“What do we need to do if you have a seizure?”
I gave the usual instructions and assured him that, unless a seizure didn’t stop, there was no need to call an ambulance.
He paused. “That’s why you thought I’d want you to leave?”
“Well, yeah.”
Chalmers rolled his eyes. “Get to work.”
* * *
—
I don’t remember my job with the polling unit because I received a promotion two days later. A group of journalists in the political unit were writing a handbook about the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco, and with the event just a month away, a lot of reporting and writing needed to be done quickly. Chalmers asked me to help.
He introduced me to the other writers, most of whom worked in a single large office. There was no room left there, so Chalmers posted me at a nearby cubicle. He cautioned: This was not a full-time job, just a one-month stint. After the Democratic Convention, I might be out.
Since now I would be interacting with the writers, Chalmers asked for permission to let others know about my seizures. He wanted them to have the same instructions I had given him and to let them know that they didn’t need to be frightened. I thanked him for his consideration, and we went to the large office to discuss epilepsy with the staff; people asked plenty of questions, but no one seemed concerned.
I took on every assignment, staying nights and weekends to make myself seem irreplaceable. One Friday, I heard Chalmers sounding upset. He had forgotten to assign a book that was supposed to be a district-by-district analysis of voters, a huge project due in three days. Worse, that weekend was his daughter’s fourth birthday, and the family had plans.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll do the book.”
“You don’t even know where the data is. And this whole thing has to be pulled together by Monday.”
“Show me the data and what needs to be done. I’ll take care of it. Celebrate your daughter’s birthday.”
Chalmers thanked me for taking such a tedious assignment, having no idea I was bursting with excitement. As I learned when I helped the Washington Monthly editors by surrendering my byline, professionals remember favors. I doubted Chalmers would let me go in a few weeks after I’d gotten him out of this jam.
That night, I went home to grab my bottles of Dilantin and Mysoline and brought them back to the office. When I needed sleep, I saved travel time by sacking out on a couch. On Monday morning, I sent the digital version of the book to Chalmers’s computer. I taped a note to his monitor telling him I had delivered the book and was taking the day off.
* * *
—
When the final copy of the Democratic National Convention handbook arrived at the CBS offices, I was sure my job was safe for another month. I wrote more than anyone else. At least one of my coworkers found my relentless eagerness annoying, but no matter. It was the only advantage I could use to offset my obstacles in the job market. As I’d hoped, Chalmers asked me to stay on through the election.
I enjoyed my colleagues’ company, and we often grabbed lunch together at the CBS commissary. Major seizures occurred at the office maybe once a month, but everyone learned to treat them as just a distraction or even a source of humor. Once I awoke in a CBS health center with another writer sitting beside me. He merrily told me the news: I had experienced convulsions in the cafeteria and landed on Lesley Stahl, then the host of Face the Nation, the highly rated Sunday news show.
“Oh God,” I slurred. “I fell on her?”
My friend laughed. “Close enough.”
“Did I hurt her?”
“You didn’t really land on her. Like I said, close enough.”
“What did she do?” I almost didn’t want to know.
“She was totally cool about it. She was talking with a bunch of people when it happened. They just picked up their table and moved it out of the way, sat back down, and started talking again.”
I covered my face with my hand. Then I laughed.
* * *
—
While working on the GOP convention handbook, I discovered Republicans were dodging a potential showdown during the national meeting. Quietly, they were assembling large parts of their party platform at town hall meetings around the country to avoid arguments between different factions in front of the press. The story didn’t strike me as important, so I was surprised when Chalmers told me later that it would have its own section in the handbook.
Shortly after the convention, I received a call from Martin Plissner, the legendary CBS executive political director. He lavished praise on my little scoop, then dropped a bombshell.
“I’d like you to come to Washington to be my assistant,” he said.
Plissner explained that everyone who held that job went on to big things at CBS; one of his former assistants was a producer on Capitol Hill. I was taken aback. I had never planned for this. Plissner sounded surprised when I asked if I could take a few days to think about it.
Chalmers heard about Plissner’s call and dropped by to congratulate me. I thanked him but didn’t mention my first inclination was to reject the offer.
I replayed that night at Northwestern hospital. That person I’d been—facing death, experiencing scores of seizures every month, unknowingly about to enter new battles—had set markers. There had been times he almost surrendered—considering suicide when facing the injuries, fear, and uncertainty—but he came back, dedicated to a vision of his life. He—I—had committed to becoming a newspaper reporter.
The person I was had made a promise, and my progress was due to his willingness to forge ahead despite the challenges. I had betrayed him once before by forgetting about everything in his plan other than my career. I was not going to do it again.
The next day, I telephoned Plissner. I told him I appreciated the offer but that I would have to pass. I wanted to work in newspapers.
* * *
—
Most of my CBS colleagues thought turning down Plissner had been foolish. There was no newspaper job waiting; so long as my seizures continued, I still had to start in a major metropolitan area with mass transit, a farfetched plan.
