Musings

Moments: On Christmas, Mourning, and Family

Hark! My angel 🙂

Yesterday I went Christmas shopping and had Man Child, Nerd Child, and Flower Child decorate the tree. It all had to be done, and I just didn’t feel like it. I am rarely “on top of” the Christmas shopping. I always swear I will budget for it throughout the year, shop early, but usually, I’m scrambling, same as I’m doing now. I wondered why I do this at all, do Christmas presents even make any sense? This is the first year where I only have one child in school this week before Christmas, both boys are on break already. Great! Except it feels like the school knows this, and therefore ramped up the extras so I can still spend my week running on empty from obligation to obligation.

I’m feeling umm, off balance since the shooting in Newtown CT on Friday. I stand by my statement from my last post, it didn’t make any sense and it still doesn’t. If anything, I’m more confused than I was 4 days ago. What does this level of grief mean for our nation? How much is personal, for the families and immediate community, and how much is ours, as a society, to take on? Where’s the line between sharing the burden of grief and glamorizing a heinous act? People are talking, and I hope they continue to do so. Much of the talk is bluster and rhetoric, I can toe that crap to the side without a problem. But I’ve also seen the beginnings of thoughtful discourse, with points and possibilities that should be explored. I am not a historian, and don’t know what was intended by the 2nd Amendment, or the correct way to apply it, if at all, in today’s society.

We are a nation of freedoms. With freedom comes responsibility. Or in the plain English of Fringeland, the freedom to fuck up. This is what, in my opinion, we should be talking about. Personal responsibilities and how they apply to our families, our communities, our society. I think, long ago, this used to be called ethics. But no, I don’t have a romanticized vision of the way things “used to be.” The reality is there are other atrocities that no longer occur here, are no longer legal or acceptable, that once were.

I ran around yesterday, my very best chicken without a head routine. At the end of the day, I went to walk a dog. This dog’s owners have become friends, and are two people I respect and admire tremendously. Man Child came with me, and though I’ve known them a few years now, this was the first time they were meeting. A moment. In the midst of these days heavy with both bullshit and mourning, a moment of beauty. I like these friends very much, they live their lives with integrity, and embody lives well lived. Another, newer friend recently met Nerd Child. Another beautiful moment. I like my children, they are thoughtful human beings and define possibilities. One has a strong sense of duty, immediate responsibilities. One has a keen instinctive eye for looking at the greater good, seems to have been born with the scales of justice connecting the chambers of his heart. One has an exquisite sense of social justice, crying at the thought of anyone being hungry. They have their own thoughts and opinions, separate from mine, Husband’s, and each other.

I don’t think I’ve hit on the purpose or meaning of life, as a parent or otherwise. I hold no answers, and as I get older, find more questions. As a parent, I want my children to believe in themselves and strive for their dreams, achieving some. I want them to be responsible, contributing members of society. I want their dreams to include being responsible, contributing members of society. I want them to have their moments, hopefully more than I do, but still, moments when they can take a breath and say, “this is ok. I am ok.”

Personal moments aren’t enough to put aside the greater questions we need to examine and try to answer. They do not, can not, and should not negate loss, personal or public. Personal loss does not negate community or societal obligations. But if we value these moments, and recognize them because of their potential impact on others, they can matter.

lint (Photo credit: freebeets)

XX vs Xwhy

English: A bearded lady from P.T. Barnum’s circus. This is from an article about Barnum in a Russian magazine. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Are we done arguing about whether or not there are gender differences? Really, we’re different. Exceptions in the various ways in specific people, and yes, yes, we’re equally valuable, but different.

Some of these differences are cultural. Others just seem to be hard wired, in the genes, evident in prepubescents. I’d like to explore one of those differences today.

Mission 24 – Empty (Photo credit: Jessia Hime)

Men are unable to replace a roll of toilet paper. I’m not even talking about hanging it from the roller, and won’t begin to touch which is the correct way for the paper to hang. Just taking out a new roll.

I realize women use toilet paper more frequently than men. But they use it. If I go into the bathroom and there’s no toilet paper, I bring in a new roll. If I’m leaving the bathroom and have used the last of the toilet paper, I get a new roll. If I’m in the living room on my computer and hear a masculine call from the bathroom, I get a new roll.

