A shtickle of hydroxychloroquine anyone?

Sly Stone

Hot fun in the summertime. Sly and the Family Stone, 1969. Rolling Stone said of this rock group’s ethic, “If there was anything to be happy about, then everybody’d be happy about it. If there were a lot of songs to sing, then everybody got to sing. If we have something to suffer or a cross to bear–we bear it together.” Sly and his family rocked and we along with them, “Them summer days. Those summer days. That’s when I had most of my fun back.” Eh, this year, not so much.

Didier Raoult

Take yesterday as a case in point. A newly formed group in white coats calling themselves “America’s Frontline Doctors” want to wrest us from the perilizing fears that have infiltrated our COVID summer. Thus they stood before the Supreme Court to re-introduce and advocate the use of the controversial drug hydroxychloroquine (HCQ) touted by French physician and epidemiologist Didier Raoult, to stop coronavirus in its tracks.

I watched the Frontline Doctors video embedded in a friend’s post on Facebook. The video was housed on the right-of-center Breitbart News, which is likely why it’s reputation got off to a rocky start with the left. Me? I found the video compelling. By evening I noticed that a young pediatrician friend and a professor friend had each debunked the video along with a chorus of followers: the doctors were not real doctors because they weren’t wearing masks (They were out of doors, socially distanced, but no matter), and they were not in fact affiliated with any medical establishments. They had no credentials. No evidence. To be fair, the doctors were presenting the evidence of their results with HCQ in their own practices. Yet their practices were dismissed as anecdotal, insignificant, and quasi-medical.

Social media critics were questioning the doctors’ credibility without offering any sources or evidence themselves. Maybe no one cares that people dismiss doctors’ claims about coronavirus based on their experience in treating it. Maybe that sounds unreasonable. “No one had ever heard of [these doctors].” OK, but now you have; who are they? Do doctors have a right and responsibility to report their experience with a virus they have faced daily over several months? Let’s find out. While the doctors claimed that HCQ could cure COVID in its early stages, the critics said “There is no known cure for COVID.” In the world of debate we call this an appeal to ignorance: As the fallacy goes, because we don’t know something to be true, it cannot be true. We have no evidence that HCQ works, even while doctors are presenting their evidence.

At my first Facebook login of the day today, I learn that Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and Instagram wasted no time in censoring the Frontline Doctors’ video. So, the doctors came back for a second round on their Supreme Court platform. They tell us that their website, too, has been taken down by its host, SquareSpace. End of controversy? Not exactly. In their second go, the doctors begin by stating credentials up front. They hail from a slew of states, hospital emergency rooms, pediatrics and family practices, all board certified. Their message: hydroxychloroquine works. It’s a form of quinine, used in this country at least since the time of George Washington.

One of the Frontline doctors, Dr. Stella Immanuel, is a Black woman from Cameroon. According her own words in the Frontline press conference, she went to medical school in Nigeria and experienced in Africa the effectiveness of HCQ and other quinine derivatives for treating illnesses. She emigrated to the United States and certified in pediatrics in Texas. She more than all the Frontline group has been ridiculed on social media and in the press. The fact that she happened also to be Christian, a minister in a church, and experienced in demonology didn’t help her cause. Madonna was quick to claim Dr. Immanuel as her new hero. (It was Madonna’s Insta account that was messed with.)

Dr. Stella Immanuel
Madonna

The Guardian labeled the Frontline Doctors’ position a coronavirus conspiracy theory. The Washington Post’s Politifact pronounced it simply false. CNN addresses the Frontliners’ claims as both false and dubious because “The claims run contrary to multiple studies on the anti-malarial drug and advice from public health officials to prevent spread of the virus.” The BBC asks why the Frontline video has been repudiated. They conclude “The debate has been increasingly dividing Americans along political lines, with proponents of hydroxychloroquine pointing to President Trump’s support of it while accusing critics of covering up its potential effectiveness.” That’s pretty close to the heart of the matter.

I hear that in France now there are Raoult hospitals and non-Raoult hospitals, reflecting the political hot potato of a potential (or faux, depending on your persuasion) coronavirus cure. So much for all for one and one for all in France or the US or perhaps around the globe. Why is that? Is science fixed, immutable? Do political affiliations certify a medical treatment’s validity or riskiness? We continue to mask, distance, and sanitize. No fun in the summertime.

