Sunday, May 29, 2011

"Green Goblin" long sample. A true story (my story) of overcoming Wernicke-Korsakoff Disease

It's a terrible illness, harder on the patient's family and friends than it is on the patient, and it's no picnic for the patient.
   This story is available as a paperback, hardcover, epub, or pdf download from, or as a Kindle book from amazon.
   Here is the sample, about the first 1/3 of the short book:

Green Goblin

A Survivor’s Tale
Wernicke’s Encephalopathy

This book is dedicated to anyone who has suffered or suffers from Wernicke-Korsakoff disease, the people who care for them, and those who love them.
Let there be hope.
Werknicke-Korsakoff Syndrome: A disorder of the central nervous system characterized by abnormal eye movements, incoordination, confusion, and impaired memory and learning functions.

Wernicke’s Aphasia: A type of aphasia caused by a lesion in the Wernicke’s Area of the brain and characterized by grammatical but more or less meaningless speech and an apparent inability to comprehend speech.

Part I

Bed Sheets and Brimstone

The journey I was about to take was both long in coming and a surprise. Recently I read description after description of the illness I suffered. I’ll tell you what it is at the end of this story. If I remember. If there is an end to this story.
It began with a dream.
The Klingons were blowing up the Enterprise and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. No one responded to my orders to fire the phasers and I have no idea how to run a starship. The deck shook. I turned to Worf and ordered him, again, to fire. He wasn’t there—no one was.
My pulse hammered in my neck. I was scared but determined to go out fighting. Then I saw her: my wife Sarah, dressed in Deanna Troi’s uniform. She was crying and giving me a strange look. I wanted to hug her and tell her it would be okay. We’d beat the bastards but I needed her to fire the photon torpedoes and do it now.
“Don’t stand there and cry! We’re going to die if you don’t fire the torpedoes!” I hated myself for shouting at her. I don’t shout. It’s not my style. Of course, getting killed by Klingons isn’t my style either.
Then I woke up. I was lying on the floor on her side of the bed, pulling myself up with the quilt. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m awake now.”
She looked scared. Sarah doesn’t looked scared any more often than I shout. She told me to get dressed. We were going to the hospital.



I stood on the driveway on her side of the garage. Sarah was behind the wheel and we were waiting for the light to turn green. I was in the passenger seat looking at First Baptist Church through the window. I was an executive with the Boy Scouts of America at the time and we had several meetings a month at that church.
“I don’t think I can go to a meeting tonight,” I said. “I’m not in uniform.”
Sarah sounded calm. “We’re going to the hospital.”
She had been fighting colitis for more than two years and her symptoms led her to the hospital only a couple of weeks before.
“Why are you driving?” It didn’t make sense for her to drive herself to the hospital.
“You’re drunk.”
She had me there. I was drunk. I drank too much anyway, but for the couple of weeks prior to the Klingon invasion, drinking large amounts of beer was the only way I could find to get rid of the double vision.
I saw double for at least two weeks before I went nuts. I should have gone to the doctor in early June, but it was a busy time of year for us. I felt fine physically so I didn’t see double vision as a high priority symptom. Instead of going to the doctor like I knew I should, I got new glasses. I still saw double, but I saw double clearly. I kept an empty foam cup in my car for the random bits of puking I experienced. There was a lot of random puking, but it was okay. There wasn’t much to throw up. It’s hard to eat when you see double and puke every now and again.
But I didn’t need to go to a hospital. I was fine. She was the sick one.



