Most people believe that hallucinations are nothing more than
imagined illusions or harmless dreams, but hallucinations are real
to the person experiencing them, and can have lasting adverse
effects. Have no doubt, perception is reality. Mine was very real
and terrifying, a hellish nightmare that I could not escape.
In October 2003, I stepped off a curb and took a left into
lunacy. I wish I could rewind that moment on the street corner, my
last breath of normalcy. Obviously, I did not see it coming. I was
run over by a car going 40 mph. In that split second, I entered into
hell on earth.
I was rushed to a nearby medical center, unconscious, where I
remained in a coma and on a respirator for a week. Both legs were
broken in several places, and the MRI revealed severe brain damage.
I suffered five simultaneous hemorrhagic strokes, causing bleeding
within the brain, damaging the surrounding brain tissue. By all
accounts, I should not have lived.
Amazingly, I did survive, but the next year could not be
classified as living. My body functioned, but the pain was
crippling, and not just from the physical injuries; the mental
disruption was unbearable.
When I emerged from the coma, I had what is called traumatic
amnesia. I recognized no one, but everyone in the hospital was
someone I “knew.” A nurse would perhaps resemble an old acquaintance
so she became that person to me. I did not know my mother and
referred to her as Mrs. Silly Willy. My beloved father, with whom I
have an extremely close relationship, I called Fred. His name is
Joseph, but I would have called him Dad. I did not know my own
children or my former husband.
My family believed that it was a miracle that I was alive, and
they patiently waited for the amnesia to abate. My brain had
sustained significant trauma, and healing would be a slow process,
but as the weeks wore on, my condition worsened.
Strangely, I started speaking only in Spanish. My family is
Irish, my boyfriend is Italian, and I have never spoken Spanish.
After several weeks I reverted back to English, but my loved ones
worried because I was not myself, I still could not identify anyone,
and my behavior degenerated. I misinterpreted everything about my
situation and my environment. I was not aware that I was in a
hospital; I existed in a world known only to me.
In my mother’s words: “Jeanne was very confused, but seemed to
have a narrative going in her mind as to who she was, who we were,
and what she believed was happening – which she clearly understood,
even if we didn’t. She related stories to us about incidents that
seemed improbable, but which she firmly believed. Jeanne insisted on
calling work, using the banana from her lunch tray as a telephone,
speaking earnestly into it, carrying on a conversation with someone
from her office. She smoked away in her hospital bed so convincingly
you could almost see the imaginary cigarette she was enjoying.”
I have no memory of what I actually did during these months. I
only recount what my family has told me. My hallucinations, which I
can remember, cannot be accurately classified as true “memories”
because they only happened in my mind. They were psychotic moments,
but the sensory experience was real to me. Sometimes I was a doctor,
sometimes I was in Hollywood, sometimes I was on double dates,
sometimes I was shopping. I was never Jeanne, the victim of a
serious accident. I was never cognizant of the reality of my
circumstances.
After being transferred from ICU to the orthopedic floor, I
became agitated, got out of bed, and ran down the hall to the
nurse’s station demanding my medications, which I had already
received. Getting out of bed, let alone standing on two legs with
multiple fractures, is hard to fathom. The medical personnel would
have told you that it was impossible, but they saw it with their own
eyes. The hospital then assigned a sitter to be at my bedside around
the clock to prevent further stunts or injury.
The doctors and staff tended to my physical needs, but my mental
state went mainly unaddressed. After nearly four months, my legs had
healed enough and I was transferred to another health center in
Wyckoff, initially to the mental services unit, and then to the
behavioral wing.
I was taken to an upstairs room, painted a garish turquoise
color. In the corner of the large room, my Danish brother-in-law was
in a bed. He was dying. My sister (his wife) and their two children
were there at his bedside, trying to ease his discomfort, and
sobbing because they knew this was the end. I couldn’t speak, I
couldn’t form the word “Liz,” I didn’t even know her name anymore. I
could not move. All I could do was watch, when I wanted desperately
to reach out to her. I was frozen, paralyzed, and it was the most
terrible feeling I had ever known.
