Seized: Searching for Health in the United States

By Holly Eckert

About the Book
Millions of Americans have epilepsy. At age 34, Holly Eckert joined them. From the day she discovered that, through many years, her life became a journey of personal growth and self discovery. Why was this happening? What should she do? Who was she now that she seized? These were only a few of the questions she asked herself in the face of her new reality.
Holly’s walk with chronic illness became one of awakening and healing. In it, she learned many lessons in life while confronting the flaws, failures, ignorance, and corruption permeating the American medical industry and sensing, first hand, the resiliency of the human mind and body. Daily tending to the chores of chronic illness, she scoffed at the paradox between the medical industry's responses and her own life's experiences. Over time, Holly realized that illness can play important, positive roles in a human life. Traveling her path where health and illness intertwine, it became clear to her that illness can give as much as it takes away. This convinced her that when allowed the time and space to be ill, a person can find true health again, a real life phenomenon rarely discussed by doctors and patients.
In Seized – Searching for Health In the United States, Holly tells the story of her journey with illness. That well-told, personal tale provides a lens through which a reader can explore the common experience of searching for health in the United States. Who would have imagined that it would be a dance artist who does so well exploring the many dimensions of illness and the failures of the United States’ healthcare system, but that’s precisely what happens here in Seized.
About the Author
Holly Eckert grew up in a small town in the mountains of Idaho where she learned to dance from a former ballerina with the New York Ballet who also lived there. After high school, she took her scholarships and went to The Evergreen State College. There she combined dance and social sciences to create her own integrated studies program. Her education prepared her to go to Seattle and pursue her artistic mission of exploring substantive topics inside the art of dance. Winning awards and praise for her artwork, Holly pursued her passion with passion and made choreography about things like the experience of fear and the injustices of the US prison system. She was healthy and strong into her mid-thirties, when one day, she suddenly began seizing uncontrollably. Epilepsy quickly overwhelmed her life. It sent Holly on a diverse, personal journey. On her travels, she discovered many new things about herself, and as she did, she learned more and more about the potentials for healing that exist inside the human body. She also learned a great deal about the tragic failures of the United States' medical system that often inhibits these possibilities from being realized. Knowing that she liked to write as well as dance, Holly decided to tell this story through words not movements. Her readers continually give her praise for her efforts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseDog Books
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890276162

Book preview

In the Beginning

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Buddhist Sutra

A Bad Omen

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Chapter One

I lie on our double futon couch, pullout bed paralyzed with fear, struggling for breath. Jon, Jon, honey are you awake? Jon are you awake? Jon! I call out at full volume.

Well, I am now, Jon replies, obviously irritated by the rude awakening.

Jon, I need you, I change my tone from insistent to desperate, trying to make him see my bad behavior in a different light.

He turns himself over to face me and pushes himself up on his elbow, putting himself at our well-practiced, bedroom attention.

Okay Holly, what’s the matter? I’m right here. Tell me what’s going on.

Jon, I just had the most amazing dream. I swear to god, I experienced it just as I experienced it as a little girl, all the sensations, the fear, the anxiety, the confusion. I mean, oh my god....

Jon lays his hand on my shoulder and pushes his face closer to mine. What are you talking about, Holly? What sensations? What fear? What are you talking about?

I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate, so I work to take one slow breath. Jon, my childhood, I really could hear my Mom and Dad fighting like they use to all the time, and I literally felt the anxiety created by that chaos. Then I saw Dad lose his temper and come at me in one his rages. Oh my god, the terror that went through my body. I don’t have words to describe it. I wasn’t watching this like up on a movie screen; I swear to god, I was inside it. The feelings of horror were in me. Oh my god Jon, hold me. Do something to let me know I’m loved and I’m safe.

Jon begins frantically rearranging blankets, making a way to put me inside his arms. It’s okay, sweetie, I’m right here. Just push yourself over this way and cuddle up to me, just spoon up here against me.

I push myself towards Jon, my one and only for the past six years, and at times over the past thirteen years, my lover, ex-boyfriend, pen pale and buddy. My back against his front, I shape myself into our favorite and well- practiced bedtime cuddle. We call it, spooning. Once I’m in his arms, he kisses me along the backside of my neck, pulling me closer against him. My bottom fits perfectly inside the curve of his pelvis.

You’re okay honey, he says quietly into my ear, now just a fraction of an inch from his mouth. Comforted by the warmth of his breath and the coolness of his skin against mine, I begin to feel renewed. You’re here now in your home where that doesn’t happen anymore. Try to breathe honey; you’re not breathing. Just focus on breathing.

We lie quietly for a while. Our love massages away the jumble of disturbing emotions that course through me.

Holly, we better keep our voices down or we actually will wake up your Dad. Remember he’s asleep in our bedroom tonight, Jon whispers.

His friendly reminder turns my stomach and a quick surge of the wafting fear again pulses through me, sending a shiver up my spine. Jon’s right. Dad is here for another week, receiving more treatment for his cancer. Of five children, somehow the task of caretaker befell me, probably because I live closest to the hospital offering the treatment he needs.

Maybe it became mine because I’m the child who shares his birthday and was always expected to be his little girl. I did inherit some of his distinguishing features, a white German with curly dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. I don’t know from whom I got my deep dimples. He definitely wasn’t tall and skinny, like I turned out.

