A Joyous Time

I don't remember the accident or the ambulance. I was told there were nine doctors circling me in the trauma unit, moving quickly, each with his or her own specialty and agenda. Five of them held scissors, cutting off my suit, pantyhose, and lingerie, leaving me nude on the table with the doctors' hands rushing all over my body. Fred told me I looked sexy, even though I was unconscious.

When I woke up in the hospital I didn't recognize anybody or remember anything. The doctors asked me the usual questions: What is your name? Who is the President? When I couldn't answer, they stopped asking. There were people huddled around me, and I thought I heard a woman cry. I motioned for a man to lean over and I whispered into his ear, "Am I paralyzed?" and he said, "No." Fred told me it was my father who leaned over, and it wasn't a woman whom I heard cry. I don't remember anything after that. How protective the mind is to tell itself when enough is enough. How well the mind knows when it can take no more and simply lets go.

How wonderful the loss of memory can be. I do not remember the tests, the wheelchair rides, the stay in the hospital, my dear Fred sleeping on a cot, the CT scans, the discussions about my vertebrae, frontal lobes, vestibular otoconia, patella, metatarsal, or the terror that filled the room.

Within the week a neurologist informed me that I had Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo (BPPV), a complicated phrase for "dizziness." They discharged me from the hospital with casts on my ankle, leg, knee, and wrist. My fingers were braced with tape and metal strips, while my brain and all cognitive thinking were left to either the gods or the temperament of the winds; I am not sure which. But when I was brought home I could not move without feeling dizzy.

I couldn't look side to side or up and down for I would begin to spin uncontrollably. Even the shift of my eyes created a swirl. As I was carried into my room I saw a maple tree peeking through the window, swaying, welcoming me home. I had watched this tree over the years and had grown accustomed to gazing at it, talking to it, and even praying to it. When I was put to bed I could no longer see the tree without a turn; and I could no longer turn.

Once settled in, I tried to maneuver into the bathroom but I couldn't even arrange my legs off the bed. Some lovely Polish woman, who always said "Che-low," for "hello," before entering my room, helped me. She brought me my food, made my bed, and straightened my body out every day. I couldn't bathe or wash my hair so I must have looked dreadful, which paled next to how I must have smelled. Fred gave me sponge baths; he never said I was sexy then. He was probably too busy thinking about what to do with me, this new wife of his, who could no longer turn her head and forgot which way to turn anyway.

I couldn't read and so friends sent picture books: fashion magazines, art books, and old photographs. But I couldn't browse through them for it required me to look down and I would begin to spiral and feel like I was falling off a building. It was similar to the sensation one feels when one walks out onto a balcony of a high-rise building and wonders what it would be like to fall off. I was always falling off the balcony. I would grab the bed sheets, hold on, and scream. Finally I would hear "Che-low." The lovely Polish woman would walk in and put my body back in place.

The doctor explained to me that the spinning was due to a vestibular inner ear disorder that had developed from the force of the air bag smacking my head when my car hit the tree. The air bag, with the fury of a betrayed lover, punched the calcium crystals out of my inner ear, allowing them to float around freely, keeping me in a constant state of imbalance. The doctor told me that he needed to float these octoconia crystal particles back into my semicircular ear canal. The cure was a simple physical manipulation. All he had to do was lay me down on a table with my head hanging off in three different positions, for nine minutes. It was 99.5 percent effective. Nobody told me I would have to be held down.

He also neglected to inform me of the horrors of the procedure: vomiting, increased spinning, panic attacks, passing out, and patients finding the maneuver so intolerable they thrust themselves off the table, never to complete the maneuver, and remain dizzy forever. When he tried to hold me down, I slapped him. My new neurologist suggested I take 30 milligrams of Valium one hour beforehand and not to forget to bring Fred.

The Valium would not only calm my anxiety but would also calm the nerves of my inner ear, dampening the sensation of the spin. Things were expected to go smoothly this time.

The maneuver began and within seconds I was spinning and shaking and begging to be let up. I tried to pull my head out of his grip and thrust my body off the table. I was screaming at him to let me go. If the doctor is worth anything he lies and says it is almost over. But nine minutes is never "almost over."

The dizziness started to quiet down until he angled my head into the second position and I began to scream again. Fred was crying. I kept trying to get up. The doctor kept repeating, "Stay down," until I felt a second set of hands holding me down and I wondered how Fred could do such a thing.

