Dickerson interrupted. “Dr. Warner is highly qualified.”*
“That doesn’t matter. If he thinks he can determine whether I’m able to return in a single session, he’s either incompetent, thinks I have schizophrenia or something, or has already been fed a bunch of nonsense by Dr. Whitaker.”
My expression went hard. “And the last thing I want is another fool diagnosing me with a brain tumor based on how I talk simply so he can brag to students that he’s smarter than real doctors.”
Dickerson appeared uneasy but repeated: The requirement that I see Warner was not negotiable.
“Then we’re at an impasse,” I said. “And if we don’t find a compromise, this is going to become a legal case.”
“I know that’s what you think,” she replied. “But we’ve consulted with college counsel.” That lawyer, she said, had assured them the decision in the fall was legally bulletproof.
I crossed my arms on the table and leaned forward. “And let me ask, how many cases has that lawyer handled involving Section 504?” I intentionally didn’t define what I meant, implicitly communicating this was more complex than she might think.
“You have a college counsel who handles faculty contracts or something. I have a civil rights lawyer who says you broke the law. And I have a law professor who specializes in 504 cases who has offered to represent me for free in suing Swarthmore.”
I considered mentioning that federal investigators were ready to pounce as soon as I gave the word but decided to keep that card hidden.
“So if we’re playing battling experts,” I said, “I like my position, backed up by people who go to court over this law all the time, compared to the opinion of some college lawyer who probably thinks 504 is a time of day.”
I had metaphorically slapped. Now I needed to soothe.
“I don’t want this to be ugly,” I said. “I just want to come back to school.”
Dickerson wouldn’t budge. Finally, I said I would accept the original proposal: Warner, the school’s psychiatrist, could speak with Roskos, nothing more. To my surprise, she agreed.
* * *
—
The following morning, after his discussion with Warner, Roskos reached me at the hotel sounding flabbergasted. “You never would have passed that exam,” he said.
When Warner called, Roskos had followed my instructions and kept his words mostly limited to stating that there was no psychological reason to keep me out of school. Repeatedly, the Swarthmore psychiatrist asked for details; Roskos replied that the questions were outside the scope of what the school needed to know and answering would violate doctor-patient privilege. Warner mentioned mental problems I might have, and Roskos pushed back: Given that Warner had never met or spoken to me, Roskos said, he was not in a position to make a diagnosis.
Round and round they went, with Roskos parrying each of Warner’s thrusts by repeating his one-sentence conclusion.
Warner ended the call in exasperation. “I’m sorry,” the man retained by Swarthmore said. “I just don’t believe that Kurt doesn’t have a severe psychiatric problem.”
We had all been right—the requirement to meet with the school-hired psychiatrist had been a setup. He diagnosed me with an array of psychiatric issues without ever having heard my voice.
* * *
—
By Thursday, my fourth day back, I began to believe I might win. I had been attending courses I wanted to take that semester, and no professor had realized I was not actually enrolled. The only one I skipped was a seminar taught by my academic adviser. If I showed up, he was sure to report to the administration that I was going to classes.
From my mother’s hotel room, I phoned Cushing at his HHS office. With glee, I described my second meeting with Dickerson. After Warner struck out with Roskos, the dean renewed the demand that I speak directly to their psychiatrist. No way, I retorted. I had kept my side of the bargain. The only reason anyone would push me to meet with Warner now, I said, was because they didn’t like Roskos’s answer.
“Besides, we already know Warner’s diagnosis,” I had said. “He told Roskos he had no doubt I had a mental illness. Good luck arguing in court that your psychiatrist can diagnose someone using telepathy.”
Despite my amusement, Cushing did not find the story funny; instead, he insisted that it proved I needed to file for a federal investigation of Swarthmore. The psychiatrist gambit had been a fraud, and now the school was trying other tactics. The charade would never stop. Even if I forced my readmission, he said, administrators would find a way to drive me out.
My upbeat attitude ended that afternoon. After my father heard about the Roskos-Warner call, he could no longer control his fury and dashed off an injudicious letter to Dickerson. I heard through an ally in the administration that the missive had been ugly, setting back our progress considerably. I decided not to call my dad—there was no purpose. Instead, I asked my mother to contact him and communicate a message from me: no more contributions from the peanut gallery.
That afternoon, Dickerson and I met again. She was furious and mentioned my father’s letter. I explained I had no idea what he had written and didn’t want to know, because he was not speaking for me.
She looked at me angrily. “I’m not going to lose my job over this!” she snapped.
An opening. “Dean Dickerson, I don’t want you to lose your job,” I said. “I just want to come back to school.”
* * *
—
Later that day, without asking for my permission, Cushing telephoned Swarthmore, identified himself, and asked to speak with a particular senior administrator.
“I’m calling because, against my advice, Kurt Eichenwald wants to return to your school,” he started.
