The Seismograph

Last year I woke up surrounded by medical staff in a hospital room. “The surgery went well, Mr. Senior.” a stranger commented. Amidst my head was an array of probes buried deep inside of my brain.

People gathered inside the hospital room setting up machines. A nurse plugging in a spectrum of wires looked at me and just knew. My face went blank, I had lost my ability to speak. “He’s having a seizure.”

Once the wires were finally set up I was handed a switch that I was to hold on to. “When you feel one coming on, press the button.”

This was a very sad instruction. My seizures unusually had no warning signs, greeting me unexpectedly.

Like a seismograph the charts went haywire as nurses ran into the room. I stared at my seizure button, trying to make sense of what it was.

My brain never stopped experiencing seizures, even though I was unaware. A scientific wonder, a human tragedy.

I took some pictures showing those lines as if a ship was sailing a storm. It’s as if the turmoil of my brain was trying to communicate with me, screaming for help.

Ten disabling seizures greeted me that day.

The chief epileptologist, a truly amazing person who changed my life, came into the room. “If you like, you can leave today. We’ve captured enough data.” This was terrible news. I was supposed to be staying a whole week and it wasn’t even the end of the first day.

I chose to stay just one night in the hopes of capturing more valuable data. My brain endured even worse storms during my sleep. A wonderful nurse woke me multiple times in the night, making sure I was OK given the what they continually witnessed on their computer screens.

The next day I relented, deciding to leave. At least I got a free haircut.

Wearing a baseball cap I headed back to the office the next week, keeping the ordeal mostly to myself. That regular-day environment was very welcome, distracting me from the reality of my condition.

This isn’t a story most patients want to remember, and it’s easy to overlook what was good. My bald head and stapled scalp were visible, even under the baseball cap, and yet not a single person mentioned it. They just made sure I was okay. They made sure a Wednesday afternoon coffee still felt like a Wednesday afternoon coffee.