Stuck.
So. My driver's license is officially suspended.
Fortunately, it's not because of anything I did. Well, on purpose, anyway. Turns out that when you wind up in the ER because of a seizure -- in my case, a tonic-clonic, which is what they're calling grand mals these days -- the hospital is obligated to inform the Department of Health, who in turn have to notify the DMV, and the DMV has to suspend the license pending clearance from a neurologist.
Naturally, it sucks. My dad taught me to drive when I was 7 or 8 and I've been driving around on my own since I was 12, though it bears mentioning that the town I grew up in was tiny, so I never had to contend with a lot of traffic until I was 18. I suppose that it goes without saying that it isn't the legality of a suspended license that gets me so much as the reason. When I drove illegally as a kid, everyone knew I was a competent driver (including the town mayor, who sent his step-daughter over to our place once to notify us that he knew but didn't give a shit as long as I didn't drive like a tard). Since my seizure came out of nowhere and with no warning, I'm basically not considered competent until the source of my seizure or the likelihood of a repeat can be established. That's all well and good, but I can't get in to see a neurologist until the end of March at the earliest, and that just screws me all up as far as work is concerned. In the meantime, I'm stupidly getting all worked up over every headache, bit of spaciness, or instance of forgetfulness for fear that these things could be symptoms of the auras that sometimes proceed seizures.
I feel bad about the situation. Kind of guilty, for lack of a better way of putting it. Eugene and my parents spent their weekend and Monday sitting around and watching me. Mom went back to work yesterday and Eugene went back today, but my father is currently on vacation until the end of the month, which means my mother has been riding him pretty damn hard to, as he put it, "dog [my] heels and make sure [I] don't drop dead" (followed by "I don't want to use the term 'drama queen,' but..."). So Dad's essentially been stuck with babysitting and chauffeur detail. His car got out of the shop today and he took me down there in my car so that he could get his and the only driving I'd have to do would be the mile or so back home, but Mom figured it out after the fact and read us the riot act.
Mom is still not taking this well. She's highly excitable and very emotional and sensitive by nature, so even though she would have been upset anyway, the fact that she had to watch it happen and deal with it alone until responders to the 911 call started arriving made it more difficult for her, I think. A general unfamiliarity with seizures contributes too, of course: she told me that when I finally stopped convulsing, I let out a very long gust of air that she, er, mistook for my death rattle (!!!) and therefore believes the neighbors could probably hear her screaming. Poor Mom. I don't think I could have come up with something to freak her out more than that seizure did if I tried. Every time I have to discuss it with one of my doctors or another friend or relative, I remember the way Mom was shaking and crying and shit in the ambulance or at the hospital and I feel like a giant, mother-tormenting heel.
Fortunately, it's not because of anything I did. Well, on purpose, anyway. Turns out that when you wind up in the ER because of a seizure -- in my case, a tonic-clonic, which is what they're calling grand mals these days -- the hospital is obligated to inform the Department of Health, who in turn have to notify the DMV, and the DMV has to suspend the license pending clearance from a neurologist.
Naturally, it sucks. My dad taught me to drive when I was 7 or 8 and I've been driving around on my own since I was 12, though it bears mentioning that the town I grew up in was tiny, so I never had to contend with a lot of traffic until I was 18. I suppose that it goes without saying that it isn't the legality of a suspended license that gets me so much as the reason. When I drove illegally as a kid, everyone knew I was a competent driver (including the town mayor, who sent his step-daughter over to our place once to notify us that he knew but didn't give a shit as long as I didn't drive like a tard). Since my seizure came out of nowhere and with no warning, I'm basically not considered competent until the source of my seizure or the likelihood of a repeat can be established. That's all well and good, but I can't get in to see a neurologist until the end of March at the earliest, and that just screws me all up as far as work is concerned. In the meantime, I'm stupidly getting all worked up over every headache, bit of spaciness, or instance of forgetfulness for fear that these things could be symptoms of the auras that sometimes proceed seizures.
I feel bad about the situation. Kind of guilty, for lack of a better way of putting it. Eugene and my parents spent their weekend and Monday sitting around and watching me. Mom went back to work yesterday and Eugene went back today, but my father is currently on vacation until the end of the month, which means my mother has been riding him pretty damn hard to, as he put it, "dog [my] heels and make sure [I] don't drop dead" (followed by "I don't want to use the term 'drama queen,' but..."). So Dad's essentially been stuck with babysitting and chauffeur detail. His car got out of the shop today and he took me down there in my car so that he could get his and the only driving I'd have to do would be the mile or so back home, but Mom figured it out after the fact and read us the riot act.
Mom is still not taking this well. She's highly excitable and very emotional and sensitive by nature, so even though she would have been upset anyway, the fact that she had to watch it happen and deal with it alone until responders to the 911 call started arriving made it more difficult for her, I think. A general unfamiliarity with seizures contributes too, of course: she told me that when I finally stopped convulsing, I let out a very long gust of air that she, er, mistook for my death rattle (!!!) and therefore believes the neighbors could probably hear her screaming. Poor Mom. I don't think I could have come up with something to freak her out more than that seizure did if I tried. Every time I have to discuss it with one of my doctors or another friend or relative, I remember the way Mom was shaking and crying and shit in the ambulance or at the hospital and I feel like a giant, mother-tormenting heel.