Overhill Karen - Switching time: a doctors harrowing story of treating a woman with 17 personalities

CONTENTS

To Rick and Francesca and all of our children

PROLOGUE

The nurse kept calling me Karen, so I thought that must be my name. I knew I was in the hospital, but I didnt know why. I had bandages over my abdomen and my chest hurt when I breathed. I lay in the bed for a whilequiet, frightened, and feeling alone in a world I couldnt explain. I was afraid Id lost my mind.

I was transferred to another room. I figured I must have given birth because of the bandages on my abdomen and all the mothers and newborns on the floor. A nurse came in and looked under the bandage. There was a six-inch scar, just above my pubic bone, that, with the stitches, looked like an angry smile.

A man came in, tall and skinny, smelling of beer, with a goofy smile and a crew cut, and told me wed just had a baby girl. I smiled back at him. He must be the father, I thought, but I had no idea who he was.

Karen, we have our beautiful Sara, he said. When are you coming home?

I didnt know where home was, or who else might be there.

Youll need to ask the doctors, I said, smiling weakly. Sara is her name?

Sara, of course! he said. Did you change your mind?

Oh, no, Sara is beautiful, I said. I was so muddled and scared, but I thought I should keep all this confusion secret. How could I ask this man, Who are you? Theyd say I was crazy, I thought. I hoped I wasnt. I was sure if they found out I couldnt remember anything, theyd lock me away.

I began to recall images from before the birthbeing pushed along a green corridor toward the elevator, the water pipes careening along the ceiling, and glancing at the talking, upside-down faces above me. I remember the nurses strapping me downfirst my legs, then my arms. A memory triggered. I cant move! Please dont hurt me! I struggled against the straps. I couldnt see the doctor past the drapes. He was poised over my belly, then I felt his surgeons knife, and a fire seared into my belly.

I kicked with my legs and tried to scream, but no sound came. My mouth was sour and rancid, and my throat was filled with vomit. I gasped for breath. The doctor saw my legs move and barked something to the nurse. A mask was put over my face. Then I disappeared.

During the first few days after Saras birth, I learned I had a two-year-old son at home, James, who had wavy blond hair and the bluest eyes Id ever seen. I saw him in a picture my mother brought. I figured it was my mother. She talked about what she went through when she gave birth to me. You were the first; you were the hardest. I was in labor forever with you. We didnt have all the fancy pain medicine you have now. I remember how much you tore me up and all the stitches I had. She didnt really let me speak; all I needed to do was listen. After a while, I became annoyed by this woman who dressed in gaudy animal prints and always turned the conversation toward herself. Her husband, Martin, my father, was a big, grim, brooding man who stopped in briefly, asked how I was doing but didnt wait for an answer. After watching my television for a few minutes, he left.

Strangely, I accepted these newly discovered facts about myself and my family without alarm or surprise. Although it was all bewildering, I vaguely sensed Id been in similar situations before. It felt familiar to pretend and gather information about what I couldnt remember, and somehow I knew it was best to keep my mouth shut.

Sometimes when my family visited, I pretended to be asleep so I could overhear their conversations and secretly familiarize myself with my husband, my brothers, their families, and our friends. I heard my mother call my husband Josh, and him call her Katrina.

Josh worked as a foreman at a moving company. He made sure the trucks got loaded with the correct cargo and left on time. He came in to visit during lunch sometimes, but visiting was hard for him with going to work and taking care of our son.

My hospital stay was extended because whenever I took a deep breath, I had a shooting, stabbing pain along the entire right side of my chest. Eventually my internist told me I had aspiration pneumonia from inhaling vomit during my C-section. I went on intravenous antibiotics and stayed in the hospital for three more weeks.

My fever went up and down, but never fully returned to normal. Later, a surgeon was called in. I finally had an operation where they took out part of my right lung because the doctors said Id formed an abscess. There were periods of time while I was in the hospital for which I couldnt account; I think I may have been in a coma off and on.

Once I got home, although my right side continually ached, I worked to understand the person I was supposed to be. People called and visited to see the new baby. Id talk in generalities until I could glean from the other person the nature of our relationship. I pored over the many photo albums I found; it was as if somebody had left them there for me. I studied each page and found much detail written below the pictures. Gradually, I became the person in the pictures.

My husband grew increasingly mean: yelling at me because Id stayed in the hospital for six weeks and wasnt able to help at home. He cursed me when my pain and fatigue limited what I could do around the house. I didnt want to have sex with Josh; I didnt even know him, so instead I complained about the pain in my side. Worst of all, my son, who at first was a total stranger to me, knew I wasnt his mom, and it took months to gain his trust and acceptance.

But life went on. I adjusted to the routines of our house, became accustomed to the demands of Josh and my mother, and fit back into a busy schedule of volunteering, doing errands for friends, and taking care of my kids. But after more than three years of this, I was despairing. I went from doctor to doctor seeking a remedy for the constant nagging stitch in my chest from my lung surgery, but no one could find the cause. Besides my pain, deep down inside, I knew I was living a lie. Id become accustomed to my family, but there were still periods of time, off and on, for which I couldnt account. I wouldnt remember getting dressed, or Id find a book at my bedside I didnt remember reading. I thought there must be something terribly wrong with me. I feared I was losing my mind. Whom could I talk to? Things were out of control. Finally, I called the crisis line at the hospital and they referred me to Dr. Rosa Gonzalez, a psychiatrist. When I called her office, the receptionist said Dr. Gonzalez was booked, but shed give me an appointment to see Gonzalezs partner, Dr. Richard Baer.

FALSE START

Its January 11, 1989, and I walk down the narrow corridor, past the two other therapists offices, to the waiting room to fetch Karen. She sits in the corner with her head bent, fidgeting with her purse strap. Shes twenty-nine years old but looks older; shes overweight, with a round face, unkempt short brown hair that curls at the ends, brown eyes, gold-rimmed glasses, and a jagged, semicircular scar running up the middle of her forehead. Her clothes are tidy, but her black cotton pants and brown top dont ask to be noticed. She wears no makeup or jewelry except a wedding band. She looks up as I approach. Her eyes say,