国际最著名医学杂志报道称小猫可预测人的死亡
＂密码按：《新英格兰医学杂志》（The New England Journal of Medicine）是国际医学界最负盛名的学术杂志；2007年最新公布的影响因子，更以52.3高踞全球学术杂志第二，远远超过我们耳熟能详的《科学》、《自然》、《柳叶刀》。这样的报道，到底是在支持科学、还是支持伪科学？胆敢称之为伪科学的，是支持科学、还是支持伪科学？为什么世界最著名学术杂志的著名科学家们的口味，和那些口口声声把科学挂在嘴上、以科学斗士、反伪斗士、科普作家自居的无业游民，如此格格不入？＂
美国小猫能预报死亡 专家撰文称奇
http://www.sina.com.cn 2007年07月26日 20:24 新浪科技
神奇小猫奥斯卡
奥斯卡坐在护理中心的过道上
奥斯卡要走向谁身边？
新浪科技讯 北京时间7月26日消息，小猫奥斯卡有一种神奇的能力——预知病人何时去世。这只2岁的小猫在美国普罗维登斯斯蒂瑞养老院康复护理中心长大，这家护理中心专门收治老年痴呆症等重病患者。
约在6个月前，护理中心的工作人员发现，奥斯卡象医生和护士们那样，在医院里到处忙碌，这里闻闻，那里嗅嗅，不时观察病人，并蜷缩在弥留之际的病人床边，直到他们去世。工作人员惊奇地发现，在他们观察的25位辞世的病人中，奥斯卡的判断可谓精准无误。工作人员和病人家属开始相信，如果奥斯卡待在某位病人身边，意味着他的生命只有不到4个小时了。
医学专家称奇
大卫·杜莎(David Dosa)医生把小猫奥斯卡的事迹发表在周四出版的著名专业杂志《新英格兰医学杂志》上，杜莎是一名老年病学医生、布朗大学医学院助教。“奥斯卡不会犯很多错，它似乎知道哪些病人行将死亡。”杜莎接受媒体采访时说，“很多病人的亲属从奥斯卡身上获得了安慰，他们很感激这只小猫陪伴他们的亲人度过最后的几个时辰。”杜莎还透露，奥斯卡似乎对自己的“工作”一丝不苟，而且它还是一只不合群的小猫，对人并不友好。
布朗大学临终关怀专家琼·特诺(Joan Teno)认为，奥斯卡预测死亡的能力甚至高于护理中心的工作人员。特诺是在亲眼目睹了奥斯卡的第13次案例后，才对这只小猫的能力深信不疑，她说，当时自己观察到一位女病人不能进食，呼吸困难，大腿发紫，这些都是死亡临近的征兆。不过令特诺医生意外的是，奥斯卡并不愿意呆在病房里，她开始怀疑奥斯卡的神奇能力。后来事实证明，特诺医生的判断并不准确，病人又坚持了10个小时。直到她病逝前2个小时，神奇小猫奥斯卡才走进病房，象以往一样，趴在病床边。
医生们表示，大多数接受奥斯卡最后陪伴的病人并不知晓这只长相可爱、毛色灰白相间的小猫是死神的“信使”，因为他们大多数已失去意识。大多数亲属都对奥斯卡心怀感激，因为要感谢奥斯卡，他们才能在亲人病逝前见上最后一面。但也有一次例外，悲痛的家属把奥斯卡赶出了病房。奥斯卡在病房外走来走去，喵喵地叫个不停。
神秘能力从而何来
没有人知道，奥斯卡的预言是有科学道理还是因某种原因引起。特诺医生怀疑，奥斯卡是闻到什么特殊的气味或者观察到护士们的异常举动，从而判断病人即将死亡。
也有研究动物行为的专家认为，奥斯卡可能是因为喜欢温暖而蜷曲在高烧的病人身边。不过康复中心的工作人员并无意探究奥斯卡的神秘预知能力，只要能通知病人亲属及时赶到，最后看一眼自己的亲人就足够了。
最近，奥斯卡获得了一份小礼物，病人家属授予它一块小奖牌，并挂在墙上，用于表彰它对病人们“充满爱心的看护”。(木木)
大卫·杜莎(David Dosa)医生刊登于2007年7月26日《新英格兰杂志》的文章《猫咪奥斯卡的一天》：
Dosa DM.
