Barbara Lipska, a Polish-born neuroscientist who serves as director of the Human Brain Collection Core at the National Institute of Mental Health in Bethesda, Maryland, is a long-time researcher in the field of schizophrenia. After being diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009 and melanoma in 2011, Lipska had gone on to enjoy good health and a very active lifestyle for several years. Although advised in 2011 that there was a 30% chance of the melanoma recurring, she was confident that she had beaten it. However, in 2015, the then sixty-three-year-old neuroscientist found herself gaining first-hand experience of the kind of cognitive dysfunction and paranoia seen in the people whose disease she'd studied. A number of brain tumours—metastases of the melanoma that had been removed from behind her ear a few years before—were the cause.
The initial tumours were in the occipital lobe (responsible for vision) and, as a brain scientist, Lipska knew almost immediately that the loss of sight in the lower right quadrant of her visual field was almost certainly due to the spread of cancer. However, a significant tumour that would later grow in her frontal lobe would greatly affect her cognitive abilities as well as her capacity to regulate her emotions. Other regions of her brain would also be afflicted. Over a period of two months, during the summer of 2015, she “descended into madness”. She also regularly got lost, had trouble orienting her body (and her car) in space, and experienced significant problems with reading and basic arithmetic.
In her book, written with Elaine McArdle, Lipska documents her grueling struggle with one of the most lethal cancers. At the time of her diagnosis with metastatic melanoma, one of the original three tumours was bleeding and required immediate surgery. A bleed in the brain is serious. Blood irritates the tissues, causing them to swell dangerously. Pressure builds within the skull, and a patient can die when the brain “cones”—that is, when it is forced downward and the centres controlling heart rate and respiration are compressed.
After successful surgery to remove the raisin-sized cancerous growth that was bleeding, Lipska received targeted radiation to the other tumours. Only after this could such treatments as immunotherapy (which empowers the immune system to recognize and destroy cancer cells) and “targeted” therapy (aimed at specific molecules within cancer cells) be tried. In spite of an iron will and a high tolerance for pain and discomfort, Lipska confronted tumours that had minds of their own. They kept popping up “like weeds in a garden”. At one point, she had eighteen simultaneously. Many of us might not be able (or even want) to persist in the face of considerable suffering as Lipska did. However, she attributes at least some of her endurance to her long-time training and competing as a marathoner and tri-athlete. Lipska is still not out of the woods; however, the mostly new treatments she underwent have prolonged a life that she obviously values, even if that life continues to pose challenges.
While Lipska’s story is certainly interesting, the writing in the book is not the best. Some of it is quite cliché and bland. Apparently Lipska and McArdle strove for accessibility over detail, so some of the scientific information is very general. Lipska acknowledges that her bizarre and frankly hostile behaviour was difficult for her family to endure. The many examples of it form a significant portion of her book. However, with respect to this, Lipska sometimes doesn't supply enough detail for the reader to understand how her family agreed to let her carry on with her life as usual when she was clearly suffering significant mental disability. It seems, for example, that she continued to drive to work when there was ample evidence she had serious spatial deficits. Did no one notice the banged-up SUV? And why was she continuing to go for runs alone in the neighbourhood when it was clear that she was frequently disoriented and often got lost? Lipska does mention the distress of family members—the phone calls and tears—over her hurtful and aggressive behaviour, but it seems surprising that her neuroscientist son and endocrinologist daughter wouldn’t have figured out that their mother’s brain was significantly and dangerously impaired (in ways that could put herself and others at risk). They certainly knew about the tumours and their locations.
When discussing her first husband’s diagnosis and eventual (1985) death from the very same cancer she would later fight, Lipska mentions that in the Poland of the time, cancer was highly stigmatized. A diagnosis of malignancy was viewed as a sign of weakness and a loss of control over one’s life. No cancer patient discussed his condition with friends, or even with family. One has the sense in reading her memoir that this kind of attitude continued to affect (or, maybe, “infect”) Lipska herself. She states that her typical response to emergencies is to throw herself “into a rational, organized plan, and grasp whatever control” she can. She also writes that (earlier in her life) after breast cancer treatment, she was up and about on the fourth day and that she never failed to cook a meal when undergoing chemotherapy. While receiving treatment for her brain tumours, she remained physically active; she even ran a five-kilometer race a few weeks after her first radiation treatment, placing fourth in her age group. I suppose I should be impressed by this, but I honestly found Lipska’s drive bizarre and even alarming at times.
Generally Lipska’s husband, children, and grandchildren are presented quite stereotypically in her book. Her grandsons are adorable; her son, tall and handsome; and her daughter is beautiful and intelligent. I found myself occasionally wondering how Lipska, clearly a high-achieving Type-A personality, would manage if she had to describe children who were not athletic high achievers like herself. I also wondered what the descriptions of family might have been like if they'd been written by a writer other than McArdle--one more sensitive to language and nuance, who could tease compelling details out of her subject.
One of the biggest problems I had with
The Neuroscientist Who Lost Her Mind
was the authors’ persistent use of the present tense. It often does not work well in a book of this sort. Explanatory information (also written in the present tense) about Lipska’s symptoms and the side effects of treatments is interwoven with the narrative proper. As a result, the reader can't always distinguish between what the author understood about her condition as she was experiencing it and what she only knew later--when she'd regained her faculties. “Is this what is happening with me?” she asks at a point in her story when it seems highly unlikely her brain would allowed her such reasoning. Lipska’s tumours created the conditions for anosognosia, a lack of insight into her disease. (50 % of those diagnosed with schizophrenia and 40% of bipolar patients also experience this lack of insight—and it often makes them non-compliant with treatment). The tumours themselves, along with the swelling of brain tissue, also triggered a complete loss of empathy in Lipska--the same lack of empathy that characterizes those stricken with fronto-temporal dementia—a form of dementia which sometimes strikes younger people in the 45-64 age group. In my opinion, to eliminate confusion, it would have made much more sense to narrate Lipska's story in the past tense, shifting only to the present tense when providing explanatory information.
Lipska believes that she “emerged from that dark place” through a combination of luck, groundbreaking scientific advances, vigilance, and the support of her family. To this combination should be added her educational level, financial means, and social connections. No matter how lucky, vigilant, and supported a patient might be, and no matter how advanced the medical treatments he undergoes, if he lacks a level of education that allows him to access and comprehend demanding medical literature which will assist him in advocating for himself, as well as the means to see some of the finest doctors in the land, he may not be able to gain the extra time Lipska so clearly treasures. Not everyone has a sister like Lipska’s: a physicist who happens to be the chief of therapy in the radiation oncology department at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, where Lipska received her initial treatment.
Early in her book, Lipska says that one of her goals in writing is to identify the parallels between her experiences and the experiences of those with Alzheimer’s and other dementias, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia. This she manages to do very well. Lipska emerges as a determined, admirable woman--a fighter. Her experience is certainly an interesting and terrifying one, but her book is not quite as compelling as I had expected.