The Tragic Battle of Pinwheel

Ahead – Carys Thomas

Sasha Olander

“Sasha! Sasha, listen,” I heard through the thick fog in my head. “Is she always this disrespectful?” I listened as my camp counselor accused me of being an impolite and belligerent kid. I continued walking. I wasn’t aware that I had been walking. I didn’t even know where I walked. I tried responding but no one knew. My words didn’t come out of my mouth. What? I said in my mind. What? I continued repeating in my mind hoping that my counselor eventually heard my response. WHAT??? I finally shouted 45 seconds later in irritation after what seemed like a full year. I looked over as my brother, my camp counselor, and my fellow campers stared at me with confusion and irritation. The counselor reprimanded me while I simultaneously attempted to recover after the daze I went off into. I tried focusing on the words of my counselor but I continued wondering what had happened. 

It took months before figuring out what had happened that day. No one thought twice after the camp incident because everyone assumed that I ignored my counselor out of disrespect. However, at the ripe age of five years old I lacked the eloquence required for describing what I felt in my brain, like static on a TV screen. It felt as if all of my senses blended together, and I had no control over my body or my voice. I didn’t know if I heard or saw or even moved. It felt like an angry ant had taken over my brain, and I struggled while I attempted fighting the ant back. The ant sought out my brain like a zombie. Unfortunately, the ant would the battle for a solid minute before I took back control. After this “daze” happened several more times on family vacations in Europe, my parents realized that I hadn’t been disrespectful; my brain stopped properly functioning in relation to my body. Once I returned from Europe, my parents scheduled an appointment at a specialized doctor’s office that I constantly butchered the pronunciation of: a neurologist.
When I arrived at the doctor, they asked me all sorts of questions about when we noticed my seizures first starting and how many times it had happened since. After the questions, the doctor had me do an intriguing test. At first, I thought I may really enjoy the test because it consisted of a rainbow pinwheel which thrilled me, as a scared five year old. However, when the doctor spun the pinwheel and made me watch it, I realized that I hated that test more than anything. The rapid spinning of the pinwheel and its colors sparked a seizure in the doctor’s office. The doctor told me that he purposely induced a seizure from the pinwheel, but I had trouble wrapping my head around why he wanted me drifting away and entering the loneliest, scariest place in my mind. The pinwheel continued haunting me for years. I dreaded taking the pinwheel test because every time- I had a seizure, and I hated the lack of control that I had over my own brain. The doctor shortly after asked me if I had any head injuries recently. My mom proceeded with telling him how I slipped in my backyard after swimming lessons one day and got diagnosed with a severe concussion. 

At the end of the dreadful appointment, the doctor diagnosed me with petit mal seizures. He told me that this type of seizure is most common in children and while many children outgrow them, many develop other types of seizures in the process. The doctor quickly placed me on a medication that I believed scared the seizures away . The liquid medicine seemed like the most putrid, vile substance I had ever tasted – like dried blood mixed with molasses. When I tried it for the first time, I almost projectile vomited at the taste of moldy grapes combined with sweaty socks. I gagged at the thought of taking it twice a day, every day of my life. I had two options. I either continued having seizures, or I took medication. My parents made that decision, so I started on my medication shortly after. 

I believed that the medicine cured me. Once I started the medication, I thought of being a normal kid doing normal kid things. However, activities and foods were restricted from me as my seizures continued occurring even after the medicine. The seizures continued taking away things that I enjoyed. I couldn’t swim, or play a sport, or drink my favorite drink ever: sweet tea, and most importantly, the doctor prohibited CHOCOLATE. The thought of not indulging in my favorite sweet treat mortified me. I hated my brain and I hated my mind. Why did I have stupid seizures? It felt so unfair. 

My parents tried their best with giving me the most normal childhood despite my adversity. I continued doing my gymnastics lessons and later in the year, I joined the cheer team at my gymnastics gym, but I still had limitations, specifically revolving around swimming. When my seizures had started, I hadn’t finished my swimming lessons, so I didn’t necessarily swim properly. Going underwater imposed a serious risk that I avoided because having a seizure underwater risked my life. I didn’t tell anyone about my seizures because I didn’t want people viewing me differently. I struggled with not telling anyone because when it rarely occurred that I had a seizure in public, no one knew what happened therefore, no one had a way of helping. Fortunately, at this point I finally swallowed pills and I stopped using the liquid medicine. My dosage also increased as my seizures persisted through the medication.

After years of having petit mal seizures, I realized accepting my difference seemed like my only option. I had no way of  “curing” my seizures or fixing myself and becoming “normal” and not taking three different pills a day and skipping out on pool parties. I would either grow out of them or develop other types of seizures and even though it seemed unfortunate and unfair, I had accepted that. I began focusing on the positive blessings in my life instead of wallowing over a condition that I had no control over. At the age of five I quickly learned that every single individual person has something going on in their lives that affects them in the same way that my seizures affected me. 

At age nine, I had another regular annual checkup with my neurologist. Little did I know that turned out as my last time in that pale yellow office with the horrible fluorescent lighting. He asked me the procedure questions before whipping out the object I hated the most: the pinwheel of hell. I watched in fear as he slowly brought the pinwheel by my eyes. I hadn’t had a seizure in months since my last doctor’s appointment when everyone thought I had outgrown my seizures until the pinwheel sent me into a trance. I knew deep down, that pinwheel seemed like one obstacle impossible to overcome. Until I beat the pinwheel, becoming a “normal kid” seemed impossible. 

“Are you ready, Sasha?” I heard from my doctor as he stuck that obnoxious, colorful piece of trash directly in my face. I sighed, awaiting my horrible fate. By this point, I had been at enough doctor’s appointments where I already knew my fate. I had passed every other test and then I’d be so hopeful of finally quitting my medication and outgrowing my seizures. Then, I would enter a different state of mind as soon as the colors started spinning. I had no hope, and no faith. As soon as it started spinning I gave up completely and attempted getting the seizure over with. However, the wheel kept on spinning and spinning, and I remained responsive. Five seconds passed, ten seconds passed, thirty seconds passed, and he removed the pinwheel from my line of vision. “Congratulations Sasha! You have outgrown your seizures.” The doctor said as I stared in disbelief. Those seizures had been a part of me for so long. How did they randomly disappear on a Tuesday afternoon? I tuned out as my doctor conversed with my mom about the next steps and procedures. I heard him tell her to monitor me and keep a close eye on me. I saw her shed a happy tear as I continued sitting, looking unfazed. “Aren’t you happy Sasha? It’s all over.” I felt happy, didn’t I? Being happy didn’t feel like an option. For years I wanted the seizures gone, but at that moment it felt like one of my special yet unfortunate features got stripped from me. Seizures had been a part of me for almost half of my life and I quickly realized that not having them made me feel like one of my most interesting features no longer existed. Life without seizures and medication had been so foreign. I forced a smile as I gave my ecstatic mom a hug. Since the end of my seizures, I have had many more challenges and adversities. But if I can beat the pinwheel, I’m confident I can beat any other obstacle put in my path.