by Gene Brewer
Then something happened. When Karen turned on the sprinkler so that the kids could cool off, prot, who appeared to be enjoying himself, suddenly became extremely agitated. He didn’t turn violent, thank God, just stared for a moment in utter horror as Jennifer and the two boys splashed into and out of the spray. Suddenly he started screaming and running around the yard. I was thinking, “What the hell have I done?” when he stopped, dropped to his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Shasta was by his side in a second. Betty’s husband and our trainee looked at me for instructions, but the only one I had was, “Turn off the goddamn sprinkler!”
I approached him cautiously, but before I could put a hand on his shoulder he raised his head, became as cheerful as ever, and started to frolic with Shasta again.
There were no further incidents that afternoon.
Karen and I had a lot to talk about that night and it was nearly dawn when we finally got to sleep. She wanted to know what Freddy would do after he left the airline, and she cried a little about Jenny—not because of her choice, but because she knew it was going to be difficult for her. Her last words before drifting off, however, were: “I hate opera.”
Giselle was waiting for me the next morning, jumping up and down, nearly beside herself. “He’s from the Northwest!” she exclaimed. “Probably western Montana, northern Idaho, or eastern Washington!”
“That what your man said?”
“She’s not a man, but that’s what she said!”
“Wouldn’t the police know if someone, especially a scientist, had disappeared from that part of the country five years ago?”
“They should. I know someone down at the Sixth Precinct. Want me to check for you?”
For the first time in several days I had to laugh. It appeared she knew someone in any line of work one could name. I threw up my arms. “Sure, why not, go ahead.” She was out the door like a shot.
That same morning, Betty, wearing an enormous pair of copper earrings in another desperate attempt to get pregnant, I presumed, brought in a stray kitten. She had found it in the subway station, and I assumed she was going to take it home with her that evening. But instead she suggested that we let the patients take care of it.
The presence of small animals in nursing and retirement homes has proven to be of great benefit to the residents, providing badly needed affection and companionship and generally bolstering their spirits to such a degree that life spans are actually increased significantly. The same may be true for the population at large. To my knowledge, however, such a program had not been introduced in mental institutions.
After due consideration—we are an experimental hospital, after all—I asked Betty to instruct the kitchen staff to see that the kitten was fed regularly, and decided to let it roam Wards One and Two to see what would happen.
It headed straight for prot.
A short time later, after he had nuzzled it for a while and “spoken” to it, it went out to meet the other inhabitants of its new world.
One or two of the patients, notably Ernie and several of Maria’s alters, stayed away from it, for reasons of their own. But most of the others were delighted with it. I was especially surprised and gratified to see that Chuck the curmudgeon took to it immediately. “Doesn’t stink a bit,” he averred. He spent hours tempting it with bits of string and a small rubber ball someone had found on the grounds. Many of the other patients joined in. One of these, to my amazement, was Mrs. Archer, who, I discovered, had owned numerous cats before coming to MPI.
But the most remarkable effect of the kitten was on Bess. Unable to sustain a relationship with another human being, she became totally devoted to “La Belle Chatte.” She assumed the responsibility for feeding her and emptying her litter box and taking her for romps on the grounds. If anyone else wanted to play with the kitten, Bess immediately gave her up, of course, with a wise, sad nod, as if to say, “You’re right—I don’t deserve to have her anyway.” But when night came, La Belle invariably sought out Bess, and the staff would find them in the mornings sharing the same pillow.
After a few days of this I began to wonder whether another kitten or two might not have an even greater salutary effect on the patients. I decided to get a tomcat later on and let nature take its course.
Session Ten
There are two probes available for penetrating the carapace of hysterical amnesia; each has its proponents, each has its place. The first is sodium pentothal, also called “truth serum.” A reasonably safe treatment, it has met with some success in difficult cases, and is favored by many of our own staff, including Dr. Villers. Hypnosis, in experienced hands, offers the same possibilities, but without the potential risk of side effects. With either method events long forgotten are often recalled with amazingly vivid clarity.
When I learned hypnosis as a resident many years ago I was skeptical about its value in psychiatric evaluation and treatment. But it has begun to come into its own in recent years, and is the method of choice in the management of many psychopathologies. Of course, as with other methods, success depends not only on the skill of the practitioner but also, to a great degree, on the disposition of the patient. Thus, the hypnotizability of the subject is routinely determined before treatment is initiated.
