relationships

studies on relationships and the common cold

Submitted by raymond on Wed, 01/23/2008 - 10:20pm

regarding:

Social Intelligence: The New Science of Human Relationships

p 229
Under meticulously controlled conditions, [Sheldon Cohen] systematically exposes volunteers to a rhinovirus that causes the common cold. (23) About a third of people exposed to the virus develop the full panoply of symptoms, while the rest walk away with nary a sniffle. The controlled conditions allow him to determine why.
His Methods are exacting. Cohen's experimental volunteers are quarantined for twenty-four hours before they are exposed, to be ure they have not picked up a cold elsewhere. For the next five days (and for $800) the volunteers are housed in a special unit with other volunteers, all of whom are kept at least three feet from one another, lest they reinfect someone.
During those five days their nasal secretions are tested for technical indicators of colds (like the total weight of their mucus) as well as the presence of the specific rhinovirus, ad their blood samples are tested for antibodies. This way Cohen takes the measure of the cold with a precision that goes far beyond counting runny noses and sneezes.
We know that low levels of vitamin C, smoking, and sleeping poorly all increase the likelihood of infection. The question is, can a stressful relationships be added to that list? Cohen's answer: definitely.
Cohen asigns precise numerical values to the factors that make one person come down with a cold while another stays healthy. Those with an ongoing personal conflict were 2.5 times as likely as the others to get a cold, putting rocky relationships in the same causal range as vitamin C deficiency and poor sleep. (Smoking, the most damaging unhealthy habit, made people three times moe likely to succumb.) Conflicts that lasted a month or longer boosted susceptibility, but an occasional argument presented no health hazard. (24)
While perpetual arguments are bad for our health, isolating ourselves is worse. Compared to those with a rich web of social connections, those with the fewest close relationships were 4.2 times more likely to come down with the cold, making loneliness riskier than smoking.
The more we socialize, the less susceptible to colds we become. This idea seems counterintuitive: don't we increase the lieklihood of being exposed to a cold virus the more people we interact with? Sure. But vibrant social connections boost our good moods and limt our negative ones, suppressing cortisol and enhancing immune function uner stress. (25) Relationships themselves seem to protect us from the risk of exposure to the very cold virus they pose.

p 375 of Social Intelligence:

(23) Cohen assessed the emotional quality of their social interactions in one of his groups of volunteers in the days before coming into the lab. Unpleasant interactions, especially prolonged conflicts (as with heightened levels of cortisol), predicted that a person would be more likely to come down with a severe cold.

Sheldon Cohen, "Social Relationships and Susceptibility to the Common Cold," in Ryff and Singer, Emotion, Social Relationships, pp 221-44.

(24) Sheldon Cohen, et al., "Sociability and Susceptibility to the Common Cold," Psychological Science 14 (2003), pp 389-95. This study measured social encounters in the weeks before exposure to the rhinovirus, rather than in the day during and after the exposure (since volunteers were in quarantine by then), and so it does not answer the question of whether pleasant or unpleasant encounters just before and on the day of exposure affect immune defenses. That study remains to be done.

(25) Sociability-- seeking out others in friendly, genial way-- was linked to better moods, better sleep efficiency, and lower levels of cortisol, which in turn predicted less risk of a cold. But, Dr. Cohen notes, searching for a more robust connection might show with greater precision how sociability might "get inside the body"-- a question that remains a mystery in need of a more rigorous solution.

Sheldon Cohen, "Psychosocial Models of Social Support in the Etiology of Physical Disease," Health Psychology 7 (1988), pp. 269-97.

Relationships with a spouse, grandchildren, neighbors, friends, fellow volunteers, or fellow religious congregants al preduct that a person will be less susceptible to colds when exposed to rhinoviruses.

Sheldon Cohen, "Social Relationships and Health," American Psychologist (November 2004), pp 676-84.

variations on a theme by kaufman

Submitted by raymond on Tue, 05/27/2003 - 8:27pm

"All is ephemeral, both what remembers and what is remembered"
-- Marcus Aurelius

I felt like the luckiest guy in the world to be able to be there, sitting across the table from her. Having pancakes in the middle of the afternoon of all things. I wanted to save that moment. Right there. Right then. I wanted to capture the essence of it, to put a label on it and file it away for the next time I needed it. I wanted to remember each feeling, each thought, each and every detail. I wanted to save whatever the hell it was that made me feel so good. I wanted to fold the comfort I felt upon itself and delicately set it aside so I could wrap myself in its warmth the next time I faltered.