Afterwards I had to remain upright for 48 hours to prevent the crystals from floating back out. I slept seated in a chair for two nights, propped within a vise of six pillows inhibiting any movement.

People I hardly knew sent flowers. They changed the aroma and atmosphere in my room. I still hadn't bathed or showered; I still could only sponge down. I took photos of the flowers from my bed but I could never tell if they were upside down. I could never tell if I was upside down either. I'd ask, "Is this moving or is it me?" Unless one has experienced vestibular dizziness it is difficult to explain, other than to say it is indeed another dimension. There is no such thing as a holding position. I was constantly in spin, and afraid no god could make it go away. It is unlivable, which is why every visit to the neurologist for another maneuver began with the same question, "Do you want to die?" He didn't need any more tests; he no longer looked for the nystagmus; he simply asked the question.

One treatment is not always enough. Some patients need two or three. I required four. Four maneuvers--spaced weeks apart. During the fourth and final maneuver Fred and the doctor were chatting about Spain and the Guggenheim Museum, and I was holding myself down asking, "Did you get them all--excuse me--is my head in the right position?" Most of the calcium had floated back into the inner ear canal by now. I walked for the first time since the accident without spinning. I could now turn to see the maple tree, never expecting to have to pray to it so soon.

I did not know that curing the dizziness was only the beginning of my recovery, that dizziness had masked all my other symptoms. The air bag had not only caused the crystals to loosen in my inner ear but also left my memory disoriented, partial, and my brain with a hypersensitivity to all other sensory stimuli. I had "mild traumatic brain injury." What couldn't be seen with any test imaging was the damage done to the tiny nerve fibers that sent messages to my brain. My personality was different and although I was put back to bed with smaller casts and metal strips, nobody knew if I would ever think or behave the same again. Everything seemed confusing. Everything seemed different. I was as old as dead and as young as new.

My fingers were still braced and unable to bend; I couldn't hold a telephone or go to the bathroom and wipe. Everything became burdensome. I accepted no visitors.

Gradually I began to feel comfortable with my seclusion. I began to walk with crutches, shower in a chair, and go to the bathroom and wipe myself, by myself, with the bend of a full hand. Fred bought me headphones, a mouthpiece, and portable telephone buttons, and kept the lights dim. I ate candy, honey-dipped donuts, and lima bean soup. I only spoke on the phone to those I chose to. I declined all other callers; I simply said, "No." Nobody complained, got upset, or thought I was rude. I could do, say, or get anything. If I didn't like it, I just said, "No, I don't care for that," or "No, I don't want those."

I no longer craved two newspapers or The New Yorker, and I didn't feel guilty. I didn't even understand why I ever ordered The New York Review of Books. I watched Regis and Kathy Lee. At night I watched Bill O'Reilly's snippets to the right, and taped Charlie Rose, and didn't notice any difference between the two. I watched endless reruns of Love Boat. Fred drove the children to school every day.

The television was always on the channel I chose. A bridge table was placed in my bedroom with a fresh tablecloth delivered daily, so the children and Fred could join me for dinner. They all told me lovely stories of their days, and somebody else cleaned the dishes and replaced the tablecloth. The doctor prescribed Valium and Xanax twice a day, which most certainly added to the pleasantness of being just sick enough. The doctor, whom I had grown to love, called every night. Fred learned to cook.

Being a little sick became marvelous. It was fun watching the flowers delivered daily. This business of running businesses and concerning myself with teachers, children, classes, friends, cruelties, heart attacks, and oldness, was, as they say, for the birds. I owned the TV clicker. I didn't even try to share.

I watched the Bush/Gore presidential election. I watched the results--hourly. To me, every day was a new election, because I never remembered the day before. Every day I said to Fred, "Can you believe what happened in the election? They don't know who won." I don't know if he ignored my repetitiveness or repressed it. But between my loss of memory and the conundrum of the election, there was a maelstrom of excitement flowing out of my room. They didn't know who won, daily, and I didn't know who won, daily. One day I asked Fred whom he thought really won and he said, "Pat Buchanan," and laughed. I wondered what was so funny.

Fred laughed when I told him I thought I was developing a crush on David Boies, Gore's lanky and balding lawyer. I waited for Boies's summaries every afternoon, along with my children's stories, never realizing that both had been rehearsed. I never noticed that my children only had happy stories. I never realized that all the mean children and bullies disappeared. I didn't even notice. To have children, enjoy them, and to ignore them--where does one get a world as luxurious as that?

