A New Crop from the Trauma Farm: Baby’s First Seizure
Guess I’m still shaken up.
If any of you are looking for recommendations for times and places to have your first seizure— aren’t we all— a rehearsal studio post-show is actually the best case scenario. I felt an immediate sense of comfort knowing that I would be “yes, and”-ed into an ambulance faster than you can say thank you, five.
Let me paint the picture for you:
We were in a rehearsal studio with an audience of—I don’t know—maybe forty, and mercifully, the last performance had just finished. Not because the performance was anything less than incredible, which it was, but because the stage needed to be clear for the day’s next show-stopping performance.
After the show, the company brought out a few bottles of what I refer to as “arts wine,” meaning it was red from California or white from New Zealand and frightfully drinkable. At this point, my Talented Friend and I went over to one of the organizers to introduce ourselves and ask the required questions. How long did it take for you to put this together? What was the selection process like for these pieces? Oh! So you’re doing it again next year—[said as if we didn’t know]—when do submissions open?
They answered politely and kindly, we thanked them, and we walked away.
Now this is where my memory ends.
The rest of this story I’ve gathered secondhand.
Apparently, we struck up a conversation with another thespian, during which I started slurring my words a bit, then said quite clearly, “Europeans,” and proceeded to hit the floor.
Now, what exactly “Europeans” had to do with this— I have no idea. But apparently, they are the last thing on my mind before medical emergencies.
I seized for about a minute and then was out cold for another two.
The very first thing I remember when I woke up was seeing my Talented Friend, and two somewhat familiar thespians all sitting with me on the floor. Immediately, my mind pieced together the most logical explanation: I must be in a production meeting. Little did I know the production we were meeting about was Julius Seizure. (Et tu, Br-Br-Br—ah, forget it.)
The following dialogue went like this:
“Hi, honey.”
“Whaaa?”
“You’re okay.”
“Whathappened?”
“You had a seizure.”
“Whathappened?”
“The ambulance is coming.”
“Whoscoming?”
“Shhhhhhh. It’s all gonna be okay.”
And the ambulance did come. They strapped me into a gurney. Someone was kind enough to give me a blanket with a texture that whispers, I’m out of your tax bracket and I have no idea how they could afford to buy me as a prop. And then they wheeled me through the halls and popped me into an ambulance.
For someone so comfortable in the limelight, the ambulance lights were shockingly jarring. I was wheeled through a hallway of industry members like one of those performance dishes at a five-star restaurant.
And for your next course, a playwright—shaken, not stirred.
The funny thing is, I was at this event to network. I walked in, hoping beyond hope that maybe someone from this organization I admire would notice me—or even better, remember me. And lo and be-fucking-hold, I got my wish.
Everyone else remembers my seizure clearly. I get the secondhand version, softened for my benefit. And that was the strangest part: learning about your own body from the people around it, as if you’d starred in a production you didn’t attend. A seizure creates witnesses, even in a room full of people who are used to farming attention. It recruits a cast and crew into your private malfunction.
And the big thing no one prepares you for is how quickly a seizure organizes the world around you, and not just in the thick of it. For days afterwards, people are checking in gently. You are given a chaperone on lunch break. You are Googling things you don’t want to know. And your father is suddenly a licensed physician. All because your body has suddenly joined a new category without consulting you. I never thought that something like this would happen to me. No one made me aware that this was “just a thing that happens sometimes.” This is the kind of thing that starts an episode of House. We’re trained to see it as a grand bodily betrayal, signaling that something is just so very wrong. I never woke up in the morning thinking, Can’t wait to go about my day, buy a coffee, and maybe have a seizure—who knows!
But within all the scary bits and the not knowing, there’s a great deal of comfort in knowing that a whole room full of people came to my aid at the drop of a hat. I don’t even know who called 911; I just know that “the room” was instructed to do so. Like in one of those movie scenes where someone calls out, “Someone call 911!” and then the ambulance appears. And all this is doubly impressive knowing that the ordeal was probably just as scary for everyone else as it was for me—mostly because I can’t remember a damn thing—and I really do appreciate everyone leaping to action for the chic brunette writhing very castably on the floor.
The medical update, if anyone was worried, is that I’m absolutely fine. They ran every test and, unlike grade school, I aced them all. I will be following up with a neurologist to see if there really is anything wrong with my brain, which, frankly, would not be a shock to anyone. But they say that 30–40% of first-time seizures are relatively untraceable, so it’s perfectly possible that I’ll go the rest of my life not knowing. Just another girl in the world, with an ass so fat that God had to twerk it for her.
What can I say? I’m an enigma
