Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry (26 page)

One night, while watching the evening news, you see a report that certain cold medicines are being removed from the market because they contain a particular ingredient that can cause hemorrhagic stroke in young women.

You had taken a cold medicine the day you had your stroke.

You recall the name of the medicine and see it on the report’s list.

Could this be what happened to you?

YOU SCHEDULED AN APPOINTMENT
with your neurologist to discuss the cause of your stroke. The meeting was scheduled for September 11, 2001, at eight in the morning.

As you’re driving to the appointment at 7:30
A.M.
, you tell Jim about this weird dream you had the night before. It was a restless night. You dreamed that your body was an airplane and you were flying people on your back across the country. You were flying them through hazy purple clouds.

You felt very sad.

Your meeting with Dr. Neuro is a fateful one. After reading the latest research, he tells you that he is completely convinced that your hemorrhage was caused by the cold medicine you took prior to the onset of your hemorrhage. He says he’s sorry that this information wasn’t available at the time of your stroke.

But this is what caused the stroke.

“You are a classic case of the study for causation,” he tells you. “Young, one-time dosage, and hemorrhagic stroke within hours. You’re lucky you survived; most people don’t make it after experiencing a hemorrhage such as the one you had.”

If you had followed Dr. Jerk’s treatment plan, you’d still be having chemotherapy every month to treat a disease you don’t have, and your quality of life would be abysmal.

You are deeply grateful for the certainty. You thank Dr. Neuro for listening to you and caring for you as if you were a member of his family.

EXITING THE ELEVATOR
in the main lobby after your appointment, you spot a television monitor on the wall, broadcasting the sickening image of a plane hitting the World Trade Center.

“HELLO, MRS. GARRISON,
how are you feeling today?”

It’s a quick, dutiful pleasantry. You can tell instantly that the judge—a tall fellow with piercing eyes and rimless spectacles—doesn’t really care how you feel. But you figure you should answer anyway.

“I feel very spastic, but that’s because I’m nervous. The five-hour ride here wasn’t easy for me either.”

“Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions?”

“Yes.”

“When did you know that it was the medication you took that caused your stroke?”

“I didn’t know for sure until September 11, 2001, when I met with my neurologist, after he reviewed the research. I’m certain of the date because everyone in America remembers that day.”

“The defense believes that you knew it was the medication—or should have known—the first day you went to the hospital.”

You’re stunned. You can’t comprehend what he’s saying or what he’s driving at. But you’re supposed to say something.

“Huh?”

It’s not a great response, but it’s all you’ve got.

“How could I possibly have known about it the day I went to the hospital? I was having a stroke. The best doctors in the world didn’t know at that point—the study hadn’t even been released yet. Anyway, what difference would it make?”

“It makes a difference because the defense believes the statute of limitations is up. They say it’s too late for you to prosecute.”

You can feel yourself getting hot. You start to feel under attack.

The judge continues his pointed questions in a robotic fashion. He says he’s concerned that you may not be able to endure a trial.

“If I can endure a massive hemorrhagic stroke,” you say carefully, “I assure you I can endure a trial. The pharmaceutical company knew it was using something dangerous, but it was too cheap to change it. They need to be held accountable.”

“Mrs. Garrison,” he says matter-of-factly, “it has nothing to do with you or the merits of your case; it’s based on the law. The statute of limitations period started ticking when you entered the hospital.”

“Even though no doctor in the country knew that this cold medication was a problem at that time?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Isn’t that kind of a Christmas present for the pharmaceutical company?” He scowls at you.

Why are you being held accountable to a higher standard than the pharmaceutical company? They weren’t required to remove the products from the market until the study was revealed—even though they suspected a problem and initiated the study.

A FEW DAYS LATER
you receive formal notification that your suit against the pharmaceutical company that produced the medication will not go forward.

Your case has been dismissed without prejudice in the New Jersey court. Not because you didn’t suffer injury as a result of this drug, but because the pharmaceutical company has unlimited funds to pay a vast number of lawyers who could knock you out on a technicality. Justice for sale.

One more complicated system you are no longer innocent enough to believe in.

You want this chapter of your quest for truth and justice behind you—but your brother John sees a chance to prevail. The New Jersey dismissal allowed a stipulation that you could refile your case in Massachusetts—where the statute of limitation laws are more lenient.

Massachusetts. Bring it on.

YOU DROPPED RORY
off at school today without having to promise anything. A major victory.

RORY WAS SO YOUNG
when your stroke occurred. He couldn’t express his feelings until he could vocalize and verbalize. He was terrified, but he didn’t have the ability to express how he felt.

So by seven and a half he had become extremely phobic, fearful of extraordinary things that don’t happen to children, like, for instance, a heart attack or brain hemorrhage. Separations were a major challenge.

You would drop him off at school, and he would say, “Something bad will happen to me before I see you again. I know it.”

You would drop him off to play with friends, and he would say, “Promise me nothing is going to hurt you today.”

You would be getting him on to the school bus, and he would say, “Promise me Daddy won’t get hit by a car today.”

At first, you say, “Don’t worry, nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.”

But soon, you and Jim realize, he is relying on this promise of yours in order to start his day.

It’s a big, fat lie. You know now that no one can predict what fate has in store for you.

It becomes very stressful for everyone. He’s terrified that something violent or painful or life changing will happen to him, to you, or to Daddy every time you separate, whether it’s going to bed, going to school, whatever.

One day, you’re both in the car, and he asks you to promise that you won’t die while he’s away at school. You take a deep breath.

“Rory,” you say calmly, “I can’t promise you anything like that, because I don’t know what’s going to happen today.”

It’s the first time you’ve actually said it out loud to him—or, you realize, to yourself. You don’t have control over the future, only your own choices. You don’t know what’s going to happen. None of us do.

