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A BUMP IN THE ROAD
The unexpectedly
warm year brought a green Christmas and the lack of snow was disappointing,
hell, downright depressing. I'd left the holiday decorations up a little
longer than usual this year because I was still hoping the smallest hope
that some white stuff would grace our still very-green town. I wanted
the house to have that "White Christmas" holiday feel I'd loved
throughout my childhood. No such luck. On a Monday morning in early January,
after a quasi hearty breakfast, I decided it all needed to come down-my
holiday cheer was gone. As I began removing the hanging ornaments from
the tree, the telephone rang.
The man on the other end of the phone identified himself as Delbert "Del"
DeForge, lead investigator for Crane & Howell, Inc., a private investigations
firm out of Raleigh, North Carolina, with offices east of the Mississippi
and up north, in New York. In his best authoritative voice, he offered
me a position as a private investigator in New York City. Is this guy
for real? I thought to myself, as he invited me for a sit-down interview.
I couldn't believe my ears. A private investigator? Shit! How cool is
that?!
"How did you get my name and number?" I asked, suspicious of
cold calls.
"I contacted the University of New Haven's Career Center and your
resume came up in the search," he replied in a heavy southern drawl
that poured from his mouth like thick molasses. He was very impressed
with my credentials and experience in the criminal justice field, he added.
Would I be willing to drive out to the Mt. Kisco office and meet with
him? I couldn't believe my new-found luck; my interest was piqued. Sure,
I said, that would be great. Del and I met in mid-January at his office
in New York: the interview went well and I was optimistic about my future
with this company. Three weeks later, I started a new career.
Turned out it wasn't so great, after all. Turned out Del was a redneck
racist from Montgomery, Alabama who believed he was from the "right"
side (rhymes with "white") of Montgomery and who liked to shoot
"coons" in his backyard. (One day, I actually got up the nerve
to ask him about that-said he was shooting raccoons that got into his
garbage cans at night. Not that I like that notion much better than my
original one.) Our personalities clashed. I spoke my mind and Del was
more subtle, sometimes downright sneaky and manipulative. I learned quickly
not to trust him. Over time, it became apparent that women and minorities
didn't stand much of a chance in advancing their positions in this predominantly
white, male company (there were few of both in our office and throughout
the company; minorities never made it to investigator status-they did
all the grunt office work). It was a bad start and I'd felt it in my gut
in the first few weeks on the job; I simply rationalized it as my overactive
imagination. I believed if I worked harder at fitting in and doing a good
job, that all would be well. It was not to be.
I endured verbal harassment from Del and some of my co-workers who were
from all over the "Deep South." They weren't used to us "Yankees."
"You have such a Northern personality," they snorted and sneered
whenever I said something either they didn't like or agree with-which
was most of the time. My reply to them was, "You say that like it's
a disease or something. You think I'm bad, wait 'til you get down to Brooklyn.
You think I have a strong personality, are you in for a surprise."
Time and again, Del called me into his office about something I'd said
that some co-workers didn't like or want to hear. I finally told Del that
while they didn't like what I'd said, none of it was illegal or harassing
and that he had no right to call me into his office every time one of
his Southern cohorts whined because we'd had a difference of opinion.
Del didn't like when I was up front with him; because of it he regularly
went out of his way to make life at the office difficult for me even after
I tried to reason with him. I began counting the days.
I tolerate them because the money is so damned good, I'd always told myself.
The money was damned good. It's amazing how we rationalize and tolerate
abuses in the workplace because "the money is damned good."
I know "private investigator" evokes the image of a tough guy
in a trench coat, roughing up witnesses to get information, but that was
not how it worked. We worked only civil cases and I'd spent most of my
two-plus years in New York with my nose deep in paperwork and research
with occasional outings to interview potential witnesses or to photograph
buildings. Whenever I told people what I did for a living, they all wore
that same look of astonishment mixed with fear. I told them they watched
too much television. I was enamored by the title I have to admit; though
in reality, to my chagrin, I was nothing more that what I dubbed a "well-paid
grunt."
Within a few months, that "damned good money" moved me into
a condo one mile from the open ocean in a quaint, quiet coastal town in
Connecticut. Sweet. The condo complex was surrounded by woods on all sides
with a main road and our private entrance winding through them from the
north. Salt air sailed through my kitchen window daily and filled my nostrils.
Sunshine gleamed through the windows and the sliding doors that opened
to my private deck from sunup to sundown. Does it get any better than
this? I chuckled to myself. I was proud of my accomplishment.
