Tuesday, July 18, 2017

How Do You Like Me Now?

     The song isn't on my playlist, so I had to look it up that morning when I sat on my front porch and forced myself to face the music. "How do you like me now?" he demanded, repeating the question again and again.
     I thought about the thing in my head. How do you like me now?
     Not so much as I did before.
     My attitude adjustment took place on April 23 after my son had two grand mal seizures and received an epilepsy diagnosis, just like me. Looking at the words typed out makes me feel sick; I want to delete them and slam my laptop closed forever.
     Maybe I will.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Another April

     I wrote the following yesterday when I was waiting for the Metro here in Springfield. The Blue Line was still delayed, so again, I wandered down to the end of the track to enjoy the sunshine and hear outdoors sounds instead of buzzing lights.
     I decided to write in my notebook to avoid wasting my cell phone battery. There were ideas pouncing through me as I rushed out the door earlier, but I hadn't had time to jot them down then.
     Although hours had passed since my morning seizure, I was still experiencing postictal bliss as I scribbled in purple ink, trying to recall the story I had started in my head more than four hours earlier.

April 5, 2017

It's 8:27, and I forgot to take my meds.
The seizure was at 7:24.
That's what usually happens.
First, the seizure and then, forgetting the meds.
It lasted 3 minutes, 14 seconds, give or take a few.

Yesterday, I didn't have one, but my ears kept going in and out.
Left, right, left.

As I go upstairs to take them, Freud whispers,
"Caught you, didn't I? You're slipping!"
Skinner orders me to keep track of my behavior.

There's another one, I can't quite remember at first.
Maslow? No.
Jung? Piaget?
Be serious.

I try to forget, but then It comes to me.

Milgram peers through from the other side
of the mirror, thinking I don't know
it works both ways.

His lips move,
enough for me to read them saying:

The eye contact,
So sudden he startles.
Maybe so, I reply.
But what does that make you?

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

The National Walk for Epilepsy, Revisited

     Saturday was a Mary Poppins kind of day...practically perfect in every way. I experienced almost every range of emotion and connected with people in person, going into D.C. twice.
     When the day started, I was both nervous and excited about the Walk for Epilepsy and about my first assignment as a reporter in a long, long time.
     Then, at the last minute, I said yes to another deadline because it was an opportunity I couldn't refuse.
     Faye, an award-winning blogger in London, asked me to participate in her blogging marathon in honor of Purple Day. The topic was positive things about epilepsy, a favorite of mine. (See previous post.)
     As I got ready for to head into D.C. that morning, I was both excited about the adventures ahead of me and nervous that maybe I had agreed to do too much at once. Either way, I was motivated to get out and see for myself.
     Right after getting dressed, I had a mild seizure that improved my mood immensely but didn't do anything for my memory. I almost forgot to wear my little medical charm before getting in the Uber to take me on my way.
    The driver was originally from Pakistan, and knows my neighborhood because he worships at the mosque around the corner. I told him I had attended an opening ceremony at another mosque a couple of years ago when I was teaching English to adults.
     Both of us agreed that we have similar beliefs, and I told him I wish everyone else could see it that way and stop fighting about it. The conversation lifted my spirits so much I barely cared when I arrived at the Metro to discover the train was behind schedule and I had to wait for half an hour.
     The train was packed with cherry blossom tourists. I sat next to a tall, young guy who was so handsome it was hard not to stare. His white cane told me he wouldn't have seen, but still, I didn't.
     I looked up to see if the woman with him wanted my seat, but she chose to stand on the other side and explain various stops and how to maneuver through the Metro system.  Her advice was good, so I paid attention.
     At one point, she asked if he could tell the difference when the train suddenly filled with light after being underground. He said that he couldn't. I tried to imagine that and then wondered: What things can he "see" that I cannot?
     Many of the events at the epilepsy walk were winding down by the time I scooted around tourists on my way to the Washington Monument. I was beginning to fear missing my Twitter buddy, Tracy, but still couldn't resist stopping to take pictures of the more comical sites in front of the White House.
     My postictal bliss continued.
    I made it to the event in time for the expert panel, quickly scribbled my question on a piece of paper, and waited. It was hard to pay attention because I was so anxious to see what the response would be. When I heard my question being read aloud, my heart went, "THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!" with every word.
      I included my seizure type and age at diagnosis, the euphoria and my wish to control it rather than be cured. I even included my age to let them know how many years of experience I have, that I am not a novice in this field.
     "Am I the only one?"
     That was my question this year.
     The long pause after it was asked and the way the four doctors looked at each other was my answer. Yes, they had heard of my seizure type but none had actually treated a weirdo like me. When they began to use catchphrases like "aiming for zero," some people in the crowd began making sounds of disgust, as if I had suggested we all toss our pills and seize the night away right there on the Mall.
     I waited until the experts were answering another question to exit. Still, I was obvious enough to ensure anyone like me, hiding in the crowd, would know there is no reason to be ashamed.
     The people at the Talk About It! tent calmed me and listened as I explained what I had been trying to say and how I now felt more frustrated and isolated than when I arrived. They gave me time to get myself composed before videotaping and even allowed for a second take on the ending because I was trying way too hard the first time.
     By then, I was ready to face the experts again and took a seat in the front row.
     The doctor from southern California was back this year, and I wanted to listen more to what she had to say. Her best tip involved relaxing by taking deep breaths like an opera singer. (I already tried it and like it much better than those "calm, soothing breaths" most people recommend.)
     Just as the panel concluded and I stood up to leave, someone called out my name from a few rows back. It was Tracy! We hugged like old friends even though it was the first time we had ever met in person.
     I walked with her back to her hotel, mad at myself for not planning better, as she was about to check out and head home. She told me more about her daughter, Amber, who died from sudden unexpected death in epilepsy (SUDEP) last fall.
     When we arrived at her hotel, I hugged her again, at least two more times, extra tight, to keep me strong until next year's walk. Then, I headed to the nearest Metro station for another long wait.
     Only once while I sat there did I wonder, "What if it happened now? What would I do?"
      I pictured myself, shuffling along with the crowd, knowing the way because I've done it so many times before, and had no doubt I could do it and find my way back home.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

