Broken, dejected and shriveled by the ravages of depression and
mania, I slumped in the rounded, upholstered chair facing my psychiatrist
of two years. I no longer believed I would recover from bipolar illness,
in light of numerous failed medication trials. Weeping through my anxiety
and despair, I turned to my doctor for help.
As she spoke about electroconvulsive therapy--"shock therapy"--my
ears took in the horror of her words. I sensed the acrid smell of
electricity and envisioned slick blades of lightning blasting chaotically
through my brain. Was she giving up her belief in my recovery by
suggesting electrocution? I cowered at the thought of what lay ahead.
Courage and grit, where are you?
I spoke to patients and doctors and read journals. No one knows how
this seizure treatment works. While it does work for many, its success is
random. Graphic side effects, including memory loss, along with
optimistic statistics, became familiar to me. Already I had lost 30
pounds and grieved for that lost and starved self. Finally, frightened
that my ominous mind was too much to handle, I decided to begin the first
round of 18 treatments.
At the hospital a few days later, I whimpered as I prepared to be
abandoned. Shivered through a medical examination and numbly answered
questions in a small, empty voice unrecognizable to me. An antiquated
X-ray machine was wheeled into my hospital room and pictures were taken
to ensure that the jagged jolts would not harm my body. I hadn't
considered the electric current running through my muscles, nerves and
bones. I grew more frightened.
Very early the next morning, patients scheduled for ECT waited in
the shabby reception area. The hunched regulars mingled with the
uninitiated. One by one we were called in. When it was my turn, my
clothes were taken from me and replaced with a skimpy, blue hospital
gown. I sat there silently twisting the ties on my smock. We, pained
depressives, living in the sun and shade, gathered in the anteroom
together, hoping this mysterious magic might work. Our journey to the
stars was to begin, and it was now my turn.
The last thing I remember before the treatment began was lying on a
narrow gurney as the nurse secured a wide rubber belt snugly around my
head. Almost simultaneously, the anesthesiologist inserted a needle into
a vein on the back of my hand. As soon as I tasted a garlicky flavor in
the back of my throat, I began my deep descent into complete blankness.
It was as if my brain stopped working. My next memory is of wobbling back
to the next room guided by a nurse. I felt confused and disoriented, like
I was twirling in space. I was glad it was over.
Spread out before me was a cafeteria breakfast with which to break
my 14-hour fast. I ate lightly and the milk from my cereal spoon spilled
as I concentrated on drawing it to my mouth. They, said I might
experience fatigue, headache and confusion in the afternoon. After each
treatment, I felt all three.
The memory loss was so profound at times that I got lost just
walking a few blocks in my neighborhood. The period of time before,
during and after my treatment permanently vanished into the deep channels
of my mind. Short vignettes are all that I have left of my four months of
ECT.
When it became apparent that I had experienced no relief from my
depression, it was with tremendous disappointment that I eventually
abandoned electroconvulsive treatment.
Katherine Lerer lives in Palo Alto, California.
Tags:
anxiety,
depression,
jolts,
mania,
medication trials,
next morning,
ray machine,
reception area,
regulars,
shock therapy,
treatment,
x ray
