When did I become a Feiffer cartoon?

Friday, Mar. 26, 2004 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Yes, Faustina, I do indeed have epilepsy.

The diagnosis was confirmed about two weeks ago when I had my second grand mal seizure in the lobby of a movie theatre�or so I've been told. I don't remember it. And even though it was a relatively mild grand mal seizure�the Fiend told me the actual convulsions lasted maybe twenty seconds�I don't remember the ride in the ambulance or my CT scan or the emergency room or talking to the resident neurologist. Apparently I was conscious and perfectly lucid very soon after the seizure abated, but my brain didn't make any long-term memories, except for a few wrong ones. I have it in my head that we arrived late for the movie and had to seat ourselves during the credits. It was first X-Men movie on the screen, which I know is impossible, that was more than three years ago, but that's what I remember. The Fiend tells me we were there to see The Triplets of Belleville, but we never got through all the Coming Attractions. I know what he says must be true, but I don't know if I really believe it, my screwed-up memories are adamant. Whatever was on the screen filled the theatre alternately with darkness or light as we made our way down the aisle looking for seats. I remember it as a weekday matinee, my favorite time for a movie. (One of the small perks of being self-employed is the flexibility of your workday. Which is also one of the major drawbacks�more often than a free afternoon, flexibility can mean 40 hours of work with only 4 hours of sleep.) But it couldn't have been a matinee, it had to be evening, the Fiend tells me it was the seven o'clock show and I remember the cool dusky sky when we stopped at the Counter in Santa Monica for a burger and a beer before the movie. But I find none of these facts convincing.* When I try to make chronological sense out of that afternoon, that night, time seems folded or broken, and I've lost hours in the wrinkles and cracks.

We never did find our seats�I stopped in the aisle, the Fiend bumped into me from behind, I turned to him and said "I think I'd better sit down." And I did, on the carpet in the middle of the aisle. I was in the grip of a sensation I had only felt a few times before, and one of those times was before my first seizure. It's the most peculiar thing I've ever experienced when not drugged on hallucinogens�a distinctly ominous feeling�, but not creepy or frightening (except now I know it's the precursor of a seizure, which makes it a bit scary). It's an unmistakably physical response, yet very fleeting, and is accompanied by a scent which is familiar but I can't quite pin it down, except I think of it as the essence of nostalgia.

The feeling slipped away even before the Fiend sat down and held me. We waited for the seizure to arrive, but nothing came and went except a mild panic attack. After about fifteen minutes, I was feeling fine and we both were feeling damn silly, so we decided to leave and go right home where I could lay down on something soft and maybe the seizure fairy would go away and leave a quarter under some other epileptic's pillow. No such luck. Right in the middle of crossing the lobby's very shiny, very hard granite floor, the ominous feeling hit me hard, I only had enough time to grab the Fiend and say "Uh-oh" before I dropped. The Fiend, my hero, managed to tumble us to the floor without bruises and somehow kept me from banging a concussion into my brain during my fit.

And that, my dearest Faustina, is all she wrote. I am now an official card-carrying epileptic, 'cept I don't have a card yet. I should get a card, I guess. One that sez something like, "If I am foaming at the mouth, pissing the sidewalk and/or baying at the moon, do not fear, I am not a werewolf. Please call 772-9787 or SPAZ-R-US."

~

* Actually, I find none of this convincing. I'm trying hard to believe it, but I feel so normal. Completely, absolutely, fuckin' normal. The trouble with this disease or condition or whatever you want to call it, is that I'm absent from myself when I'm sick. I'm not there, and when I come back, all I have is stories from other people about what happened when I was gone. I can almost believe it's all an incredibly intricate practical joke, except, nah, I could never believe that. Certainly the medical bills will be no joke. Didja know a ride in an ambulance costs twelve hundred dollars? Oh, man, why didn't they call a cab?

� I believe that I now have an exact understanding of what it feels like when someone walks over my grave and they can bloody well go stomp around somebody else's tomb.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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