One Can Make a Difference (5 page)

Often, a diet change is more powerful than drugs. In 2003, my research team began a study testing a new dietary approach to diabetes for the National Institutes of Health. We eliminated meat, dairy products, and other fatty foods, and emphasized fruits, vegetables, beans, and whole grains, and we compared this diet against a more traditional diabetes diet. A man named Vance read about the study and came in to see me. He described how his grandfather had died at age thirty, and how he was just thirty-one when he was diagnosed with diabetes. His weight had climbed over the years, and despite medication, his blood sugar was terribly out of control. We sat down and looked at how a low-fat vegan diet might help. He was glad that this was not just another pharmaceutical study. And, a bit to his surprise, he took to oatmeal, topped with apples and cinnamon, along with toast and fresh fruit. Lunch or dinner would be salads, dressed up with beans, blood oranges, or other additions. He enjoyed burritos, pasta, fresh vegetables, and fruits. As the weeks went by, his weight plummeted. After a year, he had lost sixty pounds. His blood sugar fell, too, to the point that he no longer needed medication. By rearranging his plate, he had tackled his disease. I was as thrilled as he was. Following a similar diet, I'm pleased to say that others have reversed heart disease, cured migraines, and relieved arthritis.

Now, some patients are a bit of a tough sell, as I learned from my own mother. My father and she still live in North Dakota, and she's had a high cholesterol level for years. Despite the fact that I'd done a number of studies on diet and health and had written several nutrition books, she wasn't interested in a diet overhaul. What finally put her over the edge was her own physician, who wanted to put her on cholesterol-lowering medications. For a woman born in 1924, the idea of being dependent on medication was simply out of the question. At that point, she picked up my book
Food for Life
, and started a vegan diet.

After six or seven weeks, she went back to her doctor for a cholesterol test. And to this day, she describes how he walked into the exam room, cholesterol report in hand, and began to apologize. Apparently, the laboratory equipment must be broken, he explained, because her cholesterol had seemingly plunged to normal levels—something that was clearly impossible in such a short time.

“But if this really were my cholesterol level, would I need medicine?” Mom asked.

“No,” the doctor said. “That's my point. This is a totally normal cholesterol level. It can't be right.”

My mother thanked him and left, drug free.

When I set up PCRM, I aimed to do more than conduct research studies. We also advocate for more ethical research. When we began, there had been several recent examples of blatantly unethical research practices, some involving humans, others involving animals. And our doctors spoke up about it. In a government experiment, short children were to be injected with a genetically engineered growth hormone to see if it would make them taller. The experiment would have been ethical had the children been deficient in growth hormone, but they were normal, healthy children, whose parents might have been a bit shorter than others. Evidence suggested that the hormone injections would increase cancer risk over the long run and pose other risks. I was horrified to discover that at the other end of the height spectrum, some doctors used massive estrogen doses to try to halt growth in tall girls. As they put it, a tall girl would have trouble finding a husband or getting a job as an airline stewardess, believe it or not, and estrogens could shut down their bone growth. Never mind that they increase the risk of cancer and infertility in the process.

Our doctors were also concerned about animal experiments. We remembered all too clearly our own experiences in “dog lab”—a ritual in which first- or second-year medical students are told to experiment on live dogs and ultimately kill them.

The exercise is intended to convey the fine points of physiology, but ends up horrifying many students and desensitizing the rest. I had come to feel that typical animal research included much of the same callousness and inattention to other methods. There must be a way for science to move forward without blood on our hands. We worked with Harvard University to develop a method of teaching medical students by bringing them into the human operating room, where the drugs that had been used in “dog lab” were used in a more appropriate setting and where their effects could instantly be seen on the OR monitors. Today, nearly all U.S. medical schools have abandoned “dog labs.”

While our work is nowhere near done, the problems—and their solutions—are clearer than ever. We need to break from the nutritional habits that I grew up with and that my family promoted. We need to break with the indifference that allows people to fall victim to illness, on the assumption that picking up the pieces is the most we can do. Most of all, we need to take suffering seriously—wherever it manifests and whomever it affects, and do what we can to heal it.

