Against Medical Advice (17 page)

Chapter 69

FOR WHAT SEEMS LIKE A LONG TIME, the group is silent, as if a blanket has been thrown over the room. Then my mother clears her throat and takes a deep breath. It startles me to see that she’s undergone a change from just a few minutes earlier.

In place of tears I can see composure, and something more. As I’ve said before, since the day my head started shaking, Mom has given up her own publishing business, her studies in music, her vacations, and pretty much her life to help me. But one good thing has come out of it. All the time she’s invested in me has made her very smart, not only about my situation but also about dealing with doctors, hospitals, and entire school systems. In a way, she’s been getting ready for this moment for a long, long time.

When she starts to speak, she’s totally in command. And she’s my guardian angel all over again.

“Last semester was the hardest Cory has ever had,” she begins. “You all know that. His Tourette’s and OCD were so out of control he couldn’t get to school as much as he’d wanted. He was on a shortened day and was put in the most basic classes just so that he could try to get through junior year.

“There was a time early on when it got too hard for him to walk, and he came to school in a wheelchair just so he wouldn’t miss his work. Believe me, that wasn’t easy for him. He used to play football and . . .”

She falters briefly but gathers herself again quickly. My mom just won’t quit.

“Cory fought harder than you can imagine to stay in this school, and when that wasn’t enough, he took a leave of absence to rehabilitate himself. You know where he went and what he did. Wilderness camp. Sleeping in the snow and freezing cold for a month. And he did it, and came out a survivor. All his counselors agreed on that.”

A few heads bob up and down in support. At least they’re still listening.

“After that he went to one of the best and hardest OCD hospitals in the world, and he started to turn his life around, a day at a time. It was amazing, and also heroic. And now you’re telling him that all this, all his efforts, are just going to be thrown away?
That they don’t count for anything?
”

She lets the thought settle in. Her energy and passion are building by the second.

“If you make Cory repeat junior year, you’ll be hurting him so much more than helping, and it will cancel out the unbelievable efforts he’s made. It will stop his progress cold.”

My history teacher starts to lift her hand off the table as if to object, but it’s tentative, like she’s a student herself, unsure of an answer.

Mom continues without acknowledging her. “But I know you have to go on what he needs to learn. And the rules. So let’s talk about the learning he’s done that you may not have thought about. Let’s talk about that hospital he was in, the Wellington Neurological Center. Do you know that a substantial part of every single day was spent on classroom time, in all subjects? Cory was a star student while he was there. Is that anywhere in your records? It’s in
ours.
”

She plucks some loose pages from a file and drops them on the table. A couple of the teachers look surprised. This is definitely new information that they’re not ready to deal with.

“You all know how innately intelligent Cory is, and about his auditory gift. Whatever he hears in classes, he retains. I know that he’s picked up as much knowledge just from sitting in class as most kids do taking notes and doing lessons. Did he miss some things? Yes. Do other kids miss some things?”

She lets the challenge hang in the air. No one interrupts with a rebuttal.

“The Devorough School that Cory went to is an advanced college prep school with a highly accelerated schedule. He was there for only about a month, but I know he learned a lot more than a month’s worth of history. And the same goes for chemistry. As a matter of fact, he’s already had a good bit of Chemistry II,” she adds, training her eyes on Mrs. Hanover, “even when he didn’t have the basics of Chemistry I. How? By working seven days a week and staying up late at night studying until he caught up to everyone else. He could do that with algebra, too — in fact, he already started at the Devorough School with some work in Algebra II.”

I’m not sure, but I think I can sense a shift of mood in the room. Everybody, even Mrs. Hanover, is listening hard.

“Did you know that Cory has also done work in areas other students haven’t even been exposed to? Last summer, while his friends were playing ball and hanging around, Cory took a seventy-hour course on Web site design. It dealt with designing home pages on the Internet. And this wasn’t just any course — it was a course for
college-level students and professionals.
Cory was the youngest one there by far.

“At first they thought he was too young to attend. But in the end, he not only earned their certificate, he was asked to come back to lecture on Internet marketing because of what he knew that they didn’t. I understand that he could have been given some credits for that here in high school, but we never asked for them. Now we’re asking!”

The guidance counselor perks up at this. He’s always encouraged students to learn things outside of school as a way to earn extra credit. This is exactly the kind of stuff he talks about.