I was in a hospital trauma center waiting room very late at night. I didn’t know how I got there. Sarah was filling out paperwork at the counter. I wanted a cigarette. I reached in the left pocket of my jeans, but for some reason I didn’t have my cigarettes.
I started to walk to the car. It was the first of July and a nice night—warm but not hot. The parking lot was almost empty. They usually are at 2:00 in the morning. I turned around and went back thorough the emergency room entrance. I thought Sarah would be admitted soon and didn’t want to bother her for her keys. My plan was to walk home, get my cigarettes and drive our other car back.
On my way back from the lobby I saw three or four wheelchairs and decided to take one home instead of walking. I heard Sarah shout and try to catch up with me, and thought, she doesn’t have to worry about me. They’ll help her soon.
“Wait!” she shouted.
I waved over my shoulder. “See you at home dear!”
So there I was, rolling my wheelchair toward Mayfield Road at two o’clock in the morning, going home to get my cigarettes and my car. I stopped before I turned left on Mayfield. Even at that hour, there were cars on the road. Safety first!
I’m a good driver and try to be polite. I intended to use my turn signal, but couldn’t find it on the wheelchair. It seemed like a bad idea to get killed in the center lane while driving a wheelchair. It didn’t take long to figure out wheelchairs don’t have turn signals. I started to roll out in the road anyway when I heard someone running behind me.
I turned. Two men were gaining on me. One was bearded and big. He was in front of a short, stocky guy. They grabbed the wheelchair just as I threw caution to the winds and went for the road. I struggled, but one held the wheelchair while the other grabbed me.
I told myself not to hurt them. They weren’t hurting me; they were restraining me. It sounds funny, I know. I’m a little guy—five foot six and a hundred twenty pounds—but size doesn’t make any difference in some situations. What matters is who walks away and who doesn’t.
I stopped struggling when I realized I couldn’t get away without hurting them. Better to wait and see what happens.
They rolled me back through the doors. Sarah hugged me just before they took me into the patient storage area—you know, where they put patients until they get around to fixing them. She was crying, I was confused.
So ended July 1, or so I thought. It was actually the wee hours of July 4th—I’d been unconscious at home for at least thirty-six hours since leaving work for vacation on the first.



I opened my eyes and found myself looking at a woman’s face. She was a blond gal, neither ugly nor pretty. She was talking to me, but I didn’t understand what she was trying to say. It’s funny, but I was more curious about why I was sleeping sitting up in bed than why I was there.
“You have to sign this.” She put a clipboard on my lap.
I looked at the piece of paper on the clipboard. It was broken in block paragraphs. There were a couple of lines at the bottom for signatures. I tried to read the document. I don’t sign anything without knowing what it is I’m signing.
I tried to read it. I couldn’t.
“Don’t you have one of these in English?” I laughed but I wasn’t kidding. Not one word made sense.
“It’s in English.” She looked worried.
I looked at it again. I’m pretty good with languages. I can read some French and Spanish. I recognize German, Russian, and Hebrew when I hear them. I didn’t recognize the language on the paper in my lap.
She didn’t know what was holding me back. She sounded desperate when she said, “You have to sign it! Your wife has been calling me every day! She’s very worried about you. She loves you very, very much.”
I looked at the form, then at the nurse. I wanted to sign the document…but I didn’t know how.
“We can’t tell her you’re here if you don’t sign it. It breaks my heart to hear her cry. Please sign it so we can tell her you’re here.”
I looked at the document again. It was hard to think, but I found the words I was looking for. “How do I sign it?”
She looked surprised, then more worried. For the first time I noticed a man standing behind her. I didn’t see his face. I remembered Sarah took me to a hospital. If these people couldn’t or wouldn’t tell her where I was, that meant I’d been taken from the hospital. That meant I was a hostage.
Kidnapped? Me? If they wanted a big ransom for little old me, they could forget it. We didn’t have money to pay a ransom. I decided to get out of there, but first I had to sign the form. Play along and watch for an opportunity to escape. “I don’t know how to sign it.”
She talked me through it. I formed the letters as she said them. By the time I wrote “Robert Townsend” in childish cursive letters, I remembered how to write. I tried to hand the clipboard back to her, but she pushed it toward me. “Please date it.”
I nodded and stared at the blank. “What’s the date?” What she said didn’t make sense to me, but I wrote it anyway.
“Seventh floor,” she said.
“It’s a four-story building.”
She looked at me an enunciated every syllable. “Sev…en. …Four.”
That made less sense than seventh floor. So I wrote seventh floor hoping she would accept it and let me go back to sleep. I had an escape to plot and needed to rest before I executed whatever I came up with.
I heard her say to the man behind her, “I think that’s as good as we’re going to get.”