I'm the One Who Doesn't Want to be Cured


    Others write about epilepsy as if it is a stalker, waiting to grab them when they least expect it. It's my oldest friend, one who is always there for me if I need a quick getaway from life but my conscious mind doesn't realize it.
     I'm not sure where it takes me, but the road is covered with childhood memories...My aura typically comes as I remember something from my elementary school days and then become "sucked into" that place and time again.
     Even as I look around and realize it's 2017, and I'm having a seizure, I cannot fully participate in this time and place because my mind is there. I can force myself to talk as this is happening, but it's very hard as I pause to think and then say each word. (I posted a video to YouTube this morning of myself talking while experiencing aphasia.)
     When I come back, I almost always feel better than I did before...Like I'm walking on sunshine.
     Sometimes, I'm giddy and silly, as if I brought a bit of my younger self with me to entertain my family.
     Other times, I return with intense spiritual feelings, as if I have been in the presence of God, deeply connected to every living thing around me and ashamed for time wasted on doubt. (I like to call it that Lion King feeling.)
     It's too difficult to explain without sounding like a crazy person.
     That was my fear during those six years that it happened but I didn't know its name. Before I was diagnosed at age 22, it seemed the only explanation remaining was something mental.
     So by the time I found out its name, I was already comfortable with its predictable weirdness and warm afterglow. It helped that a family member made the introduction,  taking away the initial alarm that comes with the word, Epilepsy.
    My big sis wasn't a full doctor yet but already knew the rules about taking medication and getting blood levels checked and folic acid supplements. She also knew which books I should read to better understand my brain after the official doctors confirmed her suspicions.
     That's how I know there are others like me...people with temporal lobe epilepsy who do not want to be cured and who describe their seizures the same way I do, with a glazed, faraway look in their eyes but inability to put into words what it's like to go there and come back, again and again and again.
     Would you be eager to give that feeling up, knowing you might never get it back again?
     By my estimates, I've made the trip around 1000 times, mostly in the late 1980s and over the past couple of years. It's always that same familiar feeling..a dash of panic followed by recognition of what's happening and then the trip.
     I didn't realize until I was able to videotape myself that it lasts minutes rather than seconds and that I sometimes pass completely out but forget that it even happened. That was a big reality check for me in terms of its power to deceive and make me forget how dangerous our journeys together can be.
     Trying to describe all the gifts this sacred disease has given to me would be tedious because I would try to base it all in neuroscience rather than my own experience and theories, which would be super-boring. Being able to write about anything easily would typically be my first answer, but that skill isn't so great today.
     Some of the people in those books I read enjoy their seizures so much they don't take their meds. I'm not like that because I know it could be hurting my brain without me realizing it was happening, slowly over time.
     So please do not misunderstand this post. It isn't a call for everyone to flush their meds and try to embrace the "fun" side of epilepsy.
     I want a cure for other people, the ones who feel stalked and afraid to go out because it might happen where people can see. I especially want a cure for the children whose brains are being worn out by uncontrolled storms day and night.
     But I want to stay the way I am and keep working with my neurologist for control.