Read Against Medical Advice Online
Authors: James Patterson
Against Medical Advice (9 page)
Rage
THE ALMOST COMPLETE LOSS OF CONTROL happens all at once. The wave inside breaks and forces me to cry out with such raw fury that my throat feels like it was sandpapered.
I want to move, to outrun whatever is going on inside me, but a stabbing pain in my belly makes me go down. I hit the floor as though I’ve been punched by a weight lifter or a heavyweight boxer.
By the time my parents hear me raging, I’m unable to control it any more than I can control my tics. My anger is wild fury, and suddenly it’s directed at them. I’m scaring myself because I’ve never felt anything like this before.
I curse my father when he tries to calm me, and I make a threatening move at him when he gets too close. I blame him for my suffering. I’m ultraviolent and want to strike out at anything and everything around me.
Before long I’m in another world, this one not even close to rational.
I can feel the skin around my mouth pucker and tighten. My eyes have narrowed and made the world darker. My lips are pulled back like a snarling wolf’s. I feel my brain unraveling, detaching from any normal thought process.
I’m unreachable, even to myself.
I shout that I can’t take it anymore and bolt for the living room, where I fall to the floor with a loud groan, clutching my stomach again. I thrash around, then dry heave. It seems the only question is, which will burst first, my brain or my heart?
In a while the rage is still there, and I’m getting desperate. I pull myself up and head to the kitchen to take medicine so I can put myself out as fast as possible.
I go crazy and take all my medicines at once: trazodone to wipe me out; propranolol and Xanax for my anxiety.
I add two Benadryl, almost choking on the slippery pills. When I’m finished, dozens of pills are all over the floor.
Waiting for the medicines to work, I give up fighting and collapse onto the ground again, wondering where this insanity will take me and if I’ll ever get back. My parents are trying to help me — something they’ve done since I was four — but there’s nothing they can do, nothing anyone can do.
I finally yell at them to leave me alone, to get away from me. They’re petrified and do as I say. That’s good, because I’m afraid I could hurt them right now.
I latch the kitchen door.
A red-hot pain in my stomach explodes with such intensity that I double over in agony. The loudest scream I have ever made almost bursts my throat. It’s a torrent of pent-up rage spewing out, a lava flow of all the years of pain, embarrassment, insults and ridicule, tics and bad thoughts, betrayal by friends, and helplessness — all of it, plus the fiery ball still glowing in my belly, trying to burn its way outside.
Once let loose, the full rage takes control of me. From the kitchen floor, I grab the bottom of a stool and crash it against two others, splintering one of the legs.
I pull myself up to the countertop and bring my fist down on a glass fruit bowl, breaking it into pieces. Then I violently sweep everything else on the counter onto the floor and kick it out of my way.
I see the drawer with the knives in it and wonder what it would be like to end it this way. I can’t stop thinking about hurting myself. I open the drawer and grab one of the big jagged-edged knives.
I hold it in front of my eyes, fascinated with the idea of dying. My hand is shaking uncontrollably.
I hold the knife to my throat and feel a tingle at being so close to cutting myself, a mixture of excitement and dread.
Maybe I’m going to do it. Maybe I’ll have to do it.
It’s like being on the edge of a cliff or standing on the balcony of a tall building and just for a moment thinking there’s something inside you that’s going to make you jump. I feel totally crazy, capable of anything.
My parents are talking to me through the kitchen door, trying to calm me down. They have no idea how bad this is, though.
They’re not me.
At the last moment, I pull the knife away from my body. I throw it with all my might at the wall near the kitchen table. I miss, and it sails over the table and breaks through the double kitchen window behind it.
I spin around to the refrigerator, remembering the bottle of vodka my parents keep in the freezer. I nearly tear the door off getting to it, then put the bottle to my mouth and take six or seven big gulps.
My legs finally give out, and I’m back on the floor, waiting for numbness to set in. Eventually, it gets dark.
Sometime later, I’m still lying there, now with a pillow under my head.
