Aim for Justice

89 Pages·2018·0.966 MB·English

by  Ken Dickson

AIM
FOR
JUSTICE
By Ken Dickson
The events of this book are true and based on medical, mental health and
legal records, and the author and his wife’s recollection. The names of people
and places were changed to protect privacy. A few actual names were used
with permission.
Copyright © 2018 Ken Dickson
ISBN-13: 978-0-9967122-4-8
ISBN-10: 0-9967122-4-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905245
Prudent Pen Publishing.
For Kaitlin and Hailey, two brilliant and fearless young women who never
give up on their dreams, and for Beth, the woman who picks us all up, dusts
us off and points us back in the right direction whenever we fall.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1. PINS AND NEEDLES
Chapter 2. PARADOXICAL REACTION
Chapter 3. TASTE OF FREEDOM
Chapter 4. STARTLE REFLEX
Chapter 5. PERFECT SALE
Chapter 6. A DANGER TO MYSELF AND OTHERS
Chapter 7. LITTLE WHITE PILL
Chapter 8. BROKEN MINDS
Chapter 9. LONE DEFENDANT
Chapter 10. GOOD RIDDANCE, LITHIUM
Chapter 11. THE LONG ROAD TO JUSTICE
Chapter 12. DEJA VU
Chapter 13. TAKEDOWN
Chapter 14. SQUEEZE THE TRIGGER
AFTERWORD
BOOKS AND MORE BY KEN DICKSON
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Chapter 1
PINS AND NEEDLES
Before April 10, 2011, I was just an average citizen making the most of my
ordinary life. I lived in a quiet, peaceful suburb of Phoenix, Arizona with my
wife, two high-school-aged daughters and a small gaggle of pets. I was
exceptionally healthy for my age and had never had major surgery or mental
health issues.
On that day, however, everything changed. For several hours, I had
been vigorously swinging a weathered pickaxe to dig holes in which to plant
a nectarine and an orange tree. Once I set my mind to something, I tend not to
give up, no matter how difficult the task, and chipping away at the hard-
packed desert clay of my back yard ranked right up there with the hardest.
After pausing for a drink of water from a nearby jug, I hefted the pickaxe
again and swung it even more forcefully.
Unbeknownst to me, a disease had compromised my lower intestine.
Tissue from weakened bowels bulged through muscle fibers in several places.
With each stroke of the pick, one of those bulges stretched beyond its natural
limits. Before I even finished digging the two holes, it perforated.
For the next four days, an unseen infection ravaged my lower
intestines. In response, I suffered great discomfort; however, my wife and
children had been sick for days and were experiencing similar symptoms. I
brushed it off as the flu.
By April 14, however, the symptoms had worsened to the point where
I could no longer ignore them. In agony, I drove myself to the emergency
room of Desert Hope, a hospital on the east side of the Phoenix metro area.
Over the next twelve days, I endured the worst pain of my life. I was
unable to eat for nine days, lost twenty-five pounds and had ten inches of my
sigmoid colon surgically removed. During that time, I nearly died from
infection and complications.
In order to save my life, six IV pumps saturated my body with all
manner of chemicals. Each arm had its own IV line, and an additional PICC
line in my left arm delivered highly toxic medications straight into my heart
where the massive blood flow diluted them. I could no longer urinate and
required a catheter. An NG tube routed up my nose and down my esophagus
drained disgusting green fluid from my non-functional stomach. For pain
relief, one pump provided morphine on demand. To prevent accidental
overdose, a C02 monitor that hung beneath my nose alarmed whenever my
breath concentration exceeded a preset limit.
Ultimately, the surgery, complications and twenty-seven medications
administered to save my life triggered an unstoppable reaction in my body
that didn’t become obvious until weeks after my hospital release. As a result,
my energy improved much faster than is normal for a post-surgical patient
and then continued to increase. By May 12, the heightened energy led to
insomnia. For the next six days, it was impossible to sleep. As my condition
continued to worsen, I asked my surgeon for help. While waiting to see him, I
paced like a caged animal. When he eventually saw me, I continued pacing in
his office.
“I’ve tried Sleepytime Tea and Benadryl but they didn’t work. I need
something stronger to help me to sleep,” I pleaded.
“This has nothing to do with the surgery. You’ll have to talk to your
general practitioner.”
“It could take days or weeks to see her. I need help now. Can’t you
prescribe something or refer me to someone who can?” Despite my desperate
appeals, he sent me away empty-handed.
On the seventh day, I grew increasingly agitated, and my head felt
under so much pressure that I wondered if it might explode. In despair, my
wife, Beth, rushed me once more to the emergency room of Desert Hope.
You’d think that the emergency room doctor would consult my recent
medical records on his computer, draw an obvious connection between my
surgery and my worsening condition and pick right up where the hospital had
left off. Instead, my odd behavior led him to an unexpected diagnosis:
anxiety disorder.
To make matters worse, while in his care I became physically
unresponsive: paralyzed for over thirty seconds. If he had listened to my
