diagnosis was a process within which illnesses came to express more than biomedical frailty. The right diagnosis would confer wider moral obligations of culpability, social responsibility and redress.

Discussion

In these accounts veterans and their widows desired a diag- nostic practice that not only affirmed the somatic nature of the illness, but also asserted a politically and morally configured notion of culpability (cf. Cohn et al., 2008). In navigating the three types of proof that the state requires in order to gain pensions, veterans attempted to broaden the work of diagnosis so that it could account for what Sherine Hamby describes as “political etiologies” (2008), and thus contain an admission of guilt for a dangerous experi- mental regime that put men’s bodies at risk, and which neglected to care for them afterwards.

These three cases demonstrate that veterans and their wives attempttobroaden diagnostic processes toincludepoliticaletiologies through three types of narratives and moral arguments. First, when talking about the cause of their illnesses, veterans did not make sharp distinctions between biological cause and social blame. Veterans and their widows traced causation back through toxic substances to the state agents who enacted a risky experimental regime. Causationwas thus ultimately understood as a reflection of human agency. David’s main motivation in seeking a pension was his desire for the govern- ment to admit “they got it wrong”, while Peter ultimately wanted the government to “admit they caused it.” A meaningful diagnosis is thus one that not only morally attributes blame in the past, and also implies the enactment of redress in the future.

Second, participants linked uncertain diagnosis to other subsequent illness outcomes. Kim did not only blame radiation for her husband’s death, but linked his suicide to the state’s policy of secrecy and neglect that obstructed her husband’s search for a supportive diagnosis. They also trace the effects of radiation along inter-subjective routes to demonstrate how suffering travels through family lines. Kim narratively crafted a genealogy of ill-health from her husband to her daughter and granddaughters that emphasises social loss and psychic anguish,

while Sally described her husband’s increasingly frustrated search for justice as a terrible burden on both of their wellbeing.

Third, veterans traced the political elements of scientific and medical practices, arguing that medical evidence cannot be understood outside of the political arena that shapes and enables it. Peter thus framed the question of evidence for radiation exposure as a distinctly political issue. He argued that any useful evidence of exposure does not exist due to state corruption and negligence, and that this fact, not the lack of radiation records, should be the evidence that counts in diagnosing deservedness. Sally argued that her husband’s death certificate bears witness to the bureaucratised origins of diagnosis practice that reflexively concedes its links to authority (cf. Shriver, White & Kebede, 1998).

These three narrative devices can be subsumed within one overall explanatory frame that seeks what I shall term biopolitical endpoints. In scientific terms, a biological endpoint refers to the stage when an illness manifests and is observable, as somatic effects become apparent after, for example, hazardous substance exposure (e.g. Adams et al., 2002). It thus speaks of visibility, tangibility and acceptability, as well as fruition. Veterans argue that the official state diagnostic process pries apart the biological and the political, reducing their illnesses into discrete entities disconnected from their accusations of state neglect, misconduct, and even corruption. This rupture renders effective a state diagnostic technique that requires causation and exposure to be measured only in certain biomedical terms, bracketing moral questions of culpability in order to verify a diseased body. In submitting to this governmental logic, veteran bodies can become part of a disabled population deserving of state support. In doing so, however, test veterans felt they were expected to accept erroneous biomedical explanations of their illnesses that were apolitical and individualizing, a process that discounted their claims to collective suffering.

This study contributes to a wider body of research on veteran illness claims, which has shown that many veteran lobby groups act to both highlight and reject ‘political forces’ in dynamic ways. Such research demonstrates that these groups often desire a biologized and physiological explanation of their illness, and actively work to excise ‘political influences’ from the diagnostic process (Brown, 2007; Scott, 1992; Shriver & Waskul, 2006; Young, 1995). While some activists become frustrated when scientists attempt to curtail discussions regarding the ‘political obstacles’ that exist in the production of usable exposure records, science is the still the realm of legitimacy from which answers must be sought (Brown, 2007). In contrast to these findings, this study demonstrates that while not denying the biological nature of disease, test veterans place great emphasis on revealing the political cause of their diseases. In the quest for biopolitical endpoints, they seek a diagnosis that contains within it a historical narrative about a nation’s shame and a state’s admission of guilt; the biopolitical endpoints that veterans demand are ones that enable them to assume the status of a collective who have endured a grave injustice, and who should now be entitled to public recognition, state resources, a service medal and an apology.

Conclusion

This article has examined the narratives of three veterans and their wives, detailing the experiential realities of those bearing the evidential burden of state diagnostic processes. These cases demonstrate how biomedical categories of proof are subverted by test veterans and their families to include a more relational set of evidential questions: how has suffering affected the veterans and their families, and causally, who is morally to blame for their exposure to risk? Literature exploring veteran claims for service-related illnesses has evocatively shown how veterans come to understand the politicized nature of their claim-making

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and the contested nature of science. Yet research categorizing veteran claims and actions tends to focus on their demands for biomedicalisation and distinguishes their quest for medical proof from their political search for responsibility and redress (Brown, 2007; Scott, 1992; Shriver & Waskul, 2006; Young, 1995). The narratives examined here, by contrast, demonstrate the value in building analytical categories out of our participants’ own explanations, in this case out of the range of ways that partici- pants constitute questions of proof and suffering that speak of their social and political origins and effects.

Returning to the driving question of this article, how this case study can advance our understandings of the relationship between biomedical and political etiologies in lay diagnosis, some broad conclusions can be drawn. Scholars must be attentive to how our participants conceptualised their illnesses through specific and evolving lived experience, in order that we craft subtle models of lay diagnosis. Scholarly models that discuss ‘the political sphere’ versus ‘the medical domain’, as Brown’s (2007) work demonstrates, may reflect conceptual divisions utilised within patient advocacy groups, which Legitimise certain forms of knowledge and practice while denying others. But as analytical categories guiding our scholarship they can also cleave connections that our participants actively work to reveal. Social science analysis that replicates such divisions can pry apart realms of experience in ways that support the underlying power dynamics of mainstream diagnostic tech- niques, a process that inadvertently works against the provocative analytical power of some contested illness sufferers’ claims. Participants’ evocative accounts detailing their daily quests to make unseen illnesses socially visible, I argue, offer the richest means by which such connections might be conceived.

For test veterans, the biopolitical endpoints that they seek to expose in the diagnostic process link damaged bodies directly to the state apparatus and its quotidian acts of power: from a lack of medical monitoring, to doctored radiation records and crude pension rules that ignore latent diseases. As Das and Das show (2007), subjective experiences of illness are always embedded within the social, political and familial realm that make the body a site of negotiation with the surrounding world. The experiential and intersubjective realm of illness shows us that social suffering and somatic suffering are for many patients intimately interlinked or indistinguishable (Kleinman, Das & Lock, 1997). Biomedical assumptions have been thoroughly critiqued within the social sciences and “the historically rooted and culturally constituted nature of mind-body and other dualisms, biological reductionism, and scientific rationality have been repeatedly pointed out” (Ware, 1992:356). This article suggests that our participants’ embodied critiques of biomedical reductionism can prove useful in identifying a range of analytical frames by which a more holistic diagnostic method might be conceived.

Acknowledgments

Funding from a Royal Society Fast Start Marsden Grant sup- ported this research. I thank Megan MacKenzie, Fiona Barker, Kate Schick, Ross Woods and Brigitte Bönisch-Brednich for their engaging feedback on these ideas. I am also grateful to the three reviewers for Social Science & Medicine and the guest editors of this Special Issue, Annemarie Jutel and Sarah Nettleton, who offered insightful comments on earlier versions of this article.

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  • Biopolitical endpoints: Diagnosing a deserving British nuclear test veteran
    • Introduction
    • Background
    • Diagnosing contested illnesses
    • Methods
    • What makes a diagnosis count?
    • Three lives: living with contested illnesses and the search for proof
      • Adam
      • Peter
      • David
    • Discussion
    • Conclusion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

Diagnosis--psychiatry-and-neurology--The-case-of-Hu_2011_Social-Science---Me.pdf

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Social Science & Medicine

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Diagnosis, psychiatry and neurology: The case of Huntington Disease

Michael Halpin*

University of WisconsineMadison, Department of Sociology, 1180 Observatory Drive, Madison, WI 53706-1393, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 15 April 2011

Keywords: Canada Huntington Disease Diagnosis Mental health and illness Neurology Psychiatry

* Tel.: þ1 608 395 7037. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.03.034

a b s t r a c t

Although Huntington Disease (HD) is recognized as a neurological condition, it has a number of psychiatric effects, with recent studies suggesting that these effects can appear years prior to the telltale neurological symptoms. This trajectory has, in part, led to the misdiagnosis of HD as a psychiatric illness, as explicated in numerous case studies. This paper utilizes HD as a case study to investigate the social consequences of diagnosis by highlighting the tensions and ambiguities between neurology and psychiatry, while also discussing the difficulties that HD creates for psychiatry’s diagnostic schema. Findings are based on 30 in-depth interviews conducted with both individuals with HD and informal caregivers (e.g., spouses) in British Columbia, Canada. The findings address numerous instances of misdiagnosis and the resulting negative impacts for individual health and well-being. The findings are further discussed in relation to the work of Bakhtin and Latour, with suggestions presented to ameliorate such misdiagnoses.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Huntington Disease (HD) is a hereditary genetic condition that impacts movement, affect and cognition (Paulsen, 2004). The disease is autosomal dominant, meaning that if one parent has the mutation, each child has a 50% chance of inheritance. The illness usually affects adults between the ages of 30 and 45, though symptoms can appear in children and young adults (Paulsen, 2004). Approximately 1 in every 10,000 individuals has HD (Huntington Society of Canada, 2010). A precise genetic test has existed to identify the HD gene mutation since 1993. However, a positive genetic test is not considered a diagnosis of HD, as actual diagnosis can only be made by a neurologist based on motor symptoms and the detection of tangible changes in the individual’s brain (Rosenblatt, Ranen, Nance & Paulson, 1999).

Even though HD has a number of symptoms associated with neurological ailments (e.g., chorea), it also has symptoms that may appear indicative of a psychiatric disorder, including mood changes and hallucinations (Paulsen, 2004; Yu, 2004). Recent research also indicates that HD’s psychiatric and cognitive changes may appear years before the characteristic neurological changes (e.g., Stout et al., 2007). Although there is genetic testing for HD, the disease’s symptomology and progression can make accurate diag- nosis a complex process, particularly given the estimated 25% of

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individuals who are currently unaware that HD is present in their family (Almqvist, Elterman, MacLeod, & Hayden, 2001)

ThefollowingmanuscriptsuggeststhattheinterpretationofHD’s features within psychiatry’s diagnostic schema highlights ambigui- ties between psychiatryand neurology. While both disciplines study the same organ, they describe it in different terms, with neurologists seeking to uncover structural damage, while psychiatrists focus on mental, emotional and behavioural disorders. However, these ambiguities go beyond simple epistemological differences, as they also have tangible effects, made evident in numerous case studies detailing the psychiatric misdiagnosis of HD (e.g., Yu, 2004). Although these case studies detail the misdiagnosis of one or two individuals from a clinical perspective, no published study has yet engaged with the HD community regarding psychiatric misdiag- nosis (i.e., incorrect diagnoses) or the social consequences of diag- nosis. This report will address this gap by highlighting the accounts of individuals currently living with HD. Their recollections of both personal and familial misdiagnoses will be used to elucidate the consequences of the disjuncture between neurology and psychiatry, which include grief, confusion, incorrect treatment and the appli- cation of misdiagnoses to similarly affected family members.

Findings will be discussed in relation to three theoretical concepts. First, Latour’s (2005) concept of “oligopitcons”, the numerous finely tuned centres of scientific observation, will be used to discuss the overlapping gazes of neurology and psychiatry. Second, Bakhtin’s (1986) notion of speech genres will be used to ground the problem of misdiagnosis within actual, everyday speech, while highlighting misdiagnosis as an issue of

M. Halpin / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 858e865 859

interdisciplinary ambiguity, rather than a lack of competence amongst specific clinicians. Third, Latour’s (1987) notion of metrology, the system of standards by which observations made from different contexts can be translated and interpreted, will be used to discuss psychiatry’s diagnostics tools.

Diagnosis, misdiagnosis and psychiatric epistemology

Thereisalonghistoryofcritiqueofpsychiatricdiagnoses.Perhaps most famous amongst these is Rosenhan’s (1973) article questioning psychiatry’s inability to distinguish the sane from the insane through the documented diagnosis and psychiatric hospitalization of several healthy individuals. Other critiques include questions over psychia- try’s cross-cultural applicability (Good, 1993), the accuracy of its diagnostic categories (Greenberg, 1977), the repercussions of internal divisions on diagnosis selection (Brown, 1990), the disjuncture between its medical training and in situ experiences (Thomas-MacLean & Stoppard, 2004), and the fabrication and alter- ation of diagnoses by psychiatrists (Pallone & Hennesy, 1994).

Recent research does, however, indicate that psychiatrists do adapt to external criticisms and are cognizant of the ambiguities of their epistemology. For instance, Messinger (2007) described the negotiated construction of psychiatric diagnoses by an interdisci- plinary team, including the solicitation of input from non- psychiatrists in an urban hospital. Additionally, Rafalovich (2005) documented clinicians’ reflexivity to external, particularly socio- logical, critiques of ADHD, as well as clinicians’ own concerns about the diagnostic criteria for the condition.

Within the context of this paper, the investigation of psychiatric diagnoses is backgrounded by the numerous difficulties that already occurafteradiagnosisofHD.Forinstance,individuals canfacestigma based on their movements (Paulsen, 2004), as well as employment and insurance discrimination over their genetic status (Bombard et al., 2008). The familial and hereditary nature of HD also places thefamilyinauniquesituation,astheystrugglewithcommunicating geneticrisk (e.g.,Cox & McKellin,1999).Thus, anaccuratediagnosisof HDcarrieswithitmajorimplicationsforboththeindividualandtheir loved ones. Misdiagnoses further delay the onset of encountering these issues, as well as lessening the time individuals can engage with them. Psychiatric misdiagnosis also carries its own conse- quences, as individuals with psychiatric illness also often face stig- matization (Sayre, 2000) and can develop psychological problems in response to their misdiagnosis (Floyd, 1997).

Neurology, psychiatry, and Huntington Disease

Numerous reportsindicate that thepsychiatric components ofHD can be the first symptoms to emerge (Stout et al., 2007). For instance, Duff, Paulsen, Beglinger, Langbehn, and Stout (2007) Stout's study of 681 individuals with HD suggests that psychiatric symptoms appear wellbeforethecognitiveandneurologicalmarkersoftheillness,with emotional dysfunction often being the first symptom. A report by Stout et al. (2007) also suggests that cognitive decline escalates well before the neurological diagnosis, and, similar to the emotional effectsofHD,canbean“advancedwarning”ofmotorsymptomonset.

The literature on the early psychiatric effectsof HD highlightshow the disease can blur the boundaries between “neurological” and “psychiatric” illness. While the disease itself can manifest as a hybrid of neurological and psychiatric symptoms, the disciplines of neurology and psychiatry are not as seamlessly interwoven. Indeed, psychiatrists and neurologists have themselves noted the tension between their two perspectives (e.g., Butler, Corboy, & Filley, 2009; Schon, MacKay, & Fernandez, 2006). A trio of neurologists, Price, Adams, and Coyle (2000), most directly summarized this tension as a “great divide”, centering around neurology’s tendency to focus on

the“brain”comparedtopsychiatry’stendencytofocus onthe “mind”. Althoughthesedisciplines havebeen similarbutseparatethroughout their histories, it is precisely diseases such as HD that create the need for greater disciplinary interchange, leading to Price et al’s (2000) suggestion that these professions require a more harmonious education. Price et al. (2000) and others’ focusi on this disjuncture (e.g., Schon et al., 2006) tends to specifically address epistemology and pedagogy. However, these different conceptualizations of the mind/brain have repercussions outside of academia, as made espe- cially evident in the misdiagnosis of HD as a psychiatric illness.

A review of misdiagnosis case studies reveals multiple instances in which psychiatrists have mistaken HD for a mental disorder. For instance, Duesterhus, Schimmelmann, Wittkugel, and Schulte- Markwort (2004) document the case of a severely depressed child, whose diagnosis was informed by a long-standing family history of Major Depressive Disorder. Of particular interest was the child’s father’s diagnosis with Major Depressive Disorder with Psychotic Features; it was not until his eventual suicide attempt that his HD was detected, subsequently explaining the family’s apparent depressive genealogy. This child and his father’s condition greatly improved once they and their healthcare providers were made aware of their actual condition. In this case, psychiatrists noted that the hereditary depression was a “red herring”, concluding that mental health professionals needed to be more sensitive to HD. Tost, Wendt, Schmitt, Heinz, and Braus (2004) expressed similar sentiments in their report of a man who had been diagnosed six times with four different conditions over the course of seven years before his eventual HD diagnosis. Even though his condition stabilized after the correct diagnosis, he had already taken anti-psychotic medications for multiple years, and had been both homeless and incarcerated numerous times as a result of the misperception of his psychiatric symptoms.

Fitting with these calls for greater HD awareness amongst psychiatrists, Appollonio, Frisoni, Curtò, Trabucchi, and Frattola (1997), in their report of three cases of misdiagnosed HD, sug- gested that genetic tests and genealogical histories be included in standard operating procedures for individuals with symptoms similar to HD. Yu (2004) echoed these statements, also noting HD’s prima face similarity to first break schizophrenia, estimating that psychiatric disturbances account for as much as 25e80% of the first symptoms of HD.

These psychiatric case histories provide ample evidence of the difficulties in diagnosing HD, as well as the tangible consequences of its misdiagnosis. It is also noteworthy that all of these misdiag- noses were made after the development of the genetic test for HD. Although this test is an accurate tool for detecting HD, the clinician first needs to suspect HD as a possible diagnosis. Unfortunately, each of the aforementioned articles echoes statements made in Stewart’s (1989) report on the psychiatric misdiagnosis of HD. A decade prior to all of the previously discussed case studies, in a journal focused on both neurology and psychiatry, Stewart out- lined the risk of misdiagnosis and forwarded a protocol stating that individuals who meet two of the three HD symptom criteria should have the disease eliminated as a possibility through differential diagnosis. Despite this timely and well placed advice, the lessons from Stewart’s report on misdiagnosis apparently did not cross the “great divide”, as case studies continue to echo these recommen- dations with little evidence of change in diagnostic practices.

At this point, two important factors become clear. First, HD has numerous psychiatric symptoms, which might appear prior to the characteristic chorea. Second, given the psychiatric nature of HD, it is quite possible that an affected individual’s first point of contact with the healthcare system will be a psychiatrist. As such, there is a risk of an individual being misdiagnosed with a mental disorder, rather than HD. Given the symptom overlap between HD and other

M. Halpin / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 858e865860

mental illnesses, it is understandable that these errors are made; however, what is surprising is the proliferation of case studies repeating similar accounts of misdiagnosis and similar suggestions to avoid mistakes. Subsequently, it is arguable that the ambiguous nature of HD needs to be communicated to psychiatrists via a better means than journal case studies.

Itis here thatone mustturntothe orientating textofpsychiatryand mentalhealthinNorthAmerica,TheDiagnosticandStatisticalManualof Mental Disorders (DSM), currently in the revised version of its fourth edition (APA, 2000). The DSM-IV is the text that organizes, describes and standardizes mental illnesses. Given that the DSM-IV is a pivotal text for providing accurate and uniform descriptions of mental pathologies, paired with the literature on HD misdiagnosis, it would seem the logical place for a concise and clear definition of the psychi- atric components of HD. The DSM-IV codification of HD (APA, 2000, p.165) provides a numberof important and useful criteria; for instance, it highlights all three primary areas of HD (psychiatric, cognitive and motor) while portraying a descriptive account of individuals who might be presenting with HD. Yet the account, titled “Dementia due to Huntington Disease”, is primarily included to attune psychiatrists dealing with an individual already diagnosed with HD to the potential for dementia. Though the entry states that emotional and cognitive changes might “herald” the startof HD, it does not indicate that HD can be mistaken for mental disorders with these specific symptoms.

The DSM-IV HD entry does not convey any of the lessons learned by the numerous psychiatrists who have misdiagnosed the disease. Nor is HD listed as a differential diagnosis in any other category, including Major Depressive Disorder or Schizophrenia, despite the numerous case studies (e.g., Yu, 2004) in which HD has been mistaken for one of these pathologies. Perhaps most telling is that HD is described as a “progressive degenerative disease” that affects mood, rather than a psychiatric or neuropsychiatric disease. Given the limited presentation of HD in the DSM-IV, and the omission of any mention of misdiagnosis, it is understandable that psychiatrists have repeated both each other’s mistakes and each other’s advice.

The limited DSM treatment of HD, the numerous case studies, discussions of the “great divide”, and the symptomology of HD itself all illuminate an epistemological gap between neurology and psychiatry. However, omitted from these accounts is a systematic analysis of the consequences that misdiagnoses have for individ- uals with HD and their families, which will be illustrated in the following analysis of accounts of misdiagnoses.

Method

Participants

After receiving Behavioural Research Ethics Board approval, twenty individuals with the HD gene mutation were recruited for this study, with all but three having previously received the neurological diagnosis confirming symptom onset. The physiolog- ical effects of HD ranged extensively, from the three aforemen- tioned asymptomatic participants, to two participants currently residing under managed care. Ages ranged from 23 to 83 (M ¼ 54); twelve of the 20 participants were male. Ten caregivers were also recruited for the study. Nine of the caregivers were the partners of individuals with HD (eight wives and one husband), and one was a grandmother. Several caregivers attended to multiple individuals. The ages of the caregivers ranged from 37 to 64 (M ¼ 54). Names of persons and locations have been changed to protect anonymity.

Participants were recruited between 2008 and 2009, through both snowball sampling and a Huntington Disease Resource Centre (HRDC) in British Columbia, Canada. The HRDC is affiliated with an HD-specific medical centre, through which individuals receive genetic testing, counselling, treatment, diagnosis and social support.

Participants were eligible for the study if they either a) had HD, or had tested positive for the HD-gene or b) were a caregiver to anyone meeting the first criteria.

Data collection

Qualitative, in-depth, semi-structured interviews were the primary source of data (Lofland & Lofland, 1995). The majority of interviews(N ¼ 26)occurredin-personandwere conducted ata time and place of the participant’s choosing. The remaining interviews occurred over the telephone. All interviews were conducted by the author, digitally recorded and transcribed verbatim. Interviews las- ted from thirty minutes to two and a half hours. All participants were required to sign a written consent form, explained to them by the author at the time of the interview. Upon completion of the inter- view, the author took detailed fieldnotes, including descriptions of the interview location, relevant participant behaviour, and researchereparticipant interactions (Emerson, Fretz, & Shaw, 1995).

Data analysis

Data analysis took place within the context of a larger study on HD services and issues relating to death and dying. Issues con- cerning psychiatric misdiagnosis were not an anticipated focus and emerged during the course of multiple interviews. While not a grounded theory project per se, analyses drew on numerous aspects of that methodology. Specifically, data analysis utilized line-by-line analysis, thematic analysis and case comparison. Line- by-line analysis was conducted on each transcript to generate large codes to efficiently organize the data (Strauss & Corbin, 1998). This coding structure was then used to code the data using NVivo8� qualitative data management software. Coding runs for each major code were generated and were then subsequently read multiple times to develop emergent and inductive themes. Case comparison analysis, utilizing the Microsoft Excel� spreadsheet program, was also conducted to compare each individual case across the entire participant sample (Miles & Huberman, 1994). This technique allowed the data to speak to the particulars of an individual case, while also representing aggregate trends. The resultant themes form the basis for the results section. Analyses were not guided by any particular theoretical perspective; instead, as suggested by several researchers (e.g., Latour, 2005; Strauss & Corbin, 1998), theories were utilized to advance specific sections of the analysis.

Results: experiences and recollections of misdiagnosis

When neurologists and psychiatrists discuss the overlaps and disjunctures of their respective positions, their focus often remains on the realms of pedagogy and epistemology (e.g., Price et al., 2000). These debates become somewhat more grounded within the psychiatric case history literature, which illuminates the effects of epistemological differences. At the same time, omitted from both perspectives are the consequences that such disciplinary tensions and misdiagnoses have on the individuals to whom they are actu- ally applied. Although no report has thus far highlighted these experiences, the impacts and lingering effects of misdiagnosis becomes evident through the accounts of the HD community.

