What time is it?

"Where are my pills?" "What time is it?"

"It's quarter to three."

Every day it's the same. Except sometimes it's not quarter to three. Sometimes its six thirty.

Or nine fifteen.

And then we go on talking.

"So you were thinking of moving the couch."

"Huh?"

My flatmate has epilepsy. And she has seizures nearly everyday. We'll be sitting there talking about some trivial matter, when suddenly her eyes lose focus and this look of panic crawls across her face like a beetle.

"What time is it?"

"Where are my pills?"

And for a brief few seconds she becomes infused with daemons that take over her body.

I remember it happened to my Oma once shortly before she died. And a chill ran up my spine that was quite eerie.

Normally her palsy lasts for a few seconds and her head and arms twitch, and she continues with her rantings. And slowly, you can see her regain control of her senses. And she has no recollection of any of her short term memory. In fact it's not until you actually tell her that she had a seizure that she even realizes that she has had one.

It's quite surreal.

The first time it happened, I didn't know that she was epileptic, and when I asked my other flatmate, she said:

"Oh, yeah I forgot to tell you, but don't worry about it, it's nothing serious."

The problem is that now it is becoming serious.

Her seizures are increasing in regularity. And while the ones she has during the day are not very bad, apparently the worst ones she has are at night. While she is asleep. She has no recollection of these either, but when she wakes up, she knows because she feels like she has been hit by a bus. Every muscle in her body hurts, and she has ulcers in her mouth from where she has bitten her gums.

And she has them at the gym, and at work. And she is still driving, which I personally think is a bit wrong.

And the reason for this epilepsy is a congenital defect of her brain. It's something that she only started having at the age of twenty-four. And medication has been able to help her thus far. Unfortunately she is not responding to the drugs anymore and surgery is her only option.

It's all pretty fucked up. The surgery would be in her brain stem, and there is a strong chance that she could lose part or all of her sight. Or worse.

You don't want to go monkeying about in there. It'd be like a game of Operation, except the risks would be a bit greater than a buzzer and a flashing red nose.

"It's okay though because I'll be able to count my flatmates to look after me."

But where does the responsibility of flatmate end?

Is it having help with the rent? Is it a shoulder to cry on after a long day at work? Or is it spoon feeding them and wiping their arse?

It seems that these things always happen at the most inconvenient time. I was just about to tell her that I was thinking about moving back to SA.

I really wouldn't want to be in her shoes at the moment. And I can tell that she is scared. I would be feeling the same way.

She has been going out a lot lately. Not the best thing for her condition. But I think she's just trying to cram as much fun as she can into the next few months. If there was a high possiblity that I would have only a few months left of normal life, I might do the same thing.

There is every chance that after her operation (which hasn't yet been confirmed) that she would be left paralysed or needing months or years of rehab, reprogramming her speech and learning to walk.

And you wouldn't even know that she had it if you passed her in the street.

So that's the story.

Should I let this new variable affect my decision? Or should I be a selfish cunt and move out?