“That’s fine. Give me a name and address to send it.”
“One more thing,” my mother said. “We might be forced to sue Swarthmore. The lawyer wants to know, if it comes to it, whether you’d testify.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I’ll help any way I can.”
* * *
—
Two nights later, the members of Sixteen Feet gathered at Mephistos, a lounge used for student shows. After weeks of rehearsals, our new a cappella group had learned a few songs but still sounded pretty raw. We decided to perform anyway—if everyone liked us, we would bow; if not, we would pretend the whole thing had been a joke.
By then, I had assumed the role of administrative manager for our singing group—I would handle workaday details, set up the performances, and obtain equipment to record our concerts. Carl ran the group, while another member was musical director.
After student jugglers wrapped up their act, we bumbled about finding our spots in front of the audience. We belted out our first tune, “Blue Moon,” with me singing lead. Some friends had come to the performance certain we were pulling a prank, so they broke into cheers when they realized this was for real. I hammed it up for a photographer with a “ta-da!” pose every time there were a few beats when I wasn’t singing, then playfully waved her off. We finished to raucous applause.
Carl had the job of introducing us but still cringed at the name Sixteen Feet. As he stepped forward, he flashed a grin at me. I realized what he was about to do.
“No!” I said, on the verge of cracking up.
“I guess as you’ve gathered by now, we’re the Swarthtones,” he said.
“No!” I shouted.
He smiled again. “Some disagreement over the name. Okay, we’re Sixteen Feet. We got together a few weeks ago. A few months ago, actually.”
In his spiel, Carl joked that we decided to perform because we had learned three songs—enough to justify an appearance, since we had an opening number, a finale, and an encore. “So we’re going to do our three songs, and after that, that’s it, because that’s all we know,” he said to laughter.
We broke into “A Teenager in Love.” Halfway through, the lead vocalist, Neil Fisher, dropped out as the rest of us continued our “ooo-wahs.” Carl stepped forward. “I just want to remind everyone, this is the midpoint in our show,” he said. “So take a moment to stretch, relax. We’ll be back to finish the show in just a second, and then we’ll go on to our big finale!”
Neil resumed singing about the anguish of teen romance, then on to song number three. After we finished, friends swarmed us with congratulations. As everyone mingled, I walked to another part of the room to turn off the cassette deck I used to tape the performance.
At the time, I considered the recording just a nice memento for the group. Instead, it would soon become proof that the Sixteen Feet performance had really occurred and was not a fantasy conjured by a diseased mind.
* * *
—
Letters from Naarden and the Epilepsy Association arrived at Swarthmore two days later. Each attacked the school’s decision to throw me out. In elegant, diplomatic prose, Naarden wrote that the idea I had some undetected brain tumor was bunk. He reported that, during my hospital stay, he had conducted a complete medical history and neurological examination using the latest technologies and checked for other health problems as well. In the school’s attempts to interfere with my medical care, they were demanding tests that were expensive, unnecessary, and inappropriate.
As for kicking me out, Naarden wrote that the impact could be devastating and irreparable. When young people with neurological problems interrupt schooling, he said, finding the emotional strength to return can be impossible. “Educational opportunities lost in youth cannot be made up for later in life,” he wrote. “It is extremely important for students to continue their education even if seizure control is not perfect.”
In its letter, the Epilepsy Association stressed that people coping with seizures struggled to be honest about their conditions because of fears of retribution. Dismissing me from college at a time when I was making significant medical and psychological progress would likely derail my nascent efforts to be honest about my health.
With that information in hand, Dickerson called a new meeting of the dean’s committee that wanted me off campus. They reversed themselves and told my family I could stay. However, without informing anyone, they placed me on probation. No one ever learned what the school would consider to be a violation of probationary conditions that I knew nothing about.
* * *
—
Unaware of the just-completed fight over my future, I was bearing down on my studies. Most of my friends were taking midterms, but because I had started the semester two weeks late, my professors gave me time to catch up. By then, no written homework had been assigned in either class. Other than a few compliments from my professors, I had no way to judge my performance.
On the night of Saturday, October 31, I had a grand mal seizure. I woke the next morning in bed fully dressed, my body aching and my thoughts scrambled. The last thing I remembered was attending a Halloween party. No one else was in the room, and I assumed I had been alone during the convulsions. No problem. I decided I could handle this on my own.
In my confidence about my self-sufficiency, one fact escaped my attention. If I had woken in my clothes, that meant I had never gone through my nightly bedtime routine, when I swallowed my medicine. I gave no thought to my drugs in the morning, so I neglected to take them before heading to the library. I compounded my error by forgetting that Dilantin suppressed my appetite, leaving me with no physical reminder of hunger, so I didn’t eat.
By evening, with medication and blood sugar levels crashing, I suffered another grand mal seizure in my room. I woke in my clothes once again the next morning, Monday. I had slept through my bedtime routine for the second day in a row, again failing to take my anticonvulsants. Based on the biochemistry of the drugs, by then I must have been going through barbiturate withdrawal and fallen below the minimum therapeutic blood levels for Dilantin and phenobarbital.
