It’s a bit of a shocker, having a fit. I imagine – I say that because my brother has been having Grand Mal seizures since he was a wee kid and it does become increasingly obvious that when you have fits, overcoming them is a collective effort. Hopefully you’re surrounded by people who love you when you have them, or, as happens often, you’re not. And it’s an extremely worrying experience for the total strangers who are surrounding you in the middle of say, Borough Market on a Saturday, which is what happened to Steve once. Before he got married, I was very used to being called by the cops to come to some hospital or other where Steve was gradually getting to normal after the latest brain shut down. When he was young, he fought against it hard, and decided to go and do Buna Camp two summers running. My Mother was sick with worry – he could keel over at any moment: in the bath, by the side of the road, fall on to a railway platform, be alone in the middle of a bar some place…

…but the same things could happen in London. He fell and cracked his head on the edge of kitchen table once and was not only fitting but out cold for several hours. That was good! We liked that one. But, his drugs have got better, and better. He’s on them for life and they have funny side effects (look in to yours) like sensitivity to UV light but he hasn’t had a fit in a long time. Realistically, given that it’s under control, he’s more likely to die and untimely death at the hands of a mugger than by having a fit. Or, er, something like that.

Tom did fantastically well and it sounds like your workmates are coping well too. And you’re doing a brilliant exercise by being completely open about it. One very useful thing to do is not only make sure that everyone in the office knows what to do if you have one, but also your close friends and your family. Steve has found it very reassuring that everyone knows, so in effect, he doesn’t ever really need to talk about it.

There are obviously differences between the fits that Steve has and the ones you are having, but they’re surprisingly limited. I think what is useful is that you don’t have to go through your rebellious years whilst being in a position where you have to take drugs every day. Steve was on a medication at the time that was effectively neutralised by alcohol. What did he do? Get hammered, regularly. He was protesting his fate like mad…. with predictable and really very frightening consequences actually. Luckily, for a bloke with a Fine Wine diploma and a history of working at Oddbins, his newer medication doesn’t get affected that much by mild pissed-ness!

If you think it would be in any way helpful, I can pass on Steve’s email address. It might be worth talking through the different life adjustments that he has made – I’ve gone sort of blind to them after all these years.

Also, having read on ‘a bit’, the DVLA thing – I seem to remember if you’re on medication and fit-free for 5 years, then you are allowed to drive again. I know Steve’s in the “OK” zone again now but since he’s never had any lessons and lives in London he now can’t be bothered (and his Missus drives).

Two things my “big sister worry” head would make me say to Steve at this point: if you’re still having fits on and off as things move forward, then think carefully about whether you want to continue living on your own. Steve did for a while, but as I say, cracked his head and so forth. Secondly, stay well behind the yellow line :)

Good luck. It’s dealable. xx

Hope things get better for you.

I’m standing there chatting to a friend who has so far refused to explain to me why there are pictures on Flickr of him covered in bruises and I say, “So what’s up” and he keeps looking straight at me and gets stuck in the middle of a word, with his eyebrows up where they normally are, looking like the whole thing’s a bit of a joke, and then slowly and systematically appears to go totally stiff and solid, before elegantly careering down onto the concrete in the middle of Oxford Street, in the middle of the day, crowds everywhere, rolling backwards on his backpack, and forcibly smacking his head against the pavement.

Initially, just before the fall, I’m all “Oh don’t be a dick” before realising in short order that he’s not taking the piss and there’s something actually seriously wrong, at which point I’m left shouting on Oxford Street to anyone who’s passing for help, while trying to work out how to stop him swallowing his own tongue. He’s stiff as a board, getting increasingly sweaty and hot, froth bubbling out of his mouth, I’m trying to hold his head in my hands (now covered in blood) and a small crowd of interested bystanders are watching the whole thing with fascination.

A woman turns up and I’m trying to work out with her what the recovery position is while everyone watches and observes things, and I’m totally convinced that we’re going to do something wrong and my friend is going to drop dead and I’m not only going to have to make do without him, but it’s going to have been my bloody fault. And we’re frantically running around trying to rearrange him, although it’s bloody hard because all his limbs are completely rigid, and there are people all around us who aren’t helping and we’re shouting for someone to call an ambulance.

All things considered a strange lunch break.

At some point I’m completely convinced that someone’s going to take his wallet and I have no idea who to trust. A crowd grows around us but no one actually does anything but get in the way. All these eyes sort of bore into you. What if I make a mistake. What am I supposed to be doing!? If ambient adrenalin would have done anything to help, he’d have been up and running around in no town.

After about two minutes, our hapless hero/victim comes briefly out of his fit. I think this is all going to be fine, although he clearly has absolutely no idea what’s going on or why everyone’s so concerned. Blissfully ignorant he mumbles and bit and then almost grumpily tries to dismiss us before falling almost immediately into a deep unrousable sleeplike state. Again, I have no idea whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. At some point in all these proceedings he’s breathing like a planesaw. I don’t remember when.

Eventually an ambulance arises. The woman who was helping us disappears immediately – I wonder if she’s an ex-nurse or something who doesn’t have insurance for medical malpractice if Captain Fallover is seriously damaged by the whole situation. The ambulance people growl at everyone nearby and ask me an enormous amount of questions that I can only half answer and then with significant speed and urgency – clearly really quite worried about the whole thing – get him onto a stretcher and into an ambulance.

I’m not allowed in the ambulance, and so have to wait outside. The crowd dissipates almost immediately, and within thirty seconds I’m alone by the side of the road, opposite Centre Point next to an ambulance with throngs of people walking by on the street – the only sign of the whole thing being a patch of blood on the street, right near the Argos, against the wall.

I stand outside on the street for fifteen minutes not having the slightest idea what’s going on, still scared out of my mind, only for the door of the ambulance to eventually open, and Mr Morgan to be sitting there, quite apparently cheerful and mystified by the whole thing, looking entirely bemused—and not entirely horrified—by all the attention! Swine! Bastard!

The rest of the day is roughly as our hero has indicated, and he’s TOTALLY right when he says that once we’d determined he was initially okay and once I didn’t have to be the solid reliable calming one any more, I sort of freaked out like a motherfucker for a few minutes! Lazy bastard slept through the whole thing! What the fuck does he know!