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The Washington Post (01/04/2013)

January 10, 2013

Ellen G. McDaniel, U-Md. official

Ellen G. McDaniel, 71, a forensic psychiatrist who became associate dean for admissions at the University of Maryland’s medical school in Baltimore, died Jan. 3 at her home in the Howard County community of Highland. She had lung cancer.

Her husband, John P. McDaniel, confirmed the death.

Dr. McDaniel, who served on professional panels and task forces in Maryland, joined the medical school faculty in 1970 and became associate dean in 1982. After her full-time academic career ended around 1990, she opened a private practice in Towson, Md. Throughout her career, she was an expert witness in forensic psychiatry in legal cases and also conducted patient evaluations for competency to stand trial.

Ellen Rachel Garb was a Cleveland native and attended Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh before graduating in 1966 from the University of Michigan’s medical school. She completed her psychiatric residency at what is now the University of Maryland Medical Center in Baltimore. She was a graduate of the Baltimore Washington Institute for Psychoanalysis in the District.

Dr. McDaniel was a past president of the Maryland Psychiatric Society and a regional chapter of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law. In addition to her faculty role at the University of Maryland, she had academic appointments at the George Washington University and the Georgetown University medical schools. She published and lectured widely.

Dr. McDaniel was a past board member of the old Maryland Ballet in Baltimore and the Lab School of Washington. More recently, she was a founding board member of the Baltimore Lab School.

Survivors include her husband of 47 years, John P. McDaniel of Highland; two children, Celia “Lorrie” Clendenin of Bethesda and Michael McDaniel of Baltimore; a brother; two sisters; and three grandchildren.

— Adam Bernstein

The Baltimore Sun (01/06/2013)

January 10, 2013

Dr. Ellen G. McDaniel, psychiatrist

Former associate dean at the University of Maryland School of Medicine was noted for her work in forensic psychiatry

January 06, 2013|By Jamie Smith Hopkins, The Baltimore Sun

Dr. Ellen G. McDaniel, whose distinguished career in psychiatry spanned more than 40 years and influenced patients, medical students and even juries, died of lung cancer Thursday at her home in Highland. She was 71.

The former Ellen Garb was raised in Cleveland and went off to college with thoughts of becoming a nurse. But her father encouraged her to train as a doctor, and she did — graduating from the University of Michigan Medical School as one of only seven women in the class of 1966, said her husband, John P. McDaniel.

"She was a trailblazer," he said.

The McDaniels graduated together from Michigan, were married the next day and went off to Delaware Hospital in Wilmington, he to work in administration and she to do a rotating internship.

Dr. McDaniel joined the University of Maryland School of Medicine as a faculty member in 1970. Her 22 years there — including 10 as associate dean for admissions — improved a generation of students and young doctors, her colleagues said.

"The field of psychiatry and mental health was really served well by her," said Denis J. Madden, a psychologist who worked at the school before becoming an auxiliary bishop for the Archdiocese of Baltimore. "She helped form leaders and form good docs."

She saw people holistically. She got to know applicants to the school beyond their grades and test scores, and she impressed upon medical students that patients with physiological problems have emotional and psychological needs, too — as do their families.

"For those of us who trained in psychiatry at the University of Maryland, there was a very stiff competition to have her as a supervisor," said Dr. Paul McClelland, chief of psychiatry at St. Agnes Hospital in Baltimore, who counts himself as one of the students she influenced. "Ellen was so knowledgeable, and at the same time, so down-to-earth. … You left wanting to be a better psychiatrist and a better person."

Dr. McDaniel brought humor to duties that other faculty members might have griped about — seeing more than 35 unfamiliar patients in a single day while pulling a weekend shift at the hospital, for instance. She didn't complain. She laughed.

"She just had a real disarming sense of humor that made it so safe to reveal your own character flaws and just be more genuine," said Dr. McClelland, who worked with her at the medical school after training there. "Her patients absolutely loved her. … She just made you comfortable being yourself."

And she was cheerful despite a specialty that could easily depress: forensic psychiatry, the intersection of mental health and crime. She testified in cases across the mid-Atlantic, speaking to defendants' mental states and other details that influence decisions on guilt or sentencing.

William J. Rowan III, a retired Montgomery County circuit judge, said Dr. McDaniel was such a respected expert that "the hardest thing" he ever did was rule against her recommendation on whether to accept the insanity defense of a young Marine who stabbed his father to death.

Dr. McDaniel, who worked in private practice after leaving the University of Maryland in 1992, focused entirely on forensic psychiatry in the past decade. Earlier, she had also seen patients in a general practice.

Her professional life was just a piece of the whole, though. She raised two children. She was a founding board member of the Baltimore Lab School for bright students with learning disabilities. She gardened. She wrote short stories. She raised thoroughbred racehorses, with her husband, on their farm. She served on state panels, including a task force on domestic violence. And she traveled extensively — going to dozens of countries, from Iceland to Cambodia.

