With 5 days left to go until I hear the answer, I've been reviewing some of the things I've done to apply, including my autobiography I wrote. In place of another post, I thought I'd add page three of that autobiography: my life with epilepsy.
Epilepsy is something I rarely talk about here, partially because I feel my condition is controlled enough that it doesn't affect my life. The other reason is because I consciously ignore it. It is my one weakness, my Achilles Heel, and it's the one thing about my life I wish I could change. As I continue to find my place, I continue to find a place for my seizure condition in my life.
There are times in my life where I feel I’m looking at the world through a plastic bag. The view is distorted, hazy, and I am not quite sure where I am or even who I am. My body is sore as if I’d run a marathon. I see faces surrounding me; I feel like I’m inside a huddle and everyone is discussing the next play. I’m asked such questions as “Do you know where you are?” and “Tell me your home address.” It takes a while before I can answer. I have to re-learn how to talk. I want to answer, but that veneer fogs up my memory, and I can’t answer with any certainty.
It’s not a dream, nor is it a drug-induced experience. It’s me after I wake up from having a seizure.
When I was 15 years old, I experienced my first seizure. As my doctor tried to explain it to me, I was still in a form of shock. What did it all mean? I was now some sort of handicapped person? Was there a cure? Mom and I were clueless about the condition. To this day, she feels bad for going out and buying a tongue depressor, believing the old myth that a person having a seizure can swallow their tongue.
While my mother handled it in her own way (starting the Epilepsy Support Group of West Michigan, becoming Volunteer of the Year from the Epilepsy Center of Michigan, and receiving an award from President Bill Clinton), I realized I had to handle this in my own way. I was no good at talking about my feelings; I had no desire to “share” how Epilepsy had changed my life. I was a teenage boy with rebellion and testosterone raging through his body, now living with a condition that would restrict what I could do. I decided to put myself to the test.
I was told not to drink, not to stay up late, not to do all the things teenage boys like to do…yet I did them all and with much gusto. I was on a path to prove to the world I didn’t need to conform to any doctor’s recommendations. This condition wouldn’t keep me down. Every bad situation for a person with Epilepsy, whether it was high at 6AM in the middle of a cornfield or driving 90mph down the freeway, I’ve done it. I wanted to prove something to myself. In the end, I think I proved myself wrong.
While I did succeed in breaking many of those risks, I began to have breakthrough seizures in the most embarrassing places. At work, in school, in front of friends and family…the people I was trying to show I could not be beaten experienced the first hand witnessing of an epileptic seizure. It scared a lot of them. It scared them so much; I could see how they felt bad for me. I didn’t want to be pitied, so I rebelled even more.
As I grew, I realized life wasn’t about how others perceived me. Whether I was the popular guy or just the quiet guy, I’m just another guy that has Epilepsy. Perhaps that’s why I don’t worry about any “stigma” of pursuing a vocation. I’ve already learned that the best way to handle a huge change in life is not to lash out and let your ego vindicate you in the eyes of others, but to look inside of yourself and deal with what you fear. For me, it was the loss of control. Because of the seizures, I can lose control when my meds aren’t taken. This is a part of my life, and something I have come to terms with. Most people don’t even know I have the condition because of my rarity of seizures.
I continue to take Dilantin for my condition, and will do so for the rest of my life. As a kid, I dreaded the idea of having to do something to prevent severe bodily harm or even death. Today I’m happy that science has a remedy for Epilepsy, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to experience as much of life as I did.
Showing posts with label autobiography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autobiography. Show all posts
The last post was a brief history of my faith, as well as a quick explanation on why I feel called towards the Capuchins. However not everything they ask for is about your faith history. One of the key questions they focus on is my relationship with my family.
Since I am an only child and come from a single-parent household, most think that my family is much easier to explain. On the other hand, my relationship with my mother can be complicated. We don't fight or have some of the explosions that happen in other families, but my outlook on my mother and my memories of her are a big reason of why I feel called towards the priesthood. There are times I wonder if I'm just trying to live up to her expectation of public service and social justice. It is something I continue to work on.
Enjoy.
