Final Lullaby, page 14
“What did I do to deserve this?” Tucker inquired repeatedly.
Whenever he asked this question, my chest constricted like I’d been pierced with a poisoned dart. I held his face in my hands and kissed his head. “Nothing, Tucker. Nothing. The bad things that happen to people on this earth do not correlate to their actions. You trusted a doctor you were referred to. You trusted that having his medical board’s license in good standing was an indication of an ethical professional. We didn’t know at that time how the system works.”
“Angela, why won’t anyone admit to or believe I’m in agonizing pain? The denial fuzzes up my head. It’s making me crazy.”
Over the next several years, we connected with people like us who were harmed by medical devices or other medical malpractice. They educated us about this systemwide corruption. People who bring valid civil lawsuits are gagged, threatened, slandered, and sued by the offending doctor for defamation. Medical boards, their experts, defense and even some plaintiff lawyers, judges, FDA, FDIC, police, D.A.s, insurance companies, and legislators collude or stand by.
Kay Dean’s Fake Review Watch on YouTube educated us on how doctors employ reputation management to get bad reviews down and fake good ones up. When Tucker looked up Dr. Ramon, he had no way of knowing that reviews were paid and faked. There are doctors who care and save or improve lives, but the system is antiquated, ignores prevention, and treats victims and survivors worse than criminals. A strong group of individuals in California call their medical board regularly and work tirelessly to ensure that other consumers will not meet their sad fate.
We met parents whose daughters were killed in childbirth by repeat offenders. Sepsis is often ignored. We learned that a hair-growing formula can cause lifelong impotence. Fat removal, used in many medically recommended operations, causes an increase in disease-producing tissue. People die or become ill from gadolinium. Carcinogens such as nickel, beryllium, chromium, and mercury are still used in some dental practices. We met a woman in Australia who was told she needed a hysterectomy for cancer, but she didn’t have cancer. This apparently is common. Removing body parts for any reason causes a negative change in hormones that affects health. Breast implants wreak havoc for many women. The list of harmful procedures is extensive.
Tucker got involved in the movement. Weak and in agony, from his bed, he made calls.
I struggled to keep up a semblance of normal life. I wanted to take care of Tucker full time, but I had my business to run. I managed less time at the store, and more days dedicated to him. Our savings and retirement plan were being drained. I kept up with the talk line remotely because the political-social climate was on high alert, Geneviève needed me, and it was a chance to get out of my own family’s devastation as a respite. One day, the role of listen-ee and listener reversed.
“Hello, North Yarmouth Grief and Support Line. This is Angela. What’s your name?”
“Osheena.”
“Hi, Osheena. That’s such a pretty name. What’s going on for you tonight?”
“The holidays are a bad time for me. I lost my parents five years ago in an accident. All my friends have new marriages and babies.”
“So, they don’t include you anymore?”
“No. They invite me over, but I don’t want to go sit around with crying babies and grouchy husbands. I want to go out and party.”
“That sucks not to have anyone to go out with. Do you mind me asking how old you are?”
“Twenty-three.”
“All your friends are already married at twenty-three?”
“Yeah, can you believe it? Those fools. How old are you? Are you married?”
“Thirty-four. Yes, I am.”
“You have kids?” A minute went by. “Hello? You still there? You have kids?”
“N… n… no. Just worried about my husband.”
“Oh, no! I’m sorry. Here I call and make the talk line operator cry!”
“It’s okay. Life happens, Osheena. Everyone’s got something to deal with.”
“Shoot. My problems are nothing.”
“There is no comparison one person to the next. Your feelings are valid. I apologize. I’m just tired. I’m here Tuesday and Wednesday nights from 6:00 to midnight. Call me anytime.”
“You’re only human, right. I’ll call you again sometime and we can chat. I like you. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too. Goodnight.”
Click.
Tucker found a well-done study which concluded that eleven percent of patients who have mesh-based inguinal hernia surgery experience chronic pain. Hernia mesh can cause adhesions, bowel obstruction or perforation, rejection, migration, and be life-threatening. Laparoscopic or open repair can be performed with or without surgical mesh, but Dr. Ramon rushed Tucker in like the forest was on fire. He minimized and denied our concerns. And lied.
Over the next two weeks we went to three pricy specialists. Each one covered for the surgeon. The months swooshed past like cars on the Autobahn and still no answers. Tucker lived in pain and terror. “I awoke to a nightmare and I’m a burden to you.”
“You are a treasure to me. I want to find a way to help you.”
My call shifts kept me grounded. It was a gift to be there for others as we struggled along too. When Geneviève called to wish us a Happy New Year, I let loose like a band of wild monkeys. “We’re going out of our minds! These people are crazy! No one does anything! What the hell is happening?” When I caught my breath, she spoke her first words since “Happy New Year.”
“Have you seen Gaslight with Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer, and Joseph Cotton?”
“Yes. Bergman is an absolute revelation, no news there. She nailed this role. My favorite scene is when she desperately rummages in her handbag and the pin isn’t there. Why do you ask?”