"One time I asked her what she was going to do for her vacation, and she bowled me over when she told me she was going bungee jumping in Thailand," Judge Rowan said.

Mr. McDaniel, who called his wife "a master of multi-tasking," said she also advocated for social issues she felt passionate about, among them gay rights and repealing the death penalty. She used her sense of humor to ensure that Maryland's ballot measure to approve same-sex marriage got one more vote than it otherwise would have.

"She said, 'Look, you promise me you're going to vote for gay marriage,'" said her husband, a Republican who often canceled out her more liberal votes. "I said, 'Well, I'm not sure I can do that.' She said, 'No, look, you're not going to deny a dying woman's last request!' "

It worked. He laughs at the recollection.

Dr. McDaniel spent the past 30 years battling with cancer — first ovarian, then breast, then non-Hodgkin's lymphoma and finally lung. The lymphoma was a close thing: It was only through an experimental program in Nebraska that she was able to get a bone-marrow transplant, and the doctors gave her a 2 percent chance of living five years afterward. Instead, she lived for 20.

"The perspective that Ellen always had was how blessed and privileged she had been," Mr. McDaniel said. "She would say to people, 'I've had a great run.'"

In addition to her husband, Dr. McDaniel is survived by her children, Lorrie Clendenin of Bethesda and Michael McDaniel of Baltimore; a brother, Robert Garb of San Rafael, Calif.; two sisters, Susan Jaworowski of Avon, Ohio, and Connie Gale of Jerome, Mich.; and three grandchildren.

The family expects to hold a celebration of life ceremony on a date to be determined. Donations may be made to the Dr. Ellen McDaniel Scholarship Fund at the Baltimore Lab School, 2220 St. Paul St., Baltimore 21218.

jhopkins@baltsun.com

twitter.com/jsmithhopkins

My Uncle Joe

January 8, 2013

This is a draft story about an "Uncle Joe" written on 09/04/2012.  I guess we now know who the real horseman... (sorry mom) horseperson is in the family.

Uncle Joe torpedoed straight out of central casting:  protruding abdomen, black mustache, gravelly voice, a Cuban Cohiba cigar clenched between his teeth on the right side of his mouth and a scotch and water atop a nearby table.  He carried the Daily Racing Form under his left arm and taught me, Faith, how to make fancy bets like a Superfecta, using the Form as my textbook.  Uncle Joe patiently placed my bets for me and never questioned my final decisions.  I didn’t know anyone my age back then who knew how to handicap and bet.  The track stood near the community swimming pool where I worked during my adolescence summers.  Whenever he saw me walking to work, he’d give me a ride and slip me a $50 bill.  Uncle Joe’s wallet always bulged with cash which he depleted by playing the ponies in the afternoon and poker at night with his pals.  I never attended the card games growing up but Uncle Joe taught me how to play.

In 10th grade Uncle Joe introduced me to alcohol.  He asked me to tell my two sisters to join us for lunch.  Joe always had lunch at Stouffers.  He sat in the front room facing the exit with his back to the wall.  I did not ask my sisters, Joanne and Maria.  I thought he wanted lunch alone with me.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  In retrospect, I recognize that I wanted his exclusive attention and ‘forgot’ his request to ask my sisters.  I still feel badly about that.  But that is when I had my first cocktail---a whiskey sour.  Delicious the first time and deadly down the road.

I started going to the track with Uncle Joe on a more regular basis around the time I had my first cocktail.  On Saturday afternoons my homework had to be completed before I left the house.  That hardly presented a problem.  Uncle Joe had a box seat right at the finish line and six people could sit in it.  His trainer, his friends, and a variety of odd characters paid homage to Uncle Joe with brief visits.  Once in a while, I’d see money exchange hands.  Uncle Joe always gave me $50 to bet but did not add more when I lost.  $10 across the board was my favorite bet.  The prior race would end and Uncle Joe and I would go down to the paddock to watch the horses in the upcoming race, led by their handlers, walk in a circle while the crowd tried to discern if a little sweat on a horse or a confirmation problem meant no-win.  Every single horse looked beautiful to me.  After each horse’s identification tattoo was examined, the crew for each horse would saddle up and the jockey, typically around 120 pounds and 5 feet 4 inches, would step into the trainer’s cupped hand and mount the horse.  With a pony escorting the horses, the horses walked on to the track for some more exhibitions until it was time to “load the gate.”

Once in a while, I’d see this one man talking privately with Uncle John. 

The horses entered the starting gate according to their post position randomly obtained earlier.  If a horse balked at the gate, the horses already loaded had to wait in that narrow fenced in space.  Finally the bell rings, the gates open, the announcer says they’re off, and the excitement mounts.                            