* * *
—
That evening, Cushing reached me at the Media Inn to discuss his call to the school. He refused to identify whom he had contacted.
“I was very clear with him,” he told me.
Him? Dorie Friend? Who else?
He recounted the opening of his call. He informed the person that HHS had been following the case after being alerted by me. He told the official that he had urged me to authorize a federal investigation, but I refused. However, he advised, he could tell my resistance was waning.
“I ended on a strong note,” Cushing said.
“What did you say?”
“I told him, if I finally did persuade you to file, the question is not whether Swarthmore has broken the law,” he said. “The question is, how many times?”
* * *
—
I woke the next morning elated. I had been on campus for five days, met every term of readmission, and now the school had received a direct warning from the federal official who would be conducting an investigation if I authorized it.
With a new sense of power, I went to an on-campus phone and called Dickerson. My face fell. There was no decision; the issue still had to be resolved by the dean’s committee. That was the same bunch that had thrown me out the first time.
That’s it. Exultant a moment before, I now felt defeated. If even Cushing’s call could not budge them, the fight was pointless. I’d already missed classes, and I couldn’t turn in homework for courses I was surreptitiously attending. The school could drag this out, then refuse readmission or create such a delay that I could never catch up. Then they would have the bad grades they needed to get rid of me again.
I called my mother at the hotel and filled her in on the developments. “Come pick me up,” I said dejectedly. “We need to go to Philadelphia so I can file for the investigation.”
In the car, my mother could see I was devastated. She assured me that I would get into another school, but I knew it was a promise beyond her power to keep. From the hotel, I called Cushing and told him that hardball had failed and that I was coming to s
ign the paper work.
During our drive, we passed the off-campus office of Millington, Swarthmore’s part-time internist. Maybe he doesn’t know everything that happened, I thought.
“Mom,” I said, “that’s Dr. Millington’s office. Pull in there. I’m going to try one last thing.”
To my surprise, Millington met with us almost immediately. My anger built as we marched toward our chairs. There was no purpose in holding back. No reason to be polite. This was all or nothing.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of what’s gone on,” I began.
I launched into a monologue. The brain tumor charade, delays in my treatment and cancellation of diagnostic tests caused by the school’s incompetence, the lies, the attempts to keep me out, the diagnosis by a school-hired psychiatrist who never spoke to me, the taped phone calls, my civil rights lawyer, the West Virginia law professor, and HHS investigators begging me to set them loose on Swarthmore.
“Now, here is where things stand,” I said. “I don’t give a damn about president’s committees. I don’t give a damn about dean’s committees. I don’t give a damn about who wants to meet with who or who wants to talk with who.”
I held up two fingers. “Swarthmore has two hours. And if I am not readmitted by then, then I am going to Philadelphia and filing for a federal investigation. And then I am going to The Philadelphia Inquirer, bringing all the paper work and all the tapes. So either I get back in, or all of you can look forward to seeing your pictures in the paper.”
Without giving Millington a chance to respond, I pushed back my chair. “I’ll be in my dorm room.”
* * *
—
My mother drove us to a restaurant for an early lunch. I picked at my food while she expressed pride in everything I had done. Whether I returned to school or not, she said, I’d fought for my beliefs. Even when people lost, they should be proud of taking on the challenge.
I murmured thanks for her words, but they rang hollow. Without readmission, I would lose another semester. Transfer deadlines had passed long ago. I would miss my junior year, then be forced to explain why to my next school. If I lied, I would be caught; if I told the truth, I would probably be rejected.
After lunch, she dropped me at school, where I could wait until my two-hour deadline passed. About forty-five minutes remained.
I walked into my dormitory, and headed up the stairs. Turning right, I saw the front of my door at the end of the hall. There was a message scribbled in blue on the attached whiteboard. The words—and a punctuation mark indicating confusion—became clear as I approached.
Janet Dickerson called to say welcome back (?)
“Yes!” I screamed, punching the air.
* I later learned that Warner instructed gay patients they could not be mental health professionals and argued that watching professional sports was dangerous because it inflamed “macho” attitudes and taught men they could succeed by breaking rules.
An email from
JANET DICKERSON, 2017
I have been thinking about you continuously since you wrote…I am incredibly pained and sorry to learn of your traumatic experiences at Swarthmore. Most of your testimony about your interactions with Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Warner was completely unknown to me, and that which I thought I knew has been put in a completely different context.
I was aware you had been diagnosed with epilepsy and that you were on medication that needed to be managed appropriately. At that time, my knowledge of epilepsy and the potential for seizures was relatively limited. I found it helpful to have a professional colleague in the administration who had epilepsy who could inform us laypersons about the condition. She coached us on how to respond when she had seizure activity, and she was an effective advocate for students who had epilepsy or related medical conditions. At the very least, as you say, she successfully challenged Dr. Whitaker in a meeting [about] you. But I know—now—that was not enough. That was not nearly enough.
