Thomas Jefferson High

Walking into the long, rectangular room of waxy-looking tables, I was greeted with a wave of cold; Room 5 was easily ten degrees colder than the linoleum hallway leading to it. Maybe the absence of hormones in skinny jeans and patterned t-shirts chattering and texting their ways to class had something to do with it.

I saw Marcee from the Epilepsy Foundation of Colorado at the far end directing a man with a projector and liaising with what looked like a teacher. Another girl stood nearby, wearing the slightly unsure look of a teenager wanting to help but not quite sure how. She must be the Youth Council girl. A hug to Marcee, a handshake to the girl, Delany, and I began realigning tables to face our panel, making sure that no one would be blocked by the grey projector cart. A ringing that sounded more like a telephone than a bell floated in from the hallway - our cue. We rearranged a few more chairs just as students began to file into the classroom.

The classes from Period 1 of 5 settled into their seats and Marcee stood up: "Hi, guys. We're here today to talk to you about epilepsy." A middle-aged teacher interrupted with a sharp, "phones away. No electronics." I thought with a smile that in my day, phones seen outside of lockers were confiscated. Not that I had a phone until eleventh grade anyway. A scuffle came from the corner as cells were shoved into backpacks and purses to a soundtrack of muttering. When faces had all surfaced again, Marcee continued, introducing Delany and me before beginning a video on epilepsy awareness made a few months ago by the Youth Council. The ROTC students sat closer to the front, and in the moving light from the pulled-down screen, I watched their faces, polite and attentive, thinking of questions to ask when prompted during Q&A. The lights came on when the Epilepsy Foundation's red flame logo appeared on the screen, causing me to squint while my eyes adjusted. I took a sip from the neutered latte in front of me, lamenting my one year post-surgical moratorium on caffeine. I watched Delany stand and introduce herself, much better prepared than I with a typed up script of her history with epilepsy. I pushed back my blue chair when she sat down and stood to deliver the mini-bio I've given so many times before: I was diagnosed when I was seven; I have simple partial seizures; this is what happens when I have a seizure; I tried a dozen medications, but none of them worked; I had surgery last January; I have a scar that runs in an arc, covering the length of my head; I haven't had a seizure in ten months.

"Does anyone have a question?", Marcee asked. One hand went up. "Yes, you in the black shirt." When his was answered, two more hands came up. Then three. They really were interested; they wanted to learn. Well, even if they didn't, they did a very good job of hiding it. I was touched.

Throughout the five periods, three different kids told us they had epilepsy: two girls in a dance team class whose friends all knew talked openly about their own experiences and one boy a few periods later came up to our table after his class, asking about the Youth Council. A boy who came through at least twice with different classes told us that he'd been at the talk last year and remembered what to do when a woman in his church had a tonic-clonic seizure one Sunday. Smiles crossed my face at these stories; these kids were learning.

It wasn't until 2:45 that I walked through the parking lot with Marcee, my coat buttoned up but my mittons at home. "That was really great." "Yeah, it was."