Do I Or Don't I?

I sit in a marginally comfortable armed chair, perspiring slightly under my black suit jacket, across the desk from someone who has the power to change the course of my life with two words: "You're hired" or "I'm sorry." My heart speeds up in my chest and my clammy hands begin to shake. It begins with, "Tell me about yourself," and I start in on my slightly-eclectic professional background, explaining the positions I've held, what they've entailed, what I learned and how I would be an asset to their company. But soon enough comes the question I dread: "So you left your job in October of last year.What have you been doing since?"

I've dealt in the past with telling friends, classmates, colleagues and current employers about my epilepsy, but what's the protocol when it comes to telling future employers? It was never relevant before, but when I'm asked about what I've done over the past year, what do I say? Technically I can't be not hired because of my epilepsy as long as I'm able to perform the tasks associated with the job, but "technically" isn't how the world works. I'm proud of what I've done over the past year. I'm proud of the strength I found in myself and the relationships that grew when I learned how to depend on the people who love me. I learned about life; I learned about the world; I learned what it means to be human. But as soon as I say, "Well, I had brain surgery," the air in the room changes. I watch their eyes in slow motion, waiting to see which way they go: do they cloud over or light up? Am I written off as unfit, unable, or do they want to know more? Are they wary or intrigued? Have I just signed my own death sentence? So sometimes I just choose to omit one of the most formative years of my adult life. "What have you done over the past year?" In that split second I make my decision, "I've been writing. I'm currently working on a non-fiction book about surgery for epilepsy patients. I've also been doing a lot of work with the Epilepsy Foundation." I hold my breath. Did I make the right choice? I never really know.

When I first started this blog, my mom warned me that a future employer might see it and not hire me because of my epilepsy. I told her that that's fine because I wouldn't want to work for someone like that anyway. I still don't, but what happens when jobs are hard to come by? Do I have to put my financial needs above my principles until I can prove that I'm just as good as anyone else? I don't know. I'd like to think that my surgery wouldn't work against me, but unfortunately the world is full of people who don't understand that health problems can be overcome, whether you're seizure-free or not. Life goes on. People forge on. I know that, so why do I feel this anxiety gnawing through me from the inside out? Why do I feel the need to be discrete when I wear my scar like a badge of honor? A badge covered by dark curls, but a badge none the less. I just feel so conflicted.

Last night I realized something obvious, something plain as day: Google. Anyone who's interested in hiring me could easily find this blog, could find my writing, could read about all of my innermost thoughts. I suppose I should feel slightly exposed, but instead I feel relieved. I don't really have much of a choice, do I? Even if I don't talk about my surgery during an interview, it will be found, it will be learned. If they're gonna find out anyway, there's no reason for me to hide it. I never want to feel ashamed of my epilepsy. Never. For me, talking about it has always been my small way to spread awareness, one conversation at a time. Maybe now it means one interview at a time.

The Extra Inch

The botanic gardens are empty but for a small spattering of mothers with daughters, husbands with wives, friends laughing among the dried trees and bushes, their nametags curled in on themselves, mimicking the brown leaves that cover the ground. The hot glue I used to affix purple ribbons to pins and jewels to ribbon breaks apart like rubber that's lost its stick. A plastic badge hangs from a black lanyard around my neck; it says:

Erica Egge
I had brain surgery in January 2011 and have been seizure-free since.

The most formative year of my adult life reduced to such a small sentence. How insignificant it seems as I read it upside down. The question that has been growing since summer appears in my mind full fledged: what now? What am I supposed to do now? How could anything compare to the courage I've found within myself, the inspiration I've given others in return for that which they gave me? Do I return to the life I had before? It seems so unremarkable. Could my soul survive on the nourishment of volunteering or is that not enough? I can still blog, still talk, still advocate, but it's not enough.

Today was the Foundation's kick off to the event series Living Well With Epilepsy. Dr. James Rouse did more than speak, he inspired. He pushed us to do more for ourselves and each other. Near the beginning of the seminar, he asked us to reach our hand in the air as high as we could. Then he said to reach higher, and every hand grew at least an inch. He observed that no one really reached as high as they could until they were pushed further. It's that extra inch, he said, that we need to live in. That extra inch is where we find greatness. It made me think.

What about a fund? What if I raised a fund that would award grants to epilepsy research and outreach programs? Could I pull it off? I'd have to raise it from scratch, find ways to promote it, figure out how best to invest it and, maybe the most difficult, how to award it. How would I decide who and what most deserved it? How much would I, or could I, give? Could I really pull it off?

Guest Post

Mayo Clinic has a blog where patients can tell their "Mayo story". You can check mine out here! You can share your own as video or text. Let me know if you do!