Friday, August 9, 2013

Stroll for Epilepsy

The morning air is cool as I wait at the bus stop. I think how the summer is waning and am glad I wore a long sleeve shirt. My feet still hurt in the same sandals I wore last night, but I like the reminder as I savor the afterglow.

Around five o'clock the pavillion at Como started to fill up with people in tennis shoes, workout pants and matching t-shirts. Some had the grey shirt from last year's Epilepsy Foundation walk, some the blue shirts from this wear. Still others wore the colors, logos and names of their teams. Red shirts with ladybugs, dark purple shirts with T-Rexes, pink with tiaras and the ever-present yellow of Hannah's Bananas bonded them together around the person for whom they walked. Vibrant greens, navy blues and Superman capes represented the clinics, hospitals and pharmaceutical companies that help care for us. Foundation employees and volunteers with name tags ran around setting out signs, checking in teams, giving directions, making sure people knew where to get water. And me: I stood behind a table of books with John, watching and enjoying it all as a large smile graced my face. 

Last night was the largest Twin Cities Stroll for Epilepsy yet, and we're so happy and grateful. Thank you to everyone for your advocacy and support for such a wonderful organization!

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Living In a Brainstorm the book now available!!

Opening a new window in my browser, I cautiously typed in the address for Amazon, careful to choose each letter correctly; no spelling mistakes to slow me down. The logo appeared first and I read the sign under it, cajoling me to Try Prime as the rest of the page rendered. Finally the cursor blinked in the search box and I typed in my name, quickly this time, my caution replaced by impatient excitement. E-r-i-c-a E-g- the auto-complete filled in the last two letters and I thrilled that the electronic behemoth knew my name. Two seconds might have been an eternity as the search list populated, and there, right there at the top, was my book: Living In a Brainstorm. Available in paperback and Kindle. My book, my story, the six months that changed my life.

I decided to split the book into three parts: Part I Decisions, follows my decision to have surgery and all of the testing - both physical and emotional - that went into it. Part II Surgery is comprised by the eight days I spent in the hospital having two surgeries to hopefully cure my epilepsy. It's told partly by me but also in part through the emails and messages that went back and forth between my parents and my family and friends as they kept everyone updated and drew strength from each others' love. The last section, Part III Recovery, includes my first excursion out of the house, figuring out how to go up and down stairs again, getting staples taken out of my head and learning how to depend on other people let them in.

I want to thank everyone for all of their love and support throughout this amazing, terrifying, thrilling, painful, wonderful journey. I couldn't have done it without each and every one of you and I will be eternally grateful.

Love,

Erica

CreateSpace: https://www.createspace.com/4323804
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Living-Brainstorm-Erica-Marie-Moos/dp/098953801X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1374451089&sr=8-1&keywords=living+in+a+brainstorm

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

May

I watch the wind blow the red, white and blue British flags hung on the rooftop of the pub across the street as I sit in the waiting room of the clinic at work. It's been humid and cloudy here for a week now and it feels like ages since I've been dry. My skin feels wet, the clothes on my back and in my dresser (read: my floor), the couch, the kitchen, everything. I'm hoping for the sun to come out soon, the flapping fabric of Her Majesty to blow away the muggyness.

It's been about 20 minutes since I handed my lab order to the man who came into the room and introduced himself in a mumbling I couldn't understand. Apparently you can't just bring in an order anymore, they need to call your doctor for a diagnosis code before they can even draw your blood.

Ooh, I heard a chart slipped into the rack on the door - maybe he's coming back!

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Changed

It's amazing how time flies. The dichotomy of a vivid memory: so crisp and so clear it could be yesterday, yet so far away that you hardly recognize the you that appears through the mist of the mind. I think less and less about my surgery these days and I'm grateful I wrote it all down when I realize its ability to leave me, the sands of time running through my fingers into a pile on the ground from which it came. So much has changed from those days, yet somehow I feel the same. Changed. No longer who I used to be, I'm complete. Whole. Erica 2.0.