The Stanford test is used most often for this assessment. It takes less than an hour and provides a measure of the patient’s ability to concentrate, his responsiveness, imagination, and willingness to cooperate. Subjects are rated on a scale of zero to twelve, the higher numbers indicating the greatest hypnotic susceptibility. Psychiatric patients, as well as the general public, average about seven on this test. I have known a few tens. Prot obtained a score of twelve.
My purpose in using hypnosis in prot’s case was to uncover the traumatic event which had led to his hysterical amnesia and delusion. When had this incident occurred? My best guess was August 17, 1985, approximately four years and eleven months earlier.
The plan was simple enough: to take prot back to his childhood and carefully bring him up to the time of the putative traumatic event. In this way I hoped not only to determine the circumstances that led to whatever catastrophe had apparently befallen him, but also to get some information on the background and character of my patient.
Prot seemed to be in good spirits when he arrived in my examining room and, while he went to work on a pomegranate, we chatted about Waldorf salads and the infinite number of possible combinations of fruit juices. When he had finished his snack I turned on the tape recorder and asked him to relax.
“I am completely relaxed,” he replied.
“Good. All right. I’d like you to focus your attention on that little white spot on the wall behind me.” He did this. “Just stay relaxed, breathe deeply, in and out, slowly, in and out, good. Now I’m going to count from one to five. As the numbers increase you will find yourself becoming more and more drowsy, your eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. By the time I get to five you will be in a deep sleep, but you will be able to hear everything I say. Understand?”
“Of course. My beings didn’t raise no dummies.”
“Okay, let’s begin now. One ...”
Prot was a textbook subject, one of the best I ever had. By the count of three his eyes were tightly closed. On four his breathing had slowed and his facial expression had become completely blank. On five his pulse rate was forty bpm (I was beginning to be concerned—sixty-five was normal for him— though he looked okay) and he made no response when I coughed loudly.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Raise your arms over your head.” He complied with this request. “Now lower them.” His hands dropped into his lap. “Good. Now I’m going to ask you to open your eyes. You will remain in a deep sleep, but you will be able to see me. Now—open your eyes!” Prot’s eyes blinked open. “How do you feel?”
“Like nothing.”
“Good. That’s exactly how you should feel. All right. We are going back in time now; it is no
longer the present. You are becoming younger. Younger and younger. You are a young man, younger still, now an adolescent, and still you are becoming younger. Now you are a child. I want you to recall the earliest experience you can remember. Think hard. What do you see?”
Without hesitation: “I see a casket. A silver casket with a blue lining.”
My own heart began to beat faster. “Whose casket is it?”
“A man’s.”
“Who is the man?” The patient hesitated for a moment. “Don’t be afraid. You can tell me.”
“It is the father of someone I know.”
“A friend’s father?”
“Yes.” Prot’s words came out rather slowly and sing-songy, as though he were five or six years old.
“Is your friend a boy or girl?”
Prot squirmed around in his chair. “A boy.”
“What is his name?”
No response.
“How old is he?”
“Six.”
“How old are you?”
No response.
“What is your name?”
No response.
“Do you live in the same town as the other boy?”
Prot rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “No.”
“You are visiting him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a relative?”
“No.”
“Where do you live?”
No response.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Does your friend have any brothers or sisters?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“Sisters.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older.”
“What happened to their father?”
“He died.”
“Was he sick?”
“No.”
“Did he have an accident?”
“Yes.”
“He was killed in an accident?”
“No.”
“He was hurt and died later?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a car accident?”
“No.”
“Was he injured at work?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he work?”
“At a place where they make meat.”
“A slaughterhouse?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the name of the slaughterhouse?”
“No.”
“Do you know the name of the town your friend lives in?”
No response.
“What happened after the funeral?”
“We went home.”
“What happened after that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Can you remember anything else that happened that day?”
“No, except I got knocked over by a big, shaggy dog.”
“What is the next thing you remember?”
Prot sat up a little straighter and stopped squirming. Otherwise there was little change in his demeanor. “It is night. We are in the house. He is playing with his butterfly collection.”
“The other boy?”
“Yes.”
“And what are you doing?”
“Watching him.”
“Do you collect butterflies too?”
“No.”
“Why are you watching him?”
“I want him to come outside.”
“Why do you want him to come outside?”
“To look at the stars.”
“Doesn’t he want to go?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It reminds him of his father. He’d rather mess with his stupid butterflies.”
“But you’d rather look at the stars.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to look at the stars?”
“I live there.”
“Among the stars?”
“Yes.” I remember my initial discouragement at hearing this answer. It seemed to mean that prot’s delusion had begun extremely early in life; so early, perhaps, as to preclude a determination of its causative events. But suddenly I understood! Prot was a secondary personality, whose primary was the boy whose Either had died when he was six!
