Amnesia (18 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
Maria took a long pause and a deep breath followed by a little hiccup. “That was when I started to see Dr. Baldridge.”
“You must have thought you were going crazy,” I commented.
Maria nodded, her face now red with emotion and slick with perspiration.
This was the kind of story I heard over and over again from patients who suffer needlessly at the hands of health care providers who act like a bunch of robots, treating symptoms without paying the slightest attention to context. It was textbook medicine at its worst.
I tried to get past my own diatribe on this and say something helpful. “You know, it's very easy for me to armchair quarterback at this late date, but let me tell you about two things that often happen to people who have minor head injuries like yours. First, even though the MRI didn't show any damage, when your head hit the windshield, the sudden force probably stretched your axons â the nerve fibers in your brain. This results in a condition we call post-concussive syndrome and people with PCS get exactly the symptoms you describe: memory loss, concentration difficulties, dizziness. And your doctor was right â left untreated, it disappears in a few months.”
As I talked, Maria stared at me and chewed on her thumb. Her breathing slowed as she took in what I was saying.
“But then that second thing I mentioned kicks in. Your own psyche reacts to the fact that your brain isn't functioning. You get upset and anxious,” Maria was nodding, “and the tricky part is that it looks like the post-concussive syndrome isn't getting better. But what's really happening is that post-traumatic stress, which is an emotional thing, is taking over. In terms of symptoms, they're the same. You're anxious, depressed, you have trouble remembering, trouble paying attention, you don't sleep well, you have funny dreams. But because the brain really is healed, sometimes doctors think you're malingering. And for someone who's really sick, there's nothing worse than to hear a doctor say, âThere's nothing wrong with you! Why aren't you getting better?'
“Problem is, the doctor treats what is now post-traumatic stress â an emotional condition â as if it were post-concussive syndrome â a physical condition. And as you discovered in rehab, it's exactly the wrong treatment. You're already very anxious and they have you doing these repetitive exercises. Instead of experiencing success after success, relearning things gradually, you experience frustration after frustration, and your anxiety level climbs even higher. You become more dysfunctional, to the point where you can't even do everyday tasks like going to the mall.”
Maria's eyes were wide. Her hands were fluttering in her lap.
“The reason I tell you this is because it sounds like you thought you were going crazy. And I want to reassure you that you weren't.”
“That's just how it was,” Maria said, leaning toward me. “I thought it was my fault. Like I wasn't trying hard enough or something.”
“Trying harder can actually make it worse.”
For the first time, Maria sat completely still. “Dr. Baldridge
understood. I knew the minute I met him that he'd be able to help me.” She paused, her eyes shining. “He just radiates so much wisdom and understanding.” Dr. Baldridge's brand of medicine encouraged just this kind of hero worship â doctor as savior, prophet, and God, all rolled up in one neat package and brought to you, care of your friendly health insurance provider.
understood. I knew the minute I met him that he'd be able to help me.” She paused, her eyes shining. “He just radiates so much wisdom and understanding.” Dr. Baldridge's brand of medicine encouraged just this kind of hero worship â doctor as savior, prophet, and God, all rolled up in one neat package and brought to you, care of your friendly health insurance provider.
“So you started to see Dr. Baldridge on a regular basis?”
“Yes, and I told him about the dreams I was having. How I couldn't sleep. And then I couldn't stay awake the next day because I wasn't getting enough sleep. He said the only way for me to free myself was to get to the bottom of it. He said the dream was a repressed memory. And it was trying to tell me something. I was gorging and vomiting because I was trying to vomit up the truth. He said if I could remember the truth about my past, then I wouldn't need to purge myself anymore.
“I felt so good during our sessions. Like I was a real person and he understood everything that was going on in my mind. He asked me, had I ever been sexually abused? He told me to open my mind's gateway. Not to be afraid. I felt so safe with him. I let the memories come.” There was some sadness in her voice as she continued. “He kept saying, âThe truth will set you free.' He was so pleased when I started to remember.”
Now Maria started pulling on the edge of her sweater with one hand and twirling her hair with the other. “There was this dream I kept having. At first it was fuzzy. Dr. Baldridge hypnotized me to help me see it more clearly.
