A Mind Unraveled

by Kurt Eichenwald

“That’s not a good idea,” my father said. “Swarthmore hasn’t committed to any decision. If we push, they might lash back. We should try the soft approach.”

  “What do you mean ‘the soft approach’?” I shouted. “A soft approach isn’t going to work! They lied to kick me out! Do you think now we’re just going to persuade them to let me back in out of the goodness of their hearts?”

  My mother had a thought. She hurried to the kitchen and returned with a copy of the St. Mark’s student directory. She remained standing as she flipped through it.

  “Don Lloyd-Jones is on the board at Swarthmore,” she said. “He’s the father of one of our seniors.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll call and ask if we can meet with him.”

  She returned to the kitchen and placed the call. My father and I stayed in the living room; he listened patiently as I seethed about my college. Minutes passed before my mother returned with a triumphant smile.

  “He’ll see us tomorrow,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  My mother and I arrived at the Lloyd-Jones residence at about 11:00 A.M. By then, I had learned he was second in command at American Airlines. I figured that for such an important executive to invite us over on short notice, my mother must have helped his son a lot during his years at St. Mark’s.

  Lloyd-Jones brought us into his living room. Everything about him communicated gracious amiability, from his mannerisms to his tone of voice. My mother opened the conversation by summarizing my history of epilepsy and my dismissal from school.

  I interrupted. “They did it twice. The first time they blamed it on a brain tumor I don’t have. The second time they said I was failing my courses, which I wasn’t, and had no social life, which I did. Janet Dickerson herself said I could come back. Now they’re saying, if it’s not in the best interest of the school, they’ll keep me out!”

  I caught myself. I was talking too loudly and too quickly. My mother resumed her narrative with no more interruptions from me. I had expected Lloyd-Jones to be outraged by the school’s actions, but he showed no outward signs of distress. The story was too complex, with too many conflicting currents.

  At the end of the visit, Lloyd-Jones promised to discuss the situation by telephone with Theodore “Dorie” Friend, Swarthmore’s president. My mother thanked him.

  I wasn’t as polite. “When you speak to President Friend, give him a message from me: Swarthmore broke the law when they threw me out. I have a letter from a West Virginia University law professor willing to represent me in suing the school. I’ve already spoken to someone with the government, and he says Swarthmore broke the law.”

  Lloyd-Jones maintained his placid demeanor. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll speak to Dorie.”

  * * *

  —

  Lloyd-Jones called my mother on Sunday. He had contacted Friend, who spoke to Dickerson. She assured Friend any problems would be worked out.

  “So deal with Janet,” Lloyd-Jones told her. “She’ll take care of everything.”

  My mother relayed his comments to me. I did not find the news encouraging.

  * * *

  —

  Late on Monday, January 4, I called Swarthmore and spoke with Dickerson for the first time since leaving school. I asked if I would be allowed to return and, if not, what reason they had for refusing.

  “Call tomorrow or Wednesday, and we’ll have a decision,” she replied.

  I had an appointment scheduled with Naarden the next afternoon at three-thirty. Before we left for the checkup, I phoned Dickerson again. Her secretary told me that she was in a meeting, so I left a message and hung up. I told my mother what the secretary had said.

  “She’s lying!” my mother declared forcefully. “It’s a lie!”

  “Mom, give her a break.” I laughed. “She’s probably in a meeting. She is the dean.”

  Thirty minutes later, my parents and I were seated across from Naarden in his office. He asked if I was having trouble on my new drug combination. I slept more easily, I replied, but that was nice.

  Then the conversation changed direction. “We need to discuss what you’re going to do about school,” Naarden said.

  “What about it?”

  “We have to consider whether it would be better for you to stay home for another semester given the problems you’ve had.”

  I was stunned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The academic issues you were having.”

  I thought this was over.

  “Again, what are you talking about?”

  “I received a call this morning from Dr. Millington, who spoke with the dean. And she had told him it was a matter of school record that you withdrew from one course, were failing another, and were doing flashes of A work in another but mostly poor work.”

  “Wait a minute—” I barked.

  My mother touched my arm. “Shh, let him finish.”

  I nodded.

  “Since your performance was poor in the first semester, it’s probably the medication,” he said. “So it might be best if you stay home and get everything straightened out.”

  I stayed silent until I was sure he had finished.

  “Dr. Naarden,” I said, “they are lying to you. Yes, I dropped a course, right off the bat, because Janet Dickerson told me to! I had no grades in my other classes. They are just trying to stop me from coming back!”

  “It’s true,” my mother said. “It is absolutely true. They are trying to get rid of him.”

  I put my hand on his desk. “They don’t want me because I have seizures. They don’t want the liability. They don’t want anything to do with it.”

