The hostess’s eyes moistened. “That’s so incredible,” she said. “Which table was it?”
“That’s the problem. It’s not there anymore. The tables have been moved to different places. So I was wondering if we could move a two-person table to the same spot where it was when I made that promise.”
She nodded. “Absolutely. Let me get the manager.”
After she explained the story to her boss, the two asked me to show them where the table had been. I walked to a window that looked out onto F Street.
“Right here,” I said.
Each of them hunted the room for a table they could move. As they searched, I studied the furniture. It might have been replaced over the years, but it looked exactly as I remembered.
The hostess returned. “There aren’t any two-person tables free right now. Would you be able to wait?”
I laughed. “I’ve waited more than thirty years. I can wait a little longer.” I told her I would be outside with my sons.
Adam fetched a hard apple cider from the bar, then rejoined us outside. My sons and I talked for about thirty minutes until the hostess appeared.
“All set,” she said.
I looked at Ryan and Sam. “I’m sorry, but it has to be exactly as I promised. Only the oldest. Maybe just go for a walk in the train station, but come back in twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
Adam and I stepped inside. A table had been moved to where I had sat in 1984. I took the same seat, with the window on my right. Adam sat opposite me. I ordered a diet soda.
I stared across the table at my oldest son. He was healthy, strong, built like a marine. I was stunned to realize that he was almost exactly the person I envisioned so many years before.
I tried to speak, but the moment overwhelmed me. Finally I pulled myself together and looked him in the eyes.
“Adam,” I said, “I’m proud of you.”
I’d fulfilled the final promise, and my tears spilled forth. Adam took my hands.
“Dad,” he replied, “I’m proud of you too.”
I wept for a short bit, then dried my eyes. I asked the manager if we could move, this time to a spot for four people. The hostess brought us outside to a metal table alongside the black guardrail. Soon I saw Ryan and Sam walking back to the restaurant. They joined us, and we ordered lunch.
I watched my three beloved boys eat and talk, then glanced up at the clear blue sky, translucent and serene. Realization washed over me. The period of pain and fighting had passed; the commitments to the young man I had been, the one who had struggled for so long, had all been kept.
A new era in my life had begun.
A note to readers from
SCOTT THORNTON, 2018
My PTSD psychologist
Despite his successes, post-traumatic stress symptoms associated with decades-old events prompted Kurt to get into psychotherapy a number of years ago. In that context, I’ve had the privilege of bearing witness to Kurt’s painful, triumphant ongoing story. It offers both inspiration and practical guidance, not only for those who have epilepsy, but for anyone affected by trauma or abuse.
For each of us, there can come a moment when we must take stock of our circumstances, acknowledge what we desire, and then take responsibility for attaining those things. There will be setbacks, and there might be debilitating symptoms for which we must seek help. Grit and perseverance, delayed gratification, and the tools of stress management can be developed, and will be needed. The shift from survival to thriving entails balancing this fierceness with large doses of humility and extending ourselves to others. Also remember, like Kurt, to be grateful along the way. Take nothing for granted. Accept that the process of authentic living never ends, and that at any moment our world can be shaken.
AFTERWORD
Dr. Allan Naarden retired from clinical practice. He now chairs the institutional review board that oversees research at Medical City, where Theresa also has admitting privileges. The two of them frequently lunch together at the hospital doctors’ lounge.
Elva Eichenwald died in 2016 at the age of eighty-five. She lived in a retirement home that was walking distance from our house, and we saw each other frequently. We had numerous conversations in the year before her passing about the events in this book, which she eagerly wanted published. In those talks, she told me about experiences I did not remember, as well as things she had never disclosed for fear of the emotional impact they might carry for me. Months before her death, St. Mark’s named the nurse’s office for her, posting a bronze plaque that said she was being honored for “the care and love she dispensed.” In the presentation of the plaque, which she attended, the headmaster of the school described her as “the consummate Florence Nightingale.”
Heinz Eichenwald died in 2011, also at the age of eighty-five. My forgiveness for his errors in the earliest years of my convulsions never wavered. After his 1986 taping of his recollections of those events and his apology to me, we did not discuss those times again. I did not want to stir up any guilt or regrets for him. However, he often asked for details about the state of my health. After his death, the flags at University of Texas Southwestern Medical School, where he had worked for seventeen years, were flown at half-mast.
Eric Eichenwald graduated from Harvard Medical School and is now chief of the Division of Neonatology at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and holder of the Thomas Frederick McNair Scott Endowed Chair. He and his wife, Caryn, have three boys in their twenties and thirties.
Carl Moor was named an associate justice on the California Court of Appeal by Governor Jerry Brown. He lives with his wife, Ann, and his two children are now in their twenties.
Franz Paasche is senior vice president of corporate affairs at PayPal, the worldwide online payment company. He is married to my surprise sort-of niece, Alison. Their three daughters are now in their twenties.