-V
-
It was a cold day in 1984, and I was home sick from school. Mom let me move our small black & white TV into my bedroom. She was in the kitchen that day with Bob, her boyfriend, making signs that said: “Vote!” She’s always been a staunch Democrat, and she was also making signs for Walter Mondale and Geraldine Ferarro: two people we’d met in person earlier that year.
Later that day I heard a glass break in the kitchen, followed by shouting. I went to the kitchen, still in my pajamas, to see what was going on. There stood my mom, fists at her sides, staring up Bob who had his hand cocked back-ready to strike. My mother stands 4’11, while this man was easily over 6 feet tall. If it came to a fight, my mother would not last long.
I don’t know if they stood like that for 5 minutes, or if time stopped for me as I watched them. I don’t know if she saw me standing nearby; I don’t even know if she ever thought about how it might end. What I do remember is my mom, short yet defiant, saying in a calm voice: “Hit me. I dare you.”
He looked as if to swing, yet from the reaction on his face, it was as if he saw something in her eyes that told him he was in over his head. He turned, went to the closet to grab his coat, and slammed the door as he walked out. Mom started to cry. We never saw Bob again.
Thinking back, I’ve not seen my mother cry but a few times in my life. She has worked to be a strong, single parent mother. Perhaps that need to be strong for me is what imparted her with the strength of will to not only stand up to a man who outsized her, but the power to stand up to others in her lifetime. As she marched to Des Moines and argued with Governor Bandstand about welfare reform, I wonder if she drew on that experience to remind herself that she was capable of standing up to anyone.
Bob would be the last boyfriend my mom ever had. Since that time 28 years ago, my mother has never looked for another male companion. Some times I’ve asked if she was ever going to find a man and get married, only to hear her answer: “What the hell for?”
My mother is a fighter. I’ve never told her, but it’s the greatest quality I admire about her. She’s stood up for herself as well as others in times of need. When I ponder what my life would be like as a father, I wonder if I could display such courage to my children like the strong memory I have from that winter day in ’84.
While w don’t always agree, there has always been a high level of respect between my mother and I. There is rarely ever any shouting, and never any hateful outbursts. I’ve never done anything to show disrespect, and she has allowed me to live my life without scrutiny or hindrances. She’s always told me “You’ll never learn unless you make your own mistakes,” and she’s allowed me to learn about life.
There is an advertisement run by Mitt Romney, in which he speaks about how “every child is entitled to have a mother and father in the family.” She scoffs each time it plays on TV, in part because he’s Republican. More importantly, she knows that sometimes life isn’t always that picture perfect family of Mom, Dad, the kids, the house, the SUV, and the family dog. Sometimes God throws us a curveball in life, and we have to do the best we can. And no matter how many times Mitt talks about “family values,” I know my mom has more experience on the subject than any politician could ever dream of.
Since I am an only child and come from a single-parent household, most think that my family is much easier to explain. On the other hand, my relationship with my mother can be complicated. We don't fight or have some of the explosions that happen in other families, but my outlook on my mother and my memories of her are a big reason of why I feel called towards the priesthood. There are times I wonder if I'm just trying to live up to her expectation of public service and social justice. It is something I continue to work on.
Enjoy.
-V
-
It was a cold day in 1984, and I was home sick from school. Mom let me move our small black & white TV into my bedroom. She was in the kitchen that day with Bob, her boyfriend, making signs that said: “Vote!” She’s always been a staunch Democrat, and she was also making signs for Walter Mondale and Geraldine Ferarro: two people we’d met in person earlier that year.
Later that day I heard a glass break in the kitchen, followed by shouting. I went to the kitchen, still in my pajamas, to see what was going on. There stood my mom, fists at her sides, staring up Bob who had his hand cocked back-ready to strike. My mother stands 4’11, while this man was easily over 6 feet tall. If it came to a fight, my mother would not last long.
I don’t know if they stood like that for 5 minutes, or if time stopped for me as I watched them. I don’t know if she saw me standing nearby; I don’t even know if she ever thought about how it might end. What I do remember is my mom, short yet defiant, saying in a calm voice: “Hit me. I dare you.”
