Not much has happened on my non-Thanksgiving. Archie came, but not until the end of the morning, and I didn’t manage much mileage on our walk. Still, we tried. He gives the impression that his nursing course is going well – it's a combination of classroom and hands-on which seems to be keeping him engaged. In the new year he will have “placements” in old folks’ homes, followed in due course by other placements. He is particularly looking forward to working in a prison.

 

I’ve done some knitting and some podcast-listening. It’s time for more measuring. The cheetahs aren’t at home. I hope that means that the weather is DC is fairly clement – my sister and her husband are going to have an outdoors Thanksgiving with their son and his family. Their daughter-in-law seriously scared of Covid. 

 

Since there is nothing else to say, I will tell you a story. I hope you haven’t had this before. It is prompted by a series on the radio about Thinking. The first episode was devoted to the proposition that algorithms can produce better results than hunches or gut-instinct, even when based on experience.

 

In the late weeks of 1957 I went to see a dr because I was pregnant with Rachel. I got plugged into the ante-natal system. I told him I was feeling terrible. He tossed a packet of pills across the desk – something he had been sent by a drug company in the hopes he would take it up and prescribe it. It was recommended for morning sickness. “You could try this”, he said.

 

I took one, that day or the next, and threw the rest away. The text suggested that it was a tranquilliser, and I resented the imputation that my sufferings were other than completely physiological.

 

Was it thalidomide? We’ll never know. The date fits, and thalidomide was recommended for morning sickness.

 

If so, it was the single most important decision I have ever made. Pure hunch – we didn’t have algorithms in 1957.  And if not, no harm was done.