The lights are turned down and I’ve been sleeping. The rage is gone, replaced by warmth, as though I’m sitting near a fireplace. The burning in my stomach has stopped. My heartbeat is slow and regular. I listen to my own breathing in the silence of the house and feel like I’m alone in heaven after rising out of hell.
I had thought that this life couldn’t get any worse, but I was wrong.
“Cory?” I hear a whisper.
MY MOTHER is standing over me. She kneels and asks if there’s anything she can do to help, and I just stare at her. I’ve come back from a nightmare world that neither of us has ever known, and there aren’t words to make her understand where I’ve been.
The only thing I know for sure is that the raging person I was a few hours ago isn’t me now. I’m back.
This is Cory, not that other crazy guy.
I feel shame and remorse and don’t know where to start. “Sorry. Sorry, Mom” is all I can think to say.
“I know,” she whispers. “Me, too.”
She reaches down to pull me up, but the drugs and alcohol have left me without strength, and I can’t help her.
She puts her arms around me and, as big as I am, somehow hoists me to my feet and holds me. My father is behind her now, and he takes my hand. This would make
some
family portrait, I guess. Not exactly Norman Rockwell.
We stand that way for a long time, breathing in the same exact rhythm, our bellies going in and out against one another’s.
In time they get me up the stairs and put me in bed. I try to remember what happened, but I can’t force myself to think about it anymore.
I have one last thought as I drift off to sleep.
Whatever it was that took over will be back. Soon. I just know it.
The next day, I go to the computer and write a letter to my mother and father and place it on the kitchen counter.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I feel so bad for what happened last night. Every time I think about it, my actions seem more and more ridiculous. I can’t believe I cursed at both of you like that. I know it wasn’t me, because I would never ever blow up at you when you were only trying to help.
Mom, the fact that I made you cry makes me want to shoot myself. Out of all the things in life, seeing you cry absolutely kills me. I feel like a beast. It’s like I took the most loving angel and broke its heart over nothing. Mom, you are an angel to me. I’m the luckiest kid in the world to have you as my mom. I would take Tourette’s one hundred times as bad and be condemned to a wheelchair for my whole life, unable to move my body, just so I could have you as my mother. I really mean it. I love you, Mom, and I’m very sorry for hurting you.
Dad, I also feel terrible for raging at you. I know all you want to do is help me and make me happy. And I love you more than you can imagine. And I know you don’t deserve one bit of it. You’re the best dad I could have ever asked for, and I’m incredibly lucky to have you as my dad.
Even though I’ve got a harder life than many other people, you guys totally turned the tables on what could have been a tough life and turned it into a blessed life, full of love, caring, and happiness. You’re more than I could have ever asked for or imagined. I love you both so much and hope you’ll accept my apologies. I love you, Mom and Dad.
Cory
“THE NEXT MEDICINE will be the one that works.”
“Your body will calm down as you get older.”
“If you can just hold on until middle school, things will get better.”
“If you can just hold on until high school, things will get better.”
These are the promises that help keep me going. And in my mind, the summer before high school is going to be the time that the bell will ring and everything will change.
Except it doesn’t happen.
That summer comes at me one day and one event at a time, and there is no triumphant arrival into a more normal world.
Around the beginning of August, when everyone is bored and looking for something to do, a neighborhood girl invites me to come hang out at her house. While I am there, her brother and his buddies take the bike I leave on her porch.
Another “friend” steals a paintball gun of mine, and someone takes my cell phone and rings up more than five hundred dollars in long-distance charges. And these are the kids I am closest to.
On most nights I go to the Burger King parking lot, where those of us with nothing better to do end up. Somebody gets booze, and we head for the local park, where we lie on the grass and drink. The police constantly harass us. It is the best I can do for a social life. Of course, I hide all this from my parents.
