Pre- surgery, I never knew a day that wasn't clouded by high doses of Tegretol or the fear of seizing. Despite this, I lived my life to the best of my ability (or you could put, "the best way I knew how"). I excelled in school, I played sports, I hung out with a few close friends. But as 'normal' as I tried to be, the knowledge that I had epilespsy never escaped me. I would never be able to drive a car, stay up late, live by myself, or be independent in even the simplest ways. (Maybe you could tighten the end of this paragraph with a sentence that flows into the second).
On July 12th, 1996 (my 16th birthday), I entered the hospital for the last time as a patient. My mother was a nervous wreck, still worried about the 60% chance that the surgery wouldn't work, and the 30% chance that I'd be worse off than before. I was more concerned with just how much more this operation would enhance my life. Would I be able to drive a car? Get my license? I wanted so badly to gain the independence that comes with that plastic piece of adulthood. Sure, I was scared for myself and my future, but I was more than happy to take a risk with surgery if there was even the smallest chance I could be cured. Later that morning, surgeons removed my right temporal lobe and in doing so, cured the epilepsy I had had since birth.
I awoke a couple of days after the surgery, and was released from the hospital on the third. As I closed my eyes to sleep that night, I made a promise to myself to never forget what I had experienced, because I knew it would become a very important part of my life. By September I was no longer on medication; by October, I got my driver's license. I ran in the state cross-country meet in November, and in the Spring of 1997 I went to the prom with my best friend (now my husband). The surgery hadn't just cured me; it set me free (or, "allowed me to really live").
Like a runaway who has yet to think about where he will eat, sleep, and bathe (if you've got a better comparison, use it), I was so busy enjoying the fruits of my surgery that I never really took the time out to think about medicine as a profession. The more I grew into my new life and my clearer outlook on it, the more realistic the idea of becoming a doctor became. During a 3am study session in the fall of my freshman year in college , the beauty of my situation hit me: I was not only awake, but alive, in college, and free from the wary parental eye. I was living what I once thought of as a dream, and it was because of medicine and those professionals who dedicated themselves to helping me re-write a better future for myself.
Knowing all that medicine had done for my quality of life, I felt compelled to want to pay that debt forward. But after sixteen years of seizures (including two tours of duty in the PICU on mechanical ventilation, one 'out of body experience,' and a series of hospitalizations, medications, miscellaneous tests, and needles), I had more than a few reasons for keeping my enthusiasm under control. I had spent so much of my life on the receiving end of medicine, that I was completely removed from the experiences of those in healthcare. I didn't want to put my heart and hard work into the process only to realize that I, in fact, did more good for medicine as a patient than I ever could as a caregiver.
In order to "test the waters," I decided to apply for the Nursing Assistant position (at my local...hospital? Nursing home?). Not knowing whether I would love it or hate it, I did know that it would at least give me the opportunity to find the answers that I was looking for.
To this day, and much to my delight, I continue to work full time as a CNA. This position has given so much meaning to my life pre-operation, and given me so much compassion for those people still waiting for their own relief to come. I've connected with my patients on a level that I don't feel I would have been able to had I not experienced my life the way I did. (Have you had contact with the doctors? Could you talk about that? Or talk about how you understand even better where they're coming from not as a patient, but as a fellow caregiver?)
That my epilepsy would serve a purpose in my life was something I never would have believed as I sat waiting for the anesthesiologist on July 12th, 1996. At that time, I wanted only one thing--freedom (or you could put, "peace of mind"). Now that I have just that, and a better understanding of healthcare not only through the eyes of the patient but through the eyes of the healthcare professional, I see that there is so much to be done and so much that I can do as a physician. In doing so, I might come one step closer to helping free others from their pain, and one step closer to paying back a debt that deep down I know will never fully be re-paid.
