I was behind the wheel of my Studebaker when I realized I did have a problem. It was 1957. I was driving on a one-way street in Chicago. Suddenly, I found myself staring at a car coming at me from the opposite direction. Fortunately, the car stopped short just a few inches in front of me, so no one was hurt. The driver pushed my car over to the side while I went to call Bory, who came to take me home.
We agreed something was not right and that we had better consult our family doctor. He referred us to a neurologist, who said I had epilepsy. Epilepsy? I didn’t know anything about it, so I turned away to hide my shock and fear. The doctor asked if I understood. I pretended I did. He prescribed Dilantin (I’ve been taking it ever since), told me to take it five times a day and never to drive again, but gave me scant information about the drug. He never mentioned the complications it might cause. Not until my gums started to swell and bleed did I learn that this was one of the common side effects.
I read everything I could about epilepsy, did reams of research and even wrote a paper on the disorder for a course I was taking in college English. But I insisted on keeping my affliction a secret from almost everyone. If no one spoke about epilepsy, and some books referred to it as a sign of the Devil, why should I advertise it?
I had no idea my life would never be the same again and that I would be joining a battle that more than 2 million other Americans were fighting. The few friends who knew my secret all said my life was going to be OK. It wasn’t. I had 20 to 30 petit mal seizures every two weeks. I would suddenly and briefly lose contact with my surroundings, stare blankly for a few seconds or longer and never remember what had happened. But my main battle was with myself. My defense was simple: I went into the closet and closed the door.
Luckily, I had an understanding husband. In 1974 he was promoted to insurance executive, and we relocated to California. My seizures, however, got worse. As a company wife, I had to attend many social functions. At one unforgettable dinner party, I looked up from the table to find people staring at me. My hand was squeezing the roast beef and mashed potatoes on my plate, and I had wet my pants. I was mortified. I looked at the people, who were waiting for an explanation. I told them the truth. I had just had a spell. A few days later, Bory received a letter saying that because of my “nervous condition,” I had been removed from his company health-insurance plan. That did it. I opened the closet door and came out.
During these episodes, I fell, bumped into things and broke ribs, a shoulder and my nose – not all at the same time. My neurologist ordered me to get something to protect my head and ribs. Our search for a helmet was easy. We found one that was light and secure in a medical-supply house.
My ribs were another matter. One of our friends, a policeman, had me try on his bulletproof vest. It would do the job, but I wouldn’t be able to move about. We kept looking. Then, one day, when we were watching a Los Angeles Rams game at Anaheim Stadium, we saw the quarterback in the pocket, his offense running amok, letting the guy get sacked. We watched in amazement as he bounced back up. Bory looked at me and suggested I call the team. All I had to tell them was “I have epilepsy, I fall and need to protect my ribs.” Don Hewitt, the equipment manager, didn’t need to hear more. He invited me to the Rams’ locker room to rummage. He joined in the hunt and soon handed me a flak vest Joe Namath had worn during his Ram days. As 300-pound players wandered in and out, the team’s seamstress altered it to fit my much smaller frame. Back home with my precious jacket, I tried it on and looked in the mirror. Facing me was a new woman with a helmet, flak vest and tinted glasses to keep out the glare. You can’t imagine what it’s like to walk into a library, supermarket or business meeting wearing the sports equipment I have to put on every day. But it was that or break body parts.
Now I could do more than sit around the house. I was itching to get working again, so with my husband’s encouragement, I studied for an insurance rep’s license. I had not mentioned to the state that I was epileptic. During the exam, I had a seizure that disrupted the others. Needless to say, I flunked. I applied again, and this time the State of California lent me a hand. When I returned to take the test, there were two rooms, two monitors. One was filled to capacity. The other, mine, was empty except for the monitor. Despite a brief seizure, I passed the test. I was back in the business world.
Today, much to my surprise at 59, once I explain that I wear my “costume” for seizures I can’t control and because it keeps me independent, people are very understanding. It was me who needed to stop condemning me.
I am grateful to doctors who have tried countless known and untried drugs; to an employer that doesn’t care what I wear on my head, and to the State of California for opening doors for me without asking health questions. But my most profound thanks go to Bory, who always walks beside me, regardless of stares, and who one day four years ago put a computer with a modem on my desk. It not only made my day but also improved my life, because through the bulletin board, I now share my ups and downs with epileptics all over the country. I can finally say that although I have epilepsy, epilepsy no longer has me.
title: “Hush It S Epilepsy” ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-25” author: “Kelly Durant”
I was behind the wheel of my Studebaker when I realized I did have a problem. It was 1957. I was driving on a one-way street in Chicago. Suddenly, I found myself staring at a car coming at me from the opposite direction. Fortunately, the car stopped short just a few inches in front of me, so no one was hurt. The driver pushed my car over to the side while I went to call Bory, who came to take me home.
