March 28, 2009
I have never been able to outrun one specific memory of my childhood.
In 1959, Mother took me to St. Luke’s Hospital to have my epilepsy tested. We arrived in the morning, sat together for three hours, and then followed a Nursing Sister along a complicated set of corridors and wrought iron and marble staircases.
We descended. Deeper and deeper into the bowels of the hospital we walked, until, at the end of the tour, we came to a cramped little space marked “E.E.G. Lab”.
The technician and my mother seemed to get on well. They chatted for a long while. Finally, the technician began a longer process of gluing electrodes to my scalp. It was not unlike getting a Toni, the home permanent for little girls.
At the end of this very long process, I was exhausted and my nerves were running high. I had a pain about the size of an apple in the middle of my stomach and I wasn’t sure what came next.
Next, the technician had me lie on a cot and she told me to close my eyes and see if I could fall asleep. She quit talking with my mother, and suddenly everything was quiet. I began to drift off and finally went to sleep.The technician waved something under my nose to wake me.
Apparently, I had drifted very deeply asleep and she wanted me back, awake, in a hurry.
The smell went straight to my brain and did the trick.
Next, she lowered a lamp over my head and told me to stare directly into the center of the bulb, without blinking or closing my eyes. When she turned it on, it began to strobe slowly. She made a second adjustment to the lamp and it picked up the pace of the strobing considerably. I thought my head was going to cave in, until she said I could shut and cover my eyes.
She adjusted the lamp back to its most comfortable setting, and then she directed that I should pant like a dog and watch the light. I was supposed to pant for three minutes, looking into the light all the while.
About 20 seconds into the panting, I tried to stop. The technician told me that if I stopped, she would tell my mother that I could no longer watch television, as a consequence.
After the panting-like-a-dog sequence was finished, she asked me to lie quietly. She took the lamp away, and darkened the room. Some time passed, and we were finished. She took the electrodes out of my hair and she warned my mother not to try to use a brush on it because it would need to be washed out with a special shampoo. She gave my mother the shampoo and we left.
I thought we were done for the day, but no. Mother had a surprise for me : a blood test.
We walked down one more flight of stairs into a laboratory. A nun in full habit greeted us. She slipped into a smallish apron and sleeves and tied a rubber hose around my arm. Mother slipped away. I felt awful. Just as the nun slipped the needle into my arm, I vomited all over her. Then I seized.
When we finally arrived home that night, Mother told me she would never do that again, and I made the same promise back to her.
I pray for the soul of that nun often. I have insisted to God that it just slipped out.
To date, God has never brought it up, but I think extra time has been added to my stay in Purgatory for Defacing a Habited Nun.
March 25, 2009
March 17, 2009
MEDICAL MATTERS: if you suffer from epileptic seizures, St Patrick’s your only man, writes MUIRIS HOUSTON
THE INTERNATIONAL image of St Patrick’s Day is more about leprechauns, green beer and cabbage and corn beef than early Irish Christianity. And while the myths associated with St Patrick do not have a particularly medical flavour, in general saints have been linked with diseases and cures through the centuries.
St Patrick has been mentioned as someone to pray to if you have epilepsy.
Tradition has it that a person with epilepsy who slept on “leaba Pharaic” on Caher Island off the Mayo coast could be cured.
March 9, 2009
March 7, 2009
When I think of Louisiana, I admit that my mind wanders to thoughts of chain gangs and brutality, to folksy wisdom and the KKK. Somewhere in all that thinking I consider cajun culture and music, red beans and rice, and swamps, bayous and 'gators. What I don't think of is innovation.
at-home services will become alternatives to institutions and group homes. "It allows for that choice that was
missing in congregate life," [Donna]Breaux said. "It's a way for people to maintain independence but at the
same time have support." In the past, colonies for the disabled have inexorably morphed into prisons, thus making moot any idea of independence. I think Ms. Breaux is woefully under-informed or deluded by "it can't happen here" thinking..
As hard as we have all worked for social rights, for Independent Living and for in-home consideration, the return to "colony life" is a distinct step backwards. The notion that the disabled, housed out in the swamps of rural Louisiana, would be welcomed and subsequently well-cared for, leaves me breathless with horror.
March 2, 2009
March 1, 2009
I have been doing E. since I was 3 years old. I have been taking medications for at least that long. The auras, the convulsions, the unsteadiness, the memory problems, the weird dreams or no dreams, the chewed up mouth and tongue, the incontinence, have all left me wanting out.
Then, when it remits, and I don’t have seizures for a long stretch, I think “Oh good! It’s finally gone!”… Well, not really, because it comes roaring back. And during the time it is in remission, I begin to anticipate it’s return.
I have to say, I hate all of it! I have had enough of it!
But, so what! It is with me for the rest of my life. So, I work on it, I work on the feelings I have about it. I try my best to settle down and realize that I could be much worse off…
I hear and read comments from others, on other blogs, in other chat rooms, folks with E. who are fed up and want to take some decisive action to convince themselves they are don with E. and everything about it. I hear folks say they are just gonna quit their meds. Or, that they are gonna quit seeing the docs. Believe me, I really understand this, but, unfortunately
This is not the way it works.
The consequences to stopping meds can be a return of seizures. If you stop seeing the docs, you will lose the continuity of care they provide you.
Try something new: see a psychologist that deals with disability adjustment or behavior. This might be helpful. You will have to be prepared to teach the doc all you know about your condition, because they are not well schooled in our disorder, but it can help. They can help you get past the fear and despair perhaps.
In the end, each of us knows we have to deal with E. We cannot escape it once we have it. But, we can work against it the best ways we know how.