I was sitting at the desk in the middle of the office, working on a word search puzzle. The book I had purchased the night before, with intentions of starting that day, was a few inches away from me. I was going to start it, but wanted to finish the word search I was working on first. All of my arrivals for the day had checked in already, and I still had a majority of my shift left. I had time.
A few feet ahead of me was the main desk in our office-- it had our computer, a phone, our in-house box to keep track of which guests were staying in which rooms, and the machine we used to make guest keys. And a few feet behind me, behind a partial divider, was our General Manager's desk, with a computer and a phone. I was in the center of the room, where I had control of everything.
...until I didn't.
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The only thing I distinctly remember was the ground rising up to my face rather quickly, as my chin jerked towards my left shoulder, and I couldn't stop it.
Imagine having no concept of time. Not knowing what happened. Not knowing how long you have been somewhere, or how you got there. Imagine being like that for more than an hour and a half.
The next thing I vaguely remember, I was sitting at the main desk up front. I was leaned back in the chair, and something woke me. I sat up and apologized to the man standing in front of me, a man I recognized as being a long term guest.
"How long was I like that," I asked.
I could have sworn he said, "Twenty minutes," before telling me he was waiting to have his key remade. I apologized again, and he left. What I know after that, was filled in by my family.
I went for my cell phone, in the back room, and called the last-dialed number in my phone. My dad answered, and I told him I needed to talk to my step mom, Marty, because I didn't have his number in my phone. He put her on the phone.
"I don't have Dad's number in my phone, and I need to talk to him," I told her. She told me I had just spoken with my father, and then I asked, "Do you know the password to the front computer at work? Because I need to log on so that I can get my manager's number to tell him that I fell asleep at work."
"...You want to call your manager... to tell him you fell asleep at work?" she asked, and I insisted. When she told me she didn't know the password, I made her return the phone to my dad.
"Do you know the password to the front computer at work? Because I need to log on so that I can get my manager's number to tell him that I fell asleep at work," I repeated. Just like my step mom, he told me he didn't know it, but that he would get a hold of my manager for me.
The next thing I remember, other than a brief moment of incessant vomiting, was sitting in the emergency room of Saint Vincent's in Toledo. Around my bed were my dad, my step mom, and the man I was dating. They were all staring at me, and in a moment of incredible clarity, I said, "I had a seizure."
"How do you know?" my step mom asked, "You haven't seen a doctor and no tests have been done yet."
That's when I recalled the last thing that I remember: the green of the carpet-- the pattern-- suddenly becoming closer than I could keep it.
"I bit through my tongue," I said, as I stuck it out to show a tender, purple, swollen mess on the left side of my tongue. I began explaining what I knew.
Once I saw a doctor, they confirmed that they believed I'd had a seizure and decided it was best to monitor me overnight in a private room in the ICU. The next day, I had a series of tests that confirmed the diagnosis I had been thinking about: epilepsy.
When I was a little girl, there were three boys that lived in the house directly across the alley from mine. One of them, the middle one, had epilepsy. I grew up learning about it, and when I was 13, I learned that it has the ability to take those we love away from us, without warning. I spent all night in the hospital thinking about Nathan and the hell his family went through. I'd had two previous seizures over the course of the prior three years, and never went to a doctor. I was sure this was it.
The next morning, I saw a neurologist who sat me down and told me that I was being diagnosed with epilepsy, and explained to me all that it meant. I was given a prescription for medication, and sent home that afternoon.
The diagnosis came with its own stress. The way certain people handled it, being the biggest one for me. Some of my family knew the stigmas that come with the disorder, and insisted my diagnosis be called something else and treated with the same medication-- medication that I have to take for the rest of my life. It crushed me that people, starting with my own family, would have a hard time dealing with me being labeled an epileptic. I was able to love my best friend growing up, epilepsy and all, and it only made sense that my loved ones should do the same for me.
After all, the only thing different about me after the seizure and before... was an official title... and a treatment to prevent it from happening again.
That's when I decided that I wasn't going to be afraid of my diagnosis. Epilepsy isn't something to be ashamed or afraid of. Believe it or not, someone you know (other than me) probably has epilepsy-- it affects 1 in 26 people, kills 500,000 people a year, and has no cure... but people don't talk about it. I encourage others, whatever it is they suffer from in silence, to speak up. Change minds.
It's time we, as a society, stop acting like those of us who are a little bit "different" than the rest of the people have something undesirable about us. "Normal" is relative, and at the end of the day... we all have what makes us human-- a soul. So who really cares if the body we carry it in has glitches?
It's what makes us unique.
It's what separates us from the others.
It's what makes us beautiful.
