Story 5 Cont: PNES • Audio Player • NO ads

“What do you mean, you’re ‘kinda sick’?” my Dad asked me.

My Mom and Dad and I were finishing breakfast at the kitchen table the day after I came home from Denver. My Dad made a high pile of fluffy scrambled eggs and almost-burnt bacon, just the way I like it. Mom adorned the small wooden dining table with fresh gladiolas and warm cinnamon crumble cake. The ruffled red and white checked placemats matched the ruffled red and white checked kitchen curtains. I was so happy to be home, just to be with them. I knew they would help me.

“It’s kind of hard to say, Dad. I don’t understand it,” I stammered.

“Don’t beat around the bush, just say it. What’s wrong?” he urged me.

“I’ve been having seizures,” I said.

“Seizures? That’s crazy,” he gruffed. “It was probably just the altitude out there, you’ll be fine now,” he assured me. He reached over and put his hand on my forearm, patting it. “You’ll be OK,” he smiled.

“I’m sure you’re right Dad,” I smiled back at him. My Mom wanted to know if I had seen a doctor or was tested.

“I’ve seen two different doctors and was in the ER of three different hospitals,” I told her.

“Gee-zuz Kah-riste!” Dad shouted. “How many seizures have you had?”

“Five,” I told him. His eyes widened.

“What did they say? Did you have your brain x-rayed? What did they find?” Dad asked anxiously.

“They didn’t find anything, Dad, no tumors, no aneurysms, everything looked OK,” I said.

“Well that don’t sound right,” he started to grin. “You left here with a head-full of brains, and you come back home with nothing?” he mused with a chuckle.

We talked for another hour about all the things I was doing in Denver, packing candy at Russell Stover, bartending at the Safari Lounge, living with Ava, and how Brian was doing in the Air Force.

“Have you been doing any shooting out there?” my Dad asked me.

“No, I left my gun here Dad, I didn’t take it with me. But that’s a big conversation in the bar, the men are always talking about hunting or skiing, or drinking,” I told him. “You ought to come ou - ou…"

I could hear him screaming, screaming at me: “CINDI, CINDI, STOP THIS! STOP THIS CINDI PLEASE STOP THIS! STOP. THIS. NOW!!” 

He straddled me on the floor, his thick hands pinning my wrists in the carpet, his knees and thighs flanking my hips, struggling to clamp in and stop my torso from convulsing; I could hear him, I could feel him, and I could see him, until the blend of his tears and salty sweat splattered on my Maybelline and burned in my eyes. 

My Mom was trying to hold my ankles down but I think she let go after I kicked and busted off one of her acrylic nails.

Suddenly, I heard a ghoulish screech, then a pitiful, low moan, the kind of sound a cat makes that just lost a fight.

It was me. My parents wanted to take me to the hospital, but I told them no. I slept the rest of the day.

Four nights later, Steve and I went to Snug Harbor to do some partying and dancing. And we were good at it, too. Before we went in, Steve parked his Torino behind the building, lit a thin joint, and cranked up J. Geils’ Whammer Jammer on his 8-track. We were ready! 

As we entered, the band was covering “Sing a Simple Song” by Sly and the Family Stone. Steve yanked me by the forearm onto the dance floor before we even made it to the bar! The place was packed and rockin’, the strobe was flaming and me and Steve cleared the floor as he whipped me around like a top and -

I came about with Steve straddling me, pinning down my wrists, in the middle of the dance floor. Surrounding us, I could see a thick ring of onlookers, blanketed with smoke and dim light. 

Steve was crying. People were crying. I could hear the ambulance coming. 

“Get off me. We gotta get outta here now,” I screeched at Steve. “Please, Steve, let’s go NOW!” I yelled. He yanked me up and we headed out the back door to the Torino. 

For the next three weeks, my Mom and Dad did everything they could possibly do for me. I was in and out of doctor’s offices, specialists, neurologists, therapists, hospitals, you name it. No one could fathom why this was happening.

Two of the specialists working in different disciplines suggested that my parents take me to The Cleveland Clinic. They said Cleveland Clinic specialized in seizures and “matters of the brain”. I do not know how they managed to arrange this in such a short time frame, but I was admitted to Cleveland Clinic in less than a month after coming home from Denver.

My Dad drove us there (my Mom never had a driver’s license) which is two hours from Jamestown. My parents spent the night at a nearby hotel, and went back to Jamestown the next day. I was at Cleveland Clinic for almost two weeks.

I was not well-behaved while I was there.

I was diagnosed with a dissociative disorder, or, what is now identified as a functional neurological disorder (FND) or more specifically, PNES: psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. PNES seizures are involuntary, they are not under conscious control, and they are not fake or deliberately put on.

The root causes and major risk factors of PNES involve past extreme stressors including childhood trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and conversion disorder, where the brain unconsciously converts intense psychological conflict or unbearable stress into physical symptoms.

At some point that still remains foggy to me, I must have revealed to one of the therapists about the hickey incident and the beatings, but I don’t remember initially bringing it to their attention. I do remember being asked about my upbringing, but I swear, I did not tell them about the beatings. Because I shoved all of it into my “Z” file and pretended it never happened. I couldn’t bear to think of it. Shoving it back worked pretty good for a long time, I thought.

A meeting was scheduled upon my release with my Mom and Dad, three specialists, a doctor, and me. It did not go well.

The meeting was guided by the specialists and lasted more than two hours. My Dad sat across from me as I answered questions posed by the therapists about the beatings. I also told my Dad about my abortion. He was demolished and infuriated, and so was my Mom. It was a painfully long and quiet ride back to Jamestown that evening. Not one word was spoken.

This entire event was revelatory for me; it was cleansing and lifting and clarifying for me. 

But I knew I should skedaddle outta town, pronto, even though the specialists and doctors all suggested I continue with family therapy or at least continue with my own therapy.

I did not continue with therapy, and I never had another seizure. 

This is the case for about one-third of patients who are diagnosed with PNES: once this neurodivergent malady is diagnosed and its causes are identified and made clear to the patient, the seizures stop. With other patients, continued therapy, especially Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and other methodologies are helpful. For more PNES and dissociative disorders information, help, and support groups, see below.

For the next few days, my parents and I hardly spoke. It grew cold, fast, at 41 Glidden. I bought a VW campmobile, packed it up, and was gone within a week. By this time, Brian was stationed at Homestead Airforce Base, just south of Miami. So me and my ’67 VW campmobile headed south.

My parents and I never spoke about any of this, until that day in the boat with my Dad, 26 years later. My Mom completely denied that any of this ever happened; the beatings, the seizures, she insisted none of it ever happened.

But Steve remembered. Years later, when Mom was living with me in Edgemere, I mentioned something about my first day deer hunting with Dad, and Steve went off. 

“How could you ever want to do anything with him after what he did to you?” he belted out, pissed and madder than hell. I was surprised by this. 

“What are you talking about?” Mom asked. “What do you mean ‘after what he did to you’? What did your Dad do to you?” Mom glared and squinted, straight in my eyes, wary and ominous.

With that, Steve just lost it, describing the screaming he heard over and over, detailing a play-by-play of what he saw the day he tackled Dad to stop him from beating me. I never considered how much this all affected Steve, too. 

“This never happened. I never would have let your Dad do that to you, NEVER!” Mom screamed. “NEVER, EVER!!” She kept hollering louder and louder, attempting to drown out Steve’s continued depiction of the beatings, the screaming. Steve was relentless, trying  to force-feed his abhorrence in an effort to spark her memory.

It didn’t work. My Mom broke into weeping. I made Steve stop. She did not remember. She never did. Her "Z-file" was located deeper than mine.