One of my coworkers, Joan Kelly, recognized that for me to have rejected Plissner, my commitment to newspapers had to be more than preference. Kelly had been supportive since we met and often encouraged me to submit an article to The New York Times Magazine about my experience living with epilepsy. A Times reporter named Nan Robertson had written a piece on her experiences with toxic shock syndrome and educated the country about that little-understood condition. I could do the same for epilepsy, Kelly said.
Repeatedly, I rejected her suggestion.
“Joan, if I announce this to the world, I might never work again,” I said. “Not every company is like CBS.”
One day, she offered a suggestion: She knew a senior editor at the Times. I could speak to him, explain my challenges, and ask for advice. He knew plenty of people, Kelly explained. Maybe he could guide me to a path that would lead to a reporter’s job.
* * *
—
A week later, traffic clogged West Forty-third Street as I walked beside the Gothic building that housed the world’s most famous newspaper. I entered through a revolving door and told security I was scheduled to meet with an editor. The guard made a phone call and told me to wait. Just standing in the lobby awed and intimidated me.
About ten minutes later, the editor arrived and escorted me to the elevators. He pushed the button for the fourth floor, disappointing me—I knew the main newsroom was on the third and had hoped to see it. He brought me to his desk and pulled up a chair for me. Then he sat and asked why I was there.
I explained that I wanted to work in newspapers but had been told many times I would have to start in a small town—an impossibility. I had poorly contr
olled epilepsy, which meant I couldn’t drive. So I had to work in a city with mass transit, which meant starting at a major newspaper.
“That’s it,” I said. “Do you have any ideas how I can work around this?”
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
“Woof,” he said. “That’s a tough one.” Quickly, he sat up. “I’d give up if I were you.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I kept my anger under control as we spoke for a few more minutes, then thanked him for his time. As I walked toward the elevator, I boiled.
Screw you! I thought. What if I was weak? What if I believed this man—a big name at a big publication—and gave up because my goals were tough to achieve?
A minute later, I pushed through the revolving door out onto Forty-third Street, vowing to prove this Times editor was wrong.
* * *
—
The next afternoon, the editor phoned me at CBS.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “The Times has a writing program for clerks. It’s a lousy job, but it can be a way onto the paper.”
Lousy or not, I didn’t care. “It sounds great.”
“Actually, both Scotty Reston and Rick Smith have clerks in Washington, and the ones who work for them tend to get hired as reporters.”
I recognized neither name. “I’m sorry, who?”
“James Reston and Hedrick Smith.”
“Oh. Sorry.” That was embarrassing. They were giants in journalism. Reston, a columnist, previously had been executive editor and Washington bureau chief. Smith, the chief Washington correspondent, had also run the bureau. Each had won a Pulitzer Prize.
I tried to calculate the best approach. “Can I say you recommended I contact them?”
“Sure.”
* * *
—
I sent letters to both men. I told Reston the truth about my health struggles, hoping to convey toughness. I decided not to gamble with Smith and sent a typical application.
Each granted me an interview. The Reston meeting was a disaster; my anxiety, coupled with discomfort about his knowledge of my epilepsy, undermined my attempts to appear strong and confident. I handled the interview with Smith much better, since he knew nothing about my health.
To my astonishment, Smith offered me the job a day later. I would be answering phones, opening mail, conducting research, and occasionally helping with reporting. In fact, he said, he wanted me to gather information from a government agency right away. I made a call from my bedroom.
“Hi,” I began, “this is Kurt Eichenwald from The New York Times…”
I stopped for a second. I could not believe I had just uttered those words.
* I had been admitted to the National Hospital for Orthopaedics and Rehabilitation, which, despite its name, maintained an emergency room and treated a wide range of illnesses and chronic conditions.
An audio diary from
KURT EICHENWALD, 1985
I don’t…[pause]. How to start? I got the job. Rick Smith hired me. Give me a minute [pause]. I can’t believe I’m still telling myself when I’m taking breaks. I should just turn off the recorder. Okay, I’m turning off the recorder for a second…Okay, back. I’m sorry. I keep moving between crying and screaming. Not upset screaming, excited. I just can’t believe it. I have a chance. Some people never even get that. I have a chance.
An audio letter from
FRANZ PAASCHE, 1986
With that seizure at Mondale’s, when I found out you still had my name on your medical card, it was kind of a funny awareness. In some ways, I feel like we’re attached even though I’m not your roommate anymore. But it reminded me how constant it is for you, how your worries never really go away, and your responsibility for yourself and for the people around you is always there. It’s kind of funny, but it’s so bizarre that someone who has epilepsy has, beyond having to deal with this condition, all of a sudden has responsibility for all these other people because you don’t want to freak them out, or scare them, or whatever. It’s just so bizarre that you have to carry that responsibility at the same time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Blood seeped through the back of my jeans, staining my sheets. I had awakened in my bedroom at a Northwest Washington shared house but couldn’t recall how I got there. I remembered scattered images—nighttime, a bridge, a McDonald’s sign, metallic-blue something. A man whose voice I didn’t recognize putting me in a car. Pain, flashes, blackness. I assumed I had been taken to an emergency room, where someone had called a friend listed on my medical-alert card. But almost everything was blank.