I made a friend last night who's only beginning her journey. I recognized the fear, anticipation, excitment, anxiety, elation and terror that played across her face in concert, all at once. She's going to have my surgery, our surgery. Anyone who's followed this blog has gone through this surgery with me; I was never alone. Whether it was prayers, good vibes, healing energy or something else, all that you sent me forever altered my life in such an amazing way. Now I pray for her, I send her good mojo and healing energy. I had such an amazing experience and I can't wait for her to have the same, for her to find her new life.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Double Tap

Twenty minutes later my stomach is still churning. My hands are shakey and my face flushed. My mind races, always waiting for the second shoe to drop. I feel like I've been waiting for things to fall apart for a year and a half now.

My computer screen rushed through systems and sheets on its own while I waited. I checked my phone as I do when I can't do anything but wait. I tipped the thin, blue phone over to look it in the face and my stomach dropped: two missed calls from the doctor. Why on Earth would they call twice?! It must be something really bad. This is finally it.

I pressed the voicemail button and waited, holding my breath. "Hi, Erica, this is the MRI department. We found a pink water bottle that we think you may have left here last night. Give us a call!" beep. Okay, maybe it's alright. But I braced myself as I pushed play and the second message: "Hi, Erica. We got your labs back and your Lamictal level is right in the middle of the therapeutic zone." beep. I'm okay. I repeated it again, trying to force it to sink in. I'm okay this time.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Mississippi River Boulevard

Each morning I try to memorize the route we take to work, winding, following, twisting our way across the Mississippi. I watch for cars from the passenger seat and tell mom she can turn after this red car goes by. After thirty years of living in St. Paul and working in Minneapolis, she knows all of the back ways. I, on the other hand, started my job only three months ago. The only way I know is the straight shot highway, which clogs up every morning at 7:30 like clockwork, so if I leave the house later than 7:20, I'm S.O.L.

Most days I ride with mom, commenting as we walk to the garage that I like her suit, she responding that it's the same as mine. The air is no longer crisp and we leave our jackets in the hall closet. I carry a red nylon bag with my lunch and heels to switch into at my desk. She carries an old Jo Malone shopping bag that perfectly fits a Tupperware and half a toasted pita with hummus in a ziplock sandwich bag.

We talk or listen to MPR as we ride along the trees and big houses that line Mississippi River Boulevard. We've worked out the most effective verbiage to use when telling her if she can merge onto the highway for the last stretch of the trip. We have a nice routine and I'll be sad to lose it.

Thanks for letting me drive with you, mom.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Like Riding a Bike

Butterflies flitted around my stomach so strong I thought they might lift me off my feet and float me away. I held the shiny red and gold bike by the handlebars, trying to stay calm and hoping no one could see me shaking. Okay, I can do this. I swung my right leg over the bar and inched on my tiptoes to the seat. I didn't like hardly being able to touch the coarse black driveway when sitting on the plastic/rubber hybrid of the bike seat. I wanted to be closer to the ground so I could catch myself from falling, but I was told no.

I fiddled with my helmet, I checked and double checked the brakes and gear shifts to be sure I knew how to work them. I put one foot on a peddle and nudged it forward to get it in place, hopping along on my other foot to keep up. Finally, with no more adjustments to make, no more excuses to stall, I pushed off.

Heart in my throat, my left foot lifted from the pavement to its peddle, propelling me onward. I wobbled like a child on her first day without training wheels, a concerned, focused, terrified, determined look on my face. The end of the driveway came closer and closer: a dip to the road and a bump at the seam loomed ahead and I held on tight. I picked up speed - maybe five inches an hour - and held my breath and... I did it! Safely in the empty street, creeping elation broke free, washing over me, and I noticed the smile plastered to my face. My whole body was tense and my knuckles white, and I tried to relax but I was still shaking, though this time from excitement, not fear.

I peddled on down the block, not yet trusting myself to stop or turn. As John pulled up next to me, I called over, "They're right, it really is like riding a bike!"

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