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Brainology - The Curious Science of Our Minds (Paperback)
Loot Price: R179
Discovery Miles 1 790
You Save: R93
(34%)
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Brainology - The Curious Science of Our Minds (Paperback)
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List price R272
Loot Price R179
Discovery Miles 1 790
You Save R93 (34%)
Expected to ship within 12 - 17 working days
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16 revealing stories about the human brain. Ever wondered how
Scandinavians cope with 24-hour darkness, why we feel pain - or
whether smartphones really make children stupid? Have you heard
about the US army's research into supercharging minds? You need
some Brainology. Written for Wellcome, the health charity, these
stories follow doctors as they solve the puzzle of our emotions,
nerves and behaviour. Discover fascinating and intriguing stories
from the world of science. Contents Ouch! The science of pain -
John Walsh Why doctors are reclaiming LSD and ecstasy - Sam Wong
Inside the mind of an interpreter - Geoff Watts How should we deal
with dark winters? - Linda Geddes Smartphones won't* make your kids
dumb (*Probably) - Olivia Solon You can train your mind into
'receiving' medicine - Jo Marchant Charting the phenomenon of deep
grief - Andrea Volpe The mirror cure for phantom limb pain -
Srinath Perur Can you think yourself into a different person? -
Will Storr How to survive a troubled childhood - Lucy Maddox What
tail-chasing dogs reveal about humans - Shayla Love A central
nervous solution to arthritis - Gaia Vince Could virtual reality
headsets relieve pain? - Jo Marchant What it means to be homesick
in the 21st Century - John Osborne Lighting up brain tumours with
Project Violet - Alex O'Brien The US military plan to supercharge
brains - Emma Young EXTRACT Ouch! The science of pain. John Walsh
One night in May, my wife sat up in bed and said, 'I've got this
awful pain just here.' She prodded her abdomen and made a face. 'It
feels like something's really wrong.' Woozily noting that it was
2am, I asked what kind of pain it was. 'Like something's biting
into me and won't stop,' she said. 'Hold on,' I said blearily,
'help is at hand.' I brought her a couple of ibuprofen with some
water, which she downed, clutching my hand and waiting for the ache
to subside. An hour later, she was sitting up in bed again, in real
distress. 'It's worse now,' she said, 'really nasty. Can you phone
thedoctor?' Miraculously, the family doctor answered the phone at
3am, listened to her recital of symptoms and concluded, 'It might
be your appendix. Have you had yours taken out?' No, she hadn't.
'It could be appendicitis,' he surmised, 'but if it was dangerous
you'd be in much worse pain than you're in. Go to the hospital in
the morning, but for now, take some paracetamol and try to sleep.'
Barely half an hour later, the balloon went up. She was awakened
for the third time, but now with a pain so savage and uncontainable
it made her howl like a tortured witch face down on a bonfire. The
time for murmured assurances and spousal procrastination was over.
I rang a local minicab, struggled into my clothes, bundled her into
a dressing gown, and we sped to St Mary's Paddington at just before
4am. The flurry of action made the pain subside, if only through
distraction, and we sat for hours while doctors brought forms to be
filled, took her blood pressure and ran tests. A registrar poked a
needle into my wife's wrist and said, 'Does that hurt? Does that?
How about that?' before concluding: 'Impressive. You have a very
high pain threshold.' The pain was from pancreatitis, brought on by
rogue gallstones that had escaped from her gall bladder and made
their way, like fleeing convicts, to a refuge in her pancreas,
causing agony. She was given a course of antibiotics and, a month
later, had an operation to remove her gall bladder. 'It's keyhole
surgery,' said the surgeon breezily, 'so you'll be back to normal
very soon. Some people feel well enough to take the bus home after
the operation.' His optimism was misplaced. My lovely wife, she of
the admirably high pain threshold, had to stay overnight, and came
home the following day filled with painkillers; when they wore off,
she writhed with suffering. After three days she rang the
specialist, only to be told:'
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