Helpless, helpless, helpless

11 04 2013

Useless.

As David Brown at the Washington Post wrote,

A clinical experiment involving 1,300 premature infants at two dozen hospitals “failed to adequately inform parents” of the risks of the treatment, which included blindness, brain damage and death, according to a watchdog agency at the Department of Health and Human Services.

Where the hell was the Institutional Review Board (IRB)? If they do nothing else, IRB’s are to ensure that risks are clearly and correctly spelled out in the consent form.

“The consent form was written in a slanted way,” said Jerry A. Menikoff, director of the Office for Human Research Protections (OHRP), which found that the study was “in violation of the regulatory requirements for informed consent” required by federal law.

“They went out of their way to tell you that your kid might benefit,” he said in an interview. “But they didn’t give the flip side, which is that there is a chance your kid might end up worse off. You can’t have it both ways.”

To repeat, where the hell was the IRB?

They don’t design studies, don’t enroll subjects, don’t collect data; the IRB is there to review the study, make sure it is valid and designed to reveal reliable results, scrutinize the risk/benefit tradeoffs, and make sure the consent form gives potential subjects sufficient information of all of the above so that they can make an informed decision of whether or not to participate.

Absent that information, it cannot be said that subjects gave informed consent.

The study was an important one—what is the optimal range of oxygen to be given to premature infants to ensure survival—and apparently yielded significant results which will lead to changes in the treatment of preemies. That good information was extracted from the research does not, however, justify the slipshod manner in which subjects were enrolled.

The consent form made a big point that all babies would get oxygen within the “acceptable” range of 85 to 95 percent. It noted that babies in the lower range might have less eye damage. But it didn’t mention that those in the higher range might have more eye damage. And there was no mention that in the days before oximetry — when oxygen was measured more crudely — that premature infants that got higher concentrations of oxygen tended to have greater survival, although often at the cost of their eyesight.

Instead, the only risk the consent form mentioned was skin irritation from the oximeter device, a trivial problem.

What wasn’t made clear to parents was that the study created two groups of babies with different treatments — although both fell within “standard of care” treatment — for which the researchers expected there would be different outcomes. That was the point of the study.

No mention of serious risk. No clear discussion of differential treatment. These are basic basic basic components of any minimally-decent informed consent form.

People associated with SUPPORT defended the consent form and noted that it was approved by 23 “institutional review boards’” (IRBs), which are the committees each research hospital must have to oversee the design and ethics of medical studies involving human beings.

“I don’t have any regrets. Everybody went into this with their best intention. Nobody was trying to deceive anybody,” said Neil N. Finer, a neonatologist at the University of California at San Diego who ran the trial.

Excuse me while I scream GOOD INTENTIONS ARE NOT ENOUGH! It is not about the intentions of the researchers, but about their actions and, importantly, about the well-being of the subjects themselves.

Those IRBs should be re-organized, re-constituted, and all members and researchers retrained as to the conduct of ethical research.

Because this, this ain’t it.





A big hard sun

9 04 2013

April 9 in New York: 84 degrees.

God help me.

Could I hope for some kind of cataclysmic event which doesn’t kill or hurt anyone, doesn’t pollute the air, and otherwise does not interfere with air travel, transportation, or agriculture—and which just happens to cloud up the sky all summer long?

Too much?

Shit.





I was so excited

7 04 2013

No, I didn’t get into the High School of Performing Arts (tho’ back in the day I loved loved loved me some Fame): I was happy that Netflix started streaming the The West Wing.

I watched all of the early episodes, missed most of the mid-run shows (blame Canada!), then picked it back up again in the last season and a-half. Now I could watch them all!

Except. . . I didn’t.

Yeah, I dipped in here and there, but wet toes were enough; I felt no need to dive in.

Then some time later, bored with re-watching shows I’d re-watched already, I though, What the hell, and waded back in.

(Here endeth the water metaphors.)

And then I realized, upon watching some and re-watching other episodes, why I hesitated: I remember liking The West Wing, but, really, I both like and loath this show. The Sorkinisms are irritating (tho’ those are toned down considerably after the first season), some episodes are filled with enough cheese to make a vegan weep, and lawdy are some of those storyline stinkers (Zoe’s kidnapping, among others, and early-season handling of Bartlett’s MS). And, shit, I think they just get so much wrong.

But this is also a show that takes politics—the whole of politics—seriously. No one is wholly good (and only rarely are characters wholly bad), people on “our” side can be pricks and those on the “other” side can be principled, and amorality and morality fought over the course of the show’s run.

There’s more to say, but I’ll end with the observation that I wouldn’t have liked it much at all had I not liked the main characters, especially CJ and Toby. I’d like to be as tall and competent as CJ, and Toby, well, I just liked Toby.

Nice to see someone so dour do so well in the world.





It’s my life and I’ll do what I want

6 04 2013

Remember when I showed that horrifying video of an owner who (shudder) trained her cat to play dead?

Well, this is how a cat ought to respond to commands:

Hells yeah!

~~~

h/t Cute Overload





Snap that thing thread, cont.

1 04 2013

There is one area in which I’ve never been good, will never be good, and. . . I don’t mind.

I’m talkin’ ’bout writing, specifically, deadline-oriented writing. I always wait until the latest possible moment to start something, and I always pull it off.

Always: there may have been times in which I didn’t, or turned out something so terrible that I might as well have burned past the due date, but excepting those few moments of freak out (paralysis in assembling an undergrad policy paper) or granted-ahead-of-time extension (grad human rights paper), I git ‘er done.

Now, latest possible moment doesn’t mean last possible minute. A research paper requires, duh, research, and the latest possible moment for a long and complicated piece might be, say, a week or two, while the lead time for a short and simple piece is a day or two. The point is that I’ll almost always have more time than a day or week or two, but will wait until I can feel the deadline before cracking open the word processor.

I have no control over when that feeling arrives. I’ve mentioned previously that I am not a particularly intuitive person and I don’t trust my gut, but this is not anything I’ve been to reason my way through. I can tell myself Get to work!, but unless that stress switch gets flipped by something beyond my comprehension, it ain’t happening.

And I’m fine with that.

That might be the one thing which distinguishes my writing procrastination from every other kind of procrastination: the stress is productive, creative, even. It’s not necessarily a pleasant experience—long days fixated on a required task are rarely pleasant—but I don’t hate it, either. Instead of anxiety scattering my mind, the pressure charges my concentration. I don’t lose focus—I gain it.

Like I said, I don’t know why or how this works for me, I just know that it does, and have been taking advantage of this. . . skill (?) for as long as I’ve had writing due.

~~~

. . . Which is another way of stating I’m up against a ghosting deadline, and may be a spectral presence on this blog for the next week.