EEGs

I have epilepsy.

Grand mal epilepsy, to be exact.

I can't remember ever not having it. I can't remember much at all, actually. Sure, I can tell you about my seizures. I can tell you that my first one was in Coffs Harbour, that (to my mother's chagrin) I was walking along a wall, that I fell on the pavement instead of the grass (I'm skilled that way). I can tell you that during my most recent seizure I took out two chairs and that my head bounced about the floor a bit. But I can't remember any of it.

Seizures are like half-waking dreams. The details are hazy; I know I was there; I know other people were there; and I have a vague sense of foreboding. Later, I sketch more in, collecting data from my husband, my mother, my father, my teachers—the people holding my hand and standing over me when I wake. Then I chalk it up to fatigue or heat or stress, sleep awhile, and go on my merry way.

Until now.

Yesterday, I had an EEG. Usually, I hate EEGs—they involve pasting electrodes on to my head with horrid grey goop, flashing lights which make me feel ill, deep breathing which makes me dizzy, and an evaluation with regard to the effectiveness of my current medication. Not fun. I slept poorly the night before, too; when I was younger, the neurologist would have my parents keep me up all night so I would be sure to sleep at sometime during the EEG—this is an important part of the monitoring and evaluating process. Now, even as an adult, I find that I stay awake out of habit and association. (Of course, nowadays I drink a boatload of coffee on the mornings I'm tired, so the effect probably balances out.)

This particular EEG was no different. Tuesday night I washed my hair. Wednesday morning, 7am we went for a walk rather than a run (to keep hair clean and sweat-free). 8:30 am I started in on the coffee. 10 am the technologist, a lovely girl named Marri, began marking my head and pasting on electrodes. Somewhat frustratingly, the preparation for the EEG is the longest part—it takes around forty minutes, while the EEG itself is done in a little under thirty (it often seems less than this, too, because I sleep in parts). On the upside, a nice technologist is a wonderful thing, and it can be fun to chat.

Once the electrodes are on, Marri gets right down to it…

"Close your eyes."

Long pause. My left ear begins to itch.

"Open your eyes."

Short pause.

"Close your eyes."

Longer pause.

"Open your eyes."

Short Pause.

"Okay, we're going to start the deep breathing exercise now. Deep breaths. Faster. Little faster. Faster…" It's at this point that I started to curse silently. Quick deep breaths make me think of drowning—water and drowning are my great, irrational fear.

"Just another couple of minutes," Marri says then. My mental cursing flows into images of the sea; I start to count. I have a habit of counting things—steps, ferrets, number of dishes washed—when I'm worried.

"Okay, just one more minute now…" How many minutes does this go on? I've had many EEGs and they're all the same, but I'm not good with time. The minute drags on. Has it been two? Three?

"All right, relax." Hands touch my head. An electrode's fallen off; I take the opportunity to scratch my left ear. There's some more pasting, some more smushing, and then it's back to the grind. I close my eyes. Marri drags the lightbox over.

Click. Click. Click. Click. The lights flash slowly.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. The lights flash a little faster, double the frequency. My mind wanders to arithmetic and geometric progressions then, oddly, to Daleks and Doctor Who. How many dots are there on a Dalek, anyway? The clicking continues, slowly building speed.

Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick. I get up to twenty-five, then lose count. On the next series I get to thirty-five. Do Daleks click when the crew moves them around the set? How many times per metre?

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick! Could Jackie Chan take on a Dalek?

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick!
Can the new Daleks manage ladders? He could have an advantage there.

"Open your eyes."

We're done. I open my eyes. The Daleks float away.

Not long after, I was given the okay by my neurologist (a wonderful doctor and wonderful person), along with some news—it's safe for me to go off my medication.

Now, I've been seizure free for just over two years now, and we'd talked about the idea of my going without medication before—in a neurologist approved way rather than a Peta-can'-stay-awake-and-is-tired-of-side-effects way—but I hadn't really believed it possible. I've had epilepsy for twenty-four years. I've been taking medication in some form or another for twenty-four years. And I expected it to stay that way. Reeling slightly, I pulled on my hat, and went home to wash my hair.

This morning I slept late, then went for a walk. I didn't take any medication and I felt no guilt at all. My epilepsy isn't gone—as a friend of mine puts it, it's quiescent at the present time. And nothing has changed, really—I still get migraines, and I still have to medications for those. I still don't drink, don't smoke, and don't swim. But I feel good. Really, really good.

Want to know more about epilepsy? Check out the Epilepsy Foundation, or my upcoming post, creatively titled Epilepsy.