When I graduated from medical school, I took the Hippocratic oath. The classic Greek physician's most important admonition was “First, do no harm.” I chose that as PCRM's motto, and consider it an important jumping off point for the decisions of everyday life.

CAROL BUCKLEY

When Life Gives You Elephants,
Make Orange Juice

In the woods of Tennessee, there is a sanctuary for elephants lucky enough to
have escaped forever from the hard life of the circus or the boredom of the zoo.
You can watch them on a Webcam as they bathe in the lake, stroll up the hills,
entwine their trunks in greeting, and play with the dogs (see the Resources section
for the Web address).You might even see them making orange juice, but I'll
let Carol Buckley explain that.

The Elephant Sanctuary, which Carol cofounded in 1995, means a lot to
me. Growing up in India, I not only saw elephants in servitude—the howdah
on their backs, the ankus or bull hook being dug into their sensitive flesh (yes,
elephants can feel a fly land on their skin!)—but I also befriended a mahout,
an elephant trainer. He told me the tragic story of how an elephant is “broken,”
separated from her mother and sisters and aunts, and how she pines for freedom
and family her whole life long. Elephants are complex, social, intelligent beings,
and Carol Buckley could hardly have picked a bigger project. Her ambition, her
resolve, and her dream are perfect for this book.

I
can remember the very first time I saw an elephant. They were on a little island at the zoo, and what didn't occur to me until later was that everywhere they turned, there were people staring at them. When I attended college, I took this amazing

“Semester at Sea” program where we sailed around the world. When we reached Africa, we went on a safari, and that's when I saw elephants again, only in their real home this time, in lush vegetation. I was struck by how this whole family of elephants was so calm. Along we came, a busload of screaming American girls, and the elephant families didn't pay any mind. They constantly touched each other with their trunks.

During my first year at college, I decided to work with animals. I began working with dogs and found I had a knack. One day I met someone who suggested that I learn to be a professional animal trainer. He gave me a pass to get behind the scenes at an animal park and apprentice with the trainers on staff. Thanks to his recommendation I was later accepted as a student at Moorpark College's Exotic Animal Training and Management Program, which, back then, was focused on training animals for circuses and zoos. Luckily, around that time, I met and became mesmerized by a baby elephant named Fluffie, who was used to draw customers to a tire store! Fluffie was only one year old and had just been imported. In fact, she was the second to last elephant to be imported into California before the Endangered Species Act became law and animal imports were banned. The tire store owner, Bob, let me volunteer to help with Fluffie's care. She was living in a truck at the tire store, but I lived on a half acre of land and managed to persuade Bob to let me take her home. That meant I had full control of her even on weekends, when she appeared at the tire store to “perform.”

Fluffie, who I renamed Tarra, was very needy, and I quickly became overprotective of her. She was incredibly smart and very receptive. She loved learning games; everything interested her, and I had to find ways to challenge her continually. She enjoyed playing the xylophone and the harmonica, and would waltz and sit down. I didn't control her, I used simple requests that she understood, like “come” and “walk” and “sit.” I would ask her to do things, and if she felt like it, she did. If she didn't, she didn't. With Tarra, it was a matter of patience, bananas, and waiting for her to do things in her time. Somehow the circus industry got wind of the fact that I was training this baby elephant. A man named Smoky Jones turned up. He offered his services to train Tarra “properly.” He told me that if I carried on being too affectionate to Tarra, she would get aggressive, that if I loved her, I must discipline her. He said she would be brutalized and even end up dead, killed, if I didn't listen to him and make her obey. I refused to hand her over! Tarra's owner decided to hire Smoky Jones to train his elephant and me at his premises in Fontana, California. So off we went, Tarra and I, with a few of our belongings packed up in her tiny delivery truck, for four weeks under Smokey's tutelage. This was initiation into the world of performing elephants.

One year later, I had secured a contract for Tarra to perform at a theme park. When I got my paycheck, I divided it into two, paying half of all the expenses, including Tarra's truck repair and fuel, her food, and so on. That made me a partner in her care, so when Tarra's owner came to take her back one day, I was able to get a restraining order preventing her return. He was livid! “Buy her then,” I was told! “For $25,000!” The going rate for an elephant then was $5,000–$7,000, but he was firm! I wasn't sure how I would cope, but I also believe that the Universe never gives you more than you need and never gives you more than you can deal with. My parents had faith in me. My father cosigned a loan, and Tarra became mine forever. All I had to do was stay on track.