My father was ahead of his time, did a lot of the traditionally “female” jobs around the house. But never once did I see him replace the toilet paper. Maybe my parents aren’t such a great example, though. My mother had a thing about not having garbage in the house. Ever. Of any type. So many times I saw her remove the last twenty or so sheets of toilet paper and flush them just so she could replace it with a puffy and linty new roll. I know this because I watched, always hoping to see her pull out a package of pink toilet paper. Or blue, but the bathroom was pink, so pink would have made more sense. If you’re young, you don’t know that toilet paper used to be available in colors (scented too, but that’s another story). No, it was always white. Cheaper, and my father was a Depression baby who did the shopping–he would drive 3 miles each way for a store honoring double coupons. This is remarkable because there was a grocery store and two drug stores within a three block radius of where we lived. Driving three miles, he passed at least 9 other options.

Husband never replaces the roll. Nor does Man Child or Nerd Child. Flower Child, however, will. She’ll even take the extra 10 minutes to hang it.

Maybe if I could find colored toilet paper, the males of the house would be inspired to replace it.

1970’s Bathroom Suite (Photo credit: libertygrace0)

Move Over on that Cross, Will ya?

Painting image of Joan of Arc (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Checking my email this morning, I saw one of my favorite discount stores is having a sale. Today. One day only.

I needed gloves. It’s freezing out. I bought a pair last month, and they look fun in an ugly kind of way, but they’re a loose knit, no fingers, not even a thumb. Why did I buy them? They were $6! Sure I saw practical, warm, pretty gloves too, but those were $50. 6 vs 50, on a day when it wasn’t too cold yet, no contest. Sure I’m a lifelong New Yorker, and understood it wasn’t going to stay 50* outside, but 6 dollars!

Once I dropped Flower Child off at school, I walked to the store. This left me standing in the cold for half an hour before they opened. OK it was 25 minutes, I guess the manager felt sorry for me and the other fools waiting for them to unlock the doors. The selection was pitiful, but I was determined to take advantage of the 25% off coupon slipping through my icicle fingers. Found a pair. Not what I really wanted. I was imagining something elegant or funky, interesting color, super warm pair with a touch screen fingertip. I found warmer than what I’ve got, no touch screen fingertip, and I’m not really sure if they’re navy or black.

I’m in the store where it’s warm, not overly crowded, and agonizing over whether I should buy this pair of gloves, or wait and keep looking until I find the perfect pair at the perfect price on a day when I’ve got money in my pocket. I’m sure you can all now understand why I own a very limited wardrobe. I decide to look around the store. It really is a very good sale, and there are several things I could use. I look at dresses. I found this super cute wine colored knit–with sleeves! (why do they sell sleeveless winter dresses in the Northeast?)–my size, no obvious rule it out defects, for a very reasonable $50. It’s just my kind of dress (though not a color I usually like), nice, practical, fine for a regular day but if I had an appointment for tea with the Queen I could put some beads around my neck with a nicer pair of shoes and look fine.

Portrait of a group of ladies at a tea party, Charters Towers (Photo credit: State Library of Queensland, Australia)

Don’t forget the 25% off coupon! I picked up the dress and carried it all over the store, inspecting everything else I wasn’t going to buy. I looked at coats. I would love to have a warm down coat for everyday use. I spend a lot of time outside walking, and do not enjoy cold weather. At. All.

I have a coat I bought several years ago at another discount store. I hadn’t been coat shopping in a long time prior, and was shocked by the prices. So shocked, I called my mother to rant. She laughed at me, and I bought the cheapest one I could find. Sure it’s down, but apparently it’s only got 3 feathers, because I’m shivering in it the second the temperature drops below 45*. I’ve got a fabulous and fabulously warm shearling I got when my Grandmother died, but I don’t like to wear it. It’s the only really nice coat I’m ever likely to own, and I feel kind of silly when I wear it. Here I’m living this crazy broke-ass life; picking up dog poop in a shearling? I’m like a character from a Depression era movie, “Well, de-ah, I’ve fallen on haahrd times.”