“What is your name?”
“Prot.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From the planet K-Pax.”
“Why are you here?”
“He wanted me to come.”
“Why did he want you to come?”
“He calls me when something bad happens.”
“Like when his father died.”
“Yes.”
“Did something bad happen today?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“His dog was run over by a truck.”
“And that’s when he called you.”
“Yes.”
“How does he do that? How does he call you?”
“I don’t know. I just sorta know it.”
“How did you get to Earth?”
“I don’t know. I just came.” Prot hadn’t yet “developed” light travel in his mind!
“How old is your friend now?”
“Nine.”
“What year is it?”
“Nineteen—uh—sixty-six.”
“Can you tell me your friend’s name now?”
No response.
“He has a name, doesn’t he?”
Prot stared blankly at the spot on the wall behind me. I was about to go on when he said, “It’s a secret. He doesn’t want me to tell you.” But now I knew he was in there somewhere and prot, apparently, could consult with him.
“Why doesn’t he want you to tell me?”
“If I tell you, something bad will happen.”
“I promise you nothing bad will happen. Tell him I said that.”
“All right.” Pause. “He still doesn’t want me to tell you.”
“He doesn’t have to tell me right now if he doesn’t want to. Let’s go back to the stars. Do you know where K-Pax is in the sky?”
“Up there.” He pointed. “In the constellation Lyra.”
“Do you know the names of all the constellations?”
“Most of them.”
“Does your friend know the constellations too?”
“He used to.”
“Has he forgotten them?”
“Yes.”
“Is he no longer interested in them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“His father died.”
“His father taught him about the stars?”
“Yes.”
“He was an amateur astronomer?”
“Yes.”
“Was his father always interested in the stars?”
“No.”
“When did he become interested in them?”
“After he was hurt at work.”
“Because he had nothing to do?”
“No. He couldn’t sleep.”
“Because of the pain?”
“Yes.”
“Did he sleep during the day?”
“Only one or two hours.”
“I see. And one of the constellations your friend’s father told him about was Lyra?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just before he died.”
“When he was six?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever tell him there were planets around any of the stars in Lyra?”
“He said there were probably planets around a lot of the stars in the sky.”
“One more thing. Why don’t you go out and watch the stars by yourself?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He wants me to stay with him.” Prot yawned. He was beginning to sound tired. I didn’t want to push him too far at this point.
“I think that’s enough for one day. You may close your eyes. I’m going to start counting backwards now, from five to one. As I count you will become more and more alert. On the count of one you will be wide awake, refreshed, and feeling fine. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.” I snapped my fingers.
Prot looked at me and smiled brightly. “When do we begin?” he said.
“It’s already over.”
“Ah. The old ‘fastest gun in the west’ routine.”
“I know that feeling!”
He had his notebook out; he wanted me to tell him how hypnosis worked. I spent the rest of the hour trying to explain something I didn’t fully understand myself. He seemed a little disappointed.
After Jensen and Kowalski had escorted him back to the wards I listened to the tape of the session we had just completed and, with mounting excitement, jotted down my conclusions. It seemed clear to me that prot was a dominant secondary personality who had come into being as a result of the perhaps unexpected death of his alter ego’s father, a trauma which was obviously too much for the primary personality to bear. It seemed evident also why he (prot) had chosen an alien existence: His (their) father had instigated in him an interest in the stars and in the possibility of extraterrestrial life occurring among them, and this revelation had come immediately prior to his father’s demise.
But this did not account for the extraordinary dominance of prot over the primary personality. It is the secondary identity who ordinarily remains in the background, watching, waiting to take over when the host personality runs into difficulty. My guess was that some far more traumatic event must have drawn the primary—let’s call him Pete—into a thick, protective shell, from which he rarely, if ever, ventured. And I was more certain than ever that this terrible incident, whatever it was, occurred on August 17, 1985, the date of prot’s most recent “arrival” on Earth. Or perhaps a day or two earlier, if it had taken a while for Pete to “call” prot, or for him to respond.
Why did I not suspect that prot was a secondary personality earlier on? MPD is not an easy diagnosis under the best of circumstances, and prot never showed any of the symptoms usually associated with this disorder: headaches, mood changes, a variety of physical ailments, depression. Except, possibly, for his outbursts of anger in sessions six and eight, and the episode of panic on the Fourth of July, the host personality (Pete) had never made his presence felt. Finally, I was completely thrown off by his other aberrant traits—a dominant secondary personality who is himself delusional, and a savant as well—the odds against such a phenomenon must be astronomical!