Some of you seem to thing this subject is funny, it is NOT! I did a bit of
searching, this is from previous posts, some do not have the URL's.

http://tinyurl.com/abwro

http://www.fda.gov/ohrms/dockets/dockets/00n_1665/00N-1665-EC-07.html

http://www.yourhealthbase.com/amalgams.html

Trigeminal neuralgia linked to amalgam fillings
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA. Dr. William Cheshire, a physician at the Mayo Clinic,
reports on a case where a woman's trigeminal neuralgia (tic douloureux) was
traced to a galvanic reaction between an amalgam filling and an adjacent
gold-alloy crown. Consumption of tomatoes and other acidic foods produced
intense jolts described as being like those of an "electrical battery". The
jolts in turn resulted in excruciating pain in the trigeminal nerve.
Replacing
the amalgam filling with a composite resolved the problem. Dr. Cheshire
points
out that dissimilar metals in contact with saliva can form a galvanic cell
which can generate electrical currents with several hundred millivolts of
potential. He points out that many patients with trigeminal neuralgia
describe
their pain in terms of "electrical" jolts and concludes that his patient's
neuralgia may well have been triggered by the galvanic reaction between the
amalgam filling and the gold crown.
Cheshire, William P., Jr. The shocking tooth about trigeminal neuralgia. New
England Journal of Medicine, Vol. 342, June 29, 2000, p. 2003
(correspondence)

Ortendahl TW, Hogstedt P & Holland RP. Mercury vapor release from
dental amalgam in vitro caused by magnetic fields generated by CRT's
and electrical cutting procedures. Swed Dent J 1991 p 31 Abstract 22

ABSTRACT: "People working in front of a cathode-ray tube screen (CRT)
and who report they are negatively affected, sometimes complain about
symptoms often related to "Oral galvanism". Another group of workers,
occupationally exposed to magnetic fields, are divers, welding and
cutting electrically under water. It has been repoerted (Ortendahl et.

al. J. Undersea Biomed Res 1988;15:443-456) that the magnetic field
flux density intraoraly at a certain current and with a specific
distance relation between the oral cavity and the electric cord was
1.12 mT with a specific frequency spectra. Exposure of amalgam
specimens to a magnetic field with 1.15 mT (50 Hz) caused and chemical

changes on the surfaces of the dental amalgams. Therefore, the aim of
the study was to analyze if work in front of a CRT-screen would have
any influence on the mercury vapor release from dental amalgam. The
aim was also to analyze if a magnetic field with a complex frequency
spectra and a flux density of 1.15 mT would influence the mercury
vapor release. Materials and Methods: 5 CRT-screens were selected as
sources for the magnetic field exposure. The criterias for the
selection of screens were: 1 occurring frequently in swedish officies,

2. compensated and uncompensated screens with respect to the magnetic
fields. From three types of dental amalgams, representative to swedish

dentistry, cylindrical amalgam specimens were prepared and were
immersed in artificial saliva in an electrolytic cell. The
electrolytic cells were located exactly in front of the CRT-screens
with a distance amalgam - CRT-screen of 50 cm during 6 hours. On a
specific electrolytic cell, coils were adapted and supplied with a
current to the electrical cutting situation. The created field had a
complex frequency spectra in order to create a more realistic
simulation of the in vivo situation than the earlier used 50 Hz field.

The mercury vapor release (Hg0) was registered continously and were
determined by a gold-foil mercury vapor analyzer (Jerome 411). As
control served amalgam specimens, not exposed to a magnetic field but
immersed in the artificial saliva and a reference group which were not
exposed to either the magnetic fields or artificial saliva.

Results and Conclusion: 2 of the CRT-screens significantly increased the
mercury vapor release from all three types of amalgam. One of these
two screens were compensated and one were uncompensated. The magnetic
fields which were supposed to simulate the electrical cutting
situation did not cause any increased mercury vapor release. The study was
supported by The Swedish Work Environmental fund."

