Over
40 years ago, my mother stepped onto a schoolyard as a healthy little
girl and left with lifelong seizures. The head injury was caused by an
ill designed game involving a pole, chain, and metal bar. The impact
didn’t result in stitches but what happened beneath the surface shaped
her life forever. And in turn mine.
Growing
up it never occurred to me that my mom was different. She took a
handful of pills every night and on occasion had what we call “spells”.
These petite-mal seizures were a part of who she was, and still is. Some
kids grow up with parents with asthma or allergies. They know to grab
inhalers and epipens. I knew to keep an eye on my mom to make sure it
didn’t get worse, but to otherwise go about my business and give her
some space.
It was her normal. It was my normal.
On
a sunny afternoon in the early 80’s my mom had a grand-mal seizure
while cleaning my bedroom. I was in the living room of our small one
bedroom apartment, Sesame Street on our television when I heard the
crash. I was four and terrified. I ran in to find my mom on the floor,
under my ride-on bouncy horse. She was shaking with blood dripping from
her mouth from biting her tongue. I knew exactly what was happening. She
was having a spell but this one was worse. Much worse. I ran up to her
and yelled for her to wake up. Maybe, if I yelled loud enough she would
come out of it. Yelling wasn’t helping her so I did what I thought was
right. I ran to the phone and called for help. I remember hitting
numbers but am not sure if I dialed correctly or not. I was worried but
knew if I stay calm, my mom would be ok.
Neither
my mom or I can remember if I actually completed the call. All I know
is that my next memory was of my mom, conscious, and my grandmother
soothing both of us. Everything was ok. My mom was ok. I went about to
my play and life went on.
This was our normal. This was our life.
I
always knew how to handle her spells. This grand-mal was no different.
Later, as a teenager, when I would recall the story to friends they
would say “That’s a lot for a kid to have on their plate.” I would
always shake my head and say, “No. Not at all. This is our normal.”
I
have never thought of my mom’s condition as a burden. I have never felt
sad or sorry that I grew up with a mom with seizures. I don’t know any
different. I do, however, find myself dreaming what it would have been
like for my mom. What would have happened if she didn’t step onto that
playground. What if a friend had called her away from the thing that hit
her. What if the kid that flung the chain at her head had been sick
that day. What if.
Then,
I come back from my daydream. The what if’s fade. My mom is my mom. She
is who she is not despite her injury but because of it. She is
compassionate and understanding especially of those with limitations.
She raised us to be open minded and not judge anyone. I never once felt
like I had too much on my plate. I love my mom. It was completely ok if
she sometimes needed me. I always need her.
-Michelle Stephens
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