Chapter Six: Haywire in the Brain

A few years into the relationship I had a seizure. It was a big one; a grand mal seizure. I was out of work at the time, sleeping in later and later each morning while still feeling fatigued as though I wasn't getting enough sleep. One day my ex came into our bedroom to grab something or another. She found me violently convulsing on our bed. She ran outside to a neighbor that she had been chatting with over a cup of coffee and screamed "Something is wrong with Michael! Call 911!" She ran back into the room and found me blue in the face and choking. She climbed onto the bed and yelled "You're not going to die on me!", turned me to my side and started to pound my back. I coughed up a plug of saliva and blood. During my seizure I had bit my tongue, a common occurrence with a grand mal. Usually the victim will involuntarily clear their own throat, but sometimes they don't. This was the case with Olympic gold medalist Florence Griffith Joyner. If the throat doesn't clear, the victim suffocates. The actions of my ex might very well have saved my life.


When the paramedics arrived at our apartment I had awakened into a state of utter confusion. This is a not too uncommon post-seizure condition that usually lasts a short matter of time, but the emergency workers nonetheless pinned me to the bed and inserted an I.V. line into my arm, which I immediately tore off. It took five men to wrestle me to the gurney. I don't remember any of this; I was in shock and completely unaware of what was going on.


They drove me to the nearest emergency room with my ex in close pursuit. As I was wheeled through the doors I screamed "Help! They're trying to kill me!" I was sent to a vacant room where I passed out and came to a few minutes later. It's really weird waking up in an emergency room not knowing how you got there. I looked around. There were puffy clouds framed against a light blue sky border lining the tops of the walls. Probably for a calming affect on the more rowdy patients. This is the first thing I saw. I thought "Am I dead?" Then I saw the I-med pole and the line going into my arm. Then I noticed that my wrists and ankles were tied to the gurney. I found this very disturbing. Had I gone crazy and hurt my ex? A nurse came in to check on me with a disgusted look in her face. I'm sure the whole staff thought I was whacked out on drugs. I asked for my mate figuring that she could tell me what was going on. The nurse told me that she'd get the doctor. He came in a minute later, convinced that I was suffering from a drug overdose. I assured him that I hadn't done anything more illicit than pot in years. He told me that we'd just wait to see what the toxicology report said, then left the room to get my ex. She was in tears when she saw me, then told me what had happened.


The doc came back with the blood test results confirming what I had told him. His whole demeanor changed, as did the nurse's. He ordered a cat scan to rule out a brain tumor. Once that was done he came back at me with "We don't know what caused your seizure...something must have gone haywire." Haywire!? Haywire in my brain? That wasn't very comforting. Eventually, after visiting a county hospital for another cat scan and more tests, the diagnosis came back "idiopathic seizure syndrome", a medical term for "we don't know what the f..k went wrong". This, unfortunately, is the case with a vast majority of seizures. I was prescribed phenytoin [generic dilantin] and that was it. Anti-seizure drugs for the rest of my life. I never liked the way the drug made me feel. It made me lethargic, and made my depressions occur more frequently and last longer. The county doc must have thought my seizure was a fluke, because six months later he weaned me off my medication. I ended up having another seizure, though this one wasn't quite as sever. This time my eyes opened to my lifesaver, who was staring straight back at me. By the look in her face I knew what had happened. I said "Seizure?" She nodded. I replied "Shit". She didn't call the paramedics. She handled my state of confusion by telling me that everything was alright and to go back to sleep. She did exactly what you're supposed to do with a seizure sufferer. I thanked God that she was there for me.

The doc looked stunned and apologetic when he heard of my recurrence. He put me back on the drug, and I'd keep taking it for years. Finally I got sick and tired of the side affects, feeling that I didn't want to go through the rest of my life with the drug induced lethargy and depression. I preferred the risk of death. The doc told me I could have another seizure tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now. Ten years could go by and I could have another seizure. I didn't care. My mind was made up. Over the course of three months I slowly weaned myself off the drug. I never again had another seizure.

The whole experience contributed to my overall insecurity over ever making a go of it alone. It convinced me that it was better that I stay connected to my ex just to play it safe.

Next up: Distance and Pain