Hallucinations (3 page)

The burly ship captain, Stewart noted, appeared as he was listening to an audiobook biography of George Washington, which included a reference to some sailors. He mentioned, too, that he had one hallucination “which nearly replicated a Brueghel painting I once—and only once—observed in Brussels,” and another of a coach he thought might have belonged to Samuel Pepys shortly after he read a biography of Pepys.

While some hallucinatory faces, like Stewart’s ship captain, seem coherent and plausible, others may be grossly distorted or composed, sometimes, of fragments—a nose, part of a mouth, an eye, a huge head of hair, all juxtaposed in a seemingly haphazard way.

Sometimes people with CBS may hallucinate letters, lines of print, musical notes, numerals, mathematical symbols, or other types of notation. The overall term “text hallucinations” is used for such visions, although for the most part what is seen cannot be read or played and may indeed be nonsensical.
My correspondent Dorothy S. mentioned this as one of her many CBS hallucinations:

Sometimes the hallucinated text has an obvious association with experience, as with one man who wrote to me that he would see Hebrew letters all over the walls for about six weeks following Yom Kippur each year. Another man, who was nearly blind from glaucoma, reported that often he saw lines of print in balloons, “like the balloons in comic strips,” though he could not decipher the words. Text hallucinations are not uncommon; Dominic ffytche, who has seen hundreds of people with CBS, estimates that about a quarter of them have text hallucinations of one sort or another.

Marjorie J. wrote to me in 1995 about what she called her “musical eyes”:

Arthur S., a surgeon who is also a fine amateur pianist, is losing his vision from macular degeneration. In 2007, he started “seeing” musical notation for the first time. Its appearance was extremely realistic, the staves and clefs boldly printed on a white background, “just like a sheet of real music”—and Arthur wondered for a moment whether some part of his brain was now generating his own original music. But when he looked more closely, he realized that the score was unreadable and unplayable. It was inordinately complicated, with four or six staves, impossibly complex chords with six or more notes on a single stem, and horizontal rows of multiple flats and sharps. It was, he said, “a potpourri of musical notation without any meaning.” He would see a page of this pseudo-music for a few seconds, and then it would disappear suddenly, replaced by another, equally nonsensical page. These hallucinations were sometimes intrusive, and might cover a page he was trying to read or a letter he was trying to write.

Though Arthur has been unable to read real musical scores for some years, he wonders, as Marjorie did, whether his lifelong immersion in music and musical scores might have determined the form of his hallucinations.
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He wonders, too, whether his hallucinations might progress. For about a year before he began to see musical notation, Arthur saw something much simpler: a checkerboard pattern. Will his musical notation be followed by even more complex hallucinations, such as people, faces, or landscapes, as his eyesight declines?

T
here is clearly a wide array, a whole spectrum, of visual disturbances which can occur when vision is lost or compromised, and originally the term “Charles Bonnet syndrome” was reserved for those whose hallucinations were related to eye disease or other ocular problems. But an essentially similar array of disturbances can also occur when the damage lies not in the eye itself but higher up in the visual system, especially the cortical areas involved in visual perception—the occipital lobes and their projections into the temporal and parietal lobes of the brain—as seems to be the case with Zelda.

Zelda was a historian who came to see me in 2008. She told me how her world of strange visual phenomena had started at a theater six years earlier, when the beige curtain in front of the stage suddenly seemed to be covered in red roses—the roses were three-dimensional, thrusting out of the curtain. When she closed her eyes, she still saw the roses. This hallucination lasted for a few minutes and then vanished. She was perplexed and frightened by this, and she went to consult her ophthalmologist, but he found no impairment of vision and no pathological changes in either eye. She saw her internist and cardiologist, but they could not provide any plausible explanation for this episode—or the countless episodes that followed. Finally she had a PET scan of her brain, which showed reduced blood flow in her occipital and parietal lobes, presumably the cause, or at least a possible cause, of her hallucinations.

Zelda has both simple and complex visual hallucinations. The simple ones may appear when she is reading or writing or watching television. One of her physicians asked her to keep a journal of her visions over a three-week period, and in it, she recorded, “As I write this page, it is becoming more and more covered by a pale green and pink lattice.… The garage walls, covered in white cinderblock, continually mutate … coming to resemble bricks, or clapboard, or being covered with damask, or flowers of different colors.… On the upper part of the walls in the hallway, shapes of animals. They were formed by blue dots.”

More complex hallucinations—battlements, bridges, viaducts, apartment houses—are especially common when she is being driven in a car (she gave up driving herself after her initial attack, six years ago). Once when she and her husband were driving along a snowy road, she was startled to see brilliant
green bushes, their leaves glittering with icicles, to either side of the road. Another day, she saw a rather shocking sight:

At another point, she “saw” one of her great-granddaughters, who rose up, moved to the ceiling, and disappeared. She saw three “witchlike” figures, motionless and hideous, with huge hooked noses, protruding chins, and glaring eyes—these also vanished after a few seconds. Zelda said she had no idea that she had so many hallucinations until she starting keeping a journal; many of them, she thought, would otherwise have been forgotten.

