My mother told the doctor I was faking my seizure for attention while I was unconscious on the floor

I told her I was fine. During lunch, I sat alone at a table near the windows and tried to eat the sandwich my mother had thrown together that morning.

It was plain turkey on white bread with no condiments. It felt like she couldn’t be bothered to make it taste like anything.

Across the cafeteria, I saw my girlfriend Maya watching me. We’d been together for four months, and I hadn’t texted her back since the seizure.

Maya came over and sat down across from me. She asked what happened and why I hadn’t responded to her messages or if I was mad at her.

I told her about the seizure, about the hospital, and about my mother refusing to believe it was real. Maya’s expression shifted from confused to angry to horrified in the span of 10 seconds.

She reached across the table and took my hand. She asked if I was okay, if I needed anything, or if there was something she could do.

The concern in her voice made my throat tight. I told her I was managing.

She didn’t look convinced. She asked if my mom had at least made sure I was taking care of myself.

I lied and said yes. Maya squeezed my hand and said if I needed to talk or needed a place to go, her door was always open.

Her parents were the kind of people who actually cared about their kids. They were the kind who asked questions and listened to answers, the kind I’d always envied.

The neurology appointment took three weeks to schedule. My mother complained about it the entire drive to the medical complex.

She complained about taking more time off work, about the co-pay, and about how this was all a waste. She insisted there was clearly nothing wrong with me except an attention-seeking personality.

The waiting room was full of people with real problems. There was a kid in a wheelchair and an elderly woman who couldn’t stop trembling.

I felt like a fraud sitting there with my normal appearance and my mother’s words echoing in my head. Maybe I was faking somehow.

Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. The nurse called my name, and we followed her back to an exam room.

Dr. Okafor was a tall Nigerian man with gentle eyes and a calm voice. He reviewed my ER records and EEG results on his computer.

He asked me detailed questions about what I remembered from the seizure and about any symptoms before or after. I told him about the metallic taste, the tunnel vision, and the confusion afterward.

He nodded like these were textbook symptoms. He did a neurological exam, had me follow his finger with my eyes, and tested my reflexes with a small hammer.

He asked me to walk heel to toe across the room. Everything checked out normal.

He pulled up my EEG results and showed us the abnormal wave patterns on his screen. He explained that I had focal epilepsy originating in my temporal lobe.

He said it was a real neurological condition and that I needed to stay on medication. He advised me to avoid triggers like sleep deprivation and stress.

My mother asked if stress meant being a teenager who stayed up too late. Dr. Okafor said no.

He meant traumatic stress, chronic anxiety, and environmental factors that kept the nervous system in overdrive. He looked at my mother when he said it.

She didn’t like that. She told Dr. Okafor that I had a perfectly stable home environment.

She said I was just a sensitive kid who took everything too seriously. Dr. Okafor asked to speak with me privately.

My mother refused. She said she had every right to be present for her minor child’s medical appointment.

Dr. Okafor’s expression went carefully blank. He said that was fine but that he’d be documenting my case thoroughly.

He planned to send reports to my primary care physician and the school. He printed out information sheets about epilepsy and seizure safety.

He handed me a medical alert bracelet to wear. He told me to keep a seizure diary and come back in three months for a follow-up EEG.

He shook my hand and told me I was doing the right thing by taking my medication. His emphasis on that last part felt pointed.

It felt like he knew somehow that my mother had left it on the counter that first night. The second seizure happened three weeks later during gym class.

We were running laps, and I felt that metallic taste again. I tried to tell the teacher, but the words wouldn’t come.

This time I stayed conscious through part of it. I felt my body jerking and thrashing on the gymnasium floor.

I felt the convulsions I couldn’t control. I heard the other students screaming.

I felt someone trying to hold me down and Coach Williams yelling at them to let me move. When it stopped, I lay there gasping with tears running down my face.

I’d just proved my mother wrong in the most public way possible. The school nurse called an ambulance again and called my mother.

I ended up back in the same ER bay with the same Dr. Patel looking at me with concern written all over her face. My mother arrived 40 minutes later.

She walked in and immediately started talking before Dr. Patel could say anything. She told her I’d forgotten to take my medication this morning.

She said I’d been staying up late gaming and that I’d brought this on myself through irresponsibility. Dr. Patel asked me directly if that was true.

“No. I’d taken my medication every single day at the exact same times. I’ve been going to bed at 10:00. I’d been following every instruction.”

My mother’s face flushed. She said I was lying to make her look bad.

Dr. Patel held up her hand. She said the school had provided detailed documentation that this seizure had come out of nowhere during routine physical activity.

She noted that sometimes breakthrough seizures happened even with medication and that we needed to adjust my dosage. She said something else too, something that made my mother go very still.

She said the ER staff had flagged my case for a pattern of concerning parental behavior during medical emergencies. There were notes from my first visit about treatment refusal and dismissal of documented medical conditions.

She stated that if this continued, they’d be required to make a formal report to Child Protective Services. My mother’s voice went ice cold.

She said that was completely unnecessary and overstepping. She claimed she was a healthcare professional herself and knew how to care for her child.

Dr. Patel said being a dental hygienist didn’t qualify her to override a neurologist’s treatment plan. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

My mother grabbed her purse and stood up. She told Dr. Patel we wouldn’t be returning to this hospital and that she’d be finding me care elsewhere.

Then she walked out. Dr. Patel looked at me for a long moment.

She asked quietly if I wanted to go home with my mother. The question caught me off guard.

I was 17, not quite an adult but old enough to understand what she was really asking. She was asking if I felt safe, if I needed help, or if this was the moment to speak up.

I thought about Linda’s business card still hidden in my desk drawer. I thought about Maya’s offer to help.