In an effort to make him more comfortable, we gave him our bed and took the living room couch as our own. Despite my best intentions to give the sad story a happy ending, I find this role of my father’s caretaker very challenging. Just spending this much time with a man for whom I carry such conflicted emotions requires a lot of love, patience and perspective. He leaves in one more week. I know I can manage until then.    

Dad returned to his home several months ago. We managed to make it through his long visit with only one confrontation provoked when I suggested he take a more proactive role in his care. In his older years, that man personifies the essence of passive aggressive. Maybe he just tired of screaming and hitting to get what he wanted. Since his departure, my life mostly returned to its normal cycles - work, dance, home, work, dance, home. Except for a few odd shifts in my mental life, this comprises the rhythms of my current life.

My sleep patterns fell apart following the night of that awful nightmare I experienced during Dad’s visit. Now, some nights I just cannot fall asleep. That really frustrates me. Also, since then, the weirdest headspace continually possesses me. In these unnerving mental flashes, I feel myself as part of something disturbing. They evoke fear within me. I possess no clue what constitutes this impending doom. All I know is that I’m involved in it.

It’s almost midnight and one of those nights where no matter how tired my body is, my brain refuses to be still and allow me to sleep. I absolutely hate my growing struggles with sleep. My body needs sleep to function and dance. Its absence shows itself quickly. I lay here in bed turning that subject over in my mind, revisiting every detail of every concern time and again, trying to think the problem away. That strategy doesn’t seem to be working.  

It finally sank in fully tonight during one of these think fests, that I lack a company of dancers and am a mere five months away from a big show and tour. Fatigue best describes my recent efforts as an independent choreographer trying to launch a small dance company. In my practice of the movement arts, I haven’t run across any glamour thus far as either dancer or choreographer. My collaborator and I both risk loosing $1,000.00 in Portland if we don’t sell at least 1/2 the house each night. Given that Jonathan and I live month to month, a debt that size will leave its mark on us. Right now the combined tasks of staying in shape, making time for choreography, meeting work responsibilities, caring for my home and trying to preserve a few hours here and there for Jon and me, requires all my energy. Nothing else remains for other tasks. This is why sleep is so important. I wish it didn’t require work as well. Inside all this pressure, I just try to ignore these unnerving premonitions of impending catastrophe.

Last week, three years after the performance of Awaiting Grace, the second full-length dance theater piece I created and produced, I put together a rendezvous with the cast. That event provided me some needed relief and hope. The cast’s remembered enthusiasm about the quality of the work warmed my heart. They all had memories to share about their own favorite dance pieces inside that evening length work about the exciting ideas and discoveries being made in new physics. Each of them had stories of friends and family who had attended the show and were deeply move by it. It was in that moment, I knew my work was not in vein. My hope felt renewed and I wanted to keep trying. That night I wrote this short poem in my diary.

To remember,

to look back, if only to help me look forward.

I forget this backward gaze.

I so rarely indulge myself in memory.

Memory is for sissies, I think,

not for the hard working and long suffering.

So I put my shoulders forward and push,

pushing towards a future, towards another chance.

Don’t set yourself up for disappointment with victory marches.

Just march and there will always be a future to march into.

I ask myself, Where am I marching? I wonder what lies ahead in my future, Will it be more dancing, or more continuing struggle with some family members? Will it be more disappointment over Jonathan’s refusal to propose marriage, or will it be more work trying to increase my back extension? Will it be more of these awful sensations of impending catastrophe?

I wonder where do these sensations come from, and even more so, I wonder what they mean?

I so wish I knew, but only know that I don’t, and that I must go forward without that understanding.

Coming Unglued

---

Chapter Two

The sky has just cleared from a long day of intermittent showers. The traffic is terrible all over the city with some kind of backup on just about every main street. The steep, hilly terrain only makes the traffic worse. It’s a typical late summer commute in Seattle at about 5:30pm. During this time of the year, if the sun is out at all, it always blinds me right here on my route home from work. It happens just as I pass under the University Bridge and head over the hill towards Ballard. The slant of the sun during these months absolutely blinds drivers so they can’t see the cars ahead of them. Someone could really get hurt right here in a big car accident.

I spent most of the day working by myself at the office then met my co-director over coffee to discuss dance company business. I forgot my general business notebook at the office so made my way back through evening traffic to pick it up before heading home. The repetitive, sedentary work of running someone else’s small consulting business wears me out; however complaining isn’t justified. She does allow me to set my own hours and pays me a decent hourly wage. I look forward to a quiet night alone with Jon. We’ll make a good dinner then relax with a good book, maybe even indulge ourselves in making love.

What? What the? Where the hell? What the hell is going? Where the hell am I? A long series of unfinished questions go through my mind as I suddenly find myself sitting in my car parked in a large parking lot staring at the wall of a building. I search desperately for an explanation to my situation.

I ask myself out loud, How the hell did I get here? Where is here? Am I going somewhere? Where? I mean…where am I? Oh for God’s sake, what day is it? Goddamn it then, what is the goddamn time? Just give me my goddamn name then, what’s my name? What is my goddamn name? How in the hell can I not know my own name? My god, what the hell is happening? What the fuck is going on for Christ’s sake, what’s happening?