“This is what they’re doing to you and Tucker.”
“What?”
“Gaslighting.”
“Gaslighting!”
“Making you think that you’re crazy. DARVO. Denying and reversing victim and offender. Making you question your reality. Portraying a slanderous version of you both. The current-day medical field is notorious for this. They will act do anything to CYA.”
“CYA?”
“Means “cover your ass.” They cover their ass. Protect their own. They’ll say risks were presented. Medicine is an art, not a science. The procedure was perfect. You’re overly protective and have Munchausen syndrome. Tucker has mental problems. Factitious disorder. He’s physically fine, but he’s a worrier. Maybe he was sick before. Maybe he does this for attention.”
“But he’s not okay. He wasn’t sick! He’s not a worrier. You know him! He’s…”
“Oh course, I know. You see how they got you on the defensive already? You’re preaching to the choir here. I know your husband, the mayor!”
“Yes, the mayor!”
“What does the consent form say?”
“I don’t know. Not what they did. Brineman confirmed Ramon uses mesh. We never heard of mesh. Ramon never once mentioned it. How could we research or consent if we didn’t know?”
“Can I come over?”
“Yes. Please. Whenever you can. You mean now? Aren’t you going out for New Years?”
“Angela, the world is in crisis. The phones are ringing off the hook. My right-hand gal is dealing with catastrophe. I’ll ring in the new year monitoring the new volunteers you trained, and then I’m coming over there to see what the hell is going on. I’m so sorry about all of this.”
Tucker watched “The Chocolate Factory” episode of I Love Lucy while Geneviève and I poured through the medical papers. He always laughed when Lucy shoves the extra candy in her mouth. He didn’t laugh. He couldn’t even do a crossword puzzle.
Geneviève was apoplectic. “You have to get his full records. Find a doctor who’ll do the right exams.” She scoured the Internet for possible doctors who might be honest, but with New Year’s upon us, we were in a holding pattern.
I tucked Tucker in bed and geared up for my talk line shift. Geneviève stayed to clean up and keep me company while I answered calls. She smelled the fear in me.
“Hello, North Yarmouth Grief and Support Talk Line. This is Angela. What’s your name?”
“Uh... it’s Bill from Giovanni’s. Your order is ready: three large pizzas, one cheese, one full vegetable, no mushrooms, one sausage, pepperoni and green pepper. Two Caesar salads, large, two antipastos. Total $87.43. For pick up or delivery?”
“Delivery. The North Yarmouth Community Support Center. Treating the workers tonight. Full house.”
“On Bridgeport?”
“Yes. You can pull around the back.”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes. No charge.”
“No charge?”
“Your team is working a grief and support talk line on New Year’s? No charge. It’s on us. Happy New Year.”
“Thank you. Same to you, Bill.”
Click.
“Hello, North Yarmouth Grief and Support Talk Line. This is Angela. What’s your name?”
“Lou. You want to hear my New Year’s resolution?”
“Sure.”
“I resolved to kill myself this year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lou. What’s going on?”
“Wife died, daughter is teaching in Africa. She’s a do-gooder. Barely get to see her. Don’t feel so good. Retired, bored. Shall I go on?”
“Is that Poco in the background?”
“Yeah.”
“I love Poco.”
“Me too.”
“I haven’t heard them in so long.”
“I got everything by them.”
“Do you have “Picking Up the Pieces”?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you play it for me? It’s a wonderful song.”
“Sure. Hang on.”
I heard shuffling noises, then the music came on. We both sang along.
“Richie Furay. Love that guy.”
“Do you play music, Lou?”
“Yep. Juice harp, banjo. Country.”
“Do you have friends to play with?”
“No. They’re all gone. Well, maybe Marty.... hmm.... maybe I’ll give Marty a call.”
“Lou, where did your daughter learn to be a do-gooder?”
“From me and my wife. Hmm. There’s a kids’ hospital and a group home near me. I thought of... hmm... I thought of seeing if they’d like to hear some music.”
“If you’re in crisis, call a crisis line. Otherwise, take care of yourself and let me know how the music goes at the kids’ hospital, okay?”
“Hmm. Yep. Sure will. What was your name again?”
“Angela. I’m here on Tuesdays and Wednesdays from 6:00 p.m. to midnight. Call me anytime.”
“Happy New Year, Angela.”
“Happy New Year, Lou.”
Click.
Tucker canceled his last follow-up appointment with Dr. Ramon. He packed the smallest of a set of navy suitcases we had bought for traveling the world to study culture, language, and search for rare or beautiful birds. “Take me to the emergency room in Boston,” he insisted.
The waiting room was crowded and noisy. All the seats were filled. It was like an airport without the fun trip. Tucker and I checked in with reception every half hour, reminding them of his physical agony and inability to continue to stand in his condition.
“Sorry, sir, you are not priority.”
After a hellish four hours of waiting, Tucker walked over to reception, asked for help, and was again denied it. He doubled over and screamed, “I NEED HELP! I can’t stand it. The – pain - is -unbearable. I’m weak, dizzy, and on the verge of fainting.”
