Iatrogenic: Difference between revisions

{{g}}A side-effect. An [[iatrogenic]] illness is not one that the cure is worse than, but that the cure actually ''causes''. Popularised by {{author|Nassim Nicholas Taleb}} in {{br|Antifragile: Things that Gain from Disorder}}, one can gleefully extrapolate it to many other walks of life, and service industries. So Night Nurse  may causes drowsiness and you shouldn’t drive tractors or operate photocopiers when dosed up, but at least it doesn’t make the head cold you are trying to alleviate ''worse''. Many forms of medical procedure can do this: antibiotics, for example, encourage bacteria to develop resistance to the antibiotics making your original problem harder to solve.  

There is a peculiar form of [[iatrogenic]]s, where, without the (mis)diagnosis, the body would recover and there would be no illness at all. This is why the “six second rule” isn’t quite the careless outrage the helicopter mums of North London imagine. It may be ''false'', but ingesting constant, small, amounts of bacteria — rather than sterilising the whole environment with antibiotics — encourages the antifragile body to develop its own immunities to the bacteria, so you don’t ''need'' antibiotics.

This is rather like [[insurance]]. For most purposes, [[insurance]] is a waste of money — realistically you are never going to claim on your extended warranty if your toaster breaks down after 18 months because (a) you can’t find it and (b) ''the damn thing only cost twenty five quid'' — the bother of having to find the stupid warranty, read it — there is guaranteed to be some exclusion — and actually claim on it is more bother than just shelling out twenty five more quid on a ''new'' toaster — of a different brand: screw you, Morphy Richards — and being done with it.

But there are [[insurance]] policies that, ''by themselves'', ''increase'' the likelihood of loss. Public liability insurance, for example.

Now here’s the thing. Coaching [[cricket]] is a pitiless pastime, in every possible way. You are not thanked for it, let alone paid for it. You certainly don’t grow rich from it — except spiritually, of course. You do it out of the goodness of your heart, a vague sense of moral obligation to the forthcoming generation, and a forlorn hope that some of the little ingrates might grow to love the game, for it is a wonderful diversion from the encroaching enormity of growing old. So any parent who gets a Sunday morning lie-in while you stand in a wind-swept field explaining the rudiments of the back-foot drive to little Horatio, but yet has ''civil [[litigation]]'' uppermost  in his mind — and not profound, undying gratitude — should rot in hell. He should be ''grateful'', as a default disposition, rather than opportunistically ''extortionate''.<ref>He won’t be, of course — that’s just the cruel reality of the human condition for you — but he ''should''.</ref>  

All the same, [[cricket]] is a perilous pastime. That 5½ oz leather-encased cork ball flies about at a decent lick. If it clocks junior, or he sprains his ankle, gets run over or somehow contracts hepatitis, then (a) that will do him the world of good, long term, and (b) unless you, coach, are some kind of pederast or have been egregiously delinquent when supervising young Tarquin, his adequately socialised parents<ref>They won’t be, of course: they named the pompous little sod Tarquin, after all, so you know they lack fundamental empathy, and any way the apple does not fall far from the tree, does it?</ref> — even neurotic North London ones — will shrug shoulders and figure that’s the price of being a lazy sod and letting other people look after their kids.