Spinning in confusion, my mind tries to impose some order onto the situation by issuing directives. Just drive home! Go Home! But where the hell is home? How in the hell can someone not know where her own home is? Oh my God, I must be going crazy!! How the hell did I just suddenly go crazy? This doesn’t make any goddamn sense! What if this is the mysterious, tunnel to death? Oh my God, what if I’m actually dying? Oh my fucking god, this can’t be happening!

Another voice within me commands, Just drive, Holly! Drive Holly!

I reassure myself, Oh, right that’s my goddamn name! It’s Holly! That’s what it is! It’s Holly. Okay, I’m gonna be okay; somehow, someway, I’m gonna be okay. Goddamn it, this can’t just happen out of nowhere. Okay, now all I need to figure out is where I live.

I work hard at it, but really cannot remember where I live. A strange fog has enveloped my mind making it impossible for me to assemble a clear memory of anything. Looking out the window, the shapes and forms around me appear like imagery in a surreal painting, disconnected, out of proportion, and misshapen.

A plan begins to form in my mind, I’ll just drive. I’ll drive myself out of this parking lot and in the direction I think home is.

I follow my plan and slowly, like the picture on a TV screen righting itself, the pieces of my perspective reassemble. The Kentucky Fried Chicken sitting on the corner where I turn towards my apartment makes sense. I recognize the bowling alley that sits just a few blocks away from my home, and then I see and know my apartment building.

I talk out loud trying to console myself. It’s okay Holly. Don’t panic. There’s got to be some kind of explanation to what just happened. Just park the car, go inside, and regroup.

I grab my things out of the back seat, climb out of the car and begin walking around its front end towards my apartment building. Stopping just a few steps along my path, I’m stunned by the image that confronts me. Standing in stillness, my mind again searches frantically to make sense of what I am seeing.

What the hell is going on? I whisper to myself. How the hell did the front of my car get completely smashed! When did that happen? How did it happen? My mind frantically tries to put non-existing pieces into this strange puzzle. I know I wasn’t in an accident on the way home, so someone must have backed into me at the office. How come I didn’t see that when I left the office? Jesus Christ, I must have been so immersed in my own thoughts that I actually missed this.

Goddamn it, I can’t believe this. This is fucking scary, I say out loud, Jonathan is going to be so mad. I’ve got to figure this out. I continue trying to make some kind of sense out of a senseless situation as I make my way into our apartment. Somehow, someway I’ll piece this together. There’s got to be a goddamn explanation inside this goddamn chaos!"

In the moment, all I know for certain is that I really need a beer, a common indulgence most nights. It helps me relax and takes the edge off the evening.

A few minutes later feeling a little better, I put my things away and sip on my beer. Then suddenly, I hear someone knocking at my door. Wondering who it is, I open the door and find myself looking into the eyes of four police officers. Bunched up inside the stairwell, their diverse faces seem abnormally close. Two white guys, one black man, and a white woman make up their ranks. I am shocked; my already exhausted mind is searching desperately for some explanation.

Stammering, I ask, Have, have I, have I been in an, in an, have I been in an, in a, in have I been in an accident?

Yes ma’am, you perpetrated a hit and run. Right now, step out of the house and come down the steps with us. You’re under arrest, the black officer replies matter-of-factly. His age suggests a higher rank.

Ohhhhh, I say under my breath unable to make sounds let alone form words or think thoughts.

I am uh, I’m augh soo augh I, I try again

Ma’am please just step out of the house. You’re under arrest, he says again reaching towards me. Paralyzed by fear, only my hands will move. Slowly my palms turn up in submission. Taking my invite, the officer grabs one of the hands and pulls me out of the door and into the apartment stairwell. My dancing legs, knowing how to follow a lead, do their part.

Despite my diligent efforts to create a reasonable definition for the situation, nothing makes sense. Tripping over myself, the officer’s support steadies me. If he lets go, I know I’ll fall down. He’s now grabbing me further up on the arm as one of the white officers takes my other arm at the same place. Like a step performed by three dancers, they give me just enough lift to allow my feet to float in a stepping motion, even though I don’t support any of my weight. Trying to maintain the appearance of someone reasonable amidst my panic and inside an unreasonable situation, isn’t easy. If they don’t hold me up, I am going to collapse.

All I can tell you is the truth, I say through blurred vision made by forming tears, I really don’t remember being in an accident. I know that sounds weird, but it’s the truth. I’ll give you all my papers, whatever you want, my insurance, car title, whatever. I really will. I’m being honest. I have nothing to hide.

That will be helpful ma’am, now keep walking.

Putting one foot in front of the other takes all the willpower I own. With determination, they are going to get me to my car and are walking me there, right now, no questions asked.

Now put your hands against the car, someone commands, my perspective is too skewed at this point, to attach voices to bodies.

I’ll I can do, at this point, is follow orders. They’re frisking me. Oh God, they’ve got their hands all over me. Oh God that is leaving me even more unsteadied.

Okay, the female officer says, Get those papers for us.

I nervously open the car door, reach in and awkwardly pull papers out of the dash. Handing them to the female officer, we are making eye contact as she reaches towards me to take them. She’s a blond, short, portly woman in her middle ages. I make my plea in this very instant of connection thinking I might I see compassion in her blue eyes. She’s taking the papers and asking her male colleagues to consult with her a few feet away, out of my hearing distance.

