I had my first seizure at the tender age of 17. It was an embarrassing experience, to say the least, as it happened right in the common room of my sixth-form school. My crushes, mean bullies, and friends were all there to witness me collapsing and convulsing on the floor. It was mortifying.
My parents were quickly called to the school, and an ambulance arrived promptly. However, I was completely unaware of the commotion surrounding me. I had no recollection of the muscles tightening or the lack of oxygen to my brain. All I remembered was the feeling of being trapped in my own body and the sound of my twin sister’s panicked shouts as I hit the ground.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself surrounded by my sister, friends, and a suspicious wet patch on my clothes. I was chatting with them, but my speech was slurred, my balance was off, and I couldn’t recall anything that had happened in the past half-hour. To add insult to injury, one of my teachers had the audacity to ask my sister if I had been drinking.
Just as I was on the cusp of adulthood, my dreams and aspirations came crashing down. Losing those precious minutes of my life was disconcerting, but I hadn’t fully grasped the reality of the situation yet. I got a day off from school and was left with a headache, numerous get-well-soon messages from acquaintances, and a comforting takeaway pizza for dinner – a dream day for me.
However, things took a serious turn when medical tests were scheduled – an EEG, an MRI, and an ECG. The following month, I experienced a seizure while asleep. This pattern repeated the next month and the month after that. Just as I was on the verge of adulthood, my seizures became a strict authority figure, dictating what I could and couldn’t do. I couldn’t drive until I had gone a year without a seizure. I had to be mindful of alcohol consumption as it interfered with my medication’s effectiveness. And I couldn’t stay up late because sleep deprivation could trigger a seizure. To this day, my classic Mini City E car, lovingly restored by my dad and me, remains parked in the garage, waiting to be driven.
Nearly a year after my first seizure, a diagnosis was finally given. My sister had captured footage of one of my seizures (ironically brought on by the stress of her impending departure for university the following day), which aided the doctors in confirming what was happening to me. It was then that the doctor delivered the news: I had epilepsy. In just a minute, I gained a disability.
The seizures I experienced were tonic-clonic seizures. During the tonic stage, I would lose consciousness and collapse. This would be followed by the clonic stage, characterized by body convulsions and limb jerking. After the seizures, I would enter a postictal state, during which my brain would recover but I wouldn’t be back to normal. This explained the drunken appearance and memory loss.
Gradually, the puzzle pieces began to fit together. Epilepsy wasn’t genetic, which was a relief since my sister had become my unofficial chauffeur. It was triggered by stress (such as my upcoming exams and the traumatic end to a friendship at the time). The same part of the brain responsible for handling stress also played a role in seizures. Thus, the release of stress hormones could precipitate an episode.
I won’t deny that it gets me down sometimes. The day after a seizure is usually spent moping around, nursing a pounding headache, and attempting to recreate my dad’s comforting chocolate pudding while shedding tears. The thought of another seizure fills me with dread. I’m certainly not living the young adult life that 14-year-old me envisioned (although the idea of driving around Europe with Niall Horan seemed far-fetched anyway).
Nevertheless, I consider myself incredibly fortunate. I have amazing friends and a supportive family who don’t hesitate to sleep on my bedroom floor to ensure my safety. They shadow me around the house to prevent any accidents during the postictal state. Additionally, I’ve discovered that disclosing my epilepsy during a dull conversation instantly makes things more interesting for me, albeit more awkward for the other person. Having a seizure during a tote bag painting session turned out to be a bonding experience and a way to strengthen friendships. And while I may have had a mishap in my friend Megan’s bed regarding bladder control, she has always been understanding.
What could have been a burden weighing me down has become my favorite party joke. It’s my excuse for leaving a nightclub early. And it’s an easy way to garner sympathy on a bad day. This cruel twist of fate has taught me not to take myself too seriously and to stop allowing stress to govern my life. Most importantly, it has shown me the endless support and love of those around me. Without them, I wouldn’t have made it this far.
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