While relaying stories of their family history of HD, participants in this study frequently recalled cases of familial psychiatric misdiagnosis, as well as highlighting a general culture of HD misdiagnosis in generations past. Participants most commonly expressed both the historical misdiagnosis of HD and the attitude toward the resulting treatment with the phrase “locked up in Thorn Hill”. In this statement, Thorn Hill refers to the psychiatric hospital where many individuals with HD were placed when their illness

M. Halpin / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 858e865 861

was incorrectly perceived as being psychiatric. Keith (55, diagnosed in 2003) noted this when he spoke of his father’s treatment: “My father died in Thorn Hill in ’63, but we thought he had schizo- phrenia. If you look at the family tree there’s a lot of people dying earlier than they should have.” Several other participants who had conducted archival family histories recalled similar misdiagnoses. For instance, Kenneth (76, diagnosed in 2003) stated that, “I’ve done a lot of genealogy and you have to get the records from the psychiatric hospitals because that’s where they were all put. Because they were all thought to be crazy.”

Often the consequences of previous familial misdiagnoses were most directly felt when individuals learned that generations of mysterious illnesses or bizarre behaviours were, in fact, HD. For instance, one participant compared the discovery of HD in her family to a “flood” that consumed her family tree:

I had no family history, which as you know is quite odd given it’s a genetic thing (laughs). Basically my dad got diagnosed in 2007. He was having some problems with motor skills, but not really chorea, but more so mental issues. He was having a problem keeping a job, etcetera, etcetera, and the last test that they did was for Huntington’s. Just to rule it out. And it came back positive. And he’s got seven siblings who all have kids and me and my sisterhave kids, soit was like this flood upthrough our familytree and now like half of it is gone (Delores, 34, gene positive).

The clearest implication of this account is the shock created by the sudden knowledge of a genetic disease within the family. Prior knowledge of a familial history of HD might have altered repro- ductive decisions of several of the aforementioned family members. However, as both family members and health professionals believed the family was affected by a psychiatric disorder, this possibility was not considered.

Other families had similar experiences based on their own histories of erroneous diagnosis. Particularly problematic was when a parent’s misdiagnosis also formed the basis of a child’s subsequent misdiagnosis. Kate (57, diagnosed in 2005) said:

He [her father] had been under psychiatric care, when my mom and him got separated that’s when he had a “nervous break- down” and that’s when he had been going to a psychiatrist. But it was the Huntington’s and nobody knew. That’s when they put him out to the crazy clinic and he was probably out there for four or five months and they ended up giving him shock treatments to bring him back because he would just sit there. But they had no idea that it was Huntington’s. . . and my brother got sick right after my father died and they thought it was depression. Which was what my father was misdiagnosed with as well.

Here, in an unfortunate irony, it is the father’s apparent psychi- atric condition that is seen as the hereditary predisposition explaining his son’s similar behaviours. Followingthat misdiagnosis, Kate’s brother received inaccurate and inadequate treatment, spending several years of his life in extreme poverty. Indeed, it was not until Kate herself was tested for HD that her father and brother’s experiences were put into an accurate context, and the latter began to receive proper health coverage and disability benefits.

Two caregivers, Beth (60) and Sabrina (53), recounted similar situations. Beth recalled that clinicians thought her husband’s brother “had some kind of mental relapse, some kind of falling apart. And it wasn’t diagnosed for some time because there was no family history.” Sabrina (53) recounted a similar story about her husband’s brother:

We sort of thought he’d actually experienced a bit of a mental breakdown. And that’s what we took it as because he was just a little bit, you know, kind of bizarre in some of his behaviour. You

could call it a bit of a breakdown because we didn’t think he had ever had those symptoms prior to that time, and we didn’t know what they were. So he just kind of became a different person. And then he started to lose interest in looking after himself he ended up becoming homeless and lived in his car and we had to inter- vene and have him find shelter. But again, wekindof chalkedit up to, “wow, I guess he just has really lost it.” But there always was this question as to whether their dad had a mental illness. So that’s why I guess he [her husband] was diagnosed first.

Sabrina’s family and health professionals suspected her brother- in-law was manifesting a hereditary psychiatric disorder, as his father had expressed similar mysterious symptoms. Her husband (Keith)wasthefirsttobediagnosedwithHDin2003,althoughhewas thethirdperson inhis immediatefamilyto presentsymptoms. Keith’s brother did not receive appropriate or adequate care, spending most of the last years of his life living on the streets of a metropolitan Canadian city. As Keith succinctly put it, “my brother would probably still be alive if he hadn’t gone undiagnosed [with HD].”

Karen (59) recounted similar problems with the lack of recogni- tion of the psychiatric effects of HD. Karen began caring for her granddaughter after her son-in-law developed HD and had a psychotic break. She started noticing her granddaughter’s diffi- cultiesmeetingdevelopmentalmilestonesandbegansuspectingHD:

I knew. She had behaviour difficulties, severe learning difficul- ties, inarticulate speech, awkward gait when she was walking. I knew that’s what it was. She wasn’t diagnosed until I guess she was 12 or 13. They thought she had ADHD, Tourette’s and Oppositional-Defiant Disorder, but now we know it was all HD. If a parent is seeing a problem with a child, and Huntington’s is a possibility, then I think it should be the parent’s right to get them tested, because then you know what you are dealing with. I mean, the scattered diagnoses that we had for her before that were just that, scattered diagnoses. And the one thing that covered all of this was Huntington’s. And if we’d known that in the first place. I mean, we had this poor child in remedial math classes, in Kumon [learning centre], she was going to learning disabilities centres. If we had known it was Huntington’s we wouldn’t have pushed all that stuff on her and made her unhappy by forcing her to do this ridiculous homework.

Karen struggled to get her granddaughter evaluated for HD, even though the disease seemed an obvious candidate. She was told that, unless her granddaughter had a major medical problem, such as a seizure, she was not eligible for a diagnosis or genetic test due to her age, as individuals must be at least 18 to receive the test in British Columbia. Karen subsequently followed the advice of health professionals, who suggested her granddaughter’s condition was actually psychiatric and could be addressed with behavioural modification and learning resources, which Karen later believed to be both unnecessary and ultimately detrimental to her grand- daughter’s quality of life.

In addition to the consequences of misdiagnosis, participants also described the series of professionals they encountered during the diagnostic process. For instance, Becky (36, diagnosed in 2007) was receiving psychiatric counselling for anxiety and an eating disorder immediately before her diagnosis of HD. At this time, her husband had noticed personality changes, increased introversion and paranoia, as well as gait and speech changes. Although her clinician did not suspect a neurological disease, her family members convinced her to undergo neurological testing, primarily to consider the possibility of early onset Alzheimer’s Disease (AD), which her father had been diagnosed with. Upon her visit with the neurologist, HD was almost immediately suggested based on her

M. Halpin / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 858e865862

gait. This diagnosis turned out to be correct and her father’s diag- nosis, along with several previous generations of AD diagnoses, were invalidated.

Becky’s experiences outline two important points. First, even though her clinician did not misdiagnose her, she experienced several HD-related mental health issues before the onset of the disease was recognized. During this period, her movements and speech were affected significantly enough for her neurologist to suspect HD prior to conducting any formal examinations. However, her psychiatrist neither addressed these symptoms, nor recom- mended their evaluation by another health professional. Second, Becky’s experience also highlights the importance of accurate and timely diagnosis. Soon after her diagnosis, she began to develop hallucinations and delusions, including believing she was being watchedbycamerasin herceiling and reacting to invisible intruders. Although these symptoms were fortunately recognized as related to her HD, it is not difficult to imagine what her possible misdiagnoses might have been had she developed these hallucinations pre- diagnosis.

Grace (53, diagnosed in 2005) similarly described the transition from psychiatric to HD-specific care. Grace suspected that she was sick well before her HD diagnosis, and her ex-husband had also long presumed that she had a serious medical condition, as she recalled him stating, “you’ve got movements and you’re always running around. You’re hyper and you’re going to have a serious disease.” Both of their opinions were primarily informed by Grace’s history of awkward movements: “I’ve always dropped stuff. I’ve always had trouble finding things and the computer part of my brain just wasn’t there and that type of thing.” In this instance, as with Becky, a neurological symptom actually presented as the first HD feature detected by both the individual and her family. However, it was issues related to her marital difficulties that influenced Grace to seek the help of a psychiatrist, who prescribed her several medications, including a powerful anti-psychotic medication (Haldol) typically used for people with acute psychosis and schizophrenia. Eventually, given her repetitive and awkward movements, both Grace and her psychiatrist surmised that she had Tourette Syndrome, which was partially informed by her son’s previous Tourette’s diagnosis:

I don’t have any family history of Huntington’s so at work [a hospital] they were saying, ‘well, you’re probably just stressed or depressed’. And thereweremovements too. So Iended up finding this gal [a psychiatrist] through my family doctor, to talk about my divorce. And she put me down as stressed and depressed and said that I couldn’t work. And she thought I had Tourette’s. She was trying to find out about movement disorders as well, ’cause my son had Tourette’s. And I was having troubles moving so she just thought I should go to a movement disorders assessment. That’s when they started suspecting Huntington’s Disease.

AlthoughtherewasnohistoryofHDinGrace’sfamily(heraffected fatherhad been misdiagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder), during the differential diagnosis process, one of the diseases her psychiatrist eventually thought to rule out was HD, leading to Grace’s eventual genetic testing.

These participants underscore the consequences of HD misdi- agnosis, such as incorrect treatment and the reapplication of misdiagnoses to similarly affected family members. Additionally, Becky and Grace describe the process of transitioning from misdi- agnosis to HD-specific care, and while Becky’s psychiatrist did not suspect another condition, Grace’s psychiatrist became her primary advocate in receiving a correct diagnosis. Participants’ stories also document the numerous pathologies that HD has been mistaken for, such as Tourette’s, AD, Depression and Schizophrenia. They addi- tionally describe the transition from misdiagnosis to diagnosis, detailing the numerous professionals involved and how family

members, as well as mental health professionals, mistakenly inter- preted HD symptoms.

Discussion

Although the problems of misdiagnosis and potential solutions havebeenforwarded in the numerous psychiatric case studies, these solutions have not led to an amelioration of misdiagnoses. It is at this juncture that social theory, specifically the works of Latour and Bakhtin, can provide helpful insights by elucidating issues regarding the separation, activation and translation of psychiatric episte- mology. First, Latour’s concept of oligopticons will be used to further trace the disjuncture between neurology and psychiatry. Second, both Bakhtin’s notion of speech genres and Latour’s concept of metrology will be used to describe problems with psychiatry’s operation and to suggest a possible remedy for this epistemological disjuncture.

Neurology and psychiatry study the same object, but in different ways. Here, Latour’s concept of oligopticons provides us with an avenue to further explore the connections and separations between thetwodisciplines.Latour(1987;2005)describesoligopticons asthe numerous centres of observation and calculation operating within society. In contrast to Foucault’s (1975) concept of the panopticon, which exerted a complete and unobscured gaze, oligopticons are less comprehensive, but, as Latour (2005) notes, “what they see, they see it well” (p.181). We can understand neurology and psychiatry as constituting two distinct oligopticons, each observing, describing and operating in relation to the brain. Latour’s concept would suggest that, even though these disciplines do observe aspects of the brain in great detail, neither of them perceives it in its totality, with neurology focusing on alterations and injury to organic matter, in contrast to psychiatry’s observation of changes in mood and personality and mental disorders.

These boundaries can be traced in greater detail by a brief comparison of HD to AD. Both of these diseases are defined as neurological, but in contrast to HD, the DSM-IV entry for AD is a formal diagnostic category (APA, 2000). The entry for AD reviews all the major features of the disease, which are distinctly psychiatric and cognitive in nature. Thus, although the disease is caused by neurological damage (like HD), its effects are entirely psychiatric/ cognitive (unlike HD). Accordingly, even though AD, like HD, is a neurological condition with psychiatric/cognitive effects, it does not exhibit the same disjuncture between neurology and psychiatry, as both of these disciplines can account for its features. This disci- plinary overlap does not occur with HD, perhaps as a result of its motor symptoms; nevertheless, these motor symptoms do not explain the omission of HD’s numerous psychiatric features from the DSM-IV or its sole inclusion as a sub-type of dementia.

While Latour’s concept of oligopticons provides us with a better understandingof the related but disconnected relationship between neurology and psychiatry, Bakhtin’s (1986) notion of speech genres allows us to better connect psychiatric observations to their effects on patients by focusing on the discursive nature of the misdiagnosis. The act of diagnosis employs specialized language and forms of communication specific to a given medical institution, as demon- strated by psychiatrists’ misdiagnosis of HD as a psychiatric disorder. These variations of the diagnosis’ context and style represent what Bakhtin (1986) called a speech genre. Although there are as many forms of genres as there are types of communication, each genre has its own style, places its own demands, and commands a specific type of knowledge. Those individuals who are fluent in one genre can be silenced when confronted with another:

Many people who have an excellent command of a language often feel quite helpless in certain spheres of communication

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precisely because they do not have a practical command of the generic forms used in the given sphere. . . Here it is not a matter of impoverished vocabulary or style, taken abstractly: this is entirely a matter of the inability to command a repertoire of genres of social conversation (Bakhtin, 1986, p. 80).

Importantly, Bakhtin (1986) notes that the inability to converse in a given genre is often the result of discomfort and unfamiliarity, rather than lack of intellect. This appears to be the case in HD misdiagnosis. It is not that the psychiatrists making these misdiagnoses are inept, but rather are framing HD symptoms through a psychiatric, rather than a neurological or neuropsychiatric, diagnostic genre. What these participants,alongwiththepsychiatriccasestudies,exemplifyismore substantial than just an awkward distance between the epistemol- ogies of two disciplines that both happen to study the brain. Rather, theseexperiencesillustrate howtheseepistemologiesareenactedand applied to individuals, and how misdiagnosis is subsequently trans- lated to inaccurate treatment. Therefore, what has thus far been described as a disjuncture, or “great divide”, between two disciplines can be stated more accurately to be a diagnostic problem of genres. A critical difference between the latter and the former is that, regarding the latter, Bakhtin provides a means to ground these epistemological problems in the actions of specific individuals byexplicitly connecting language to actual utterances (i.e., misdiagnoses). We are thereby directed to the dialogical utterance of the misdiagnosis as the event that actually connects epistemology to everyday interactions.

In this context, it is specifically the utterances elicited within the context of HD misdiagnosis that place psychiatrists into a diagnostic problem of genres. Working within the genre of psychiatric diag- nosis, it is unsurprising that an individual presenting with both a familial and biographical history of Major Depressive Disorder is diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (e.g., Duesterhus et al., 2004), or that an individual, such as Grace, who presents with anxiety and twitches is diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome rather than HD. The diagnostic problem of genres faced by psychiatrists is further compounded by the inadequate presentation of HD within the DSM-IV. The fact that it is neurologists, rather than psychiatrists, who formally diagnose HD is obviously related to this omission. However, even though psychiatrists are not able to diagnose HD, ample evidence has been presented that they can misdiagnose and subsequently mismanage the treatment of individuals with HD (e.g., Tost et al., 2004). The DSM-IV also fails to offer any suggestions or warnings to psychiatrists, through a discussion of differential diag- noses, that they might need to approach individuals seemingly presenting with psychiatric problems from an alternative genre.

It is this omission from the DSM-IV that returns us to the work of Bruno Latour (1987; 2005), specifically his discussion of metrology. Neurology and psychiatry are related and frequently harmonious disciplines, but an ambiguous disease such as HD accentuates their lack of a common language, or shared speech genre. Stated in Latour’s terms, these two disciplines lack a system of metrology, which he defines as a system of standards allowing for observations made at one location to be interpreted at another:

Since without standards like the watt, the Newton, the ohm, the ampere, that is, without the Systeme International d’Unites, there would be no global of any sort because no locus would have the ‘same’ time, the ‘same’ distance, the ‘same’ weight. . . All sites would be incommensurable for good (2005, p.228).

When encountering an illness of complex and ambiguous properties, such as HD, the fissures between these two perspectives on the brain become activated. In lacking a metrology, or a system of standards, there is no indication for clinicians encountering a set of ambiguous symptoms on how to proceed, signalling that they might need to convert their observations into those of a related discipline.

The absence of references to HD misdiagnosis in the DSM-IV thus takes on new significance. The DSM-IV, by providing uniform defi- nitions and descriptions of mental disorders, acts as North American psychiatry’s metrological artefact. It is precisely within such a text that guidelines should be provided for clinicians for when they might need to use a different system of observation, or diagnostic genre. While the DSM-IV omits this information, the International Classifi- cation of Disease (ICD-10), published by the World Health Organization (2007) and used by European clinicians, includes an entry of HD as a neurological condition, in addition to its entry as a precursor for dementia. The ICD-10 provides a system of categori- zation that is more sensitive to the ambiguities between psychiatry and neurology, as it includes diagnostic categories for both physical and psychiatric ailments. However, the ICD-10 alsohas shortcomings, as the HD entry is particularly sparse and omits a number of key features of the disease, including many of its psychiatric components. Both texts require alterations to adequately address the diagnostic problem of genres highlighted by HD. Given that psychiatrists are relying on a tool that does not include important psychoneurological information, it isperhaps unsurprising that the cliniciansattending to Grace, Becky and the numerous other individuals with HD referred to in this manuscript, did not initially suspect HD.

While HD has been used to emphasize these disciplinary ambiguities, many other diseases also straddle the divide between neurology and psychiatry. For instance, Pick’s Disease, Korsakoff’s Syndrome and Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease are neurological condi- tions that feature psychiatric symptoms that are not documented within the DSM-IV. As with HD, the psychiatric symptoms of Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease often manifest before the neurological symptoms (Spencer, Knight, & Will, 2002), and Pick’s Disease has been often mistaken for a psychiatric disorder (McKhann et al., 2001). Perhaps most prominent, however, are the psychiatric effects of multiple concussions, with such injuries garnering significant media attention after being implicated in assaults and suicides perpetrated by several athletes (Schwarz, 2010).

In contrast to these issues, recent social science commentaries have documented psychiatry’s increased movement towards neurological methods and explanations. Whitaker (2003) critiqued such decisions in his review of schizophrenia care in America, while Rose (2007) presented the somewhat idealistic accounts of neurologists and psychiatrists who perceived an emanant unity of the two disciplines. While this neurologicalization of psychiatry may be occurring with respect to the descriptions and treatment of some conditions within the DSM, the case of HD presents an important contrast to this process. Specifically, while the rationale for psychiatric pathologies already included in the text may be revised, actual neuropsychiatric conditions remain peripheralized both within the text and the discipline of psychiatry.

Conclusions

Psychiatry has been both externally critiqued from a number of vantage points (e.g., Brown, 1990; Good, 1993; Rosenhan, 1973) and questioned internally, particularly regarding its relationship with neurology (e.g., Price et al., 2000). However, the majority of these commentaries focus on either the epistemological structure of psychiatry or the nuances of clinicianepatient interactions. This report has sought to unify these two perspectives by highlighting the epistemological disjuncture between psychiatry and neurology, and its actual consequences for living individuals. While these consequences are suggested in numerous misdiagnosis case studies (e.g., Duesterhus et al., 2004), this report has added nuance to this dialogue by offering the accounts of individuals living with HD. Their experiences underscore the pain, confusion and grief that can

M. Halpin / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 858e865864

result from misdiagnoses, which are not made particularly salient in case studies or conversations on epistemology.

With an accurate genetic test available for HD, one would presume few reasons for misdiagnosis. However, the benefits of this genetic technology are limited, as an estimated 25% of newly diag- nosed individuals have no prior knowledge of HD in their families (Almqvist et al., 2001), giving these individuals few reasons to seek out testing. Additionally, as many as half the individuals with HD avoid disclosing their illness to family members and doctors, due to the stigma associated with the disease, which further complicates genetic testing (e.g., Rawlins, 2010). As this article has highlighted, a further complication exists in that before a genetic test for HD can be performed, a clinician must first consider HD as a possibility. Given the reports on the progression of HD (e.g., Duff et al., 2007), there is a substantial likelihood that this clinician may be a psychi- atrist. However, the omission of important information on HD from the DSM-IV, paired with the “great divide” between neurology and psychiatry (Price et al., 2000), situate these clinicians at a disad- vantage and accordingly place their patients at risk of misdiagnosis.

This study’s participants and the neuropsychiatric features of HD highlight some of the problems with multiple discordant healthcare epistemologies. However, HD also offers a forum and opportunity to make progress on addressing such disjunctures. For instance, although the psychiatric case studies on HD misdiagnosis shared acommonmistake,theyalsosharedcommonrecommendations:the need for better understanding between psychiatry and neurology (e.g., Stewart, 1989; Yu, 2004). These statements were echoed in numerous commentaries on the division between psychiatry and neurology, highlighting the need for better education to achieve this understanding (e.g., Price et al., 2000; Schon et al., 2006).

Establishing such an understanding requires more than reforming medical students’ education on this topic. A successful remedy also needs to acknowledge that misdiagnosis is the instance where such epistemological divides are operationalized and are translated into very real individual consequences. Accord- ingly, a pivotal step in decreasing the chances of the misdiagnosis of HD and other conditions would be the implementation of a more comprehensive diagnostic tool. Such a tool would give clinicians an opportunity to translate their observations into the genre of alter- native epistemologies and provide an increased sensitization to instances where such translations are necessary. Although a more pluralistic diagnostic guide will not eliminate misdiagnosis, or address many of the other criticisms of psychiatry, it should affect the way its epistemology is enacted, which, as this paper suggests, should have tangible benefits for the individuals encountering it.

Acknowledgements

The author would like the thank Norann Richard, Andrea Becking, Susan Tolley, Daniyal Zuberi, Wendy Roth, Joan Fujimura, the University of British Columbia, and the study’s participants. The author would also like to thank the article’s reviewers for their helpful insights. This study would also not have been possible without support from the Social Science and Humanities Research Council, Alberta Advanced Education and the Michael Smith Foundation for Health Research.

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  • Diagnosis, psychiatry and neurology: The case of Huntington Disease
    • Introduction
    • Diagnosis, misdiagnosis and psychiatric epistemology
    • Neurology, psychiatry, and Huntington Disease
    • Method
      • Participants
      • Data collection
      • Data analysis
    • Results: experiences and recollections of misdiagnosis
    • Discussion
    • Conclusions
    • Acknowledgements
    • References

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Contents lists avai

Social Science & Medicine

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From diagnosis to social diagnosis

Phil Brown*, Mercedes Lyson, Tania Jenkins Department of Sociology, Brown University, Box 1916, Providence, RI 02912-1916, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 12 June 2011

Keywords: Diagnosis Risk Social movements Environment Public health USA Canada Reservations

* Corresponding author. E-mail address: [email protected] (P. Brown

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.05.031

a b s t r a c t

In the past two decades, research on the sociology of diagnosis has attained considerable influence within medical sociology. Analyzing the process and factors that contribute to making a diagnosis amidst uncertainty and contestation, as well as the diagnostic encounter itself, are topics rich for sociological investigation. This paper provides a reformulation of the sociology of diagnosis by proposing the concept of ‘social diagnosis’ which helps us recognize the interplay between larger social structures and indi- vidual or community illness manifestations. By outlining a conceptual frame, exploring how social scientists, medical professionals and laypeople contribute to social diagnosis, and providing a case study of how the North American Mohawk Akwesasne reservation dealt with rising obesity prevalence to further illustrate the social diagnosis idea, we embark on developing a cohesive and updated framework for a sociology of diagnosis. This approach is useful not just for sociological research, but has direct implications for the fields of medicine and public health. Approaching diagnosis from this integrated perspective potentially provides a broader context for practitioners and researchers to understand extra- medical factors, which in turn has consequences for patient care and health outcomes.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Sociological analysis of diagnosis has achieved considerable influence in the last two decades, providing important insight into how we understand health, disease, and illness. It has also expanded how we view the social and cultural influences that shape our knowledge and practice on health and illness. This includes studies of diagnosis that have gone beyond the interaction between physician and patient, to take into account the larger social, structural, and temporal forces that shape diagnosis (see, for example, the categorization of homosexuality as a mental disorder and the role of gay rights activists in the American Psychiatric Association’s deliberations) (Cooksey & Brown, 1998).