“The same goes for the thousands of hours — and I mean thousands — he’s spent becoming an expert on the computer at home, studying marketing, taking dozens of courses from experts, publishing articles on Internet marketing, starting five small Internet businesses all by himself. I didn’t think to ask for credit for that, but I know credit is given for all kinds of extracurricular learning. I have friends in town who’ve gotten it for their kids . . . with letters of recommendation from some of you.”

It’s amazing to watch and listen to my mother. I never thought about how all the things I’ve learned on the computer could relate to a high school education, and hearing it all at once, I think it sounds pretty impressive. Even so, my history teacher still isn’t making eye contact with my mother and me. She’s a tough one.

But Mom has already picked up on her stubbornness. “History? Well, that’s not as easy to defend, except I’ll tell you this: Cory may not know exactly when the Battle of Waterloo occurred, but his father and I talk about current events all the time. He probably knows as much about what’s going on in the world today as any of the other students. And not just the facts but
why
things are happening — the concepts. I guess in this area you could call that homeschooling.”

“That’s all well and good,” the history teacher interrupts, “but there are specific lessons that have to be completed. Assignments to be done that weren’t.”

“Yes, I understand that,” my mother answers, “and I’m glad you brought it up. As far as all the assignments he’s missed, not only in history but in math and English, I want you to see what I found in his backpack at the end of last term.”

Mom opens a large manila folder and takes out a stack of papers more than an inch thick.

“These are all homework assignments Cory did on the nights he was able to work. All subjects. It took him a long time to do each of them, and in the end he was exhausted. But no matter how many times I reminded him to turn them in the next day, he usually didn’t remember.”

“May I?” the history teacher asks suspiciously.

My mother pushes them over to her without comment.

“There are close to sixty assignments here, including fifteen just in history. He did the work; he just didn’t get the credit. There was no one at school to remind him to hand them in.”

The history teacher inspects the papers and has nothing to say about this latest shocker. Clearly she’s starting to lose the basis of her argument.

“But he still didn’t take the tests, the midterms,” she says anyway.

There is no answer for this. “That’s true,” my mother admits. Then she continues, “Now, someone mentioned physical education before. So let’s talk about eight-mile hikes in deep snow every day for weeks at wilderness camp. What about working on survival skills in twenty-below temperatures? What about losing sixty pounds and quitting smoking and getting incredibly healthy? What have your other students done in physical-education classes this year? How many of them can even come close to Cory’s record in gym class?”

With her questions still echoing in the air, she finally takes a moment to catch her breath. We’ve been in the room for less than an hour, but it’s one of the longest meetings of my life.

“Let’s be honest,” she says, her voice suddenly more relaxed but still serious. “You all know that this isn’t about only rules or the number of hours Cory has physically sat in classes. You have enough reason to help him keep going if you want to. That’s what it really comes down to. Taking what he has been able to do here so far, thinking about all the amazing things he’s achieved out of school, and helping him to build on them, helping him to keep going, like you always have before. You’ve always been on his side. Most of you have been wonderful to him. Why turn your backs on him now?”

Nearing the end of her talk, my mom looks at me tenderly. Her face is glowing. She looks so beautiful I can’t begin to describe it.

“This is one amazing kid,” she says to the room. “Don’t ever give up on him. He’ll always surprise you and come through for you.”

After a long silence, there’s another voice in the room. It’s that of my English teacher, speaking her true thoughts for the first time.

“Cory is my best student,” she starts quietly, then her voice rises. “By far my best. His ideas get the other students excited to learn.”

The room is quiet again. Outside in the hallway, there are kids rushing somewhere. The English teacher’s compliment feels great, but one voice is probably not enough. If the group is beginning to change its mind, it’s impossible to tell.

The caseworker turns to me and asks if there’s anything I want to say. Before I can respond, the history teacher demands to know how I can possibly do all the work now when I couldn’t get it done before. Amazingly, she isn’t giving up. After what my mother has told her, I really don’t know what else I can say, so I just tell them all how I feel.

“Things have always been harder for me,” I say simply. “But that’s never stopped me, and it never will.”

Miracle Days

Chapter 70

IT SEEMED TO HAPPEN TO ME when I wasn’t even aware of it. Or maybe it occurred over a few days, or even weeks. You would think that if I’d known the
exact
moment of anything that’s ever happened in my life, it would be this.

It’s the last period of the school day toward the end of my junior year, and I’m doing pretty well. I still can’t believe that I sat through all eight periods again today. One reason may be that I’m not on most of the drugs that used to make me feel so out of it.

