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

I thought about Coach Williams, who’d witnessed the seizure and knew I hadn’t faked it. I thought about the pattern of documentation building in my medical records.

I told Dr. Patel I wanted to call someone. She handed me her phone.

I pulled Linda’s number from my memory and dialed. She answered on the third ring.

I told her I needed help. She said she was on her way.

My mother came back to the bay 20 minutes later expecting to take me home. Instead, she found Linda sitting next to my bed with a folder full of documentation.

Linda introduced herself again. She explained that there was now sufficient evidence of medical neglect to warrant an immediate investigation.

She stated that I would be placed in emergency foster care while the investigation proceeded. She told my mother she could contest this through family court but that for now, I was being removed from her custody.

My mother’s face went through several expressions: shock, rage, disbelief. She said this was insane and that she’d done nothing wrong.

She claimed that I was manipulating everyone with lies. Linda opened her folder and started reading.

She listed the documented refusal of overnight observation after the first seizure and the failure to administer prescribed medication. She read the verbal statements minimizing and denying the documented medical condition and the interference with doctor-patient communication.

Each item was dated and attributed to specific medical staff. My mother turned on me then.

Her voice shook with fury. “You’ve ruined everything. You are a liar and a manipulator just like your father.”

“I’ve sacrificed everything to raise you alone, and this is how you repay me, by getting me investigated and humiliated.”

Linda stood up and positioned herself between us. She told my mother that threatening a minor during a CPS intervention was being documented too.

She told her she needed to leave the hospital now. She said security would escort her out if necessary.

My mother grabbed her purse and left without looking back. I watched her go through the bay curtain and felt that crack in my chest split wider.

It was not into a full break, not yet, but close. Linda sat back down and told me it was going to be okay.

She said I’d done the right thing and that I was safe now. I wanted to believe her.

The foster home was 40 minutes away in a suburb I’d never been to before. Linda drove me there herself after Dr. Patel discharged me with a new medication dosage and instructions for the foster parents.

The house was a two-story colonial with a neat lawn and a minivan in the driveway. Linda knocked, and a woman answered.

She was in her 50s with short blonde hair and warm brown eyes. Her name was Patricia.

She invited us in and showed me to a bedroom on the second floor. It was clean and simple, with a twin bed, a blue comforter, a desk, a dresser, and a window overlooking the backyard.

Patricia told me her husband David was at work but would be home for dinner. They had two other foster kids currently, a girl named Sienna who was 14 and a boy named Marcus who was 12.

The house rules were simple: respect each other, do your chores, keep your grades up, and no drugs or violence. She asked if I had any questions.

I asked if I could call my girlfriend. “Of course,” Patricia said.

She handed me her house phone since my mother had kept mine. I dialed Maya’s number from memory.

She answered, sounding worried. I told her what had happened about CPS, foster care, and my mother being investigated.

Maya was quiet for a long time. Then she said her mom wanted to talk to me.

Mrs. Reeves came on the line, and her voice was thick with emotion. She said she was so sorry I’d been going through this alone.

She said she’d had no idea things were that bad. She mentioned that Maya had told her everything after my second seizure.

She asked if I needed anything, like clothes, school supplies, or someone to talk to. I said I was okay for now but thanked her.

She made me promise to call anytime. I hung up feeling less alone than I had in months.

School became complicated. The district required documentation of my living situation change.

I had to meet with the guidance counselor and explain why my emergency contact had changed from my mother to Patricia. Word spread fast.

By the end of the week, everyone knew I was in foster care. Some kids were sympathetic.

Others were curious in that cruel way teenagers can be. A few asked invasive questions I didn’t answer.

Derek and Maya became my buffer. They sat with me at lunch and walked with me between classes.

They made it clear that anyone who wanted to gossip about me would have to go through them first. Maya held my hand in the hallways, even though public displays of affection technically weren’t allowed.

Nobody said anything. Even the strictest teachers looked the other way.

The investigation moved slowly. Linda came to check on me weekly and asked about school, my medication, and how things were at Patricia’s house.

I told her everything was fine, which was mostly true. Patricia and David were kind but distant in the way foster parents learned to be.

They provided structure and safety but didn’t try to replace my mother. Sienna was quiet and kept to herself.

Marcus was loud and always making jokes. We existed in the house like planets in separate orbits.

We were polite and functional, not quite a family but not hostile either. I went to school, did my homework, and took my medication.

I saw Dr. Okafor for my follow-up. He said my EEG showed improvement with the new dosage.

I had been seizure-free for six weeks. He asked how I was doing emotionally.

I lied and said fine. The truth was I felt hollowed out.

It felt like someone had reached inside my chest and scooped out everything that made me feel things. I wasn’t sad exactly; I wasn’t angry, just empty.

Maya noticed. She asked me one afternoon while we were sitting in her car in the school parking lot if I was okay, really okay.

I told her I didn’t know how to answer that question anymore. She turned off the engine and shifted in her seat to face me fully.

She said I didn’t have to be okay. She said it was normal to be not okay after what I’d been through.

She told me that pretending to be fine wasn’t required. Something about the permission in her words made my throat tight.

I told her I felt like I was floating, like nothing was real. It felt like I was watching my life happen to someone else from a distance.