I had a minor partial seizure around 5 p.m. at work yesterday. My boss hung out with me as I took Ativan and slinked to the floor–assuming the “holy shit I could be flailing in a second” pose.
I counted down from 100, subtracting by the number 7. Around the mid-40s I was totally out of it and D.C. (my boss) coached me through the math game.
“C’mon, Liz. What’s 14 minus 7?”
“So what’s 44 minus 7?”
Good timing as far as the seizure is concerned because I am going to see Dr. P tomorrow–my favorite tough-guy neurologist. (You know, the one who told me to stop crying about stupid shit and start worrying about more important things, like saving my life. I love doctors who tell it like it is.)