  My new sense of targeted rage kicked in. I assessed what Naarden had just told me and the school’s relentless efforts to keep me out. What are they planning? I had called Dickerson just before this appointment. Based on her commitment from the day before, they had less than twenty-four hours to give me a final decision. That meant…

  “They’re trying to trick you!” I blurted out. “They want you to tell them it would be in my best interest if I didn’t return. That way, they can kick me out and blame you!”

  Naarden looked at us as if we were all insane.

  “You’re going to get another call from Millington,” I insisted. “I bet they’re tricking him too. He’s going to ask for your recommendation on if I can return to school. They want to trick you into repeating back exactly what they told you!”

  Minutes later, the phone rang. Naarden picked up, covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and said, “Speak of the devil.”

  It was Millington. I stayed silent. As Naarden listened, his smile disappeared. For the first time, I saw anger in his face.

  Then he spoke. “I am an adviser to Kurt and his family, nothing more,” he said in sharp, clipped tones. “If you want to know if Kurt is returning to Swarthmore, I suggest you call him. Otherwise, we have nothing to talk about.”

  Naarden hung up and looked at me. “I think I’m beginning to understand what you’ve been saying this whole time,” he said.

  My head drooped. I was amazed. What was the probability we would be there right between Millington’s two calls? If my appointment with Naarden had been at any other time, my chance of returning to college would have been over.

  * * *

  —

  Amid the tumult, I received a call from Peter Applebome of Texas Monthly. I had left him a message, hoping to spur interest in the Balaban story, and was excited to hear back. I explained the case and told him I had compiled documents proving everything. He said that the story sounded great, but he had just joined the Monthly from the Dallas Morning News, and this seemed like a better article for the newspaper. He offered to put me in contact with a reporter named Christy Hoppe
.

  Hoppe listened as I described the Balaban situation and asked plenty of questions. I told her I could get the documents and memos to her as soon as possible. She suggested we meet the next day at Kip’s Restaurant, not far from my home.

  * * *

  —

  Dorie Friend, Swarthmore’s president, called a meeting of school officials to review my case. The group included Dickerson, the security chief, the head of the health center, Whitaker, and Patricia Whitman, Swarthmore’s equal opportunity specialist.

  Friend asked a series of questions. Then Whitaker took the floor. Gone were the stories about the brain tumor, the academic failure, the lack of a social life. This time he proclaimed a new diagnosis.

  He had reviewed one of my EEGs, Whitaker said. “And what it shows is,” he continued, “not only does Kurt not have epilepsy, but he is mentally ill.”

  As Whitaker prattled on, Whitman listened in disbelief. Unknown to Whitaker, she also had epilepsy. She understood EEGs, what they could show, and what they could not. She knew this psychologist was delivering impossible interpretations.

  She interrupted. “Lee, as I’m sure you know, many people with epilepsy have normal EEGs. You can’t say the EEG shows epilepsy doesn’t exist.”

  Then Whitman dropped the bomb. “Also, I have no idea how you’re saying the EEG proves Kurt is mentally ill. An EEG can’t show anything like that. It just measures electrical activity. How are you concluding it shows mental illness?”

  Whitaker mumbled a few replies, then stopped speaking.* The discussion resumed. Whitman listened to the rationalizations for my dismissal with increasing dismay. She couldn’t believe that they were bringing her in on a case directly related to her job only at this point. None of them understood the law.

  The meeting ended, and everyone gathered their things. Whitman approached Friend.

  “Dorie?” she said. “Can we speak?”

  Whitman waited until everyone else left the room to say more.

  “I want to tell you, if Kurt sues the school, he will win,” she said. “And not only that—I’ll testify on his behalf.”

  Friend’s eyes held steady. But the color drained from his face.

  * * *

  —

  Dickerson’s self-imposed deadline came the day after we witnessed Millington’s call to Naarden. I phoned her office, still grateful at having been with him at that exact time. The secretary placed me on hold, and I waited beside the kitchen table. I expected this would be short. There wasn’t much for her to say other than “You’re back in.”

  Dickerson picked up.

  “Hi, Dean Dickerson,” I said. “So, what’s the decision?”

  “Well, your neurologist and Dr. Millington had a telephone call yesterday…”

  Yeah, I know, I thought smugly. I was there.

  “…and Dr. Naarden said it was up to your psychiatrist whether you should return and that your psychiatrist should call the school psychiatrist to discuss it.”

  Don’t speak. This was fiction, and I had witnesses to prove it. If I blew up then, the outburst could be used against me.

  My voice hardened with contained rage. “That’s odd,” I said. “Why would my neurologist want my psychiatrist to speak with your psychiatrist? If anything, I would think he would just ask my psychiatrist to send a letter.”

  “Dr. Naarden recommended that the psychiatrists speak to each other.”

  This is unreal. “Okay, but that makes no sense. I was dismissed from school because of my seizures. Why does a psychiatrist have to call for you to let me back in?”

