By Dr. Kate Scannell
First published in print: 07/24/11
BETTY FORD never actually set foot in my medical clinic. But it sometimes felt that she was there, accompanying patients who were motivated to seek care because of her.
I was a medical student in 1978 when it was widely reported that Betty Ford had a problem with "addiction" to a variety of prescribed pills and alcohol. The news was shocking in that pre-Amy-Winehouse era when nobody spoke -- let alone sang -- about addiction and "rehab." In fact, had you told someone back then that you were "going to rehab," they may well have assumed you were planning to renovate your kitchen.
Our medical school had an extended campus in Grand Rapids, Mich. -- the hometown of Betty and her husband, Gerald Ford, who served as president between 1974 and 1977.
Many of us Michiganders shared pride in the local couple's celebrated success and their unabashed display of earthy Midwestern sensibilities.
While in the White House, "Betty" had become famous in her own right for speaking her mind on sensitive cultural issues. For example, she sent public shockwaves across the country when she voiced her support for legal abortion. When she rallied for passage of the Equal Rights Amendment for women. When she said she'd be sleeping with her husband in the same White House bed. When she publicly spoke about birth control and speculated about her daughter having premarital sex.
People under a certain age may not appreciate how radical it was in the '70s for a woman -- let alone a First Lady -- to share such opinions so directly, forcefully, and unapologetically with the public. Today we point accusing fingers at some countries that flagrantly suppress women's self-expression, as though that would never happen in our own backyard. But that would be an error, forgetting what generations of women had endured in this country.
So when many of us heard the news about straight-talking Betty's "addiction" to pills, we paid respectful attention -- even if we were somewhat confused about there being "a problem." In fact, over lunch, one of my perplexed medical school classmates scoffed, "Are we supposed to think of her pill-popping as some kind of a 'disease' now?"
I understood his bewildered indignation. After all, it was the '70s, and recreational drug use had become a mundane recreational sport for many young Americans. Besides, it was also a time when doctors handed out powerful tranquilizers as though they were candy.
Indeed, "Mother's little helper" -- a witty nickname for Valium -- sedated and anesthetized an entire generation of besieged housewives and careworn mothers. Its use became so widespread among corporate crowds, that it also became known as "Executive Excedrin."
The U.S. News & World Report recounted that in 1978 "nearly 2.3 billion of the tablets stamped with the trademark 'V' were ingested." Valium had become the most commonly prescribed drug between 1969 and 1982, and "everyone seemed to reach" for one on occasion. The Rolling Stones sang about it in a 1967 song tellingly titled, "Mother's Little Helper." The ubiquity of the drug was reflected in American novels and movies. Comedian Milton Berle joked: "The definition of a Valium addict is a patient who takes more Valium than his doctor."
The point is that, with her family's support, Betty ultimately "got the joke" -- and she took it seriously. It was not funny that huge segments of our population were becoming dulled and lulled by drugs, and that American medicine and pharmaceutical marketing were normalizing and profiting from it.
In fact, Betty gave the joke a much stronger punch line: a forceful knock-out blow against our country's obliviousness to its soaring addiction problem. When she publicly announced that she was an addict seeking help, she once again broke ranks with the status quo.
Her candor shattered another deadening silence, motivating many people -- and doctors -- to rethink their casual attitudes about drug and alcohol dependencies and to obtain assistance.
Shortly after getting help, she joined others to establish the Betty Ford Center in 1982 -- the first licensed addiction hospital in the world. More than 90,000 people have been treated there since. By the mid-'80s, it had become commonplace in medical circles to shorthand a recommendation for substance abuse treatment as "prescribing a trip to Betty Ford."
Patients sometimes admitted needing help by claiming that they might benefit from "some time at Betty Ford's."
Betty Ford's impact on the culture of American health care extended even further, beyond raising national consciousness about addictions and women's reproductive health. Notably, she also broke the deafening silence about breast cancer in 1974 after undergoing a radical mastectomy only months after assuming the role of First Lady.
At the time, there were no pink ribbons or celebrity spokespersons for breast cancer. Public discussions about "the C word" were hushed and rare, and even some doctors believed it was humane and ethically correct to withhold cancer diagnoses from patients. But as Betty later explained, while hospitalized during her mastectomy, she looked out the window and saw throngs of international media trying to report on her condition.
That experience made her appreciate the power of her position to create change and improve the lives of others. When she consequently decided to disclose her diagnosis and speak openly about her treatment, thousands of women were instantly inspired to seek breast cancer screening.
Betty Ford died on July 8, in Palm Springs at 93 years of age. She was liberated and liberating, a smart and unpretentious woman who knew how to speak truth to silence. Her refreshing personal honesty inspired many women, and her unflinching and compassionate view of our tattered human condition helped to save many lives.
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Kate Scannell is a Bay Area physician and syndicated columnist. Her books include, "Death of the Good Doctor" and "Flood Stage."