He looked as if to swing, yet from the reaction on his face, it was as if he saw something in her eyes that told him he was in over his head. He turned, went to the closet to grab his coat, and slammed the door as he walked out. Mom started to cry. We never saw Bob again.
Thinking back, I’ve not seen my mother cry but a few times in my life. She has worked to be a strong, single parent mother. Perhaps that need to be strong for me is what imparted her with the strength of will to not only stand up to a man who outsized her, but the power to stand up to others in her lifetime. As she marched to Des Moines and argued with Governor Bandstand about welfare reform, I wonder if she drew on that experience to remind herself that she was capable of standing up to anyone.
Bob would be the last boyfriend my mom ever had. Since that time 28 years ago, my mother has never looked for another male companion. Some times I’ve asked if she was ever going to find a man and get married, only to hear her answer: “What the hell for?”
My mother is a fighter. I’ve never told her, but it’s the greatest quality I admire about her. She’s stood up for herself as well as others in times of need. When I ponder what my life would be like as a father, I wonder if I could display such courage to my children like the strong memory I have from that winter day in ’84.
While w don’t always agree, there has always been a high level of respect between my mother and I. There is rarely ever any shouting, and never any hateful outbursts. I’ve never done anything to show disrespect, and she has allowed me to live my life without scrutiny or hindrances. She’s always told me “You’ll never learn unless you make your own mistakes,” and she’s allowed me to learn about life.
There is an advertisement run by Mitt Romney, in which he speaks about how “every child is entitled to have a mother and father in the family.” She scoffs each time it plays on TV, in part because he’s Republican. More importantly, she knows that sometimes life isn’t always that picture perfect family of Mom, Dad, the kids, the house, the SUV, and the family dog. Sometimes God throws us a curveball in life, and we have to do the best we can. And no matter how many times Mitt talks about “family values,” I know my mom has more experience on the subject than any politician could ever dream of.
I will be out of town for the next few days to "catch up" on a few things in my life. In the meantime, I decided to leave two exerpts from my autobiography-one for today and one that will post tomorrow. They come directly from my paper I sent in to the Capuchins.
As I mentioned before, I wrote 5 smaller stories instead of one 5 page paper. The idea was to focus on certain times in my life, what they meant, and what I draw from those experiences. I had a chance to call the Vocations Director in Chicago and let him proofread the paper before I even submitted it. He loved it, so I'm confident it will work out well.
Enjoy, and I will see you all again when I get back in town.
-V
-
"In memory of your death and resurrection, we offer this life-giving bread and this saving cup…"
By age 17 I’d memorized most of the Eucharistic Prayer. I like to think this is when God planted his seed.
During high school I served as the alterboy for Fr. Dick Host at St. James Church in Grand Rapids, MI. We were still new to the area, and my mother thought it would be a good idea for both of us to get involved with the church. Initially, I think she wanted a reason for me to go to church every Sunday, and being a volunteer was just the thing.
For three years I served at the Church, rarely ever missing a Mass. I became more familiar with the actual dynamics of the different parts of the Mass, why the priest did this or that, how each little thing had a specific name and purpose (I was confused when someone asked for a Purificator).
When I was younger Mass was just a kind of show. I know that sounds completely sacrilegious, but that’s the best way to describe it. As a kid, I saw what was happening at the alter, I watched how people sat/kneeled/stood, and I remember when everyone got in line to accept the Eucharist. Yet I never really took the time to understand why these things were important.
As I continued to help during Mass, my interests in religion and philosophy soon blossomed. I read as much as I could regarding other religions and beliefs. My senior year of high school I was reading Camus, Kafka, and even had someone try to explain Scientology to me.
I haven’t always been a regular at church since my days as an alter server, however I’ve always had that interest regarding philosophy, existentialism, and religion. For many years, I continued to look into the question of: “Why are we here?” Even then, I was searching for that “something.” Kierkegaard was too confusing, Nietzsche was too pessimistic, and I didn’t know enough Greek to truly understand Origen.
