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G E E T A ‘D R. G’ N A Y Y A R, M D
WITH TOM CASTLES AND JAC K M U RT H A
Dead Wrong
Diagnosing
and Treating
Healthcare’s
Misinformation
Illness
Copyright © 2024 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form
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This book is dedicated to the healthy and the sick. The knowledgea-
ble and the ignorant. The rich and the poor. The old and the young.
To those who believe in God and those who do not. To every patient
I had the privilege to care for or will care for in the future. To every
person and family who lost a life during the Covid-19 pandemic.
To anyone who has been vaccinated. To anyone who has not been
vaccinated. To anyone who has ever been curious about their health.
To anyone who ever used Google to answer a question about the hu-
man body. This book is for you.
CONTENTS
Preface ix
Notes 177
Acknowledgments 199
Index 207
v
FOREWORD
By Dr. Joseph Kvedar
vii
viii Foreword
ix
x Preface
This book isn’t only for the brave and committed or the well-
resourced and innovative. It’s also for the doubtful and the
unconvinced, the cash-strapped and the hesitant. This book is
for everyone who has a say in healthcare and patients’ lives. It’s for
anyone who cares to pursue positive change today. It’s for everyone
who cares.
Chapter 1
A FATAL MISCONCEPTION
1
T HE INTERNET CAN TAKE YOU to some strange places.
Ever since a new strain of the coronavirus emerged in Wuhan,
China, and spread through the world killing millions, we’ve seen
just how weird—and how real—our online lives can get.
In early 2020, Covid-19 punctured the digital realm, already
rife with “misinformation,” a term for falsehoods spread in ear-
nest, and disinformation, which describes lies maliciously de-
signed to manipulate people. Covid-related misinformation and
disinformation caused real-world ripple effects that formed a tox-
ic tsunami rivaling the emerging pandemic in speed and scope.
Donald Trump, then the president of the United States, dismissed
scientists and spread social media hype around unproven “cures”
such as hydroxychloroquine, over and over again. In the US and
around the globe, some elected officials followed suit, feeding
sickness and false narratives with each misguided post.
As we doomscrolled our way through extended lockdowns,
unhealthy information spread across online communities like a
noxious gas wafting over a battlefield. Left-leaning new-age influ-
encers took militant stances against Covid-19 vaccines, while vet-
eran right-wing conspiracy theorists injected new anti-mask senti-
ment into old tropes of sinister cabals that secretly run the world.
Off-beat uncles became insufferable former Facebook friends. Anti-
vax spouses threatened to leave their partners should they get the
jab—because their “sources” on Instagram claimed the vaccines
would poison children who had yet to be conceived.
Socially distanced and working from home, I gobbled up every
rumor I found. Not because I believed them, but because I couldn’t
look away. The more I read, the more I became convinced that the
internet can’t only take you to strange places. It can take your life.
In the summer of 2020, the former Republican presidential pri-
mary candidate Herman Cain died after testing positive for Covid.
His passing captured the public’s attention because he had down-
played the pandemic’s risks and attended a Trump rally unmasked in
Tulsa, Oklahoma, shortly before being hospitalized. The a pparent
link between misinformation and Cain’s death galvanized an online
movement that set out to showcase similar stories of cause and effect,
3
4 DEAD WRONG
and more people started paying for their ignorance and healthcare’s
inaction. Reflecting on my clinical career, I came to understand
that misinformation had been with me—been with us all—from
the start. Unless the healthcare system did something about it, the
problem could be with us forever.
After a month’s struggle, Mr. Pitts purchased the ground on which his
home was to be built. It was an indescribable hillside, bordering on the
precipitous. A friend of mine remarked that “it was such an aggravating
piece of profanity that the owner gave Mr. Pitts five dollars to accept the
land and the deed to it.” This report I feel bound to correct. Mr. Pitts
purchased the land. He gave three dollars for it. The deed having been
properly recorded, Mr. Pitts went to work. He borrowed a shovel, and,
perching himself against his hillside, began loosening the dirt in front of
him, and spilling it out between his legs, reminding me, as I passed daily,
of a giant dirt-dauber. At length (and not very long either, for his
remorseless desire made his arms fly like a madman’s) he succeeded in
scooping an apparently flat place out of the hillside and was ready to lay
the foundation of his house.
