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I have Tourette's, a tic disorder that commands my body to do things without my permission. It can be really hard, but I try to 'keep my chin up.' Sometimes I just break down and cry. If you are very familiar with antipsychotics, you might figure out what is coming. The point is, my disorder is treated with neuroleptics, powerful drugs that are used for people with schizophrenia among other things. I had tried one, which did nothing but made me go to sleep when in a higher dose, another that did absolutely nothing, then I tried another, more potent one.
The first day, everything was fine. I even ticked less. The next morning, I woke up with this feeling. Not a very direct one, but this sense of impending doom. When lunchtime rolled around, I sat down at the kitchen table, trying to eat some tomato soup my mom had made. It was good, and I liked it. But suddenly my head started moving away from my hand as I brought the spoon to my mouth. I was like what the heck--what's going on? I felt like a baby who doesn't want anymore food or something. Then my head turned itself to the side, sticking itself to one shoulder.
And I couldn't get it to move. Trying not to freak out, I did the most logical thing I could think of at the time: go back to bed. I was pretty sure I'd be more comfortable there, and wouldn't have any stressors, so maybe it would go away. It didn't feel like any tic I'd ever had. It seemed worse, more powerful... I lay down in my bed, and called for my mom. Before she had even gotten there, I'd tried lying in as many ways possible.
Funny, but none of them were comfortable. Not even pushing my head against a pillow, could I get it to turn straight. This freaked me out even more. My mom came and sat beside me, talking to me, singing, telling me it was okay. I asked her to rub my arm, and she did so, my body quivering, my arms, legs, back and mouth contorting in strange ways like a nest of snakes. She called my dad home, then made calls to my doctor, and other medical people. She even called 9-1-1. She was pretty sure it was a reaction to my medicine. Meanwhile, I lay there, writhing in fear and discomfort. My teeth scraped each other as my jaws contorted themselves, and I began to pray that whatever it was, would just go away. I kept thinking: this is like some sort of Mystery Diagnosis episode....like its some unusual, strange condition that nobody's heard of. My dad came into my room and talked to me, seeming strangely cheerful, and asked if I wanted to watch TV. He turned it on, but I couldn't even position myself to see it. He eventually just turned it off. Not long afterwards, my mom came into my room, and he declared bluntly: I want to take her somewhere. So in my jeans and t-shirt, he carried me to the car, and I buckled myself in, wishing we could just get to our destination, ASAP. My parents got in the car shortly, and we rocketed down the road to the highway. All I could do was try to look out the window, my eyes now twitching in their sockets, and hope we didn't all die in a car crash before we even got to our destination. "Wheeee ahhre way goanyn?" I mumbled, and somehow my mom figured out what I was saying. "We're going to the ER," was her answer. They played with the radio and spoke nervously into their cell phones while I sat miserably, cramming napkins into my mouth to absorb the spit I couldn't swallow. I threw up some, and my mom handed me more napkins. An eternity later, we were rushing through town, telephone poles and roofs dotting my vision. The hospital came into sight, and my dad stopped under the emergency entrance, my mom grabbing a wheelchair, and they got me in it. Poison control had called ahead, so they wheeled us right back. I caught views of the paneled ceiling and skylights along the way as we twined through the hallways, following a nurse who was showing the way. The next thing I really knew, I was parked beside a gurney. Someone told me to take off my clothes and put on a gown. I did so, barely able to stand up for the time it took. I crawled onto the bed and lay there, shaking as strangers darted about in brightly colored nurse smocks. I lay in trepidation, just waiting for them to say what was wrong, to shove a needle in me, give me something to make it stop! One person asked my mother "Is she nonverbal?" I wanted to get up and say "What? Of course I am capable of speech, you nuttser" But that was rather impossible. I felt a person messing around on my arm, a stranger who had taken my mother's position beside my bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling as I felt them dig into my flesh, a blood pressure cuff on one arm, a needle in the other. Someone took off the cuff and then began to ask me to spell my name. I did so, trying not to bite my tongue off as I did so. The day of the week, my age, the state we were in, all sorts of stuff. The year, then I realized my arm had been let go of. Someone stuck electrodes to my chest, and I just lay there, waiting for my head to go back to its normal place, hoping they knew what they were doing. Next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into a private room. I lay with my eyes closed, just breathing, breathing, in, out, in, out. An oxygen monitor was clamped over my finger, a sheet over my bare legs. Everything blurred out of focus. A while later, I found the strength to open my eyes. My back was stil arched, and I felt shaky all over, but the most important thing was that my head had come back to its normal position. I wanted to cry with relief. Wow, I'm back, was my first thought. A nurse came in and gave me a couple of shots into a little tube that was suspended by tubing from my arm. It seemed to take a while, but I didn't mind, I just wanted the medicines to get into my body. The sooner the better! My parents sat in chairs by my gurney, talking, laughing, making my day, quite literally. I said something to the effect that they could be in the circus. I laughed along with them at stories about my grandfather. People who acknowledged my parents with familiarity darted in and out of my room in addition to nurses who glanced at the monitors, and one person who did an EKG. I had already begun to tic again, saying little words over and over to myself as I watched the traffic of the ER go by outside the room. When the attending nurse came in and asked me how I felt, I said "Immensely better." She laughed and replied, " You certainly weren't using that type of language earlier." " I know. It's so much better now." I smiled, then said "I'm thirsty." Someone came back with a mini can of coke, and I drank it as quickly as I could without choking. Soon the scrunched up can found its way to a tower of drawers. A while later, a tray of food arrived, but much to my dismay, the bed wouldn't sit up. So instead, I sat cross-legged on the gurney, eating first the sandwhich then the icecream while remarking on how weak the caffeteria tea was. Blech. My dad ate the little cup of fruit while I lay back and relaxed, tired by the spasms of my body.
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I could write further, but not much happened other than me going home very tired indeed.
It was called a dystonic reaction, caused by antipsychotics in one to two percent of people who take them for the first time. I was just unlucky, and very scared.
It's been...almost two weeks since that scare, and I'm absolutely fine, other than what I started out with.