My condo was in a building that contained three other condos. My neighbors
were all elderly but genuine and friendly. Upon moving in, Esther, my
neighbor across the hall, introduced herself that first day as I busily
unpacked my life. She popped into my open doorway. "Yes!" she
cried out, as she punched her fists into the air with unbridled enthusiasm.
"I was hoping he'd rent to a younger female, and a clean one at that!"
She went into detail about how she'd had to tolerate several less-than-desirable
neighbors because my landlord had not been very discriminating in his
choice of tenants. First, there were the two guys who sold drugs out of
the condo and had people in and out at all hours; then there was the chain-smoking
woman in her 50s with the phlegmy cough that woke Esther up every morning.
With his blemished track record, I privately wondered what kind of landlord
I'd signed on with but I didn't really care. I had a new career I liked
(sort of) and paid me stupid money that put me in this awesome condo near
the ocean. I thought I had it made.
The work was very demanding, the hours relentlessly long and the driving
averaged 1500 miles per week not including flights to other cities when
warranted. I was so exhausted at the end of every day that many of my
daily rituals went by the wayside. I ate out a lot more. I missed whipping
up a meal for myself, pouring a nice glass of wine and tuning into some
serious blues music to wind down-but I just didn't have the energy when
I got home, which was usually around eight or nine. Esther was always
there ready to catch me up on the latest condo gossip and doings in her
own estranged family. We became fast friends-almost like family. With
a new chapter of my life ahead of me, I couldn't help but feel exhilarated.
Life, as I and many others knew it, came to a screeching halt later in
the fall-on September 11, 2001, to be exact. I'd stayed home that day,
having decided to read through a couple of depositions rather than trek
into Manhattan and fight the usual crowds on the trains and on the streets.
Looking back, I regret to some extent the decision to not head into the
city that day. I would've been stuck on the train with other riders, unable
to watch firsthand what was unfolding before the eyes of the nation and
just maybe it would not have affected me as deeply and unexpectedly as
it had. I will never forget those first few moments; no one will. I had
gotten up early that fateful Tuesday morning and started work around 7:30am,
first making a list of the work that needed to be completed: read through
two depositions, take notes, then review them again for any usable information,
add that information to the growing case report, write the case notes,
then bill the hours to the case attorney.
8:48am: As I sat at my desk reading the first deposition my pager began
vibrating on the kitchen counter where I'd left it the night before. My
first reaction was, Man, what do they want now? The office paged me that
early in the morning only when something was wrong. Either I'd done something
wrong or they were checking up on me to make sure I was actually working
(a real trustworthy bunch). Our pagers had email capability so the office
secretary could send us messages, which made it easier to pass on general
information to all of the investigators at the same time. I begrudgingly
picked up the pager and read the text message: "Don't go into NYC/Plane
crashed in WTC." What the …? I rushed over to the coffee table,
picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. As I tuned into the local
station, I could hear a man and a woman talking-newscasters, probably-and
they were talking about a plane that just hit one of the World Trade Center
towers. At that moment, on my screen, I watched in horror and disbelief
as a second plane crashed into the other World Trade Center tower. The
woman who had been talking on a moment earlier began screaming at the
top of her lungs, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
The rest, as they say, is history.
As the nation watched in horror, people all over New England and New York
(hell, all over the world) made repeated and mostly unsuccessful attempts
throughout that morning to contact loved ones. I tried making phone calls
for over an hour to family members to let them know I was okay but I had
no luck getting through-the lines were tied up everywhere. Finally, two
hours later, my phone rang. That same instant, my pager started beeping
wildly-I imagined family members frantically dialing my pager number and
getting no reply, adding to their fears. I picked up my phone-the number
on the screen told me it was my cousin, Paul. Why hasn't my mother called?
I wondered as I pressed SEND to take the call.
"Where are you?" were his first words, in that deep, familiar
voice laced with concern.
"I'm okay," I replied. "I actually decided to stay home
today. Been watching the whole thing on TV. Oh, look, now my pager's going
off like crazy."
"Yeah," he said impatiently. "I've been trying to get a
hold of you all morning!"
I wondered if my family was aware of what was happening. I'll call Mom
later and she can spread the word, I thought to myself after I'd hung
up with Paul. I knew there was no sense in trying to call anyone because
the phone lines would be overloaded for hours. I'd just have to wait it
out.