There was a lapse of a month, and I thought that my hero’s soul had
failed him—that the fire, with so little of hope to feed upon, had faded and
left his heart full of ashes. But at last there was a pile of dirty second-
hand lumber placed on the ground. I learned on inquiry that it was the
remains of a small house of ignoble nature which had been left standing
in a vacant lot, and which had been given him by the owner. Shortly
afterwards there came some dry-goods boxes; then three or four old sills;
then a window-frame; then the wreck of another little house; and then the
planks of an abandoned show-bill board. Finally the house began to
grow. The sills were put together by Mr. Pitts and his wife. A rafter shot up
toward the sky and stood there, like a lone sentinel, for some days, and
then another appeared, and then another, and then the fourth. Then Mr.
Pitts, with an agility born of desperation, swarmed up one of them, and
began to lay the cross-pieces. God must have commissioned an angel
especially to watch over the poor man and save his bones, for nothing
short of a miracle could have kept him from falling while engaged in the
perilous work. The frame once up, he took the odds and ends of planks
and began to fit them. The house grew like a mosaic. No two planks were
alike in size, shape, or color. Here was a piece of a dry-goods box, with
its rich yellow color, and a mercantile legend still painted on it,
supplemented by a dozen pieces of plank; and there was an old door
nailed up bodily and fringed around with bits of board picked up at
random. It was a rare piece of patchwork, in which none of the pieces
were related to or even acquainted with each other. A nose, an eye, an
ear, a mouth, a chin picked up at random from the ugliest people of a
neighborhood, and put together in a face, would not have been odder
than was this house. The window was ornamented with panes of three
different sizes, and some were left without any glass at all, as Mr. Pitts
afterwards remarked, “to see through.” The chimney was a piece of old
pipe that startled you by protruding unexpectedly through the wall, and
looked as if it were a wound. The entire absence of smoke at the outer
end of this chimney led to a suspicion, justified by the facts, that there
was no stove at the other end. The roof, which Mrs. Pitts, with a
recklessness beyond the annals, mounted herself and attended to, was
partially shingled and partially planked, this diversity being in the nature
of a plan, as Mr. Pitts confidentially remarked, “to try which style was the
best.”
Such a pathetic travesty on house-building was never before seen. It
started a smile or a tear from every passer-by, as it reared its homely
head there, so patched, uncouth, and poor. And yet the sun of Austerlitz
never brought so much happiness to the heart of Napoleon as came to
Mr. Pitts, as he crept into this hovel, and, having a blanket before the
doorless door, dropped on his knees and thanked God that at last he had
found a home.
The house grew in a slow and tedious way. It ripened with the seasons.
It budded in the restless and rosy spring; unfolded and developed in the
long summer; took shape and fullness in the brown autumn; and stood
ready for the snows and frost when winter had come. It represented a
year of heroism, desperation, and high resolve. It was the sum total of an
ambition that, planted in the breast of a king, would have shaken the
world.
To say that Mr. Pitts enjoyed it would be to speak but a little of the truth.
I have a suspicion that the older children do not appreciate it as they
should. They have a way, when they see a stranger examining their
home with curious and inquiring eyes, of dodging away from the door
shamefacedly, and of reappearing cautiously at the window. But Mr. Pitts
is proud of it. There is no foolishness about him. He sits on his front
piazza, which, I regret to say, is simply a plank resting on two barrels, and
smokes his pipe with the serenity of a king; and when a stroller eyes his
queer little home curiously, he puts on the air that the Egyptian gentleman
(now deceased) who built the pyramids might have worn while exhibiting
that stupendous work. I have watched him hours at a time enjoying his
house. I have seen him walk around it slowly, tapping it critically with his
knife, as if to ascertain its state of ripeness, or pressing its corners
solemnly as if testing its muscular development.