As I stand against the car, my mind slowly is assembling a connection between the disorienting experience on my way home, the unexplained damage to my car, and the mysterious claims of the police. Holding onto the immensity of this moment without fracturing emotionally demands a lot from me. Oh, here come the police. They’re walking towards me with purpose, ready to announce their decision. I’ll do my best to appear calm.

Ma’am, we’re going to arrest you right here. We won’t take you to jail. What you have done is a felony offense and you may spend the next 10 years of your life in prison.

Okay, I say timidly. In such unfamiliar, social terrain, I’m not sure what the proper response should be, so I’ll just try to maintain and appear calm. The fact is, that inside me, this news is dizzying me to the point of causing me to fall. At this moment, just remaining on my feet is an accomplishment.

The officers work together, using their portable computer, to produce a citation notice. They’re reaching out to me, and handing it to me. Okay, I’m taking it. I’ve got it.

Okay ma’am, we suggest you find a lawyer. You will face a criminal case in court.

I’m struggling to find some other response but can’t outside of a quiet, Okay,

Stating my intentions to obey is quickly changing the atmosphere. The angry officer and I seem to be transforming into friends managing a difficult problem together. It’s a bit awkward, but much more workable than our enemy selves were. I stand quietly, holding the citation against my body like some kind of precious, mysterious gift bestowed on me by the Universe. Intuitively I know it contains my new future within it.

The police officers turn and walk back together to their cars, leaving me standing alone on a city sidewalk, watching their backsides recede into the distance, clutching my felony arrest citation to my chest. Exhausted, I am holding tight to a new chapter in my future watching the police drive away. When their car turns the last corner on the street and disappears from my sight, I slowly turn the citation over. There, in black and white, it tells me that I face up to 10-years in prison. The stress of that news hits me immediately and hits me with force. I gasp.

Trying hard to keep my breath moving and to normalize events, I carefully fold the citation into quarters. After a moment of needed stillness, I walk back into my house. I sit down on my couch placing the manicured citation on a coffee table. I ask myself, What is happening, Holly? How can nothing make sense? No longer able to remain upright, I lie down on the couch, close my eyes and take some comfort in the silence of nothing.

An hour later, still lying on the couch, I hear Jon’s footsteps coming up the staircase. Their tone lets me know that he’s seen my wrecked car. I sit up and prepare for the predictable. The door closes with a slam. Jon enters. A tall, lanky, Caucasian man with brown hair and eyes, his long arms and legs hang from his thin, short torso. I always like to describe it as a bit like an octopus. His handsome face usually wears a beard and mustache, always kept neatly trimmed along with his hair. Always a little overwhelmed by the size of his body, he’s the kind of guy whose problem won’t be weight gain but weight loss. Our eyes make contact.

Panting, he asks, Honey, what the hell happened? His broken breath reflects the race he just ran from his car to mine then over to the apartment building and up the staircase.  

Keeping my voice quiet and averting my eyes, as though partaking in a private confessional, I reply, I don’t know. I’ve been in a car accident that I can’t remember, and I was just arrested for a hit and run, so I think, I know, I don’t know how to say this. My mind struggles to find a way to break the worst news of the day, I think, I know, I don’t know what I know except that I’m probably, am surely, losing my mind.

The silence that follows lasts for an eternal minute.

What? You did what, and can’t remember what?

The subtle shake of his head lets me know he’s trying to make sense of my senseless claims.

I clear my throat and repeat, I’ve been in a car accident.

He interrupts me, Well are you okay? The car’s smashed. Did you hit something? Tell me what happened.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember the accident.

What do you mean you don’t remember the accident?!

I don’t know what I mean. I mean I really don’t remember being in an accident. I speak through the tears that blur my vision. Reaching up towards him I grasp for some help to keep me from falling off an edge.

Jonathan walks towards me with his long arms extended down to catch mine reaching up. He pulls me up off the couch steadying me as I rise, then he pulls me towards him into his arms.

Honey, honey, it’s going to be okay. Are you hurt? Do we need to call an ambulance?

I bury my face in his shoulder, the point where it naturally meets his body. My body begins to shake as my crying intensifies.

I don’t know what I need. I really think I’m loosing my mind. The police actually arrested me for a hit and run.

Oh my god, Holly, how can you not remember it?

I don’t know. I really don’t know. All I know is the truth. I don’t remember.

He deepens his embrace by wrapping his arms more fully around me to pull me closer to him saying, Okay, okay, just calm down. We’ll figure this out. There’s got to be an explanation. Something must have happened to you. Let’s start with you trying to tell me what you do remember. Supported by his trustworthy arms, I am surrendering more of my weight into him. Letting go will lead to me falling. So, I’m gonna hold on tight, because I really don’t want to fall, at least not yet.

I don’t want to fall, Honey, don’t let me fall, I whisper.

I’ve got you; you’re okay. You’re not going to fall. Hang on. Jonathan holds me tighter, and we stand for a long few minutes, intertwined as one.

Then, slowly and reluctantly I am unwrapping my arms from around Jon and pulling my head off of his chest to wipe my eyes. Jon gently takes both my hands from my eyes. Holding them, he’s helping me lower myself back to sitting on the couch. Laying my hands onto my lap, he’s now rubbing them lovingly as I recount the entire event to him, beginning with my ride home from work. He sits quietly, occasionally interrupting to clarify a point, like asking, So, you really didn’t remember the apartment address?