Like everyone else around the country-and the world-I sat in front of
the television, channel-hopping to see what coverage angle each station
had, watching in shock, oftentimes crying, as a section of New York City
went tumbling down, taking so many of us with it. Mostly I sat staring
in shock at what I was witnessing; the depositions in my lap open and
untouched, highlighter in my hand, unused. I wasn't sure what the office
would expect from us; I couldn't imagine billing any hours for that day.
Incredibly, in our morning staff meeting the following Friday, word came
up from the home office that if we had not billed for a full day that
Tuesday, we would each be docked a day's pay. Everyone in the office exploded
with anger-at least our new manager, Brian, was on our side (Del had transferred
to Mississippi just weeks before, having decided he didn't like us "Yanks"
and our "lack of morals"). Brian said he'd talk to the home
office to make it clear what had happened up here. Turns out the home
office had no idea of the magnitude of the tragedy but still expected
us to bill for a minimum of eight hours. It was mind-boggling. I basically
made up a bunch of stuff to make it look like I'd actually worked-the
other investigators did the same. It was at that point I'd started seriously
thinking about leaving. How could I continue to work for this company?
I thought.
That Tuesday night, the nightmares began. They continued, unrelenting,
for months, to torment me. Insomnia set in not long after the nightmares.
Sleep had been a respite from the long work hours but the lack of it soon
became a voracious monster that seemed to slowly eat at my sanity. When
I did manage to fall asleep, it was only in front of the television, in
the wee hours after watching countless mindless shows. I woke up constantly,
my heart beating out of my chest with an intensity and irregularity that
scared the hell out of me. I sat bug-eyed, staring at the television,
knowing that sleep itself was now just a dream. I'd continued to work:
I'd pull into rest stops to nap during the day since I was weak from exhaustion
and a lack of sleep. Eventually, my work began to suffer. I was making
stupid mistakes and was called on them several times. Three times I'd
come close to getting fired and each time I promised Brian I wouldn't
screw up again. Yeah, right. If only I'd had a clue.
In late November, I caught a cold from one of the office secretaries and
couldn't shake it. My symptoms progressed and I got sicker. Eventually
the cold became a chronic sinus infection; it moved into my upper and
lower jawbones, preventing me from eating anything but oatmeal or muffins.
I started losing weight. Three months later, the dizzy spells hit. The
dizziness became so severe I was walking into walls at the office and
using them to hold me up. How I managed to drive my car every day, I don't
know. Four months into this ordeal and on the way to a morning meeting
in New York, I started vomiting while driving and then I knew I had to
do something. I got off the next highway exit and headed back home to
the local emergency clinic up the road from my house. The vomiting had
prevented me from swallowing pills so the doctor had to shoot me up with
a drug that would stop the vomiting and calm me down. I had to call Esther
for a ride home-I couldn't drive in my condition-and two hours later she
picked me up at the clinic. I left my car there until I was able to drive
it home a few days later. The doctor wrote me a prescription for the vertigo
but I knew the pills would only keep the dizzy spells at bay for so long.
The pills made me too sleepy to function on a daily basis-though I took
advantage of the sleep for the first two days since I suffered from chronic
insomnia. Since the onset of the cold, I had tried several herbal remedies,
with limited success-I didn't like to use Western drugs unless it was
a life-or-death emergency. The vitamins and nervine herbs (to relax the
nervous system) did help me get through each day but I was still not sleeping
well, except during the occasional naps at highway rest stops. Brian was
unsympathetic; he just wanted the work to get done, and done right. He
told me to "just get over it" like everyone else had. It wasn't
easy for me; God knows I tried.
Come spring of the following year, I couldn't take it any longer. Throughout
the winter months, I'd made repeated attempts to get Brian to understand
what I was going through and how the poor quality of my work was directly
related to the 9/11 tragedy and its effect on me. One afternoon, I was
sitting in my car outside a court building when the phone rang. It was
Brian. Once again, we got into one of our many arguments regarding the
lack of quality work product and what was I going to do about it. After
hanging up, I realized what I had to do though I was terrified at the
thought of giving up the income. I ran it over and over in my head, and
with some trepidation, I made the difficult decision to kiss that "damned
good money" goodbye. I knew my mental and physical health depended
on it. I could no longer tolerate the sleepless nights and nerve-wracking
days. That sunny April day, I let go. That delicate thread of reality
I'd been clinging to desperately all those months finally broke and I
spiraled downward, landing at the bottom of the deepest, darkest abyss.
And for the first time in seven months, I slept.
