The Gift of Pain - Chapter 3

To read Chapters 1 & 2 of My Story - The Gift of Pain, click on the link at the right.

Months turned into years, as my neurologist worked diligently to pinpoint the source of my seizures and find a medication that would halt them. I was blessed to have an incredible neurologist. I know it was God’s provision for me at a time when I felt little hope. Not only was he a top neurologist, he was an epileptologist. Dr. Sirichai Chayasirisobhon, known as Dr. Chaya, is an incredible man, a devoted Christian from Thailand and tops in the field of epilepsy research and treatment.

We discovered that Dr. Chaya had come to faith in Christ at a church in Thailand that was planted by the Stone Church in Toronto, while my dad pastored there over twenty years previous to this time.  What an incredible 'God connection', for my heavenly Father to be preparing this man, while I was just a child, to minister to me all these years later.   

The first few times I visited Dr. Chaya, I struggled to understand his heavily accented English but from the very beginning it was clear that he was on my side and would not rest until I was well. He never said, “We may not find a solution” only “it may take time”.

We still laugh about the time I asked Dr Chaya if there were any dietary restrictions that I needed to be aware of and specifically, if I should give up drinking coffee.

He looked at me and very seriously said, “You must have quality of life”. He reassured me that I didn’t need to give up coffee along with everything else I had lost. To this day, I will pick up a cup of java, breathe in the delicious aroma and repeat, “I must have quality of life”.

While Dr Chaya and his staff encouraged me, I encountered other doctors who were less than stellar. One particular doctor spoke words that crushed my spirit.

I went to the Kaiser Los Angeles facility for a full day of neuro-psychological testing. On the way there I had a seizure and was dreading a day of endless questioning. For over six hours I underwent a battery of tests and evaluations. Several of these tests were to measure IQ. As I took the tests, some of the clinicians told me that I was doing exceptionally well. I thought nothing of it and went home exhausted.

A week later Steve and I went back to LA to discuss the results of the tests with a doctor I had never seen before. He was an esteemed neurologist and from the beginning of our session was arrogant and condescending. Anybody who has suffered from a long-term illness knows how vulnerable you become to words that are spoken while you are in such a fragile state.

We went through the test results and he informed me that one of the things they had discovered was that I had an exceptionally high IQ. The doctor then proceeded to ask me a series of bizarre questions.

“Were you the victim of sexual abuse as a child?”

“Have you ever been a victim of violence?”

I replied, “No” to all his questions, but he wasn’t satisfied. He persisted, asking the questions again, rephrasing them and repeating them. I assured him that I had never been the victim of any violent act, wondering what on earth he was getting at. Steve sat beside me, puzzled by his questions.

After half an hour or more, the doctor stated with conviction, that I was the victim of some violent or traumatic act. In his (not so humble) opinion, I was repressing this memory. I stared at him in disbelief as he continued on, insisting that this was the cause of my seizures and I must dig deep into my psyche to uncover the root. At the core of his insistence was my high IQ, a sure indicator, he said, of someone with repressed memories (not true, I later discovered).

I left his office dazed and confused. For the few weeks my mind was in an uproar. These were some of the convoluted thoughts that raced through my head, day in and day out.

“I know I’m not the victim of abuse. I’ve never been abused in my life.”

“But…if I was abused and had repressed it, how would I know.”

“Maybe I am a victim and I just don’t know.”

“If I am a victim, who abused me?”

I repeated these questions, and others, over and over in my head. I lay there, picturing in my mind every loved one and acquaintance from my childhood, imagining them as perpetrators of some horrible crime against me. It was driving me mad.

The other aspect of the doctor’s report that I found troublesome was the issue of my IQ. My mind was so muddled from endless seizures that I found it difficult to read or focus on anything.

“What a waste of a brain!” I despaired. “What have I ever done with my life?” “I wish he had never told me.”

I plummeted deep into depression, certain that I was abused, useless and possibly crazy.

Finally, one day, Steve had enough. After listening to me rail on with my confused questioning, he looked me in the eye and said, “Karen, who is the author of fear?”

“I know, but…” I started to argue.

“Who is the author of confusion?” he asked again.

“The enemy – Satan” I hesitantly replied.

“Who is the author of peace and a sound mind?”

“God, my heavenly Father”, I meekly replied.

“This doctor has spoken confusion and fear into your mind, without offering you hope. You need to let it go, focus on God and accept his healing for you.” Steve continued reassuring me and read to me Scriptures of hope and healing.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”
2 Timothy 1:7

At my monthly appointment with Dr. Chaya, I related to him, in a panic, what the other doctor had said. With love, Dr. Chaya responded that he did not feel like I exhibited any of the symptoms of someone associated with repressed memories – self-destructive behavior and sexual promiscuity. He also stated that there was a great deal of controversy on this subject overall. He reassured me that we would find a cure for my seizures and to trust God to help in the meantime.

Slowly, I began to let it go, stop the questioning and believe for my healing. There were days that I could believe, but many days of deep, dark despair. I kept very few records of those years but recently found a journal with a few entries that summed up my feelings.

“This morning when I went forward for prayer I just felt like it’s a waste of time. I don’t believe I’m going to be healed and I don’t hold out much hope with the doctors either. I just see an endless horizon of seizures and sickness – living half a life as half of a person.  My short-term memory and my ability to concentrate are decreasing. Some days I can barely remember or process anything…I feel so out of control. Everything is spinning away and I can’t stop it.”

On September 11, 2003, I started taking Topomax, the seventh different seizure medication I was prescribed. That was the beginning of my slow road to recovery. It was a fairly new medication at that time, but trials had shown it to be successful in halting seizures with few side effects. Other medications had caused heart palpitations, sleeplessness, depression and a myriad of other unwanted symptoms.

Days passed without a seizure, then weeks and before long I had been seizure-free for months. I held my breath and continued to pray that this would be the remedy I had been praying for.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)