Laurie’s Story

I met Evie in November of 1971. I was then dating her 18 year old son. I was in-training to be a cosmetologist, so the polite thing to do was to offer to do Evie’s hair. As Evie sat in the shampoo chair, I draped the plastic cape around her, adjusting it snugly around her neck. The chair reclined so that her neck fit into the curvature of the shampoo bowl. With a smile on her face, she pointed to her forehead and whispered, “Be sure to cover up my two knobs when you do my hair.” Spray hose in hand, I watched as the water saturated her hair and ran down the drain of the sink. I could see the two knobs, just at the hairline, more clearly now. They appeared to be the size of two shooter marbles. I added a good dollop of shampoo to her hair, and using circular motions, massaged the shampoo into Evie’s scalp. My finger tips found their way around the knobs, then, as I massaged toward the hairline, I was horrified as my fingers sunk into the skull. With a sickening in my stomach, I forced myself to take a closer look. A trench, the width of my middle finger, ran from one knob to the other. I then realized that Evie must have had brain surgery, probably resulting from some horrific accident. The scar was well healed, with no sign of reddness. No hair grew in the trench or on the knobs. As I styled Evie’s hair, she did not say a word to me, other than reminding me numerous times, to be sure to cover her two knobs.

I did not mention or question her about the scars on her head.

Evie moved from Minnesota to Texas in 1972, with her husband and daughter. I wrote to her often, and she wrote lovely letters to me. If I did not keep up with writing to her, we would receive a phone call from her, questioning what was wrong. Why didn’t I write? She appeared to take it personally and was easily offended. In 1974, I married Evie’s son. I started to notice some curious habits Evie had. She continually patted her coif. She would ask numerous questions , appearing concerned about what attire she should wear to events. Her form of dress was ostentatious, seeming that she needed to be the focus of attention wherever she went. They were not wealthy people, yet she dressed in style. It would take her hours to get ready for an evening out. She wore a great deal of make-up. She would tell us the make-up is needed to cover acne scars, although I was unable to detect any facial scaring.

Later that year, my husband and I traveled to Texas to visit Evie and her husband. Evie had been ill, and took this opportunity to inform me of all her illnesses, from childhood on. Many of her illnesses appeared to be chronic in nature. She did not mention the brain surgery in her long detail of surgeries. Evie complained endlessly. The house was too big, too hard to clean. She did not have enough room, the house was too small. She repeated stories of her childhood, sometimes three or four times within an evening. She did not appear to be happy, yet she would break out in laughter and mock herself in jest. During this visit, my father-in-law took me aside one evening and spoke to me about Evie. He told me she had many oddities. She had brain surgery in 1958 because the stress of raising her three children was too much for her. He told me to ignore most of what she says, especially if it offends me. Our conversation was short and swift. I wanted to ask more, but I could tell he did not want to talk about it any longer. My interest was piqued and I knew I had to find out more.

Returning to Minnesota, I sought information on brain surgery. The research was overwhelming, and I did not know where to start. Then, one day, I had a young customer who desired a haircut. As I shampooed her hair, I noted the same knob like bumps on her forehead. She did not have the trench like my mother-in-law. She must have noted my hesitance and then began to speak freely of her surgery. She told me she had had a lobotomy. It was a surgery to correct a problem in her brain. She had suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder. The surgery corrected the problem. She was 18 years old. I regret not writing down her name for future reference. But, I was happy to learn the type of brain surgery.

I set out researching about frontal lobotomy. I was disgusted to read the information about torture and the dehumanization of the patients. When I spoke to my husband, he could only remember that he was farmed out to one relative, while his brother and sister were farmed out to other relatives. He figured it was for about nine months, and recalled a time he went to church with his mother and she covered her short hair with a scarf. No one seemed to have any information or even an understanding as to why Evie had the lobotomy.