“In the dream, I'm in the basement of our house. We had a big rumpus room down there with a TV and some beanbag chairs. All I could remember at first was that it felt like I was suffocating in one of those beanbag chairs. It was just closing in around me, cutting off the air.
“Dr. Baldridge kept asking me, âWho else is in the room with you?' At first I couldn't see anyone. I thought it was only me.
Then I realized, Uncle Nino was down there with me. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at me.”
Then I realized, Uncle Nino was down there with me. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at me.”
The room seemed eerily silent as Maria continued. Her hands came to rest in her lap and bits of tissue fell to the floor. Her eyes were focused in midair in front of her. “Then he came over and sat beside me. He reached inside my shirt and touched my breasts. I was very scared. I remembered hoping that he'd stop and go away. Then he unzipped his pants and made me touch him. Then he took off my shorts and got on top of me. When I struggled, he started to choke me. I can still remember, this bowl of M&Ms somehow ended up wedged into my back â”
Her story was interrupted by a clanging. Maria gave a startled leap. The bell rang again and continued ringing. Maria clapped her hands over her ears and shook her head.
At best, fire drills at the Pearce are the ultimate in bureaucratic nonsense. Because we'd run the risk of losing patients if we actually left the building, we dutifully herd everyone into the common area. Then it's like trying to keep puppies in a basket. And because they never tell us when there's going to be one, the unexpected interruption can come at just this kind of critical juncture, destroying hours of work.
I cursed under my breath. Out loud, I said: “Fire drill. I'm afraid we'll have to take a little unscheduled break. But then we'll pick up where we left off.”
I fully expected Maria to be as upset as I was by the interruption. But she wasn't. She followed me out into the hall, her hands still covering her ears.
To anyone who didn't know better, it looked like utter chaos. The alarm bell was still going. Gloria, looking very much like a drill sergeant with an invisible whistle in her mouth, was marching up and down making sure that every patient was attached to a staff member. Kwan was wheeling Mrs. Blum down the hall while coaxing Mr. Kootz along in front. Kootz had an
aviator's hat jammed onto his head and the earflaps now flapped along with his sneaker laces. True to form, Mrs. Blum was in ecstasy, wailing, “Cataldo! Cataldol” in her screechy little voice, as if her ship had finally come in.
aviator's hat jammed onto his head and the earflaps now flapped along with his sneaker laces. True to form, Mrs. Blum was in ecstasy, wailing, “Cataldo! Cataldol” in her screechy little voice, as if her ship had finally come in.
Maria and I wound up shoved into a corner. The room quickly turned warm and pungent, body odor competing with the smell of pine cleaner and bleach. Gloria's shouted orders cut through the din. Maria stood silent, her eyes unfocused, arms now loose at her sides, immune to it all.
I checked my watch and fidgeted as stragglers continued to enter the room. The timing couldn't have been worse. I didn't want Maria to slip so far away that we'd be unable to resume our talk.
When the clanging finally died out, twenty-five of us were packed in like sardines, waiting for permission to resume our normal craziness. I checked my watch again. Gloria would be pleased. Although it had seemed like an eternity, our so-called evacuation had been accomplished in record time.
With the all-clear signal, Maria returned to the dining room with me.
“I'm really sorry about the interruption,” I said.
Maria shrugged and settled into her chair. “Um, I was telling you about my dream.”
“Right,” I said, relieved that she seemed to be willing to pick up right where we'd left off. “You dreamed that you were in the basement of your house â”
“And Dr. Baldridge helped me to see my uncle in it ⦠raping me.” Maria reached for a tissue and pushed her hair out of her face.
She settled back and started to recite in a hollow singsong. “It was in the basement of our house. I was in the beanbag chair. He came over and sat beside me. He reached inside my shirt and touched my breasts. I was very scared. I remember hoping that he'd stop and go away. Then he unzipped his pants and
made me touch him. Then he took off my shorts and got on top of me. When I struggled, he started to choke me.”
made me touch him. Then he took off my shorts and got on top of me. When I struggled, he started to choke me.”