     Newsgroups: alt.health.dental-amalgam, sci.physics.electromag,
sci.med.dentistry
     From: Jim Barron <jdbar...@cphl.mindspring.com> - Find messages by
this author
     Date: 1997/09/22
     Subject: Re: Amalgam in EM field
     Reply to Author | Forward | Print | Individual Message | Show original

- Hide quoted text -
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Harry H Conover wrote:

Actually it doesn't seem strange at all:   Since no one has apparently
scientificly studied this effect, your idea that the effect should be
linearly related to the strength of the EMF field is ONLY a
**conjecture**.    Many biological effects are NOT linear and, without
scientific experiments or good theoretical basis for believeing that the
effect IS linear (or at least steadily increasing) the "jury is still
out".      I *DO* know that I DO have currents in my teeth (measured at
up to 400 mV) and that they are very strongly affected by magnetic
fields (on of the reasons I have been so absent from this group is that
I have been unable to sit in front of my CRT monitor for more than a
very short period without severe problems from the currents in my teeth
(which problems markedly reduced each time a quadrant of fillings was
removed - only one left to go!)

- Hide quoted text -
- Show quoted text -

This is grossly oversimplistic.   EMFs have many important properties
OTHER than just strength (frequency, variable or constant, etc.) any of
which could possibly be just as, or even more, important than mere
strength.

Interestingly enough I can work at my PORTABLE computer (which has a
liquid crystal display, hence no CRT tube (and no variable EMF)) for
many hours a day for days on end with NO problems whatsoever.  But a few
hours in front of a CRT tube would be devestating (FORGET about
sleeping!)

Short of this somewhat idealistic situation, ED radiation

If this is SO (and my experience indicates that you are just GUESSING
(incorrectly!) on this one) perhaps you could explain why the hairs on
the back of my hand stick straigt out when they get near my monitor?
And they DON'T in the same area when the monitor is off?

You have, or course, a right to your OPINION.  But an opinion with
NOTHING to back it up means little.

If you believe your computer monitor is the

Perhaps "I think"  might be more appropriate than "is"?

- Hide quoted text -
- Show quoted text -

I would suggest that the reason you receive what you perceive as "hate
mail" is that 1)  you seem to express an (apparently) unjustified
certainty on things about which you give no sound basis for your
*opinion*  AND 2) you, in effect,  "blame the victim" for his/her
problem.  (Easy to do when it's not YOUR problem!)    Such dogmatic
attributions of problems to "psychogenic" origins (all too common in
medicine and almost invariably WRONG (vitrually every medical problem
was attributed to "psycogenic" origins at some point (before it was
eventually understood)).    Some amount of reactive animosity is, IMHO
understandable, although not the most effective or desireable reaction.

IME (in my experience), angry replies are usually a result of the WAY
and MANNER in which ideas were expressed (inappropriate certainty,
disparaging other's valid observations, etc.) rather than to the ideas
themselves.

Also consider that, in the case of amalgam, those who, for MANY good
reasons, feel that they have been systematically poisioned by a
profession that has studiously avoided adequately investigating the
amalgam safety issue for well over a century,  have a good deal of
understandable resentment, distrust and anger.    Sometimes we forget
that a lot of dentists have been "victimized" with the same hogwash that
has been fed to patients.  (But we DO feel that they were a lot more
gullible than is really justifiable.)

jdbar...@mindspring.com

(another poster wrote)

Watch the tooth voltage readings.  Most millivolt meters will measure
voltages when the probes are put in the mouth.  Saliva is a good
electrolyte and when combined with fillings and meter probes forms a
very effective battery.

     Newsgroups: alt.health.dental-amalgam, sci.physics.electromag,
sci.med.dentistry
     From: micromercur...@geocities.com - Find messages by this author
     Date: 1997/09/22
     Subject: Re: Amalgam in EM field
     Reply to Author | Forward | Print | View Thread | Show original |
Report Abuse

Harry H Conover wrote:

Please do a search there is more on CRT its a matter of the frequency
given off, there was only one computer that did not produce this effect
and it was an IBM model.