Our plates arrived under piles of starch and sugar and other manifestations of pure goodness. Magnificence. Her eyes, nose, mouth were all a titter with the barrage of sensations. Her face glowed as she prodded the various concoctions in anticipation. She shot me an excited smile with raised eyebrows that said, "Do you see this? Doesn't it look great?" She looked back down and wrinkled her mouth as she concerned herself with how best to begin. Her delicate features furrowed as she considered how much and how quickly she could shovel food into her mouth while maintaining a level of daintiness.

She looks up at me. "Is this about me?"

"No. Sorry."

I'm not sure if she believes me. She pouts in mock disappointment. She is very pretty. She has these incredible eyes I keep getting lost in. Occasionally, I forget to keep my mouth closed when I look at her. "It's good. I like it so far. You're such a good writer."

"Not really. I'm stuck." I just saw Adaptation. Kaufmann got stuck. Then, he wrote about being stuck. That was pretty cool. I could be cool. But, I remember that annoying kid in junior high who wrote an essay about how he had nothing to write about and thought he was novel and clever until his teacher failed him as an object lesson to the other kids who were thinking about trying to be novel and clever. That kid was not cool. I don't want to be that kid again.

"Well, did this actually happen? You could write about how it actually happened."

"Not really. I have all these false starts and random snippets leading in directions I don't want to take it. Here's a piece I think I want to use, but I'm not sure." She looks down at the laptop. I try not to stare at her neck. I can never concentrate all that well when she puts her hair up. She is very pretty. I stare at my coffee instead. I take a sip and end up staring at her lips. Her mouth is slightly opened as she reads.

I was smiling like an idiot. There was something about the way she optimistically poked at her food. Something about seeing her enjoy herself. I want to say this something was "cute", but "cute" doesn't make me want to climb across the table to kiss her. "Cute" doesn't saturate me in pleasant memories. Lying in bed together on lazy Saturday afternoons. Walking down a quiet street. Her standing very close to me for a moment before kissing my neck.

"This is nice," she says without looking up. I chuckle. She smells good. What is it? Lotion? Perfume? It's intoxicating. My mind struggles for something witty to say.

"Yeah." Idiot. My mind slaps witty-things-to-say neuron for being incompetent. The neuron blames the perfume.

I felt pained. Some dull indescribable ache that for so long, I couldn't understand. The sight was a reminder of what no longer was and what no longer could be. The pain was the longing I felt for those days, the days of such simple contentment. Pancakes in the middle of an afternoon. That moment came so easily. Why did we live with such strained irritation? Hesitation. Distraction. Our moments reeked of effort. What had happened?

"What?" she asked. I had barely touched my food.

"What what?" I replied. This was how we now solved our problems; staring contests. Seemingly casual jousting over a torrent of emotions. I couldn't flinch first. I couldn't be the one to say "I need you. I love having you in my life" because if she didn't feel the same way, it would just be...

"No really, what?" She lowered her fork and knife as she looked at me with increasing interest. I may have been holding my breath. Her brow furrowed just slightly and she cocked her head to one side in an attempt to read the thoughts that are thrashing about in my mind. I felt my thoughts starting to etch themselves into my forehead. She still wasn't sure whether she should be concerned or amused, but this was a staring contest I was going to lose if I didn't come up with something quickly.

"I..." want to tell you that you're beautiful. am enjoying myself. need you. wish things worked out. am thrilled to be here with you. wish I bought roses for you today. don't know what to say. "... have something stuck in my teeth."

She touches her lips. "Aw. That's kinda sad," she says. She sits for a moment still looking at the screen. Thoughtful. Re-reading passages. She's very pretty. We're sitting very close together. Every breath I take is filled with her scent. What voodoo is this? I can't think straight to save my life. Is it my turn to speak? She says, "It's good though. How does it end?"

"I don't know yet. I have a few ideas..."-- none of which are coming to mind at the moment. I'm scrounging about for words. My mind is furiously slapping neurons. This feels familiar. She looks at me again. I am lost again. She bites her lower lip and smiles. Our faces are very close together.

"What?" she asks again.

Tell me what you think. Tell me how you feel. Tell me something has lingered. Tell me you've moved on. Tell me you miss getting pancakes too. Tell me something. Anything. "Nothing."