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It is 28 years later, and Evie and I are waiting in the emergency room lobby. Evie tripped and fell in the garage of the senior housing apartment complex where she now lives, in Minnesota. She hit her knee and bumped her head on a grocery cart when she missed a step up in the garage. When I arrived at her apartment complex, she was seated in a wheel chair in her room, laughing as she munched on a piece of candy. The nurse from the attached nursing home building was taking her blood pressure. She appeared to be doing very well. She made joke about her clumsy adventure. Her leg appeared to be swollen and bruised, so I wheeled her over to the emergency room at the clinic just across from the nursing home, at the nurse’s urging.

After a few minutes, we were escorted to a waiting room. The nurse came in with an x-ray order and off Evie went to have her leg and head x-rayed. A while later, she was wheeled back into the waiting room, laughing as she spoke to the nurse. She seemed quite unaffected by this ordeal. The doctor walked in and introduced himself. Mom had seen him already once before. She moved up from Texas less than a month ago, but already knew her way around the clinic. The nurse brought in the x-rays, and motioned the doctor out into the hallway. He entered the waiting room, holding up the x-rays of Evie’s head. He had a confused look on his face.

“Evelyn” he said, “When did you have your surgery?”

Evie looked at him like she had no idea of what he was talking about. The doctor continued, “Evelyn, you have two holes in your head. I have never seen this before.”

Evelyn just sat there, smiling at the doctor. I made the move to help the doctor out, explaining that Mom had a lobotomy in 1958. The doctor wanted to know why she had the surgery. Evie still sat smiling, unwilling to offer any information. Perhaps she thought if she did not answer, it would just go away.

“I have heard about these operations,” the doctor said, “I just have never met a survivor before”. He then looked in Evie’s medical folder, which had little information, and no past history. “Please have her medical records forwarded to the clinic.” the doctor requested of me. “I will.” I said, knowing this would be no easy task. Evie had been from clinic to clinic in Texas. If she did not like what one doctor said, she would move on to another. I had a list of nine clinics she had been to in the past five years.

On the way back to her apartment, I asked Evie why she did not talk to the doctor about her brain surgery. “My mother-in-law told me never to tell anyone about it. How did you know about it?”

I explained to her that I had known for years. I told her I discovered it when I first did her hair back in 1971. She told me she did not believe me. I gave up and wheeled her back down the hallway, through the nursing home, and back into her apartment complex. My husband arrived and we helped Evie into her bed so she could rest.

Evie has a history of medical emergencies, surgeries, and aches and pains. No medication seemed to help, she would tell us. When we moved her up to Minnesota, I cleaned out cupboards of pills, prescribed and over-the-counter, that she was taking. Evie took pills when she felt she needed them. I found eleven different anti-depressants, which she admitted to taking sometimes three or four different ones at a time. “The doctors prescribed them for me.” she told us. I tried to explain to her that if she did not tell her doctors what the other doctors prescribed, they had no way of knowing what medications she could take. Evie thought I was being mean to her. She would not listen, saying I did not know what I was talking about. The doctors gave her medication to help her get better. I decided that I would definitely get her medical records from her Texas physicians. I was hoping I would be able to find out more about her lobotomy as well. Perhaps there was a record of the surgery. I wanted to help Evie by getting her prescriptions straightened out, hoping to prevent overdoses.

Three months later, I had received notice from the Minnesota Clinic that some of the records had been received from Texas. Her primary physician had not yet sent any. I had telephoned the Texas clinic several times after sending a medical transfer release form with Evie’s signature. Finally, a large packet of medical records arrived, mailed to me at my home address. I was grateful to have the opportunity to look through the records before forwarding them to the clinic. In the records, I found documentation stating that Evie had chronic depression. I found referrals to therapists, but it appeared there was no follow through on Evie’s part. Another clinic had documents that Evie suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder, and had prescribed medication and referral for therapy. Then, I found a document stating that Evie had somatoform disorder, hypochondriasis. We suspected this for many years. This explained why she went from doctor to doctor, searching for relief from pain that had no known medical basis. So, they prescribed anti-depressants, perhaps even referred her to a psychiatrist. But Evie had had enough of psychiatrists.