I FINALLY ENTER high school, and the biggest surprise is that nothing has really changed. It’s turning out to be as much of a minefield as middle school. Instead of becoming nicer as they’ve grown up, some of the meanest kids have become smarter at using my weaknesses for fun and games. It’s as important as ever for them to look cool, and they do it by putting down others who are different or have problems. I’m an easy target, and it makes me feel bad just about every single day of high school.
This Friday morning is freezing cold. Another reason — besides the medicine-and-booze cocktail that’s still working in my system from last night — to stay in bed. If I let them, the Xanax and Risperdal would keep me asleep for half the day. And maybe that’s not the worst thing, actually. Sleeping is the one time I don’t have to think.
When I finally do get out of bed, I hop.
This morning I stomp down so hard on the old wooden planks of my floor that a booming sound shakes the whole house. After years of taking my punishing blows, many of the planks have split open. The ceiling of the room under mine has cracks in it from the vibrations. Floor tiles in my shower are shattered for the same reason.
Welcome to my space.
Not all of the damage is from my feet. My bedroom door is split down the middle from another violent rage attack during the summer. My raging is also the reason for the holes in the walls around the house. I could keep a carpenter busy full-time.
In my bathroom the scale says 243 pounds, a new high. At five foot eight, I’m getting more and more obese from Risperdal, my late-night feeding frenzies, and an ever-increasing number of liquor binges. Alcohol is better for giving my body and mind some blessed peace than any medicine I’ve ever taken.
“Breakfast is ready,” my mother calls at nine o’clock. It’s another shortened high school day for me, since I’m not able to go to all eight periods.
Downstairs, I walk through the kitchen without stopping. “Got to have a cigarette first,” I tell my mother, heading for the outdoor deck.
“Can’t you wait? At least put something on!” she shouts after me. My mom hates that I smoke, but she also knows she has to pick her fights with me.
Outside, the temperature is cold enough for me to see my breath. I sit in a metal chair, puffing away, not caring that all I have on is a short-sleeve T-shirt. My craving for nicotine has become so strong that I can’t get through an hour without a smoke. I’m also obsessing over my need for cigarettes, which makes my craving worse than that of most smokers, because it’s not just about the nicotine.
My father has a business meeting in the area today, so he’s able to drive me to school. On the way, I need music to calm me down, but a new compulsion makes me turn the volume to the highest level
before
turning on the radio. The sudden explosion of sound makes my father almost drive off the road.
“Jesus, Cory!”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
The second time I hit the volume control turns out to be the last . . . for this trip, anyway.
There’s a hole in the dashboard where the cigarette lighter used to be. My father is one step ahead of me here. The last time we drove together, I got the lighter red-hot and then just barely touched it to my nose until I almost burned myself. I had to get into the backseat to stop doing it.
“Hope you have a better day,” he tells me as I get out of the car.
“I will. I feel pretty good. Thanks for the ride.”
Before I get to the front door at school, I do my leg shuffle, followed by a brand-new tic that seems to have developed just for the occasion. Every few seconds, I punch the air three times in a row, then bring my fist to my chest for a beat, then punch again. I do this one or two more times before getting to the door. What a way to start.
The days go on pretty much like this, and little by little I’m getting through my classes. Each day has good and bad moments. My teachers mostly like me and call on me whenever they can, and my life has as much structure as I can expect.
And then, something amazing happens, and things actually start to get better. It’s the last thing anyone expects, may-be the most unlikely event in the history of the world, at least from my point of view.
I join the high school football team.
Man in Motion
IT’S A COLD, windy October Saturday at our high school football stadium. Our opponents are physically larger and from a much tougher town, but against all odds we’re winning by a point and the game is almost over.
Now they’re on our two-yard line, close to a score.
There are only a few seconds left on the clock, and everyone in the stands is holding their breath. The next play will decide the game.
By some miracle, not only am I playing football but I’m the second-fastest member of our team. The coach is using me on both offense and defense almost every play of the game.
But as good as I am, my tics are still part of the deal, and in the few seconds before the ball is snapped, my body is one of the only things moving on the field.