Adam Eichenwald graduated from Bowdoin College, obtained his master’s degree at Yale University, and is currently pursuing a doctorate in environmental science. His fiancée, Lauren, is studying to become a physician at the same medical school that Theresa attended.
Ryan Eichenwald graduated from Duke University and is working in New York in the publishing industry. In his spare time, he has become a superb musician, playing both piano and guitar.
Sam Eichenwald is attending the University of Pennsylvania, pursuing his interest in visual media. His work has won scores of awards in photography contests worldwide.
Dr. Charles Nicholson,* my first neurologist, is chief executive of a small, little-known company that advocates the use of food additives for the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease, depression, and chronic alcoholism.
Dr. Milton Craddock,* who pushed my medications into the toxic range without checking my blood levels, has abandoned the practice of neurology and now works solely as a psychiatrist.
Dr. Matthew Strauss,* my Chicago neurologist, died a number of years ago. After the summer of 1981, I never spoke with him again. Except for the blood work and related diagnoses, the medical records generated from his interactions with me have consistently been disregarded by my subsequent neurologists.
Dr. Richard Roskos, the psychiatrist I saw after my expulsion from Swarthmore, continues practicing in Dallas. After my return to college, I never saw him again in a professional capacity.
Dr. Leighton Whitaker resigned from Swarthmore in 1994 after the college assembled outside experts to hear and evaluate students’ grievances against him. A group of thirty students, called the Coalition for Improved Psychological Services, claimed to have “uncovered a psychological service system which had not only engaged in unprofessional and abusive practices, but had effectively immunized itself from accountability.” Melanie Wertz, the leader of the effort, spoke to me in 2017. She said her group discovered that Whitaker refused to give students refe
rrals for psychiatric help and falsely told patients that antidepressants were addictive and would “flatline” their personalities. Moreover, Wertz said, students had complained that if they revealed depression to Whitaker, they could find themselves placed on involuntary leave. “By reputation, Whitaker loved getting students thrown out of school,” she told me. “Everyone took it as a warning: Be careful not to say you are having gloomy thoughts, or he would get you kicked out.” The motives for this puzzling behavior became apparent when I located a 2002 essay Whitaker wrote called “Mental Health Issues in College Health.” Whitaker focuses much of his analysis on minimizing lawsuits and on how to protect psychologists from criticism. Rarely does he comment on the welfare of individual patients. On the contrary, he states, in the context of discussing required discharges of students, “Campus mental health staff have a definite obligation for the well-being of the community as a whole and not just to certain individuals.” He disparages deans who “may not relish” dismissing students for fear of losing popularity and says school psychologists must conduct their work “with a view to the benefits and hazards that might accrue to their particular institutions.” He belittles “new, uninformed and untested college presidents and deans” who fail to protect the mental health centers. According to his family, Dr. Whitaker could not respond to my questions regarding the information in this book because of health problems.
Janet Dickerson, the new dean of Swarthmore at the time of my dismissal, joined Princeton University as the vice president for campus life in 2000 and retired in 2010. During my reporting for this book, she learned for the first time the full story of the events surrounding my dismissal from Swarthmore. After I reached out to her regarding this book, and told her the whole story of my dismissal from Swarthmore, she reacted with shock. She sent me a touching apology, much of which is cited in this book. I forgive her and wish her only the best.
* Pseudonym used.
For Dr. Allan Naarden, who saved me
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have written acknowledgments in a number of books, but I’m struggling with how to start these. This time, I am not just giving thanks to the people who played a role in the writing and publication of this book. This is also about expressing my gratitude for those who helped me survive and thrive.
What words can be used to capture the depth of my appreciation toward people who saved my life, who loaned me their strength, who made it possible for me to have a family, to achieve my professional goals, to write any books at all? Every phrase seems inadequate. Every phrase is inadequate. Even for a writer, language does not provide sufficient tools to express the magnitude of my emotions and my thankfulness. But language is all I have.
The names of many of the people who have my lifelong gratitude are evident in this book. My mother, Elva Eichenwald, found a grit she never knew she possessed in order to fight for me. I know that the experience caused her emotional scars; her tape-recorded diaries to me from the early 1980s make that clear. But from those depths, she was able to recover to heights as she watched her three children blossom and her seven grandchildren make their marks on the world. My brother, Eric Eichenwald, provided an important support to my mother and my father, according to their taped diaries. He was also there for me.
Of course, I owe deep thanks to Dr. Allan Naarden, the neurologist who finally provided the correct diagnosis and brought me back to functionality. He never knew until he read the manuscript for this book how close I was to giving up on the day I met him. As I told him recently, if he hadn’t been the great doctor he is, one who knows how to speak to patients, I likely would have died that week. I know there are many wonderful neurologists; I have been treated by several after Naarden retired. But he untangled the mess I had become by the day I arrived in his office.
Then there are Carl Moor and Franz Paasche. As young men, they were presented with a medically struggling roommate, someone they barely knew. I believe many people that age, and in that situation, would have walked away. But both of them took on enormous emotional and physical challenges to help me. They stood by me even when our relationship was rife with tension. They have been my friends for decades, and always will be.
