An Unflinching Memoir of Seizures, Silence, and the Power of Refusing to Conform
By Cris Alarcon, (April 15, 2025) —
Two pieces of prose and poetry shaped my life from childhood to this day, The Road Not Taken and Whosoever be a man must be a nonconformist. Life with epileptic seizure means I take a road less traveled and that I will not conform to a typical life. Each is shaped by the spirit of Frost and Emerson, but forged in the fires of my own experience: seizure, survival, and stubborn, holy nonconformity.
My connection to “The Road Not Taken” and “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist” runs deep. Both are about choosing integrity over ease, authenticity over approval. And when epilepsy enters the picture, that choice is no longer poetic—it’s lived, moment by moment.
“The Lobe Not Taken”
Two paths diverged behind my eyes—
One bright and smooth beneath blue skies,
The other sparked with shadowed flame,
Where not a single step’s the same.
I did not choose it. Let that be clear.
The seizure came, unasked, sincere.
With flashing light and stolen breath,
It carved a corridor through death.
And still—I walked. I would not kneel.
With every fall, I rose more real.
No padded life, no plastic grace,
Could touch the truth I came to face.
They said conform. Sit still. Be meek.
But my own voice began to speak.
A nonconformist soul I am—
An echo of Emerson’s bold stand.
I walk with lightning in my brain,
Through silent woods and psychic rain.
I take the road with jagged stone—
The lobe not taken, mine alone.
“The Choice Was Made For Me”
They say I chose the road less traveled. But the truth? The road chose me.
Epilepsy isn’t a journey I sign up for. It’s not a road you scout with a compass and a fresh canteen. One day, without warning, the map catches fire in your hands. And what’s left are seizures and stares, medications and memories gone missing. I didn’t choose to be different—but I chose to walk on anyway.
While others marked milestones by graduation dates or promotions, mine came measured in months seizure-free, new medications tolerated, MRIs unremarkable. And yet, even when my body betrayed me, I refused to betray myself. I would not become a statistic or a patient number.
“Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist,” Emerson wrote—and I believe him. Living with epilepsy is not about overcoming weakness; it’s about embracing strength no one else can see. When your brain throws sparks and lightning, you either cower in fear—or you learn to dance with the storm.
And that, I suppose, has made all the difference.
The Lobe Not Taken: An Epileptic Memoir
Chapter One: The Spark
I was born different. Not in any way you could see.
The seizures started before I was 5 but stopped. They didn’t restart until I was an teenager, when most kids are discovering freedom and I was suddenly learning how to relearn things I used to know. My first seizure came like a thief in the night, stealing seconds from my life I would never reclaim. One moment I was standing in a classroom, and the next I was staring at the ceiling tiles, surrounded by panicked faces I couldn’t place. One time in my 50s I woke up in an E.R. with a nurse asking me if I knew my name.. I thought it was such dumb question! Then I realized i could not!
No one talks about the silence of epilepsy—the void. It’s not the convulsions or the hospital visits that shape you. It’s the quiet afterward. The blank spaces. The skipped beats in memory. That’s where the fear lives.
And so, my road split. I did not walk the same path as my peers.
Chapter Two: Emerson Was Right
I clung to Emerson like a raft. “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.” That line hit me in the gut the first time I read it. It told me I didn’t have to be like them. I didn’t have to apologize for the oddness of my days, or for the medication fog that sometimes made my thoughts feel like molasses.
When people saw a condition, I began to see a calling. I was different, yes—but that difference meant I would never live a typical life. And maybe, just maybe, that could be a good thing.
I learned to speak the language of neurologists. I learned to advocate for myself in exam rooms where no one believed a seizure could be silent. I learned to mourn the life I thought I’d live—and then I built a better one.
Chapter Three: The Road Less Traveled
Living with epilepsy is a full-time job. You have to predict the unpredictable, plan around the unknown. Medications change. Triggers evolve. And society? Society doesn’t know what to do with you.
There were jobs I didn’t get. Relationships that didn’t survive. Whole chapters I had to cross out and rewrite.
But here’s the secret nobody tells you: the road less traveled is full of color. I met people I never would have known—artists, advocates, scientists with fire in their eyes. I became someone I never expected. Stronger. Wilder. Wiser.
There is power in saying, “I will not be what you expect.”
The temporal lobe, they said. That’s where it starts.
They showed me my brain on a screen once—highlighted regions glowing like stars on a midnight map. It looked beautiful to me. I wonder if poets would’ve written differently had they seen a brain mid-storm, glowing with defiant energy.
I took the lobe not taken. And that has made all the difference.
Chapter Five: Epilogue in Progress
I still have seizures. I still fall. But I get back up with poetry in my pocket and defiance in my step.
Robert Frost and Ralph Waldo Emerson raised me in ways my doctors never could. One taught me that the harder path is often the truest. The other taught me that refusing to conform isn’t rebellion—it’s survival.
I didn’t choose epilepsy. But I choose every day to live like it’s a calling.
And friend, that has made all the difference.
Content retrieved from: http://inedc.com/24/uncategorized/the-lobe-not-taken-choosing-a-life-beyond-epilepsy/.
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