I knew Tarra was growing up and needed a proper place to live. Also, as she grew up she began to show signs of restlessness. She was distracted and not interested in performing. I looked around but couldn't find anyplace where Tarra would be able to be herself, would be respected for who she is. The idea of starting a sanctuary started to prey on my mind. While I figured out how that dream could come true, I found a Canadian zoo where she could be with seven other elephants, and I was offered the job of superintendent of elephants. So we went there together, but it wasn't ideal for her; the sight of other elephants frightened her, and she spent all of her time at the gate, bobbing, a clear indication that she wanted out.

Over the next few years, Tarra and I moved to several different zoos, trying to find a place that met her needs. Finally recognizing that what I was looking for did not yet exist, my partner and I decided to purchase land and create a sanctuary especially for elephants. In 1994, when I heard that Tyke, a performing elephant, was gunned down in the street in Honolulu after running amok and killing her trainer, we knew the time was now. We found a piece of land. It was one hundred and twelve acres, which meant a $130,000 loan. I used some property I owned in California as collateral, and many people who knew Tarra came forward to help. It just started to all come together. Within three years, the Elephant Sanctuary had 15,000 dues-paying members. Up went our barns, we fenced more land, and every year we expanded, buying more and more acreage for the elephants to roam on.

On March 3, 1995, Tarra set foot on the sanctuary land. Next came our first rescued elephant, Barbara. She was a circus elephant who had been rejected by Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey, but was probably the wisest creature I've ever met. She was very knowing, clear about everything, and a great communicator. The minute she arrived, she was a teacher, bringing us closer to understanding the true nature of elephants.

One unusual thing about Barbara was she used to make orange juice. She didn't like to eat oranges but loved juice. We'd put down her produce and she'd separate out all the oranges, leave them, and eat everything else. Then she would pull the oranges in, one by one, then squish them with her foot, completely, juicing them, keep the juice in one place, toss the peel away, and then suck the juice up with her trunk!

Next came Shirley and Jenny. Then Bunny, who had lived alone in a zoo for her entire life. For forty-four years, she had stood in the small flat dirt yard of her zoo enclosure. Her muscles never developed to navigate hills; she didn't know how to walk on anything uneven. Even a little dip in the ground would throw her. She couldn't figure out how to step down or up. One day, walking along a shallow creek edge at the sanctuary, she lost her footing and froze in shock, letting her body fall to the ground. I tried to calm her, reassure her, but she was frozen with fear. Then I looked up, and several hundred yards away, I saw Barbara standing in the barn doorway, watching. I returned to reassuring Bunny, trying to get her to relax, when, the next thing I knew, Barbara was crossing the creek. She calmly approached, touching Bunny all over her face and head, gently, with her trunk, then made a little rumble sound and walked away slowly. Bunny got up and followed her. That was Barbara, forever helping the other elephants. She lived only five years.

Barbara died so peacefully. She came into the barn during the day, which was unusual because it was a sunny day. I left the office and spent the day pampering her; it was my birthday and I wanted to celebrate it with her, scrubbing her, giving her a warm bath, trimming her nails, loving her. She'd just melt into it, she loved the affection. In hindsight, it was like a preparation for her passing. At five o'clock, her feeding time, she ate her mineral ball with goodies, her peanut and molasses ball, her supplements, and then, quite suddenly, she was on her side on the barn floor. We all knew she had a wasting disease. Before, if she could not stand, she would show that she wanted to get up, and we'd help push her up and then hoist her up with a harness built specifically for her. This time, she acted differently; she resisted our help. So we stopped. My eyes met hers, and I got it. She was telling us that she was dying and wanted us to let her go. I heard this from her as if in a voice. Three of us, Joanna, Scott, and I, were with her with our hands on her, and in fifteen minutes her breathing slowed. There was no struggle, no fighting for breath; she just went totally peacefully.