My mother told the doctor I was faking my seizure for attention while I was unconscious on the floor
The metallic taste hit my tongue first. Copper and electricity.
My vision tunneled into a pinpoint of light while Mrs. Garrison’s voice echoed from somewhere far away. She was asking me to solve the equation on the board.
I tried to tell her something was wrong. I tried to form words, but my jaw locked and my body went rigid.
The last thing I remember before the world disappeared was the sound of my desk crashing sideways as I hit the linoleum. When awareness came back, I was staring at ceiling tiles with a crowd of faces hovering above me.
Someone had turned me on my side. There was wetness on my chin.
Mrs. Garrison was on her phone with 911. My classmate Derek was telling everyone to back up and give me space.
My tongue felt thick and wrong in my mouth. Everything hurt.
The ambulance took 20 minutes to arrive. I spent that time lying on the classroom floor with a jacket under my head, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Mrs. Garrison kept saying my name. “Liam. Liam, can you hear me?”
The paramedics asked me questions I couldn’t answer because my brain felt wrapped in cotton. They loaded me onto a stretcher, and I saw the other students watching through the classroom windows as they wheeled me down the hallway.
The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright and made my head pound. One paramedic kept checking my pupils with a flashlight.
The other one asked if I’d taken any drugs or if I had a history of seizures. I managed to shake my head no to both questions.
They strapped an oxygen mask over my face, and the ambulance started moving. My mother met us at the hospital.
I was in a curtained bay in the emergency room when she arrived. She was still wearing her work scrubs from the dental office where she worked as a hygienist.
Her first words weren’t asking if I was okay. They were sharp and accusatory. “What did you do?”
Her eyes scanned the monitors and IV line like she was looking for evidence of my guilt. The ER doctor introduced herself as Dr. Patel and started explaining what had happened at school.
She mentioned a grand mal seizure, loss of consciousness, and possible head trauma from the fall. They needed to run tests, including a CT scan, blood work, and EEG monitoring.
My mother crossed her arms, and her expression went cold in that way I knew too well. It was the way that meant she’d already decided the narrative before hearing any facts.
She told Dr. Patel I was faking it. She said it loud enough that the nurse adjusting my IV flinched.
“My son has always been dramatic. He does things like this when he wants attention or wants to get out of school.”
Her voice carried that syrupy tone she used when talking to authority figures. It was the one that made her sound reasonable and concerned instead of cruel.
Dr. Patel looked between us with a carefully neutral expression. She explained that you can’t fake a witnessed grand mal seizure.
She noted that the school had documentation and that my vital signs and physical presentation were consistent with a legitimate neurological event. My mother laughed.
It was a short, bitter sound. “Trust me, doctor, I know my son. This is exactly the kind of stunt he pulls.”
Dr. Patel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She said they’d be running the tests regardless and that I’d be admitted for observation.
My mother said that was unnecessary and a waste of resources. She claimed that I just needed to go home and stop seeking attention.
The doctor excused herself and left the bay. Through the gap in the curtain, I could see her talking to the charge nurse at the desk.
Both of them kept glancing back toward us. My mother pulled out her phone and started texting, her fingers flying across the screen.
She didn’t look at me once. She didn’t ask how I felt or if I was scared.
She just sat in the plastic chair against the wall with her purse on her lap. She looked like she was waiting in a DMV instead of an emergency room where her son had just been brought in by ambulance after his first seizure.
The tests took hours. They wheeled me to radiology for the CT scan, and I had to lie perfectly still while the machine whirred and clicked around my head.
Back in the ER bay, a technician attached electrode pads to my scalp for the EEG monitoring. My mother complained about the wait time, about missing work, and about how this was all unnecessary drama that could have been avoided if I just behaved normally at school.
When Dr. Patel came back with preliminary results, she pulled the curtain closed for privacy. The CT scan showed no structural abnormalities, no tumors, or bleeding, but my EEG readings were abnormal.
There was unusual electrical activity in my temporal lobe. She used words like focal epilepsy and recommended I see a neurologist for further evaluation.
My mother’s response was immediate and dismissive. She told Dr. Patel that epilepsy didn’t run in our family.
She said that I was probably just dehydrated or hadn’t eaten breakfast. She claimed that teenagers were always staying up too late on their phones and not taking care of themselves.
Dr. Patel’s professional mask slipped for just a second, and I saw frustration flash across her face. She explained that epilepsy could develop without a family history.
She insisted that the abnormal brain activity was documented and real and that ignoring it could be dangerous. My mother stood up and said we were leaving.
Dr. Patel said I was being admitted overnight for monitoring and observation. My mother said she was refusing that treatment on my behalf.
She was my legal guardian, and she said no. The air in the bay went tense and still.
Dr. Patel stepped outside again. This time she was gone longer.
When she came back, there was a woman with her. She was in her mid-50s, with gray hair pulled back in a bun and wearing business casual clothes.
She had a hospital ID badge that said Linda Chen, Social Services. My stomach dropped because I knew what that meant.
Someone had called in concerns. Linda introduced herself with a kind smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