Hey, Mom, we got married!

Today we’re forty-niners. No golden anniversary yet, happily. Rather stodgy and ceremonious that, and we’re not much for ceremony. I guess we’ve rolled with our hunches—and with the punches, haha.

George Harrison

It began sans lightning bolt. The guy reminded me of my true love, George Harrison. Tall and skinny (but decidedly stronger than George), wearing a pea coat, black turtleneck, Bob Dylan cap, and army boots. Kind of a mash-up of 70s chic. I liked that when we first talked, he spoke affectionately of his mother, referring to her as “me mum.” She wrote long letters from England that were “all one sentence,” he said with a smile. Our main common ground was an English class (modern British literature), having attended the same Rolling Stones concert, and a mutual friend who was a stunning guitarist.

So, you could say, there was the lure of the animal at work, but also compatibility. We made a major decision together: moving into a commune with a group of university town hippies. As it turned out, we’d escape furtively to the Italian Patio on brown rice and seaweed nights at the commune. To add insult to our communal ethic, we’d order veal parmesan.

English Building on campus

In time we moved out. We set a date, a Friday, to tie the knot. I had an oil painting class that summer morning, and he would be coming from his class (Latin?). I’d stop back at the apartment to change and pick him up at noon en route to the county courthouse—to elope! We could get our license and marriage certificate in one fell swoop. I wore a pale green dress my little sister had made for me a few months earlier, and he wore jeans, a white shirt, and a pinstripe jacket. No witnesses necessary. The judge took a picture of us together, then we each snapped a photo of the other holding the marriage certificate.

That’s us, way back when.

We asked a couple of good friends, Jeff and Vicky, to come to Howard Johnson’s with us for our wedding reception. We ordered burgers, of course. Afterwards, Jeff took our picture next to the car. Vicky said “If it doesn’t work out, you can always get divorced.” Then my new husband had to go to work. After nine, we all met up at our apartment. We lacked champagne, so Jeff invited us to go to his parents house with him. Apparently they kept champagne. When we got there, his dad, true to his rep, dipped down to the basement and came up with a couple of bottles of bubbly. Jeff and Vicky, his parents, and their friends all toasted us.

The next day we drove to Milwaukee for our honeymoon, crashing in on my older sister and brother-in-law, who’d married two years earlier. They weren’t thrilled but were good sports and took us to Kohl’s to pick out a wedding present, our first, a big brown bowl for baking bread (used most recently this past week).

On Sunday we headed back home, stopping at my parents’ house, that is, my childhood home. As we pulled into the driveway, my next younger sister sauntered up to the car window and looked at me with intuited meaning. My mom was tending the garden when I called to her, “Hey Mom, we got married!” I revealed the slim 18-karat white gold band on my left hand. She said “I’m glad you still believe in marriage.” My dad was out on a bike ride; as he returned, I repeated our announcement, and he remarked, “I need a drink,” and fixed a round for everyone, now gathered on the big screened porch. I told my Nana, “I know we’ll never be rich, but we know how to work. We’ll have enough.” And so we did.

Today we celebrate in a pandemic. We’ve never done that before. We came over to a little place on the Pacific coast, 90 minutes from our house. We awoke to an overcast sky, and drank coffee from the window that looks onto the ocean. A happy anniversary message was already on my phone when I booted it up—from my little sis!—and within the hour we had a FaceTime call from Kid #4 and two grandkids gallivanting in a local meadow.

CCC shelter

Since sunshine is forecast for this afternoon, we decided to drive to our favorite lookout at the top of the cape just south of here. From there we can walk on a woodsy path overlooking the blue expanse of the Pacific to a little shelter constructed in 1934-35 by the Civilian Conservation Corps, a little historical deep diving for the occasion.

We’re arranging take-out from the excellent little Italian resto a few doors down. There’s a bottle of decent, not expensive, bubbly in the fridge, which we’ll drink on our balcony as the sun descends. We can check through the binoculars to see how many boats are still out, their little sparks of light dotting the horizon. It’s still enough.