One afternoon when I was 12 years old, I went indoors to escape the summer sun and trudged upstairs to the kitchen. I was panting from the heat, and my mom poured me a glass of cold orange juice. I sat down and chugged the juice. By the time I set down the cup, I had started to feel funny. A moment later, I fell unconscious.
While unconscious, a green witch appeared to me. She cackled and said, "Next time, you'll come with me." I opened my eyes. My mom was hovering over me, and I was flat on my back, the chair underneath me.
I was terrified, certain that the green witch was a harbinger of death. But I was told that my outage was no big deal, that I'd "just passed out" for a brief while.
Fast-forward 18 years. My eight-month-old boy has a seizure and -- just to be on the safe side -- I e-mail my mom and ask her, "Did anyone in our family ever have a seizure?"
My mom says, "Well, you had the one, when you were an adolescent. You came in and drank a glass of juice, then you started shaking… The pediatrician said that if it ever happened again, we should do a CAT scan."
I was shocked. I'm still shocked. This was an important happening in my childhood -- I think I told everyone in the township of White Bear Lake, Minnesota about the green witch who would claim me if I ever passed out again -- and I was wrong about key information. I didn't pass out. I had a seizure.
I feel angry, betrayed. I'm sure my mother thought that keeping this from me was for my own good. But I was a 12-year-old. A precocious 12-year-old. Surely I should have been told.
My husband and I agree that we will share information, even scary information, with Isaac. What about you?