My main position is called noseguard. That means I’m on the defensive line opposite the other team’s center. My job is to burst off the line the second the ball is snapped and try to tackle whoever gets the ball before the play can get going.
On the field, I feel like one of the luckiest people in the world. Nature has given me the strength and speed to get into the offensive backfield before my opponents know what hit them. And the weight I’ve gained on Risperdal is a good thing for football. I’m faster than anyone can believe for a guy as heavy as I am, and I don’t let anything or anyone get in my way. Talk about a means for unloading your anger.
Because I was hyperexcited about today’s big game, my mother gave me an extra Risperdal to calm me down. That makes six and a half pills, but they haven’t taken away an ounce of my energy.
My mom, my dad, and Jessie are sitting in the stands at the fifty-yard line, cheering for me. I can always hear Jessie’s voice because it’s high-pitched and loud. I can’t tell you what a huge day this is for our family, and for me, of course.
As the opposing quarterback calls his signals, I get into my three-point stance, my right hand balancing me on the ground.
I can feel this tremendous tension building in my legs. Suddenly, before the play starts, I make three rapid hops that take me into the neutral zone, considered a crime in high school football.
A horrified gasp rises from the crowd, but there are no penalty flags. Before the game, the referees were informed of my involuntary movements, and the league has made an exception for me.
The quarterback’s count goes on longer than usual — he seems nervous, running through his audibles twice.
This gives my left arm time to spasm, and it shoots out into the sacred no-man’s-land that separates the two teams. This movement has been startling the center opposite me all day. No matter how many times I’ve done it, he can’t get used to the idea. He’s pissed off when no flags are thrown.
I recover quickly from my arm thrust and plant my legs solidly on the ground. My body is like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse.
When I hear the quarterback call
hike,
I ignite and explode off the line into the center before the guy can even get upright. My sudden impact knocks him backward, and as he fights for balance, he grabs my leg with one hand. But I’m already halfway past him and tear loose from his grip.
The quarterback sees me coming and tries to dodge out of the way, but he’s too late. I plant my helmet into his belly and lift him right off the ground. Both of us go crashing down, with everyone else piling on.
The refs’ whistles blow just as a gun goes off, marking the end of the game. The home-team crowd, my crowd, is hysterical with joy. They’ve just witnessed a huge upset, in more ways than one — this was a game of me against my life, and this time, I won.
I feel my teammates’ hands pulling me out of the pile of bodies and pounding me on the back. The crowd is standing and cheering wildly.
At first I can’t hear what they are saying. Then I realize they are chanting my name.
“Cory! Cory! Cory!”
I’m embarrassed. I’m not used to being a hero. There’s no other place in my life that this happens. Except in the old days, in Little League.
I head to the sidelines, hopping a few more times before I get there, and my coaches are actually hugging me. When I get a chance, I search the stands for my family. Dad’s arm is wrapped around my mom, and he’s beaming with pride and happiness. This is almost too much for me to stand, all this happiness and joy.
A short while later, the stadium is emptying out. As I walk to our car with my family, I can see how proud they all are of me. Jessie has been a star athlete in basketball, soccer, and lacrosse, but no one expected me to be back in sports after baseball ended. And they know that a day like this is about a lot more than football.
Now it’s just the four of us. My teammates are leaving with one another in groups of two and three, joking and bragging and reliving the best game of the year so far.
Now and then as they pass by, a few of them congratulate me, but they don’t stay around or invite me to come along.
Inside our car, I sit in silence with a curious mixture of emotions: a sense of pride but also an empty, achy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s hard for me to understand how I can go from being a hero to being alone again, in just a couple of minutes.
“You’re one of the best players they’ve ever had here. You’re amazing, Cory, and they all know it,” my mother says with a hand on my cheek.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m so proud of you, Cory,” Dad says. “That was one of the best days of
my
life.”
I don’t let them know what I’m really feeling right now. Why should I, when it will only make them as sad as I am?
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”