She also spoke of many strange visual experiences which were not quite hallucinations in the sense of being totally invented or generated but seemed to be persistences, repetitions, distortions, or elaborations of visual perceptions. (Charles Lullin had a number of such perceptual disorders, and they are not uncommon in people with CBS.) Some of these were relatively simple; thus, when she looked at me on one occasion, my beard seemed to spread until it covered my entire face and head, and then resumed its proper appearance. Occasionally, looking in a mirror, she might see her own hair rising a foot above her head and have to check with her hand to make sure it was in its usual place.

Sometimes her perceptual changes were more disturbing, as when she encountered her mail carrier in the lobby of her apartment building: “As I looked at her, her nose grew until it was a grotesque figure on her face. After a few minutes, as we stood talking, her face came back to normal.”

Zelda would often see objects duplicated or multiplied, and this might create odd difficulties. “Making dinner and eating was quite difficult,” she said. “I kept seeing several of each piece of food when they didn’t exist. This lasted most of dinner.”
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Visual multiplication like this—polyopia—can take even more dramatic form. Once, in a restaurant, Zelda observed a man in a striped shirt paying at the cash register. As she watched, he split into six or seven identical copies of himself, all wearing striped shirts, all making the same gestures—then concertinaed back into a single person. At other times, her polyopia can be quite frightening or dangerous, as when, sitting in the passenger seat of her car, she saw the road ahead of her split into four identical roads. The car seemed to her to proceed up all four roads simultaneously.
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Seeing moving pictures even on television may lead to hallucinatory perseverations. Once, watching a television program that showed people descending from a plane, Zelda began to hallucinate minute replicas of the figures, which continued their descent off the screen and down the wooden cabinet of the television console.

Zelda has dozens of these hallucinations or misperceptions every day, and has had them, almost nonstop, for the past six years. And yet she has managed to maintain a very full life, both domestically and professionally—keeping house, entertaining friends, going out with her husband, and completing a new book.

In 2009, one of Zelda’s doctors suggested that she take a medication called quetiapine, which can sometimes diminish the severity of hallucinations. To our amazement and especially hers, she became entirely free from hallucinations for more than two years.

In 2011, however, she had heart surgery, and then, on top of this, she broke a kneecap in a fall. Whether it was due to the anxiety and stress of these medical problems, the unpredictable nature of CBS, or the development of tolerance to her medication, she started to have some hallucinations again.
Her hallucinations, though, have taken a somewhat more tolerable form. When she is in the car, she said, “I see things, but not people. I see planted fields, flowering, and many forms of medieval buildings. Frequently I see modern buildings change into more historic looking ones. Every experience brings something different.”

One of her new hallucinations, she said, “is very difficult to describe. It’s a performance! The curtain goes up and ‘performers’ dance out on the stage—but no people. I see black Hebrew letters dressed in ballet dresses of white. They dance to beautiful music, but I don’t know where it comes from. They move the upper parts of the letters like arms and dance on the lower parts so gracefully. They come onstage from right to left.”

W
hile the hallucinations of CBS are usually described as pleasant, friendly, diverting, even inspiring, they may occasionally take on a very different character. This happened to Rosalie when a neighbor of hers in the nursing home, Spike, died. Spike was a whimsical, laughter-loving Irishman, and he and Rosalie, both in their nineties, had been close friends for years. “He knew all the old songs,” Rosalie remarked; they would sing these together and joke and chatter by the hour. When he died suddenly, Rosalie was devastated. She lost her appetite, withdrew from social activities, and spent more time alone in her room. Her hallucinations returned, but instead of the gaily dressed figures she had seen before, she saw five or six tall men standing around her bed, silent and motionless. They were always dressed in dark brown suits and wore dark hats that shadowed their faces. She could not “see” their eyes, but she felt that they were gazing at her—enigmatically, solemnly.
She felt that her bed had become a deathbed and that these ominous figures were harbingers of her own death. They seemed overwhelmingly real to her, and although she knew that if she stretched out a hand it would pass right through them, she could not bring herself to do this.

Rosalie continued to have these visions for three weeks, and then she started to emerge from her melancholy. The somber, silent men in brown disappeared, and her hallucinations started taking place chiefly in the dayroom, a place full of music and talk. They would start with a vision of patterns—quadrangles of pink and blue that seemed to cover the floor and then extend up the walls, finally spreading across the ceiling. The colors of these “tiles,” she said, put her in mind of a nursery. And, in accordance with this, she now saw little people a few inches high, like elves or fairies, with little green caps, climbing up the sides of her wheelchair. There were children, too, “picking up pieces of paper from the floor” or climbing hallucinatory stairs in one corner of the room. Rosalie found the children “adorable,” although their activities seemed pointless and, as she put it, “silly.”

The children and the little people lasted for a couple of weeks, and then they, too, vanished, in the mysterious way that such hallucinations tend to. Though Rosalie misses Spike, she has found other friends in the nursing home, and she is back to her usual routines of chatting and listening to audiobooks and Italian operas. She is rarely alone now, and—coincidentally or not—her hallucinations have, for the time being, disappeared.