Purple Day

Purple Day

Six years ago, before my sweet baby girl had her first seizure, I would have told you that I understood epilepsy.

But… boy would I have been wrong.

I was a trained nurse.

I could have shared the textbook definition of a seizure, how to appropriately respond, and may have even rattled off a few anticonvulsants to seal the deal.

I might have regurgitated that epilepsy is a disorder in which a person experiences recurrent seizures.

But… I didn’t really understand epilepsy.

Purple Day 1


I had never cared for a person experiencing countless seizures each day.

I didn’t comprehend that kids and adults all around the world have seizures that doctors are unable to control.

I didn’t grasp the insidious nature of these silent electrical storms and how everything is really at stake.


Then epilepsy became personal.


And I grew to recognize that  look in my child’s eyes, when abnormal electrical activity takes over, leaving them completely vacant.

I experienced the adrenaline rushing through my blood, screaming, “Help her!”.

I watched seizures knock the life completely out of my toddler, filling her days with a series of naps.

I stood by as they robbed her of a normal appetite, stealing away chubby cheeks and leaving them sunken.

Seizures turned steady steps, she worked so hard to gain, into clumsy, uncoordinated movements.

I witnessed the snatching of developmental milestones from tightly clenched fists, denying her any hope for independence.


How do you swallow epilepsy?  It is such a bitter pill.


Epilepsy destroys your peace.

Epilepsy turns your stomach into knots.

Epilepsy ties your hands behind your back and renders them useless.

Epilepsy carves a deep pit into the center of your being.

Epilepsy robs you of carefree days.

Epilepsy reduces the size of your world into what’s safe.

Epilepsy limits and defines.


But does it have to be that way?


I agree with, Cassidy, let’s spread awareness!


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