Six Months in the Land of Insanity
Or: The Positive Side of Hallucinations
In late 2017 and early 2018, I was hospitalized for many months after my second brain aneurysm rupture.
This second rupture was far harder on me than the first (in 2005), with a Grade 4 bleed on the Hunt and Hess scale. Not only was I vomiting, weak, and losing a lot of weight, I was completely out of my mind.
And hallucinating constantly.
I have no memory of the entire six months. I only know what my family has told me.
Apparently I was perfectly cheerful when they visited me in the hospitals and rehab centers, first in Maine and later in Pennsylvania. As my sons informed me recently, I thought I was in a play or a TV show. I thought all the doctors and nurses were actors.
When my sister brought our elderly mother to see me in one of the Pennsylvania rehab centers, close to home, I was astonished they could get there without a passport.
Or so I’ve been told.
Because I simply don’t remember.
After returning home to recuperate in the spring of 2018, I was confused about what happened to me, but at least my injured brain finally started noticing and remembering things again.
Yet some of my hallucinations lingered, haunting me for weeks.
1.My father, who died in 2014, came back to life and only I could see him and talk to him. This was not a dream. I was utterly convinced it was true. He looked about 45 to me, younger than I am now. But that must have been how my brain remembered him from my teen years.
2.The stars of “Love it or List It” used to live down the street from us. My family tried to correct me, but I refused to listen. “No,” I insisted. “It’s true! They lived right down the hill there.” I was a little vague about which house it was, but I knew they used to live there.
3.The strangest hallucination of all was the Scouting Convention in, of all places, Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, not far from where I live. My two now-grown sons and I were invited to this prestigious event. And while there, several of the guys from their scout troops took turns sniffing a mysterious white powder they found inside an ancient South American clay vessel. The teacher who brought the vessel to the convention thought it would be fun.
But most of these boys died.
That’s right. They died!
To me, this actually happened. No one could convince me otherwise. I was heartbroken.
It would be months before I realized I’d been completely out of my mind.
Throughout the spring and summer of 2018, I slept more than I stayed awake. Watched a lot of mindless television. Worked with three visiting therapists three times a week to gain back my strength and muscle tone.
And because I was down to 90 pounds and dangerously ill, my family doctor ordered me to put on weight. So I ate whatever appealed to me, whatever would stay down despite the constant nausea.
As I grew less confused, the hallucinations gradually faded, like wisps of clouds on a windy day. I remember those three now, only as distant memories of something that happened long ago. Like stories.
That summer, I finally realized stacks of paper covered our dining room table.
My husband had saved every bit of paperwork from both hospitals and all three rehab centers over those six months that I was out of my mind. He saved every medical statement, every note from therapists, every prescription invoice, every letter from one doctor to another about my condition. There was also a large black binder.
Going through all those papers proved too daunting a task. I needed to recuperate for a while longer.
In the winter of 2018/2019, I finally tried to tackle the mess.
Carl told me the black binder was from the first rehab center, in Autumn 2017: New England Rehabilitation Center, just outside Portland, Maine. The place where I spent six weeks of my life after the month in Maine Medical Center.
I have no recall of either building, no recall of the doctors or nurses. No recall of the therapists who worked with me in the Rehab center.
But I have the binder.
Reading through it fascinated me.
Especially when I came across this page, not in my handwriting, but apparently that of my speech therapist:
“When you don’t know something your brain may try to protect you by giving you information. This may not be correct…
“You may experience Vivid Hallucinations. This is from your injury. Your brain is dreaming.”
I love this idea.
My hallucinations were protecting me. Enveloping me in a snug, safe shell so my brain could recover. And even while awake, my brain was “dreaming.”
Hallucinations can be terrible for some patients; I realize that. People with Parkinson’s, for instance, or Alzheimer’s, can become paranoid and start screaming at their loved ones.
But my vivid hallucinations were actually helping me. Aside from that nightmarish one where so many young men died, my hallucinations were mostly positive. Either way, they were how my brain sheltered me while I healed.
In fact, I might not be the person I am today without those hallucinations.
My family worried for a long time that I would end up in an institution for the rest of my life. Even some medical professionals told me, “Joanne, you were so far gone, we didn’t think you were ever coming back.”
Well, guess what?
My hallucinations, themselves, helped bring me back.
And I realize just how fortunate I am.
