The Brotherhood of the Screaming Abyss (64 page)

Until then, these “receptor-binding assays” were usually carried out in homogenous tissue, that is, in tissue that had been blended like a smoothie into a liquid. After tagging, the labeled receptor fragments were filtered out, and the amount of bound drug could be determined by measuring the radioactivity levels. By the time I joined Saavedra’s lab, he was just starting to use a technique known as autoradiography, which added a new dimension to how receptors could be characterized: researchers could now map receptor distribution in slices of brain tissue.

In autoradiography, the tissue, for example a rat’s brain, is frozen in liquid nitrogen and then sliced into extremely thin sections using a special cutting tool called a microtome. The slices are mounted on glass slides and incubated in buffer containing the radioactive drug, which binds to the receptors. Following incubation, each slide is exposed to radiation-sensitive film in a special cassette that holds the adjacent slide and film in place. Exposure can take a while. The film, once developed, bears a perfect a black-and-gray photographic negative of the brain slice. This image can be scanned with a densitometer, and the concentration of bound drug in a given region can be calculated based on the darkness of the image. Iodine 125 and other radioactive gamma-ray emitters are perfect for autoradiography because they expose the X-ray film in a matter of days instead of weeks or months as is required for drugs labeled with less radioactive tags such as tritium.

Most of my postdoc colleagues were working with these techniques on atrial natriuretic peptide, a potent vasodilator important in the regulation of cardiac, renal, and vascular functions. I got to work on hallucinogen receptors, which I thought were much sexier. The compound we intended to use, DOI, occurs in two configurations, each a mirror image of the other. The R(-) “enantiomer” readily binds to 5HT
_2A
receptors, while its mirror image, the S(+) enantiomer, doesn’t bind or binds only at high concentrations. This correlates with their known effects in humans: R(-) DOI is strongly psychoactive at less than one milligram, while S(+) DOI is essentially inactive.

Thanks to our connections to the Lawrence Berkeley National Lab, notably Shulgin, we were able to get hold of both enantiomers in hot and cold forms. With these molecules in hand, I could answer some interesting questions about the distribution and function of 5HT
_2A
receptors, at least in rat brains. I won’t go into the details; the curious can read the papers I published with Saavedra and others, which are listed in the bibliography. Our key finding was that cold R(-)DOI would displace its hot form from specific sites in the rat brain slices; but when hot LSD was used to label the binding sites instead, then cold DOI would displace it from a subset of receptors in certain brain regions, although from not all of them. Conversely, cold LSD would displace all of the DOI binding sites, and more besides; these extra sites were not 5HT
_2A
binding sites, and LSD is not 5HT
_2A
-selective compared to DOI.

In retrospect, these findings seem almost trivial, and perhaps they are. But they were important at the time, because they demonstrated that two hallucinogens, having very different molecular structures, nonetheless occupied the same receptor sites, and their localization in different brain regions matched closely. It was a solid contribution to the field, if not exactly the sort of finding that would get one “the call” from Stockholm.

At NIMH, I was reminded that when people work closely together, it’s the psychodynamics that are most problematic. As a graduate student, I’d been lucky to have amazing mentors in the persons of Sandy Siegel and Neil Towers, but I never enjoyed anything close to that rapport with my various postdoc supervisors. Saavedra and I had a number of clashes during my tenure there; most involved my insistence on listing those at Lawrence Berkeley who had synthesized the labeled compounds we relied on in our research as coauthors on the papers that Saavedra and I published. From my perspective, they’d done us a big favor in providing us with a set of crucial molecular tools, but my supervisor saw it otherwise. Our disagreement suggested a philosophical difference, to some degree. I viewed science as inherently a team effort that relied on collaboration to get things done. Others adhered to a more competitive model. Despite our disagreements, we published a number of interesting papers over what I believe was a productive relationship for the two years I spent there.

Most of the postdocs in the lab were foreigners, Japanese or Finnish or Argentinian, working under guest visas. Being transplants from elsewhere, we banded together and became excellent friends. Sheila invited the postdocs and their families to our tiny apartment for a traditional, Canadian-American style Thanksgiving dinner the first year we were there. We loved introducing them to what might well have been as exotic a meal as they’d ever been served.

