Affectionatedragon
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This is an essay I wrote for english....
It's about my first seizure. Now as I was writting it.. possible foo issues came to mind.. How my mother started to be a control freak over my life... It was a huge eyeopener as I started to write of the aftermath.. so without further adoo..
Epilepsy changed my life forever
Before the year of 1977, I was a happy normal child. I had big dreams, even at five years old. I wanted to be in the Navy like my daddy was. But one day, that all changed. A silent enemy lurked inside of me, and its’ name was Epilepsy. It would go on to kill that dream and would alter how I would live day to day. It changed my life forever.
To quote the epilepsy foundation website: “Epilepsy is a medical condition that produces seizures affecting a variety of mental and physical functions. It’s also called a seizure disorder. When a person has two or more seizures, they are considered to have epilepsy.” All my life, since I was six years old, I have had more seizures than I can count. When I was growing up, until the age of 19, I had at least one seizure every year.
For those that do not know what a seizure is, again I will quote the epilepsy foundation website: “A seizure happens when the electrical system of the brain malfunctions. Instead of discharging electrical energy in a controlled manner, the brain cells keep firing. The result may be a surge of energy through the brain, causing unconsciousness and contractions of the muscles. If only part of the brain is affected, it may cloud awareness, block normal communication, and produce a variety of undirected, uncontrolled, unorganized movements.” I am afflicted with the most common and familiar type of seizure, the generalized tonic-clonic seizure. It’s the type you see on television and movies. Although, in my opinion, a far cry from what happens in reality. They never show the aftermath of one. Migraine headaches so severe, that even moving a pinking finger causes agonizing pain. A seizure like this also inevitably causes the epileptic to bite their own tongue. Sometimes so badly that they can’t even talk, because up to a quarter of it can be sliced off by their own teeth.
Not well known, there is another factor to seizures that is important. It’s called the aura. The aura is the body’s way of warning the epileptic that they are about to have a seizure. Aura’s can come in all different forms. The warning epileptics have can range from smells, tastes, sounds, and even seeing things. It all depends on what part of the brain the seizure is about to originate at.
The following is a memory of my first seizure. It’s a day I will never forget.
The year was 1977, and I was only six years old. It was the middle of winter in New York. The blanket of snow that fell the night before was a foot deep. Branches on the pine trees that surrounded our home, kissed the ground with their heavy white burden. It was grocery night at our house. Dad, as usual, was outside in the car warming the engine up for us, and scraping the snow and ice off of the windows. Mom and I were in the house gathering up the returnable glass bottles for the milk store. They softy clinked together until they were set snuggly in their red plastic carrying case. Bundled up in our heavy winter jackets we were almost ready to go. All of a sudden a strange feeling came over me. My skin tingled, and I just felt “funny.” I didn’t know it back then, but it was the start of an aura. Then voices out of nowhere assaulted my ears. They were screaming gibberish at me. I honestly thought demons from hell were after me. I looked at my mother with pleading eyes, but she went about her tasks seeing nothing, and apparently not hearing anything either. A fear, I had never known in all my six years, gripped my heart. Not even my fear of the dark came close to this petrifying moment.
Instinct took over and I ran. I ran as if Satan himself was biting at my heels, because frankly I thought he was. I only had one goal. Daddy could save me. I must reach my father. He could help me. He would see the demons yelling and chanting nonsense into my ears. I raced past the Christmas tree, the aluminum icicles swished as I bolted past it. Desperately I reached the front door, and ripped it open as hard as a six year old could. My mother was yelling something at me, but I couldn’t stop. I could not obey her. I was on autopilot. I had to reach my father immediately, or I would die. The familiar rusty yawn of the screen door barely registered in my ears. The sinister voices were still chasing me. I did not even notice the icy cold as I ran down the porch steps. As I frantically fought with the door handle of the car, I cried for my father. But I knew from the look on his face, he didn’t see or hear them either. My last thought, as the blackness of unconsciousness took me, and I fell to the ground, was that the demons had won.
The next thing I remember was the face of my mother. A worried look creased her face, a look I never saw before. I had been placed on the couch. I had no memory of it. In fact I could not remember anything that happened at that moment. The couch had been covered with a patch work quilt. Even so, the musty stench of its oldness crept through. But it was a familiar smell, a link to reality my mind grabbed onto. I tried to talk, but found out I could not. The pain in my tongue was so great I could not form words. I couldn’t understand it. Why did my tongue hurt? My mother had been wiping my face with a washcloth. When she pulled it away, it was painted with the deep rich red of blood. Seeing that brought me out of the foggy state of consciousness I was in.
For the first time I tasted the nasty, coppery blood, that was still seeping from my bitten tongue. I tried to move my arm to reach for the washcloth. I had to wipe that disgusting taste off of it. A lightning bolt of pain shot up threw my arm, and traveled straight to my head. At the time I could have sworn there were sledgehammers beating on my skull. My battered tongue was useless. With great effort, I tried to say ice, but it came out as, “ith.” Fortunately my mother understood. And as the ice pack soothed my pounding head, I fell into blackness. It was not the frightening blackness of another seizure, but it was the comforting and embracing blackness of sleep.
My carefree childhood died that day. It wasn’t demons, but epilepsy that ruled my life from then on. Instead of a bowl of cereal the first thing in the morning, it was medication time. And instead of hearing goodnight before I went to sleep, it was “Did you take your pills?” I felt like I was in prison. I was the prisoner, and my mother was the warden. The first medication I was prescribed was Phenobarbital. Basically a barbiturate, what they call on the street a “downer.” The dosage was increased every year, because as I grew the prescription just wouldn’t be enough, and I’d have another seizure. I struggled through high school. I made decent grades, but with the medication, I was trying to learn while stoned.
It’s been 31 years since that day in 1977. I’ve gone thru four medication changes since then. It’s pure hell to go thru, but if an epileptic can find one that works, they can lead a semi normal and independent life. One of the medications worked for over 12 years, but blood tests had shown it was starting to attack my bone marrow. This in the end might kill me. Epilepsy not only ended my normal childhood, it became a life long battle.
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Don't let a man put anything over on you except an umbrella.
-- Mae West
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May/31/2009, 6:00 pm
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anewthingforme1
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Re: This is an essay I wrote for english....
This is so good AD....you are going to be so successful in school!
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Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow". Mary Anne Radmacher
http://bombshellblissnow.blogspot.com/
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May/31/2009, 6:13 pm
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butterflylove
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Re: This is an essay I wrote for english....
AD,
I wanted to first thank you for sharing your expereince with Epilepsy.
I also wanted say you have a talent, your writing is visual, as I read your words I could see exactly what was happening. That is very powerful, especially in writing.
((((((((((hugs)))))))))))
Gabs 
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If anyone will not receive you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet when you leave that house or town. Matthew 10:14
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May/31/2009, 8:55 pm
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Affectionatedragon
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Re: This is an essay I wrote for english....
Thanks you two.. Kinda glad I posted it, mainly cause now I see some boo boo's I didn't before. lol
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Don't let a man put anything over on you except an umbrella.
-- Mae West
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Jun/1/2009, 12:42 pm
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lotty467
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Re: This is an essay I wrote for english....
Bless. It has been, and is difficult for you. A lovely piece of writing, an education to me, and I am grateful you posted this personal account for us to share with you. You come accross as a really nice and sound person.
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Jun/4/2009, 3:04 pm
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