Below the symptoms are no different its just a matter of time, if only
we could all wake up.

Regards
micromercurial
http://www.geocities.com/ResearchTriangle/2888/

Scientist Karen Wetterhan 1949 - 1997

               Mercury Changed Scientist's Life

               It was just a drop of liquid, just a tiny glistening
drop. It glided over
               her glove like a jewel.

               Scientist Karen Wetterhan knew the risks: The bad stuff
kills if you
               get too close.

               She took all the precautions working with mercury in her
Dartmouth
               College lab -- wearing protective gloves and eye
goggles, working
               under a ventilated hood that sucks up chemical fumes.

               So on that sunny day in August, when she accidentally
spilled a
               drop, she didn't think anything of it. She washed her
hands,
               cleaned her instruments and went home.

               It was just a drop of liquid, just a tiny glistening
drop.

               At first, friends thought she had caught a stomach bug
on her trip to
               Malaysia. It wasn't until she started bumping into doors
that her
               husband, Leon Webb, began to worry. Karen, always so
focused,
               always so sure of her next step, was suddenly falling
down as if she
               were drunk.

               In 15 years together, she had never been sick, never
stopped
               working, never complained. Leon was stunned when she
called for
               a ride home from work.

               Over lunch a few days later, Karen confided to her best
friend,
               Cathy Johnson, that she hadn't felt right for some time.
Words
               seemed to be getting stuck in her throat. Her hands
tingled. It felt
               like her whole body was moving in slow motion.

               "Karen," Johnson said as she drove her back to the
college, "we've
               got to get you to the hospital."

               "After work," Karen promised, walking unsteadily into
the Burke
               chemistry building for the last time.

               That night, Leon drove her to the emergency room. It was
Monday,
               Jan. 20, 1997, five months since she had spilled the
drop in the lab.

               Just a single drop of liquid. Yet somehow it had
penetrated her skin.

               By the weekend, Karen couldn't walk, her speech was
slurred and
               her hands trembled. Leon paced the house. "Virus" seemed
an
               awfully vague diagnosis for symptoms that were getting
worse
               every day.

               "It's mercury poisoning," Dr. David Nierenberg said. "We
have to
               start treatment immediately."

               Leon hung up with relief. At last, they understood the
problem. Now
               maybe they could fix it.

               It seemed impossible to believe that anything could be
wrong with
               Karen Wetterhahn, one of those quietly impressive
individuals
               whose lives seemed charmed from the start.

               Serious and hardworking, she excelled at everything she
turned to
               -- science or sailing or skiing. She grew up near Lake
Champlain in
               upstate New York in a family so close that when she and
her only
               sister became mothers, they named their daughters after
each
               other: Charlotte and Karen.

               Karen was always the brilliant one of the family, the
one who would
               do great things. And she did, becoming the first woman
chemistry
               professor at Dartmouth, running a world-renowned
laboratory on
               chromium research, devoting herself to her work.

               It was important work, the kind that could lead to cures
for cancer
               and AIDS. Karen thrived on it. She loved nothing more
than
               experimenting with a chemical, figuring out its bad side
and how it
               breaks down living things.

               In the often cutthroat world of scientific research and
ideas, where
               work is judged in academic journals and egos are as
enormous as
               intellects, Karen stood out. Other professors would send
their
               students to her office just to meet her. Talk to Karen,
they would say.

               See how you can balance the demands of work and life and
still be
               on top of your field.

               The only place on Earth more precious than her lab was
the dark
               cedar house that Leon, a mason, had built with his own
hands.
               Home was Karen's haven, her retreat from the rarefied
halls of Ivy
               League academia.

               Here, in the pretty village of Lyme, at the top of a
hill at the end of a
               dirt road, she would listen to rock music -- heavy metal
was her
               favorite -- and tend her garden.