I felt a sharp pain in my arm and opened my eyes. There were two men holding my left arm. The shorter one, the one at my shoulder said, “He’s awake!”
I yanked my arm free by pulling it toward my chest. They let go. I bent my elbow and thrust for the throat of the man closest to my wrist. His face changed as my hand got closer to his neck. He looked happy, then surprised. I pushed my hand closer. My first thought was to crush his windpipe. Push the hand; push it toward his neck. Squeeze—crush, don’t choke—crumple his esophagus like a beer can.
That scared him. He tried to force my hand back, but I wouldn’t let him. We struggled. He couldn’t push my hand away and I wouldn’t stop reaching for his neck.
I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted to injure him, severely if I had to, and hoped his partner would care more about saving a coworker than the little prisoner in the bed. I intended to pluck his adams apple from his neck and hold it up for the other guy to see.
It doesn’t take long to recognize a bad plan. I couldn’t get to the man’s neck. I gave up on the idea of ripping his throat apart and switched to escape mode. I lashed out with my right arm to grab the rail on the other side of the bed. Grab the rail, pull hard, and vault out of bed. Then run for the door and get the hell out of Dodge.
My hand slammed on a woman’s wrist resting on the rail. I heard a choked cry and looked up. She was wearing a white coat. I didn’t look at her face; I looked at her hand.
Think! I needed time to think, but didn’t have it. Stalemate. The men had me and I had the woman. I didn’t want to take a woman hostage, and I didn’t want to hurt her, but I hated the idea of getting killed more. Since when did the bastards in the Protectors Guild use women? There were no female guildsmen the last time I was in this world.
I had to do something. It went against the grain for me—hurting a woman. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew she would slide a dagger between my ribs with none of the hesitation I felt toward hurting her. I wanted to tell the men I would let go of her if they let go of me. The words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t say anything…I didn’t know how.
I squeezed her wrist. In my mind’s eye I could see her bones just above my curled fingers, the twin, not quite parallel bones in her forearm. My fingers were clenched. Squeeze. Tighter. Pop the hand off her wrist like the flower from a dandelion! I locked eyes with the man holding my left wrist. I wanted him to look in my eyes and see I would rather kill him ten times than lie in that bed as their prisoner. As I did that, I squeezed the woman’s arm hander. She would tell them to let me go any second. I smiled at the Guildsman to intimidate him.
“Robert! Stop it!” the woman shouted. “Robert! You’re hurting me! Please…stop!”
…That was the last thing I expected her to say. She sounds like my Mom! No one but my mother calls me Robert. Guild bastards. How was I supposed to hurt someone who sounds like my mom?
I couldn’t.
I let go of her arm and waited for them to kill me. The last thing I heard was a man’s voice. “The little fucker smiled at me! Did you see that? He tried to kill me and he fucking smiled!”