In history class the Civil War is coming alive for me. It’s as if I’m living back in that time, and the teacher likes my answers. The history teacher likes my answers!
The history teacher — how about that!
As usual, my hand has been shooting up in the air a lot, but only with questions and answers, not with my usual middle-finger salute.

When the period ends, I leave the room feeling that something important has changed, but I’m not sure what. I have an unusual sense of well-being, as if the electric current that usually races around my body has suddenly been turned way down, as though it’s on a dimmer.

At the exit I push open the door and step into bright sunshine. The puffy clouds in the sky are so interesting that I stop for a while to study them.

The clouds are lit from behind by the sun, which is highlighting their wispy edges and making them glow as if a great artist has painted them. There was a sky something like this in the mountains of Wyoming not so long ago.

I take a few more moments to watch the sky. There’s no hurry. I feel like I have all the time in the world.

Finally I walk toward the end of the parking lot, where my car is parked. On the way I pass the handicapped spots that I was told I could use for my dirt bike and that I always refused.

Walking to my car, I realize that I have an unusual amount of energy and concentration, plus I’m light on my feet.

Normally at this time of day I’d be totally exhausted and on edge, ready to go home and rest from my classes. My new feelings puzzle me. I play back the day in my mind and am happy to recall that none of my classes turned out to be a problem.

The realization comes over me, not like a bolt of lightning, as people say, but like a calm breeze that creeps into my mind and spreads a peaceful blanket of serenity.

I’m not ticcing. I’m not ticcing at all.

Chapter 71

THE THOUGHT IS SO MIRACULOUS, so
impossible,
that I automatically dismiss it. I can’t actually remember if it’s been this way all day, but I feel weak at the knees from the possibility that it might be true. I’m just standing there as other kids are passing by and noticing me, a few saying hello.

Out of habit I wait for familiar urges to come back — the need to contort my face, to hop or lurch forward, to dip to one side or bend at the waist. I count the seconds until my arm will undoubtedly shoot out three times in front of me to punch the air, or my neck will tilt up to the sky.

And what’s happening is
nothing.

A different kind of panicky feeling begins to take hold of me, the fear that this is going to end any second.

I need to divert myself from thinking about ticcing because that’s what always brings it on.

In a little while, when the movements still aren’t happening, I test them by challenging myself to tic. Deliberately I jerk my hand in front of my chest, but I have no compulsion to complete the ritual with the usual two more thrusts.

I still think this is all a bizarre mistake, a miscalculation my brain has made that will soon be corrected.

Or maybe I’m dreaming the whole thing. I’ve dreamed it so many times before, but this seems real. Even if it’s crazy or is a temporary mistake or only lasts a short time, at least I know that it’s possible.

I travel the rest of the way to my car without a single hop and with a sense of wonder.

On the ten-minute drive home, my foot is steady on the gas pedal and I don’t have the involuntary stiffening of my leg that makes me speed up. I don’t jerk the wheel to the right or left, not even once. I don’t jack up the volume on the radio before turning it on.

When my mother greets me at the door, I’m too afraid to tell her what’s going on. Raising her hopes only to have them crushed again would be an unbearably unkind act, and it’s still too early to risk it.

Jessie is in the living room, and she flashes me a gentle smile. As I’ve gotten better, we’ve gotten closer again. I know she’s proud of how far I’ve come. As a senior, Jessie applied to six colleges and got accepted to five of them. She’s going after the degree in special ed that she’s always wanted. The thought of not having her around saddens me, but I have something else to think about today.

An hour later, the tics still haven’t returned, and I have to at least allow for the possibility that something has really changed.

By eight o’clock I’ve finished my homework in record time and I’m sitting at the computer, playing with some new ideas for an Internet marketing business.

My hands are unbelievably steady on the keys, and I feel no need to pound the table after every few words like I used to. My eyes and mouth are still.

This really is happening, isn’t it?

The doctors have said that Tourette’s symptoms improve over time for some people, but not all. Have I turned out to be one of the lucky ones?

If my parents have noticed a change, they aren’t saying anything, probably for the same reason I’m not. They’re conditioned not to mention my physical habits unless I do, but I know they’re always watching out of the corner of their eyes, praying to see exactly what’s happening now.
Nothing at all.

Later, I head for bed in a state of total wonder but also apprehension. On the way up the stairs, I catch my mother looking at me.

“I know,” I tell her. “Don’t say anything.”