One of the happiest men that I ever knew—one whose serenity was
unassailable, whose cheerfulness was constant, and from whose heart a
perennial spring of sympathy and love bubbled up—was a man against
whom all the powers of misfortune were centered. He belonged to the
tailors—those cross-legged candidates for consumption. He was
miserably poor. Fly as fast as it could through the endless pieces of
broadcloth, his hand could not always win crusts for his children. But he
walked on and on; his thin white fingers faltered bravely through their
tasks as the hours slipped away, and his serene white face bended
forward over the tedious cloth into which, stitch after stitch, he was
working his life—and, with once in a while a wistful look at the gleaming
sunshine and the floating clouds, he breathed heavily and painfully of the
poisoned air of his work-room, from which a score of stronger lungs had
sucked all the oxygen. And when, at night, he would go home, and find
that there were just crusts enough for the little ones to eat, the capricious
old fellow would dream that he was not hungry; and when pressed to eat
of the scanty store by his sad and patient wife, would with an air of
smartness pretend a sacred lie—that he had dined with a friend—and
then, with a heart that swelled almost to bursting, turn away to hide his
glistening eyes. Hungry? Of course he was, time and again. As weak as
his body was, as faltering as was the little fountain that sent the life-blood
from his heart—as meagre as were his necessities, I doubt if there was a
time in all the long years when he was not hungry.
Did you ever think of how many people have died out of this world
through starvation. Thousands! Not recorded in the books as having died
of starvation,—ah, no? Sometimes it is a thin and watery sort of apoplexy
—sometimes it is dyspepsia, and often consumption. These terms read
better. But there are thousands of them, sensitive, shy gentlemen—too
proud to beg and too honest to steal—too straightforward to scheme or
maneuver—too refined to fill the public with their griefs—too heroic to
whine—that lock their sorrows up in their own hearts, and go on starving
in silence, weakening day after day from the lack of proper food—the
blood running slower and slower through their veins—their pulse faltering
as they pass through the various stages of inanition, until at last, worn
out, apathetic, exhausted, they are struck by some casual illness, and
lose their hold upon life as easily and as naturally as the autumn leaf,
juiceless, withered and dry, parts from the bough to which it has clung,
and floats down the vast silence of the forest.
But my tailor was cheerful. Nothing could disturb his serenity. His thin
white face was always lit with a smile, and his eyes shone with a peace
that passed my understanding. Hour after hour he would sing an
asthmatic little song that came in wheezes from his starved lungs—a
song that was pitiful and cracked, but that came from his heart so
freighted with love and praise that it found the ears of Him who softens all
distress and sweetens all harmonies. I wondered where all this happiness
came from. How gushed this abundant stream from this broken reed—
how sprung this luxuriant flower of peace from the scant soil of poverty?
From these hard conditions, how came this ever-fresh felicity?
After he had been turned out of his home, the tailor was taken sick. His
little song gave way to a hectic cough. His place at the work-room was
vacant, and a scanty bed in wretched lodgings held his frail and fevered
frame. The thin fingers clutched the cover uneasily, as if they were
restless of being idle while the little ones were crying for bread. The tired
man tossed to and fro, racked by pain,—but still his face was full of
content, and no word of bitterness escaped him. And the little song,
though the poor lungs could not carry it to the lips, and the trembling lips
could not syllable its music, still lived in his heart and shone through his
happy eyes. “I will be happy soon,” he said in a faltering way; “I will be
better soon—strong enough to go to work like a man again, for Bessie
and the babies.” And he did get better—better until his face had worn so
thin that you could count his heart-beats by the flush of blood that came
and died in his cheeks—better until his face had sharpened and his
smiles had worn their deep lines about his mouth—better until the poor
fingers lay helpless at his side, and his eyes had lost their brightness.
And one day, as his wife sat by his side, and the sun streamed in the
windows, and the air was full of the fragrance of spring—he turned his
face toward her and said: “I am better now, my dear.” And, noting a
rapturous smile playing about his mouth, and a strange light kindling in
his eyes, she bended her head forward to lay her wifely kiss upon his
face. Ah! a last kiss, good wife, for thy husband! Thy kiss caught his soul
as it fluttered from his pale lips, and the flickering pulse had died in his
patient wrist, and the little song had faded from his heart and gone to
swell a divine chorus,—and at last, after years of waiting, the old man
was well!