Summer was now in full bloom. Weather-wise, it was one of the best summers
in southern New England in a long time. Humidity levels were low, the
air was warm and scented with the blooms of flowers and trees and the
sky was a cerulean blue. An occasional wisp of cloud would race over our
little seaside town as if in a hurry to get someplace else. On the one
hand, it was the perfect summer to be unemployed and living near the ocean;
on the other hand, just getting out of bed every morning was an unpleasant
chore I would sometimes forgo. An invisible weight bore down on my shoulders,
making even the slightest activity, like fixing a bowl of cereal, undesirable.
That May, I'd summoned up enough strength to travel to the nearest unemployment
office, located thirty miles north of my home. Upon arriving, I was told
to contact a New York office since my employer was based there. With one
phone call, I set up unemployment compensation; the first check would
arrive in two weeks. Human Resources in Raleigh had sent me a letter that
stated I'd been terminated because I'd resigned. I kept a copy of my resignation
letter along with that letter from Human Resources and faxed them both
to the New York unemployment office to dispute Crane & Howell's claim
that I'd simply quit. The case worker agreed with me and awarded me benefits
for a year. Phhttttttttttt. (That's a raspberry, by the way.) I relaxed
a little, comforted by the thought that I would be able to pay the bills
but insomnia and fatigue continued to haunt me.
Each night I'd lie awake, unable to shut my mind down-thoughts darted
and dashed through my brain so rapidly I had difficulty distinguishing
one from the other. None of them made any sense. I describe them as my
"Timothy Leary dreams"-like remnants from a 60s psychedelic
party. Mornings, I'd wake in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, exhausted
from the lack of any real sleep. I often slept in late and, after a visit
to the bathroom, I'd head for the couch where I'd spend most of the day
trying to catch up on all that lost sleep. Occasionally, I'd have enough
energy to pack up my beach gear and head down to the shore, where I would
spend most of the day napping on and off in my chair, getting a one-sided
tan.
It was around this time that inconceivable throbbing pains began to manifest
in my hands. Sharp pains that felt like being stabbed with knives charged
through my knuckle joints like ultra-hot lightning bolts. My fingers swelled
beyond belief and throbbed with excruciating pain, which made even the
slightest movement unbearable. A simple breath across my fingers would
send my hands into painful spasms. I couldn't dress myself during these
attacks so I had to go next door and ask Esther to button my shirts or
zip my shorts. At the time, I'd chalked it up to inflammatory arthritis
brought on by all the stress and lack of sleep. The pains moved from joint
to joint, hand to hand and than back again. Sometimes it was in both hands
at the same time-didn't get much accomplished on those days, including
sleeping. I didn't understand that "inflammatory arthritis"
didn't completely encompass what was taking place. It was not much later
when I had a profound experience that forced me to take a serious look
at what was really happening.
It was a warm July night; the ever-so-slightest breeze wafted through
my bedroom windows, carrying the scent of gardenias from Esther's window
boxes on the back deck we shared. The usual insomnia ensued that night;
the intense heat in my palms and soles and the heart palpitations, however,
were much more acute than on previous nights. I thought my heart was going
to explode right out of my chest, it was beating so madly. This, of course,
made me frantic, which in turn, made the palpitations worse. I sprung
out of bed and paced between the dining room and the living room and feared
I was having a heart attack-the physical pain in my chest was unbearable.
I believed I was going to die if I didn't call 911.
When the time came to decide what doctor to see, the choice was an easy
one-one that stood out based on past results when trying various natural
modalities to soothe my ills. I snatched up the telephone book, flipped
to the yellow pages and looked under the heading "Acupuncture."
I wanted to see an acupuncturist or a Doctor of Oriental Medicine. I'd
had the most success with Chinese herbs but extensive knowledge and training
were required to formulate the appropriate recipes and dosages to heal
my maladies. I'd never had acupuncture and considered my decision carefully
and somehow I knew I was on the right track.
My first phone call was to an acupuncturist in my town. I'd heard about
him from folks at the health food store who'd spoken very highly of his
skills. But when I called him he couldn't see me for three weeks! I explained
my situation and that there was urgency in getting treated but he couldn't
fit me into his schedule. I thanked him for his time and hung up. I sighed,
made a wish, and looked through the phone list again-and it was a short
one-and located a Doctor of Oriental Medicine about thirty minutes away.
I liked the ad and it gave me a good feeling so I called the number. On
the third ring, the doctor himself answered. I introduced myself and explained
my current situation; he said to me, "I'm sorry, but the earliest
I can see you is this afternoon." This afternoon! Was he serious?!
I was so excited I could barely contain myself. We made an appointment
for three o'clock and I hung up the phone feeling as if I'd just won the
lottery.
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