First published in print: 07/24/11
BETTY FORD never actually set foot in my medical clinic. But it sometimes felt that she was there, accompanying patients who were motivated to seek care because of her.
I was a medical student in 1978 when it was widely reported that Betty Ford had a problem with "addiction" to a variety of prescribed pills and alcohol. The news was shocking in that pre-Amy-Winehouse era when nobody spoke -- let alone sang -- about addiction and "rehab." In fact, had you told someone back then that you were "going to rehab," they may well have assumed you were planning to renovate your kitchen.
Our medical school had an extended campus in Grand Rapids, Mich. -- the hometown of Betty and her husband, Gerald Ford, who served as president between 1974 and 1977.
Many of us Michiganders shared pride in the local couple's celebrated success and their unabashed display of earthy Midwestern sensibilities.
While in the White House, "Betty" had become famous in her own right for speaking her mind on sensitive cultural issues. For example, she sent public shockwaves across the country when she voiced her support for legal abortion. When she rallied for passage of the Equal Rights Amendment for women. When she said she'd be sleeping with her husband in the same White House bed. When she publicly spoke about birth control and speculated about her daughter having premarital sex.
People under a certain age may not appreciate how radical it was in the '70s for a woman -- let alone a First Lady -- to share such opinions so directly, forcefully, and unapologetically with the public. Today we point accusing fingers at some countries that flagrantly suppress women's self-expression, as though that would never happen in our own backyard. But that would be an error, forgetting what generations of women had endured in this country.
So when many of us heard the news about straight-talking Betty's "addiction" to pills, we paid respectful attention -- even if we were somewhat confused about there being "a problem." In fact, over lunch, one of my perplexed medical school classmates scoffed, "Are we supposed to think of her pill-popping as some kind of a 'disease' now?"
I understood his bewildered indignation. After all, it was the '70s, and recreational drug use had become a mundane recreational sport for many young Americans. Besides, it was also a time when doctors handed out powerful tranquilizers as though they were candy.
Indeed, "Mother's little helper" -- a witty nickname for Valium -- sedated and anesthetized an entire generation of besieged housewives and careworn mothers. Its use became so widespread among corporate crowds, that it also became known as "Executive Excedrin."
The U.S. News & World Report recounted that in 1978 "nearly 2.3 billion of the tablets stamped with the trademark 'V' were ingested." Valium had become the most commonly prescribed drug between 1969 and 1982, and "everyone seemed to reach" for one on occasion. The Rolling Stones sang about it in a 1967 song tellingly titled, "Mother's Little Helper." The ubiquity of the drug was reflected in American novels and movies. Comedian Milton Berle joked: "The definition of a Valium addict is a patient who takes more Valium than his doctor."
The point is that, with her family's support, Betty ultimately "got the joke" -- and she took it seriously. It was not funny that huge segments of our population were becoming dulled and lulled by drugs, and that American medicine and pharmaceutical marketing were normalizing and profiting from it.
In fact, Betty gave the joke a much stronger punch line: a forceful knock-out blow against our country's obliviousness to its soaring addiction problem. When she publicly announced that she was an addict seeking help, she once again broke ranks with the status quo.
Her candor shattered another deadening silence, motivating many people -- and doctors -- to rethink their casual attitudes about drug and alcohol dependencies and to obtain assistance.
Shortly after getting help, she joined others to establish the Betty Ford Center in 1982 -- the first licensed addiction hospital in the world. More than 90,000 people have been treated there since. By the mid-'80s, it had become commonplace in medical circles to shorthand a recommendation for substance abuse treatment as "prescribing a trip to Betty Ford."
Patients sometimes admitted needing help by claiming that they might benefit from "some time at Betty Ford's."
Betty Ford's impact on the culture of American health care extended even further, beyond raising national consciousness about addictions and women's reproductive health. Notably, she also broke the deafening silence about breast cancer in 1974 after undergoing a radical mastectomy only months after assuming the role of First Lady.
At the time, there were no pink ribbons or celebrity spokespersons for breast cancer. Public discussions about "the C word" were hushed and rare, and even some doctors believed it was humane and ethically correct to withhold cancer diagnoses from patients. But as Betty later explained, while hospitalized during her mastectomy, she looked out the window and saw throngs of international media trying to report on her condition.
That experience made her appreciate the power of her position to create change and improve the lives of others. When she consequently decided to disclose her diagnosis and speak openly about her treatment, thousands of women were instantly inspired to seek breast cancer screening.
Betty Ford died on July 8, in Palm Springs at 93 years of age. She was liberated and liberating, a smart and unpretentious woman who knew how to speak truth to silence. Her refreshing personal honesty inspired many women, and her unflinching and compassionate view of our tattered human condition helped to save many lives.
------------------------------------------------------
Kate Scannell is a Bay Area physician and syndicated columnist. Her books include, "Death of the Good Doctor" and "Flood Stage."