The Day I Lost My Life

The day that I had my first seizure is the day that I lost my privacy. The day I lost my sense of safe. The day I lost my life.

I am not the most sophisticated of people. I spend most of my time in my room with a head full of absolutely nothing and a mouth that could ramble itself sore in an empty room. On November 20, 2017 at 9:05 PM, that’s exactly what I was doing. I was laying in my bed, most likely hadn’t moved in about two hours, texting my friend every funny thing I saw in my social media feed.

I felt my eyes slowly blink themselves open, not having realized that they even shut. Everything was fuzzy. I looked around my room, and there was an EMT at the end of my bed; I could only tell because of the uniform. It was a man I believe, short grey hairs speckled in his beard. I knew that there were other people in my room, but I couldn’t seem to focus on them; all I saw was the man at the end of my bed with a stethoscope around his neck and a navy blue uniform.

My memory is pretty fuzzy at this point, as I was in and out of consciousness. I must’ve blacked out again, because next thing I know I’m downstairs putting shoes on over sweat socks, without any memory of leaving my bed or walking down the fifteen stairs behind me. When I looked up from my shoes, I saw my mother sitting next to me with her eyebrows in a crease. I looked in front of me, and I saw a stretcher. My memory gets fuzzy here too.

I remember being rolled down the pathway in my front yard with my legs and midsection strapped down, watching the car lights rushing down the bridge in the distance in front of the ebony sky. Then I remember being loaded into an ambulance, my mom standing just beyond the doors as they closed, staring at me with an emotion in her eyes that I couldn’t place. Things are still hazy, but I remember talking with the blonde braided female EMT who was sat next to me. She had a computer on her lap, typing faster than I could—I never properly learned which fingers are supposed to type on which keys.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice was youthful, she seemed much younger than the man I had seen earlier. She looked to be in her early to mid twenties. I think her eyes were blue.

“I feel fine, just a little confused.” My legs were numb as my head throbbed with every crack and pothole that I could’ve sworn wasn’t there before. Pennies were in the back of my mouth and a steady tingling spread throughout my body, the kind you get the day after you are forced to run suicides in a gym with a conveniently broken air conditioner.

We talked a bit more during the ride, though I can’t quite recall exactly what we talked about. My memory gets fuzzy again here.

The darkness faded to worry-filled faces and blinding fluorescent lights, and I was at my wits end. I was so confused- why am I here? What’s going on? I was freaking out.

After a minute or two, I realized that the worry-filled faces were those of my family. I saw my older brothers, my mom and my dad.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I was in a hospital bed, in a gown that I couldn’t remember putting on, surrounded by my family and a taped down needle in my arm.

“You had a seizure.” My mother’s typically sarcastic voice was lackluster and foreign; a voice I’d never heard before. “You made a weird noise while you were in your room—it sounded like you were either laughing or crying. Your dad yelled for you twice but you never responded. Vaughn went up stairs, he said ‘I’m going to check on her’. He yelled for us to come upstairs, and your father jumped over the banister, you should’ve seen it.” Her lips curved into a slight smirk. “His sandals went flying. I ran up stairs with your father, and when we saw you—Jade, I thought you were overdosing. Your eyes were in the back of your head. Only the whites were showing. Your whole body was convulsing, you were spitting up blood. Your father picked you up and screamed in your face, but you just wouldn’t respond. He shoved his fingers in your mouth because your teeth were clenching so hard. You bit the crap out of his fingers. Vaughn called 911.”

I was confused—shocked maybe? I really didn’t know how to feel. I had had epilepsy for about a month at the time, but I had never had a seizure. I had muscle spasms, that’s it. I remembered how I forgot to take my medication that day—I was loopy because of a fight I had with my friends the day previous, and my medication just wasn’t my top priority I guess.

My brother Ray, the big strong soldier full of wit and never seen knocked off of his feet looked like a survivor in shock. He looked broken, a thousand yard stare, and he could not stop playing with his thumbs. He stood up from his chair, white knuckling his way over to me like I was fine china, like a single breath in my direction would break me. He kissed my forehead the way you do when you feel like it’s the last time you’re going to see someone. His face made me feel sick. I looked up to him above anyone, and he looked so tired, so scared. That hurt pretty bad.