I put the dress back. Bought the boring but reasonably priced and warmer than what I’ve got gloves, and punished myself by walking home, instead of taking the train. Why? I dunno, it’s the martyr instinct. I’ve got it, and so do many of the women I know who aren’t shopaholics. It was perfectly reasonable to put the dress back. I’ve got to buy Christmas gifts for the kiddos, and there isn’t any wiggle room in the budget. I could use a new coat, but I won’t freeze without one, I’m absolutely fine wearing layers. I like my layers. I like the look, and they make me feel shabby chic instead of shabby. I did need a pair of gloves.

So why do I feel guilty for having bought them? Besides the obvious answer that I’m a lunatic. What kind of shopper are you?

Walked past my new favorite lady in the city.

And some perfectly elegant holiday displays.

Tis the Season

I think she’s pretty, am I done now?

And, as usual, I’m unprepared. Can’t say as always, because some years I’ve been relatively on top of things, but not usually.

I haven’t prepped a thing, haven’t so much as taken the Christmas boxes down from the closet, no clue what any of my kids would like, haven’t even purchased a box of candy canes–which I usually do right after Thanksgiving. I know, if Nerd Child reads this, he will think, “I told you I wanted ____.” I know he did tell me something, but my brain is like a sieve these days (heh, who am I kidding? has been for years), if it isn’t written down any thought drains away.

I did buy one new snow globe yesterday, see above.

Husband has a cousin whose home is always perfectly, tastefully decorated for the holidays. The woman could have been a window dresser for Saks, her eye is flawless. It’s the type of talent you either have or you don’t. I don’t, but I love to admire the efforts of those who do.

I like to know what the kiddos and Husband want for Christmas, not just taking a stab in the dark. A lot of that is due to the budget, if we don’t buy them the item they reeeeally needed/wanted, that’s it for quite a while. I am not hitting the after Christmas sales on December 26th. Husband is easy, he always wants clothes. Well, easy except for that whole pilgrimage to 34th St in the holiday season, but I’ll save that for another post. A couple of times over the years I saved and splurged and bought him toys instead of clothes (an iPod, a GPS), and my sense was that he still would have preferred to see those red boxes from Macy’s.

Tiffany’s (Photo credit: peterjr1961)

For several years, Husband and I admonished each other not to buy each other anything. I’m not going to say that anymore. He knows I’m going to buy him something, I know he’s going to buy me something. Do I have a wish list? No. Things go in and out of my head all year long, but when it comes time to Husband asking me what I would like (usually around 11PM on the 23rd, sometimes 2PM on the 24th), my mind goes blank.

If I really push myself, I turn into Marilyn Monroe singing “Santa Baby,” picturing jewels and deeds. Or Elmer J Fudd, with a mansion and a yacht. Around 6AM Christmas Day I remember that I’m wearing the same pjs that I’ve been wearing in the photos for the past 7 years, could have asked for those, 10AM I look at the wreckage of wrapping paper and boxes from the kids’ gifts and sigh over my imaginary iPad, around 3PM, I remember the paring knife I could have used.

Do you have a wish list?

Elmer Fudd (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Shameless Hussy

Français : La Merveilleuse Velver Grip Nouvelle Pince Jarretelle Avec Bouton en Caoutchouc (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

that’s me. But I’m trying to be

Cover of "The Hustler (Two-Disc Collector...

Cover via Amazon

of blogging and shameless self promotion of Mrs Fringe.

My promotional skills are much like my pool skills. I can rack em up with flair, but my break leaves much to be desired.

The question is this, if I suck at self promotion (I’m excellent at the shameless part, if I do say so myself), do I ipso facto suck at blogging?

I don’t think I suck at blogging, my readership continues to grow (albeit slowly), and it seems to me that’s half of blogging–writing stuff people enjoy (or find informative, but that isn’t Mrs Fringe) enough to come back and read again. It’s the other half. The networking, getting your name way out there, where I fizzle.

Blogging is, after all, a form of writing. So what makes writing success? There’s the bottom line of writers write, a leap up to writers publish, paid to publish, publishing well, multi published, best seller lists, supporting oneself (and/or one’s family) from said publications…

Mrs Fringe exists because I live life on the fringe. No money, no time, few marketable skills and a desperate need to have a spot to be truthful (in a fictionalized kinda way) about said life. However, these same factors make it very difficult to do the work necessary to bring Mrs Fringe up to the next level.

Perhaps I’ll stick to being a hussy.