“So,” you continue, “I can’t make that promise. Anything can happen. I wish I could change that for you, but I can’t. Nobody can. But here’s a promise I can make you. I promise that you’ll have a great day if you have an open mind and a positive attitude. Your day will be much better if you do that than if you don’t.”

“MOM, I HATE BEING THIS WAY.
I don’t want to be scared all the time.”

Rory says it flatly on the way to school. It breaks your heart; you know you need some help.

You decide to take him to your friend Janie’s house—she has a lot of experience with children who’ve gone through trauma. But when the moment comes, Rory won’t get out of the car. He cries and says he doesn’t want you to leave him.

You walk him to the front door. He’s still crying.

Janie, bubbly, answers the door and takes his hand.

“You know what we’re going to do today, Rory?”

He shrugs.

“We’re going to bake chocolate chip cookies together.”

This distracts him enough for you to be able to slip away.

You return an hour later. Janie has made great progress. She has learned (while keeping him busy baking) that he doesn’t want you or Jim to say good-bye or good night because he believes he won’t see you again.

You agree to say “
See you later”
or “
See you in the morning”
instead.

AT EACH SEPARATION
you’ve been walking him—and yourself—through the painful fact that you can’t ever promise someone that nothing terrible will happen. Bad things
do
happen. It’s how we react to them that determines our situation.

Today you dropped him off at a birthday party, and you heard him say, with your own ears, “Okay. The party’s supposed to be over at four. See you then, Mom.”

And you watch him hop out of the car and bounce up the stairs with his gold paper–wrapped present in his hand and a smile on his face.

MEMORIES ARE
my most treasured possession. Memories can soothe you or they can cripple you. This book has been about memories.

Although I have had to summon the past, and shape it, for this book, I try not to remain in it; I work only in the present. And even though I know I have a long, possibly difficult journey ahead of me, trying to improve more each day, pursuing my legal case as well, I try not to live for the future, either. I believe each moment we experience really should be our most important moment. That’s a hard standard to meet, but it’s a bad one to ignore.

In hindsight, I’ve been able to review my choices, not always the best ones, but I’ve tried to take the lesson from the aftermath and grow. It is hard to believe that simply trying to relieve common cold symptoms would have changed my life forever. It proves that every choice one makes, no matter how benign it may appear, has a consequence. I have come to accept that things happen for reasons, and it is the Plan.

For every action, there is a reaction.

Since that first homage to my hemorrhage party, I have continued to celebrate the anniversary. Celebrating something absurd is a great decision, a way to take control of life. That’s the key, not just living life passively but making decisions and choosing to grow.

People tell you, “Look at the glass as though it’s half full, not half empty.” Actually, I always want to look at the glass as half full—
and
. As in, the glass is half full, and where is the pitcher to fill the rest of it? I always want more, especially when I’m celebrating. It’s important to never pass up an opportunity for the bubbly! I’m satisfied with the things that I have, but want to keep growing: spiritually, physically, in my family life, everything. Okay, not everything. When I say physically, I don’t mean getting larger, I mean getting stronger. It reminds me of when I made my yearly visit to my grandparents in Pennsylvania. My grandmother would pick me up at the airport and squeal, “My, Julia, you’ve grown so big!”

I didn’t accept it as a compliment. “Grandma, that’s fine if you’re talking to a toddler, but I’m twenty-two years old.” She would make this same remark every year.

All my life, my glass has overflowed; it just happened to get knocked over when “the incident” occurred. Now, P.S., it’s a matter of righting the glass and refilling it, but this time with a different and more meaningful substance.

MY STROKE WAS
a devastating injury, one that didn’t happen only to me, but also to my husband, my son, my parents, my siblings, and my friends. Yet in a way that is hard for an outsider to understand, my injury was also a great gift. I say that because I didn’t recognize all the blessings I had before my stroke. I thought I did, but I know now that I didn’t. Back then, I was only looking at the obvious blessings: home, family, and job. Now I know, as I never knew before, what a gift from God it is to sit up, to walk, to eat, to drive, to have family time, to be independent, and to share this life with someone who, you know with absolute certainty, truly loves you. The material things we give become obsolete, but to give of oneself—an act of kindness, for example—lasts a lifetime and beyond. To choose to share time with someone you love, knowing full well that your time on earth is limited, is a moment in time that is precious and will never come again.

These lessons are miracles, and I am grateful for them. In some ways (not, perhaps, in the ways I expected), I have to admit that my whole life after my injury turned into a miracle—however skeptical I may have been about such matters at various points in my recovery. I should not be here, but I am.

I once said to my dear Dr. Neuro, “I owe a lot to God for how far I’ve come.”

He said, “Give yourself some credit, too. God could have told you to get out of the wheelchair, but you could have said no.”

This may be true on the surface, but I know in my heart that it is equally true that God gave me the will, the spirit, and the sense of humor—and the optimism—to overcome this devastating injury. Now most people think I’m in recovery from a car accident. That might not
seem
like a victory, but consider that the right side of my brain consists mostly of dead tissue and contains a sizable hole. Yet the rest of my brain took over enough to allow me to function capably, if not perfectly, in an able-bodied world.

When I hear the words “stroke victim” I cringe. We’re only victims if we choose to let ourselves be consumed by something. I’m a survivor who continues to thrive.

My real purpose in life—my new life, not the one I had before—started, unbeknownst to me, right after my stroke. Initially, when I was in the critical care hospital, people looked at me—paralyzed, fighting to live. I could see in their faces the sadness and fear of how things can happen to human beings without warning. Nurses, doctors, and visitors all commented on how young I was to be so injured. This sort of thing was only supposed to happen to older people.

Life was supposed to make sense.