               Here, science came second to 12-year-old Charlotte's
baby rabbits,
               14-year-old Ashley's mountain bikes, Todd the goat and
Dillon the
               pony.

               At home, she would throw great neighborhood parties by
the pool,
               or gather up the family and drag them off to the golf
course, or the
               tennis court, or Ashley's hockey game.

               "We never knew she was a world-famous scientist," one
neighbor
               said afterward. "She was just Char and Ashley's mom."

               Mercury poisoning.

               Karen beamed when she heard the news. Finally, something
she
               understood. Something she could explain. They would feed
her fat
               white nasty-tasting pills that would flush the poison
out of her
               system.

               Science would cure her, she told her husband, giddy with
               excitement as she sat in bed surrounded by her children
and her
               notes.

               "Karen was happy, so I was happy," Leon says now. "We
just didn't
               know."

               How could they have known? Back in January, virtually
nothing was
               known about the extraordinary dangers of
dimethylmercury, the rare
               man-made compound Karen had spilled. Scientists didn't
know it
               could seep through a latex glove like a drop of water
through a
               Kleenex. Doctors didn't know it could break down the
body over the
               course of a few months, slowly, insidiously,
irreversibly.

               Above all, no one knew how to stop its deadly progress,
as it cut off
               her hearing, her speech, her vision, reducing her body
to a withered
               shell.

               Today, because of Karen, the world knows so much more.

               Quicksilver, as mercury is called, has long played a
sinister game of
               seduction with science. One of the world's oldest
metals, it comes in
               various forms -- some that heal, some that kill.
Dimethlymercury, a
               colorless liquid that looks like water but is three
times heavier, is far
               more toxic than other forms -- the kind used in
thermometers and
               batteries and medicine. It's made purely for research
and is rarely
               used.

               Aug. 14, 1996. Just one shimmering drop. Now, six months
later,
               Karen's body was riddled with it.

               Karen was the one who remembered the spill. It nagged
away at
               her in the hospital as she underwent CT scans and spinal
taps and
               tests for everything except chemical poisoning.

               But I work with mercury, she said. Shouldn't I be tested
for the bad
               stuff?

               The results plagued the doctors even more: Why had it
taken so
               long for the symptoms to show? What kind of brain damage
had
               already occurred? Had anyone else been exposed? Was she
               contagious?

               And the question that still stings Leon's heart, the one
that still
               seems almost obscene: "Does your wife have any enemies?"

               "Enemies!" he whispers incredulously through tears.
"Karen didn't
               have enemies. Everyone loved her."

               She was easy to love, this tall athletic woman with the
deep
               infectious laugh. Comfortable to talk to. Always there
for students,
               colleagues and friends.

               And for Leon.

               In some ways, they seemed an unlikely match: Leon, 40,
the son of
               a Vermont dairy farmer who decided early on that masonry
was
               more profitable than milking cows, and Karen, 48, the
daughter of a
               chemist, the brilliant teacher and scholar. They had an
easy comfort
               with each other. She would watch him coach Charlotte's
basketball
               team; he would accompany her on lecture trips to Italy,
Norway and
               Hawaii.

               "She was always interested in what I was doing," he says
often, as if
               he somehow has to explain.

               He always knew her work was important but, since the
accident, he
               has made an effort to really understand it. Today, he
can recite her
               resume almost by heart: the awards she won as a doctoral
student
               at Columbia, where her research on platinum was
considered the
               most exciting of its kind, the Women in Science
mentoring program
               she started at Dartmouth, the $7 million federal grant
she won to
               study toxic metals.

               She didn't talk much about work at home, except the
grant, the
               largest in the college history. "She was so proud of
that," he says.

               The mercury research she was doing with Harvard and MIT
was just
               something on the side, Leon explains. Chromium was
Karen's real
               area of expertise.

               He shakes his head at the irony. Who could have imagined
that the
               builder would eventually learn more than the scientist
about the
               perils of dimethlymercury?

