On My Five-Year Anniversary, a Hopeful Message for People with Epilepsy
In July of 1989, I glimpsed my future. It wasn’t a vision so much as a yearning, one deeper than I had known. I was 18 years old, recovering from a tonic-clonic seizure. The nausea churned, a clean bucket by my bedside just in case. The mid-morning sun splashed against the walls in golden streaks, though I felt no joy.