As I describe the concluding image of the story, me standing alone on the street with a felony citation in my hands and my mind swimming in chaos, I find myself collapsing back against Jon’s chest without completing my thought.

Then, WOW! I’m throwing my arms around his neck and shoulders again. What if I’m really going crazy, Jonathan!? I can’t do it, Honey. I can’t! I can’t live without my brain. I mean take away anything but not my brain. Oh my god, not my brain please, please not my brain.

Sweetheart, you’re not loosing your mind. There are patterns in all this that make some kind of sense. We just can’t see them.

How do you know? I mean how does someone have a car accident that they can’t remember?!

I don’t know, I don’t know, but something must have happened to you in those moments. Doctors can help you figure it out. A person doesn’t suddenly go from being a strong, capable woman to being a lunatic. It just doesn’t happen that way.

Well, how does it happen? We don’t know how it happens. What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do? I ask dropping my head back against his damp shoulder as my eyes fill again.

It’s clear what you’re going to do Sweetheart. You’re going to go see a doctor, one that works on brains and brain injury, Jon says enfolding me in his arms and stroking my back.

But, we don’t have the goddamn money for that. We can’t afford that, I say speaking against his chest.

Don’t worry about the money. We’ll figure it out. The important thing is that you get some care. Maybe I’ll take this new job I’ve been offered as a high school teacher, then we’ll get some health insurance.

I pull my head just far enough away from his chest to allow me to look up into his face and into the compassionate brown eyes I’ve stared into so many times. With my chin rubbing against him, I plead, But, we can’t. We don’t have any money right now. We can’t just go see some special doctor.

Just stop Holly, Jon says interrupting me by enfolding my entire head in his arms, and pulling me against his chest. We stand quietly, this position making it impossible for me to move my mouth. There’s nothing to do but surrender entirely, so I will.

Jon reassures me, You need some help so you’re going to get it. We live in a big, wealthy country where everybody should get care! You’re going to get some medical care goddamn it! There’s lots of good care out there, and I’m sure we can find you some. Now, I’m going to go put some dinner together so we can eat and regroup.

Jon and I stay interlocked, him stroking my head for a minute, playing with my curls. Now, he’s carefully pushing me away from him, sitting me upright, and now standing. The rhythms of our duet always give me pleasure. At it’s end, we find him looking down upon me with compassion. Like any good improvisation, the next movement reveals itself to me without conscious effort. It is a simple drop of my head towards my chest as my hands fold into my lap.

Oh, that is nice, I say to myself as Jonathan allows the silent stillness to provide a moment of comfort for both of us.

Then in a soft voice he says, It’s going to be okay.

He turns, leaving me on the couch to walk into the kitchen and prepare dinner. I sit alone, numbed by the sheer magnitude of the situation, drowning in the complexity of its chaos. I work to find some recognizable landmarks inside its form, something that might console by providing a feeling of familiarity. I’m finding nothing and rather sinking further into my own confusion. All I know for sure right now is that I need some good, dependable, trustworthy help.

Certainly, I say to myself, there’s got to be some good help out there. This is the United States of America for God’s sake, there’s got to be some good help out there.

This is it?

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Chapter Three

Nine.....ten.....eleven....twelve. I always count out loud right here to help me find my focus through this difficult warrior stretch, a yoga pose I incorporated into my rond de jambe combination several months ago. It’s taking all the discipline I can find in myself to perform my usual morning workout in my little studio. Jon helped me create this studio several years ago when we rented our first apartment together in our second go around as a couple. We simply laid down a removable, wood floor in one of the two apartment bedrooms. It works great and saves me a lot of money on studio time and unnecessary dance classes.

Only four days since the big accident, working out regularly plays an important role in my quest to maintain some normalcy in my weird life. Right now, holding onto sanity let alone normalcy seems difficult. Since the mind-twisting event of the big accident, I’ve experienced several more of those strange mental episodes. In these moments, I literally loose time. I will be somewhere doing something then suddenly find myself someplace else doing something else that I lack any memory of ever starting to do. Last night after dinner, Jonathan noticed me wandering around the apartment behaving confused. When he intervened and asked me about my intentions, I responded with a strange list of irrelevant questions like, Where am I? What’s happening? He claims I spoke in a childlike manner with my head bowed, looking scared. No matter how many times Jon describes this event, I can’t recall any of it. If there’s anything in this experience that’s unnerving, it’s that fact alone.

I keep asking myself, How in god’s name, without any warning does someone’s entire self disappear and their conscious memory of experience vanish as well? Where do ‘I’ go during these interludes? Who is this person that replaces me? Can a body possess two souls? Which one of them is ‘me’? These questions plague my mind right now as I feel my identity slowly disintegrating. All I can do is comfort myself with the assurance that a long, informative talk with a doctor should relieve this confusion and at least, a little bit of my fear.

After my batma exercise, I’ll soak up the pleasures of a long hamstring stretch. Keeping my mind focused on my movement is difficult. It wanders constantly away from my here and now toward terrible predictions of my larger future. The same questions turn over and over again in my mind as I search for acceptable answers or at least, reasonable frames of reference.