The doctor came in and asked me a few questions that I absolutely cannot remember; a nurse took my blood (and god, I hated that. Needles hurt). I had to pee in a cup, and I got my blood pressure taken. The nurse told me my blood pressure number and I asked if that was good.

“Well yes, and it’s a lot better than it was earlier.” The nurse was wrapping up the equipment as she talked, I was confused at the time as to how she was so calm, but I had to realize that she’s had to have done this plenty of times before.

“What do you mean it’s a lot better than it was earlier?” I had no idea as to what she was talking about.

“Jade, they took your blood pressure earlier.” My mom said this as if it was something I should’ve known, but I still had no idea as to what they were talking about. At this point I had become painfully aware of all of the holes in my memory.

“Mom, why does my thumb hurt?” The nurse had left by this point. I was examining my left thumb, the pad of it was red and a little purple, and it was sore.

“They pricked it earlier. Don’t you remember?” My mom looked even more concerned at this point.

“I don’t remember that at all.”

I found out that the reason that my mouth tasted like pennies was because I had bitten chunks out of boths sides of it.

The doctor eventually came back into the room, we all had been sitting (and in my case, laying) around as my dad and brothers talked about whatever, and my mom just stroked my hair. I checked my mom’s phone. It was 2:06 AM.

“So we checked your keppra levels.” Keppra is my epilepsy medication. I was taking four keppra pills a day, two in the morning and two at night, plus vitamin B-6 because Keppra can make you aggressive. “Your levels were dangerously low. How many days did you forget to take your medication?” The doctor was staring at a computer next to my bed; it seemed as if everyone in this hospital had a problem with looking at a patient in the eyes.

“I only missed today.”

“Are you sure? That doesn’t really make sense.”

And I was frustrated at this point. I’m in a hospital bed, surrounded by my now traumatized family, and the doctor is asking me if I’m sure if I only missed one day. Yes I was sure. But I know it’s their job to ask, so it was whatever.

“Yes I’m sure.”

“Well, your Keppra levels should be between 15 and 49.”

My mom spoke up at this point. “Okay, what were her levels?”

“Her levels were at 3. Your levels shouldn’t be that low if you’ve only missed one day of medication. We have to up her dosage to 6 pills a day.”

I tuned the rest of the conversation out, because this is the point where I started stressing out. What if they won’t let me drive? I was supposed to start Drivers Ed in January, and I was beyond terrified. What if I forget my medication and I swerve into a tree? I was scared. I still am pretty scared about it.

Eventually I was discharged, I got dressed, and I walked with trembling legs to my parents’ car after Ray gave me a hug, walking to his own car. I later found out that he slept at my house that night, because he was too scared of going home and not being able to make sure that I was okay. On the car ride home I was told how my parents were going to put a baby monitor in my room, and how I’d have to start wearing an epilepsy bracelet. Sure, it is annoying to be ranted at after going through an event like that, but it’s a coping mechanism. My parents were vulnerable—my dad is never vulnerable. So he did what he knew best. He lectured me and told me that my room was a disaster and that I needed to clean it. He was scared, and he didn’t want to show it. My room was a disaster though.

I never realized the impact something so small, like forgetting to take two pills in the morning, could have on someone else’s life. I always kind of saw myself as a speck of dust that no one cared to clean up. I felt like a background character in my own life. But that night, I saw that I could make the strongest, stone faced men into children, scared of losing their favorite toy. I made a sharp-tongued, sharp-witted woman speechless. I made my brother, who couldn’t be bothered to care about anything, scared. I realized that I am not nothing. I can change the world for some.

So yes, the day that I had my first seizure is the day that I lost my privacy. The day I lost my sense of safety. The day I lost my life. But the day I had my seizure, I found a new life—a new perspective. I am not nothing. Yes, everyday now, I am checked up on every five minutes, and I am constantly asked whether or not I’ve taken my medication today, but I know it’s because people care about me. And that’s a pretty good feeling.