2019
[I wrote 7 years ago]
“5 months seizure free on March 6th, 2019. 
 The first thing my neurologist told me after surgery was to avoid stress, especially emotional stress….”
Then COVID reached Pandemic scale.
Then in 2021 the wildfire evacuation in El Dorado County turned a dangerous night into a medical crisis when I was already battling drug-resistant epilepsy. Forced from home multiple times, I spent two monthss at Green Valley Church with family, pets, medication and Sherri’s seriously ill mother. The stress and subsequent seizures ultimately led to surgery removing my entire right temporal lobe. More than two years later, I remains seizure-free, counting each day as another gift of survival.
Life Is Good, and Strange!
Life is good.
And strange.
Sometimes it is both at the same time.
After a few downright BAD years, I was moved from Marshall to Sutter in Sacramento to see a specialist. Marshall had/has—no neurosurgeon and no epileptologist. I needed both.
With the guidance of God, the skill of a great medical team, and more than a little stubbornness on my part, I eventually had part of my brain burned out.
Yes.
Burned out with a laser like some kind of a “Mini Me” joke!
And somehow, I came through it and landed on the Ranch for some much-needed Rest and Recouperation.
For a while, things were going well.
Even after two bouts of testing positive for COVID in 2020, life went on, seizure free. I had avoided the stress, especially the emotional stress….
Then came August 14, 2021.
Late that night, I was reporting on a fire crew that was working a fire down a draw from Grizzly Flat. In the next hour I was watching events unfold when the story suddenly stopped being something I was reporting on.
It became my story.
Within a short period of time there was pounding on my door, sirens screaming in the street, and propane tanks exploding nearby in Grizzly Flat.
That will get your attention and drive your stress level up.
I loaded the car with family and pets, important papers and meds, grabbed what we could for clothing, and hit the road.
Our first stop was the evacuation center in Diamond Springs.
It was full.
So we headed to a friend’s house in Pollock Pines.
We unloaded.
And then Pollock Pines was evacuated.
So we loaded everything back up and moved again.
Next stop:
Green Valley Church evacuation center.
Dogs.
Cats.
Important documents.
Medication.
And a very sick, wheelchair-bound mother.
For the next two months, that church became home.
Two months of uncertainty.
Two months of wondering whether we would have a home to return to.
Two weeks of living out of what we had managed to throw into a vehicle while trying to keep a family—and a menagerie of animals—together.
And somewhere in all of that chaos, my brain decided it had had enough.
I had several seizures. The stress, the flickering fluorescent lights of the evacuation hall, the concern that another man was not having his concerns of seizures taken seriously by the medical staff. I was a pest to the Red Cross staff about it until I learned he was there with his parents and suffering from methamphetamine psychosis! He confided to me that he was formerly a “Big Time” drug dealer in the high desert of southern California .
I had been told by my doctors to avoid stress, especially the emotional stress.
Apparently, my doctors had not considered the possibility of a wildfire evacuation involving a wheelchair-bound mother, multiple animals, medications, exploding propane tanks, and the possibility of losing everything you own.
I had not exactly followed their instructions.
That eventually led to another surgery.
This time, they removed all of my right temporal lobe.
A lobectomy.
There is another word people sometimes use for that procedure.
A word that sounds considerably more frightening:
Lobotomy.
Technically, they are not the same thing.
But when somebody tells you they are removing an entire lobe of your brain, technical distinctions can become a little less important.
The important part is this:
It worked.
For two and a half years, I have been seizure-free.
People who live with this kind of medical condition understand that you don’t simply say, “I’m cured.”
You count days.
Day by day.
People recovering from addiction count the days since their last drink or drug.
People living with epilepsy sometimes count the days since their last seizure.
Every day matters.
One day becomes a week.
A week becomes a month.
A month becomes a year.
And eventually you look back and realize you’ve accumulated years you once weren’t sure you would ever have.
I don’t take that for granted.
I know how quickly life can change.
One moment you’re sitting at home watching a fire develop.
The next moment someone is pounding on your door.
Then you’re throwing dogs, cats, medicine, paperwork and family into a car and heading down the mountain.
And two weeks later, you’re wondering whether the stress of surviving the fire is going to cost you another piece of your brain.
Life is strange.
It has a dark sense of humor.
It can take you from a hospital bed to a wildfire evacuation center.
From Sacramento specialists to a church filled with evacuees.
From having part of your brain burned out to having an entire lobe removed.
And somehow, through all of it, you keep going.
God keeps opening another door.
Doctors keep doing their jobs.
Family keeps showing up.
And you keep taking the next step.
Day by day.
Seizure by seizure.
Fire by fire.
Life is strange.
And life is good.
Very, very good.
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