I woke up when I heard someone walk in the room. I opened my eyes to a woman standing between the bed I was in and an empty bed next to it.
“You’re awake!” she said. “How do you feel?”
I felt fine and said so. I didn’t know where I was or why I was there, but the bed was comfortable and I just woke up.
“You look terrible,” I said. “You should sit down.
She sat on the other bed and gave me a warm smile. I was looking at a woman in her mid-fifties. Slender, attractive. She had dark hair with a few strands of gray. I liked it when she smiled; it was a nice smile. She looked me over from her perch on the other bed. Her expression held curiosity and surprise. She seemed very relieved about something, but I couldn’t tell what. “You are a nice man. You’re a very nice man.” She smiled again. “I told them you were, but they said you were dangerous. They said you tried to kill them.”
I almost figured out what was going on. Almost. It slipped my mind’s grasp before I could stop it. The person she was talking to, the patient in the bed, was somewhere between Rob Townsend and Tom Benton.
Tom Benton is the protagonist in a novel. I’m the author. Benton is an American who went to a world called Sexton. He was trained to be a killer/cop in a world of swords and sorcery. Rather than serve in a force he grew to recognize as evil—the protectors guild—he became an outlaw. He took the name ‘Viper’ and is merciless in his defense of freedom.
She locked eyes with me. “You are a nice man,” she said again. I’m not sure if she was trying to convince herself or me. “Every time you started to hurt me, all I had to do was tell you to let me go and you let go right away.”
Hurt her? Kill? I was shocked. “I can’t hurt anybody. I’m a little guy.”
She shook her head, lips pressed together. “You’re a strong little guy. Very strong! Don’t play weak little man with me. You’re strong!”
I knew that—I just didn’t want anyone else to know it. Then I saw the brace on her left arm and almost remembered. I didn’t remember what happened, but there was no doubt in my mind I was the one who hurt her arm. I was devastated.
I think I was crying. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
She tried to calm me. “Of course you didn’t, you’re a nice man. You were scared, that’s all. Absolutely terrified.” She stood up and moved closer. “You are forgetting things. You must remember this, even if you remember nothing else. You can never drink again.”
“I don’t drink.” It’s true—Viper doesn’t. Not much. It would get him killed. She didn’t know who she was talking to. She was talking to Tom Benton, AKA Viper. I was gone. Rob? There’s no Rob here, man.
“Yes you do!” Her anger was genuine. “You were drunk when they brought you in here! You were almost dead. We saved you this time, but you’re not safe yet. We can’t do it again. If you drink again, you will die. Remember this…you can never drink again.”
I didn’t remember that. Not for a long time.