I find myself asking myself things like, When a person looses their mental faculties, do their bodily skills deteriorate in proportion? Will my ability to dance degrade into nothing? How much longer do I want to stick around in this time and space if I can’t dance? Who am ‘I’ becoming? Am I still ‘me’ inside these new places of space/time? Where am ‘I’ going occasionally? Is space/time stopping in some fashion during these moments of memory lapse?

In the Buddhist tradition, the I is believed to be constituted of energy that reincarnates itself in other spaces and times. I wonder if my I is visiting another incarnation during these lapses while a foreign one manifests itself in the one known as me.

If so, I ask myself, Do I own both ‘mes’? Someday will I be able to experience both of them? I once made a dance piece about the subjective nature of space/time, so these possibilities don’t seem impossible to me. However, they do overwhelm me.

Jon plans to return home from his mechanic shop this afternoon. We’re going to have lunch together and then he’ll drive me to my first doctor’s appointment. I found a neurologist here in Ballard who charges $250.00 for an initial visit. He actually out prices other doctors in the area by $100.00 or more. I knew medical care was expensive, but these prices astound me. I need this visit to provide me with good guidance because without any health insurance, I can’t afford to pay for much more care. I decided to take a couple days off of work just to regroup even though we really can’t afford time off. Not wanting to disclose anything about the accident to my boss, Margy, I used the general and well-worn excuse, Not feeling well. I don’t want her to question my ability to do my job. Something I do know is that I need my job.

I look forward to sitting down with a doctor and engaging in an informative conversation about my history, my health and the possible reasons for these strange events. Like Jon said, a strong, talented woman doesn’t transform overnight into a lunatic, at least not as far as we know. I do know I’ll come away with a broader understanding of the situation. That will provide comfort in itself.

I can hear Jon’s steps outside coming up the stairwell. There’s the door.

Hi honey, I’m here, he’s calling out.

Hi sweetheart, I’m in the studio finishing my workout. I’ll be out in a minute. Go ahead and start putting together the smoothies and sandwiches.

He peaks his head in the studio, Okay, Hon, I’ll put together lunch; you finish your workout.

My Jonathan, always guided in difficult times by compassion and patience. I wonder if he can weather this storm. He loves me in the form of a pretty, intelligent woman. What if he finds his feelings for me waning as I show more flaws? What if he leaves me? I don’t need to feed another fear right now. I’ll finish with some pilates exercises then clean up for lunch and my appointment.

Two hours later, I’m sitting in Dr. Kellog’s waiting room, checking the clock every few minutes as my appointment time approaches. Nervous and excited, both adjectives describe my anticipation of this event. I so look forward to learning something about all the mysterious activities going on in my body.

Holly Eckert, Dr. Kellog will see you now.

That’s me and this is it, I announce to myself, under my breath. Straightening my red and yellow top with its flattering high waistband, I stand preparing myself for a highly civilized exchange. Wanting to look my best for such a significant event, now I’m checking my face in the mirror on the office wall. I wipe off a little wandering eyeliner and add some lipstick. Here we go, I think, smiling at myself, walking towards understanding.

When I enter the office space, the bookcases filled with books lining one side of the office catch my attention first. The image encourages me. I then notice Dr. Kellog sitting behind a desk. He’s a middle age, white man with thinning, gray hair, beard and mustache. He wears reading glasses and keeps them close at hand on a cord draped around his neck. At this moment, he wears them perched on the end of his nose. He takes them off as he stands and reaches his hand out towards me in a gesture of kindness and greeting. That is a movement I’ve always appreciated in dance as it perfectly symbolizes the experience of both giving and receiving help. He reaches towards me with his offer to help me. Because I am in need of his help, I reach back in return and accept his offer with trust. Hopefully, with his help, I’ll remain functioning and sane. We shake as we make our introductions.

Please Holly sit down, make yourself comfortable.

I sit down in one of two chairs arranged facing the doctor’s desk. Taking in my surroundings, I’m trying to ground myself by working hard to breathe evenly. That’s becoming harder to do all the time. Now, I’m bending over and reaching into my large, black shoulder bag sitting on the floor next to me. I’m pulling out the typed notes I organized for the occasion and arranging them on my lap. Now, I sit-up, smile and look the doctor in the eyes. I’m ready.

Okay, tell me Holly, what’s going on, and how can I help you?

"Well, Dr. Kellog, I must answer both those questions with ‘I don’t know.’ I’m hoping that you can help me build understanding and find some answers. Why don’t I start by explaining what I’ve experienced that brought me here?"

That sounds like a good place to start.

I try to take a deep breath but it doesn’t come easily. At the top of my next difficult inhale, I exhale and begin to tell my tale.

A few days ago I was driving home from work when I suddenly found myself in a parking lot. I didn’t know where I was or even who I was.

Wow, that must have been strange, he comments. Go on and tell me more.

I continue telling The Strange Tale of the Big Accident, referencing my notes often as I try hard not to leave out any details in the telling of this important, life’s parable. I don’t want to leave anything out just in case one of those details holds an important clue to solving this mystery. Only a minute or two into the story, as I’m arriving at the moment where I exit my car and find it mysteriously smashed, the doctor is suddenly reaching towards me, rapidly waving his hands at me, repeating his initial gesture with now very different intention. It’s clear he doesn’t want to help me anymore.

Now he’s interrupting me saying, Oh, oh you have epilepsy. I’ll write you a prescription for Dilantin right now.

