Invest in a Book that Rewards and Helps

THE ONSET OF SEIZURES

At 14, I experienced my first grand mal seizure. It wasn't just a single episode; a series of seizures followed in rapid succession, plunging me into a five-day coma. My parents, overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty, were told by the doctors that they had done everything they could. All that was left was to wait and see if I would wake up. Those were agonizing days, but by God's mercy, I pulled through.

During that time, a group of internal medicine doctors happened to be on call at the hospital. After I was discharged, I became a patient of Dr. James E. Brown IV, a physician whose name would become synonymous with the next decade of my life. Dr. Brown diagnosed me with acute seizure disorder, and he noted that viral encephalitis was a contributing factor. With his guidance, I began taking Dilantin, a medication that would help control my seizures to some degree. Under Dr. Brown's care, I managed to maintain some stability, though the path was anything but casy.

At 16, the seizures struck again with a severity that shook me and those around me to the core. Each episode felt like a step backward, a reminder that the battle was far from over. Despite Dr. Brown's best efforts, the...

KEEPING MY CONDITION HIDDEN

For years, I lived in fear of being judged, misunderstood, or even losing my livelihood. It wasn't just a concern-it was a necessity. In the construction industry, especially where physical stamina and mental alertness are key, revealing my condition could have had devastating consequences.

I had already faced the challenges of epilepsy in my personal life, but now I was forced to navigate the professional world with a constant sense of caution. The fear that someone might discover my condition weighed heavily on me every day. There were moments when I would catch myself looking over my shoulder, wondering if a co-worker had noticed the signs. Every dizzy spell, every moment of confusion brought a fresh wave of anxiety.

When I started working with Stan Sullivan after my recovery, I knew that I had to be cautious. Welding, pipe fitting-these were jobs that demanded precision, focus, and above all, trust from those around you. One mistake could mean the difference between a safe project and a dangerous accident. I couldn't afford to let anyone think I was less than capable. I couldn't risk letting anyone know that I was living with a condition that could strike without warning...

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES I NEVER HAD

There's an odd void when I think back to my childhood. Most people can look back and find a treasure trove of memories-little snapshots of their younger selves, moments they've clung to, or forgotten until something triggers them. But for me, it's like I'm looking through a scrapbook where pages are missing or smeared beyond recognition. My epilepsy and the brain surgery that followed stole those memories from me. I don't have a childhood that I can fully recall. Instead, I have the stories of my family and friends, piecing together the moments I should remember but don't.

It's a strange feeling, really, to have lived through years that you can't remember yourself, like a book where the chapters were written by someone else. I've often wondered what those missing pieces say about who I am. Who was I before the illness? Was I carefree? Was I always the person I became after? I rely on the people who were there with me, those who can recount moments I no longer possess. These recollections help me understand my own story, even if it's through someone else's eyes...