An aide parked him on a gurney in the hall under fluorescent lights. I insisted on going with him.
“The rooms are all filled. Wait here,” she said.
Moans came from all directions. It was like being an extra in a horror movie. Tucker was hungry and exhausted. A nurse walked him through someone’s room to a bathroom. He came out wearing a paper gown and holding his urine in a cup. The nurse took the cup and his clothes, shoes, pumpkin seeds, and water away.
“What are you doing with my clothes? It’s freezing in here.”
“We took them so you won’t hurt yourself.”
“Hurt himself?”
“Hurt myself?”
“You’re set up with a psych consult. Do you have a history of panic?”
“No. I called yesterday and explained my situation. Isn’t there a record of this?”
“A doctor will be with you soon.”
“What kind of fucking answer is that?”
An hour later, Ha, a deer-in-the-headlights psych resident and her psychiatrist consultant showed up. Naïve and optimistic, Tucker was eager to share his story. Ha redirected him, so she didn’t get an accurate history. He was distraught. She treated his upset as a psychiatric problem.
Ha pulled me aside. “He’s calm and cooperative, but his mood is anxious. His affect is full with inappropriate smiling and his thought process is circumstantial and overly inclusive.”
“Your contradictory speculations are all over the place. You kept interrupting him! Why don’t you listen? He was healthy before the surgical harm.” Rage erupted through me like volcanic lava.
Ha scurried away, writing bullshit notes that would go in Tucker’s medical record. A woman with a grey pallor, in a chaplain’s uniform, approached Tucker. “What is your religious background?”
“Why, are you here to perform last rites?”
“No, sir. I’m here to provide support through prayer.”
“I’m non-denominational. I came in for an exam, not prayer.”
“My prayers are non-denominational,” the chaplain said with a patronizing calm.
“He doesn’t want prayer.” She glared at me like I was a sinner.
“I’m here to get an exam due to pain from hernia mesh that was used without my knowledge.”
Dr. Terry, the ER doctor arrived. “What’s going on here?”
Tucker told him all the problems caused by the mesh. His chief complaint was physical pain, but the doctor refused to do an AXIS III assessment. He concluded code 300.00: anxiety. Tucker grabbed my arm like he was hanging from a cliff. He had a wild, terrified look in his eyes, “It’s a cuckoo’s nest. Get me out of here.”
“I want to leave,” Tucker told an aide. “I’ll never get help here.” Before she discharged him, a nurse asked what his pain level was on a scale of 0 – 10. She didn’t give him a context with which to base his answer. “Far beyond a ten,” he said.
“I’ll write nine,” she said.
“Fine, whatever,” he said, as he swallowed anxiety medication he didn’t want or need in order to leave.
End note in chart: Patient discharged home accompanied by sister. Pain 0 on a scale of 0-10. Discharge teaching completed. All wrong.
The next week he went to see Dr. Helena Cortez for a common sleep medication. Since Dr. Brineman wouldn’t acknowledge the surgical harm, Tucker had to see a psychiatrist to get the medication. Her office was in a drab, boxy building with bad parking. Forgettable abstract art hung in her waiting room. Tucker pushed a buzzer and announced himself. After a few minutes, a woman battling unseen demons rushed out.
Dr. Cortez called Tucker in. She had a tight ponytail and thick glasses. She gestured for us to sit in overstuffed chairs by windows that flaunt an impressive view. A bird flew by, free. Tucker eyed it with envy. He explained to Dr. Cortez about the problems from the mesh. Helena Cortez blinked a lot. I wondered if she had dry eyes or stress? She flipped her ponytail back to front.
“Tell me about all the trauma in your life.”
“Trauma?”
“Yes, your history.”
“I’m not here for psychotherapy or psych drugs. I need sleep medication due to the pain.”
“I need to know your history. Tell me everything.”
“Why? Before the mesh,” he said, “I was healthy, high-functioning, and productive. No anxiety or mood problems or anything else.”
At $250 cash per hour, Helena Cortez put Tucker on eleven unneeded, overlapping medications in used, dirty bottles within three months. She left him barely able to function, think, or move. Each time the medication wore off, it caused jitters. He told Cortez. She said it was all anxiety.
“Tucker, why do you even take these awful pills?”
“I’m desperate, Angie. I hope something will lessen the pain.” He was addled by the meds.
Tucker fell several times due to the harm to his body and bad polypharma effects. Dr. Cortez misdiagnosed him as an agoraphobe.
“You should take walks alone, without your wife, to rebuild neural pathways. What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll pass out and hit your head? So what? Someone will find you eventually and call the paramedics.”
“Tucker is an extrovert. We call him the mayor of New York. If you want to help,” I said to Dr. Cortez, “insist that his doctor orders MRIs.”
There was that volcanic rage again. I had heartburn. Dr. Cortez flipped her hair, leaned into Tucker and said, “I’m going to give you medication until I FIX you.” She held up two bottles to Tucker and asked him, “Which is better, this or this?”