  “Well, your neurologist told Dr. Millington that you don’t have epilepsy. In fact, he said your problem is psychological.”

  I sank into a chair, stunned. Whitaker knew about the misdiagnosis in Chicago; had he used that to manipulate Millington, to trick Dickerson? Millington knew the story too—was he lying? Or had administrators finally figured out they had broken the law and started grabbing any rumor they could to make the problem go away?

  Something worse occurred to me. Why the hell was some dean telling a student that his neurologist was blabbing to near strangers that he was insane? Had she considered the damage that might be caused by suggesting my neurologist was lying to me yet letting some college internist know the real story?

  We rambled on, with Dickerson making a series of statements that contradicted things my parents had already been told. Five minutes after the conversation ended, Naarden called. My blood tests showed my Mysoline level was too low, and he gave me instructions to increase the dosage.

  “Okay,” I said. “Listen, I have something else to talk about. I just spoke with the dean of Swarthmore. She said you told Dr. Millington I don’t have epilepsy and that my seizures are psychological.”

  “What?” I could almost picture his mouth gaping. “That is a fabrication. You heard my call with him. I said no such thing.”

  “Yeah, but I had to ask.”

  I could hear anger in Naarden’s voice. “Kurt, I just told you to start taking a higher dose of a very powerful drug. And you’re already on Dilantin, another powerful drug. I don’t throw anticonvulsants around like candy. You have epilepsy.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I know. They’re just lying again.”

  * * *

  —

  I asked my mother to join me later that day for my appointment with Roskos. Since Naarden resumed my treatment plan, I had cut back on my visits with the psychiatrist. But that week’s events were so breathtakingly preposterous, I decided he might need my mother to confirm that my account of Swarthmore’s outlandish behavior was true.

  I told him about Dickerson’s insistence that he speak to the school psychiatrist about me. “No way I am doing that,” Roskos said. “That violates the ethical rules of my profession.”

  “I know,” I said. “It seems like they’re saying to return to school, I have to waive doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “That’s exactly what they’re saying.”

  I asked Roskos if he should send a letter giving his judgment on whether I was fit to return. He advised we wait to see how things unfolded—with everything Swarthmore had done so far, he said, there was no telling how they might react to correspondence from him.

  * * *

  —

  My parents asked to speak with me in the living room that evening. They looked somber. I knew something bad had happened.

  “I called the school,” my mother said, her voice faltering. “They said Janet Dickerson never said the things you attributed to her. They said you’re making it up.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Don’t tell me. You believe them.”

  My father spoke. “Kurt, it’s just so crazy. Why would they tell you things like this? Why would they say your neurologist says you have a mental illness or you have to let them interview your psychiatrist?”

  I sat down. “I can’t believe we’re back to this. They are doing whatever they can to keep me out.”

  “They’re claiming you’re making up these stories about what Janet Dickerson is saying,” my mother said, “and they say that this is proof you shouldn’t be coming back.”

  Unreal. Even after everything they had seen, my parents still couldn’t believe that the college administrators would say anything to get rid of me. The second semester was about to start. And now everyone doubted me again. I could think of only one way to bring all the doubt to an end.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, January 7, I was alone in the house carrying my portable cassette recorder and some Scotch tape. I walked into my parents’ room and went to the phone on their bedside table. After placing the handset on the bed, I strapped the recorder onto it with tape, placing the microphone against the earpiece. After pushing the plunger button to reset the dial tone, I p
ressed RECORD and ran to the kitchen phone. I dialed Swarthmore, hoping my amateurish wiretapping efforts would work. I asked for Dickerson’s office, and the call was transferred.

  Dickerson answered the phone herself with a cheery “Good afternoon.”

  “Ah, hi, this is Kurt.”

  She told me she was just writing a letter to my family. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I was just calling to find out what was going on.”

  She explained that Dr. Millington had sent her a letter, and then she moved on to discuss one of the conditions of my return. “I realized in talking to you the other day that there might be some concern in your psychiatrist talking to us,” she said.

  “The only concern I had was that I didn’t see why my psychiatrist had to talk to the school psychiatrist when I had never seen him.”

  I stopped. I was getting off track already, making an argument. I needed Dickerson to repeat things she had already told me, statements that my parents would know were false.

  “There’s one question I have, which is that, when I left, you told both my mother and me that I would be returning next semester, seizures or not.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said.

  My mom will be interested to hear that. “You did not tell us that?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “The thing is that my mother remembers the exact same thing being said.”

  “Well, I know that I didn’t say it,” Dickerson replied. “I would be very careful not to.”

  Moving on. What was the problem with me returning? I asked. How was I different from other students? I hoped she would reply by citing my seizures. No such luck.

  “All I can say is this: We need to have some recommendations from reputable doctors that—well, apparently whatever is going on is as much psychiatric as it is medical.”

  There it was. She had repeated that they believed the seizures were psychological.