That first year, I ran an incubation experiment over the holidays that required me to come to the lab at about eleven and shut it down for the night. On Christmas Eve, Building 10, the enormous Clinical Research Center where I worked, was mostly dark, but there was a light coming out of our lab. Sitting at the bench beside mine was Kazuto, an older Japanese postdoc, a cool guy, but quite reserved and a very hard worker. He had a wife and children living with him in Bethesda, but it seemed he rarely saw them. On a normal morning, I’d get to my bench about eight. Kazuto would already be at his bench, and had been for hours. I’d leave for the evening around six, and he’d still be there. That night, at eleven, on Christmas Eve, there was Kazuto, hunched over his work.

“For God’s sake, “ I said, “why don’t you go home to your family? After all, it’s Christmas Eve.” To which he replied, “Well, I am Japanese. It doesn’t mean so much to me. I would rather be here.” I could hardly keep from cracking up; it was so matter-of-fact and true to his own character.

In fact, all of us were workaholics who had more or less renounced the concept of “after work.” But as an American, my situation was somewhat different. Most of my cohorts were foreigners working under guest visas who, as a result, were under even more pressure than I was. Their visa status depended on the good will of their supervisors, so it was in their interests to keep their heads down and toe the line. I had to wonder how this power dynamic affected the research. During my years after graduate school, I’d have many such glimpses into the nature of science conducted in corporate and institutional settings.

So, despite some rocky episodes, my postdoc at the NIMH would be a productive and solid start along a career path I actually wanted to pursue. By the end, I’d been able to parley that experience into yet another postdoc in the Department of Neurology at Stanford University under Dr. Stephen Peroutka, a well-known researcher in the serotonin field. At least I had answered the question I’d occasionally heard at NIMH: What’s a botanist doing in the Laboratory of Clinical Neuropharmacology? The answer: surviving, and trying to do reasonably competent work. I managed to do both.

Sometime during our second August in Bethesda, “we” became pregnant. Rather, Sheila became pregnant with my help. We had both been enjoying our status as a well-employed young marrieds with no kids and two cats. We could go out every weekend if we felt in the mood, and we often were, dining out at some of Bethesda’s tremendous restaurants. But there was something missing. I thought that we should try to have a baby, but Sheila was not so sure, perhaps having a woman’s keener sense of who did most of the work during, and after, pregnancy.

Nevertheless, one night we did try, and we’d chosen our moment well. Forty-two weeks later, on May 6, 1988, our daughter Caitlin was born. I was in the birthing room with Sheila and cut the umbilical cord. I have never been higher in my life, never experienced a sense of ecstasy that even came close to what I felt at that moment. I’m still high from it, and I hope I always will be. Caitlin is the best thing that ever happened to me, and to us.

It was clear from the start that Caitlin was special. Maybe in some other dimension there’s an Oort Cloud of drifting souls awaiting their chance to be incarnated. Every once in a while, with the appearance of suitable parents, one of those souls will split off from the crowd and plunge into the inner solar system, so to speak, and take up residence in the mother’s womb. I’d like to think that’s how it happened with Cait. She is an “old soul,” clear-eyed and intelligent from the start; and our purpose in life, to the degree that we had one, has been to provide this amazing being with a chance to enter and flourish in this world under our love and care. Twenty-four years later, our efforts have paid off. She is kind and intelligent, compassionate and beautiful; everything a father could want in a daughter, and we are blessed to have her. She is now an adult, as much a friend and mentor as our child, and one of the most interesting people I know.

As I recall it, when Caitlin first began to talk, she didn’t start out calling us “Mama” or “Dada,” but rather “Dennis” and “Sheila.” She eventually settled on “Mom” and “Dad” like any other kid would, but I’ve always interpreted that earlier phase as evidence for the old-soul hypothesis. It was like she was checking us out at first, seeing if we were suitable vessels for her incarnation. Then I guess she decided that we’d do and settled into being our kid. I give thanks every day to whatever merciful beings there are in this universe that she decided to stick around.

