I was exiting an event last year when a man I had never met before yelled my name across a courtyard. It is always an unusual moment when a stranger calls your name.
How do I know this person?
And do I have spaghetti sauce on my shirt?
The man inquired about my health. It turned out he had seen the documentary, Warrior, that I made about my double lung transplant several years earlier. And then he wondered out loud, “Why are you wearing a mask? Are you scared of Covid?”
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I was waiting for a second transplant back then, which wasn’t exactly a secret. It was to protect myself from crowds since I had just been in one, I said. As nice as it was to say hello, since it was dark, I said goodbye. But then he called back.
“I’m not a doctor but... ,” the man began.
Now, let’s pause here for a second. However well intentioned, these words are never a great premise for a conversation with someone who is sick. In my experience, they are almost always followed by an ill-advised treatment, usually something that is claimed to cure or disappear an illness scientists have been working decades on.
Say, adapting a certain diet to erase cancer, instead of doing medical treatment – obviously dangerous – or, as the now president of the United States mused regarding combating coronavirus in 2020, injecting bleach. “And then I see the disinfectant where it knocks it out in a minute. One minute. And is there a way we can do something like that, by injection inside or almost a cleaning?” he said at a press briefing that April.
“I’m not a doctor. But ... I’m, like, a person that has a good you-know-what,” he continued on later while pointing to his head. Although this suggestion was quickly disproved as a treatment, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in the United States reported that a May 2020 survey found that 39 per cent of 502 Americans surveyed had done “high-risk things” with household cleaners in an attempt to stay Covid-free. This included inhaling or ingesting diluted bleach solutions, washing food with bleach and applying bleach products to skin.
Medical misinformation can be lethal, particularly when introduced to someone in a vulnerable position. The immeasurable tragedy of the California wildfires is a good example of this as social media influencers sling products to “detox” from smoke exposure. One influencer, an alternative medicine practitioner, offers practical support on her Instagram and blog that appears better than most. Topics such as “manage stress and anxiety” start with sense, but end with a “chill pill” you can buy. Likewise, under “mind your adrenals” there is another pill, also her brand. The “chill pill” costs $62. Beneath both products' alleged benefits is a mandatory legal note from the US Food and Drug Administration: “These products are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.”
[ Orla Tinsley: Competing to stay alive should not be our reality, but it isOpens in new window ]
Another US-based influencer has nearly five million followers. There are videos saying things such as: “My cousin healed colon cancer from his protocols ... and I’m healing too.”
He is not a medical doctor of any kind. He self identifies as a psychic. In a recent video, he shared alleged tools for people affected by the fires. “My main concern is people struggling with different health conditions ... triggered easier than other people ...” Yes, I am certainly triggered by the five bottles of unregulated remedies he is sitting behind trying to sell to vulnerable people in crisis which, of course, he profits from.
An incident closer to home happened in 2022 when The Happy Pear company posted a video saying: “Aim for eight to 13 fruit and veg portions per day; reduce alcohol consumption, avoid smoking and move regularly; eat mushrooms – reduces your risk of breast cancer, eat soy products two to three times per day.” The company later apologised for implying that if you behave a certain way you can curb cancer cells or gene mutations.
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The 2024 Reuters Digital News Report Insights Into Ireland’s Media Landscape found that 64 per cent of the Irish public is concerned about what is real and what is fake on the internet, compared with 50 per cent in the rest of Europe. It reported “shifting trends in how Irish people consume news via social media. Use of Facebook for news continues to decline, now at 29 per cent, while WhatsApp and YouTube have seen increases in usage for news purposes. Younger audiences prefer platforms like YouTube, Instagram and TikTok for their news consumption, whereas older groups lean towards Facebook.”
The well-meaning man I met that night was also not a doctor - I did ask him - but I did not think to ask if he was an influencer. Anyway, although I kept an open mind, his suggested practice of dousing two pieces of cotton wool in a bacteria-killing antibiotic before sticking them up my nose daily was not a practice I would be taking on.
I listen to my doctors. But I could see how someone else, more vulnerable, less experienced in medicine or maybe in a complete crisis might entertain the idea which, of course, is dangerous.