I also must thank Jason Kinchen, Mari Cossaboom, and Errington Thompson, three dear friends who stood by me during the nightmarish months after I was dismissed from school and had to fight back against fictions. Each of them listened to me, each of them supported me, and all continue to be important people in my life.
Others played significant roles in helping me during bad times, but I haven’t been able to delve into many details in this book. Some of the events involving them did not appear in my diaries, and so I could not reconstruct them. I did not obtain (or if I did, I did not subsequently find) tape recordings from them. But all of them should be acknowledged. Dave Robbins, the fourth roommate in our suite in sophomore year, has remained my friend from that day until now; he assumed a lot of responsibilities when I was getting particularly sick. Pat Cronin was there for me in my freshman year. Harry Schulz, Neil Fisher, Jocelyn Roberts, Karen Searle, Joelle Moreno, Julia Cutler, and many others were more of my heroes.
After I graduated from college, a lot of great people hired me despite knowing about my seizures. Hedrick Smith, Ross Brown, and Wally Chalmers treated me not only like any other employee, but also like a friend. At the Washington Monthly, Tim Noah and Jonathan Rowe were always kind, supportive, and encouraging. At CBS News, Joan Kelly, Eugenia Harvey, and Steve Manning were great colleagues who were sometimes called upon to deal with the consequences of my seizures and who offered me advice on career and life.
At The New York Times, I was always treated like everyone else. Alison Leigh Cowen and Susan Keller both dealt with a few seizures and discussed the issues surrounding them with me. I have no idea who else to thank at the Times because my epilepsy did not take center stage for anyone there.
The book itself could never have been written if not for the encouragement and support of Andrew Wylie and Jeff Posternak, the greatest literary agents in the business. Neither knew of my past, and some in the publishing world expressed concern that telling my story could damage my “brand.” From the first minute I told them of this project, Andrew and Jeff were strong advocates for it, and cheerleaders who helped me through some difficult times in the process.
I can’t say enough about Pamela Cannon, executive editor—and my editor—at Ballantine Books. Pamela championed this book from the beginning, sometimes understanding my goals better than I did. She offered major contributions that made this book better, and she also stood by me when the emotions of writing this book got tough.
As he has with so many of my books, Brent Bowers once again sprinkled his magic throughout these pages, giving me an invaluable second edit (with the first being from my wife). My friends David Michel, Jim Nadalini, and Ray Balestri provided important input as the readers of the first version of the manuscript. Jim Impoco—my editor at The New York Times, Portfolio, and Newsweek—not only provided great thoughts, but also has been an enormous professional support for me when medication changes were slowing me down.
The rest of the team at Ballantine were simply jaw-dropping in their talent. Kara Welsh, the publisher, pushed for me to make certain changes to the book that improved it immensely. Matthew Martin, who handled the legal review for Penguin Random House, had his hands full with me as sometimes we drifted into emotionally difficult issues, but he handled it with aplomb. Loren Noveck, production editor, and Katie Herman, copy editor, are easily the most brilliant people I have ever encountered on proper grammar; their work was astonishing. Rachel Ake and Paolo Pepe handled the beautiful jacket design. And there are so many others to thank: Kim Hovey, associate publisher; Susan Corcoran, director of publicity; Melanie DeNardo, associate director of publicity; and Quinne Rogers, deputy manager of marketing. Pamela’s editorial assistant, Hanna Gibeau, was endlessly helpful, and, as I
often joked with her, seemed to always make it into the office despite the worst of snowstorms.
Most important of all are my wife and kids. Theresa and the boys—Adam, Ryan, and Sam—encouraged me to write this book, consoled me when some of the memories proved overwhelming, and accepted ugly details of my past with nothing but love and support. More than once, I walked away from my keyboard in tears, and Theresa was always there as my support, my shoulder to cry on. They have also lived through my medication changes, health setbacks, and improvements with the humor, laughter, and attentive disregard that have made my life a charmed one. I love you all more than I can express.
RESOURCES
If you, a family member, or a friend needs help in dealing with epilepsy, or if you want to learn more about the condition, go to:
The Epilepsy Foundation: epilepsy.com
Citizens United for Research in Epilepsy: cureepilepsy.org
Please contribute to these wonderful groups, which are not only fighting so people with epilepsy can live full and complete lives but are also searching for a cure.
Donate at:
The Epilepsy Foundation: https://donate.epilepsy.com/donate
Citizens United for Research in Epilepsy: cureepilepsy.org/get-involved/donate
If you or someone you know has been the victim of sexual assault, RAINN is a fantastic antisexual violence organization that offers numerous resources. For help, go to: rainn.org.
If you or someone you know is struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD Alliance deals with the broad spectrum of psychological and healthcare issues. For help, go to: ptsdalliance.org.
BY KURT EICHENWALD
500 Days: Secrets and Lies in the Terror Wars
Conspiracy of Fools: A True Story
A Mind Unraveled Page 41