Cait’s hospital birth wasn’t typical, or perhaps it was, making it a sad commentary on the way a normal, natural process is routinely over-medicalized. When she was about two weeks overdue, Sheila’s obstetrician advised us that it was time to induce labor. We knew the result of that might be rough. Sheila made it clear that she wanted to breastfeed, and to have a natural, drug-free birth if possible. The nurses were not supportive. At the height of Sheila’s labor, when she was in the most pain and ready to throw in the towel, the nurses kept urging her to have an epidural, a rather new pain-control method at the time. I was there with her, and so was Kat, who had come out to help us. We both urged Sheila to hang in and refuse the meds, but the nurses undermined her resolve at the height of her vulnerability. Thankfully, the birth proceeded without complications.

Cait was born about six in the evening. Afterward, when all of us were gathered in Sheila’s hospital room, I was swept by the feeling of being in the presence of a new life. If you’ve never experienced that for yourself, there is no way to convey it. I remember a sense of warmth and heightened colors, along with a pervading mood of calm, peace, and love. It was a lot like being on a low dose of MDMA only much, much better. I suspect there are hormonal and pheromonal reactions in the mother and father and others present that create this ambiance. Kat was the perfect companion at this pivotal, life-defining event; she knew just what to do and how to support us at every turn. I had a very real sense of the power of the feminine in that room. I was humbly reminded that there is no event more evocative of the sacred mystery of life than giving birth, a miracle that only women can fully know.

Sheila initiated breastfeeding right away. She had been reading up and taking classes, so she knew what to do, and it seemed to be going well. We had been very clear that we were going with breast milk only; no formula or other liquids were to be administered. By the time Kat and I left the hospital late that night, Sheila was tired and Cait was sleeping after a good feed. I too was exhausted and desperate for sleep, but when I left the hospital I felt like I was walking two feet above the ground.

About one a.m. we got a call from Sheila; she was hysterical and crying. She had developed a low fever, which is common after an epidural and rarely anything to be concerned about. The nurses had interpreted this as a likely infection, and had used that as an excuse to seize Caitlin and spirit her off to the nursery, to “protect” her, they said, from being infected. Once in the nursery, they immediately fed her formula, against our explicit instructions.

Sheila was upset and furious. Not only had her baby been ripped from her arms for no reason; she was then dispatched to the nursery and fed toxic formula against our wishes. In the emotionally volatile state that Sheila was in already, I could see how upsetting this was for her. But there was nothing we could do. We couldn’t go back to the hospital that night, so we managed to calm Sheila and get the obstetrician to allow her to go home in the morning. Indeed, we packed up and left just over twelve hours after Sheila had given birth.

Once at home, the breastfeeding went great, and the bonding continued. It was a magical weekend, and it changed both of us forever; being parents will do that. One consequence was that Sheila became impassioned about breastfeeding. In the years when Cait was young and still breastfeeding, Sheila got involved in La Leche League and went on to lead breastfeeding groups wherever we’ve lived since then. Sheila eventually used her experience with breastfeeding, her botanical training, and her knowledge of herbal medicine to write a book about herbs and their use as aids in breastfeeding. The result,
The Nursing Mother’s Herbal
, received a prestigious award as the best new publication in consumer health in 2004 from the American Nurses Association (Humphrey, 2003).

Now Sheila has combined her personal knowledge and her professional qualifications as an RN and IBCLC (International Board Certified Lactation Consultant) into a career as a lactation consultant at a hospital near our home in Minnesota. This work has become a kind of crusade for her. She is as passionate about breastfeeding as I ever was about psychedelics. There are certain similarities in how these subjects are viewed by the biomedical establishment. Both have the potential to benefit physical and mental health. Both also exist in the shadows of biomedicine, and have been viewed as highly suspect by “conventional” medicine. I am told the situation is getting better for breastfeeding, in light of the overwhelming clinical evidence for its benefits. And yet most physicians know far too little about the subject. Something similar could be said of what most medical professionals know about psychedelics, and many are so misinformed as to be unqualified to say anything about them at all.