Freddie, an usher, stood at attention in the box seat area, always willing to escort an owner to the winner’s circle.  The owner, in a cloud of temporary happiness, typically tipped Freddie anywhere from $5.00 to $100.00.

Mike and Mickey

January 7, 2013

My mother was a bit of a writer these last couple of years.  At 70 she started an online writing class which she diligently participated in until a month before her passing.  Think of that... 70 years old, facing terminal cancer, getting her effects in order, and participating in a writing class!  Not even sure what part of the "awesome" scale that falls under. 

One of her first short stories was about an event that took place during her recovery from an experimental Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Transplant at the The Nebraska Medical Center.  This story was written on 02/14/2012.  The event/transplant took place in the Spring of 1993 (probably a record for survival).  The 'Mickey Mouse' is a proud fixture at our house.  Mom - we love and miss you.

I cannot lift my head off of the pillow. Side to side movements exhaust me.  I stare at the ceiling until the nurse enters the room to turn me, like a piece of beef cooking on the grill.  My thoughts drift like dust in space.  Everything is white; the walls, the ceiling, my gowns, visitors’ gowns, face masks, latex gloves, bed linens, towels, machines, furniture.  The swooshing sound of circulating air reminds me of tall undulating grass on a Kansas prairie before a storm.  Six tubes from a machine snake into my body.  A steady mechanical beat accompanies the delivery of goods through these hoses.  No one tells me the content of the deliveries.  Nutrition?  Medicine?  Poison? 

On the wall in front of me is a picture I brought from home of a heron with a frog dangling out of his beak. The frog is choking the heron who is trying to swallow the frog.  The caption reads, Don’t Ever Give Up! To my left, a large window overlooks a wing of the hospital.  I have not looked out since the day of admission.  The chart with my blood counts rests on an easel at the foot of my bed; 0 red cells, 0 white cells, 0 platelets, 0 stem cells.  I should be dead.  Maybe I am. 

“Don’t worry,” says a nurse.  “It’s only been a day since you had your transplant.”

“A day?  Just a day?   You sure?” 

A treadmill that I rented stands to my right and remains unused.  Piles of books remain unread.  Dozens of cards remain unopened.

Three pieces of furniture fill the remaining space:  my bed, a recliner, and a small table with two chairs.  One humongous Mickey Mouse sits in one of those chairs.  How did he get in this room?  Mickey sports a gigantic cartoon head, wears a pair of red boxer shorts with white polka dots, and has on yellow slippers.  My husband, John, starts a conversation with me about something.  I can’t remember on what.  Mickey turns his big head to look at us.  Or does he?

“Shhh, Mickey is all- ears.” I say.  “He’ll tell.”

“He’ll tell what?

I have no idea.

I am so sick.  Nauseated, painful sores all over my mouth, dizzy, weak, no attention span, in and out of consciousness and heart failure, clean but smelly from the medicines used, bald, looking ugly.  This is too much.  Death looks so promising right now.  A peaceful crossing of the border between life and no-life. 

Am I talking about death or am I thinking about it?  In front of me our son’s head bops along in a horizontal line from left to right with his face turned towards me.  Isn’t he supposed to be back at college?  Mike looks so sad and a little annoyed.  His piercing blue eyes stare at me, full of love and disappointment. 

As his head passes he says, “You’re not giving up are you?  You told us never to give up.”

Mike sounds surprised.  I watch his head disappear to my right.  I am drifting off to sleep, still seeing the bopping head.  I know that icon will stay with me for the rest of my life.  May it be a long one.

Favorite Christmas Memories

January 4, 2013

Excerpt from 12/2011 speech given at the Winter Lights Assembly at The Potomac School...

When the presents are all opened, we head over to my great aunt and uncle’s house for the remainder of the day.  Everyone is there: my great aunt, the outspoken forensic psychiatrist, my great uncle, who always manages to sneak out of the house and go to a horse race with his drinking buddies (he still thinks we don’t notice), my grandma and her plethora of antique gifts, my cousin Mike, the George Clooney of Baltimore, Auntie Lorrie and her husband Bill and their kids Cooper, Marley, and Satchel, the coolest, sassiest set of siblings I’ve ever met. 

Our big family gift exchange is always fun because my great aunt has a unique perspective on gift giving.  She likes to give meaningful, cultural, dare I say mature gifts. At age 4, she gave me a replica of the human skeleton, at twelve, a biography and greatest hits album of Edith Piaf.  Not familiar with Piaf? That’s the point. She even gave my ten-year-old cousin a Rubbermaid full of currency.  Just currency. But her gift-giving abilities definitely peaked when she gave my mom, then aged seven, a book entitled “Women of the World.” She loves “educational” gifts and blindly ordered the book thinking it was educational. It was, if you consider several hundred pages of naked women education.  Yes, she gave a seven-year-old a book of international porn.  My great aunt has already told me that my present this year is “dirty.” I can only imagine…


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