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A day in the life of Oscar the cat.
N Engl J Med. 2007 Jul 26;357(4):328-9. No abstract available.
PMID: 17652647 [PubMed - indexed for MEDLINE]
A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat
David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.
Oscar the Cat awakens from his nap, opening a single eye to survey his kingdom. From atop the desk in the doctor's charting area, the cat peers down the two wings of the nursing home's advanced dementia unit. All quiet on the western and eastern fronts. Slowly, he rises and extravagantly stretches his 2-year-old frame, first backward and then forward. He sits up and considers his next move.
In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living on the dementia unit's third floor for 3 years now. She has long forgotten her family, even though they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her walker and muttering to herself with complete disregard for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully and, as she walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that says "leave me alone." She passes him without a glance and continues down the hallway. Oscar is relieved. It is not yet Mrs. P.'s time, and he wants nothing to do with her.
Oscar jumps down off the desk, relieved to be once more alone and in control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from his water bowl and grab a quick bite. Satisfied, he enjoys another stretch and sets out on his rounds. Oscar decides to head down the west wing first, along the way sidestepping Mr. S., who is slumped over on a couch in the hallway. With lips slightly pursed, he snores peacefully — perhaps blissfully unaware of where he is now living. Oscar continues down the hallway until he reaches its end and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has important business here.
Twenty-five minutes later, the door finally opens, and out walks a nurse's aide carrying dirty linens. "Hello, Oscar," she says. "Are you going inside?" Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way into the room, where there are two people. Lying in a corner bed and facing the wall, Mrs. T. is asleep in a fetal position. Her body is thin and wasted from the breast cancer that has been eating away at her organs. She is mildly jaundiced and has not spoken in several days. Sitting next to her is her daughter, who glances up from her novel to warmly greet the visitor. "Hello, Oscar. How are you today?"
Oscar takes no notice of the woman and leaps up onto the bed. He surveys Mrs. T. She is clearly in the terminal phase of illness, and her breathing is labored. Oscar's examination is interrupted by a nurse, who walks in to ask the daughter whether Mrs. T. is uncomfortable and needs more morphine. The daughter shakes her head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar returns to his work. He sniffs the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then jumps off the bed and quickly leaves the room. Not today.
Making his way back up the hallway, Oscar arrives at Room 313. The door is open, and he proceeds inside. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed, her breathing steady but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is alone. Oscar jumps onto her bed and again sniffs the air. He pauses to consider the situation, and then turns around twice before curling up beside Mrs. K.
One hour passes. Oscar waits. A nurse walks into the room to check on her patient. She pauses to note Oscar's presence. Concerned, she hurriedly leaves the room and returns to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.'s chart off the medical-records rack and begins to make phone calls.
Within a half hour the family starts to arrive. Chairs are brought into the room, where the relatives begin their vigil. The priest is called to deliver last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A young grandson asks his mother, "What is the cat doing here?" The mother, fighting back tears, tells him, "He is here to help Grandma get to heaven." Thirty minutes later, Mrs. K. takes her last earthly breath. With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then departs the room so quietly that the grieving family barely notices.
On his way back to the charting area, Oscar passes a plaque mounted on the wall. On it is engraved a commendation from a local hospice agency: "For his compassionate hospice care, this plaque is awarded to Oscar the Cat." Oscar takes a quick drink of water and returns to his desk to curl up for a long rest. His day's work is done. There will be no more deaths today, not in Room 310 or in any other room for that matter. After all, no one dies on the third floor unless Oscar pays a visit and stays awhile.
Note: Since he was adopted by staff members as a kitten, Oscar the Cat has had an uncanny ability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus far, he has presided over the deaths of more than 25 residents on the third floor of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island. His mere presence at the bedside is viewed by physicians and nursing home staff as an almost absolute indicator of impending death, allowing staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have died alone. For his work, he is highly regarded by the physicians and staff at Steere House and by the families of the residents whom he serves.
Source Information
Dr. Dosa is a geriatrician at Rhode Island Hospital and an assistant professor of medicine at the Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown University — both in Providence.
转载自：http://content.nejm.org/cgi/content/full/357/4/328 |
楼主: 特深沉
发表于 2007-10-24 05:14
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