She Was Shocked

Written by Ann Lewis The Washington Post

Electroconvulsive therapy helped to treat her intractable, dangerous depression. But the author was surprised to find out how much of her memory was wiped out.

The Washington Post
Ann Lewis
06-06-2000

I've been asked over and over again whether undergoing electroconvulsive therapy -- also known as ECT or shock therapy -- was a good decision. And whether I would have ECT again under the same circumstances.

The only honest answer I can give is that I have no idea. To say whether ECT was the right treatment for me, I would have to compare my life before ECT to my life now. And I simply cannot remember life before ECT. In particular, I cannot remember much about the two years leading up to my ECT treatments. That period, along with much of the preceding years, is memory that I lost in exchange for the hoped-for benefits of ECT.

That loss was huge and painful and potentially crippling. And yet, when my therapist describes how I was just before ECT, I believe that ECT was probably the best option at the time. He says that I was spiraling down into a depression that wouldn't lift. He says that I was contemplating suicide. And I believe him. While I don't remember that particular depression, I remember others -- many paralyzing episodes of depression in my 37 years of living with mental illness.

My therapist also says that I was failing to respond to medications. And that I also believe. While I cannot remember specific experiences with the plethora of drugs I've tried over the years, I do know that I tried so many because I was constantly searching for one that would finally work.

I had 18 ECT treatments over a six-week period beginning in May 1999. Based on some vague recollections and on what I've been told, here's what happened: Three times a week I rose at dawn to be at the hospital first thing; I sat in a crowded waiting room until my name was called. Then I put on a hospital gown, lay down on a gurney and was wheeled into an operating room designated for ECT patients. Full anesthesia was administered intravenously, and the next thing I knew I'd be waking up in the recovery room, ready to be taken home, where I'd sleep for the rest of the day.

My boyfriend and my mother shared the burden of caring for me. On the days between treatments, she says, we sometimes went to museums, malls and restaurants. She says that I was a zombie, unable to make even the smallest decisions. My boyfriend says I asked the same questions over and over again, unaware that I was repeating myself.

Right after my last treatment--my mother made a note of this in her diary for July 8--I woke up. I can liken this only to what I expect a person coming out of a coma experiences. I felt like a newborn, seeing the world for the first time. But unlike the common notion of first sight as a thing of splendor and awe, for me it was complete frustration.

While I couldn't recall how I had felt before ECT, I couldn't imagine it was any worse than what I was experiencing now.

Every little thing told me that I had no memory. I couldn't remember who had given me the beautiful picture frames or the unique knickknacks that decorated my home. My clothes were unfamiliar, as were the jewelry and trinkets I had owned for years. I didn't know how long I had had my cat or who my neighbors were. I couldn't remember which foods I liked or what movies I had seen. I didn't remember people who greeted me on the street or others who called me on the telephone.

A former news junkie, I was especially frustrated to realize that I didn't even know who the president was or why someone named Monica Lewinsky was famous. I was floored when I found out about the impeachment hearings.

And I couldn't remember my boyfriend, although he practically lived with me. There was evidence all over the apartment that we loved each other, but I didn't know how or when we had met, what we liked to do together or even where we liked to sit while watching television. I didn't even remember how he liked to be hugged. Starting from scratch, I had to get to know him again while he had to accept the frustrating loss of what we once had together.

While continuing to battle my mental illness--ECT is no instant cure--I had to relearn how to live my life.

I didn't know my parents had moved. I had to be "reminded" about that great sub shop in Bethesda and about my favorite restaurant, the Lebanese Taverna. I spent 15 minutes in the cracker aisle in Safeway until I recognized the box of my favorite crackers, Stone Wheat Thins. I retrieved some clothes only by going to seven different cleaners to ask if they had an overdue order belonging to Lewis. Just yesterday I lost a contact lens: I've been wearing contacts for at least 10 years, but I have no idea who my eye doctor is, so replacing the lost one will be another tedious challenge.

Socializing was the hardest part of my recovery, since I had nothing to contribute to a conversation. While I had always been sharp-tongued, quick-witted and sarcastic, I now had no opinions: Opinions are based on experience and I couldn't recall my experiences. I relied on my friends to tell me what I liked, what I didn't like and what I'd done. Listening to them trying to reconnect me to my past was almost like hearing about someone who had passed away.

Before ECT I had been working for a legal concern in the District where the environment was exciting and the people were fun. That's what I've been told, anyway. Just before undergoing my treatment I informed my employer of my disability and requested time off. I estimated that I would need two weeks, unaware that the ECT would eventually stretch on for six weeks and that I would need months to recover.

As the weeks passed, I missed going to work, though I realized I had forgotten the names of major clients I had dealt with daily and even the names of the computer programs I had used routinely. And I couldn't recall the names--or the faces--of the people I had worked beside--people who had been to my house and with whom I had traveled frequently.