There was no point in my taking notes because the story she told was almost identical to the one she'd told me earlier. I noticed that Maria was dry-eyed as she recited. I was reminded of how Sylvia Jackson described the night she'd been shot. Like Sylvia, Maria had probably already told this horrific story so many times that it had lost its power. After all, that was the point of telling and retelling. Surely it was healthier than the avoidance at which I'd become expert.
But something else was going on here. It was as if a phonograph needle had paused, midair, and then reengaged. Apparently, Maria had only one image of this event, and that image was synchronized to a set script. I scratched my head and stored the thought.
“After I remembered my uncle raping me, Dr. Baldridge helped me recover other memories.”
“You saw Dr. Baldridge often?” I asked.
Maria ran her hand down her neck, tugged her sweater hard across one shoulder. “At the beginning, I did. Twice a week. He just blew me away. I'd get to his office and I'd feel closed up â you know, like something all dried up inside a shell. I'd lie down. He'd light candles. It was wonderful. I'd lie there, watching the candles flicker. Then we did relaxation exercises. I could feel the tension leave every part of my body.
“Then he told me, âClear your mind and focus on the pain.'” Maria sang the words like an incantation. “âWhen you're in the circle, it's safe. Look at the pain. Feel the pain. Transform it! Find the images.'
“At first, I didn't see any images. But I kept trying.” She giggled. “I felt, like, constipated, know what I mean? Like I had to go to the bathroom. I'd sit there and sit there and nothing happened. But I didn't give up. I kept trying and trying until I saw him â Uncle Nino, standing on the stairs. Then, little by little,
I remembered the dream. And finally I remembered that it wasn't a dream at all. It was real.
I remembered the dream. And finally I remembered that it wasn't a dream at all. It was real.
“Then it started to get easier. We worked on another image that I had. An image of someone else. And I realized it wasn't just Uncle Nino. It was my father, too. He started it. I was two and a half years old. Still in my crib. He put his fingers up inside me.
“Then, it seemed as if the floodgates opened and I could get at all of these images. I remembered how my father made me shower with him after we played ball. He'd touch me and make me touch him. And one time we went to my grandparents' house and he raped me in their backyard. Once he threatened to rape me with a fishing pole in the garage. I must have been six or seven years old.” Maria panted for air as if she'd been running.
“Tell me,” I asked, “besides the terrible memories of abuse, what are your other earliest memories?”
Maria squeezed her eyes shut. She opened them. “I remember getting a Wonder Woman lunch box. It was something I really
really
wanted. And my father bought it for me. I remember, he called me his little wonder girl.” Maria's brow wrinkled and her eyebrows dipped together. “But he just bought it because he was feeling guilty about what he was doing to me. Later, I lost it in the school cafeteria. I think I must have deliberately left it there.”
really
wanted. And my father bought it for me. I remember, he called me his little wonder girl.” Maria's brow wrinkled and her eyebrows dipped together. “But he just bought it because he was feeling guilty about what he was doing to me. Later, I lost it in the school cafeteria. I think I must have deliberately left it there.”
“So was that in kindergarten?”
Maria shook her head. “First grade.”
“Do you have any earlier memories?” I asked. Maria squeezed her eyes shut and strained forward. Uh-oh. Was this the trap she'd fallen into with Dr. Baldridge? “Don't worry if they're not there. Your uncle â have you remained in contact with him?”
Maria Whitson stared into her lap. “For a long time I wasn't. I cut myself off from all of them.” She crossed her arms, tilted her head and looked past me, hardened her expression, and then
looked directly at me. “But I confronted him before he died.”
looked directly at me. “But I confronted him before he died.”
“And when was that?”
“Earlier this year,” she said. A little bell went off in my head. Hadn't Maria Whitson's second suicide attempt been six months ago? “I told him what he'd done to me. Of course, he denied everything. Then he cried and begged me to forgive him. The bastard.”
Despite the strong language, her face had little expression and her voice held little emotion. And she continued staring at me. I waited for her to go on, but she seemed to have run out of words.
“I was wondering about something you said at the beginning of our talk â that when you see your parents, some of the images they bring to mind are pleasant. This will be something important for us to understand.”
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