Sometime, when I was about four, in a small, isolated country kitchen in regional Victoria, my mother noticed that I was taking "funny turns", moments that took me away and into my own world. It took time but eventually the diagnosis came back - welcome to epilepsy. Then, back in the day it was a limiting and defining description; no support groups; little information but much fear; it stalked me through all facets of life, complicating both the serious and the mundane. It changed little things, fell between you and life, little hurdles, like risk; the meds made you nod off in the afternoon; the need to carry medication (got your wallet; got your pills), explanations and reassurances for teachers, coaches and, just when you thought you
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Among them was my father was a shearer – a tough bastard doing a tough job leaving little room for emotions, understanding of this affliction, little room for small boys falling down. My mother was of the make-do-and-mend generation, a woman skilled at making the old new, and money stretch. In rural Victoria, we were battlers, working-class. Not that we were unusual. Everyone we knew was doing it tough. It was just the way things were. That and a son with “funny turns”. There was no help for parents in dealing with this affliction. Epilepsy was a powerful word - its power came from ignorance, fear at a time when the world was a less kind place, information was scarce. Teachers warned of limited education; university lecturers warned of limited jobs. It taught anger, to do things my way. "F**k you and the horse you rode into town" was my catch cry, my defence. It covered and justified sins and bad behaviour. The turns became grand mal seizures featuring a loss of consciousness and violent muscle contractions. Football in country …show more content…
It set a pattern for the rest of my life. You hid it, denied its existence, found one hundred and one reasons explaining why you did not drive; had awkward conversations over romantic dinners trying to work out when it might be appropriate to explain the recovery position. Every seizure eroded hard-fought confidence. Two steps forward and three back. I went to work in newspapers in the days when smoking in the newsroom was obligatory and you hammered away at heavy, clunky typewriters. I told no one of my epilepsy. Moral conflict - tell the boss upfront and risk rejection or keep your mouth shut and deal with the fall out. I took the second. In the back of your mind, always, was the fear that a there would be a seizure, a public declaration . Seizures overtook me in some classy and some not-so-classy places; the car parks of expensive hotels; the car park of sleazy hotels; the back streets of St Kilda and Kings Cross; on trains where people merely stepped over me, showers, libraries, courts. Reactions, like locations, varied ranging from panic to indifference. I learnt to recognise the warning signs - sometimes saving the public embarrassment, usually not. But denial was wasted energy, wasted time and too much anger. Now, I would say that it is all manageable - a dash of common sense in a far more forgiving world will get you by; learn risk assessment - it doesn’t change you, shouldn’t define you. Employers have
Among them was my father was a shearer – a tough bastard doing a tough job leaving little room for emotions, understanding of this affliction, little room for small boys falling down. My mother was of the make-do-and-mend generation, a woman skilled at making the old new, and money stretch. In rural Victoria, we were battlers, working-class. Not that we were unusual. Everyone we knew was doing it tough. It was just the way things were. That and a son with “funny turns”. There was no help for parents in dealing with this affliction. Epilepsy was a powerful word - its power came from ignorance, fear at a time when the world was a less kind place, information was scarce. Teachers warned of limited education; university lecturers warned of limited jobs. It taught anger, to do things my way. "F**k you and the horse you rode into town" was my catch cry, my defence. It covered and justified sins and bad behaviour. The turns became grand mal seizures featuring a loss of consciousness and violent muscle contractions. Football in country …show more content…
It set a pattern for the rest of my life. You hid it, denied its existence, found one hundred and one reasons explaining why you did not drive; had awkward conversations over romantic dinners trying to work out when it might be appropriate to explain the recovery position. Every seizure eroded hard-fought confidence. Two steps forward and three back. I went to work in newspapers in the days when smoking in the newsroom was obligatory and you hammered away at heavy, clunky typewriters. I told no one of my epilepsy. Moral conflict - tell the boss upfront and risk rejection or keep your mouth shut and deal with the fall out. I took the second. In the back of your mind, always, was the fear that a there would be a seizure, a public declaration . Seizures overtook me in some classy and some not-so-classy places; the car parks of expensive hotels; the car park of sleazy hotels; the back streets of St Kilda and Kings Cross; on trains where people merely stepped over me, showers, libraries, courts. Reactions, like locations, varied ranging from panic to indifference. I learnt to recognise the warning signs - sometimes saving the public embarrassment, usually not. But denial was wasted energy, wasted time and too much anger. Now, I would say that it is all manageable - a dash of common sense in a far more forgiving world will get you by; learn risk assessment - it doesn’t change you, shouldn’t define you. Employers have