What I just described happened only to me, only in my mind. The
room was not turquoise and my brother-in-law was not in it dying.
However, the events of my hallucinations were vivid and genuine to
me. I saw what I saw and felt what I felt just as a normal person
does everyday in “real life.”
I recall going to the lobby each morning and sitting on the couch
facing the entry doors. My brother Tommy had died unexpectedly two
years earlier at age 41, but in my world, he was there with me. I
don’t know if there was a person sitting next to me that I thought
was Tommy or if I was alone, but Tommy and I were producing a
Broadway play. The doctors and nurses coming in through the door
were our actors taking the stage. The people in the sitting room
watching TV and talking irritated me. I could not believe how rude
they were during my Broadway show. This particular daily occurrence
went on for weeks, but the hallucinations did not stay “innocent”
and my behavior became more difficult.
On several occasions, I took off all my clothes and was found
sitting in public rooms, completely nude. I also began aggressive
behavior toward men, fondling and grabbing their penises. I was
appalled when I later learned of my inappropriate behavior. I can
only say that in my state of mind, I must have been acting on
orders. I was being told to do such things.
My boyfriend would visit me and although I did not know him as
Michael, the man in my life, he sensed that I somehow knew that we
shared a romantic connection. I called him by names of past
boyfriends and I showed him affection. The staff had to advise
Michael to stop all affectionate gestures with me because they
feared it triggered my accosting the other men.
There was a male nurse on the night shift who I called “Doctor.”
In my hallucination, he told me that I could no longer stay in this
cabin. He instructed me to go find another place to sleep. It was
brutally cold and I was barefoot. I trudged all night through the
snow until my feet bled. At last I found a cabin to sleep in. The
next night, the same thing happened. On the third night, I could not
bear to walk through the snow again so I devised a plan. I would
trick the doctor by removing the room number outside my door. He
would then not know which cabin it was or how long I stayed in any
room.
I somehow was able to get the ceramic plaque with the number 13
off the wall. The next day when my family came to visit, I told them
what I had done. I was proud of my cleverness. They were shocked to
discover that I had indeed removed the number 13 from outside my
room. My father explained to the staff what I had reported to them
and what I believed was going on. No one figured out how I had been
able to remove a ceramic plaque that was molded into the wall, and I
do not know, but it worked. That hallucination ceased, and the room
number did not get put back up on the wall until I was discharged.
The hallucinations became more horrifying. I remember a large
shower room. No curtains or soap or towels, just a long stark room
with shower heads. Two strong women pulled me into the room and
forcibly showered me, then I was sexually molested. I screamed and
cried, but it did not stop and no one came to help me.
I was distraught by this image every other day. I confided in my
friend Fred, who in reality was my father, that I was being abused.
I must have innately known that I could trust him. He told the
nurses of my delusion and from then on, I was sedated before every
shower.
The hallucinations were distressing and relentless. Across the
hall from me was an elderly French woman who amused me. I liked her.
Suddenly there were five men upon her, holding her down, struggling
to perform some kind of medical procedure. They were cruel; and then
they tore off her clothes. Their actions were no longer medical, and
I watched in despair, unable to stop them. I fiercely wanted to help
her, but it was like I was stuck in a cage. I also kept thinking
not me, not me, as I was afraid that I would be next. Like a
scene from a slasher movie, her body just started spurting blood
everywhere.
It was gruesome and awful and the picture remains in my head to
this day. The men tied her to a chair naked, and they sat back
laughing, watching TV. The inability to help her was harrowing. I
was in a panic wondering what was next, for her and for me. I was
tormented that I couldn’t save her and the powerlessness I felt was
devastating. The sense of being trapped was persistent throughout
all the hallucinations I experienced. I felt like I was being held
captive, and truthfully, I was. The real me was locked deep inside.