We agreed something was not right and that we had better consult our family doctor. He referred us to a neurologist, who said I had epilepsy. Epilepsy? I didn’t know anything about it, so I turned away to hide my shock and fear. The doctor asked if I understood. I pretended I did. He prescribed Dilantin (I’ve been taking it ever since), told me to take it five times a day and never to drive again, but gave me scant information about the drug. He never mentioned the complications it might cause. Not until my gums started to swell and bleed did I learn that this was one of the common side effects.
I read everything I could about epilepsy, did reams of research and even wrote a paper on the disorder for a course I was taking in college English. But I insisted on keeping my affliction a secret from almost everyone. If no one spoke about epilepsy, and some books referred to it as a sign of the Devil, why should I advertise it?
I had no idea my life would never be the same again and that I would be joining a battle that more than 2 million other Americans were fighting. The few friends who knew my secret all said my life was going to be OK. It wasn’t. I had 20 to 30 petit mal seizures every two weeks. I would suddenly and briefly lose contact with my surroundings, stare blankly for a few seconds or longer and never remember what had happened. But my main battle was with myself. My defense was simple: I went into the closet and closed the door.
Luckily, I had an understanding husband. In 1974 he was promoted to insurance executive, and we relocated to California. My seizures, however, got worse. As a company wife, I had to attend many social functions. At one unforgettable dinner party, I looked up from the table to find people staring at me. My hand was squeezing the roast beef and mashed potatoes on my plate, and I had wet my pants. I was mortified. I looked at the people, who were waiting for an explanation. I told them the truth. I had just had a spell. A few days later, Bory received a letter saying that because of my “nervous condition,” I had been removed from his company health-insurance plan. That did it. I opened the closet door and came out.
During these episodes, I fell, bumped into things and broke ribs, a shoulder and my nose – not all at the same time. My neurologist ordered me to get something to protect my head and ribs. Our search for a helmet was easy. We found one that was light and secure in a medical-supply house.
My ribs were another matter. One of our friends, a policeman, had me try on his bulletproof vest. It would do the job, but I wouldn’t be able to move about. We kept looking. Then, one day, when we were watching a Los Angeles Rams game at Anaheim Stadium, we saw the quarterback in the pocket, his offense running amok, letting the guy get sacked. We watched in amazement as he bounced back up. Bory looked at me and suggested I call the team. All I had to tell them was “I have epilepsy, I fall and need to protect my ribs.” Don Hewitt, the equipment manager, didn’t need to hear more. He invited me to the Rams’ locker room to rummage. He joined in the hunt and soon handed me a flak vest Joe Namath had worn during his Ram days. As 300-pound players wandered in and out, the team’s seamstress altered it to fit my much smaller frame. Back home with my precious jacket, I tried it on and looked in the mirror. Facing me was a new woman with a helmet, flak vest and tinted glasses to keep out the glare. You can’t imagine what it’s like to walk into a library, supermarket or business meeting wearing the sports equipment I have to put on every day. But it was that or break body parts.
Now I could do more than sit around the house. I was itching to get working again, so with my husband’s encouragement, I studied for an insurance rep’s license. I had not mentioned to the state that I was epileptic. During the exam, I had a seizure that disrupted the others. Needless to say, I flunked. I applied again, and this time the State of California lent me a hand. When I returned to take the test, there were two rooms, two monitors. One was filled to capacity. The other, mine, was empty except for the monitor. Despite a brief seizure, I passed the test. I was back in the business world.
Today, much to my surprise at 59, once I explain that I wear my “costume” for seizures I can’t control and because it keeps me independent, people are very understanding. It was me who needed to stop condemning me.
I am grateful to doctors who have tried countless known and untried drugs; to an employer that doesn’t care what I wear on my head, and to the State of California for opening doors for me without asking health questions. But my most profound thanks go to Bory, who always walks beside me, regardless of stares, and who one day four years ago put a computer with a modem on my desk. It not only made my day but also improved my life, because through the bulletin board, I now share my ups and downs with epileptics all over the country. I can finally say that although I have epilepsy, epilepsy no longer has me.
