Read Against Medical Advice Online
Authors: James Patterson
Against Medical Advice
Copyright © 2008 by James Patterson
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group, USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com
.
First eBook Edition: October 2008
ISBN: 978-0-316-03965-9
To the Angels
To Dr. Ruth Bruun, the angel who pulled us up when our own wings were broken. Your dedication to all of your patients who have struggled with Tourette’s syndrome cannot be measured, and you are loved and renowned for your profound wisdom and very great heart.
And to Jessie, our daughter, who weathered a childhood filled with great sadness and great inspiration. And yes, one day we will go to Disneyland.
— Hal and Sophia Friedman
Cory’s Dedication
In my thirteen-year search for help, I traveled to places far from home and met many people, young and old, with medical conditions so extreme that I could not have imagined they existed.
I will never forget these special friends and their heroic battles with the phantoms that inhabited their minds.
I understand them, and they understand me.
I hope that this account of my life, which in many ways might be similar to theirs, will give them and others like them a measure of comfort and hope. And I’m grateful to my father and to James Patterson for helping to tell my story to the many people who might benefit from it.
To those like me, who are forced to travel a road that few others can even conceive of, I wish you peace, and a way home.
—Cory Friedman
“ONE MORNING in MARCH of 1989, just before my fifth birthday, I woke up as a normal, healthy boy. By that afternoon, I had an irresistible urge to shake my head — continually — and the course of my life changed in ways few people had ever seen or could begin to understand.
“Before long, my body became an explosive, volatile, and unpredictable force with a mind and personality of its own. It jerked and twisted, bent in half, and gyrated without warning until I was almost always in motion.
“I bit down on my teeth until I actually broke them and howled in pain because of the exposed nerves.
“I twisted my back around with such force that I tore muscle tissue and had to be drugged asleep to stop myself from doing it.
“My mind fed me thoughts so frightening I couldn’t even talk about them to my parents.
“It didn’t take long before I saw myself as the oddest person in my town. I felt like a boy on the end of a puppeteer’s string.
“What made it even worse was knowing that I was also the puppeteer.”
This is the story of Cory Friedman, and what follows is his remarkable journey, a story of triumph against all odds.
I met Hal Friedman in 1975 in New York City, at the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency, where we were both writers. We never imagined then that more than thirty years later, we would collaborate to write a book about Hal’s son’s heart-wrenching experiences.
Over the years, I would hear about Cory and his devastating struggle with Tourette’s syndrome, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and anxiety disorder. But until Hal asked me to read an early draft he had written of Cory’s story, I had no idea how severe a torment this lovely family had been living through. I knew that his complex condition was nearly impossible to treat. In fact, thirteen doctors and approximately sixty potent medicines after Cory’s first traumatic head shakes, his debilitating symptoms were still unchecked.
When the downward spiral of his symptoms led to severe depression and hopelessness, and when all of Cory’s doctors and their advice and medicines had proved to be false hopes, Cory’s family staged an intervention that was as daring as anything that had preceded it, maybe even more so.
I was drawn to Cory’s harrowing story because of what it says about the power of love, courage, and determination, and I was proud to join Hal in writing it. I knew that Cory’s story had to be told because it would give hope and comfort to so many others struggling in all walks of life. Cory was in a living hell, but in climbing out, he showed us that it is possible to survive — and even thrive — against unbelievable odds. For me, that makes him a hero.
Hal and I are honored to bring you
Against Medical Advice
on Cory’s behalf. My hope is that you, too, will be inspired by the courage, heartbreak, sacrifice, and ultimate victory of Cory Friedman and his family, and by the sheer invincibility of the human spirit.
—
James Patterson
THE EVENTS RECOUNTED HERE took place over what seemed like — to those of us who lived it — an endless thirteen-year period covering Cory’s life from age five to age seventeen. We decided, with Cory’s blessing, to tell his story in his own voice, because this conveys most powerfully what it was like for Cory to live through these experiences.
Some names and other identifying details of friends, doctors, and medical institutions have been changed.
The extremely unusual events portrayed in this story have been reconstructed from Cory’s own accounts, from detailed medical diaries that were kept by his mother throughout the period, and from direct family observations. Cory confirms that this narrative presents an accurate portrait of his life story.
Over the four years it took to write this book, I was continuously tormented by the decision of whether or not to make the most intimate details of Cory’s life public. Finally, I went to Cory for the guidance I needed, and he resolved the issue in a single sentence, without hesitation:
“If it will help other people like me, yes.”
—
Hal Friedman
I’M SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD and lying like a pathetic, helpless lump in the backseat of our family car, being transported to a place that treats crazy people.
This is an exceptional event, even for me. I know that my brain causes unusual problems that no one has been able to treat, but being insane isn’t one of them.