Recently we have also seen the emergence of diseases whose etiologies, symptoms, and, therefore, diagnoses, are often contested or uncertain. This combination of medical and social uncertainty leads us to propose a reformulation of the concept social diagnosis as a new way of thinking about the sociology of diagnosis. This paper explores social diagnosis by first, outlining a conceptual framework of social diagnosis; second, discussing the different actors who contribute to social diagnoses; and third, providing a case study of

).

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how to apply our social diagnosis approach. Lastly, we conclude with implications for sociology, medicine, and public health.

Introducing social diagnosis

Social diagnosis is ‘social’ for two reasons: First, it connects an illness or the act of diagnosing that illness to a set of political, economic, cultural and social conditions or factors. Second, social diagnosis is conducted by different social actors, and the actions of one group of stakeholders often spill over to affect the actions of other actors. As we will see, social diagnosis is done by sociologists who study diagnosis, as a way for researchers of social medicine and the social determinants of health to look at the process, outcomes, and consequences of diagnosis. It is also done by the lay public vis- à-vis social movements that expand what goes into the diagnosing process. In this more comprehensive, public version of uncovering the social determinants of health, a condition is diagnosed by a social groupdfor example, the politicized collective illness iden- tity that arises over a contested disease like Gulf War Illness (Zavestoski, Brown, Linder, McCormick, & Mayer, 2002). Lastly, social diagnosis is a way to expand the lens of the public health and medical establishment in identifying what mechanisms and factors are consequential for individual and community health. Social diagnosis therefore provides a broader context for health practi- tioners, medical researchers, and social scientists to understand the

P. Brown et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 939e943940

extent of extra-medical factors in health and illness. With that approach, neighborhood and community environments (which are themselves determined by larger structural forces) can be included in approaches to wellness, highlighting the intersection between individuals and the larger social forces that structure their lives.

A genealogy of social diagnosticians

Social scientists

The roots of this approach are deep. The term “social diagnosis” was coined in Richmond’s (1917) book, Social Diagnosis, considered to be the classic textbook laying a professional foundation for social work, and which focused on examining a wide array of social conditions causing poverty and disease. This was a period when sociology and social work shared many common interests in doc- umenting and alleviating poverty, with the reformist Chicago School sociologists categorizing and analyzing urban social prob- lems that they traced to social structures rather than inborn characteristics.

Even in the early 20th century, sociology focused on the social determinants of health and illness, as in Faris and Dunham’s (1939) work on mental illness. Decades later, Navarro (1976) and Waitzkin (2000), both MD/PhD sociologists, led the charge of other political economy scholars who sought to rekindle social medicine, found as early as Rudolf Virchow’s work in mid-19th century Europe, and more recently in Chile during Allende’s Popular Unity Government in the early 1970s.

A committed approach to health inequalities, rooted in England, worked its way into the literature starting in the 1990s. A leading medical sociologist, Sol Levine, and a prominent social medicine physician, Alvin Tarlov, nurtured this endeavor in their Health and Society group, publicizing well-known British work such as Michael Marmot’s Whitehall Study, bringing key health inequalities researchers such as Richard Wilkinson to the US as visiting scholars, and providing a research setting to nurture new health inequalities researchers (Amick, Levine, Tarlov, & Walsh, 1995). A young gener- ation of US-based scholars brought health inequalities work to the fore, emphasizing race, class, sex, ethnic, and neighborhood differ- ences (Kawachi, Kennedy, & Wilkinson, 1999; LaVeist, 2002; Williams, 1994). These scholars’ work helped push the National Institutes of Health to develop a strong program in health inequal- ities, though usually termed “health disparities,” a more neutral- sounding phrase. From being only a National Center on Minority Health and Health Disparities, in 2010, NIH transformed the center into a full institute, the National Institute on Minority Health and Health Disparities, signifying a major acceptance of this work.

Public health and medical professionals

Medical professionals and public health scholars in the US share an important tradition of taking into account social factors in their work. For an example of 1960s social medicine that exemplifies social diagnosis performed by a physician, we can remember the work of Dr. Jack Geiger, a founding member of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) in 1943, a leader in efforts to end racial discrimi- nation in hospital care and medical schools admission and a 1960s founding member and National Program Chairman of the Medical Committee for Human Rights which protected and provided medical care for civil rights workers. Geiger was famous for diagnosing poverty, racism, and hunger, and writing prescriptions for food to give to poor children, which he and colleagues did to garner public attention. More practically, the community health centers devel- oped in that era diagnosed disease as stemming from a multitude of social conditions. For example, staff would act on these diagnoses by

seeking improvements in neighborhood parks and fighting for lead removal and blood lead testing (Lefkowitz, 2007).

While the public health field in the US continued a strong commitment to examining social factors in disease, medicine often trailed after it. Occupational health, environmental health, nutri- tion, and community health training still remain marginalized in medical education and practice. Federal research, largely conducted through the National Institute of Health, emphasizes treatment over prevention. For example, the prestigious, well-funded National Cancer Institute provides few resources for researching environmental causation, leaving that to the much smaller National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences whose budget is 6.5 times smaller (Brown, 2007) Sociologists have played a role in examining social factors in disease, working alongside public health scholars and community activists in pursuing multi-causal approaches to understanding disease and developing multi- pronged solutions (Brody et al., 2009).

Public participation/social movements

Diagnosis is simultaneously a site of compromise and contes- tation because it is a relational process. When there is a disconnect between the patient and the medical explanatory model, the individual may be unsatisfied with treatment goals, and collectively work to politicize the illness through social movements. This would be the case especially if people were not given a diagnosis for something which they expected to, or when they received a psychiatric diagnosis for something they believe is physical. The greater the symptom severity or the disconnect between lay and professional perspectives on diagnosis, the greater the likeli- hood of contestation.

In contesting diseases and conditions, people often seek to reshape or overturn a shared set of entrenched beliefs and practices about diagnosis, causation, and treatment that is embedded within a network of institutions, including medicine, law, science, government, health charities/voluntaries, and the media. This network is the “dominant epidemiological paradigm” for a given disease. Activists challenge the dominant epidemiological para- digm by shifting the modes of scientific inquiry, and by refocusing regulatory and policy attention (Brown, 2007). Scientists may be asked to weigh in on questions that are virtually impossible to answer scientifically, either because data do not exist or because studies required to answer the question at hand are not feasible. Scientists may frame political, moral, or ethical questions in scientific terms thus limiting lay participation. This scientization protects the illusion of medical omnipotence and delegitimizes questions that cannot be framed in scientific terms (Morello-Frosch et al., 2006). Health social movements may respond to these situ- ations by marshaling resources to conduct their own research and produce scientific knowledge in a process known as “popular epidemiology” (Brown, 2007). In doing so, they democratize the production of scientific knowledge and then use that transformed science as the basis for demands for improved research on disease etiology, treatment, prevention, and stricter regulation.

These concerns may extend into the legal realm when diagnoses are a classification of what the individual’s health status could be in the future. Exposed people may seek redress through medical monitoring torts in advance of injury, in an attempt to offset the costs associated with periodic testing in order to ascertain whether a given exposure has led to changes in health status (Maskin, Cailteux, & McLaren, 2001). Even US law now recognizes that disease is no longer a unique collection of symptoms equaling a given condition, but rather a constellation of current symptoms, previous exposures, and future potential manifestations, all of which make the art of diagnosis even more precarious.

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The democratization of medicine and science we have mentioned above is made possible by bringing the discussion of diagnosis out into the open, rather than keeping it restricted to professionals. Krimsky (2002) notes that the endocrine disrupter hypothesis (that argues for the central role of endocrine-disrupting chemicals in many diseases) was discussed quite extensively in the public light, far beyond the shelter of academic journals and government funding agencies. His notion of a “public hypothesis” helps us see that increasingly, challenges to scientific orthodoxy are shaped by public discussion in the media, social movement orga- nizations, virtual communities, and other accessible formats (e.g. homosexuality, post-traumatic stress disorder). When people view their diagnosis as stemming from a particular toxic exposure, they are rarely satisfied with the simple act of diagnosis. Rather, they seek evidence of causation in order to seek redress in various forms: medical coverage, medical monitoring, relocation, compensation, assignment of blame, and (less commonly) the incalculable but valuable apology from responsible parties. As discussed earlier, in the absence of a specific diagnosis, people with a shared environmental exposure sometimes file suits for medical monitoring, to ensure that they have lifetime checkups to diagnose a disease process as early as possible.

Yet despite a rich history of social diagnosis exercised by various actors, including sociologists, public health officials and the public, the above-mentioned strands have not yet been well-connected, nor woven into a social diagnosis framework. Below, we discuss several elements of a social diagnosis model.

1) A social diagnosis approach is more comprehensive than a political economy/health inequalities outlook that accounts for how larger social structures affect diagnostic processes. In social diagnosis, we also must “socially diagnose” those struc- tures themselves. In this light, we would argue that the injured foot of a ballet dancer is not merely an injury caused by a pointe shoe. It includes the larger setting of the balletic art form e its teachers, theaters, dance companies, dance critics e as socially iatrogenic. It includes gender roles that force-fit women into many uncomfortable clothes and shoes, and anorexogenic notions of beauty that limit the art form. Our diagnosis would be of an unhealthy foot in an unhealthy art form in an unhealthy culture. Treatment and prevention goes beyond the individual, seeking to restructure power, capacity, and community in the surrounding society.

2) Traditionally, diagnosis dealt with diseases and symptoms in the past and present, with future orientation toward only treatment and prognosis. Indeed, even attempts at incorpo- rating social factors into diagnosis (either by healthcare professionals or sociologists) do not adequately account for a third dimension of time; that is, the future. Today, potentiality is an important concept, where a biomarker may or may not indicate future diseases. This potentiality introduces new contestations and foci; preventive medicine now goes beyond generic health advice, to consider borderline categories: pre-diabetes, pre-high cholesterol, pre-hypertension. Further, patients are increasingly prescribed pharmaceuticals to regu- late these borderline conditions (Welch, Schwartz, & Woloshin, 2011). Therefore, a social diagnosis approach must contend not only with past and present conditions, but explicitly consider the potentiality of future conditions, specifically because they may have social causes and consequences.

3) The process of diagnosis is carried out by multiple social actors, including medical professionals, researchers, government agencies, private corporations, social movements, and legal institutions. For example, we can understand the role of public health agencies in new forms of surveillance geared to

population exposure measurement and to the diagnosis of pre-disease. Combined with increased academic and advocacy research in this area, biomonitoring and household exposure has opened vast new realms of seeing potential disease causes at microscopic levels. Therefore, in a social diagnosis frame- work, not only are social factors considered in the diagnosis, but a variety of social actors are contributing to the creation of that diagnosis. In doing so, they diagnose not only individuals but societiesda practice which is growing ever more important in light of increasing biomedical uncertainty.

To further elaborate on and exemplify this idea of social diag- nosis, we will use the case of obesity and diabetes in Akwesasne, a Mohawk reservation straddling New York and Canada. This situ- ation demonstrates how diagnosis has moved from the individual to society, and is being performed by more than just doctors.

The multiple layers of diagnosis in obesity and diabetes: A case study of social diagnosis in action

Obesity and diabetes have become a major concern of both environmental justice and health groups in the 2000s. There is broad understanding that, in addition to individual and lifestyle factors, obesity is caused by numerous social phenomena: increased consumption of processed foods (especially high fructose corn syrup), food deserts, poor school lunch programs, a decline in school physical education, and unsafe recreation spaces. Social diagnosis looks here at an unhealthy body within an unhealthy community, itself situated in an unhealthy food system.

Hoover’s (2010) medical anthropological study of local food production and community illness narratives in the Akwesasne Mohawk community found diabetes to be a central concern. Rising prevalence indicated a rate higher than both the state and national averages, and lay awareness of this led to a complex set of diag- noses. Residents in this highly contaminated area (primarily due to PCBs and fluoride from local industry) believed that there were two potential pathways through which contamination increased diabetes risk. The direct pathway was based on recent science linking exposure to endocrine-disrupting chemicals, to obesity (Baillie-Hamilton, 2002; Newbold, Padilla-Banks, Snyder, Phillips, & Jefferson, 2007). The indirect pathway was based on fear of contamination, including fish advisories and concerns over soil contamination, leading people to abandon traditional local foods for less healthy processed foods, and hence also getting less exer- cise since they were not gardening and fishing. This second pathway, rooted in a risk society perception, also led to changes in the traditions and cultures of the community, leading to a broader social illness.

We do not imply here that the discovery of contamination led to obesity. Rather, the discovery of the toxicants set off a cascade of events that meshed with other reservation developments, which then involved dietary and agricultural changes. Such changes have occurred in other communities, sometimes because of contami- nation discovery and sometimes for different reasons such as urban decline. This then leads to the departure of groceries with fresh produce or to the immigration of people from more self-sufficient food regimes to urban locales flooded with fast-food restaurants and completely lacking any resources to continue traditional practices.

Using Chaufan’s (2004, 2008) work, Hoover argues that the medicalized approach to diabetes individualizes and depoliticizes the problem. Alternatively, a political ecology framework emphasizes social, economic, and political institutions of human environments where diabetes is emerging. Hoover adapts Scheper-Hughes and Lock’s (1987) model of three bodies e the individual body, the

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social body and the body politic. As Hoover points out, in addition to losing the nutrition from fishing and gardening, people also lost the physical and cultural activity involved in that food production. This led to fewer burned calories, affecting the individual body, but also to broader losses affecting the social body e the failure to connect with ancestral ways and to pass traditions onto youth. Eating is an important social experience, and the sharing of food is an integral part of Mohawk culture, full of morals around cooperation and proper behavior. This larger unity of the body politic is especially important at present, when the community is less united due to overlapping tribal, US, and Canadian governing bodies. Akwesasne environmental health activists used their mobilization around contamination as a way to achieve general social unification and harmony. When people seek to take control of individual and social levels of obesogenic and diabetogenic conditions, this crisis that originates in massive contamination has the capacity to provide new unity.

In effect, we see that what might appear as a straightforward diagnosis of a metabolic disease is in fact much more complex. Hoover’s analysis of the social diagnosis of this condition builds on the community-based participatory research by the laypeople and traditional healers of Akwesasne, in alliance with university scholars and environmental health scientists, and implicates indi- vidual, social and cultural, and body-politic disease contributors. Such analysis informs us that by the time it reaches the body politic, biological disease goes to the core of the social fabric, and warrants an overall restructuring of power, capacity, and community. Further, we see that struggles over diagnosis are simultaneously struggles over causation. In this light, we can understand the multi- temporality of diagnosis: it is not only about the present, where people seek knowledge about the symptoms they experience. It is also about the past, whereby people seek the causes of problems that led to a current diagnosis. As well, it is about the future, where the medical and social sequelae of the diagnosis reside along with the treatment and prognosis.

Conclusion

Studying diagnosis provides a window into many components of health and illness, and presents an organizing configuration and master frame. Our expansion into understanding and elaborating on social diagnosis makes this broader framework more applicable to an even greater number of research arenas. The act of diagnosing an illness is important on multiple levels. It is about an individual’s relationship to the illness or act of diagnosis, the collectivity of people who suffer from an illness, and the larger social structures that influence the illness and its diagnosis. In other words, it is about locating an individual and a group in relation to key social structures.

In this paper, we have sought to understand the unique context in which social diagnoses are formedda sociology of social diag- nosis. To reiterate, social diagnosis is social in that it considers both larger social structures, as well as the various social actors which contribute to the diagnosis. In other words, a broad range of social factors goes into the making of a diagnosis, which is carried out by a myriad of social actors. The diagnosing of individuals can allow for the broader diagnosis of a group of illness sufferers, and an even broader diagnosing of communities, as the Akwesasne example clearly illustrates. From here, we have drawn five key lessons which will not provide a one-size-fits-all framework, but will help prag- matically identify the role social diagnosis can play across many different situations and among different constellations of actors:

1) Social diagnosis moves beyond individual-level explanations for health outcomes;

2) Social diagnosis recognizes commonalities in the group experience;

3) Social diagnosis moves beyond a diagnosis that is limited to treating or identifying symptoms and toward identifying more macro-structural roots. From here, it prescribes identifying and treating the fundamental causes of the problem, as opposed to just the proximal symptoms;

4) Social diagnosis relies on scientific evidence, but recognizes that useful science might not always come from mainstream sources, particularly when it involves laypeople;

5) Lastly, social diagnosis is attentive to changes across both the short and long term. It movesbeyond a cross-sectional approach to diagnosis and instead preferences a multi-temporal approach to diagnosis, one that changes over time.

Social diagnosis offers three benefits: it is a concept that can be used by diverse actors – medical sociology and other medical social sciences, public health, and medicine; it is not only about diag- nosing individuals, but also about diagnosing institutions and organizations; and it is simultaneously a description of our analytic approach and a prescription for how to intervene. Social diagnosis can be an interesting tool for sociologists in various specialties within the discipline, as well as researchers outside the discipline. For example, environmental sociologists examining a disease such as asthma can take students on toxic tours in order to show the neighborhood factors and pollution sources related to asthma. Social diagnosis can also be applied to medical history and science, technology, and society analyses of disease concepts and medical practices. The social diagnosis approach offers valuable lessons for physicians and other health professionals. In particular, the cursory instruction in occupational and environmental medicine in medical school can be countered through showing professionals how to ask appropriate questions about environmental and occupational exposure. ‘Narrative medicine,’ formulated by Rita Charon (2006), teaches medical students and physicians to attend to the totality of life experience through eliciting and listening to patient stories, in order to more thoroughly diagnose them. Pediatrician Rosalind Wright diagnoses asthma as being exacerbated by violence at home and in inner-city neighborhoods (Wright & Steinbach, 2001). This leads her to seek intervention strategies aimed at reducing violence exposure, reducing stress, and counseling victims, in addition to more traditional asthma treatment. At a preventive level, she urges policy directions that address the social, economic, and political factors that contribute to crime and violence.

Social diagnosis as a concept may not seem new to sociology, but it has yet to be developed into an enunciated framework and program for research and/or action. For example, sociologist Eric Klinenberg’s account of the 1995 Chicago heat wave introduces the notion of social autopsy by effectively conducting a post-mortem of the natural disaster and the various social factors that affected its victims (2002). In doing so, Klinenberg provides a social diagnosis of the heat wave, citing social isolation as one of the main causes and prescribing changes in the social structure to prevent relapse. This could serve as a very potent framework for sociologists and practitioners alike to carefully and systematically consider those social factors that play a crucial role in health. Also, while medical sociology recognizes many extra-medical factors, the environ- mental factors so important today have not been widely consid- ered. Hence, there are still lessons to be learned about the multi-factorial causes of morbidity and mortality. Sociologists also continue to face uncertainty in knowing which social factors they ought to focus their attention on. Further, clinical examples such as those above may seem logical to medical sociologists, but they are not generally accepted in the world of medicine. If medical sociologists work with clinicians and public health practitioners,

P. Brown et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 939e943 943

they may be able to jointly develop effective ways to use social diagnosis for both treatment and prevention.

Acknowledgments

We are grateful to David Ciplet, Alissa Cordner, Leah Greenblum, Bindu Pannikar, and Allison Waters for comments.

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Chaufan, C. (2008). What does justice have to do with it? A bioethical and socio- logical perspective on the diabetes epidemic. In B. K. Rothman, E. Armstrong, & R. Tiger (Eds.), Bioethical issues, sociological perspectives (pp. 269e301). San Diego, CA: Elsevier.

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Navarro, V. (1976). Medicine under capitalism. New York: Prodist. Newbold, R. R., Padilla-Banks, E., Snyder, R. J., Phillips, T. M., & Jefferson, W. N.

(2007). Developmental exposure to endocrine disruptors and the obesity epidemic. Reproductive Toxicology, 23(3), 290e296.

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Waitzkin, H. (2000). The second sickness: Contradictions in capitalist healthcare. Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.

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Wright, R. J., & Steinbach, S. F. (2001). Violence: an unrecognized environmental exposure that may contribute to greater asthma morbidity in high risk inner- city populations. Environmental Health Perspectives, 109(10), 1085e1089.

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  • From diagnosis to social diagnosis
    • Introduction
    • Introducing social diagnosis
    • A genealogy of social diagnosticians
      • Social scientists
      • Public health and medical professionals
      • Public participation/social movements
    • The multiple layers of diagnosis in obesity and diabetes: A case study of social diagnosis in action
    • Conclusion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Diagnosis and nosology in primary care

David Armstrong King’s College London, 5 Lambeth Walk, London SE11 6SP, United Kingdom

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 27 May 2011

Keywords: Diagnosis Classification Primary care ICD

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a b s t r a c t

Diagnosis in contemporary medicine is made using an underlying classification system or nosology, the basis of which was first laid down at the end of the 18th century. The International Classification of Disease (ICD) was constructed to formalise this nosology and successive revisions have attempted to capture technical developments and new discoveries across the diagnostic landscape. The ICD has proved particularly applicable in hospital practice where a selected patient population and access to compre- hensive diagnostic aids enables a pathology-based diagnosis. When it came to be applied to primary care in the middle of the 20th century, however, it encountered major problems as general practice struggled to marry a classification of disease to the rawness of undifferentiated human illness and distress. Eventually a classification based on the reason the patient consulted emerged to replace that based on pathology defined disease. Analysis of the frontier zone where a dominant classification system struggles to maintain order reveals the ways in which medical nosologies, through their application in the process of diagnosis, attempt to promote and maintain a certain medical reality.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

In a recent review Jutel (2009) argued that the sociology of diagnosis was a relatively neglected topic of research and that the classification of disease which underpins the diagnostic process had not drawn the attention it deserved. Yet while direct study of medical classification might indeed be relatively rare, in many ways its presence has underpinned major swathes of sociological anal- ysis over recent decades. When Brown (1995) identified the contestation around certain diagnostic categories (attention deficit syndrome, homosexuality, obesity, etc) as a central part of a soci- ology of diagnosis, he encapsulated a broad field of research which explored why additional disease ‘cells’ were added or subtracted from the overall classification. The importance of this research focus was also echoed in Jutel’s paper when she pressed for more research to reveal how specific diagnoses were first introduced into clinical practice providing as an example the efforts of Alzheimer to get his new ‘cell’ of the classification table recognised.

Labelling and deviancy theory e and all their associated analyses e when applied to medicine inevitably engage with a contextual classification system even though they might only focus at the cellular level. Equally research into medicalisation has been mainly driven by analysis of struggles to incorporate new cells and/or dimensions into the existing classification table (Conrad & Schneider,

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1980; Zola,1972); and a key concept for analyses of professionalising strategies is the powerof medicine to define illness which implies the right to apply a system of medical classification (Abbott, 1988; Freidson, 1970). Even the doctorepatient encounter can be construed as an engagement between two classification systems, medical and lay (Tuckett, Boulton, Olson, & Williams, 1985). The number of sociological studies which engage at least with the ghost of medical classification is therefore extensive. Most of this research though has adopted the cellular approach, addressing illness at the disease level and leaving the classification system as mere context or background, tacit and assumed, a system of knowledge which both defines and limits analytic possibilities.

One of the notable exceptions to the cellular approach to medical classification is Bowker and Star’s monograph Sorting things out: classification and its consequences in which they deployed a functionalist analysis to examine the role of classifica- tion systems in communicating moral values. The used the Inter- national Classification of Disease (the ICD) to illustrate how the existence of certain disease categories both reflected, and in turn sustained, various state interests. In part this was a cellular analyses of how certain labels, and not others, were accepted as legitimate within the classification but they also argued that classification systems as a whole get used as social resources to be deployed by or fought over by individual actors and interests; they concluded that the pernicious effects of classification systems could only be over- come by ‘flexible classifications whose users are aware of the political and organisational dimensions and which explicitly retain

D. Armstrong / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 801e807802

traces of their construction’ (p. 326). For Bowker and Star there was a clear separation between actors and the classification systems which they created or amended, but a more constuctivist approach would hold that if classification systems are so fundamental to social life the individual cannot stand outside of them.

In Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (1912), Durkheim argued that the basic building block of classification was the division of the world into sacred and profane. It is the need to maintain a separa- tion between these two symbolic domains, that of the social and that not of the social, which established both ‘primitive’ classifi- cation and formed the basis of all subsequent classifications. In his collaborative work with his nephew Durkheim and Mauss (1903) pointed out how classification both reflected and reproduced the social group: ‘the unity of knowledge is nothing else than the very unity of the social collectivity extended to the universe’ (1903:84). In other words, it is less the need of humans to classify, pace Bowker and Star, than that humanness is itself defined by classifi- cation. A different sociological analysis of classification therefore becomes possible: what does medical classification, in its totality, tell us about who we are?

That medical classification is produced by and reflects a particular social group is evidenced by the variation of classi- fication systems by culture and by time. In his book Birth of the clinic, Foucault (1973) identified a fundamental shift in medical perception as occurring at the end of the 18th century which in its turn brought about a revolution in the understanding of illness. This new medicine e and its accompanying novel classi- fication e identified illness as existing in an intra-corporal lesion or abnormality. The search for this lesion through the clinical examination and post-mortem/necropsy meant that bodies became the subject of routine examination (previously the examination consisted at most of feeling the pulse); the idea that disease grew inside the individual body as a pathological lesion, often with the result that the patient died, meant that death was relocated inside the body; and the movement of patients into the neutral space of the hospital bed for medical and nursing surveillance ensured the documentation of individuals. The new pathological medicine, therefore, can be understood as under- pinning the nature of what it was to be human; ‘humanity’ was the result of the application of this new classification system and the classification system was a reflection of that same human- ness. As Foucault concluded, in the last years of the 18th century a new structure of knowledge appeared in European culture which has come to constitute ‘the dark, but firm web of our experience’ (p.199).

The ICD which emerged in the second half of the 19th century was therefore more than simply a means of organising and ordering medical knowledge. As the ICD formalised the principles of the new medicine by classifying illness according to its pathological types, it mapped out the anatomical/pathological form of the human body. Earlier classifications, which had categorised symptoms, reflected a system of medicine in which disease was neither individuated nor localised to the lesion inside the patient’s body. Such major changes in the very nature of the classification system suggest that the history of diagnostic classification can be concerned with more than ordering a society’s knowledge or with professionalising strategies or with struggles over what is to count as a disease; the underlying classificatory principles e whether of mobile symptoms or anatomically fixed lesions e both constitute and reflect the very nature of identity.

The legacy of the ICD

By the mid-19th century the previous classification system which had ordered patients’ symptoms into genera, species and

types was largely replaced as the ascendant pathological theory of disease relegated symptoms to mere indicators of disease. The first International Statistical Congress convened in 1853 formalised this pathological system into a classification consisting of 139 rubrics or categories of the various causes of death. This classification, in its turn, underwent periodic review and revision and in 1893 the International Statistical Institute, the successor to the International Statistical Congress, reached a new agreement on an International List of Causes of Death, based on distinguishing between general diseases and those localised to a particular organ or anatomical site. It was also decided to revise the classification every ten years.

The development and refinement of a classification of causes of death in the 19th century articulated the central relationship that death held for pathological medicine. As Foucault (1973) noted, in the new world of pathological medicine ‘It is not because he falls ill that man dies; fundamentally, it is because he might die that man may fall ill’ (p.155). The idea that death was contained within the body (rather than being an external force that demanded entry) constituted one of the key features of the new medicine and this propelled the pathological lesion as the potential repository for death into the foreground. Diagnosis, especially in the post-mortem room, was underpinned by the figure of death and the emerging classification systems promoted by international conferences involved identifying the pathological event that ended life. But at the First International Conference to revise the 1893 Classification of Causes of Death held in 1900, a decision was taken to develop a parallel classification of diseases where the outcome was not fatal. This parallel classification, derived from the pathological classifi- cation of death, involved subdividing certain causes of death into two or three disease groups, each of these being designated by a letter. Further subdivision followed in subsequent years as attempts were made to achieve wider acceptance and use.

It was only in 1948 with the publication of the 6th Revision of the International Lists that non-fatal diseases were finally incor- porated into the (re-titled) International Classification of Diseases, Injuries, and Causes of Death (usually shortened to the ICD) alongside those diseases that caused death. A comprehensive list for both mortality and morbidity was approved as well as agree- ment on international rules for selecting the underlying cause of death; the task of subsequent revisions was placed under the guidance of the newly formed World Health Organisation (WHO).

The triumph of the ICD marked the success of the pathological system of medicine. While the ICD had its roots in the task of classifying the pathological causes of death (which, in the final analysis, were determined in the post-mortem room when the specific anatomical lesion was identified), its gradual extension to embrace non-fatal morbidity during the first half of the 20th century marked the extension of the pathological principle throughout the hospital’s wards and clinics. In fact, in many ways the hospital itself was the physical and organisational expression of the ICD. Its wards were sub-divided according to its headings and chapters; its different medical specialties affirmed its various dimensions; its patients were labelled according to its cells and rubrics; its post-mortem room and pathology laboratories ensured the underlying order of the classification system was maintained. Yet outside the hospital’s walls the process of ordering and managing illness was relatively untamed: it was a world in which raw illness appeared, mainly in symptomatic form, disorganised and unsorted. Could the ICD provide the lens through which this spectrum of health problems could be made visible?

The ICD and general practice

In an attempt to measure the illnesses presenting in his general practice just outside London, Fry (1952) devised his own

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classification system which, for example, divided upper respiratory tract infections into the common cold, ‘febrile catarrh’, acute sore throat, ‘catarrhal children’, influenza, and others (which together accounted for 25% of his overall workload). Other GPs reported similar surveys in the early 1950s (Fry, 1952; Horder & Horder, 1954; McGregor, 1950; Pinsent, 1950), all using different classifi- cations. So when the Research Committee of the British College of General Practitioners (founded in 1952) decided to carry out a national survey of morbidity it turned to the ICD as the estab- lished and widely accepted medical classification system. The Morbidity Survey, conducted in 1955e56 (Logan & Cushion, 1958) and covering 108 practices e 120 GPs in total e recorded every ‘item of service’ carried out over one year on a specially designed record card and these records were forwarded to the General Register Office where a team of clerical staff checked and coded them (Graves & Graves, 1957).

The records returned to the coding clerks by the survey’s GPs contained all manner of illness labels as participating doctors were invited to use those diagnostic terms to which they were accus- tomed (Research Committee of the College of General Practitioners, 1958). It was then left to the skill of the clerical staff to assign the various diagnostic categories used by GPs to the rubrics of the ICD. The feat of converting the chaos of GP diagnostic terms to the ordered world of the ICD ‘was a remarkable one’, it was later observed, perhaps with some irony (Research Unit of the Royal College of General Practitioners, 1971:609).

The main problem in translating GP diagnoses to the ICD’s various pathological headings was that often there was no obvious category to match the general practice label. Minor complaints in particular proved difficult to code; as Pickles (1955) had observed, a major problem was ‘the nomenclature of the minor complaints which occupy the greater part of the general practitioners working day, for few serious efforts have previously been made to arrive at any standard terminology for these maladies’. The difficulty of the coding clerks had in translating from a label such as ‘catarrh’ to an ICD rubric was compounded by GPs’ use of provisional diagnoses. Labelling or diagnosis in general practice was often tentative e a cough might have been a sign of tuberculosis, but most likely not. Confirmation of more serious illness could only be made when and if the illness revealed itself. In a small experiment on data collection it was recorded that 30% of the diagnoses made on the first consultation were tentative (Research Committee of the College of General Practitioners, 1958).

For the GP of the mid 20th century many diagnoses seemed to be closer to the older 18th century symptomatic classification than to the rubrics of the ICD in that the clinical encounter was frequently dominated by symptoms often without identifiable underlying pathology. This meant that many illnesses could only be designated by labels which were little more than symptoms or symptoms-complexes, such as headache or dyspepsia. As Walford (1963) observed, perhaps half the cases in general practice were either not diagnosable in the strict sense or did not need diagnosis beyond the symptomatic level as they would get better within a reasonable time, long before the availability of the results of a full- scale investigation. Precise diagnosis, moreover, was not an end in itself as it did not necessarily influence the care provided (Crombie, 1963). A pathologist perhaps ‘might insist on a more clear-cut definition’, but for a GP the illness label was only a stepping stone towards better management of clinical problems, noted the Research Committee of the College of General Practitioners (1958: 119). Indeed, pursuit of a more precise diagnosis carried the ‘real risk that inappropriate action is taken on the patient’s behalf’ (Robertson, 1970: 312).

The results of the 1955e56 Morbidity Survey made general practice instantly recognisable to hospital medicine as the data

were presented in a language of anatomical site and pathological process, a list of diagnoses grouped under the 17 main headings of the ICD e from ‘Infectious and parasitic diseases’ to ‘Accidents, poisonings and violence’. For GPs, however, this list of pathologies was a poor reflection of the immediacy and experiential nature of illness presenting in general practice. To be sure, the Morbidity Survey ensured there was a new category to accommodate consultations other than for sickness or injury but the very act of placing general practice on a pathological map was at once an indictment of the clinical prowess of GPs as such a large proportion of their diagnoses were not clearly classifiable. And for a few years in the 1950s and 1960s a debate raged about the ‘trivia’ that was dominating general practice workload (Cartwright, 1967).

When a second national Morbidity Survey was under consid- eration, it was apparent that general practice required its own diagnostic framework more suited to its own needs ‘rather than to the clinical pathological department of the hospital’ (Editorial, 1969). A new classification was therefore devised by the College of General Practitioners which added to the ICD rubrics ‘certain less precise categories to cater for the less precisely defined or symp- tomatic diagnoses that were to be made in general practice’ (Editorial, 1969: 3), in particular allowing symptoms and symptom- complexes such as cough to appear in several categories. And for each ICD Section there was an ‘other’ category divided into ‘other known disease not otherwise specified in the section’ and ‘other symptoms, signs or incompletely diagnosed diseases within the appropriate section’ (Research Committee of the College of General Practitioners, 1963: 205).

Yet even this new College Classification, used in an amended form in a Second Morbidity Survey in 1971 and subsequently internationally, seemed bedevilled by inconsistencies and defi- ciencies in its use. Some sections were too long, for instance, and some categories were not used enough to justify their continued inclusion (Editorial, 1976). Indeed, any system based too closely on the ICD was seen as ‘ponderous and difficult to use’ (Hull, 1971: 13) and ‘unwieldy and impractical for diagnoses made in practice’ (Editorial, 1969: 2). ‘Real patients present the doctor with symp- toms and problems, but only comparatively rarely will it be possible to attach the label of a definite disease to the complaint’ (Reichenfeld, 1971: 593).

Symptoms in the ICD

The main problem in adapting the ICD for use in general practice was how to classify symptoms. Successive adaptations of the ICD for use in general practice had to establish rubrics for symptoms; yet these sat uncomfortably with the other pathology-based diag- noses in the ICD. For example, a cough in general practice might be classified under ‘respiratory symptoms’ yet the ICD demanded its location under the pathological cause of the cough: pneumonia, perhaps, or bronchitis or asthma. Classifications, however, reflect a medical ‘reality’ and that reality was changing on both sides of the hospital wall for while general practice was struggling to engage with a pathological system, hospital medicine, through successive revisions of the ICD, was itself tentatively beginning to address the problem of symptoms.

Since its inception the ICD had been based on classifying pathology though this had never been straightforward: the classi- fication had followed a ‘necessary compromise between aetiology, anatomical site, age and circumstances of onset’ (WHO 1948: xiii). Following only minor changes in the 7th Revision, the general philosophy of the 8th Revision had been concerned with trying to assert the underlying pathological principle by ‘classifying diseases according to their aetiology rather than their particular manifes- tation’ (WHO 1967: xiii), that is by removing elements of the

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outward appearance of disease and concentrate solely on its pathological cause. This drive towards a more pure pathological system, however, did not suit those countries which were strug- gling to adapt ICD-8 to capture hospital medical records and to evaluate medical care by, for example, assigning conditions to the Chapters concerned with the part of the body affected rather than to those dealing with the underlying generalised disease. The fracture point in the ICD was Chapter/Section XVI.

All classification systems need a residual category to cover all those instances which do not fit the main rubrics. For the 6th Revision of 1948 this residual category was Section XVI: ‘Symp- toms, senility and ill-defined conditions’ reflecting the undiffer- entiated nature of symptoms under a system of pathological medicine. Two decades later, however, in the 8th Revision, Section XVI was no longer a dumping ground for illnesses not fitting the main classification but rather reflected ‘the continuing need for a special section of the ICD for the classification of symptoms which do not point definitely to a given diagnosis and therefore cannot be assigned to category in the disease section of the code’ (WHO 1967: xxii). At the same time the title of the Section was slightly amended to ‘Symptoms and ill-defined conditions’. In effect, despite its claim to be intent on focussing even more on pathology, ICD-8 made a small gesture towards classifying symptoms and the clinical manifestation of illness (though it was still not possible to classify 23% of health problems arising in general practice using the new ICD (Westbury & Tarrant, 1969).

ICD-9 addressed these challenges in a number of ways. First, the former ‘residual’ classification, Chapter XVI, was brought into the overall framework with a new label ‘Symptoms, signs and ill- defined conditions including non-specific abnormal findings’. This included the ‘anomalous’ yet common problem of abnormal investigation results which seemingly indicated a pathological process but without any identifiable underlying pathology. Second, a new supplementary Section (XVIII) of factors influencing health status and contact with health services was introduced. And finally, a dual classification which tried to capture both the aetiology and the important manifestations of disease was permitted: this would involve the traditional ‘aetiological’ code being marked with a sign to indicate its primary status and a new code added to reflect the manifestation of disease which could be signified by an asterisk. This increasing attention to the importance of symptoms in the ICD was parallelled by a revised illness classification for general practice.

Symptoms, problems and illness

When the World Organisation of National Colleges and Acade- mies of General and Family Practice (WONCA) produced its Inter- national Classification of Health Problems in Primary Care (ICHPPC) in 1974 for world use in general practice it attempted to replace the pathological lesion as the classification principle with the notion of the ‘health problem’ whilst maintaining some compatibility with the ICD. The ICHPPC was divided into 18 Sections which corre- sponded with those of ICD-8 but the 371 diagnostic titles which sub-divided those sections were more closely aligned to general practice. Thus the number of diagnostic titles in each Section varied from one in Section XV ‘Certain causes of perinatal morbidity and mortality’ to 35 in Section XVI ‘Physical signs, symptoms, and ill- defined conditions’ reflecting the fact that diagnostic titles were selected for importance, frequency of occurrence and ability for the diagnosis to be made in the primary care setting. The ICHPPC was therefore ‘not merely a shortlist of the ICD’: the realities of primary care were reflected in its construction both in the diagnostic titles and in the addition of a section on social problems (not present in the ICD) to Section XVIII ‘Supplementary classifications’ (Froom,

1976: 452). The new classification also tackled the problem of ‘approximate diagnosis’ e that tentative label which usually held good while the patient’s problem often resolved e by introducing code numbers for some symptoms and signs, such as cough, earache and oedema.

A second version of the ICHPPC, published in 1979, further sub- divided Chapter XVI: ‘Symptoms signs and ill-defined conditions’ by body part and system; there was a new category for general signs and symptoms as well as one for investigations with unex- plained abnormal results; and there was a residual category for all other signs or symptoms and ill-defined conditions. In addition, there was a supplementary classification to capture the world of general practice which had always escaped the ICD, namely, preventive medicine, family planning, administrative procedures, maternal and child health, social, marital and family problems and maladjustment. And finally there was a supplementary classifica- tion of factors influencing health status and contact with health services (WONCA, 1979).

The main justification for ICHPPC-2 was the need to respond to changes introduced into the 9th Revision of the ICD which, as noted, had itself started to move towards capturing a wider group of health problems. Both ICHPPC and ICD-9 continued a slow shift from classifying disease (the pathology diagnosed by the doctor) towards illness (the sickness experienced and reported by the patient): ‘Much illness in general practice is transient in nature and is impossible to validate in terms of the ICD because by its very nature it is based on the classification of disease’ (Keele, 1973). A few years later this distinction between disease and illness was formalised within the social sciences (Eisenberg, 1976, 1977) and rapidly transferred into general/internal medicine (Barondess, 1979; Kleinman, Eisenberg, & Good, 1978), psychiatry (Kleinman, 1978) and back into general practice (Helman, 1981) as the medical gaze began to shift from diseases and anatomical bodies to illnesses and patients. To capture these different ‘readings’ of sickness the ICHPPC, following the asterisked system of ICD-9, allowed a dual or bi-axial classification in which the ‘problem’ was classified twice according to alternative principles. One was the underlying pathology; the other was the symptom or complaint reported by the patient. Prior to ICD-9, classification had been hierarchical, one level being subsumed by the next one up so that thousands of individual diseases could ultimately be reduced to little over a dozen broad categories. The idea of an axial system, however, was to introduce a property space with two or more dimensions in which illness and disease could be plotted (a prin- ciple also used in DSM-III, published in 1980).

The new emphasis on the medical problem being an illness signified by symptoms rather than a disease underpinned by pathology resonated with symptom classifications two centuries earlier. This shift, however, did not mark a return to the dissection of symptom types: the conceptual space on which medicine now began to focus was much wider than the detail of the patient’s symptom report. To be sure the need to classify multiple symptoms was part of the new agenda (Krogh-Jensen, 1977), but the dimen- sions of such a classification also needed to accommodate the stages in response to illness, the precipitating factors in the deci- sion to consult, and conditioning factors in the response to illness (Wright, 1978).

The International Classification of Primary Care (ICPC)

The idea of studying, measuring and classifying symptoms in their own right had emerged in the early 1970s (Morrell, Gage and Robinson, 1971). The National Ambulatory Medical Care Survey in the United States developed a Reason for Visit Classification adap- ted from existing symptom classifications and based around a body

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system similar to the ICD (Schneider, 1979). This symptom classi- fication could claim to be more suited to primary care as it iden- tified health problems at a more fundamental level: ‘Primary care is initiated by a symptom, complaint or request. The result of an ambulatory visit may or may not be a diagnosis. Perhaps the symptom will abate before the diagnosis is reached, the patient may not return, the request may involve preventive action, or the problem may not indicate the presence of disease. On the other hand, the reason for visit always exists, no matter what type of visit or which ambulatory setting is used’ (Schneider, 1979: 77). A second, re-titled, version, Rationale for Collecting Patient’s Reason for Visit (RFVCS) expanded the reason for the visit even further in recognition that sometimes primary care encounters were moti- vated by non-illness related factors such as preventive care or for administrative reasons. Thus, not only did the new classification try and capture the patient’s report of illness in the form of the symptom but also the patient’s purposefulness in choosing to engage with healthcare. This patient was not a passive repository of pathology as construed by much of the ICD but an active, wilful player in the doctorepatient encounter.

At the 1978 WHO conference on primary healthcare held in Alma Ata in the USSR (at which the strategy of Health for All by 2000 was conceived) a working party was set up to develop a classification which would try and capture the reasons why people sought care at the primary level. The working party devel- oped a Reason for Encounter Classification (RFEC), itself based on the Reason for Visit Classification. In parallel, WONCA had been developing an International Classification of Processes in Primary Care (IC-process-PC) to capture the ‘activities’ of the GP and in 1987 a number of these classification frameworks e the older ICHPPC-2 and the two new REFC and IC-process-PC e were brought together as the International Classification of Primary Care (ICPC).

ICPC was a new spatial ordering of health problems. It contained three organising principles within a single nomenclature: classifi- cations of the patient’s reason for the encounter, of diagnostic labels and of primary care interventions. The Reason for Encounter Classification (RFEC) extended earlier insights that there were several organising principles around a patient’s decision to consult with a doctor quite apart from the reporting of symptoms/illness. These included who initiated the visit (as very often it was the doctor who invited the patient to attend), whether the visit was for illness or for other reasons, whether it was an emergency or a non- emergency, what procedure was involved and who made the request for the procedure to be carried out. The core of the Reason for Encounter Classification (RFEC) was an agreed statement of the reasons why a patient entered the healthcare system, representing the demand for care by that person. They could be symptoms or complaints (headache or fear of cancer), known diseases (flu, dia- betes), requests for preventable diagnostic services (a blood pres- sure check or an ECG), a request of treatment (repeat prescription), to get a test results, or administrative (a medical certificate). Many symptoms and psychosocial problems not available in ICD-9 and ICHPPC-2 were included as it was recognised that patients formulated health problems as symptoms and complaints. A small pilot study looking at the distribution of 7503 problems found that symptoms and complaints accounted for 57.5% of all reasons pre- sented (Lamberts, Meads, & Wood, 1984).

The ICPC carried resonances of the ICD and the older patho- logical classification but whereas the ICD had tried to move away from anatomical site towards underlying pathological processes and aetiology, the ICPC used body system in a lay sense reflecting where patient’s localised their symptoms; consequently there were no Chapters on infectious diseases, neoplasms, injuries, and congenital anomalies like those in ICD-9 but Chapters on ‘General complaints and diseases’, ‘Psychological problems’ and ‘Social

problems’ (the latter two being axial in the sense that patients could be classified both under a body system but also with a psychological and/or social problem) which reflected the emer- gent objects of the new clinical gaze. The multi-dimensionality of the ICPC was further enhanced by seven orthogonal Components including both illness/disease labels and the reason for the visit which in turn allowed the GP to make a pathological or symp- tomatic diagnosis independent of what the patient reported as the reason for the consultation.

In 1998 WONCA produced a revised version of the International Classification of Primary Care (ICPC-2) which again enabled healthcare providers to capture the three important elements of the healthcare encounter: reasons for encounter in the patient’s view, assessment (diagnoses or problems) labelled from a health- care providers’ perspective, and process of care (decision, action, or plans). The new ICPC-2 was mapped to ICD-10 so that conversion systems could be used but otherwise the basic structure was unchanged.

The idea that patient’s own statements e of symptoms, illnesses, complaints, etc e should be taken as the basis for medical classi- fication was a major shift from the pathological principle in which the patient’s report required interpretation so that its true meaning could be deciphered. For ICD the reason for the encounter was hardly relevant for the identification of the underlying pathology in the formal diagnosis. Doctors had been taught not always to ‘accept patient statements at face value, but should, if they saw fit, try to help them to understand better their “real, underlying” problem, and guide them through the sometimes painful process of dealing with the “question behind the question”, and not to easily provide “symptomatic” treatment’ (Lamberts & Wood, 2002: 434). The contrast with the old pathology principle could not be more stark; as one doctor observed, reacting critically to this new focus on patient concerns: ‘I find it personally objectionable to ask the patient why he has come to see me, and then diagnose his problem in the form of the symptom diagnosis. I have not spent most of my adult life in medicine to be diminished in this way. I can diagnose any symptom or complaint of my patients with a proper disease label.’ (cited in Lamberts & Wood, 2002: 434). Yet the break from the pathological principle was a liberating one for many GPs: ‘From our perspective ‘patients’ statements of their reasons for encounter should, in principle, be taken at face value and the availability of a wide range of explicit physical and psychological symptoms and complaints would allow patients to express . what bothered them in a straightforward manner’ (Lamberts & Wood, 2002: 434).

While the ICD remained the bedrock of WHO’s classification systems the late 20th century produced a ‘family’ of new frame- works. ICD-10 was completed in 1992 and allowed more than 155,000 different codes and permitted tracking of many new diagnoses and procedures, a significant expansion of the 17,000 codes available in ICD-9. The International Classification of Function Disability and Health (which had itself evolved though various incarnations) and the International Classification of Health Interventions both broke new ground in recognising that medicine was embedded in a healthcare system and that illnesses had important social as well as biological consequences. And then there was the ICPC, the core of which was a classification of patients’ reasons.

Causes and reasons

In 1925 the renowned GP-cardiologist James McKenzie designed a classification for the morbidity he found in his practice. He identified six categories of illness (described in McCormack, 1975). These ranged from ailments ‘most widely understood’ such as an inflamed eye caused by a foreign body like a grain of sand or the

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colic (pain) caused by the passage of a stone, through diseases which were recognised only by a single symptom, for example, constipation, in which ‘the symptom gives no clue at present to the underlying condition’, to symptoms which seemed to be ‘uncoor- dinated’ like bilious attacks and neurasthenia.

