On April 20, 1985, my best friend and I had a typical weekend night. We bought beers at a local spot that sold to underage kids. We probably shared a six-pack and went on with our night. I didn’t have a cool car, so he drove. (My car was a 1972 orange station wagon, license plate 6 BETSY. My mother is Betsy.)
I woke up in a hospital. I thought it was a dream. It took a couple of days until I understood that we’d been in an accident. I’d had 3 seizures and been in a coma for a couple of days.
Recovering was long and arduous. I was barely functional. I couldn’t think well. I’d lose myself in the middle of sentences. I was supposed to go to the University of San Diego, but my parents decided I should stay at home to recover. I went to a local community college and took a reduced load. I didn’t officially lose my license, but I didn’t drive.
Somehow, I “earned” almost straight A’s. Frankly, I may have gotten a little extra help from a professor who was a family friend. It was a small gift, in that I got into Santa Clara University. I was turned down when I applied in when I was in high school.
The word “epilepsy” was never used. I’d had an awful accident, took meds for a year, stopped meds (at my doctor’s suggestion) and went off to college. I lived the life of many students away from home home for the first time. I rushed a fraternity and “participated” actively in social events. I promptly had another seizure, and I’ve been on anticonvulsants ever since. This was the first time I officially lost my license. It sucked, but I dealt with it and went on with my life.
After I graduated from college, I did a volunteer program for a year and then taught for a while. I had mental health challenges. I had no idea what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was, but I was a mess. My parents sent me to a therapist for a while, but I stopped. I thought therapy was stupid.
Fast forward another 10 years: I moved to Berkeley and married up. We did the young couple thing. Got jobs and had a kid. Somewhere along the line I’d realized that therapy wasn’t stupid, and I got my license as a Marriage and Family Therapist
Somewhere along the line, they finally called it epilepsy. I didn’t have any grand mal seizures, but I wasn’t controlled very well. I had Partial Complex seizures, which aren’t good, and ultimately my neurologist took my license. We dealt with it. We moved close to work so I could walk. My wife did all the driving. We figured it out.
My neurologist was a bit confused by what exactly was wrong. I did two inpatient sleep studies, where the goal was to give me seizures so they could tell the origin of them. Once they knew, they were going to do brain surgery to remove the scarred part of my brain. They sleep deprived my, took my medicine away, had me hyperventilate and used a strobe light. When nothing worked, I drank a bottle of wine. I had no seizures. But at least I didn’t have to have brain surgery.
After about 7 years I did well enough on my drug combo, and my neurologist gave me my license back. It opened our lives back up. We took more day trips to the Bay. Saw more Giants games (which is tough to swallow for this Dodgers fan.) Life was good.
But as the insurance world goes, I switched neurologists. Long story short, he is “very uncomfortable” with me driving. And this past weekend I had a remote EEG, which entails gluing and taping 25 electrodes to my head. It went ok but not perfect. I’m waiting for results, and I’d say it’s 50-50 I’ll lose my license. The longer I don’t hear from my neurologist, the better. If he’s going to take it, he will ASAP. So, I sit on pins and needles.
Regardless, it’ll be ok. My wife and I know how to handle me not having a driver’s license. As Glennon Doyle says in her podcast “We Can Do Hard Things,” we will handle the hard things. But let’s hope I keep my license.
I know I’m writing this for my own benefit. It seems like a journal entry where I’m writing about my feelings of anxiety. But my hope is that it’s also an inspiration for parents to share with their kids. I was out of control as a teenager and made a ton of horrible choices. And I’m living with them now. I made my bed, and now I’m sleeping in it.
Until next time…