My decision to manage these post-seizure periods on my own was a huge blunder. Only after this episode would I realize I needed assistance in times like these to avoid dangerous missteps caused by poor judgment and confusion.
A third seizure struck Monday, this time outside. I awoke more frightened and confused than before. Security officers swarmed about but allowed friends to take me to my room. I couldn’t understand why I was falling apart. I telephoned my mother in tears, telling her I was being hit by seizure after seizure. I was severely agitated and anxious—typical symptoms, I would later learn, of barbiturate withdrawal. My mother told me to stay put and wait for her or Naarden to call back. Soon my neurologist phoned. He instructed me to have someone take me to the health center immediately.
There I received my medication and slept in one of the beds. When I woke Tuesday, a nurse brought me my first meal in three days. I was still severely confused. I lamented to one nurse, “It’s Tuesday; I know it’s Tuesday, but it’s supposed to be Saturday.” I was attempting to explain that, as happened after my seizures, time had become muddled. She rushed out and incorrectly told the staff that I didn’t know what day it was.
The nurses brought me three meals that day. The blood levels of my medication were coming up, and withdrawal symptoms ended. I was ready to return to my dorm, but a member of the health staff told me I needed to phone my mother first. I called from a nurse’s desk.
“Hi, Mom,” I said when she answered. “Don’t worry if I sound bad. I’m okay.”
“You sound better.”
Better than what? After a back-and-forth, we realized I had no memory of speaking with her the night before.
She spoke in a decisive tone. “I’m coming to Swarthmore tomorrow.”
&nb
sp; “Mom, that’s ridiculous. I’m fine. I just had a bunch of seizures. I screwed up somehow. I think I missed my medication. I’ll just talk to Naarden, and we’ll figure out what happened.”
“No, we don’t have a choice. I’m coming tomorrow.”
We don’t have a choice? Suddenly I knew: Either my parents had decided to bring me home, or Swarthmore was kicking me out.
“No, you are not coming!” I snapped.
She choked up. “I have to.”
“I am not leaving school.”
“It might not be up to us, Kurt.”
I grew enraged. “It’s not up to us? Are you telling me Swarthmore is saying I can’t stay? That’s impossible! I’m better than I’ve been in years!”
“We just have to—”
“No, we don’t have to do anything! Everyone has to keep their word! Everyone told me, if I told the school, it would be fine. Now they’re throwing me out? I’ve had maybe two seizures outside! Did they think uncontrolled epilepsy meant I didn’t have seizures?”
Nicholson was right, I thought. As soon as I trusted people, they reacted in terror. Now, I thought, I would pay the price for listening to Naarden and everybody else who said that being honest was the right way to go. It took just seven weeks for those assurances to be proved worthless.
My mother and I argued until I calmed down. “Okay,” I said. “Come tomorrow. But I have to leave the health center tonight.”
“No, don’t leave. You’re too upset.”
“Look, if I stay, all I’ll do is think about it. If I go back to the dorm, I won’t.”
I returned to my room and started straightening up. As I tossed clothes into my bureau, Carl again complained about the red cloth draped on it. I knew I might be gone in twenty-four hours.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I think you’ve just latched on to this red cloth thing. Think about it for a couple of days, and if it still really upsets you, I’ll get rid of it.”
I left the room to shower, something I hadn’t done in four days. Standing with both hands against the wall as water streamed down my head, I relaxed.
This is ridiculous, I thought. It’s so obvious I’m doing well. The last few days had been an anomaly. Everyone would understand. All I had to do was explain.
I left the bathroom confident this confusion would be cleared up quickly.
* * *
—
The next morning, November 4, I grabbed my sweat shirt and headed to the small parking area behind my dorm. My mother had taken the first flight from Dallas and checked in at the nearby Media Inn. She had called to let me know she was on the way, and I’d told her where to meet me. I had decided to keep her visit discreet to avoid revealing anything to my friends about the coming showdown with the administration.
My mother had told me we would be joining school representatives that evening in the health center to discuss my future. I agreed to attend on one condition: that Janet Dickerson, the dean, stayed away. Only she could issue a final decision forcing me to leave, and excluding her would make it harder for me to be railroaded.
After about ten minutes, a car rounded the curve. I saw my mother, distress in her face. I climbed in and gave her a kiss.
“So, this was unexpected,” I said.
“Everyone is worried about you.”
“Apparently. But I promise, this is really the first time in two years that no one needs to be concerned.”
The last few days had been awful, she said, and I had sounded overemotional and incoherent when we spoke on the phone.
“I’m sure I did,” I replied. “When I went to the health center that night, they checked my blood levels. I just got the results. I was below therapeutic on both Dilantin and phenobarbital.”
She again commented on how wretched I had sounded.
