I woke up with the birds this morning, probably because I am slightly amped for a doctors appointment I have today. Last year, before my surgery, there were certain months when I was accustomed to making the trek from New York to Boston once a week, but now this is something out of the ordinary. I lay tossing and turning listening to a crow and expecting the periodic cry of a mourning dove in a tree in my backyard. (Full disclaimer: I really like mourning doves, but this one was a jerk). As I woke up to the cacophony of bird whistles, I got to thinking that the birds could represent what living with epilepsy is like; in addition to the bird calls themselves, it is the expectation of unexpected others that keep you awake. When I had epilepsy, seizures were an imminent threat. They could come before a concerto competitions that took months of practicing, before the SAT's or on the first day of college classes--all of which they did. At those times, it was deeply disappointing to know that after preparation and anticipation, I would not go into an experience feeling fully myself. And in other instances, seizures would interrupt the best simple pleasures. At times when I most wanted to be solidly in the moment--long walks on the beach, lying under the stars at music festivals, listening to a good lecture--I would be whisked away to another world made of hallucinations and fear. (More on that later). Living with epilepsy is about living with the constant fear that one, two, three--four--five! seizures in a row could take hold and never knowing when or how that would occur.
Your public health fact of the day: On average, each neurologist in Africa (with the exception of South Africa and Northern Africa) serves between 1 and 4 million people (Diop et al., 152). Forty one percent of individuals in one study who had never received treatment reported that the reason they remained untreated was because no resources were available in their region (Quet, 1870).