While I continuously try to understand more about religion and Catholicism, it took a while to truly develop a sense of spirituality. I knew God existed, I knew Jesus died for our sins. I had to learn how that affected me. And what continuously drew my attention was how Jesus served those less “desirable.” I couldn’t walk past a homeless person without giving money; I couldn’t let a friend go without telling me of their woes. I found my spirituality in the service of others, and while it took a while to truly understand it, I realize I’ve lived with it all my life.
Perhaps I’m subconsciously trying to live up to my mother, or maybe I’m the poor kid trying to make good. Perhaps these are real factors on why I want to join the Capuchins, but I don’t think it’s the main reason:
My godparents are far from the Church now; one is divorced three times and the other is a Seventh Day Adventist. I missed out a season of football because of Confirmation Classes in 8th grade. My best friend is an agnostic, most of my co-workers haven’t seen the inside of a church in years, and 99% of the people I talk to don’t have a clue what a Capuchin or a friar are.
I cannot convince them with words. But I can listen, I can pray, I can teach, I can feed; I can be someone’s hero. And God willing, I can also help someone believe.
That is what I feel I have been called to do.
As I mentioned before, I wrote 5 smaller stories instead of one 5 page paper. The idea was to focus on certain times in my life, what they meant, and what I draw from those experiences. I had a chance to call the Vocations Director in Chicago and let him proofread the paper before I even submitted it. He loved it, so I'm confident it will work out well.
Enjoy, and I will see you all again when I get back in town.
-V
-
"In memory of your death and resurrection, we offer this life-giving bread and this saving cup…"
By age 17 I’d memorized most of the Eucharistic Prayer. I like to think this is when God planted his seed.
During high school I served as the alterboy for Fr. Dick Host at St. James Church in Grand Rapids, MI. We were still new to the area, and my mother thought it would be a good idea for both of us to get involved with the church. Initially, I think she wanted a reason for me to go to church every Sunday, and being a volunteer was just the thing.
For three years I served at the Church, rarely ever missing a Mass. I became more familiar with the actual dynamics of the different parts of the Mass, why the priest did this or that, how each little thing had a specific name and purpose (I was confused when someone asked for a Purificator).
When I was younger Mass was just a kind of show. I know that sounds completely sacrilegious, but that’s the best way to describe it. As a kid, I saw what was happening at the alter, I watched how people sat/kneeled/stood, and I remember when everyone got in line to accept the Eucharist. Yet I never really took the time to understand why these things were important.
As I continued to help during Mass, my interests in religion and philosophy soon blossomed. I read as much as I could regarding other religions and beliefs. My senior year of high school I was reading Camus, Kafka, and even had someone try to explain Scientology to me.
I haven’t always been a regular at church since my days as an alter server, however I’ve always had that interest regarding philosophy, existentialism, and religion. For many years, I continued to look into the question of: “Why are we here?” Even then, I was searching for that “something.” Kierkegaard was too confusing, Nietzsche was too pessimistic, and I didn’t know enough Greek to truly understand Origen.
While I continuously try to understand more about religion and Catholicism, it took a while to truly develop a sense of spirituality. I knew God existed, I knew Jesus died for our sins. I had to learn how that affected me. And what continuously drew my attention was how Jesus served those less “desirable.” I couldn’t walk past a homeless person without giving money; I couldn’t let a friend go without telling me of their woes. I found my spirituality in the service of others, and while it took a while to truly understand it, I realize I’ve lived with it all my life.
Perhaps I’m subconsciously trying to live up to my mother, or maybe I’m the poor kid trying to make good. Perhaps these are real factors on why I want to join the Capuchins, but I don’t think it’s the main reason:
My godparents are far from the Church now; one is divorced three times and the other is a Seventh Day Adventist. I missed out a season of football because of Confirmation Classes in 8th grade. My best friend is an agnostic, most of my co-workers haven’t seen the inside of a church in years, and 99% of the people I talk to don’t have a clue what a Capuchin or a friar are.
I cannot convince them with words. But I can listen, I can pray, I can teach, I can feed; I can be someone’s hero. And God willing, I can also help someone believe.
That is what I feel I have been called to do.