The principles underlying McKenzie’s classification now seem curious e the single symptom, uncoordinated symptoms, the ‘widely understood’. And yet these principles no doubt had contemporary meaning and resonance which allowed medical perception to apprehend a morbidity spectrum of illnesses unlike earlier e and later e periods. Similarly, when humoural medicine of the early 18th century classified imbalances of humours, or when the medicine of Sydenham classified symptom types, or when the ICD classified pathological causes of death, they each defined the limits of what could and could not be seen. An excess of some humour in the 18th century could not be diagnosed, even less understood, a century or so later just as no anatomical textbook of today will provide maps of acupuncture’s meridians. Classification systems both structure and constrain the world they describe: they act as the lens of perception, as the mediator of experience, as the conceptual framework through which medical reality is stabilised and maintained.

The pathological classification system which for over a century dominated healthcare (as also marked by the ascendency of the hospital) depended ironically on the ‘processing’ of raw illness experience by a cadre of doctors outside the hospital so that patients referred inside its walls were those who could be incor- porated, or potentially incorporated, into its classification system. During the early years of the 20th century general practice was therefore involved in policing the boundaries of the hospital clas- sification (as represented by the ICD) by ensuring that the raw and unorganised experience of illness in the population was sifted to identify those ‘cases’ which could be referred into the hospital, and into its pathological space. The attempt to apply the grid of the ICD to general practice patients, however, brought the pathological framework into direct confrontation with the often implicit nosologies which were peculiar to the field of undifferentiated illness.

But how could any classification capture the heterogeneity of clinical work conducted at the frontier of healthcare? As Summerton (2000) noted, patients with no definable disease often consulted a doctor, while much illness or established disease in others remained unreported; treatment regarded by the doctor as important was neglected by some patients, while others constantly sought treatment for illnesses that were essentially self-limiting; and some patients were reluctant to share responsibilities and would not stop work when this was plainly desirable; others were equally reluctant to return to work, were rehabilitated only with the greatest difficulty, or remained invalids. Any new classification would have to address symptoms e the primary report of illness e but not by a return to the 18th century model of categorising symptom types. The construct of the symptom iceberg (Hannay, 1979) had shown that medicine needed to address the additional question of why symptoms were taken to the doctor. The answer to this question, moreover, implied that the new clinical gaze could extend to all patients and all symptoms irrespective of whether they entered the formal healthcare system.

For pathological medicine symptoms had secondary importance. The logic of hospital-based clinical judgement, based on the findings of the post-mortem room and a reductionist biomedical research paradigm, viewed symptoms as oftenvague and unreliable indicators of potential disease (especially given their dependence on the vaga- ries of patients’ self-report): with time the underlying disease would reveal itself through doctor-identified signs and investigations thoughmanysymptomssimplydisappeared,seeminglyextinguished

by the body’s defences before the illness could show its true nature. The late 20th century construction of a classification for primary care, however, placed symptoms in a different conceptual framework based on the fact that they were formed from words spoken by the patient e not the patient as interlocutor for the pathology but the patient as reflective being. The apparent capriciousness of symptom presentation e ‘trivial’ symptoms, symptoms not in the medical textbook,undiagnosable symptoms,etc e could then bere-construed not asproductsofunreliable reporting but ratherof certainwilfulness on the part of the reflective patient. Patients might or might not present with pathology, diseases or illnesses but they always had reasons (for consulting or not consulting). Diseases were governed by causes; the primarycare encounter was an engagement with reasons.

It was the classification and capture of these reasons in the 1970s which opened up a new space for the clinical gaze, no longer confined to the interior of the body but expanded to capture the cognitions and purposes of every patient (a task facilitated by the apparent ubiquity of symptoms). General practice classification systems both alerted medicine to this new object/subject but also confirmed, constantly, its existence in the classificatory space which had not existed a few decades earlier. This new medical perception as formalised in the new medical nosology also found expression in a new patient-centredness in clinical practice (Byrne & Long, 1976; Levenstein, McCracken, McWhinney Stewart, & Brown, 1986) and those ‘enlightened’ health strategies and poli- cies which prioritised patients’ rights.

Yet while the new focus on reasons was justified as taking what the patient said ‘at face value’ (Lamberts & Wood, 2002: 434), general practice had in fact introduced its own interpretive framework to fashion a different sense from the patient’s words. To be sure, empirical evidence could be gathered to demonstrate the congruence between what patients said and doctors heard (Veitch, 1995; Britt et al., 1992) yet this did not change the underlying logic of the classification system: it was the doctor who interpreted the symptoms/reasons (or determined when ‘agree- ment’ with the patient had been reached), reducing them to their core essence, of which the patient might be unaware. For all the contemporary rhetoric on patients’ new-found power vis-à-vis medicine, it was essentially still the doctor who controlled the diagnostic process.

Major changes in medical classification demonstrate that there are no diseases waiting in nature to be discovered; there are no diagnoses which capture an immutable illness state. Diseases and diagnoses only become apparent through the contemporary classi- fication systems. But these systems also, as in a mirror, show something about who we really are. A system of medicine which advanced the localised pathological lesion as the core of illness brought in its wake perceptions and practices which emphasised death and the anatomical body; the patient with a disease was separated conceptually (and often geographically) from the patient without. A system of medicine which attempts to classify symptoms as units of patient experience, which tries to identify the chain of reasoning which determined the patient’s appearance in the consultation and which places illness and the individual in a multi- dimensional classification space crystallises avery different identity.

Why did medical classification change? What explanatory framework can account for the shift from causes and reasons in clinical nosology? Alas, when classificatory systems and explana- tory frameworks are in flux there is no Archimedean point from which to see things as they really are: neither causes nor reasons can have epistemological priority. Moreover, in that the classifica- tion defines identity it is difficult to say the new classification was ‘chosen’ (as choice is a characteristic of a reasoning person) and equally it cannot be the outcome of a struggle between individuals, factions, interests or ideologies which are themselves expressions

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of classification systems. Better then to see medical classification as a fossil trace of an identity that is in part lost and an identity that is in part gained.

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  • Diagnosis and nosology in primary care
    • Introduction
    • The legacy of the ICD
    • The ICD and general practice
    • Symptoms in the ICD
    • Symptoms, problems and illness
    • The International Classification of Primary Care (ICPC)
    • Causes and reasons
    • References

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Bad news and first impressions: Patient and family caregiver accounts of learning the cancer diagnosis

Karen Sue Schaepe*

University of WisconsineMadison, Sociology, 1180 Observatory Drive, Madison, WI 53706, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 23 July 2011

Keywords: United States Diagnosis Physicianepatient communication Cancer Bad news Narrative Family caregiver

* Tel.: þ1 6082047426; fax: þ1 6082655389. E-mail address: [email protected].

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.06.038

a b s t r a c t

Studies in medical journals regarding the delivery of a cancer diagnosis typically focus on a single clinic episode where the definitive news is disclosed to the patient by the physician. Far less research char- acterizes the diagnosis in the way patients and their family members often describe it: as a longitudinal, multi-sited search process culminating in a news-telling and realization event. This article analyzes lay accounts of learning a cancer diagnosis drawing on ethnographic interviews among a purposive sample of 28 patients recently diagnosed with leukemia, myeloma, or lymphoma and 30 of their family care- givers. The participants, recruited at a large cancer center in the United States, were asked to describe “the day” they learned the diagnosis. Narrative analysis revealed that in almost every case, detailed descriptions of preliminary events e such as the pace and sequence of testing; smooth or disorganized transitions between care providers; and the timeliness or delays in diagnosis e were used to contex- tualize the actual episode of hearing the diagnosis and reacting to the news. This study finds that patients’ and caregivers’ experience of the medical system prior to hearing the news played an important role in the way the news was ultimately internalized. The findings also provide empirical support for integrating lay perspectives on the diagnostic experience into future cancer disclosure guidelines.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Each year an estimated 1.4 million new cancer cases are diag- nosed in the United States, and although the 5-year survival rate for many forms of the disease has improved, cancer remains one of the most feared diagnoses. Euphemism and vague language are common in physician communication with patients (Chapman, Abraham, Jenkins, & Fallowfield, 2003) and research shows that even when the principles of informed consent obligate doctors to fully disclose the cancer diagnosis, terms such as “growth,” “lump,” “tumor,” “abnormal cells” or “precancerous condition” are often used instead during initial consultations (Fallowfield, Jenkins, & Beveridge, 2002; Holland, Geary, Marchini, & Tross, 1987). Simi- larly, indirect referents to cancer predominate in discussions of transition from curative to palliative care (Lutfey & Maynard, 1998).

Practical concerns drive the research on disclosing diagnoses in the medical literature and in the last two decades a number of communication guidelines have been generated from this research to aid clinicians with the task (Back, Arnold, Baile, Tulsky, & Fryer- Edwards, 2005; Baile et al., 2000; Buckman, 1992; Girgis & Sanson-

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Fisher, 1995; Maynard, 2003; Rabow & McPhee, 1999). Most of the research draws on self-reported data collected among physicians (Baile, Lenzi, Parker, Buckman, & Cohen, 2002; Ptacek, Ptacek, & Ellison, 2001) as well as survey data from patients about their preferences for hearing bad news (Blanchard, Labrecque, Ruckdeschel, & Blanchard, 1988; Cassileth, Zupkis, Suttonsmith, & March, 1980; Butow et al., 1996; Fallowfield, Ford, & Lewis, 1995; Hagerty et al., 2004). Thus, the guidelines focus heavily on clini- cian behaviors during the encounter and advise doctors to find a suitable place to disclose the news; “forecast” (Maynard, 1996) and dose information to reduce the shock patients experience; respond to emotion with empathy; and minimize incomprehension by clarifying frequently and summarizing plans for treatment at the end of the visit. While adherence to recommendations such as these will undoubtedly enhance the quality of the therapeutic relationship, one problematic assumption embedded within most guidelines is that it is a single disclosure episode that needs to be handled skillfully. The current study challenges this assumption based on findings from 58 patient and caregiver narrative accounts of learning the cancer diagnosis. Rather than focusing on “the moment” or “day” of learning the bad news, these accounts describe the diagnosis as a process or stepwise “journey” (Beach, 2009) encompassing a social context that includes events

K.S. Schaepe / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 912e921 913

occurring before and surrounding the actual cancer diagnosis. This investigation examines the characterization of these surrounding events to better understand how early experiences affect patients’ and caregivers’ reception of the news.

As noted, published consensus guidelines serve as the basis for training physicians to deliver diagnostic news, but studies continue to find a wide gap between what doctors think they convey and what patients and caregivers actually understand of the cancer diagnosis and the treatment process (Back et al., 2005). Among a group of 181 patients diagnosed with advanced cancer and receiving palliative care, for example, Craft, Burns, Smith, and Broom (2005) found that only 45% correctly understood their terminal status and the goals for treatment. Similarly, Chan and Woodruff (1997) report that among 131 patients with an advanced malignancy, approximately 10% did not know they had cancer and 33% were unclear about the long-term prognosis.

The social science literature on diagnosis, by contrast, rarely evaluates the effectiveness of specific disclosure strategies and instead adopts a predominantly theoretical approach to the subject. Although diagnosis has not yet coalesced into a distinctive area of research (Blaxter, 1978; Brown, 1995; Jutel, 2009), it has been studied extensively within the literature on the social construction of illness, the social construction of medical knowledge, and in the disease theory literature (Jutel, 2009; Conrad & Barker, 2010). Ethnographic studies, for example, have examined numerous theoretical constructs relevant to illness such as “biographical disruption” (Bury, 1982), “narrative reconstruction” (Williams, 1984), and other psycho-social phenomena by which an indi- vidual becomes a “patient” (Zola, 1973), a medical “case” (Glaser & Strauss, 1965), and the ways in which identities are transformed through the experience of chronic illness (Charmaz, 1993). Ethno- methodological research has examined medical action, such as diagnosis, as an “accountable” practice (Garfinkel, 1967) and conversation analysts, through close assessment of the sequential, turn-by-turn organization of talk, have examined a range of features associated with the delivery and reception of difficult diagnoses (Heath, 1992; Maynard, 2003; Perakyla, 2006).

In addition, organizational studies have examined the medical professionals who have institutional authority to convey diagnoses (Friedson, 1970) and conceptual issues such as the medicalization of social conditions (Conrad & Schneider, 1980), ways of dealing with stigmatizing diagnoses (Goffman, 1963), and the logic by which a system of disease classification is developed (Blaxter,1978; Bowker & Star, 1999) have also been explored. Only a small number of studies within the medical or social science literature has focused on the cancer diagnosis itself as a longitudinal phenomenon.

In the cancer context, specifically, The, Hak, Koeter, and van der Wal (2000) conducted a four-year, two-phase ethnographic study of 35 lung cancer patients followed from diagnosis to death and observed what seemed to be a “don’t ask, don’t tell” style of collusion between doctors and patients regarding progression of the disease. In another study, Salander (2002) reviewed 138 written patient accounts of hearing the cancer diagnosis and found that rather than focusing on a single instance of hearing the news, patients routinely began their stories with the first contact with clinical staff and ended them at the conclusion of treatment. This suggests that access to coordinated medical services was an important means by which patients established a trusting rela- tionship with their doctors. Similarly, Leydon, Bynoe-Sutherland and Coleman’s (2003) analysis of interview and focus group data among 33 cancer patients found that the experience of the medical system up to the point of diagnosis colored patient’s views of their doctor and profoundly influenced their expectations of future care.

Each of these studies examines the cumulative effect of multiple clinic encounters on the patient’s experience but the findings

from this type of research have not yet been extensively theorized. In fact, the most well-developed, best theorized research on diagnosis adopts a constructionist perspective and focuses specifically on contested illnesses (Barker, 2002; Clarke & James, 2003; Dumit, 2006; Nettleton, 2006). While this research has provided valuable insight into the emotional, and often longitudinal, negotiation process (Brown, 1995), less work has investigated the social construction process associated with relatively uncontested diagnoses.

Blood cancers e the diagnoses discussed in the accounts pre- sented in this article e are rarely contested primarily because abnormal blood counts are hard to refute. From a constructionist perspective, the process leading up to diagnosis can shed light on how the patient’s interaction with various organizational actors across a multi-staged testing sequence contributes to what comes to be accepted as social reality about the cancer diagnosis. In the accounts described here, clinicians often told the patient that cancer was suspected one or more stages before the definitive diagnosis, thereby “topicalizing” the diagnosis but presenting it as tentative. Because this process left a strong impression on many study participants about the medical system and about what the future held for them in coping with the disease, it certainly bears further investigation.

Methods

This article is based on data collected for a multi-year ethno- graphic project (2007e2010) conducted at a large comprehensive cancer center in the United States. The study tracked the medical and psycho-social experiences of blood and bone cancer patients and their family caregivers prior to and over the course of one year post hematopoietic stem cell transplant (HSCT) using a purposive sample of 28 patients and 30 family caregivers stratified by age, sex, diagnosis, type of stem cell transplant procedure, and socio- economic status. That is to say, the sampling frame was designed to capture maximum variation within the pool of all transplant patients at the field site. Efforts were made to include equal numbers of women and men; a representative number of adult cancer patients in each decade of life (20se60s); and individuals diagnosed with the most common range of blood cancers. Also, because the risk and recovery trajectories were distinct, patients undergoing both allogeneic transplant (stem cells infused from a matched donor) and autologous transplant (reinfusion of the patient’s own stem cells) were included. The patients at the field site were predominantly white, middle class, and possessed a high school or greater level of education. Even so, five patients from lower SES income categories (on medical assistance) were included in the sample as well as two patients from minority populations (1 ¼ African American and 1 ¼ Native American).

Overall, sixty-one patients were approached for the study and forty-one agreed to participate. Six of these patients, however, went to transplant too quickly to conduct the initial intake interview and seven others became ineligible because they were referred to hospice shortly after recruitment. The study was approved by the site hospital’s institutional review board to conduct interviews with each of the remaining 58 participants and to engage in ethnographic fieldwork with a subset of thirteen families throughout the treatment and recovery process.

In total, seventeen patients in the study were male, eleven were female, and the majority were in their forties (n ¼ 8) or fifties (n ¼ 11). Twenty-nine patients had a designated caregiver; two- thirds of the caregivers were spouses (n ¼ 20) and the other third were parents of the patient (n ¼ 7). Seventeen of the patients had been diagnosed with leukemia, six with lymphoma, and five with multiple myeloma. Demographic data are shown in Table 1.

Table 1 Participant demographics & diagnosis disclosure information (n ¼ 58).

Case number Participant Cancera Age Sex Disclosure context Who w/patient Who disclosed

1 Patient ALL 58 M Acute Wife ER doctor Wife 51 F

2 Patient AML 55 M Sub-acute Alone Oncologist Wife 55 F

3 Patient AML 41 F Acute Husband ER doctor Husband 43 M

4 Patient NHL 49 M Secondary Alone Oncologist Wife 42 F

5 Patient AML 50 M Sub-acute Alone Family doctor Wife 53 F

6 Patient AML 40 F Sub-acute Alone ER doctor Husband 41 M

7 Patient ALL 24 F Secondary Family Oncologist Mother 46 F

8 Patient MM 68 M Sub-acute Alone Family doctor Wife 72 F

9 Patient AML 23 F Acute Fiancé ER doctor Fiancée 27 M

10 Patient MDS 53 F Sub-acute Husband Oncologist Husband 65 M

11 Patient MM 53 M Sub-acute Wife Family doctor wife 51 F

12 Patient AML 50 M Recurrence Alone Oncologist Wife 49 F

13 Patient HL 25 M Recurrence Alone Oncologist 14 Patient CML 32 M Recurrence Alone Oncologist

Mother 62 F 15 Patient MM 47 F Acute Husband ER doctor

Husband 46 M 16 Patient MCL 59 M Sub-acute Wife Family doctor

Wife 57 F 17 Patient ALL 46 M Sub-acute Wife Medical Record

Wife 46 F 18 Patient AML 21 M Acute Family ER doctor

Mother 43 F Father 41 M

19 Patient HL 32 M Sub-acute Wife Oncologist Wife 31 F

20 Patient FL 49 F Recurrence Alone Oncologist Mother 75 F Father 76 M

21 Patient MM 54 M Acute Girlfriend ER doctor Fiancée 55 F

22 Patient MM 74 M Sub-acute Alone Nephrologist Wife 71 F

23 Patient AML 22 F Sub-acute Alone Family doctor Mother 40 F

24 Patient ALL 39 F Sub-acute Husband Family doctor Husband 36 M M-in-law 65 F

25 Patient AML 55 F Secondary Alone Oncologist Husband 55 M

26 Patient ALL 43 M Acute Wife ER doctor Wife 38 F

27 Patient NHL 49 M Sub-acute Alone Family doctor Wife 48 F

28 Patient AML 35 F Recurrence Alone Oncologist Husband 35 M

a Leukemia: Acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL), Acute myeloid leukemia (AML), Myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS). Lymphoma: Follicular lymphoma (FL), Hodgkin’s lymphoma (HL), Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma (NHL), Mantle cell lymphoma (MCL). Myeloma: Multiple myeloma (MM).

K.S. Schaepe / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 912e921914

A semi-structured “guided” interview format was used (Denzin & Lincoln, 1994) and patients and caregivers were interviewed separately at four intervals: (1) prior to transplant, (2) several weeks following discharge from the hospital, (3) six months post transplant, and (4) at the end of one year. The observational field- work was based on a grounded theory methodology (Glaser & Strauss, 1967; Schatzman & Strauss, 1973) that involved observing and audio-recording patient clinic visits every three weeks following discharge from the hospital and also visiting patients and their families at home once a month to learn about the ongoing, day-to-day experience of living with cancer and recovering from

transplant. Additional data was collected from Caringbridge or Carepages weblogs. These are hospital-sponsored websites that enable patients undergoing treatment for a range of conditions to share information with their support network through a password protected portal. The weblogs followed in this study were main- tained by caregivers somewhat more often than the patient and in either case provided textual, first-person accounts about the fluc- tuations in the health and mood of the patient and their families.

While the ethnographic data provided background for the overall project, the findings reported in this article focus primarily on one topic raised during the intake interview where participants

K.S. Schaepe / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 912e921 915

was asked to describe “the day they learned the cancer diagnosis.” Originally, this question was intended simply to establish some history about each patient. Because these accounts were so richly detailed, however, it became evident they merited attention in their own right.

All interviews were transcribed and a combination of grounded theory coding and narrative analysis was used to examine them. Analysis began with “open” or substantive coding (Strauss & Corbin, 1990) of the transcripts to identify themes and patterned differences in the way that patients entered the medical system and received the cancer diagnosis. The accounts sorted naturally into three cate- gories and each account was then analyzed as a single cohesive unit. Thematic narrative analysis was used to understand “what happened” from the participants’ perspective (Riessman, 1993, 2008) and structural narrative analysis was used to examine the way participants ordered their stories and selected features for inclusion (Labov & Waletzky,1967). Focused coding was later used to reveal the relationship patients and caregivers saw between the specific events leading up to diagnosis and to the diagnosis itself. The analysis conducted here builds directly on the interest in narrative that emerged subsequent to Arthur Kleinman’s (1988) study of the patient experience of illness and extends the focus to examine both patient and family caregiver accounts of diagnosis in tandem.

Findings

Structural features of the accounts

Patients heard the cancer diagnosis in one of three circum- stances: after an acute episode in the emergency room; during a clinic visit following presentation with sub-acute symptoms (such as rash or fatigue); or as part of routine blood work for a physical or ongoing monitoring of a previous cancer diagnosis. The medical specialist who conveyed the news and the individuals accompa- nying the patient when the news was delivered varied for each context. (See Table 1.) Regardless of circumstance, however, all patient and caregiver accounts shared the following features:

Accounts were “storied” The experience of learning the cancer diagnosis was developed

as a cohesive story with a beginning, middle, and an end, and most conformed to a narrative structure whereby a prefacing back- ground was used to set up the accounte either by describing first symptoms; normal life just before the diagnosis; or by describing episodes of a smooth or delayed diagnosis.

Stories were composed of two interrelated sub-topics These were: (1) the patient’s multiple encounters with the

medical system prior to diagnosis and (2) the moment when the patient or family caregiver realized the news.

Participants’ stories devoted more attention to encounters with the medical system than to the diagnosis itself

Patients and caregivers offered detailed descriptions of the path leading up to diagnosis e including visits to various clinics, conversations with different physicians, and a listing of the diag- nostic tests performed. Accounts also included descriptions of clinic conversations about ambiguous findings and phone conversations with staff on a range of sensitive and mundane topics. By contrast, accounts of the realization process and descriptions of the actual diagnostic news exchange were typically brief paraphrases of what the doctor has said:

That evening he called and he said that I had to go in for a bone marrow transplant because he thought I had leukemia. (P12/1:1)

Narrative content “Diagnosis” is essentially the process of determining the nature

and cause of a disease by its symptoms and signs. The symptoms of many blood cancers are often little more than complaints of fatigue, bone and joint pain, fever, and difficulty breathing. Physical signs are equally unremarkable and include bruising, swelling, and petechiae (a form of intra-dermal hemorrhage that manifests as pin point red spots under the skin).

When presented to a doctor, these signs are never sufficient to make a diagnosis, but patients and family members frequently reported that doctors did offer a tentative “likely” diagnosis after laboratory tests showed blood counts beyond normal ranges. In all cases, however, it was the bone marrow biopsy that served as the basis for disclosing a definitive cancer diagnosis to the patient and initiating a discussion of treatment options.

Realization Patients and caregivers described absorbing the diagnosis as

a two-fold process. That is, an intellectual understanding of the cancer news often came shortly after hearing it, but a deeper emotional realization was a separate event e sometimes occurring well after treatment had commenced. For example, one 40-year leukemia patient recalled being so overwhelmed by the conversa- tions with different specialists about abnormalities in her blood that nothing seemed real for some time.