His behavior stuns me. I don't know how to respond to his rude behavior let alone understand the meaning of his words.

What? I have what, and you’ll do what? I stammer.

You’ve got epilepsy, seizures, but I can write you a prescription for Dilantin right now. That’s what you’ll take from now on throughout life. That’s how you’ll fight it.

He pulls out a pad of forms from his desk, grabs a pen from his penholder, carefully puts his glasses back on his nose and begins scribbling something on a form.

Di.. la..an..tin? I struggle to pronounce this foreign word. My head is spinning inside another weird experience. What is going on? I grasp for some kind of explanation within me. I can feel my breathing becoming more labored as my stress level increases.

He glances up from his writing and dismissively says, Yeah, Dilantin, it’s a medication you’ll take from now on throughout your life in your battle against this thing. You’ll be fighting it your whole life, he says, as though he’s handing me a box of kleenex for a common cold.

Confused and overwhelmed, I now say nothing and watch Dr. Kellog disinterestedly write his prescription. He shows absolutely no awareness of the meaning or impact of his words. In the silence, I repack my notes inside my bag, then clear my throat. The doctor looks up and peers at me over the brim of his eyeglasses.  

Looking directly into his eyes, I say firmly but astounded, First of all Dr. Kellog, if this is what you call medicine, you are not my doctor. Second, you can take your life-long prescription of whatever the hell it is and toss it!

With that, I stand, put my bag around my shoulder, look straight ahead, and walk out of the room! Dr. Kellog is saying and doing nothing in reply.

With my head and body shaking in disbelief, I’m walking down the hall and into the waiting room where I stop at the receptionist’s desk to offer a little feedback.

That man should not call himself a doctor! What he just did in there is not medicine, and I do not think that I should have to pay for it!

I turn now and take my leave with the receptionist sitting wide-eyed, trying to find the right response.

She calls out, Well, ma’am....we um...we need to um....ma’am?

Without looking back, I continue walking out. I leave yet another event in my growing nightmare parable. On the sidewalk outside, my frustration is making it hard to put one foot in front of the other, let alone figure out where to go. I’ll talk out loud as I walk in an effort to calm myself.

Who the hell does he think he is? Does he think I’m just going to nod my head obediently and follow his orders? I’ve got seizures! What the hell is he talking about? Could he at least listen to my story before making his goddamn pronouncement? Could he offer some kind of explanation or reason or something! Could he engage in some kind of adult conversation for Christ’s sake? I mean who the hell does he think he is telling me I’m going to take drugs for the rest of my life?

Now several blocks away from the clinic, I’m realizing my ride home doesn’t come for another 30-minutes. That’s going to leave me aimlessly wandering the streets. So, I’ll retrace my steps and take refuge in that little coffee shop that I passed. It will provide me somewhere that I can wait for Jon while sipping on a latte’.

Yes, I do believe I deserve a treat after that catastrophe, I reassure the part of me who is feeling more and more frightened and sad.

30 minutes later, I can tell Jon is surprised when he parks the car and gets out to find me exiting from the coffee shop rather than the doctor’s office. I do enter the car a little more calm than when I left the doctor’s office; however, I can’t resist my desire to immediately launch into an emotional retelling of the event. Jon listens, nodding and shaking his head in sympathy.

Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry. The guy sounds like a jerk who doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Jon says jerk; I think quack.

Jonathan, he’s supposedly an educated, licensed neurologist.

Honey, you know that for anybody, doing anything, neither educations or licenses guarantee learning, talent or anything.

How the hell am I going to find a doctor if I can’t depend somewhat on those kinds of qualifications?

Honey, you know there are always a few quacks out there. You just stumbled onto one; consider it bad luck.

But, what if they’re all like that?

Oh, stop it; they’re not all like that. We’ll find you a doctor and figure this out.

Jonathan, I may be going crazy.

Holly, you're going to make me crazy if you keep talking like that.

Later that evening as we clear the dishes from another boring meal of burritos and beers, the phone rings. Hoping it will be my friend Grace returning my phone call, I answer it.

Hello! I make my usual warm greeting.

Hello, is this Holly Eckert? an unfamiliar male voice answers me.

Thinking it might be an obnoxious telemarketer, I drop my tone down into a serious tenor and say, Yes, this is Holly Eckert. Who is this? Can I help you?

The voice replies, This is Dr. Kellog. I wanted you to know that you have a serious illness. I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation, and I don’t think you’re taking appropriate measures. You know, I can call the police and have them take away your driver’s license! You better take measures to deal with this, or I’ll take actions against you!

I gasp, and my eyes open wide in surprise as I take in the doctor’s threat and search for a suitable response.

Listen Dr. Kellog, if you ever call my home again, I’ll call the police and have you arrested for harassment! Do you understand me? I bang the receiver down to add a clear exclamation point to my statement. I sure hope he understands me.

Jon calls out to me from the front room, Are you okay Honey? Who was it?

I pull out a chair from the dining table located next to the phone that hangs off a wall and slowly sit down. Not wanting to add legitimacy to Kellog’s words by showing any kind of anxiety, I call back calmly, Yeah, I’m okay honey. It was nobody, nobody important.