How and why I’ve gotten to this point is complicated, but the main reason I’m here is more immediate. I’ve finally found the one thing that brings me peace — alcohol.
Now this self-medication has become a life-threatening danger that I cannot fix by myself. The doctors at the place I’m going to promise they can help me. I’ve heard that one before.
After about an hour, we arrive at a large brick building with a sign that reads
DRESSLER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL
. In a split second the reality of what’s happening becomes very real and very scary.
“Why does it say that?” I call from the backseat, my heart suddenly pounding.
“Don’t worry about the sign,” my mother says to calm my rising panic. “They treat all different kinds of problems here, Cory.”
Dad looks as worried as I am but says softly, “Let’s not deal with this now, okay?”
Not deal with going to a hospital for psychos? Sure, no problem.
What can my father be thinking?
Inside the main entrance, I enter a very crowded, somewhat noisy waiting room. Being on view always makes me uneasy, so as soon as I start to walk, my feet need to perform a triple hop, three quick steps only inches apart, which throws me off balance.
I have to do this in order to satisfy a tension that is building up in my legs and can’t be released any other way. Sometimes this trips me up so much that I go flying to the ground.
I do the triple hop a few more times before reaching out for the safety of one of the empty waiting-room chairs.
Welcome to my fun house, folks.
MANY OF THE PEOPLE in the waiting area are still staring at me as my right hand shoots up in the air with the middle finger extended.
Oh boy, here we go,
I think. Giving people the bird is another one of my involuntary movements, or tics, that pop up exactly when they shouldn’t. Try telling people that one’s not deliberate.
Another middle-finger salute.
Hi, everybody!
For a moment I think about the new medicines I’m taking, which are, as usual, not doing their job. Wellbutrin for depression, Tenex to keep me calm, Topamax as an “experiment” to see if a seizure medicine will help. So far I’ve been on fifty or sixty different medicines, none of which have worked — and a few of them can become deadly when washed down with Jack Daniel’s.
Psychiatric hospital. A place for insane people,
I’m thinking.
I know I’m not insane, even though the things I do make me look that way. But I do have a fear that I can think myself insane, and being in this place could push me over the edge. Going insane is probably my worst fear. If it happens, I won’t know what, or
where,
reality is. To me, that’s the ultimate isolation — to be separated from my own mind.
Eventually a receptionist calls my name and then starts asking me strange, bewildering questions. One of my eyes begins to twitch rapidly, and my tongue jumps out of my mouth like a snake’s.
Occasionally I make a loud grunting sound like I’ve been punched hard in the stomach. Often my tics come one at a time, but today they’re arriving in clusters of three or four, probably due to the stress.
I once told my parents that they couldn’t live through a single day with what I go through
every day of my life,
and that was when I was a lot better than I am now.
It takes another hour or so for my parents to be interviewed by a doctor. When they come out, I can see that my mother has been crying. My father looks exhausted and edgy.
When it’s my turn with the doctor, I can’t stop myself from shooting him the bird, too. The guy is good about it. He totally ignores it. He’s young and gentle and pretty much puts me at ease.
“I drink more than I should at night,” I tell him, skipping the part about almost burning down my parents’ house when I passed out on the couch with a lit cigarette. “I guess I like to get a little tipsy.”
This is the understatement of the year.
Tipsy
is my code word for totally wasted.
The doctor gives me a complete physical, and when it’s over he says I’m as healthy as anyone he’s seen, which strikes me as very funny.
“So I guess I can go now?” I joke, punctuated by an involuntary tongue thrust.
“Yeah, right.”
Later, back in the waiting area, a male attendant approaches us and asks for any medicines we might have brought.
“What do you mean?” my father asks.
“He needs these,” my mother cautions, taking out a large plastic bag crammed with pill bottles.
“The doctors will take care of that,” the attendant answers.
Mom reluctantly turns over the stash.
A while later, a female nurse approaches and leads the three of us deep into the rear of the building.
Everything is a lot different here. It’s darker and there aren’t any people around. It’s a spooky place.
I fight off a really bad feeling that I’m going somewhere I won’t be able to handle.
Eventually we stop in front of a massive door with a sign that says
JUVENILE PSYCHIATRIC WARD D.
Mental kids,
I think.
“That’s not me,” I snap, pointing to the sign. “Mom, you know I’m not crazy.”
The nurse says, “We get all kinds of people here,” as though arriving at an insane asylum is an ordinary event in anybody’s life.
“You’re here for your drinking,” Mom adds, “which they treat.”
“It doesn’t say that on the signs.”
The nurse takes a large metal key out of her jacket pocket, and I freeze at the sight of it. I’ve never been in a hospital where the doors have to be locked. I come to a sudden realization: You don’t lock doors to keep people
out.
You lock doors to keep them
in.