               Others were learning, too. At Dartmouth Medical Center,
Dr. David
               Nierenberg scoured the medical literature for clues
about how to
               treat his colleague and friend. A mile away in his
campus office, two
               doors down from Karen's, John Winn, head of Dartmouth's
               chemistry department, grabbed every paper on mercury he
could
               find.

               The more her colleagues read, the more their hearts
sank.

               There was only one documented case of dimethlymercury
               poisoning this century, a Czech chemist in 1972 who had
suffered
               the same symptoms as Karen and died. A handful of people
had
               been exposed directly to pure methlymercury, another
toxic mercury
               compound, and died. More well-known mercury poisoning
               epidemics, like those in Iraq in the 1970s and Japan in
the 1950s,
               involved exposure to foods contaminated by
methylmercury.

               There was no telling if dimethlymercury would act the
same way.

               Karen herself was beginning to understand. There was a
desperate
               look on her face as she pointed to the clock when it was
time to take
               her pills. Still, she kept up a brave face, kept saying
not to worry.

               "Even if I don't fully recover, maybe I'll get well
enough to ride
               again," she whispered to her horse-riding friend and
fellow scientist,
               Jacqueline Sinclair.

               And when the hospital psychologist asked if she was
depressed,
               she smiled. Wouldn't you be? she replied.

               That was Jan. 31, three days after the diagnosis. A week
later,
               Karen was transferred to Massachusetts General Hospital
for a
               massive blood transfusion that nearly killed her.

               Leon was pacing at home again, torn between honoring his
wife's
               wish not to alert her parents and the feeling that she
was sinking
               faster than she knew.

               The phone rang. The nurse said Karen wanted to talk to
her son.

               From her hospital bed, the mother struggled. She drooled
and
               moaned and the words just wouldn't come. Ashley waited
               uncomfortably. He didn't like the sounds. He didn't like
the silence.

               "Hi, Mom," he coaxed, loud so she might hear. It was
useless. The
               nurse ended the torture and took the phone.

               "She just wanted to say goodnight," Ashley says, bowing
his head
               to hide the tears when he remembers the last time he
talked to his
               Mom. "She couldn't even say goodnight."

               Others remember final moments, too, although everything
was
               happening so fast they didn't seem like goodbyes at the
time. But
               friends could see the toll on the scientist's mind and
body. They
               could see her faith fading, even as she continued to
talk about
               being back on her feet for her new spring course. The
day the
               ambulance came to take her to Massachusetts, she cried
               uncontrollably.

               "I think that's when she knew," says Nadia Gorman,
remembering
               how she tried to comfort her friend and colleague as she
wondered
               if she would ever talk to her again. "There was a
feeling of total
               tragedy in the air."

               In the ambulance, Karen told Cathy Johnson for the first
time in their
               15-year friendship that she loved her. In the hospital,
she struggled
               to point to the letters "N" and "H" on her alphabet
board. Leon
               nodded. He promised that, whatever the outcome, he would
take
               her home, to New Hampshire.

               "As a nonscientist, I couldn't comprehend it all," says
Provost Jim
               Wright, Karen's friend and former boss. "And the
scientist I had
               been accustomed to turn to for answers was not available
to help
               me."

               Doctors didn't have answers either. They turned to
Thomas
               Clarkson at the University of Rochester in New York, who
had set
               up clinics in Iraq during the epidemic there in the
1970s, when
               hundreds of people died after eating mercury-poisoned
bread.

               His lab stopped everything to help, testing Karen's hair
and blood
               samples, ordering a batch of dimethlymercury to begin
its own tests.

               "I felt such a sense of helplessness," Clarkson says.
"Here was one
               of the world's most distinguished scientists, and I was
looking at this
               woman dying realizing there is nothing the scientific or
medical
               communities can do."

