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!

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.

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.

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.

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!"

Because You Can

I push my dark curls back with the same grey elastic headband I wore last night and the one before. Not yet long enough for a ponytail, my hair needs some other form of constraint to keep it free of the soapy suds that wash away the layers of the day. I look at myself in the mirror of the well-lit bathroom, towel-drying my face and wiping off mascara residue from under my eyes. Short feathery wisps of down float above my forehead, too short and delicate to be captured. I remember being young and my mom gently brushing them with her fingers, tracing the different directions they grew. Every time I find my reflection, I see how much we look alike: same olive skin, same dark eyes, same slightly crooked face, same love of our family.

Tonight we all gathered, my mom and her four sisters, me and my younger sister, my dad, my aunts' spouses, childhood friends whose own children have long since left childhood; new friends, old friends, work friends, family friends, life friends. We all gathered in the same dimly-lit back room of the restaurant where my aunt was married four years ago. Tonight was again in celebration: a birthday. Her sixty first birthday. No, it's not a multiple of ten, no particular anniversary or precious metal, but the most special birthday so far. Without a cane, she seemed to glide and float across the room with a smile that spread from ear to ear as she greeted and was greeted by every glowing guest.

In time we joined together in a joyful chorus of Happy Birthday and when she stood to give a short speech, I soaked up every word I could. Be grateful for every morning that you wake up. Choose to live. Choose to fight. Face life head on, don't watch it pass you by as you wait to die a little more each day. Thank God, thank the earth, thank the people who love you, thank yourself for the world around you! Move your body because you can. Live every single day because you can. Above all, never forget how lucky and blessed you are.

Seize The Tweetosphere!

Tweets: one hundred and forty characters to tell the world what you're thinking. It gives a numerical value to, "So much to say and so little time". Well, technically it's space, not time, but if I think hard enough, I could probably figure something out with a space-time continuum. I really don't actually know what that means, though, which could cause a problem...

Anyway, for Purple Day, we're Seizing The Internet!! Tonight we start seizing the tweetosphere. A hundred and forty character limit makes getting across a point tricky. To help, I've put together some tweet-sized sound bites for you here. Don't forget to use the hashtag #SeizeTheInternet and feel free to spread the love by tagging your other favorite epilepsy bloggers and tweeters :) Check out Living Well With Epilepsy's Directory for more of us!

(Stats courtesy of Talk About It.org)

50 MILLION people around the world live with #epilepsy. #SeizeTheInternet!

If someone is having a #seizure, DO NOT restrain them! #SeizeTheInternet!

Call 911 if it's someone's first #seizure or if it lasts more than 5 minutes - an ambulance is expensive #SeizeTheInternet!

#Epilepsy is NOT contagious! Who came up with that anyway? #SeizeTheInternet!

Nearly 3 million people in the US have #epilepsy. #SeizeTheInternet!

ONE-THIRD of people with #epilepsy live with uncontrollable seizures because no available treatment works for them. #SeizeTheInternet!

BETWEEN 4 AND 10 OUT OF 1,000 people on earth live with active seizures at any one time. #Epilepsy #SeizeTheInternet!

A #seizure is a jolt of electricity through the brain, kind of like a bolt of lightening. #epilepsy #SeizeTheInternet!

For 6 OUT OF 10 people living with #epilepsy, the cause of their #seizures is unknown. #SeizeTheInternet!

50,000 people die from #epilepsy-related causes in the United States every year. #SeizeTheInternet! @SUDEPAware

If someone is having a #seizure, DON'T put anything in their mouth! It's not possible to swallow your tongue. I promise. #SeizeTheInternet!