The doctor had asserted that you were not managing your medications. I regret that on the night I was called in to deliver the decision to you that you would be required to withdraw until you were medically cleared to return, in accepting the recommendations of our health professionals, I contributed to the trauma that has so greatly affected your life. At the time I thought I had no reason to question their judgment.
Today, I think deans and campus health professionals have a much greater understanding of the causes and potential effects of epilepsy. Professional development opportunities are more routine, and the Americans with Disabilities Act (1990) requires that campuses accommodate students with chronic medical conditions.
…I view you as a role model for how to carry on and have an extraordinary life while dealing with a chronic, potentially debilitating condition. As I stated in my last message, I am—perhaps undeservedly—very proud of you.
Kurt, I have tried to be forthright in my response. I’m very, very sorry, and you have my heartfelt apologies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next morning, I awoke deeply depressed. It made no sense to me; after months of fighting, I had beaten Swarthmore. I was on my treatment schedule. I likely would graduate with my class. Yet my joy had lasted less than a day.
I lay in bed, contemplating these confusing feelings. Then the answer came—despite the tumult since my dismissal, I’d recovered only what I’d lost. So much effort and anguish, and all I accomplished was to stay in place. My seizures were better, but that had almost been an afterthought to me since November. I still lived with them. Now, with no target to battle, I was too wrung out to easily resume confronting the difficulties posed by epilepsy. I had learned a frightful lesson: I might face these conflicts—with jobs, coworkers, associates—for the rest of my life.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
I climbed out of bed to shower. The senior hired by the school to supervise our area of the dorm stopped me in the hall to ask about my state of mind and health. He may have been trying to be supportive, but I knew his job entailed reporting to the deans, so I lied. Everything was great, never happier.
I didn’t feel guilty for the subterfuge—Swarthmore had made deceit a condition of my return. I was forbidden from revealing details of our confrontation. If I discussed what they had done, I could be deemed in violation of the terms of readmission. The administration also required that I see a psychiatrist, which was fine with me. Talking to a person would be more helpful than speaking into my tape recorder.
Things remained tense with Carl, but there were fewer arguments since we spoke far less. In my diary, I expressed concern that I may have caused long-term damage to his emotional health. To clear the air, I asked Carl and Franz to dinner that weekend, but neither showed up. Instead, I went back to spending time with Harry Schulz and the new friends I’d met through him.
On Monday, I returned to the office of my academic adviser, David Smith. For the second time, I produced my class schedule. No one had informed him I was back in school, and he repeated that he was forbidden from approving my courses.
“No, I’ve been readmitted,” I said. “You can sign now.”
To my surprise, he took my word and reviewed the card. For the first time, he saw I wanted to join his constitutional law seminar. That concerned him. He asked about my seizures—frequency, type, aftermath. I could feel it coming: He was going to reject me from taking his class.
“What medications are you taking?” he asked.
“Dilantin and Mysoline,” I replied.
He leaned back in his wooden chair, its springs squeaking. “Whew!” he said. Then he sat up. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to handle the work necessary for this course.”
Here we go. “Why not?”
“Those medications are pretty heavy stuff.”
He explained that he knew someone treated with Dilantin, an
d it had slowed her thinking. From his description, it sounded as if his friend had been incapacitated. I wanted to say only an incompetent neurologist would leave a patient in that condition but held my tongue.
“I can handle the class,” I replied. I described everything I had done related to law—debate, BGA, Balaban, other classes. He asked a number of questions, and I answered them all.
After pleading my case for forty minutes, I begged. “Please. Don’t make a decision before you’ve even seen me in class.”
He stared at me, then turned to his desk and signed the card. “Well, we’ll see,” he said. “I guess I’ll take the chance.”
I thanked him and retrieved the card. At the registrar’s office, I marked that I would take the seminar pass-fail. I feared becoming a professor’s self-fulfilled prophecy.
* * *
—
As required under the conditions of my return, I set an appointment with a neurologist, Dr. Guenter Haase at the University of Pennsylvania. Swarthmore had urged me to use a doctor at nearby Crozer-Chester Medical Center who had been recommended by someone at the health center. HHS, my lawyer, my family, and I all considered the suggestion absurd—I wanted my neurologist as far away from Swarthmore as possible. I feared I might stumble across a doctor who would serve as a pipeline of information back to the school.
The college demanded I let an official contact Haase to confirm that I was seeing him. I agreed, but only after telling Haase to say nothing beyond verifying my appointment. I instructed him to end the call if they asked for details or tried to provide any information about me.
My first consultation lasted forty-five minutes. I recounted my history and, to explain the rules I gave him regarding the college, launched into a tirade about my dismissal. He drew blood for testing. Then he asked about my diet. Did I eat a lot of sugar? How did I feel afterward? Did I ever notice an association between consuming sweetened foods and seizures?
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