Hip flask tucked into a garter belt during Prohibition (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Self Aware…or Self Involved?

An illustration from page 30 of Mjallhvít (Snow White) an 1852 icelandic translation of the Grimm-version fairytale (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Among my many obsessions; lack of space/privacy, and the Real Housewives franchise.

I was catching up on the ladies in Atlanta (love them!). There was a scene where one of them was whining about losing her rental home, and possibly being forced to move back into her townhouse with her husband, 4 kids, and 2 dogs. I’m watching, and grooving on this scene. I can relate! Oh wait.

The townhouse she might move back into is 5000 square feet. Five thousand. Pfft. That’s more than six? seven? times the space I live in with Husband, Man Child, Nerd Child, Flower Child, Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Frankly, not even my dream home is 5000 square feet. Who wants to clean all that? Except this Housewife seemed genuinely freaked out, concerned about how they would be able to live in such a small space. This episode captured me, and has me thinking about the many people in this country (including but not limited to the thousands in NYC whose homes are destroyed or uninhabitable because of Hurricane Sandy) who would be happy to have my overcrowded apartment to live in right now.

Where’s your light bulb, Uncle Fester? (Photo credit: apollonia666)

Lightbulb moment, right? Angels singing, I felt the light-in-me recognizes the light-in-you connection of it all, and I smiled looking at the crap piled along the windowsill. Not really. Because despite my recognition of spoiled American capitalist values, well, I’m a spoiled American who was bred and raised in this capitalist society. As such, I want to keep my stuff, have more space, and enjoy some privacy.

But, I will remember the moment, and the honest it’s-impossible look on Dream Home Atlanta Barbie’s face when talking about living in a 5,000 square foot home, and think about those I come across or walk past in my little corner of the world who are puzzled by my complaints.

Let’s be honest, the very fact of this type of blog epitomizes self involvement, regardless of how self aware I might try to be.

Heh. Check out Mrs Fringe, being all Zen and the Art of Selfishness and shit. Or would that be zazen?

Cover of Remember, Be Here Now

Can I Bleed Those Pipes For You?

Editions Archipoche (Photo credit: dpcom.fr)

Caretaker vs Caregiver

You know how there are some words that are easy to confuse on the tongue–you intend to say one but the other comes out? I don’t have many, but the above are mine. Technically (at least, according to Dictionary.com) they’re synonyms. But really, not so much.

Caretaker usually refers to someone who takes care of things, like houses. Or cemeteries. When I hear caretaker in its more accepted context, I think of gothic women-in-peril novels, cover art showing the sweet young maiden running in terror against the howling wind, back of hand to forehead, while the creepy mansion looms over her. Is that he-ro going to save her in time? Oops, just the foolish caretaker, bearing yet another obscure message.

Caregiver, on the other hand…yup, that’s me. Taking care of people and critters. Every day. All day. And let’s face it, most honest long term caregivers will tell you the pay sucks and the benefits are even worse. Yeah, I know, there are some who don’t feel this way, no matter how many years the caregiving extends they feel it’s a noble calling. Vaya con Dios, that isn’t me.

English: Kkoktu figure of a Caregiver. Korea, 18th century. On display at the Spurlock Museum, Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, USA. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I like taking care of “mine,” doing the best I can to make sure all are as well as possible, even throw in some smiles. But time off would be divine. Time to take care of no one.

And no, I don’t mean take care of myself, either. I mean luxuriate in being a sloth for however long it takes to feel rested. Caregiving that doesn’t end, or doesn’t change within the “normal” time frames feels a lot like being the caretaker of a decrepit, leaky-creaky mansion, complete with its own graveyard. Slap some duct tape over the bathroom pipe, and then the dormer window in the attic blows out.

This being life, what do I do? I choose to add more caregiving to the schedule. I have a reef tank. Always something to be monitored, cleaned, checked, work to be done, no matter the size of the tank. A little over a year ago, I added Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Sure, I love all these critters, they bring moments of peace and warm fuzzies, but they are living beings who need to be taken care of. Why? What drives me to do these things? And I’m not the only one, I know plenty of other caregivers who make similar choices. Why do you do it?

