Jon Sarkin and Hank Turgeon had battled all afternoon on the Cape Ann golf course, Massachusetts. The time was about 3pm, Thursday 20 October 1988, and the two friends had cut out of work early, Sarkin from his chiropractic office, Turgeon from his carpentry. A slight breeze rippled as Sarkin bent down, reached inside his golf bag and fished around for a tee. As he pulled out his hand, he experienced a hideous dizzying sensation, as if his brain had suddenly twisted.
A part of his head seemed to unhinge, to split apart and rush away. I'm 35 years old and I'm going to die, he said to himself.
"Is anything wrong?" Turgeon asked.
Sarkin hesitated, trying to get his bearings.
What could he say? That he felt as if his brain had just broken in half? Sarkin took a few deep breaths, teed up his ball and swung from his heels.
He felt queasy, and as he walked towards the fairway he tried not to move his head. What he did not know was that somewhere deep in his brain a single blood vessel had shifted ever so slightly and the movement, as minuscule as it was, had caused a cataclysmic response in one of his cranial nerves.
"Do you mind if we quit?" he said.
"Sure," Turgeon answered.
When Sarkin walked in the door, his wife, Kim, knew immediately something wasn't right. "What's wrong, Jon?" she asked, balancing their nine-month-old baby boy on her hip.
"I don't know what happened," he said. "I just know everything is different and it's not ever going to be the same..."
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Amy Ellis Nutt @'The Guardian'
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