Time to go!”
I thought someone shouted that very close to my ear, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. Alone in a bed in a hospital room. I remembered being tired, but I couldn’t remember picking a bed and going to sleep. I had to get out of there before someone found me.
I tried to get out of bed, but my left arm was strapped to the rail. Idiot! Fell asleep in the open and let the guild tie me down. There wasn’t time to wonder why they didn’t kill me. The voice I heard in my head might have been imaginary but it wasn’t wrong. It was time to go.
There must have been a little of myself left. I looked at the table next to the bed to see if there was a note from someone, maybe Sarah, telling me to stay put or run like hell. When I found no note, I almost called for help.
Viper answered that one. If you call for help, who do you think will come? Those friendly people who strapped you to this bed, that’s who!
That was all the answer I needed. I stared at the binding. I rubbed my forehead…and laughed. “Stupid guild bastards! You forgot I have two hands.”
Now that I had an assessment of the problem, all I had to do was untie myself… I lost a few minutes while I tried to decide what to do after I freed myself. Should I wait there and kill my captors, or leave and recruit an army to come back and kill them?
I decided to leave and let the chips fall as they may.
Untying myself proved more difficult than I thought. The restraint didn’t buckle or lace. There were two straps holding it to the bed. I reached over my body and the lower rail with my right hand and followed them down as far as I could reach. The end of the straps was beyond me. I tried another way: tight over my chest, reaching down between the top of the mattress and the bottom rail. I rolled to my left as far as I could.
My hand hit the end of the straps. They were wrapped around the bed frame and looped through a double d-ring. I could picture it—two straps going under both rings, then around and between the curved part of the ‘D’.
I’m left-handed. It was more difficult to untie the straps with my right hand than it would have been with my left, but I could do it. In a strange way it was almost refreshing. I found no ambiguity: I was a prisoner against my will; I had no higher priority than freedom. It didn’t take long to untie the thing, even right-handed. That’s when I noticed the needles in my left arm. They led to IV bags on a stand above my shoulder.
The needles worried me. I hate them. I was afraid I would pass out when I pulled them out, but then I chuckled. I was already in bed. If I was going to pass out, what better place to do it?
I was pleasantly surprised to find it doesn’t hurt to pull the needles out. It only hurts when they stick you. When the first needle dangled over the floor, I thought about the mess it would make when the fluid dripped out. I laughed at myself again—what kind of prisoner cleans up after himself when he escapes? The empty restraint would tell them I was gone whether there was a mess on the floor or not. I pulled the other needles out one at a time, jumped over the bed rail, and headed out the door.
No one seemed to notice me in the hall. It was daylight and there were staff and patients around. As I approached the door to the stairs I realized I was wearing only a hospital gown. That was fine in the hospital, but would look mighty strange on the streets.
Our buddy Tom Benton is a resourceful guy. The plan was to go down the stairs and find someone of similar build, knock him out, drag him to a closet, and steal his clothes. Then walk home taking back streets.
I was foiled at the door to the stairs. It was locked. The lock was old, a combination lock with small buttons and Roman numerals engraved in the brass above them. I stared at it and tried to remember what little I knew about the type. I didn’t think the combinations on them were changed easily, and therefore weren’t changed often. That meant the buttons involved in the combination would be more worn than the buttons not involved. Of the seven buttons on the lock, I could narrow the possibilities to three or four. Good idea, right? It would have been if they gave me time.
I heard a shout from behind. I turned to look over my shoulder at the door I left only a few minutes before. A big redheaded guy came out. He saw me and shouted “You! What are you doing out of bed?”
I wasn’t going to stand there and take his pop quiz. I turned to run in the other direction, but couldn’t. There were patients in wheelchairs by the window. They blocked my way. I thought about jumping over them, but ruled it out as an option. Good guys don’t risk hurting the injured and infirm trying to escape. I had to go through the guy I’ve come to call “Big Red.”
I gave myself up. Before I knew what was going on, there were several people around Big Red. He stood behind a wheelchair, waiting for me. I sat in the chair and wondered if they were going to kill me. The other people gathered around us. The thought of springing from the wheelchair and doing as much damage as I could crossed my mind. I discarded the idea. Live to fight again, I thought. Can’t win if you’re dead.
Much later it occurred to me that the people surrounding the wheelchair—the people who formed a wall between the patients in the hall and the lunatic in the wheelchair—were all women.
They knew I wouldn’t hurt the women.



I woke up in artificial light, not torchlight or candlelight. It was America, not Sexton. Something went wrong with the crossing this time. I was in a straitjacket in a hospital bed. My arms were crossed over my chest under the jacket. A shake of my shoulders told me I wasn’t going to fight my way out. The restraint was tied to the bed at the shoulders. I couldn’t reach anything with my arms bound like that.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything I knew about straitjackets. It didn’t take long to figure out I wasn’t in one—not a straitjacket, but something else. There was no buckle or strap under my back. I had seen a straitjacket at some point in my life and hadn’t forgotten the fear I felt when I saw it. I studied it for that reason—I tend to study things that scare me in case I ever need to play to win.
I concentrated on my legs, particularly around the groin. Straitjackets strap between the legs so the patient can’t worm out the bottom. That thing had no such strap. And the guild bastards actually did me a favor by lashing the thing to the bed at the shoulders. If the restraint wasn’t strapped to the bed at the top, there would be nothing holding it in place. Holding in place prevents the prisoner from getting out of bed, but that was a two-edged sword. Holding it to the bed gave me something to pull against on my way out the bottom.
I anchored my feet to he bottom of the mattress and pulled myself out with my legs. When I messed up my air dragging it over the canvas, I wished I had a comb. Not because I worried about what I looked like, but because it would be easy to spot the escapee by his messed-up hair. I shouldn’t have worried. Have you seen the typical haircut in Cleveland?
I made it out of the room and found myself lost in a sea of blue-green curtains. It was a house of mirrors with no mirrors, only curtains.



