A Mind Unraveled

by Kurt Eichenwald

  “You need to stop. You can’t—”

  “These people almost killed me! Naarden is saving my life. Has Dad ever spoken to Naarden?”

  My mother squeezed my arm. She couldn’t get a word in and hoped physical contact would bring me to my senses.

  “Did he ever come to the hospital? Was it so fucking important to him that this wasn’t a medical school, that it was a for-profit hospital? More important than me, than my life?”

  “Kurt—”

  “Goddamn him!” I screamed.

  The entire room watched in silence. A waitress recoiled in apparent fear, then hurried away. My mother thought she was getting the manager, maybe calling the police.

  “Kurt, stop!” she shouted.

  “Fuck him! Fuck him and his medical schools! How could he do this? How could he put me into hell and abandon me! Why did he want me to be crazy? Was that really better than what I am?”

  My mother had never seen me so out of control. My words tumbled out faster, a mishmash of shouts and curses. This eruption of rage seemed to have no limit.

  Then she remembered. Naarden had told her that rage episodes could be a sign of an oncoming seizure. Many people had auras that were emanations of explosive anger. Or my new medication might have triggered my outburst. Or maybe, she thought, after so many years of trauma, the sudden relief of seeing my health improving had broken an emotional dam.

  “Kurt, stop it!”

  My words grew incoherent as I continued spewing venom against my father. Then my speech slowed, and my mother saw the redness in my face transform to a white pallor. My eyes changed in a way she could not explain.

  She stood, certain I was about to have a grand mal seizure and hoping to clear the area so I wouldn’t get hurt. She heard me gasp as if all the air in my lungs had been pushed out at once. I fell to the ground as intense convulsions began. People sitting near us jumped up and started to approach.

  My mother slid her hands under my head to keep me from banging it on the floor. Someone shouted she needed to put a spoon in my mouth before I swallowed my tongue. She ignored the ill-informed advice until this customer repeated herself in angry tones. My mother looked at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  A manager appeared. “Should I call an ambulance?” he asked.

  “No,” my mother replied. “This will stop soon. I could just use some help getting him out to the car afterward.”

  The convulsions ended, and I lay on the floor unconscious. The manager asked two waiters to bring me out to our car.

  “Don’t worry about the bill,” he said. “It’s on the house.”

  * * *

  —

  I woke the next day in my bedroom with the familiar post-seizure confusion. I ran through the full body check in my mind; no unusual pains or injuries. I touched my hand to my head, inspecting for blood, and it felt strange, almost slippery. I looked at one hand, then the other, and rubbed my thumbs along the fingers. They were vaguely greasy.

  Time passed, and then my mother appeared.

  “Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. “Where was it?”

  “At Chili’s.”

  That’s right. We had gone to Chili’s.

  I held up my hands. “This is amazing,” I said. “My fingers are still greasy.”

  She laughed. “Do you remember how angry you got?”

  A few scattered memories returned. I knew I had been screaming about my father. “I really lost it, didn’t I?”

  “The worst I’ve seen,” my mother said. “You need to call Dr. Naarden and tell him about what happened when you’re feeling better.”

  I promised I would, and after a short discussion, she left the room. I thought about everything I’d said at Chili’s—at least, everything I remembered. I had no regrets about my fury toward my former neurologists. But what about my father?

  For so much of my life, I had considered him a towering figure who stopped disease outbreaks worldwide. But with me, he failed. I knew he loved me, but he was human, with accompanying flaws he couldn’t overcome.

  He hadn’t wanted to hurt me. He believed he was finding the best care. Now I knew, with his convictions about academic hospitals and medical care upended, he was unable to face reality: He botched everything because of his shortcomings. But all of us had those. I certainly did.

  Those thoughts tumbled through my mind for about thirty minutes. Slowly, as time passed, my anger dissipated. Then in a single second, I let it go.

  I forgave my father, forever.

  In a conversation with

  HEINZ EICHENWALD, 1986

  KURT: In the end, there’s no reason to feel bad, because what happened, happened. Just like the bad decisions I made were not my fault, what happened with you wasn’t intentional. I won’t deny that you failed, but it wasn’t on purpose, and I love you very much.

  DAD: I love you too, dear. But you know, one can’t help saying, “What if?” It’s always “What if?” If this had happened, if I’d done this. It certainly might have made your life easier.

  KURT: But no matter what, I’m living a happy life.

  DAD: Yeah. You’re doing okay.

  An audio diary from

  THERESA EICHENWALD, 2017

  The one thing that surprises me with Kurt is his ability to forgive his father. I probably should thank his father because maybe if Kurt had not been so sick, I might not have met him, but once again, I cannot forgive his father. Part of it may have some element of my not forgiving my father, another trained physician always worried about his colleagues, for the poor medical care we got and the fact that arrogant doctors of that generation seem to have wreaked a lot of havoc on their families. I think that I just cannot forgive Heinz for ignoring the fact that his son was having a medical problem, for not standing up for him, and for allowing his pride and pleasure in being the boss—allowing that to interfere with Kurt getting good medical care.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  From the top of a hill in front of Parrish Hall, I marveled at the foliage dotting the Swarthmore campus. I inhaled the sweet air, perfumed by trees nearing the explosion of reds and greens and purples that would define the final days of fall. In the past, I had smelled these invigorating aromas, seen these majestic giants, and walked by these sweeping green fields, but never appreciated their life-affirming beauty.

