I had another seizure last Monday night (10/5/09). . . a mere 6 months or so after my last one while on anti-seizure medication. And it was, to date, the worst time I've ever had with post-seizure recovery. So much so that I remember, specifically, laying there hoping to survive it and feeling like I was truly at the end of the line if I had another one like I felt I was going to.
The irony of having more frequent and progressive seizures since I've been on anti-seizure meds does not escape me.
The added worry of not being able to tell my doctor because my driver's license would be taken away for a minimum of 6 months . . . thus jeopardizing my job and the snowball effect that would then have on my home, insurance, and family . . . also did not escape my notice.
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This time the stressors were heat (same as last time) with syncope from a two-fer of up/down motions in a short amount of time (down for a hot bath, up to dry off and get dressed in cool air, sit in front of the heater to put on my socks, up to turn off the heat and head to bed). Just as I turned off the heat blasting out of the window unit in the kitchen, darn thing started my stomach rolling in that particular way that it does before I pass out. I lay down on the cool floor in prone shock position to stave it off and give my heart a freakin' hand and the rolling continues. It's coming whether I like it or not . . . rolling, nausea, my torso feels like there is a film of stretchy tissue paper just under my skin being twisted into a spiral knot somewhere near my stomach and it pulls at the edges of my sides like crinkly spandex. I feel it moving, spreading out toward my legs and shoulders and I'm past the point of no return. Head off to the left side, close my eyes, let it go to get it over with . . . hope that I wake up . . .
. . . I don't know how long I was out, only that I'm now curled up on my right side, my forehead is pressed hard against the junction of the floor and a cabinet door, my left shin is feeling bruised and crushed against the kitchen door jamb. Tired, but okay. Just lie here for a minute, assess if anything is hurt more than that. . .
. . . and then it starts. The after-effects of having a seizure. These are the worst. The chest ache like a hollow spot where my heart should be, the slow build of pain in my lower abdomen (uterus, bladder, lower abs) that grows from a little twinge until it feels like I'm being disemboweled with a spoon ("But why a spoon, cousin?" asks Michael Wincott in my head. "Because it'll hurt more!" says Alan Rickman as he storms off.), guts and stomach trying to evacuate the last molecule of whatever out the nearest exit while I'm weak and tired and cold and ready to pass out if I try to sit on the toilet and simultaneously lean over the sink or tub drain . . . hoping that I don't die and end up like Elvis: purple, bloated, face-down on the floor with my naked ass in the air.
And this time again I got the sweats (second time). The usual cold clamminess slowly warms into a glistening shine then I'm slowly burning up as sweat drips out of every pore in my body, hair soaked and dripping, and I hobble over to the toilet and maintain a sitting position long enough to rest my head on my arm where I can hear the slow methodic thump of my heartbeat as I'm leaning on the sink. I'm coherent enough to count the time between beats . . . one one-thousand . . . two one-thousand . . . three one-thousand . . . four one-thousand . . . (thump). I'm too tired to sit like this, have to lie down for a little bit longer . . .
One hour elapses between the time I hit the floor to keep from passing out to the point that I'm strong enough to get out of my (literally) soaking wet clothes and stumble to bed to sleep the rest off. Off to oblivian and the usual dreamless sleep.
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