“No kidding,” I replied. “I’m sure it was dreadful.” By the time I spoke to my mother on the phone, I had missed at least two doses of my medication.
I realized the car hadn’t moved.
“Mom, why don’t we go for lunch?”
We continued talking as she drove. I remained composed as we discussed the last few days. I continued to explain that this setback had been a fluke.
We arrived at the Village Porch, a nearby restaurant. I ordered a cheeseburger, which had become my staple whenever we shared a meal. She asked how I was doing in my classes.
“No way to know,” I said. “I have my midterms next week and haven’t had any graded homework yet. I think I’m doing well in public policy. I probably talk too much in class, but Professor Rubin keeps encouraging me to keep it up. My statistics professor has been great, and my tutor is a huge help.”
She looked confused. “Dean Dickerson told me yesterday that you’re doing terribly in your classes.”
I laughed. “I don’t know where that comes from. Probably best to wait for me to take a test before deciding I failed it.”
My social life was blossoming, I said. I discussed managing Sixteen Feet, performing the concert, and my work with the Players Club.
What about friends? she asked. I replied that things were tense between Carl and me but that I was spending more time with a group of students I’d met through Harry Schulz, a member of Sixteen Feet. In fact, Harry’s roommate was a talented musician, and I had already recruited him as music director for the production of Pippin I would be directing the next semester.
Two hours after she arrived, my mother stared at me. “You really are okay, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, I could be better. But this is the best I’ve been in a long time.”
“And you’re telling me the truth about everything?”
Huh? “I’m not even sure what there is to lie about. It’s not like I can hide the number of seizures I’m having anymore. Everybody knows about them.”
She fell silent for a moment. “Something’s not right.”
“Mom,” I protested, “I’m fine!”
“I don’t mean with you. The school is telling me things that don’t make sense.”
“Like what?”
“Dean Dickerson told me yesterday that you weren’t functioning academically and you weren’t functioning socially. They think you’re falling apart and just wandering around waiting for your next seizure.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. They can’t know anything about my grades. And I’m probably involved in more social activities than half the school. Besides, if not functioning socially was a reason to get thrown out of Swarthmore, they need to get rid of most of the people here.”
She fixed her eyes on me, wordless.
“What?” I asked.
“They told me you were going to try to fool me, to pretend that you’re well when you’re not.”
That knocked me back. “Wow.” For the first time, I became angry. “So they told you if I sound and look well, it’s proof that I’m not?” I shook my head. “You know, that’s really despicable. That tells me they knew you would see I was fine. What the hell is wrong with them? Is this all just a setup?”
My mother appeared uncomfortable. She still had not told me about two weeks earlier, when Swarthmore proclaimed I suffered from a secret brain tumor and conveyed the gripes from security and the health center.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“Yeah, no kidding. But not with me.”
Her reaction was delayed for several seconds. “I believe you,” she said.
I shrugged. “Well, good, I guess. I mean, since there is no proof of anything they’re saying and lots of proof they’re wrong, I don’t know why you wouldn’t believe me.”
We talked for another hour, then she drove me back to the dorm. She reminded me to be at the health center at six-thirty for the meeting. I promised I would arrive on time.
As she drove off, I smiled. Just like I thought. Everyone would see I was better. Everything would be fine.
* My taped diaries, recorded at the same time Whitaker made this declaration, show that my speech patterns were no different than they are today.
An audio diary from
ELVA EICHENWALD, 1982
When I flew to Philadelphia in the morning and spent the afternoon with Kurt, he was fine. He was his old self or as much his old self as he’s been in a very long time. He didn’t look well. He was exceedingly thin, but he was happy and telling jokes. He was as well as I guess he could be. I just didn’t understand it. He was not the person the school was describing to me. This idea he would try to fool me—no one’s that good an actor.
I’ve struggled with my feelings about all of this. The whole thing was handled very badly on the part of all of us. We should have told Kurt in the beginning that the school was thinking this. And, I don’t know, we have mistake upon mistake upon mistake upon mistake. It has been one big fat mistake, and it’s all been against Kurt. Guilt? Yes, I have guilt. If I had to do it over again, I would hope I would do it differently.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As I crossed campus that evening, lamps flicked on under a darkening sky. My right hand was thrust inside my sweat shirt pocket, holding the tape of the Sixteen Feet performance from ten days before. I hadn’t brought my cassette recorder. I assumed that showing the tape would be sufficient proof that I hadn’t been wandering in a daze, waiting passively for my next convulsion.
I met my mother behind the health center, and we headed inside. In a dimly lit room waited several school officials, including the psychologist, the internist, the health center director, and a member of the security staff. We took our chairs.
“Now, am I wasting my time?” I asked. “Has a decision already been made, or is this really a discussion?”
I noticed Whitaker and the center director stiffen in their seats. I reasoned that those two had been more directly involved in planning with the dean than the others.
A Mind Unraveled Page 20