I am sitting down quietly trying again to take in another strange experience in the growing number of surreal, weird events that currently define my life. I want so badly to crawl into bed next to Jon, wrap my arms around him and sleep soundly. I know I’d find comfort there. However, I also fear that once again I’ll spend the night tossing and turning unable to quiet my mind and fall sleep. These days, chaos rather than calm fills my nights with nightmares. My bed is beginning to become a place in my life that I fear. Just the thought of it right now washes me with fear.

So many things scare me right now. They come and go, each taking its turn to proclaim its message and wreck its own special kind of havoc on my body and mind. As the fear of Dr. Kellog recedes into the evening, another more heart-wrenching fear takes its place. It grabs my imagination and pulses through my body leaving me again struggling to inhale and exhale. With great effort, I am rising from my chair and walking into the front room where Jon sits.

Jonathan? I quietly call out to him, my need resonating in each syllable of his full, first name.

Jon looks up at me with surprise and concern on his face, Yes Honey? Are you okay?

Jonathan, what if she doesn’t come?

Who doesn’t come, honey? Jon replies.

My mother, Jon, my mother, you know I always thought that when I really needed her in a time of crisis, she would be there for me. She’s missed so many things, but I always thought she’d come when I really needed her. What if she doesn’t show up?

I drop down on the couch next to Jon and put my head on his shoulder. He puts his book down on the coffee table and wraps his arms around me.

Holly, your Mom hasn’t been very responsive your entire life. There’s a pretty good chance she won’t respond to this either.

Although I’m shocked, I do recognize the truth in Jon’s words. I gasp a bit recognizing that accepting this is going to hurt. Tears are building in my eyes and my chest aches. As I try to resist those tears, it’s taking more and more effort to form my words.

"People and ….and …their goddamn, their goddamn ‘I.. fucking love.. yous!’ What a bunch of bullshit! They just throw those …those words around; but when it comes to really living their big claims,…….. they don’t….they don’t come through! It makes love seem like a bunch of bullshit!"

Jon kisses my forehead now buried against his chest and says softly, Honey, I love you.

At this moment, it’s hard to accept Jon’s declaration of love. Given my current frustration with people and culture’s pretenses, I can’t resist the moment’s temptation to remind Jon of an unresolved issue in our partnership.

Yeah, I know you say that Jon, but then why won’t you marry me? I say, letting the tears flow. You say ‘I love you, Holly,’ but you can’t say, ‘Will you please marry me, Holly?’ That’s not love.

Oh God, Holly, don’t go there.

Where the hell else am I supposed to go? What do you and the world expect from me?

I am pulling myself out of his arms and pushing myself up from the couch to make my way to bed.

Jon calls out to me as I walk around the couch and towards the hallway, Holly, don’t do this. Come back and let me hold you. You know I love you; I live it everyday.

Overwhelmed by the many emotions moving through my mind and body, I can’t stop myself. So, I’m walking away from his embrace and toward another looming fear in my life, sleep. I so need that now. What I also need right now is help. I need dependable, trustworthy help. I long for the peace of mind that comes with that kind of help, but where do I find it? Reaching my arms forward, I imitate the well-known gesture of help as I make my way to bed.

Five days later, a bill arrives in the mail from Dr. Kellog wanting me to pay $250.00 for the useless ten-minutes he spent with me reciting a generic diagnosis and writing a standardized drug prescription that never left his office. I think hard on the situation and talk with Jon about it. In the end, I decide I want to spend my time and energy finding good healthcare rather than fighting really bad kinds. In an effort to keep the peace, I go ahead and pay the bill.

Now I look forward to finding a good doctor. One who recognizes and respects the uniqueness of each patient’s experience. One who treats their patients as intelligent adults capable of understanding their own bodies and their own diseases, and one who respects the wisdom those patients bring to their unique situations.

The hope driving my research for a new doctor is that Dr. Kellog stands as an exception to the current standard in medical practice, not its standard.

Do it for me

---

Chapter Four

Now several months after my first medical debacle with Dr. Kellog, I’m still looking for some dependable, trustworthy help. Occurring at least once and sometimes several times each day, these strange seizure events continue to haunt my life. I must work hard in my mind to maintain a faith that one day I will understand this and find solutions for it. However, the desire to throw up my hands and give up plagues me as I face this frightening unknown.

Money profoundly limits my choices. If I could afford to visit many different doctors, I would. As it is with no health insurance and limited income, I found enough money to see only one additional doctor since the Kellog disaster.

I went to see a neurologist working inside a Seattle hospital. I hoped that the hospital affiliation would guarantee credentials and a high standard of care. Unfortunately, that assumption proved wrong. Rather than contradicting Dr. Kellog’s methods, this doctor’s responses mirrored them. When I sat down with this middle-aged female doctor inside a hospital room equipped with all kinds of healthcare gadgets and machines, from heart monitors to respirators to who knows what, I was hopeful. That hope quickly faded as she took my vitals, tiredly listened to my story, pronounced me an epileptic and prescribed a heavy dose of Dilantin. She offered one small piece of useful information. In an efficiently memorized statement, she recited the fact that the seizure wasn’t the fundamental problem inside my body but rather the symptom of some other fundamental problem. She called the seizure a sneeze of the brain.

That made some sense and it brought to my mind many other questions. I attempted to push the conversation into deeper territory beyond standardized responses by asking her to explain everything she knew about the problems that create epilepsy. She responded by shrugging her shoulders and ending the conversation and the appointment. Everything she did or said inside our small exchange expressed her