  My mind reeled. With Talbot’s help, I accepted the new me, and now I saw and heard and felt things as never before. I cherished the knowledge of my own mortality, the recognition that every moment I let slip past unappreciated—whether embracing in love or washing the dishes—was a moment wasted, a moment when I may as well have been dead.

  This was my second try at starting my junior year. I had insisted I would arrive at school the day before classes began, and despite widespread warnings that I was too sedated from the anticonvulsants, I showed up on time. My mother stayed nearby as she waited for me to come to my senses. I slept constantly, my speech was always slurred, and my roommates insisted I was not in shape to attend school. When I realized I couldn’t walk to class, I agreed to return to Dallas, where Naarden cut my dosage. Once I was better, I returned, two weeks into the semester. The incidence of seizures had improved dramatically. The drop attacks had ended, and convulsions occurred as infrequently as every two weeks. A stranger might have reacted with dismay and pity over that frequency; for me, who just weeks before had been having seizures every other day, it was as if I had been released from a dank prison and chauffeured to a country estate.

  My mother accompanied me on my second attempt to start school that semester, helping me settle in and making sure I arranged to meet with school officials. I moved in to the triple suite I was sharing with my longtim
e roommates. Franz and I would stay in the double; Carl had taken the single. After an emotional experience with his family in Santa Fe—Carl had jumped to the aid of his healthy younger brother, irrationally fearing that Peter was about to have a seizure—he decided that he needed to put some distance between us.

  Then I made appointments to meet with the security department, as well as with an internist and a psychologist at the health center.

  Afterward, I walked my mother to her rental car, and we hugged goodbye. She clasped my chin and looked me in the eyes.

  “Remember,” she said. “No hiding. No secrets. If there are problems, you call me or Dr. Naarden right away. Promise?”

  I nodded. “I promise.”

  She held my gaze, reluctant to leave. She reminded me to watch for side effects from the Dilantin. Naarden had told me that, barring drug problems, if the seizures had not stopped by early November, he might increase the dosage. To me that meant, as good as things were already, they could be better when I returned from break. Everything was falling into place.

  After another set of goodbyes, my mother drove away. A thrill ran through me. I was on my own, ready to be a regular college student with no more drama or pain.

  * * *

  —

  The first step was to meet with Janet Dickerson, Swarthmore’s new dean. I reviewed the basics with her: My epilepsy had been poorly controlled for years, but now my new neurologist was making great strides. She asked some questions, and I explained that medication changes require a lot of time and educated guesswork. It could take weeks to determine if a new dosage worked and whether side effects were bearable. Gaining control was not a process of throwing drugs at the problem and then trying more the next week. There would be ups and downs, but the worst was over.

  We discussed my schedule. As Naarden recommended, I took a lighter load, signing up for only three courses. She advised that, with two Advanced Placement credits available, I could drop another class, since that would not affect my graduation timetable. Then, if the Dilantin caused unexpected problems, the academic pressure would not be so high. I agreed, leaving me with one class in statistics and another in public policy.

  On to the health center. One member of the staff, Dr. Jeffrey Millington, maintained a medical practice and also saw students at the college; he had known about my seizures since May and had advised me to find better care, but back then I had no reason to question the skills of Craddock, my neurologist. Millington wasn’t around when I dropped by, so I met with the health center director and nurses to discuss my condition. I assured them they did not need to panic if someone brought me there after a convulsion.

  Next, I headed to the security department for a meeting I had scheduled to speak with the staff. Once again, I explained my seizures—they might frighten people, but I would be okay so long as the convulsions didn’t last for many minutes on end. I dismissed myths believed by several of them—no, don’t put anything in my mouth; no, I won’t swallow my tongue; no, don’t hold me down. “It’s best not to touch me and just let the seizure run its course,” I said. “Then you can take me back to my room or to the health center so I can sleep it off.”

  The session ended with my self-confidence soaring. I was discussing my epilepsy openly, and I wasn’t frightened of how my audience might respond. One officer approached me. He was an emergency medical technician, he said, and wanted to tell me about a conversation he’d had with the health center director.

  “She seems scared,” he said. “I tried to tell her it’s really not a problem unless the seizure won’t stop, but she doesn’t get it.”

  I thanked him and promised to speak with her again. We both joked about the absurdity of the person running a health center being frightened of epilepsy. Maybe, I suggested with a laugh, the school’s medical team was trained to deal with only stubbed toes and colds.

