Warning: this column contains opinions representing the writer’s beliefs, though not necessarily the beliefs of this publication. Also, the writer is not a medical doctor. She doesn’t even play one on TV. Before you get ready to skewer me, know that I understand some of you may be staunch advocates of the things I’m about to spit on. I could be wrong. I often am. Instead, maybe just consider this a cautionary tale about how our minds trick us when we really want to believe something is true. But first, let’s dive into the wonderful world of medical scams.
During the mid-1800’s gold rush in North America, as prospective miners worked their way west & boom towns sprung up overnight, a new miracle cure for absolutely anything that ailed a person began to emerge. Vendors were touting oil extracted from Chinese water snakes. Yes, the original snake oil was actually from snakes. Soon, however, the term became a euphemism for deceptive marketing. Why, all it took was a wagon, amber bottles full of Lord knows what, and the desire to call yourself a doctor. With unreliable mail delivery as the only way to communicate cross country, who would be there to call your bluff? If you were lucky, your “cure” was just some creek water from the stream your “doc” rode by on his way into town. As long as the dysentery didn’t kill you, no harm no foul. But wait, our plot thickens. As the late 1800’s rolled by, German pharmaceutical company Merck and US former drug powerhouse Parke Davis were touting their liquid cocaine concoction as a cure for toothache pain and fatigue. The US Surgeon General would soon recommend cocaine as a treatment for depression. Freud declared it a miracle for indigestion. Next, housewives everywhere were prescribed Laudanum (opium) as a cure for migraines and insomnia. Doctors were perplexed at the increase in appetite for Laudanum as the patient continued the lengthy treatment plan. There were no red flags until husbands began to complain about their wives disinterest in keeping a tidy home. Sad but true. Medicines in the old west, free of ingredient lists and absent of clinical trials, were about as wild as the times.
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