“So, are you sure you want to go to college?”

It’s winter of junior year. The doctor sits in her chair across the paper-strewn desk, with lank light-brown hair tucked behind her ears and diminutive glasses sitting on her nose, making her eyes look beady. She takes a sip of her coffee; she must be tired from picking my brain apart all day. I clasp my hands in my lap, pushing the knuckles together. I have promised myself that I will never cry or stray from a polite attitude while visiting the doctor and even now, when I want to cry and scream at her because of how she’s just made me feel, I won’t allow myself to do that. Still, I can’t help narrowing my eyes the slightest bit, but make sure to look past the doctor, out the window to where birds play in the puddles on the fifth floor roof. I vaguely hear her “suggest” that I stay away from the AP and Honors classes.

It has been two years since I was diagnosed with epilepsy and I have refused to alter my challenging courses and my plan to go away to college. I’ve had to approach some schoolwork in different ways than before, and I sometimes have to work harder than others around me, but none of that has made me want to forget about college. Sometimes I do have to spend more time working through physics problems, or have more trouble focusing on calculus than my other friends. But that doesn’t mean that my life as it was is stopping. This year, I manage a staff of six on the school paper and continue my flute lessons. When I want to relax I still write and read as much as I ever did.

If anything, it has been the most difficult to adjust to the smaller sacrifices in my daily life. Since I was diagnosed, three days after I got my driver’s license, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I can’t drive the car that sits in my driveway. Now, when it’s sunny after school I can’t go down to the beach with my friends and jump off the dock because it’s dangerous for me to swim. Taking a bath is a luxury that I still indulge in. But now it is with my sister sitting protectively outside the door.

Nevertheless, no relationships have crumbled and I haven’t, as I once feared, been pushed away by friends or teachers because of what’s going on in my brain. In some ways this situation has brought me closer to some people, now that I’ve overcome the embarrassment or awkwardness of talking about my medical issues. My friends consistently and effortlessly take note of how we might have to adjust our outings in order keep me safe and happy. Even relationships with teachers have flourished, as I find comfort in talking one-on-one with adults in my daily life.

Over the last two years so much has changed. I’ve grown into a stronger person, as I’ve had to rework my life in a way that satisfies the epileptic part of me. I’ve had to avoid strobe lights and I don’t even attempt to pull an all-nighter. But I can still curl up with Gone With the Wind or stretch out at yoga class and I can still finish everything I need and want to get done. Yes, I’m sure, Doctor.

This essay was written by Miranda Levy, Garfield Class of 2004, Whitman College Class of 2008.