In another hallucination, I was in an insane asylum, the
quintessential “cuckoo’s nest;” psychotics, drug addicts, maddening
confusion everywhere. There were sixty to seventy frighteningly
insane people with three or four doctors standing around shooting
the breeze. I roamed through the people not knowing why I was there
and what they would to do me. I feared electroshock treatment or
sexual abuse. Beyond the frustration and ultimate horror of my
hallucinations, was the unmistakable entrapment. I always was
fearful, always felt like I was in captivity, to the point of a WWII
Nazi death camp. The anguish was that profound.
Most painful to me was being told that my father had died. I
grieved for my precious father unaware that he was alive and well,
and visiting me every day. It was my state of being, and not his
death, that was not real. My ache for him, my sorrow and my
loneliness, was excruciating.
Throughout these months of hallucinations, I carried the weight
of constant loneliness. I didn’t know my family; I didn’t belong to
anyone. I may have talked to Fred and Mrs. Silly Willy, but I did
not know they were my parents. My son and my daughter visited me and
I did not know that I was their mother. I was scared all the time,
terrified that I would never be free from the imprisonment. I never
knew what dreadful experience would happen next, but it always
unpleasant; the “mild” hallucinations were replaced with dire ones.
It got to the point where I laid on the floor in diapers, weeping.
That is no way to live, cognizant of reality or not.
The usual prognosis in conditions like mine: if there is no
improvement within one year, there will never be any improvement.
For me, sanity came just in the nick of time. My recovery is as much
a mystery as my very survival.
I have no explanation, but I give credit to the unwavering
support of my family who visited constantly and never gave up on me.
I also believe that my maternal instinct is so strong that it worked
its way to the surface and gave me the strength to come back. My son
was a senior in high school, and my daughter was a senior in
college. Imprinted on my psyche is that my kids needed their mom.
My first lucid moment came in June 2004, eight months after the
accident. My mother, my daughter and her long-time boyfriend came
into my room, and I spoke my first sane words.
“Hi Mom! Hi Elizabeth! Hi Dave! So good to see you! And how is
your dog, Juno?”
It was one brief minute of recognition, but it was a start. I
then explained to them that although I would love to go to lunch
with them, I couldn’t take a long lunch break my first week at my
new job. I thanked them for coming to see me at my new office.
The hallucinations didn’t evaporate instantly, but slowly, bit by
bit, I broke free. If I didn’t have the maternal instinct, I don’t
know if it ever would have happened. If it had not happened, if I
would have remained in a hallucinatory state, I can tell you that it
is not a life worth living. I would have wanted to be relieved of
the agony.
Don’t misunderstand me, I value life dearly. I treasure my life
and am so grateful. To be sane and see my kids is a gift, and I am
thrilled to be alive. However, I am not exaggerating when I speak of
the hallucinations and the ever present anxiety. I could not break
out of the prison of fear, threats, and brutality. It would not
matter if I was in a hospital, an institution, or at home with my
family; I was jailed by my brain.
Even more frightening to me than the hallucinations is the lack
of medical research that exists on this topic. I do not know of
anyone who has recovered from what I did. It is my duty to reveal
what I experienced so proper medical attention can be given to
patients with brain injuries. I implore the medical profession: See
beyond the physical injuries. Don’t just give a walker or a cane.
The physical is important, but not as important as the mental.
Because of the damage, my brain was not me. I was not Jeanne
Marino. To live in that state of insanity, the lonely, abysmal state
of hallucinations, a place of no hope, is not a life.
I am a miracle. To be able to be a part of my children’s lives
again is a precious blessing.
To know my family is my greatest joy. However, if I had not achieved
this coherence and would have remained in my prior mental state, I
would not have wanted to live.
I am not suicidal now, and I was not then, because I did not have
the cognitive ability to know that suicide was option. I was not
capable of having that thought. The confinement was oppressing, but
I did not have the intellect to know that I could free myself by
taking my own life. For those mental patients who do take their own
lives, I completely understand why.