story, he might have blamed the paralysis on insomnia. A person can die after
nine days without sleep—I was knocking at death’s door. In support of his
diagnosis, he noted the paralysis as an anxiety attack.
He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough after that. In record time, I was
in an ambulance speeding toward another facility, a place that in his words
was “better equipped to deal with your problem.” During the ambulance ride
to my next destination, I experienced a deep sense of foreboding as if
something terrible was about to happen.
Believing that another episode of paralysis was approaching, I began
informing the paramedic what to expect. Before I finished, I again went limp.
That episode lasted much longer than the first and when I finally recovered, I
felt intense “pins and needles” in my arms, legs, hands and feet, as you do
when blood flow returns to a limb that has fallen asleep.
My alarmed response to that sudden pain convinced the paramedic
that the doctor’s diagnosis was correct. In his eyes, I’d just had another
anxiety attack.
When I arrived at my destination, I hoped for immediate attention and
expert care. Unfortunately, no one showed the least concern. As I waited
impatiently, I again felt the same foreboding. Certain that time was running
out, I came up with a bold plan.
Chapter 2
PARADOXICAL REACTION
Determined not to face the worsening episodes again, I initiated a plan that I
called “changing-up”: purposely distracting my mind with busywork. As time
crept by, I chatted with strangers, played patty-cake with my wife and had her
rub ice on my neck. I paced, shook my hands or head—any action that would
fend off the paralysis. Beth grew increasingly worried about my odd behavior
but played along, not knowing what else to do.
Incredibly, it worked, holding the paralysis at bay for hours until a
social worker finally admitted me to the facility. Anxious to receive
treatment, I said goodbye to Beth and then followed a male nurse inside. He
escorted me to a room with two beds.
“This bed is yours,” he said, pointing toward the nearest of them.
“Wait here while I get you some medication.”
While I waited for him, I removed my shoes and sat on the firm bed: a
thin foam slab atop a wooden frame covered by a fitted sheet, a sheet and a
thin blanket. The man returned with two cups, one containing a white pill and
the other filled with water. In dire need of sleep, I quickly washed the pill
down. As he left, I slipped fully clothed beneath the sheets, lay my head on
the pillow and closed my eyes. As the medication took effect, the foreboding
faded, and I fell fast asleep.
An hour and a half later, a voice disrupted my slumber. “Mr.
Dickson,” it called out faintly. “MR. DICKSON…,” it repeated more
insistently. I forced open an eye and took stock of my tormentor: a short,
stocky man with a full head of black curly hair, a close-trimmed beard, and
brown eyes staring through dark, plastic-rimmed glasses.
“Hello, Mr. Dickson, I’m Dr. Alverez. I want to ask you a few
questions.”
“I was dead asleep. I haven’t slept for nearly a week, and you woke
me. Why did you do that?” I asked in frustration.
He ignored my question and replaced it with one of his own. “Have
you ever wanted to kill yourself?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to kill anyone else?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had racing thoughts?”
“Well, I never really thought about it. I guess not.”
“Have you ever been depressed?”
“No. I never get depressed.”
The unusual questions continued. I’d never had anyone ask me those
types of questions before and didn’t know how they related to my inability to
sleep. I answered them as best I could, anxious for him to finish and allow me
to return to sleep.
Before he left, he offered me a second pill. I accepted it without
question and chased it down with water. Then I rolled over in bed, closed my
eyes, and fell asleep once more.
Two hours later, the door opened again, and another man called my
name. He offered me a third pill. I swallowed it without making a fuss and
went back to sleep.
Under normal circumstances, I would have asked what the
medications were, but in my precarious state, I trusted these people fully,
believing that they were medical professionals, expert at dealing with
situations like mine, and were acting in my best interest. I later learned that
only one of the pills, Restoril, was specifically for insomnia. The other two:
Ativan and Seroquel, were for treating anxiety, psychosis, schizophrenia and
bipolar disorder.
After seven days without sleep, those three pills brought only five
hours of rest, after which I was mentally wide-awake. Unfortunately, I
couldn’t move. Although I at first thought that the paralysis had returned, I
soon realized that the effects of the medications had not yet worn off.
As I lay there gradually recovering the use of my limbs, I noticed
snoring coming from the other bed. In the dim room lit only by reflected light
from under the door, I could barely make out the form of a man tangled in his
sheet and blanket, lying on his side.
After a few minutes, I could move again and decided to explore the
facility. Unlike at Desert Hope where I’d walked wherever I pleased during
the final days of my recovery, locked steel doors prevented my travels here.
The unit was tiny, with less than a dozen rooms, a nurse’s station, and a