Nanaw's New Blessing
Epilepsy had come between me and my grandchildren.
By Gayla
Fourth of July, and my sister-in-law was having a cookout. Once I would have looked forward to a gathering like this. Today my husband, David, had to convince me to go.
Since the spring I’d withdrawn little by little from the world. I’d become a prisoner of my epileptic seizures. I never knew when one would sneak up on me and knock me clear off my feet.
I tried different medications, but they only made me zoned out, less in control than ever. Doctors didn’t know what to do for me. How could I keep from injuring myself?
David came up with the idea of my wearing protective gear. “When you get up in the morning, slip these foam pads onto your elbows and knees, and wear this helmet,” he had said as he pulled the equipment out of a sports bag. I was desperate, ready to try anything. David helped me strap on the helmet and stepped back to take a look. “You’re suited up for the game now,” he said.
I had to laugh, catching sight of myself in the mirror. But it was hard to laugh when people stared at me in public, and the pads didn’t stop the convulsions. Seeing other people, especially strangers, became something to fear. At least today I’m with family, I thought. They understand. I’m still the same to them.
“Come say hello to Nanaw,” my daughter said, leading my young grandchildren up to my chair. I reached out my arms for a hug, but the children shrank back, not sure what to make of my strange getup. Who was I kidding? This is no kind of life, I thought as we drove home that day.
Epileptic seizures were nothing new to me. Despite my condition, I got married, raised children, held down a job at the supermarket for 14 years.
One simple blessing made all that possible. A few minutes before every seizure I experienced an “aura,” an unmistakable feeling that told me a seizure was coming on. My mind raced. Sounds, emotions and movements were magnified. I’d let my supervisor know and slip into the ladies room to sit down—safely—until the seizure passed.
Having epilepsy wasn’t easy, but God had given me a means to deal with it. He wanted me to have a full life, and my aura was what allowed it.
Then in May 1999 I had a seizure. No aura had warned me it was coming. I was caught completely off guard and fell where I stood. In the next few falls, I suffered a mild concussion and terrible bruising. Doctors couldn’t tell me why.
It was as if God had taken his gift away and left nothing in its place. Has he forgotten me? I wondered one evening a few weeks after the cookout. I had barely left the house since then. David grew more and more concerned about my isolation.
David turned to me from the desk where he was working at the computer. “I’m going to do some research on the internet,” he said. “We’ve got to find a way to help you.”
What could the internet possibly tell me that my doctors couldn’t? “I know all this,” I said as David pulled up yet another page of information on my condition. Then I noticed an icon over in the corner of the screen. “What’s that?” I asked.
“A chat room,” said David. “For people with epilepsy.”
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