Even when dreaming about home ownership, do I imagine a neat, new house? No. I fantasize about one of those lovely period homes with the creaky stairs and rattling windows. I may be an idiot, but I’m not dumb, I understand those charming houses filled with character involve endless projects and repairs. Am I a handy gal? Nope. I’m not naturally artistic or mechanical, nor do I have any experience with home repairs.

And the one thing I do that has nothing to do with taking care of anyone else? Writing, of course. That beautiful calling to hunch over the keyboard and open a vein.

Shallow Grave (Photo credit: jcoterhals)

Paring Down

Old Woman Peeling Potatoes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love the principles behind the various living simply movements. Think about it, in our frenetic day to day lives, doesn’t the idea of slowing down and simplifying sound tempting?

Not in an extremist way, I have no interest in renouncing technology and indoor plumbing; living completely off the grid, but just saying enough is enough, enough is good enough, I’m going to value time to breathe and enjoy. I’m always interested in the stories of people who decide to do this, sell their second and third cars, their McMansions, and move to adorable, solar powered log homes in Montana, or Maine or Idaho.

1919 Indoor Toilet Ad (Photo credit: dok1)

Except, reading these blogs, how to guides, and articles, these people all seem to have started off with significantly more than they need. And their new homes always have enough room for comfortable furniture, a working garden, room for all who live there and the stuff they continue to value. How does one decide to live simply in the city with a family and limited budget? Is it possible to make it a choice, when so many “no’s” are out of necessity?

I’ve known/know a few who seem to, but they’re all either single or two people (couple or one adult with a child). None have significant, chronic medical needs. Their dry goods aren’t sitting out on kitchen counters because the cabinets are crowded with medicines and supplements.

I like the idea of getting rid of unnecessary stuff and clutter. It’s the battle of clutter here, because there just isn’t a place for everyone’s stuff. But what is unnecessary? My books? Bite your tongue, I need those! Not every book I’ve ever read, and over the past couple of years I’ve passed along at least a hundred, but what’s left are my companions, my solace when I’m feeling stuck or lonely or blue. I could replace them with an e-reader, but that would involve money to purchase the e-reader and buy the books–I already own!–electronically.

There are now 4 small boxes of stuff sitting in my living room from my mother’s apartment. One that’s waiting to be passed along. 3 small boxes from my mother’s life which includes memorabilia from my father and grandmother’s lives. I’d like to get rid of the big wall unit taking up space, but I’m not about to renounce TV either (yes, I do need to watch the Housewives), so that can’t happen until I can replace the old tube TV with one of the skinny hang on the wall things, and a smaller unit to hold the cable box, iPod dock, and Wii. Money again.

And what about time? Where do these hours to enjoy life come from? All those luxuries of modern living (many of which I don’t have), like a dishwasher or washer and dryer are luxuries because of the time they save.

Maybe living simply is a luxury itself, only meant for those who can do so as a choice.

What do you think?

Dollhouse (Photo credit: cliff1066™)

30 Days and 30 Nights

late night writing (Photo credit: professor megan)

of literary abandon. So says the wisdom of NaNoWriMo. Sounds like an orgy with pens and laptops.

No, I’m not participating, never have. I think about it, most years. Usually on October 30th, and again on November 7th or so. Then I do the math–50,000 words by midnight November 30th divided by how many days? feel nauseous, and shelve the thought for the following year.

I don’t know the whole story behind the history of NaNoWriMo other than it’s grown exponentially and started by a small group out in California, but this I know–whoever conceived this brain child cannot possibly have been responsible for cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

I would like to do it one year, though not in November. I think February sounds right. It’s a boring month, no major holidays, guaranteed to be foul outside here in NY, making me want to hide inside my laptop, perfect. Sure it’s a short month, but what the hell. 28 days and 28 nights of literary abandon sounds so much more manageable anyway. I’m pretty sure the NYC Dept of Ed is going to take away the February break this year since the kids were off all of last week, so I’ll get to incorporate all the fun of getting Flower Child to and from school each day. I’ll even give it a cute name. PerNoWriFeb. Personal Novel Writing February. Catchy, isn’t it?

I’ve got the perfect manuscript to work on, the romance in progress. I think romance lends itself to this type of writing frenzy. Keep the momentum building, move it forward, get the hero and heroine to the happily ever after before anyone starts to sag. Add in the whole Valentine’s Day kitsch and both reader and writer hearts can remain intact. Please don’t tell me you’re supposed to start fresh, a new manuscript.