               Karen's lab was shut down. Her family, students and
co-workers
               were tested. Her hospital room was checked for airborne
mercury
               from her breath. Federal environmental and health
agencies were
               alerted, as was the state health department. Her car and
clothes
               and house were sniffed with mercury-detectors.

               E-mails flew around campus, and around the country.
Students
               emptied libraries of books on mercury, staying up all
night to
               translate obscure research papers, seizing on any sliver
of
               information they could find.

               "There would be this elation when we found a study about
someone
               that had been cured," Gorman says, "then crying when we
read that
               the end point for those who went into a coma was death."

               Scientists and doctors around the world offered their
services.

               "It was an extraordinary outpouring," Nierenberg says.

               But Karen was slipping too fast to appreciate it. Ten
days after the
               diagnosis, on Feb. 7, she fell into a coma in
Massachusetts. Leon
               told the doctors he was taking her home.

               Back at Dartmouth Hitchcock, her family kept vigil by
her bedside,
               her parents and sister talking to her as her body
thrashed and
               moaned. Leon plastered the walls with cards and
photographs:
               Karen on the golf course, at Disney World with the kids,
lunch with
               her friends Cathy and Nadia, shaking hands with
President Clinton
               at graduation ceremonies in 1996.

               Just a tiny drop of poison. And she was fighting it with
all her might.

               It became too difficult for the children to visit. Even
friends stayed
               home, waiting for the phone call that would tell them it
was over.

               Her husband stroked her face. Her sister and her best
friend
               washed her hair. Doctors tried treatments never
attempted on
               humans before.

               But they couldn't save her from the poison. On June 8,
it took her
               life.

               "She didn't suffer," Ashley told his eighth-grade class
the next day.
               "She just stopped breathing."

               It was 10 months since she had spilled the drop in the
lab, four
               months after she had slipped into a coma.

               Karen Wetterhahn's death was as extraordinary as her
life and, in
               many ways, just as important. Perhaps she had an idea
that it would
               be.

               While she could still speak, she urged doctors and
scientists to
               learn everything they could from her accident and to
warn the world
               about the dangers.

               The world has already learned so much. It learned that
the gloves
               that were supposed to protect her actually acted as a
conductor to
               the poison. It learned that dimethlymercury, so easy to
order in
               research catalogs, is more deadly than anyone had
imagined.
               Saddest of all, it learned that by the time the symptoms
showed, it
               was too late.

               There is much more to learn, as scientists and doctors
study her
               case. There will be studies and papers, symposiums and
tributes.
               There may even be new federal regulations and mandatory
blood
               tests for scientists who work with heavy metals. There
is talk of
               banning dimethlymercury for good. And talk of turning
her hospital
               room into a nurses' lounge and naming it for Karen.

               Her funeral took place on a hot summer day to the
strains of a flute
               and a choir singing "Be Not Afraid."

               In the packed college chapel, the sense of betrayal was
as powerful
               as the sense of loss. Colleagues wept as they eulogized
a
               modern-day Madame Curie who had sacrificed her life to
her
               cause.

               What good was pushing back the boundaries of human
knowledge,
               they cried, if they had to bury one of their own?

               Alone and bewildered, Leon sat in the front pew, looking
out of
               place in his dark funeral suit, tears streaming down his
face.

               It all seemed like a dream, he says later. No, he
corrects himself -- a
               nightmare.

               He still wakes in the middle of the night and wonders if
it's true, or if
               Karen is just off on another trip. He still half expects
her to come
               striding through the door with her laptop and her notes
and her big,
               big smile to rustle up some tacos for dinner.

               He picks up the picture of Karen working in her lab, a
study of
               intensity in her goggles and gloves, staring at her test
tubes and
               vials.

               "She loved her work," he says. "It made her happy."

               She couldn't have known the risks. She couldn't have
known how
               bad the bad stuff really was. Truth is, no one knew.

               Just a tiny drop of liquid. Sweet-smelling. Dense.
Deadly.

               [ASSOCIATED PRESS, LYME, N.H., September 13, 1997