I looked at my right palm. There was blood from the sheets I had touched. Panicked, I rubbed my left hand over the top and back of my head. No sticky wetness.
I turned in my bed and stood. I felt a spasm of soreness in my rectum. Anus painus, I thought. A stupid joke for myself. A good way to take my mind off of the wound I knew I was about to discover. I unsnapped and unzipped my jeans, then pushed them down along with my underwear. I stared at what I couldn’t comprehend.
My underwear was soaked dark red. I touched my buttocks and the inside of my thigh. I felt the blood before I saw it on my hand.
Anus painus. Another twinge. Then I realized there was an ache that wasn’t subsiding. The spasm just made it worse. I stepped out of my pants and walked to the bathroom. I have to get clean. I believed I was covered with blood everywhere, even though I knew that wasn’t true. I wasn’t thinking straight.
I filled the tub with a few inches of cool water. Baths were dangerous—I could drown if I had a seizure. But I didn’t feel steady enough to stand for a shower, and I desperately wanted the blood washed away. I stripped off my shirt, stepped into the tub, and carefully sat down.
Clouds of red plumed off my body. I splashed them with my hand, then rubbed the spots on my skin where I saw blood. The water turned pink, but the darker clouds kept lolling and spinning from between my legs. That was the first moment I understood—I was bleeding from my rectum.
I drained the tub and filled it again. Sitting in watered-down blood repulsed me. When fresh water turned dark pink, I drained it and pushed the taps again. I don’t know how many times it took, but eventually the red clouds slowed their swirling dance. The water wasn’t so pink.
I may have sat there for hours. Anus painus. A spasm would subside, and I would return to my daze—awake but impassive. I didn’t want to think about what caused this injury. I was afraid that, if I did, I would discover an answer I didn’t want to know.
This is dangerous. I climbed out of the tub, wrapped a beach towel around myself, and headed to my bedroom. The sheets were bloody, and I wanted to sleep. I lay on the floor and dozed off.
When I woke, I was more clearheaded. I reached behind me to touch the towel. There was blood, but nothing like before. Still, my rectum hurt. The spasms were less intense, but they hadn’t stopped.
I didn’t want to go. I hated emergency rooms. I particularly didn’t want to talk to some doctor about rectal bleeding. But ignoring what was happening would be crazy. I needed to go to the hospital.
An hour later, I was in the emergency room at George Washington University Hospital. As I waited for the doctor, I wondered why I had chosen this place. It was nowhere close to where I lived, and I didn’t remember being there before. When I climbed into the taxi, I just said the name. Lying on the stretcher bed, I remembered Ronald Reagan had been rushed to this hospital when a gunman shot him in 1981. I wondered if I was in the same part of the emergency room where the president had been treated.
A doctor appeared, accompanied by a younger-looking man. Probably a medical student, I figured. After a few questions, the doctor instructed me to roll onto my stomach. The examination hurt. When he finished, he threw out his surgical gloves. “Are you sexually active?” he asked.
I knew wh
ere this was going. I knew, but I couldn’t think it. “Not really,” I replied. “Not for a long time.”
“Have you ever had anal sex?”
Pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop. “No.”
The doctor sat on a stool. I stared at it, wondering why I hadn’t noticed the seat until that moment. He mentioned something—my name, I think. I looked at him. His face seemed angelic. I hadn’t thought that before.
“Kurt,” he said, “were you raped?”
Where had the stool come from? How was he just sitting on it all of a sudden?
“Kurt,” he repeated, “were you raped?”
I chewed the inside of my lip, on the spot I bit during seizures. I tasted blood. It hurt. Why was I hurting myself?
“It’s okay,” the doctor said. “You’re going to be okay. But you need to tell me. Were you raped?”
A tear ran down my cheek. “Was I?” I asked.
* * *
—
I refused everything. No, I didn’t want to file a police report. What could I report? I didn’t even know where it happened. A car, a bridge, a McDonald’s sign. It meant nothing. There was a voice, but I didn’t recognize it. And how did I know that was the guy?
The doctor urged me to let them conduct an ultrasound. No, I said, I was leaving. He told me I was making a mistake; they had to check for internal bleeding. They believed someone had put an object inside me, so there might be deeper damage. If there was an injury they couldn’t see, it could be dangerous.
Stopitstopitstopit.
Finally, the doctor persuaded me. The scan showed no further injury to deeper organs. A woman in a multicolored smock spent time trying to convince me to allow them to call the police. I told her to get out.
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