Depiction of Queen Scheherazade telling her stories to King Shahryar in The Arabian Nights. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I get to be king in Fringeland, and queen of PerNoWriFeb so I’m making the rules.

None of this will come to pass. By the time my days are free enough to put this much time and focus on writing, my fingers will be too arthritic to tap on the keyboard. But I think about it. The same way I think about a beach house, a second bathroom, and a space of my own. And a dishwasher. And a washer and dryer. Oh wait. I’m getting off track aren’t I? Especially in this month of November, when I’m supposed to be thinking of something I’m grateful for each day. When did that start, anyway?

For personal space there’s no answer other than retreating into my mind. I’m pretty good at that. Mebbe too good, it could put me over the border of quirky and into the land of looney. Second bathroom? Definitely no answer to that one, unless I develop a fondness for chamber pots. Beach house? That’s what my nano tank is for. Limping along, having a little problem holding my calcium and alk levels steady at the moment, the front panel is in desperate need of a good cleaning, but still, it’s alive and mine.

Mrs Fringe is not Mary Sunshine. Seeing so many who have lost so much from Hurricane Sandy doesn’t make me happy with life as it is, but I do feel grateful that me and mine are safe and warm, and I excel at putting blinders on and chugging along. So maybe 1785.71 words per day won’t be possible in PerNoWriFeb, but I can shoot for working on the manuscript every single day that month.

Pom Pom Crab, my favorite critter in the tank. She’s survived several disasters, and every time I think she must be dead, haven’t spotted her in weeks, she pops up again, shaking her pom poms at every imagined threat and proving that some creatures are much tougher than they appear to be.

Merry Epilepsy!

Mercury EEG (Photo credit: Max ☢)

It’s always somebody’s awareness day, week, or month, right? November is Epilepsy Awareness month. If you’ve noticed purple ribbons, or purple in general, showing up in icons on Facebook over the past few days, that’s why.

Seizures and epilepsy are part of my little corner of Fringeland. I believe awareness is particularly important to epilepsy, and people with epilepsy, because there’s such a long history of stigma attached, so much misinformation. There are those who still believe it’s the mark of Satan. Hell, years ago, when Flower Child was diagnosed, I received phone calls from well intentioned relatives telling me if I would just pray harder….The fact is, seizures are a misfiring in the brain, and how much of the brain gets involved and where determines the presentation of the seizure; in other words, what you see. Anyone can have a seizure. A diagnosis of epilepsy is usually made when there are two or more unprovoked seizures.

To give a short but clear idea, I’ll just say Flower Child had a favorite EEG technician long before she had a favorite teacher.

Flower Child doesn’t quite “get” the concept behind awareness, but she knows she’s got a great reason to wear purple every day, and has noticed all the purple icons popping up when looking over my shoulder. Being an excellent advocate, she’s letting everyone know. Sort of. In her mind, it’s kind of like letting people know it’s her birthday, or wishing people a Merry Christmas. She also likes to use weighty words, though their definitions get confused in her mind.

Their Purple Moment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So you know she makes sure to tell everyone on the elevator, and in the store (before fatigue brought her down for the day and she wasn’t telling anyone anything), “It’s Epilepsy Appreciation Month! You should wear purple!”

Lots of elderly people in my building, losing their hearing, they all assume they’re hearing her incorrectly if they did in fact hear her words clearly. One wished her a happy birthday. Several others look at me to “translate.” I do, and they do a double take, “Oh, well, umm, thanks for telling me.”

The reality is, my world is pretty small. Most of it is quite tedious. If it wasn’t, I might not feel such a drive to write fiction, and create imaginary worlds. And yet, somehow every day is an adventure.

I’ll leave you with just a few facts:

-Never ever put anything in the mouth of someone having a seizure, you risk injury to yourself and to them.

-Epilepsy is a spectrum of neurological disorders.

-70% of people with epilepsy are well controlled by medications. That means 30% aren’t.

-About 50,000 people die in the US each year from epilepsy. Yes, epilepsy. That’s more than breast cancer, more than skin cancer, more than drunk driving accidents.

-A seizure isn’t always obvious to a casual observer. Tonic clonics, or what used to be called “grand mals” are only one type of seizure.