I no longer blasted the music and danced around the hallways with them or set up breakfast with crystal wine goblets for orange juice and sang, "Be My Guest" from Beauty and the Beast with an obnoxious French accent. I didn't paint my face and yell "Boo." I didn't place my ear next to their cheeks and listen to them chew anymore. I remembered nothing and noticed nothing. My head wasn't right. Lights, sounds, and short quick movements still bothered me. My temperament was unfamiliar; I would yell at my children for no reason. I craved sleep. It picked the time, not me. In the middle of talking to my daughter, I would tell her to leave the room for I was too tired. I never saw that she slithered out, sad, thinking I had no more use for her. Fred kept them quiet and out of the room as much as possible. They were sad and lonely, and I was in bed with Charlie, Regis, David Boies, George Bush, or Al Gore, depending upon the day, and having a joyful time.

As the election grew to a close and Gore was granted the recount, I announced to Fred and the children that we were needed in Florida. I told them that this was history, democracy at its best and at its worst. I decided that they could miss school and that we would all fly to Florida the following morning. If we couldn't count ballots then we would serve coffee. I told them to pack lightly. They asked me how I planned to get down the stairs.

If one is going to have memory loss, it indeed needs to be enough of a loss to function without guilt and melancholy. That is the blessing which I was granted, for a time.

Sometimes I want to go back into that world of duality where adult and child were one. I miss the doctors and even the maneuvers, the ones that turned me into a warrior and made me courageous. How lucky to be sick enough, that exquisite finite amount, that your world finally picks its head up, notices you, and applauds.

Ahh, the selfishness, I had the best of both worlds: a place where Charlie Rose and Love Boat coexisted. The place where I could say no to everything, where the opposites of spinning and resting were so close that nobody noticed. A place where I was noble for just turning over. This place of oneness--where everything was done for me, to me, and about me--granted me a perspective that nothing important was of particular importance. The emptiness, the shallowness, the joy.

Oh, what a time I had.

My doctor claimed I'd have full memory recovery within two years.

That time has passed.

As I wait, I am left with a memory that comes and goes, like an unfaithful lover. I invent tricks to mask the shame when I lose a word, a name, or a phrase. Nobody recognizes the loss except for Fred, sometimes. When I can't recall a name while struggling over an introduction, I say, "Fred, I'd like you to meet one of the brightest women I know," and then I laugh and add, "Maybe I shouldn't introduce you two?" She never realizes that I never say her name. We all laugh together and only Fred can hear my "whew" and the rush of my escape as I walk away. Sometimes I give up from the exhaustion of trying to remember and just admit it: "Forgive me, I lose words sometimes, help me out; what is the word for . . .?"

My children and Fred know they have to repeat things several times to me and can't really count on me to pick up the cleaning, or the groceries, or stop at Staples. But they are amazed that I never forget their schoolwork or birthdays. I simply write things down on a list now, and, oh yes, hope to remember to look at it.

They have gotten used to burned food and I tell them that things taste best crisp and dark. When it is my turn to cook I hear my children whisper into the phone, "One large plain pizza please, and don't deliver it for at least an hour." And it is during those times I wonder how much damage was done to my children.

I take writing classes now, for when I forget a word I simply leave a blank space and fill it in later when my hippocampus feels like working. Nobody notices. Fred laughs when I tell him I am the dumbest in the class and when it's time to pair up for editing nobody wants to be my partner. He laughs when I forget my books, or my appointments, or when I fill in the checkbook amount but neglect to write in the person's name. I giggle along but think to myself, "My goodness, even goldfish remember for three seconds."

I have come to use replacement words. I say, "I think" or "Did I read somewhere?" rather than, "We import 2.2 percent of our oil from Iraq, which sounds small but in fact is quite significant." I never state things anymore; I merely suggest. I am always unsure. I bite my nails now.

Fred and I spend Thursdays together now, privately, rummaging around in bed, going out to lunch, taking in a movie. Last Thursday I couldn't remember the word "headband," and it drove me daffy--nearly ruined my day. We toyed with renting a movie, and Fred asked me about a story involving an orphanage and an abortion clinic, and before he finished his words I said "‘Cider House Rules,' Michael Caine." I could hear Fred's applause. All day, that Thursday, I recalled names of architects, movie stars, and old friends. We laughed, and Fred said it was a good day for me, but I knew I had forgotten the word "headband" earlier and never told him.

Copyright © 2003 The President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Tue, Dec 9, 2003.