I was down there probably halfway through the first week of chemo before I even realized - well, you know, before it really sunk in. Like holy man, I’m sick! And oh, I can’t change my mind on anything now because they’re already pumping drugs in me! (P6/1:2)

Whether the process of “getting it” was slow or fast, a common pattern among patients was to review “previously ambiguous signals” (Maynard, 2003, p.12) surrounding events and, thereby, make sense of the experience and come to terms with a new reality. One 50- year old engineer diagnosed with leukemia illustrated this kind of cognitive processing as he recounted the visit with his primary care doctor where he learned the results of blood work done at a walk-in clinic the previous evening.

No height, no weight, no blood pressure, no temperature. I mean, that’s always done. You go through everything (.) afterwards. I’m analyzing it going, ‘You boob! You should have known that (.) there was something up.’ (P5/1:15)

In essence, this man looked for clues that he missed earlier about the news to come and finds them in the absence of the clinical routine that normally occurs when he visits his family doctor. Earlier in the interview he noted that his first reaction to the news had been denial e that the doctor was mistaken. In this extract, however, the patient considers the possibility that the mistake may have been, in part, his own.

Realizing the news in different clinical contexts While the presence of a two-part realization process was

consistent across accounts, each of the three contexts reflected a distinctive pattern of realization. In the acute context, where patients and family learned the diagnosis following a visit to the emergency department (ED), none recalled hearing the diagnosis with much clarity or even feeling strong emotion when the word “cancer” was used. This kind of reaction was captured quite well by a 54-year old man recalling his myeloma diagnosis:

Well, I don’t know if I was shocked (.) I guess I describe it as [similar to my experience of] (.) one winter storm in late April (.) with about eight or nine inches of heavy snow (.) I went

1 All proper nouns used in participant quotes are pseudonyms.

K.S. Schaepe / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 912e921916

into a spin at sixty [mph] down the road and there was nothing coming. When that happens and you have the seat belt on, it’s like a ride at an amusement park except that you could die. There’s this taste that comes into your mouth and your heart beats fast and you lose feeling in your arms even though you’re holding on. I went off the road and into a cornfield full of snow, upright. It didn’t flip or anything. I was fine. But at the end of that I had this numb feeling. The same kind of feeling [after hearing the diagnosis] came over me and that was about all I felt. I just kind of digested what he [the doctor] was saying without a reaction. (P21/1:9)

Most patients in the acute context described a similar deficit of emotion in reaction to the news. In all seven cases, in fact, reali- zation of the deeper impact of the diagnosis seeped into consciousness slowly, culminating in some graphically meaningful event such as finding clumps of hair on their pillow or sitting in a waiting room with other cancer patients and realizing that they were one of “them.”

By contrast, family members who accompanied the patient to the ED described feeling the full force of the diagnosis almost immediately. In four instances, caregivers actually recalled learning the diagnosis before the patient, either because one of the medical staff had taken them aside or because the caregiver had guessed what was happening from observing activities and overhearing the conversation between clinicians. All described feeling like bystanders and thus, looked to medical staff for guidance as to how to understand the situation. Caregivers also typically expressed feeling very alone with the news and overwhelmed by the possi- bility of losing their loved one. One 28-year old construction worker, for example, noted this when his fiancée was transported by ambulance from a local hospital to the regional cancer center for additional tests.

The EMTs were taking her away, and then [the nurse] gave me a huge hug and then she told me (.) she said “Good luck.”(.) And I said, “Well, what’s wrong?” She said, “We think it’s leukemia.” So then I knew and I didn’t say anything (.) I cried my eyes out as I drove home, just me and [my infant daughter] you know. And I’m like “Now, what do I do?” (C9/1:4)

Interestingly, none of the caregivers who learned the news before the patient disclosed it to the patient themselves, but instead waited for the doctor to do so. Few explicit reasons were given for this, but one husband’s account provides some insight. This 43-year old man recalled that after overhearing a discussion of “leukemia” in the hospital corridor among several doctors he sat in a chair watching his wife sleep thinking about how the news would impact their four children. As he got more upset, he decided he’d better go home before his wife picked up on it.

I just thought (.) I’m going to go, and I’ll come back in the morning, because we had to wait for the hematologist to come in the morning to speak with us and to look at her and stuff. And right before I left I said goodbye. She said, “What’s up with you?” and I said, “Nothing.” (C3/1:6)

The need to contain emotion and the belief that the doctor would be able to present the whole picture and make sense of it was a thread running through other caregiver accounts as well.

In the sub-acute context, 13 patients learned the diagnosis after a scheduled visit to the doctor for persistent symptoms. Seven of these patients were alone when hearing the news for the first time and most noted that prior to the biopsy they believed a mistake must have been made. Even so, these patients disclosed the unconfirmed diagnosis to their spouses but waited for the biopsy confirmation before telling other family members and friends.

These patients described the diagnosis as a two-stage trauma: first, having to absorb the news themselves and second, having to convey the news to their spouse or someone else close to them. As a corollary, the caregivers who learned the news from the patient described feeling “shocked” or “blindsided” by the news because it came in an otherwise ordinary context. One participant, for example, recounted that she did not even know her husband had been to the doctor. He simply came home one evening from work and told her the news at the kitchen table.

I said, ‘What’s going on?’ He goes, ‘Well’ he said - he couldn’t tell me! So he pulls this card out of his pocket (.) and he handed me this card and here it has Med Plus Cancer Center1 on the top of it with Dr. Fleming’s name, address, you know, the address of the cancer clinic (.) and I’m looking at this and I’m.I’m looking up at him and I’m.I’m going, ‘Cancer!?’ I’m going, ‘Cancer!?’ I’m thinking, oh, my God, that’s the worst news that I could hear, other than somebody coming up to the door and telling me that he’s dead, you know? (C5/1:5)

Clearly, the pattern of news delivery in the clinic is distinct from disclosures in the hospital or ED. In acute settings patients and family heard the news at roughly the same time but in vastly different emotional states. Patients were often incapacitated by pain and/or drugs and unable to fully process the information. Caregivers, by contrast, were on high alert, watching events tran- spire and thus, learning the diagnosis by deduction or from a clinician taking them aside. As bystanders, they also had time to think about the implications for themselves and their family.

In the sub-acute context patients more often learned the cancer diagnosis first and alone and experienced a heavy emotional burden of having to move quickly from news recipient to news deliverer. The act of telling family about the cancer diagnosis was invariably described with the most emotion.

In the third context patients and caregivers had already received one cancer diagnosis and now learned that either the primary cancer had recurred or that a secondary cancer had developed. None of these respondents used the word “shocking” to describe their reaction to the news. Instead, the news was often described as a “blow” e a description retaining the sense of assault, but absent the sudden reversal of fortune. Several of those a year or more out from the original diagnosis, in fact, used “devastating” to describe their reaction (C12/1: 15). This suggests a certain battle-weariness in the face of yet another advance of the disease. Those hearing cancer news for the second time often indicated that the latter was harder news to hear because the odds were longer, fewer treatment options were available, and the patient would be less able to tolerate aggressive therapy in any event. For the five patients who received news of recurrence and the three where news of a secondary cancer was disclosed, only one patient was with family. The other seven were told by their oncologist during an office visit or by telephone.

One other feature that distinguishes accounts of a secondary cancer or relapse from acute and sub-acute accounts is that although interviewed separately, the patient and caregiver narra- tives more closely matched each other in content and the personal referents used. That is, these accounts included more expressions such as “we felt,” “we were devastated,” “our family was.” making clear that the news was now received by a team facing a challenge together.

Overall, these accounts illustrate how the realization of the diagnosis was influenced by each context in which the news was disclosed. The “context” refers, essentially, to the physical

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surroundings, what members of the patient’s social network were present, and what clinicians were involved in disclosing the diag- nosis. Depending on the specific context, initial reactions of patients and family were somewhat predictable. In the acute care setting patients absorbed the news slowly while the caregiver understood the news immediately and often in a highly anxious state. In the sub-acute setting, the caregiver heard the news from the patient and more often expressed being “blindsided” while the patient recalled feeling burdened by having to transition quickly from recipient to deliverer of the news. In the situations of recur- rence, the patient and family experienced the news as a collective blow on the family unit.

The path to diagnosis As noted earlier, the path to the cancer diagnosis involved two or

more encounters with clinicians in various settings and accounts generally focused greater attention on the process leading up to the diagnosis rather than on the diagnosis itself. In this section three examples are used to illustrate the range of circumstances that affected patient and caregiver reception of the news. In the first situation a “bad news” disclosure (cancer) is delivered through a “good” (efficient) means in the emergency department; the second account illustrates “good news” (no evidence of cancer) received through a bad process (inconsistent and contradictory information), and the third is an account of a bad experience moving through the system leading up to a badly handled disclo- sure of the cancer diagnosis. The central focus in this section is on the way respondents speak about the process and the diagnosis in the same account which, in turn, lends insight into how the patients and caregivers experienced the cancer diagnosis overall.

“Bad news” by a good process Some participants described an expedient path to the cancer

diagnosis and these narratives generally conveyed a sense of having to navigate a bad situation but having confidence in the profes- sionals helping them through it. One account of this type involved a 49-year old female office worker who had delayed seeing a doctor for many months, attributing her fatigue to chronic depression. When she began to hemorrhage one evening at home her husband rushed her to the ED where doctors found she was in near complete kidney failure. The husband described the whirlwind hospital admission experience this way:

I heard somebody say it was the “mystery ward” going up there (.) We had the hematology team, renal team, what else did we have? Oncology team. I think they showed up after the renal and hematology team. Oh, general medicine. Who else would we have had? It seems like there was four or five. There were a lot of teams. At any rate, by, I think, Wednesday afternoon, I don’t remember which doctor it was, one of the doctors came in and said they had a pretty good idea what it was. They wanted to do some more tests (.) but they thought it was cancer (.) The one true test was a bone marrow biopsy. So they did that Thursday afternoon (.) it took about 24 hours to get the results back from that. So we found out for sure, absolutely sure on Friday, about three o’clock, four o’clock. By seven o’clock they had her first round of chemo in. (C15/1:4)

The central theme in the narrative is one of quick and coordi- nated medical care. The experience of learning the diagnosis of cancer was secondary and segued quickly into a discussion of treatment. Without saying it explicitly, the organization of this caregiver’s narrative suggests that the feeling of support from a range of specialists, all working together to diagnose his wife and initiate treatment, made the actual diagnosis less traumatic than it might have been.

“Good news” by a bad process In this account, drawn from the six-month interview, miscom-

munication and a lack of coordination led to an irrevocable sense of alienation for the patient and her family. The 24-year old patient had developed leukemia as a result of the chemotherapy used to treat her sarcoma. Three months following a stem cell transplant to treat the leukemia, a false reading of an X-ray indicated that the patient’s original sarcoma had returned. During the interview, the mother of the patient went over the events that led first to news that the cancer was back and then to news that a mistake had been made in reading the X-ray; the cancer had not, in fact, recurred. Rather than experiencing relief when the mistake was discovered, the family felt re-traumatized. The mother described it this way:

We were actually celebrating her ‘100 days’ (.) and two days before, Sarah called Dr. Y and said (.) ‘I’ve got this pain in my hip and I don’t know if I pulled something or what.’ He said, ‘Well, you know, to play it safe, why don’t you get an X-ray’ (.) and rather than run back to Albany (.) just have an X-ray done and have them fax it (.)So she did that and then the doctor that read it was actually a nurse practitioner and had told us that the radiologist had read it. But long story short, she read it. She read it backwards. And even though Sarah and I both explained that on her (.) one hip it’s going to look like she’s got a tumor, but it’s a dead tumor. And the pain was actually on the other side (.) Anyway, she read it wrong and called us the next day at the resort we were at and told Sarah right there on the phone that, you know, ‘Sorry. Your cancer’s back.’ (C7/2:4)

The celebration at the resort was cut short, the family returned home that day and another X-ray was done at the home clinic in Albany where the mistake was subsequently revealed. The domi- nant feeling afterward for the patient and her family was a sense of betrayal. As the mother noted:

I actually had talked to the nurse practitioner (.) I just grabbed the phone from Sarah because she was screaming and crying and saying, “No, not again! Not again! Not again!” When I talked to her [the nurse practitioner] I said, “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.” And, you know, you trust them. (C7/3:8)

Trust is the operative word here and while it might be said that trust was misplaced in this situation, what is also revealed is how this trust depends on doctor, radiologist, and nurse acting in concert to provide reliable information to the patient and family members.

“Bad news” following a bad process This account highlights the relative importance of the process

leading up to diagnosis for the patient and her family over the skillful handling of the cancer disclosure itself. In this instance, a 23-year old woman began to experience back pain a month after giving birth to her first child. When the pain intensified, she went to the emergency room where a doctor told her she probably had arthritis. She was prescribed ibuprofen and the pain killer, Vicodin. In a matter of hours her nose began to bleed uncontrollably.

I called later in the afternoon on Saturday, spoke to the same doctor, and I’m like, “Listen, I’ve had a bloody nose for three hours straight.” You know, “What am I supposed to do?” He’s like, “Well, let me up you to Percocet and we’ll see if we can get you through the weekend and then go in on Monday and see your family doctor.” (P9/1:4)

The woman was able to schedule an appointment for Monday morning and based on the laboratory results she was transported to a regional comprehensive cancer center that evening. On Tuesday

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morning the patient learned the diagnosis from a new resident who came into her hospital room to prep her for treatment.

Like this doctor guy, he came in and he was saying “leukemia” and “cancer.” And I’m like, wait, you know. He wasn’t my attending physician (.) I’m not sure what he was, but he’s the one who told me, and I’m like, “Whatever. You don’t know nothing (.) I’m not listening to you because you’re not my doctor.” (.) He’s like, “Okay, whatever.” I’m like, “I don’t need to hear that I have cancer from you” you know. (P9/1:7)

Reflecting on the poor process leading up to diagnosis and the disclosure itself, the patient noted that the resident who inadver- tently disclosed the news later apologized and she felt the situation, despite her initial frustration with the doctor, was satisfactorily resolved. However, she and her family continued to express anger and planned to file a complaint about the doctor who attributed her symptoms to arthritis. It was the failure to conscientiously investi- gate the symptoms rather than the poor conveyance of the leukemia diagnosis that the family remembered. Charles Bosk (1979) describes “moral errors” in medical settings as a situation where a physician fails to discharge role obligations in a responsible fashion, noting that other physicians assess these errors as evidence of a flawed char- acter. This characterization may also explain why the family assessed the ER doctor’s behavior as they did and why it was judged inex- cusable or “unforgivable” (Paget, 1988). As the patient said later:

I’m 23 years old. How the heck can I have arthritis? And how did it come on this fast? You know, it started off with low back pain, but it went away and it went into my arms. (P9/1:40)

In sum, consistent across all three situations was the idea that support or lack of support from the medical system influenced coping with the diagnosis. Where individuals felt support e particularly in terms of a sense of coordination of care across distinct locations e the diagnosis was hard but less traumatic than when miscommunication and a lack of coordination prevailed.

Discussion

A key finding from this research is that while hearing the diag- nosis and realizing the news were significant moments to partici- pants, the ability to cope with the news was tied only tangentially to one well-executed disclosure. This finding is consistent with Salander (2002), whose review of patients’ written accounts of the diagnosis found that stories typically began with first symptoms and included multiple clinic interactions, suggesting a broader understanding of diagnosis for both patients and their families. The research also correlates with the findingsfromLeydon et al(2003) about the way in which the interactions up to the point of diagnosis influenced patient expectations about future care. Difficulty getting a clinic appointment or delays in receiving a cancer diagnosis led patients to expect their care to be subject to similar problems in the future.

The notion of expectations emerged as a particularly salient aspect of the current study. Essentially, the outcome of initial impressions about the coordination of care within the medical system led to positive or negative expectations brought to subse- quent clinic visits and proved integral to the level of trust patients and caregivers had in their providers. This connection was stated explicitly by the mother who was given inaccurate information about recurrence of her daughter’s sarcoma.

Trust

Sociologists view trust as a feature of enduring personal and public relationships (Seligman, 1997) that functions to stabilize the

social order by reducing its complexity (Luhman, 1979, 1988). Trust is also understood to be the outcome of situational predictability (Berger, 1998; Goffman, 1971; Habermas, 1999; Misztal, 1996; 2001). Because the stakes were so high for the cancer patients and family caregivers in this study, many seemed to want to believe that the system was predictable and the clinicians were competent (Hughes, 1951). Patients and families often closely scrutinized the functioning of the organization for evidence that they could trust staff. Trust is something sociologists understand to be actively negotiated between doctor and patient and reproduced through routine organizational practices and this study reveals that the medical encounters early in the diagnostic process served as a defining trust-building or distrust-building experience.

In the illustration of learning “bad news through a good process,” the spouse was able to relinquish control and trust the system because several specialized medical teams converged to diagnose his wife. Despite fluctuations in his wife’s disease status over the next two years, this baseline trust persisted. The situation of “good news by a bad process” where the patient’s X-ray was misread resulted in distrust in the medical system for the patient and her family and over the next 18 months this patient continued to travel the hour and a half to the hospital for exams rather than returning to a local provider which was more customary. In the third situation, where the patient experienced both a “bad process and a bad news delivery,” the patient moved past the awkward news delivery fairly quickly, but as with the previous case, she and her family remained distrustful of the care provided by the medical system for many months afterward.

The role of organizational routines in disclosing a diagnosis

The patient and caregiver accounts reveal that there was often unspoken coordination between clinicians in different settings regarding the diagnosis. One disclosure seemed to build on the previous one delivered by someone else and might be as simple as two exchanges illustrated in one account where the patient was told by the transplant doctor that his blood work looked “off” and later learned from his local oncologist that he had relapsed (P12:1/ 23). The disclosure process can also involve multiple stages. Another patient recalled being told by a doctor at a walk-in clinic that his labs were “inconclusive” and so the patient was scheduled to see his family doctor the next day. The family doctor told the patient that it “looked like” he had leukemia, but noted that to rule out a “false positive” he would need an appointment with an oncologist. The oncologist told the patient:

‘Just to let you know I am probably ninety percent sure that you do have AML (.) based on (.) the results from the walk-in clinic (.) But’ he says, ‘what will really confirm it will be the bone marrow biopsy.’ (P5/1:18)

The biopsy results confirmed leukemia, news delivered by phone to a patient now largely expecting to hear this bad news. In both cases, each clinician had a role in the process and as Everett Hughes notes, the fact that there are roles implies a system of social arrangements (Hughes, 1951). Where clinicians understand and execute their specific roles in relation to one another – as well as patients and families – the latter learns the cancer diagnosis systemically.

Medical sociologists Chambliss (1996) and Sudnow (1967) have examined this phenomenon of system level action in terms of distributed organizational routines. Routines, both authors note, can be a means to accomplish difficult professional tasks. Sudnow’s ethnomethodological study of medical practices surrounding death in one public and one private hospital finds that in the public hospital particularly, staff adjusted treatment protocols and

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rationed attention for terminal patients in the absence of a formal decision-making process. This, Sudnow argued, initiated a “social death” sometimes long before biological death occurred. Cham- bliss’s ethnographic field study similarly finds that the handling of ethical issues in hospitals is rarely the decision of one or two people. Much more often, Chambliss argues, ethical decisions are “organizational acts.” He illustrates this using the phenomenon of a “slow code.” When DNR (do not resuscitate) orders are not in place and the medical staff believes that death is eminent and inevitable, the speed usually associated with a resuscitation effort may not be exercised and all therapeutic means may not be deployed. In this way, Chambliss notes, the decision-making process remains tacit and is simply infused into routine organiza- tional practice.

However, where both Sudnow and Chambliss emphasize how organizational routines distribute unpleasant tasks in order to diffuse responsibility and accountability, in this study of diagnostic news disclosures the incremental release of information throughout the testing phase functioned less to pass off a difficult task of disclosing the news and more to begin the process, and prepare the patient and the family for a shocking new reality. Through a conversation about the reason for specific tests and discussion about what the sequence of testing would be, clinicians shine a light down the path to reveal what lies ahead. In fact, in this situation, one could say that a failure of clinicians to offer some kind of preliminary assessment prior to the definitive diagnosis would have been more accountable than doing so and would likely have caused patients much more stress.

This kind of advanced indication of bad news to come has been described by Maynard as “forecasting” (1996, 2003) and as “firing a warning shot” in the medical literature (Back et al., 2005; Buckman, 1992). The idea is that through verbal and non-verbal behavior physicians try to lessen the shock, easing the recipient into realization. This strategy for delivering news refers primarily to the exchange between two participants during a single encounter, however, this paper argues that a similar process is involved where more than one clinician in more than one clinic setting is providing the news. The desired outcome is also similar: to prepare the patient for the definitive diagnosis of cancer after testing is complete. The effectiveness of this process can be seen particularly well in the multi-sited disclosure described above, where the patient ultimately heard the definitive diagnosis by phone, and notably, without incident.

While this study suggests that a single disclosure was not the make or break event, one feature of the definitive diagnostic episode did emerge as quite important. Patients and caregivers (if they were present) almost always could recall verbatim one or two specific phrases that the doctor while disclosing the diagnosis that seemed to hold significance well beyond simply communicating information about the medical disorder. These “prognostic phrases” were non-technical, often vague, but noted by study participants either during their account of the diagnosis or in the early phases of treatment. From close narrative analysis, it became apparent that these phrases provided patients and caregivers with a method of thinking, not only about the type of cancer, but also about the prognosis and the nature of the challenges that lay ahead. For example, one man diagnosed with a particular form of lymphoma, recalled his doctor saying that his was the “cancer of choice” (P4/ 1:8) because of the slow development of the disease. The spouse of another patient remembers the oncologist saying that if you have to get leukemia this is the “good kind” to get because the odds of long- term survival were better (C5/1:7). Another recalled that his cancer was “very treatable” (P13/1:1), while another patient recalled hearing that he was in a “high risk” category (C18/1:20). By alluding to what the future might hold without making explicit prognostic

guarantees, it seems that the doctor is able to offer, and the patient is able to take up, a “bright side” (Holt, 1993) while still remaining cognizant of the fundamental risks. Thus, even in the case where the patient was described as “high risk” the term implies some chance for a positive outcome, however slim.

Conclusion

Summary

The research finds that patients and families experienced the diagnostic informing as a longitudinal process and the presence or absence of support from members of the medical system prior to diagnosis mattered a great deal. “Support” was described as the consistency of communication across settings, variability or consistency in clinician competence, and in terms of whether the doctor was knowledgeable about their specific medical case. These initial impressions about the level of support, in turn, influenced patients’ and caregivers’ trust in the doctor’s recommendations for treatment and affected patients’ sense of equanimity or appre- hension about the future. The ethnographic data further revealed that these initial impressions often had a long-lasting effect on the doctorepatient relationship.

Limitations

In a statistical sense, generalizing from a purposive sample of 28 blood cancer patients and 30 family caregivers to a representative population-based sample of patients and caregivers is unwar- ranted. However, because the testing protocol leading to a blood cancer diagnosis is relatively standardized across the United States, the experiences described here undoubtedly bear similarities to those of other blood cancer patients and could find parallels to a variety of conditions that rely on multiple stages of testing. The use of narrative analysis was appropriate for a small sample in order to reveal the patient and family perspective about diagnosis and the ethnographic data collected using established procedures (Glaser & Strauss, 1967) helped draw connections between events and revealed residual emotion related to this experience even after two years.

Development of future diagnostic news delivery guidelines

The SPIKES protocol (Baile et al., 2000) is one of the most widely used models in medical training curriculums for delivery of bad news to cancer patients. This six-step approach uses each letter of the acronym as a mnemonic for specific tasks that, if included and well-executed, is expected to enhance good communication with patients about the cancer diagnosis.

The SPIKES protocol advises physicians to create a Situation that ensures privacy and facilitates attention to the patient’s needs; to draw out the patient’s Perspective on the health condition and diagnosis and to Invite the patient to set the terms about what information and in what way they would like the news disclosed. The guideline also recommends that doctors provide Knowledge to the patient using various devices, such as “warning” patients about the news to come and adopting non-technical language. Clinicians should demonstrate Empathy for the patient when disclosing news and Summarize the topics covered at the close of the news disclosure interview. While this study is not suggesting that guidelines such as this are misguided, it is arguing that they are not enough and the findings from this research would offer three modifications:

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Situation

Patients and caregivers in this study often described diagnostic news being dispensed incrementally by various clinicians in different locations prior to the definitive conversation with the oncologist and coordination between settings appeared to be inadvertent. The SPIKES model could be modified to recognize the importance of conscious coordination across clinical, laboratory, and phone communications with patients pertaining to their diagnosis.