One evening, we pressed Evie to talk about her brain surgery. She could only tell us that she had had many shock treatments before the surgery. She said she had the surgery at a local Twin Cities hospital. Evie said that after her surgery, she went home and went out dancing that evening. I realized, Evie had lost months of her life.

My husband asked Evie’s brother about the lobotomy. He remembered that his father and Evie’s husband committed her to the mental institution when the psychiatrist could not cure her. He had heard his sister was having a difficult time caring for the children and the house. Her husband was an over the road truck driver during that time. His weekends home were consumed with caring for the children, cleaning the house, and caring for a sick wife. Evie’s brother told us he knew little about the events in the mental institution. He did think she was in for about 10 to 12 months though.

Today, Evie continues to live in her apartment at the senior complex. She has to call in by 10 a.m. daily to let the staff know she is alright. She continues to drive her automobile about town, in spite of not passing the drivers written test. She has failed five times, and does not have a Minnesota driver’s license. She loves to shop. She orders items over the telephone. When they arrive, she is confused and often writes long letters to the company to alert them to their error of sending her things she did not order. There are many trips to the post office to return these items. Her apartment, a one bedroom, is too small for her, she complains to us. Clothes are piled about in her bedroom, paper work is strewn about the entire apartment. Her refrigerator is filled with spoiled foods. She has no time, she complains.

She sits down with a basket of junk mail, and begins to tear each piece into tiny fragments. I ask her why she is doing that, and she says she needs to destroy it so no one can find information on her. I point out that there is no information on her on the mailing, other than where her address is listed on the envelope. She continues to tear the papers. She becomes frustrated and tosses it aside, only to return to another pile of papers, and she begins tearing this new pile, piece by piece. We clean her apartment for her.

Evie refuses to take her anti-depressants. “They don’t do anything,” she complains. It is an ongoing battle with her, trying to convince her that the medications take weeks to take effect. Each time she discontinues taking them, she interrupts the process. She doesn’t believe us. She doesn’t believe the doctors. I do not think she truly trusts anyone. A friend of hers calls, and Evie is all smiles and talks on the phone laughing and seemingly having a good time. The call ends, and she is continued to be excited, stating that her friend is on Prozac for energy. Evie says she is going to ask her doctor to put her on Prozac tomorrow. Evie goes into great detail about how she has no energy. She questions us about coloring her hair, she doesn’t recall when it turned white. I remind her she is 77 years old. “I didn’t look old until I moved up her.“ We tell her she looks great. She always does. She smiles and does the little ‘pat the coif’ repetition that she does every few minutes.

We have learned that if we push hard enough, Evie will take her medication. So we push and push and push. She actually manages. We now give Evie two to three hours to get ready when we take her out. We live nearby, so it is easy for us to keep an eye on Evie. She continues to be easily frustrated. She is unable to operate her CD player, run the microwave, or even push the button to allow visitors into the security apartment complex. She cannot play board games or do puzzles. She complains that no one will play cards with her, but in reality, it is too difficult and very frustrating for her. She does not cook. Following recipes is difficult.

She shops. It is one activity she likes to do. She has a friend that also likes to shop. She repeats herself, telling a story over and over. But, it is okay now, because the others living in the complex do the same. I have made lists for her to help guide her through chores. She is lacking in problem solving abilities. Yet, Evie manages. Life is not what she would like it to be. She is convinced that she has some fatal illness, probably unknown as yet to the medical world. She has difficulty sleeping and eating. It is difficult trying to plan meals, so she eats out frequently. She knows we are nearby, as is her brother. That seems to comfort her. Evie is unaware of her mental disorders. Once in a blue moon, a fragment of what might have been shines through. It is just a sparkle in her eye, but it is a sign of clarity that does not exist on a day to day basis in Evie. “My life has been misplaced.” is the comment Evie made to me today. “I didn’t ask for this to happen to me. They just did it and I do not know why.” We love Evie dearly and accept her for the person she is.