I Was Clinically Dead For 90 Seconds Because My Teacher Thought My Epilepsy Was A “Trend.” My Friend Didn’t Survive, And The School Is Trying To Cover It Up. We Just Leaked The Security Footage. Is This Enough To Put Her In Jail?

Seeking Justice

They kept talking about moving forward and learning from this tragedy, but they never said what they learned. They never said they were wrong. They never said David should still be alive. When I left that office, I knew nothing would change unless we made it change. Miss Blackwood would come back from her paid leave and some other kid would die. The school would have more meetings about procedures and protocols, but nothing would actually get better.

That’s when Emily and Billy and Darren and I started planning. We weren’t going to let them sweep this under the rug like David never existed.

The first thing we did was go to the police station downtown. My mom drove us there in her minivan while Emily kept checking her phone for updates from the other parents. The building smelled like old coffee and floor cleaner. We sat in those hard plastic chairs for two hours before the detective finally called us in. He had this thick folder on his desk with David’s name on the tab. I could see the corner of his death certificate sticking out.

The detective kept saying things like “alleged incident” and “under investigation” while that piece of paper sat right there. He told us these cases take time and there’s a process they have to follow. My mom asked when we’d hear something definite. He just shrugged and said it could be weeks or months. Emily’s mom started crying. The detective handed her a tissue box and said he understood our frustration, but they had to be thorough. He kept using the word “alleged” even though David was dead, even though we all saw what happened, even though the paramedics had reports. He said the district was conducting their own investigation too. Everything was “under review.” That’s all he would say: under review.

Struggles and Setbacks

Three days later, I had to go to the mall with my mom to get new shoes. The food court lights were those old fluorescent ones that buzz and flicker. I didn’t think about it until we walked past Orange Julius. Then the lights started doing that thing where they pulse. My chest got tight, my hands started shaking. The lights kept flickering and suddenly I was back in that classroom. I dropped to the floor right there by the pretzel stand.

People were staring. Some kid was recording on his phone. Security came running over; they thought I was on drugs or something. My mom kept trying to explain, but I couldn’t breathe. The lights kept flickering. They had to help me out through the employee exit. Everyone was watching, whispering. I felt so weak, so broken.

The next Monday at the school, this girl from the newspaper came up to me. She had her recorder out and everything. Said she wanted to do a story about what happened. Part of me wanted to tell her everything, every single detail about Miss Blackwood. But I also knew how these things go. One wrong word and suddenly the story becomes about something else, or the school makes me look like I’m making it up, or they twist it around. I told her I couldn’t talk about it yet. She kept pushing, said people deserve to know the truth. Maybe she was right, but I wasn’t ready.

That weekend I stayed in my room organizing everything. I pulled out my seizure action plan that the school was supposed to follow. Found all my hospital records from the past three years, the emails my parents sent at the beginning of the year explaining my condition, the letter from my neurologist. Each piece of paper felt important, like evidence, like proof that this shouldn’t have happened. I made copies of everything, put them in a binder with tabs. My mom helped me scan them too. We saved everything on three different flash drives, just in case.

Organizing the Resistance

While I was organizing, I kept checking David’s GoFundMe page. Still stuck at $30,000. His parents needed $130,000 for all the medical bills before he died. The comments had stopped coming. People had moved on to other things. That’s how it works: something terrible happens and everyone cares for a week, then they forget. Kids die because their families can’t afford treatment. That’s just how things are. The anger was eating me up inside, making me feel sick all the time.

On Sunday, Emily and Billy came over with Malik. We sat in my basement trying to figure out what to do. Darren showed up late and sat on the stairs instead of with us. He kept checking his phone. Finally, Emily asked what his problem was. He said his coach told him not to get involved, said it could mess up his scholarship chances. That hurt more than I expected. He was supposed to be on our side. He was supposed to care about David, about me. But his stupid football scholarship was more important.

Emily said we should file public records requests. Her older sister did that once for a school project. We spent hours writing the requests, asking for the 911 call recordings, any security camera footage from the hallway, the incident reports. We sent them to the district office that week. They wrote back saying everything was part of an ongoing investigation. Said they couldn’t release anything due to student privacy laws. It felt like a cover-up, like they were hiding something.

That’s when Emily’s mom mentioned she knew a lawyer. This woman named Orla Purscell who did civil rights cases. She agreed to meet with us at her office downtown. The place had all these awards on the walls, pictures of her with important people. She listened to our whole story without interrupting once. Then she said she’d help us pro bono if we could get organized. She needed evidence, witness statements, documentation—everything properly preserved.

She gave us really specific instructions. Screenshot any social media posts about the incident before they get deleted. Write down everything we remember while it’s still fresh. Get contact information for every witness. But absolutely no contact with Miss Blackwood. No messages, no confrontations, nothing that could be seen as harassment. The rules felt limiting, but having a plan helped. It made me feel less helpless, less like I was drowning.

We made a group chat that night to coordinate everything. Emily would handle collecting witness statements from our classmates. Billy would track down and organize all the documents. Malik would create a timeline of everything that happened. Everyone had a job. Everyone had something to focus on instead of just being angry. It felt like we were actually doing something, like we weren’t just going to let them sweep this away.