Perception

The protocol might be improved by extending the focus of the query beyond asking “What have you been told about your medical condition so far?” (Baile et al., 2000, p.106) to include a query about the patient’s and caregiver’s experience of previous encounters, listening particularly for fears revealed in light of previous inter- actions with medical staff. In this way, the news disclosure inter- view offers an opportunity for physicians to not just correct misunderstandings about the medical situation, but to learn about expectations or desires families may have about future interactions and reassure the patient and family in a more targeted way.

Knowledge

Although the protocol encourages the use of non-technical language, the findings from this study suggest that a “bilingual” approach might be the best strategy for presenting a diagnosis. The “prognostic phrases” recalled by participants offered a hopeful lay interpretation of what was, in essence, a technical diagnosis. This kind of pairing facilitated patient and caregiver understanding in the moment, yet allowed families to seek additional information later e querying “metastases” rather than “spread,” for example (Baile et al., 2000, p. 306).

While most claims about ways to disclose bad diagnostic news come from expert opinion of what constitutes a “diagnosis,” the findings in this paper suggest the importance of understanding how patients and families experience the medical system prior to diagnosis. This experience e both positive and negative e plays a critical role in acceptance of the news and lays the foundation for the therapeutic relationship. Adopting a broader view of the diag- nosis and developing guidelines grounded in both clinical experi- ence and in the experiences of patients and family caregivers could lead to innovations in organizing services as well as new policy recommendations for prioritizing communication to improve continuity of care and enhance patient trust in the system.

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank Cameron Macdonald for generous access to the BMT Families Study project data. The author also thanks Doug Maynard and three anonymous Social Science & Medicine reviewers for their helpful comments. This research was supported by funding from the National Institutes of Health (NIH 1KL2RR025012-01), the University of Wisconsin Center for Demography of Health and Aging, and the University of Wisconsin Alumni Research Foundation.

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  • Bad news and first impressions: Patient and family caregiver accounts of learning the cancer diagnosis
    • Introduction
    • Methods
    • Findings
      • Structural features of the accounts
        • Accounts were “storied”
        • Stories were composed of two interrelated sub-topics
        • Participants’ stories devoted more attention to encounters with the medical system than to the diagnosis itself
        • Narrative content
        • Realization
        • Realizing the news in different clinical contexts
        • The path to diagnosis
        • “Bad news” by a good process
        • “Good news” by a bad process
        • “Bad news” following a bad process
    • Discussion
      • Trust
      • The role of organizational routines in disclosing a diagnosis
    • Conclusion
      • Summary
      • Limitations
      • Development of future diagnostic news delivery guidelines
      • Situation
      • Perception
      • Knowledge
    • Acknowledgments
    • References

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Social Science & Medicine

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Regulating diagnosis in post-genomic medicine: Re-aligning clinical judgment?

Pascale Bourret a,*, Peter Keating b, Alberto Cambrosio c

a Aix-Marseille Université, and UMR 912-SE4S, Institut Paoli-Calmettes, 232 Boulevard Sainte Marguerite, 13273 Marseille Cedex 9, France b University of Quebec at Montreal, Canada c McGill University, Canada

a r t i c l e i n f o

Article history: Available online 20 May 2011

This article is dedicated to Harry Marks (1947–2011), colleague, friend, and source of inspiration.

Keywords: Diagnosis Prognosis Prediction Breast cancer IVDMIA Regulation FDA Tumor signature Gene expression profiling Clinical judgment

* Corresponding author. Tel.: þ33 4 91 22 35 42; fa E-mail address: [email protected] (P. Bo

0277-9536/$ e see front matter � 2011 Elsevier Ltd. doi:10.1016/j.socscimed.2011.04.022

a b s t r a c t

In recent years, genomic technologies have entered oncology. In particular, so-called tumor signatures are now commercially available for diagnosing breast cancer. These new diagnostic tools have expanded the content and meaning of diagnosis, by adding a distinctive prognostic (will the disease recur?) and predictive (how will the disease react to treatment?) dimension to this activity, and modifying the relations between diagnosis and therapy. In particular, they raise the issue of the locus of clinical judgment and clinical decision-making insofar as they involve a re-alignment of the biological and clinical components of medical activities. Using as a case study a debate over the regulation of tests for genomic signatures by the US FDA, this paper examines how the actors problematize the issues related to the introduction of molecular diagnostics into clinical settings.

� 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Diagnosis, prognosis and therapy are the classical components of medical practice. Each component has its own history. Christakis (1999) has argued, for instance, that although prognosis gradually disappeared from medical textbooks at the turn of the 20th century, it has recently regained lost ground due, in part, to the development of new medical technologies. Jutel (2009) has pleaded for the development of an entire sociological subspecialty devoted to the study of diagnosis. While a focus on these individual components of medical practice is certainly worthwhile, it conceals their mutual, shifting relations. Despite inconsistencies between these domains (Mol, 2002), they must in the end be reconciled if clinical judgment and clinical decision-making are to be justifiable and justified in Boltanski and Thévenot’s (2006) sense of these terms. In addition, their interconnection precludes the possibility of their sequential performance. Diagnosis, for instance, does not necessarily precede

x: þ33 4 91 22 35 04. urret).

All rights reserved.

and dictate therapy: therapeutic success may confirm a tentative diagnosis (Berg, 1992). More generally, these activities easily bleed into one another, both synchronically and diachronically. This paper will argue that the development of post-genomic platforms further conflates diagnostic, prognostic and therapeutic categories and processes, creating anxieties among health practitioners over clin- ical jurisdictions. One of their main concerns is that non-clinical, laboratory-based results increasingly tend to dictate, rather than simply contribute to clinical decisions, and by the same token encroach upon what was once the uncontested domain of the clinician, namely clinical decision-making. This situation is nicely captured by the following excerpt from an interview with a leading French cancer clinician who, commenting on the transformation of clinical judgment in recent years, noted: “we often call it [clinical expertise] intuition, but it’s a complex mixof things that our training and clinical experience have taught us, and now, suddenly, we are faced with a situation where [genomic tests] tell us the opposite of what we thought. We said ‘white’ and the test tells us ‘black’, or the other way round” (interview, June 2009; our translation).

Post-World War II biomedicine is characterized by the devel- opment of biomedical platforms that embody the meteoric rise of

P. Bourret et al. / Social Science & Medicine 73 (2011) 816e824 817

medical biology (Keating & Cambrosio, 2003). Quantifiable, biological variables have become ubiquitous within the practice of medicine, and attempts to bring pathology and biology together within a single space of representation have become commonplace. Post-genomic technologies take a further step in this direction. This does not mean that medicine has been reduced to biology (Keating & Cambrosio, 2004). Physicians continue to exercise clinical judg- ment, just as pathologists, full-fledged members of the clinical community, continue to act as intermediaries between the bedside and the laboratory. Genomic platforms, however, bear the threat or promise (depending on one’s point of view) of de-centering clinical decision-making. Laboratory tests are hardly new, but have here- tofore remained largely external to the treating physician’s clinical judgment: the laboratory test provided a result, the clinician diagnosed. This is still mainly the case, as de-centering entails more a realignment of the biological and clinical components of medical judgment, than a displacement of the clinician. Realignment, however, can have important consequences such as a shift from an individual to a collective epistemic subjectdthe multi-disciplinary bio-clinical teamdas the locus of clinical decision-making (Bourret, 2005), and the inclusion of clinical judgments within laboratory tests.

Promoters of genomic approaches claim“many ‘diseases’ are clinical syndromes, defined observationally, that undoubtedly are made up of a collection of distinct pathogenic states” (Woodcock, 2007, p. 166). On this view, molecular diagnostics gives clinicians and researchers access to “more underlying pathogenic processes, without necessarily providing full mechanistic, explanatory data” (Ibid.). As cancer is often cited as a model in this respect, we focus on breast cancer as an instance of a domain transformed by molecular techniques through the identification of different subtypes of the disease, each requiring a specific therapeutic approach. In partic- ular, following a positive biopsy of a suspicious lump in her breast, a patient does not simply receive a generic diagnosis of breast cancer. Rather, in addition to traditional pathological parameters such as staging (how much the cancer has grown and spread) and grading (the state of the cancer cells), present diagnoses include molecular information concerning the biology of her tumor, such as the presence or absence of hormone receptors. On the clinical research front, molecular oncology provides breast cancer clinicians with gene expression profiles of the tumor, i.e. the expression pattern of a set of genes (a.k.a. the tumor’s signature) that allow the oncologist to assign the tumor to a molecular subspecies (Perou et al., 2000) and, most importantly, to determine if the tumor is likely to recur following surgery and to react to chemotherapy. The emerging genomic platform thus works along three different lines: diagnostic (what kind of disease?), prognostic (will the disease recur?), and predictive (will the disease react to treatment?). This distinction between prognosis and prediction is quite recent and can be ascribed to the emergence of molecular technologies. On the new platform diagnosis incorporates prognosis and prediction. While diagnosis, prognosis and therapy were hardly separate in the past (e.g., hormone-positive and hormone-negative breast cancers carry a different prognosis and are treated differently), the confla- tion of these three activities has reached new heights. It has become difficult to define, in practice, where and with whom diagnosis ends, and prognosis and therapy begin.

The present article is part of a broader, ongoing research project on emerging laboratory-clinical-commercial interfaces in cancer genomics. It will focus on a specific episode, namely the debates concerning the creation of a separate regulatory categorydso-called IVDMIAs or In Vitro Diagnostic Multivariate Index Assaysdfor gene- expression profiling tests by the U.S. Food and Drug Administra- tion (FDA). As we will see, one of the stakes in the controversy over IVDMIAs was which tests should count as members of this category.

A number of tests with functions ranging from the early detection of cancer to the prediction of the genetic risk of common diseases were potential candidates for membership and thus subjects of debate. Our discussion centers on two breast cancer tests that are prognostic of the future course of the disease and predictive of treatment response. Not only did these tests figure prominently in the debate, but the issues surrounding them shed light on ongoing interrogations about the shifting locus of clinical judgment. Regu- latory debates and practices offer a unique vantage point for the analysis of biomedical innovation, one that is not confined to upstream (the conception of new tools) or downstream (their deployment in clinical routines) events but, rather, begins “right in the middle of the game” where one is in a position to capture the mutually constitutive relations between these two stages, and, in particular, the realignments that articulate novel platforms and the entities they generate with prior diagnostic and prognostic prac- tices (Keating & Cambrosio, 2003, p. 334; Cambrosio et al., 2006).

Regulation per se is not the topic of this paper, nor is the regu- latory environment within which debates took place. Moreover, given the complexities of these issues, it is no surprise that discussions surrounding the FDA initiative ranged from the economics of innovation, to ideological statements about the freedom to practice medicine, and to more concrete discussions of specific aspects of the proposed regulation. Despite these ramifi- cations, our analysis focuses on clinical practices and medical judgment. For while policy and economic considerations play a role in clinical activities, the latter cannot be reduced to the former. Finally, we have chosen, as is now commonplace in science and technology studies, to follow the actors and their statements, thereby implementing a “sociology of critical capacity” rather than a critical sociology (Latour, 2005; Boltanski & Thévenot, 1999). In the present case, the FDA initiative and the arguments deployed by its supporters clearly reflect the belief that genomic tests are likely to have profound consequences on the relations between biology and medicine, displacing the locus of clinical judgment, readjusting the biomedical division of labor, modifying doctorepatient rela- tions and creating new relations between public, not-for-profit, and commercial institutions. Opponents propose a different socio- technical scenario, one that privileges the resilience of existing socio-technical arrangements. This clash of visions provides us with an opportunity to consider the shifting role and nature of diagnosis within the onslaught of molecular technologies.

Methodology

As noted above, the present article is part of a broader research project on cancer genomics that began in 2008 and was approved by McGill University’s IRB (#A05-E11-04B and A02-E12-09B). It deploys a three-pronged ethnographic approach that consists of: (a) the systematic collection and analysis of published and unpublished documents (scientific articles, company reports, web newsletters and blogs); (b) interviews with cancer clinicians, researchers, statisticians and the staff of biotech companies on both sides of the Atlantic (by March 2011, approximately 30); and (c) participant-observation at scientific meetings and within three clinical settings (in the US, Canada and France). As part of this fieldwork we regularly encountered material directly related to the regulation of genomic signatures: for instance, during a molecular pathology meeting a special session was devoted to the FDA initiative, interviewees offered their (sometimes unsolicited) opinion on this topic, and genomic web sites regularly report on regulatory issues. While our fieldwork did not specifically target regulation, the latter emerged as a key preoccupation of actors in the field, and we were thus able to extract related material from our notes and interviews.

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Concerning the FDA regulation itself, we have analyzed the 2006 and 2007 versions of the FDA Draft Guidance documents on IVD- MIAs (henceforth First Draft Guidance and Second Draft Guidance), the verbatim transcription of a 2007 Public Meeting organized by the FDA (henceforth FDA Meeting), as well as the written briefs submitted by academic, professional, commercial and advocacy organizations, all 173 of which are available online on the Federal Docket Management System (www.regulations.gov, Docket number 2006D-0347; henceforth Dockets followed by the docu- ment ID). A 2008 Citizen Petition on in-vitro diagnostics submitted by Genentech also generated a fair amount of discussion, much of it available in Docket 2008-P-0638. More recently, the FDA’s decision to extend its proposed oversight to all laboratory-developed tests (LDTs) led to another public meeting in July 2010 (henceforth LDT Meeting). A webcast and a verbatim transcription of that meeting, as well as related docket documents (FDA-2010-N-0274), are also available on the web. Access to this documentation (in particular webcasts) allows social scientists to “virtually witness” discussions that were previously accessible only via direct participation, thus expanding the reach of qualitative analysts.

In line with “pragmatic sociology” (Nachi, 2006) as applied to medical topics (Moreira, 2005; Knaapen et al., 2010) our analysis focuses on the justifications offered by participants in support or against the proposed FDA oversight of genomic tests, rather than attempting, for instance, to correlate participants’ statements with a priori interests or their professional position. In addition to the more general arguments supporting this approach (Boltanski & Thévenot, 1999), in this particular case both opponents and supporters of the proposed regulation are to be found within each social category (manufacturers, patient advocates, etc.). More importantly, the analysis of justifications allows us to investigate evolving distinctions between actors’ categories such as analytical and clinical validity that buttress attempts to reorder the relations between the various components of diagnosis, and between diag- nosis and therapy.

Genomic tests and the end of FDA’s “enforcement discretion”

A short chronology of events

All key indicators (number of papers published, grants and patents awarded, and the like) show that cancer is the primary domain for the application of genomic technologies. Their deployment has resulted in the definition of new subtypes of this family of diseases (Perou et al., 2000; Alizadeh et al., 2000), and led to the clinical implementation of molecular tests for cancer prog- nosis and prediction. Although many of these technologies remain experimental, a number of commercial tests have made significant inroads, such as the breast tumor signatures MammaPrint and Oncotype Dx marketed, respectively, by Agendia, a spin-off of the Netherlands Cancer Institute, and the California company Genomic Health (Kohli-Laven et al., in press).

Regulatory debates concerning genomics can be traced back to the late 1990s when, in the wake of the Human Genome Project and following recommendations by a joint working group of the National Institutes of Health and the Department of Energy, the Secretary’s Advisory Committee on Genetic Testing (subsequently replaced under the Bush Administration by the Secretary’s Advisory Committee on Genetics, Health and Society) recommended increased oversight of genetic technologies, broadly construed to include both inherited and somatic mutations. As far as this paper is concerned, however, the real story begins in September of 2006, when the FDA’s Office of In Vitro Diagnostic Device Evaluation and Safety issued a document entitled In Vitro Diagnostic Multivariate Index Assays: Draft Guidance for Industry, Clinical Laboratories and

FDA Staff. Published concurrently with another Guidance for analyte specific reagents (ASRs), i.e. the specific components of in-house tests, the First Draft guidance did not simply propose a regulatory framework for an existing kind of assay: it defined a new regulatory category and thus, prospectively, a new kind of assay. The FDA initiative quickly created a regulatory policy storm. A journal for manufacturers of in vitro diagnostic products noted that “both laboratories and IVD manufacturers will remember for a long time” the day on which the FDA issued the two documents, for they “may significantly affect not only the laboratories’ abilities to develop and offer new tests, but also existing lab-developed tests” (Gibbs, 2007).

The FDA described its initiative as tentative and invited the public to submit comments to help the agency clarify the contours of the new diagnostic domain (FDA Meeting, pp. 8e9). As expected, a polarizing debate ensued. Regardless of their position, many stakeholders noted that the new assay category lacked clearly defined boundaries. Given the buzz generated by the document, the FDA extended the comment period and eventually received approximately 60 sets of comments, whose authors included not only device manufacturers, but also representatives of professional associations, healthcare organizations, patient advocates, labora- tory researchers, clinicians, and other health professionals. In February 2007, the FDA organized a public meeting to provide stakeholders with an opportunity to expose their “concerns, issues and ideas”: 266 people attended the meeting, 31 of whom spoke for themselves or as representatives of various organizations to the assembled audience (FDA Meeting, p. 4). Following the public meeting, the FDA issued a second Draft guidance in July of 2007, followed by a new comment period.

While the new document incorporated remarks, suggestions and objections made during the public consultation process, it did not appease all critics. Opponents of the new regulation intensified their activities and mobilized coalitions such as the Genetic Alliance, the “world’s leading nonprofit health advocacy organization committed to transforming health through genetics . [whose] network includes more than 1000 disease-specific advocacy orga- nizations, as well as thousands of universities, private companies, government agencies, and public policy organizations” (http:// geneticalliance.org), and the Coalition for 21st Century Medicine (http://www.twentyfirstcenturymedicine.org), established in 2006 in response to the aforementioned FDA initiatives. Supporters of an increased FDA oversight of genomic tests regrouped under a competing network launched in 2004, the Personalized Medicine Coalition (http://www.personalizedmedicinecoalition.org).

In February of 2007, in parallel with the public meeting, the FDA cleared its first IVDMIA, Agendia’s MammaPrint. That same year Agendia joined the Personalized Medicine Coalition and, in 2008, opened a US branch in California. In spite of letters in 2005 and 2006 from the FDA suggesting that it “was considering whether Oncotype DX may be subject to FDA premarket review” (Lakhman, 2006), Agendia’s main competitor, Genomic Health (a member of the Genetic Alliance and of the Coalition for 21st Century Medicine networks), decided not to submit its test to the FDA, arguing that the agency had not yet issued a final, legally binding Guidance. Instead, the firm opted for professional recognition via inclusion of the test in the breast cancer guidelines issued by two leading US cancer organizations, the National Comprehensive Cancer Network and the American Society of Clinical Oncology. Partly as a reaction to the Genomic Health strategy, in 2008 Genentech submitted a Citizen Petition to the FDA requesting that all laboratory- developed tests (LDTs), of which IVDMIAs are a subset, be subject to FDA scrutiny.

Following the 2009 transition from the Bush to the Obama Administration, and the consequent change in FDA leadership, rather than issuing a final IVDMIA guidance document, the Agency

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decided to pursue the route advocated in the Citizen Petition by expanding its proposed oversight to all LDTs. The change from an administration wary of state regulations to one more favorable certainly looms large as a cause of this decision, but while the transfer of power may have acted as a condition of possibility for the change, it clearly did not dictate the specific content of regu- latory initiatives. The request to broaden the scope of regulations from IVDMIA to other LDTs had emerged from within the debates about IVDMIAs. It was the result of a dynamic process of tinkering and reshuffling the categories and arguments that framed the debate, rather than the mechanical outcome of socio-political determinants. Moreover, the FDA, who had been following devel- opments in pharmacogenomics for a number of years, had mean- while been confronted with the “incredible rate of growth for genomics and biomarkers in regulatory submissions” (Q&A: FDA’s Zineh, 2010). But it was more than a question of quantity. While traditional IVDs are commonly used for diagnosing and monitoring patients, the new tests are used to make therapeutic decisions, and as such they were held by a number of participants in the IVDMIA controversy to require clinical validation, as is the case for drugs. The FDA thus began to worry that by formatting their products as LDTs, manufacturers sought to avoid regulations based on the scientific and clinical validity of claims. In the meantime, IVDMIA, as a hybrid scientific-regulatory category, has made some inroads, and now has a dedicated website (http://www.ivdmia.com/).

Why IVDMIAs

Why did the FDA deem it necessary to introduce a novel regu- latory category? To answer this question we need to quickly review the existing regulation of diagnostics, which makes provision for two kinds of tools. The first, medical devices, is the category under which the FDA regulates in vitro diagnostic kits (IVDs), i.e. commercial products used byhealth professionals and consumers to detect diseases and other conditions. IVDs circulate outside their laboratory of origin. Since 1976, using a risk-based approach, medical devices have been subdivided into three classes according to the degree of control necessary to ensure their safety and efficacy. Low- risk Class I devices are mostlyexempt from pre-market submissions. Manufacturers of moderate risk, class II devices can avail themselves of a relatively light regulatory procedure known as Premarket Notification or 510(k). High-risk, Class III devices require a far more expensive and time-consuming Premarket Approval Application (PMA). A second category of tests consists of laboratory-developed tests (LDTs), nicknamed home brews, i.e. tests designed by and per- formed in diagnostic laboratories. Although the FDA has the power to regulate the safety and effectiveness of home brews, it has traditionally declined to do so, exercising its enforcement discretion (Evans 2006, p. 768). Thus, for all practical purposes LDTs fall under the regulatory authority of the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services through the Clinical Laboratory Improvement Amend- ments (CLIA). This means that the laboratory will be inspected and certified to make sure that it has implemented the necessary quality control and quality assessment procedures, and that the home brew test has analytical validity, i.e. that it measures accurately and consistently whatever it is supposed to measure. LDTs, contrary to kits, do not circulate and the FDA has thus considered them labo- ratory services rather than medical devices. In this set up, CLIA oversees laboratory services, not the tests, and it does not require data on a test’s clinical (as opposed to analytical) validity, i.e. the accuracy with which a test predicts a clinical disorder or outcome.

While assays like the aforementioned Oncotype DX and Mam- maPrint do not embody all possible diagnostic instantiations of genomics, they have acquired an emblematic status in the FDA IVDMIA debate; they bear many of the conundrums raised by

recent diagnostic developments and, most interestingly, repre- sentatives of the two companies sat in opposing camps vis-à-vis the FDA initiative. The two tests have been developed in the companies’ laboratories and are performed in-house. Clinicians send tumor samples to the Agendia and Genomic Health CLIA-certified labo- ratories that, in turn, do the analysis and return the results to the clinician. In the case of Oncotype DX, the result is expressed as a Recurrence Score (RS) between 0 and 100 that corresponds to the likelihood of breast cancer recurrence within 10 years of initial diagnosis. MammaPrint’s result is expressed as a dichotomy: the profile generated by a patient’s tumor is assigned to either a good or poor signature category, corresponding to the likelihood that the patient will relapse. Thus, while both tests use algorithms to calculate the outcome on the basis of the measured gene expres- sion, the Agendia test provides the clinician with a qualitative verdict: the patient is high-risk and should be prescribed chemo- therapy, or the patient is low-risk and can avoid it. Genomic Health’s RS offers a numerical response on a continuous scale, although in its practical implementation the test also leads to a qualitative verdict, insofar as the RS continuum is divided into three categories: low, intermediate and high-risk; low and possibly also intermediate-risk patients can avoid chemotherapy. Notice the links between prognosis and therapy, and the presence of algo- rithms to generate the result that is transmitted to the clinician. The statistical analyses at the core of devices such as Oncotype DX and MammaPrint are not simply a matter of calibrating and adjusting the measurement of target substances. Rather, they are used to predict specific health outcomes and thus raise the issue of the clinical validity of the tumor signature they generate.

