By Skyla Abramson
I used to shop with my mom once a week at Publix. My dad would drop us off, and we would turn a simple grocery trip into a two-hour event. We walked slowly through every aisle, comparing prices, picking out snacks and talking about our week. It was fun. Most of the time, it felt completely ordinary.
But there were moments when everything shifted. She would catch my eye and lift her index finger slightly, a quiet signal to pause. In the middle of a grocery store aisle, under bright fluorescent lights and the steady hum of refrigerators, that small gesture meant she was having an aura, an early warning sign that a seizure might be coming. Sometimes we were lucky and the feeling passed. Sometimes it didn’t.
On those days, I watched her carefully. The cart wheels would squeak to a stop. Her face would go still. Then her body would stiffen in a way I had learned to recognize. Her eyes would move, but they were not focusing on anything around her. I would step closer without thinking.
Within seconds, the world around us would change. Someone would ask if she was okay. Another person would suggest calling 911. A few people would hover nearby, unsure of what to do. I could feel their panic rising in the tight space of the aisle. But I stayed steady.
“She has epilepsy,” I would say calmly. “She’s okay. Thank you.”
I wasn’t always this calm.
By the time I was old enough to understand what epilepsy meant, I had already seen my mom have seizures. Most of them were brief. Her body stiffened, her eyes lost focus and after a few minutes she slowly returned to herself. That was what I was used to.
But one day, I heard a loud bang from the bathroom, like something hitting the sink or falling to the floor. For a second, I froze. Then I ran.
When I opened the door my mom was on the floor, her whole body shaking in strong, uncontrolled movements. Her arms and legs jerked in a way I had never seen before. It was the first time I had witnessed a convulsion.
A seizure is a sudden burst of electrical activity in the brain. Not all seizures look the same. Some cause staring, confusion or stiffness. When a seizure causes full-body shaking and muscle contractions, it is called a convulsion. Convulsions can look frightening, especially if you are not expecting them.
I called for my dad. He came quickly and knelt beside her. He did not panic. He made sure her head was protected and that there was nothing nearby that could hurt her. He didn’t try to hold her down. He simply kept her safe and waited.
I felt scared at first. Watching my dad stay calm changed the room. I began to understand that during a seizure, fear does not help. Staying calm does.
Epilepsy became part of our routine but it was not something that defined my mom or stopped us from living our lives. It was simply something we learned to plan around.
Over time, I noticed patterns. When she raised her finger to signal an aura, I would quietly look around the room. Were there sharp edges nearby? Was she standing? Was there space for her to sit down safely? If we were at home, I would guide her to the couch. If we were in public, I would move closer to her side. Small actions made a big difference.
When a seizure began, the most important thing was not to panic. I learned to clear the area around her so she would not hit anything. If she was on the ground, I made sure her head was protected. I stayed nearby and watched the time. Most of her seizures lasted only a few minutes.
Afterward, she would have a small headache, and unless there was a crowd, we could move on. It was the crowd that sometimes formed afterward. It was the stares, the whispers and the questions asked loudly as if she could not hear them. My mom would brush it off, but I could see the embarrassment on her face. Epilepsy affected her body, but public misunderstanding affected her dignity.
Living with epilepsy taught me that seizures are not the most dangerous part of the condition. Panic is. When someone has a seizure, the most powerful thing you can offer is calm. Clear the area around them so they do not hit anything sharp. Protect their head. Do not hold them down. Do not put anything in their mouth, as this can cause choking. Stay nearby and watch the time. If the seizure lasts longer than five minutes, or if they are injured, then call for emergency help. Otherwise, give them space, protection from harm, and let the seizure pass.
And when it is over, carry on so they do not feel like an inconvenience.
My mom’s epilepsy never defined her. She still laughed in the grocery store aisles and made weekly shopping trips an adventure. She still lived fully. What affected her most was not the seizure itself, but the way people reacted to it. Knowledge and calm turned fear into control.
Now, I am no longer worried about my mom’s safety. We both know exactly what to do. She communicates when she needs help, and I am there to give it.
Skyla Abramson is a fourth-year psychology major.
“My Public Health Story” essays originated from an assignment on public health storytelling for a public health messaging and dissemination course led by Gaia Zori, Ph.D., M.P.H., coordinator for the social and behavioral sciences and public health practice concentrations in the Master of Public Health program.