Let me be clear. If my injuries would have been purely physical,
I would never entertain the thought of euthanasia. I could be
blinded, paralyzed, nothing but a stump, and I would fight to
survive. A person can overcome or learn to live with physical
disabilities. A person cannot learn to live with severe
hallucinations because the brain is not functioning properly to send
any such messages.
It is my fervent belief that I could have been helped. I could
have been released from the fear and captivity much sooner if
medical doctors were taught in detail how to treat hallucinations in
their patients. Research can be done to learn what part of the brain
creates such a disorder. MRIs and autopsies can be used. There is a
range of potential sufferers who can be helped and who can be
learned from: Alzheimer's patients, mental ward patients, others
like me.
For accident victims, a state of psychosis due to brain trauma
needs to be diagnosed and documented. Nurses need to be trained on
what to observe, what to say, what to report. Medical charts need to
record every episode. Medical and psychiatric professionals need to
team together to determine what triggers episodes in a patient and
what kind of therapy can be used. They can discuss with family
members what to look for and what to tell the doctors.
The benefits of pharmaceutical aids cannot be overemphasized.
Research needs to be done in the realm of hallucinations. There is a
large market of anti-psychotic drugs; there has to be a drug that
can help. From my position, I can maintain that it certainly
wouldn’t hurt. Any relief at all would give the patient a respite
from the trepidation, and ultimately give hope. The call for
research and education for medical and nursing professionals seems
so obvious, yet it currently is not happening.
I made it out of the mental prison and it is my mission to inform
the medical community that this problem can and should be addressed.
Psychotic patients are shipped off to mental wards to live out the
course of their lives. No one can truly comprehend how intolerable
such a life is.
Observation and documentation of the hallucinating patient would
benefit the research, and symptoms could be treated. If I made it
back to sanity, I have to believe that others can as well. For those
that can’t, the doctors need to ease the burden of their suffering.
Living a life of hallucinations is not living.
Sanity slowly crept in for me, and we don’t know how. The miracle
of my survival motivates me to share what no one else before has
been able to communicate. What is the percentage of people who
return to sane living? I have not found another. I am recovered, but
I am forever changed. I still have cognitive difficulties and
forming my thoughts can be a slow process, but I can be the voice
for those who cannot speak. We have to deal with the medical side of
the personal agony that I lived through in order to assist those
still incarcerated in their damaged brains. There can be medical
remedy.
The terror and the sadness from the hallucinations were authentic
feelings and still haunt me. I have to tell myself one valid point
every day: the tragic episodes that I lived through only happened
internally. However, everything we go through in life is processed
internally, so my reactions to the hallucinatory experiences are
bona fide. Hopefully, the lingering angst will fade in time.
I thank God every day for my sanity and my freedom. Short-term
memory loss is still an issue and I have trouble finding the words
that I want to say. I am able to walk, but I am still in physical
therapy to be taught how to cope with the chronic residual pain. The
mental pain has left me a different person. I tried to cross the
damn street and ended up like this.
For nearly twelve months, I experienced absolute misery.
Everything in the hallucinations were real to me. I have the memory
of the despondency. I have to remind myself that my father did not
die, and all the horrible incidents that I suffered and witnessed
did not happen. I was robbed of a year of my life; fortunately I
have been released from the fear and the captivity of the
hallucinations. If the issue was taught in medical school, a brain
specialist could have helped me right away. Accurate diagnosis and
proper drugs could have eased my affliction. I had no diagnosis, no
intervention.
If the subject matter of hallucinations were handled properly,
perhaps I would not have reached the level of despondency that I
did; perhaps those currently suffering in mental wards and
behavioral units all across the country could be helped.
I was the only person to ever get sent home from that medical
center. I know of no one else like me.
Compliments
of Jeanne Marino
