Earlier this evening, I had a seizure while taking a shower. Luckily I had already rinsed out the shampoo (small blessings, right?), though conditioner wasn’t going to happen, for obvious reasons. Of all possible “injuries,” slightly crispy hair ranks pretty low. Indeed, I didn’t seriously hurt myself beyond a sore leg and a few bruises. Could’ve been much worse.
My husband and I have this deal where I keep the door to the bathroom open while (I’m) bathing, which is, I guess, perfectly fair given what’s happened in the past/what happened today. I used to resent it—what does it take for a girl to get a little privacy around here??—but eventually accepted his answer (a few seizure-free months, that’s what). After hearing the tell-tale thump, he came to save me. The world of the shower floor was immediately a better place to convalesce, even if I couldn’t figure out why he was speaking gibberish. I instructed him to talk to me in English, Italian, or Pig Latin (languages I can UNDERSTAND), but to no avail.
In this case, what annoyed me most was how decisively bad I felt afterward. Like, get into bed and stare at the ceiling kind of bad. I hate knowing that my brain’s been zapped and that I have to let it fix itself. I hate knowing that I’m not able to express myself properly or understand half of what’s coming out of my husband’s mouth. I hate (love?) that my instinct is to write postictal blog posts that I’ll be tempted to delete later.
But no matter. Time to go back to watching My Cat from Hell while I wait for my neurons to recover.