  Then the hard part: telling friends. I procrastinated, but Carl would have none of it. The secrecy had to end, he said. I was insulting my other friends through my lack of trust, and I was being unfair to him and Franz by burdening them with keeping this secret out of an irrational fear. In the end, both Carl and Franz accompanied me to tell two mutual friends. Both were surprised I had assumed I needed to hide my epilepsy from them and asked what to do in the case of a seizure. Relieved, I went to others. The reaction was always the same: understanding, support, and a trace of annoyance that I had doubted how they would respond.

  It was over. Everyone I cared about knew. There was no reason to hide. I could walk the campus, even alone, confident I didn’t have to dread what would happen if a classmate or school officials saw a seizure.

  * * *

  —

  A week after returning to school, I headed to the health center for my first appointment with the school psychologist, Leighton Whitaker. My sessions with Talbot had continued until I left Dallas, and with his help, I was in a much healthier place emotionally than I’d been since the seizures began. I doubted a college shrink who spent his time dealing with the woes of breakups and depression would have anything to contribute. But I promised Naarden and my mother that I would seek counseling on campus, and I would not break that vow.

  We took our seats. Whitaker already knew the basics; apparently, he had been briefed about me. I recounted the same gloomy history of recent years that I’d rehashed so many times. The events of even weeks earlier seemed like dreams of a distant past.

  He asked if I had ever received a particular type of brain scan or taken the Halstead-Reitan Neuropsychological Battery. I replied that I didn’t know but that many tests had been conducted—including a CAT scan—that helped my neurologist reach his diagnosis. I told him that Naarden had turned everything around and that the breakthrough had come when I was given an EEG with sphenoidal leads…

  Whitaker interrupted me. “Oh, I was on the research team that developed sphenoidal leads!” he exclaimed.

  For many minutes, he rambled on, bragging about his supposed accomplishments. I listened in silence, growing more uncomfortable with each word.

  How stupid does this guy think I am? I thought. He was a psychologist. He had no medical degree, no specialty in neurology, and he certainly wasn’t an engineer. How could someone with so little relevant expertise, working at a tiny college in a speck of a little-known village, have assisted top specialists in developing advanced equipment for electroencephalograms?*

  As Whitaker droned on, I pegged him as another potential danger to me. What psychologist spends so much time bragging to his patients about his résumé? No worries; I had Naarden. Whitaker was a nobody. I didn’t need him. And I didn’t trust him.

  Our session ended, and I left having made two firm decisions. I would continue meeting with Whitaker, but only to keep my promise. I would chat with him about classes, extracurricular activities, friends, the weather, but I would never tell this guy about my state of mind or my emotions. He would be just an occasional intrusion on my schedule. He would have no power to cause any trouble.

  * * *

  —

  In my dorm suite, things were tense. Carl was antagonistic and distant, in what he described years later as his period of “backlash and resentment.” I knew I had selfishly put him through hell. Whipsawed by conflicting diagnoses in Chicago and the years of medical incompetence that preceded them, I had saddled him with the bleakness of my life for too long.

  With my physical and emotional health improved, I finally had the clarity of mind to take stock of the damage I had inflicted on Carl. He always swung between happy-go-lucky and doom and gloom; now, at least when I was around, the sour outlook and anger were constant. I tried to stay out of his way, which was largely impossible in a three-person suite. I didn’t speak much with Franz either; he had a new girlfriend, a heavy academic load, and endless extracurricular commitments.

  The strains were apparent, and Carl had
a low boiling point with me. After one explosion of screaming, he stormed out. I ached with guilt, believing that my failure to leave Chicago had injured him so badly that I had triggered uncharacteristic fury. Even so, I sometimes lashed back at him, leading to intense, childish arguments. Once we got into a shouting match about a red cloth I hung on my dresser; he called it an eyesore. Rather than removing it, I argued that I had the right to decorate my things the way I wanted. The confrontation escalated until we were screaming at each other. Afterward, I realized our nonsensical fight had nothing to do with the red cloth. It was about his rightful anger at me, conscious or not, for what I had put him through.

  Still, we spent some time together outside the room. Over the summer, we’d decided to form an a cappella octet, and we stuck with the plan, recruiting singers from the previous year’s musical and holding auditions for other spots. One member, John Fischer, suggested that, since we had eight members, we call the group Sixteen Feet. Carl hated the name—he preferred the Swarthtones—but he was outvoted.

  The a cappella group proved to be a boon for all of us. Carl seemed happy at rehearsals. He and Franz gathered a new set of friends, and through Sixteen Feet, I did the same: Harry Schulz, Neil Fisher, and John Fischer were among my new buddies. Then Harry introduced me to his own circle of friends, and we all clicked.

  I also started connecting with residents of the village of Swarthmore. Given my frequent visits to pick up my anticonvulsants, the town pharmacist, Jack McDonnell, and I often engaged in friendly, meandering conversations. I learned he was part of a theater group called the Swarthmore Players Club and that they owned plenty of high-end stage gear. Since I would be directing the spring musical, I realized this could be a huge opportunity to get my hands on expensive lights, curtains, and props. At that time, the club was preparing to perform The Diary of Anne Frank. I offered to help in exchange for permission to borrow some quality equipment in the spring. Jack agreed.