In the eyes of the FDA, these characteristicsdin particular the fact that “basically an IVDMIA is a test that is developed using clinical data” (FDA Meeting, p. 7)dclearly separate the new tests from traditional tests. More than a mere discrepancy, in the agen- cy’s opinion IVDMIAs play havoc with the categories and parame- ters that underlie the regulation of diagnostics. The circulation criteriondi.e., whether a test remains confined to a laboratory or circulates as a kitdis no longer relevant. Thus, CLIA-regulated laboratories that develop and perform IVDMIAs should be consid- ered as “manufacturers of medical devices” even though these activities occur in a single laboratory. In his introductory comments to the public (FDA Meeting, p. 6), an FDA official provided the following rationale for the agency’s initiative: “we have noticed a growing category of tests that include elements that are not standard primary ingredients of laboratory developed tests, and we believe that these differences, such as complex, statistically driven data derived algorithms actually raise new safety and efficacy concerns”. An IVDMIA, in other words, cannot be reduced to a specific combination of reagents for it includes an algorithm that is derived from clinical studies to which users of the test are not privy and without which the test could not have been validated and, arguably, cannot be interpreted. As a result, the performance of an IVDMIA test “involves steps . that are not within the ordinary ‘expertise and ability’” (p. 2) of laboratories working in the area of LDTs.

It is worth citing the complete definition of IVDMIAs used in the First Draft Guidance:

For purposes of this guidance, IVDMIAs are test systems that employ data, derived in part from one or more in vitro assays, and an algorithm that usually, but not necessarily, runs on software to generate a result that diagnoses a disease or con- dition or is used in the cure, mitigation, treatment, or preven- tion of disease. IVDMIAs reflect the following characteristics:

1. Use clinical data . to empirically identify variables and to derive weights or coefficients employed in an algorithm;

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2. Employ the algorithm to integrate these variables in order to calculate a patient-specific result .. This result cannot be independently derived and confirmed by another laboratory without access to the proprietary information used in the development and derivation of the test; and

3. Report this result, which cannot be interpreted by the well- trained healthcare practitioner using prior knowledge of medicine without information from the test developer regarding its clinical performance and effectiveness.

A clear indication of the emergent nature of the entities it designated, this seemingly clear-cut definition quickly generated a fair amount of discussion. To borrow from the vocabulary of actor- network theory, the First Draft Guidance inaugurated a process of problematization, whereby the FDA attempted to define a new hypothetical reality, introduce a new project, identify new stake- holders and turn the resulting entities into “matters of concern” (Callon, 1986; Callon & Rabeharisoa, 2008). Faced with stiff criti- cism, the FDA soon admitted that its problematization of IVDMIAs was deficient and asked meeting participants for “concrete suggestions on how to make the definition . clearer” (FDA Meeting, p. 9). A number of participants (including those who supported the new regulation) had previously faulted the definition for its insis- tence on the presence of an algorithm. FDA officials quickly conceded that not all tests relying on an algorithm were necessarily IVDMIAs; even multivariate tests that simultaneously measure several parameters did not necessarily qualify as IVDMIAs. As a result, the Second Draft Guidance focused on the lack of trans- parency to clinical end users rather than the presence of an algo- rithm per se:

An IVDMIA is a device that: 1) Combines the values of multiple variables using an interpre-

tation function to yield a single, patient-specific result . that is intended for use in the diagnosis of disease or other conditions, or in the cure, mitigation, treatment or prevention of disease, and

2) Provides a result whose derivation is non-transparent and cannot be independently derived or verified by the end user.

The claim that the results of the tests cannot be independently verified underscores their bio-clinical nature, i.e., the fact that the knowledge and skills necessary for a correct interpretation of test results are distributed among different actors in different spaces, namely biologists, bioinformaticians and biostatisticians, the laboratories and companies producing the tests, and the clinicians who use them. The Guidance took pains to highlight this aspect of the new definition:

While the input variables, alone or in combination, might have meaning to the clinician, the clinician could not verify the clinical significance of the IVDMIA result on his or her own. In addition, the ordering physician cannot reach the IVDMIA result on his or her own, nor could he or she independently interpret that result. The ordering clinician requires information from the test developer, rather than generally accepted information from the clinical community, in order to interpret the IVDMIA result for use in the management of the patient.

But if this is so, not only does the complex multivariate analysis lie beyond the skills of the “well-trained” clinician, the results themselves convey a clinical interpretation insofar as they assign the patient to a specific clinical categoryde.g. low risk vs. high- riskdthat in turn directs therapy. While clinicians maintain that they can use this information to fine-tune therapy, thus exercising their clinical autonomy (interview with a Dutch oncologist, 23 June

2010), the result of the test is not merely a biological value whose clinical meaning requires triangulation with the outcome of clinical examinations: the clinical interpretation lies within the IVDMIA. True, clinicians may ignore discordant results and rely instead on their clinical expertise and judgment. But can they “tweak” the results to make sense of an apparent anomaly? And what if, as recalled by a French clinician (interview, 21 April 2008) a patient, faced with different treatment options (chemotherapy or not) requests a test as a way of obtaining a second (non-human) opinion in addition to her treating physician’s recommendation? Last but not least, what about the pathologists who not only see their traditional techniques challenged by the new molecular tools but must now bear witness to the emergence of proprietary tests that escape their immediate control? In what follows we will focus on these issues that, taken together, signal a redefinition (albeit disputed) of the domain of diagnosis and a concurrent shift in the locus of clinical judgment and clinical decision-making.

Biological tests or clinical procedures? displacing clinical judgment and clinical decision-making

The questions that closed the previous section bring us to the core of our subject matter. If, as claimed by the Second Draft Guid- ance, clinicians are unable to “verify the clinical significance of the IVDMIA result”, and if the “ordering physician [cannot] reach the IVDMIA result on his or her own, nor [can] he or she independently interpret that result”, the genomic test embodies (non-human) clinical-diagnostic agency. As a result, the evidentiary basis for clinical judgment no longer lies in the “generally accepted infor- mation from the clinical community” but, rather, in the test itself and thus out of the clinician’s purview. Not only can an IVDMIA report qualify as a full-fledged medical diagnosis rather than a mere biological result, but such a report, by including prognostic and predictive information, also dictates therapeutic decisions more stringently than traditional diagnosis. At a recent breast cancer meeting, for instance, a heated discussion opposed clinicians who suggested that genomic biomarkers should replace traditional clinico-pathological parameters, such as the degree of spread of a tumor, thus reducing a treating physician’s therapeutic leeway, and those who found such a suggestion misguided or at least premature. (fieldnotes, EBCC-7 Meeting, Barcelona 2010).

During the IVDMIA debate, FDA opponents questioned whether these tests could indeed be construed as a clinical diagnosis rather than a biological service and, in particular, disputed their charac- terization as black boxes whose content clinicians were unable to access. A spokesperson for a molecular diagnostic company, for instance, rejected the claim that physicians were unable to inter- pret and assess test results, arguing that their very training prepared them to juggle “multiple kinds of data, including clinical history, signs and symptoms, and test results, in counseling patients” (Dockets EC47, p. 2). Another company’s representative argued that “in every case, it is the treating physician that makes the choice about which validated test is appropriate for a particular patient and to ensure that each test is medically necessary” (FDA Meeting, p. 102). According to yet another speaker the test and its application “[did] not stand alone in clinical decision making” and were appraised in conjunction with additional clinical and labora- tory information (Ibid., pp. 182e3). The clinicians’ domain of expertise, under this description, is more than likely to expand, enabling them to easily incorporate the results provided by IVD- MIAs into the overall diagnostic picture. Along similar lines, the Coalition for 21st Century Medicine (Dockets EC38, p. 5) chastised the FDA’s “inherently subjective assessment of what a well-trained healthcare practitioner can or cannot interpret”, arguing that “once a sufficient number of practitioners [had] become familiar with the

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assay measurement”, a test initially categorized as IVDMIA under the FDA definition would no longer qualify as such.

The debate thus confronted two opposing interpretations of current diagnostic trends. One camp saw genomic tests (and the companies that produce them) as potentially trespassing on the clinical domain and interfering with clinical judgment; the other stressed the capacity of clinical skills to assimilate the new genomic tools by adjusting the content of clinical expertise without reducing its import. Commenting on his routine use of tumor profiling tests, a California breast cancer specialist asserted: “That’s how I got from being an empiricist to being more precise, maybe a ‘precisionist’, in the way I handle patients” (cited in Garber, 2011, p. 86). Genomic tests, in his view, enlarge a clinician’s diagnostic capacity. What the FDA construed as a structural impossibility (clinicians cannot interpret the test because they don’t have access to the necessary clinical information) was recast as a matter of learning new skills and as an opportunity to extend them. These opposing interpre- tations have their counterpart in sociological debates about whether (and to what extent) technology “deskills” practitioners, or whether, as argued for instance by Hartland (1993) in her case study of electrocardiography, rather than eliminating the clinicians’ quintessential tacit knowledge, new technologies simply shift it to novel domains.

Attempts to capture or frame complex situations via generic, abstract categories such as “Technology” often lead nowhere; attention to the details of specific technologies are more fruitful. This lesson was not lost on those FDA Meeting speakers who argued that not all IVDMIAs were alike with regards to clinical interpre- tation. A representative of the American Clinical Laboratory Asso- ciation, for instance, requested that the FDA limit its definition of IVDMIAs to tests that “generate a patient specific binary result that is intended definitively to diagnose a condition or to direct behavior for the cure, mitigation, treatment or prevention of disease” (p. 75). Similarly, the speaker for the Coalition for 21st Century Medicine noted that the level of risk should be a key consideration, and that risk is “higher for IVDMIAs that are predictive and that result in a binary therapy recommendation to treat or not to treat based solely on the IVDMIA outcome”; lower-risk tests that “do not give binary therapy recommendations” should not be submitted to the same regulatory strictures (pp. 50e51). This approach corresponds, in part, to the two different strategies pursued by the makers of Oncotype DX and MammaPrint. The latter, as we saw, provides a binary result, whereas the former offers a numerical score that, according to its developers, adapts the test to existing clinical decision-making routines. Faced with clinicians who are interested in the expression scores for a small subset of genes with which they are already familiar, the company’s representatives stress that their test results include, in addition to the RS score, individual values for those genes (fieldnotes, EBCC-7, Barcelona, 24e27 March 2010). The makers of Oncotype DX, in other words, inoculated their test against possible criticism, incorporating variables designed to overcome the accusation of encroaching upon clinicians’ privileges. Unsurprisingly, the spokesperson for MammaPrint rejected this pretension, insisting that the “complexity of IVDMIA test systems . warrants oversight because experimental design of validation studies is not straightforward . Algorithms employed require independent review and validation by the FDA. Otherwise they are just a black box” (FDA Meeting, p. 207).

The discussion took an even more explicit “sociological” turn when participants moved from “in principle” arguments about clinical expertise to an “in practice” assessment of the clinicians’ skills and range of options. At the FDA Meeting a spokesperson for the American Society for Microbiology argued that the biomedical literature and direct-to-clinician marketing put clinicians under increased pressure to use molecular tests. Yet, these tests “bypassed

the expertise of anyone who can objectively look at the quality of the information being provided”. As a result “clinicians despite their skill and their excellent knowledge of clinical diseases are not equipped to know whether the test is one with which they should be managing their patients” (pp. 65e6). While the previous speaker cited her own experience as evidence, a representative of the Genetics and Public Policy Center cited a 2006 survey of 190 labo- ratory directors, showing that 36% of the polled directors “lack-[ed] a clear understanding of what clinical validity means” (p. 108). Breast cancer patient advocates echoed similar sentiments, noting that unless the FDA decided to regulate IVDMIAs, their commer- cialization would be left to the companies that write the best press releases, do the most advertising, or try and court advocacy groups (p.128). The FDA should therefore expand the scope of its review to include proof that use of biomarkers would result in better patient outcomes (p. 201) or, in other words, not only clinical validity but also clinical utility (p. 205). Indeed, we can fairly ask: what is the clinical utility of these tests or, in simpler words, what kind of information do they provide?

Prognosis and prediction: regulating drugs, regulating tests

As we saw, the new genomic tests are not “mere” diagnostic tests; they provide prognostic and predictive information. The FDA distinguished between prognosis and prediction to assign tests to different risk-based regulatory categories: “a device intended as an indicator of a patient’s risk of cancer recurrence may be a class II device [.] while the same device intended to predict which patients should receive chemotherapy might require premarket approval [a class III device]” (Second Draft Guidance, p. 8). Tradi- tionally, the terms prediction and prognosis have often been used interchangeably: to make a prognosis means to predict what will happen to the patient and her tumor. Prognostic assessments, in turn, provide a basis on which to decide about the most appropriate treatment (e.g., chemotherapy for high-risk but not for low-risk patients). The tests discussed in this article contribute to a growing disjuncture between prognosis and prediction: the former now refers to the disease itself (how will it evolve) whereas the latter refers to how a patient will respond to a given treatment, either in a broad sense, e.g. “chemotherapy”, or, more decisively, in relation to a specific drug as part of the promissory program of “personalized medicine”. The prognostic/predictive distinction is widely reflected in debates and controversies over the different clinical and statistical procedures used to validate prognostic vs. predictive claims, over the extent to which the prognostic and/or predictive properties of a test contribute to its clinical utility, and to disputes about the comparative value of competing commercial assays such as the Oncotype DX and MammaPrint tests (Kohli- Laven et al., 2011). Conference sessions and even entire meetings (e.g., the Conference on “Prognosis and Prediction in Breast Cancer” held in Monaco in October 2008) have been devoted to this thorny issue. Participants themselves have often expressed perplexity. At the FDA Meeting, for instance, an internist turned lawyer noted “it’s not clear what is the difference between a prognostic claim and a predictive claim. Generally, you will have a claim that is talking about the likelihood of some outcome, survival, disease free survival, cancer recurrence, a cardiac event. That’s going to be on some therapy. Is that a prognostic claim or is that a predictive claim with respect to the particular therapy?” (pp. 16e7).

In spite of the confusion surrounding it, the prognosis/predic- tion distinction figures prominently in ongoing debates. At the FDA Meeting, a pathology professor noted that present-day pathology reports “go well beyond the diagnosis found on the top line to include items found in the middle on prognosis and targets of

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therapy” (p. 24). Another pathologist described a test as “the first diagnostic test in pathology that determines whether or not a patient will be treated with a specific therapy irrespective of any clinical input” (p. 60; our emphasis). Once again, we face the issue of clinical judgment. During the aforementioned Monaco meeting on “Prognosis and Prediction in Breast Cancer” the medical director for an IVDMIA company told one of us that the shift from prognostic to predictive amounted to a “paradigm shift”: while oncologists often spoke of prognosis and selected therapy based on prognosis, the new tests allowed them to select therapy directly on predictions (fieldnotes, October 2008). In fact, the new diagnostic tests open up an unexplored domain of interventions not only for oncologists, but also for industrydinsofar as drug companies can create platforms for establishing the value of a compound independently from prognostic criteriadand for patients, who can use a test to double- check the therapeutic recommendation of their treating physician, and thus work around clinical expertise (therefore also raising the issue of patients’ access to their tumor specimens; Ploem et al., 2010).

The debate concerning clinical judgment does not rest on a simplistic opposition between the clinic and the biology labora- tory. The clinical side of the equation encompasses a variety of actors, including not only the treating physicians (medical oncol- ogists and/or surgeons) but also pathologists. As both physicians and gatekeepers of laboratory medicine, pathologists via their powerful professional organizationdthe College of American Pathologists (CAP)dare involved in the accreditation of clinical laboratories. Moreover, pathologists have traditionally provided diagnostic and prognostic information to treating physicians on the basis of their extensive visual skills in examining tissue slides. Genomic signatures, thus, are of particular relevance for their work. As noted in a clinical pathology journal:

Not surprisingly, apart from a few exceptions, most pathologists have been reluctant to deal with this new technology and feel that their role in “guiding the surgeon’s hand” would be in jeopardy. This has been aggravated by the attitude of some scientists and clinicians, who have deemed current pathology methods as unsophisticated and obsolete, and compared them to some ritualistic practices of primitive tribes (Reis-Filho, Westbury, & Pierga, 2006, p. 225).

The polemical tone of the preceding quote resonates with more recent exchanges, during which oncologists promoting or dis- missing the added value of molecular profiling have crossed swords (Shiang & Pusztai, 2010; Weigelt & Reis-Filho, 2010). CAP’s reaction to the IVDMIA initiative has been guarded: while recognizing that “complex diagnostic tests are being developed and made available that are not subject to traditional peer reviews and independent verification”, they also argued that the enhancement of CLIA to include demonstration of clinical validity could solve the problem since this was the road already taken by the College’s own labo- ratory accreditation program (Dockets, C4). A subsequent document attributed the role of intermediary between the test and the treating physician to the pathologist: “due to the complexity of IVDMIAs, pathologists and clinical geneticists are likely to be asked by clinicians to help interpret the results obtained from these assays as they relate to patient management” (CAP, 2009, p. 2). Yet, in spite of the fact that pathologists are “in the ideal position to assimilate the results of [IVDMIAs] with other laboratory and clinical information for a given patient”, the tests could be “potentially problematic” for them “since closed algorithms do not allow pathologists to easily understand or interpret how the IVD- MIA result is obtained” (CAP, 2009, p. 3). In yet another subtle shift towards the FDA position, at a 2010 molecular pathology meeting a CAP representative commented on the proposed LDT regulation

arguing that while the FDA “should continue to exercise enforce- ment discretion in regulating LDTs”, it should “assert authority” on high-risk LDTs, i.e. those whose predictive nature leads to thera- peutic decisions (fieldnotes, Association for Molecular Pathology 2010 Annual Meeting, San José, CA).

These cautious statements translate the fluidity of the present situation. On the one hand, pathologists, via their professional spokespersons, tend to assert their traditional role as intermediaries between tests and physicians. On the other hand, genomic tests challenge such a role. At a 2008 meeting a pathologist showed a cartoon of a line-up of pathologists at the unemployment office, before quickly reassuring her colleagues that pathologists were likely to remain employed for any foreseeable future (fieldnotes, Monaco Meeting, October 2008). More significantly, the aforemen- tioned exchange about the value of genomic tests constitutes evidence of the emergence of fault lines at the core of cancer pathology practices. The issue is not that pathologists will lose their jobs or that biology will somehow lead to the death of the clinic. Rather, the ascription of diagnostic, and in particular predictive agency to genomic tests turns them into key non-human intermediaries between medical oncologists, pathologists, medical biologists, and their patients, and in so doing rearranges the evidentiary basis that generates public trust in medical practices.

While prognostic/predictive tests that examine gene expression profiles should not be confused with “companion tests” for targeted drugsd i.e., tests that establish whether a patient’s tumor expresses a particular receptor targeted by the drug (Taube et al., 2009)dthere are obvious parallels between them. A clinical researcher involved in the design of clinical trials for targeted therapies noted that while regulatory frameworks and regulatory cultures for tests and drugs were quite different, the situation has evolved:

So a diagnostic test is considered a device in the usual . FDA model. In a way it’s very similar to a scalpel, . basically it’s supposed to do what it is supposed to do [and] it should be safe. . A diagnostic test in a regulatory framework is like that. It should do what you claim it does . and do it accurately. . Now, we are using diagnostic tests to make treatment decisions. It’s not a device anymore; it’s more like it falls into a therapeutic model. . The reason the FDA needs to put these together is because . it’s one of the only organizations that have these two cultures embedded within individuals within the same building (interview, 30 September 2010).

Sociologically speaking, the issue is trust in the tools of contemporary biomedicine. Not all prescribing physicians are aware of the intricacies of the clinical trials that are required to prove a new drug’s safety and efficacy, but once the latter has been established by clinical research and sanctioned by the FDA, practicing physicians are expected to incorporate the drug into their treatment plans, making adjustments when necessary. Clinicians can trust (with some caution) drugs precisely because their clinical peers have clinically validated them following a series of steps prescribed by the FDA. Clinical judgment, therefore, simultaneously mobilizes a situ- ated expertise in managing a patient and an element of trust in the evidence that underpins the clinical validity of the substances used in routine practices. Clearly on display in the case of drugs, the presence of such expertise and trust is a matter of concern in the case of diagnostic procedures: as we saw in the case of MammaPrint and Oncotype DX, while makers of the former chose to go the regulatory route that mimics the approval of drugs, producers of the latter opted for a professional network outside the FDA control.

By shifting the content, contours and tools of diagnosis, and by establishing a direct connection between test results and thera- peutic choices, genomic tests extend the essential tension between

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situated clinical expertise and trust in the clinical community that characterizes prescription drugs to the diagnostic domain. Companies are now working to “develop tests that will determine which specific therapies may work best for a specific patient”, thus moving “beyond tests that can provide ‘yes/no’ responses to whether a chemotherapy . or a hormonal therapy . may work” (Fong, 2011). According to the head of a diagnostic company, it would be unthinkable to trust a drug simply because a colleague or a group of expert colleagues say that it is good based on their assessment; given the link to therapy, standards similar to those required from drugs should apply to diagnostic products (field- notes, June 2010). As argued by a panelist from the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research at the LDT Meeting (pp. 175e6) “many clinicians . would like to have some sort of third party validation . a peer review . an FDA qualification process or some other qualification process that would give you that peer review”, a sentiment echoed by the President of the National Society of Genetic Counselors, according to whom “in general and across specialties, clinicians trust the analytical results of LDTs, and state and Federal regulation should ensure that this trust is well placed” (pp. 111e2).

We began this paper by examining the debate about the extent to which genomic tests impinge upon clinical jurisdiction. Following that debate has led us to the issue of the evidentiary basis of medicine as part of a redefinition of the relations between diagnosis and therapy. These two elements are not distinct; rather, in this post-genomic era, they are the two sides of the same coin.

Conclusion

Our analysis raised the question of the extent to which genomic tests participate in the realignment of clinical expertise and bio- logical information, in particular with regards to the expansion of the domain of diagnosis to include new kinds of prognostic and predictive information. We have done so by examining how the actors themselves discuss and debate this issue and its ramifica- tions as part of the process of problematization inaugurated by the FDA. As argued elsewhere (Bourret, 2005; Cambrosio et al., 2006; Rabeharisoa & Bourret, 2009), the objective of regulation in state- of-the-art domains such as genomics is not simply the stabiliza- tion of the new tools from a technical point of view, but to define the entities that make up those tools as well as the frameworks for their implementation. IVDMIAs cannot be conceived of as auton- omous technological forces insofar as they cannot be extracted from the sociotechnical networks in which they are embedded. While the FDA regulatory initiative can be said to contribute to the production of new entities (and not simply in a nominalist sense), these new entities have in turn led to changes in regulation. Nor can IVDMIAs be reduced to the social contingencies that underlie their constitution as a regulatory category, since, in addition to their obvious material dimension, one of the outcomes of their imple- mentation is the disruption of existing social arrangements, and in particular the existing configuration of medical work, by redis- tributing roles and agencies among an evolving set of actants. One of the possible consequences of such redistribution is a shift in the locus of clinical judgment and clinical decision-making. Whether this will be the case, as some of the actors seem to believe, and if so to what extent; whether clinicians will continue to rely on more traditional pathology parameters to inform their judgment, as others maintain; or whether and how clinicians will manage to integrate the new tools into their set of clinical skills, as yet others argue, remains an open question. For our present purpose, the important fact is that this question has become an ongoing concern, and that scenarios corresponding to these different possibilities are built into the molecular diagnostic tools.

Acknowledgments

Research for this paper was made possible by grants from the Canadian Institutes of Health Research (MOP-93553), the Fonds québécois de la recherche sur la société et la culture (SE-124896), the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (410-2008-1833), the French Institut National du Cancer (0610/ 3D1418/SHS08), and the Conseil Régional PACA. We would like to thank all the scientists and clinicians who kindly accepted to be interviewed and to comment on early drafts of the text.

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  • Regulating diagnosis in post-genomic medicine: Re-aligning clinical judgment?
    • Introduction
    • Methodology
    • Genomic tests and the end of FDA’s “enforcement discretion”
      • A short chronology of events
      • Why IVDMIAs
    • Biological tests or clinical procedures? displacing clinical judgment and clinical decision-making
    • Prognosis and prediction: regulating drugs, regulating tests
    • Conclusion
    • Acknowledgments
    • References