I was in a wheelchair looking down a set of metal stairs at a machine with a tube-shaped entrance. A woman stood next to me and was explaining something, but I didn’t understand her. My attention was on the tube. It looked like a tight fit even for a little guy like me.
“I’m claustrophobic,” I said. I’m not, really. I just didn’t want to go in the tube.
“It’s okay.” She was trying to reassure me and it worked. I sensed no lie in her face or voice. “If you get scared, just bang on the side. Or say you’re scared. We’ll let you out.”
Sure they would let me out. She was one of those friendly people who strapped my ass to the bed. “You can hear me in there?”
“Yes. We’ll be able to see you and hear you.”



I don’t know what went wrong in the MRI chamber. Something did. It wasn’t the test, I’m sure of that. Magnetic resonance imaging is a great tool. Expensive as hell—I saw the bill later—but a great tool.
Speaking of Hell…that’s where I went next.
I was on my back in the tube. It made me think I was in a Dreamsicle. There were bands of orange and white light, like the vanilla ice cream in those frozen orange treats.
That’s what I remember. They tell me I’m wrong, but that’s what I remember. Orange bands with beams of white light.



I opened my eyes and saw a white ceiling. I was myself at that point and thought I finally got to be the guy in the bed in the bed races. My dad took me to see them when I was a kid and I thought it would be fun to be the guy in the bed, riding right down the middle of the street as we raced to the cheers of the crowd.
The lights in the ceiling were the only clue I had that we were moving. They passed quickly overhead, one every few seconds. Flash, slide-slide, flash, slide-slide, flash, slide. I tried to sit up but a hand pushed me back.
“Lie down,” someone said. “Don’t move.”
The bed race that wasn’t a bed race was a lot more fun than the ride on the train that wasn’t a train.



My pulse speeds up when I think about what happened next. It still scares me. I was on a bed in a big room and there were other beds around mine with no curtains separating them. There were three or four men lying on similar beds. The room was big and had a curved white ceiling like an airplane hangar where the roof and walls are one, stretching from the floor in an arc from side to side.
I heard the men talking to each other in low tones. It seemed like we were waiting for something, but I didn’t know what or who. I asked them what we were waiting for. They didn’t know. It felt like a scene in Waiting for Godot.
“Why don’t we get up and look?” I pointed at the curtain separating us from the rest of the room.
“You can get out of bed?” one of them asked. “If you can, you should.”
The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a row of vending machines. I was hungry so I thought I’d grab a bag of chips while we waited for whatever train we were waiting for. The place looked like a gleaming white version of a subway station.
I reached in my pocket for change and discovered I didn’t have pockets. Hell, I didn’t even have pants! I was wearing a hospital gown and it was chilly in that place. I like pants—they’re one of man’s greatest inventions. Never underestimate the importance of pants.
Not long after that, I found myself underground on a walkway between two sets of railroad tracks. There were two trains and they looked ready to leave the station. The train on my right was white. It was no cleaner than a normal passenger train. Lines of people of all ages waited to get on. They were quiet and didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I didn’t think much of it, but because I had no destination in mind and don’t like to wait in line if I don’t have to, I looked at the train on my left.
It looked older, like something out of the 1950’s. Its sides were orange and beat up. The windows were tinted. I couldn’t see much through them, only vague shapes of people moving around. I heard laughter and the sound of music—good rock ‘n’ roll music—pump through the walls. Party train.
I didn’t get on one train or the other. My Spidey-sense was tingling.
The next thing I knew, I was outside the station between the two trains. Orange-white halogen lights burned the darkness. It was cold. Frigid, wicked, bite-ass cold.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: There's more, of course. We haven't gotten to the good parts yet, the recovery part... 


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