Eight years and nine months ago I lost some of me. It
happened overnight, well in just a few hours. Under a surgeon’s knife. He did
it with my permission, I signed a form, said yes. Not realising that in those
few hours so much of me would disappear.
I have found ways of replacing some of my missing parts.
Found a way to keep smiling, doing positive things with my life. Found ways to
deal with the things I can’t replace.
Most of the time.
But every now and again the missing parts take control. I cry a lot on those days. Sob into the silence of
the house. Punch my fists into the sofa.
I could list all the missing bits but that would be boring
for me and you. If I create my top ten that would be fun. A challenge and I like
challenges.So Today’s Number one spot is…
DRIVING
Yes, of all of my missing parts, the one that can cause me to
crumble is not being able to drive. Why you may ask?
EPILEPSY
It’s illegal to drive with epilepsy. A safety thing. I wouldn’t
want it any other way. I need a complete seizure free year before being able to
reapply for a licence and get back behind the wheel. A year which continues to
evade me.
I have found alternative ways of getting around. But the
frustration of having a car on the drive which physically I am capable of using,
but legally cannot makes me foot stampingly mad. Especially when transport or a
taxi I have booked doesn’t arrive. Or if I want to pop out when my energy is at the bottom of a pit and walking is
impossible. I have lost the courage to get on a bus or train. My seizures have
seen to that. Places along the local streets where seizures have caught me out now
haunt me. Tease me as I pass. Epilepsy madness has set in!
So now I am saying goodbye to my Dorothy. It’s a sensible
thing to do. My head knows it but my heart hates the thought of letting my car
go. I haven’t been able to drive her for such a long time. The seizures keep
coming, troubling my days. Keeping me away from her steering wheel and pedals.
I remember the day I got her home. I felt as though the wind
was in my hair. I was free to pop out.
Visit friends. Go to the seaside.
But not anymore.
She is going to a new
home where she will be loved. I will even get to see her, take rides in her. But this waving goodbye brings the grief of losing so many parts of me straight to the surface. So, I will cry today.
Tomorrow will be a better day.
