Epilepsy Lessons

A couple of days ago I noted the ten year anniversary of my evacuation from Morocco.  That evacuation is notable not only for how acutely it impacted my life at that time, but as a reminder of a different sort.  My last seizure occurred around the same time, shortly before the war began.  The anxiety of waiting for the war in Iraq to begin, knowing that such an event would likely require my evacuation from Youssoufia, got to me in the end.  I didn't sleep for roughly 3 days. My seizure medication is no match for that level of exhaustion.

In some ways, the seizure was a blessing.  The physical exhaustion following the seizure robbed me of the anxiety that had kept me sleepless. I slept well for those next two days and by the time I was on a plane home I'd resolved to keep the seizure to myself.  I knew it was 100% tied to my exhaustion and sleeplessness. Lack of sleep is my strongest trigger for seizures and I'd really done a number on my body with those last few days of worry. I went home, I slept, the anxiety dissipated, and my life began its march down a path I hadn't expected, as is typical of life.

That was 10 years ago.  I'm on the same drugs today that I was on in that Moroccan apartment, though my dosage these days is smaller, and I'm intensely aware of how much sleep I'm getting.  Aside from this rabid attention to sleep details, my external life is no different from those who do not have this condition.  I'm blessed that my drugs allow me to lead a very normal life. But  having lived  18 years of my life with this threat, I wonder today how it has changed me.  What aspects of my nature are tied to this condition? What parts of my personality have been strengthened or dampened by it, if any? I've read about people with epilepsy also being more prone to anxiety disorders, and having dealt with my share of anxiety, I wonder how closely these conditions are tied.  Or perhaps I'm just another Type A Nervous Nelly and would be regardless of epilepsy.

After my diagnosis at 14, I remember being incredibly anxious that my brain would eat itself, that this was the beginning of some slow mental decline.  I was so proud of my straight As, my self-worth so wrapped up in being a smart and generally impressive student, that the terror of seizures erasing some of that aptitude plagued me. If I forgot the answer to a question on a test, I'd worry that it was information the seizures must have deleted.  Even today, my dad will tell a story of my childhood and if my memory is hazy of the event I'll wonder if it was a chunk of life a seizure stole. While it's no longer a true fear, that itch of worry still pesters me on my weaker days.

While I wonder about epilepsy's influence on my anxious tendencies, overall, I am simply grateful. I've done enough volunteer work with the Epilepsy Foundation to know what could have been my experience. Who am I to deserve drugs that work well? How am I any more deserving than another patient whose seizures require brain surgery or triple cocktails of medications or any number of therapies? And even surgery and medication are no promise of a seizure-free life for many. To have such a well-controlled condition makes complaining of it feel truly ungrateful.  It has never altered my dreams or caused me to rethink a goal, and for that, I am thankful.

More than anything though, I think epilepsy has been key in shaping my empathy. There is something about a sudden diagnosis that makes life seem particularly delicate and precious.  And even though presently well-controlled, I'm aware of how little doctors know about the "short circuit" in my brain. I know that changes to my body, hormones, stress, accidents, exhaustion, can wreak havoc in new ways at any moment. I know that at any given time, my well-controlled brain could change.  That tenuousness does not halt my steps, but I do think it makes me more sensitive to others' difficulties. Welcoming the surprises of life, leaving what cannot be controlled in the hands of God, is a skill I've acquired out of necessity, as is always the case. Recognizing what can be changed, and what must be left to faith, is a gift I credit to my epilepsy experience. And it's a gift that translates to every pocket of my life. So I will not thank God for epilepsy, but I can thank Him for his provision of excellent health in the wake of that diagnosis, the love of God-fearing parents, and the personal gifts of serenity and empathy in the spirit of a continually-anxious woman.

Ten Years

Ten years ago the war in Iraq started.  I received a text message shortly thereafter in my Peace Corps site in Morocco telling me to travel to Marrakech to join my fellow volunteers in a hotel I've since forgotten.  I'd spent the 48 hours prior to this message writing letters in phonetic Arabic and French to various students and friends in my city.  I'd said a clumsy, ineffective goodbye to my classes, never really believing that I'd not return. Surely there wouldn't be a war. Surely, even if my country did go to war, it wouldn't reach its fingers to my dusty, ugly street in Central Morocco.  What use did I have for thinking about a war? There were lessons to plan. Maps to paint. Languages to learn.

I received the text and somehow word spread. Somehow my Moroccan friends ventured over, knocked on my door, asked if I needed help. Some of my students said they would stand by my door, just to be safe. Safe from what? All of the sudden I felt threatened by something larger, something full of shadows.

I walked to my adoptive family and told Leila the news.  She was brushing her teeth and her gums were bleeding.  She kissed me a dozen times, eyes full of tears.  I kept telling her I was sure I'd be back.  I told her not to worry.  And I told her that everything in my apartment was divided between her family and two others. Even now, I wonder how I had enough Arabic to communicate so many instructions, so much grief. Passion makes the brain move faster, I suppose. I left her my clothes, my jewelry, my scarves, my kitchen wares, just in case I was unable to come back for a long while.

And a long while has been ten years...