My sister Mary started having seizures when she was only ten. We lived in Kisumu back then, a regular family going about our days. One afternoon, she collapsed while playing with friends outside. Her body shook violently, her eyes rolled back, and there was foam at her mouth. None of us knew what to do. The hospital felt so far away, and that first episode scared everyone.
From then on, epilepsy changed everything for her. It went on for years, over a decade and a half. She worried constantly about when the next one would hit—maybe at school, at home, or out in public. Things like going to the market or joining family events turned into big worries. People stared or whispered. Some just stayed away. Mary pulled back a lot. Her confidence faded.
We did what we could. Visited clinics around Kisumu, saw doctors, and tried the pills they gave. Friends suggested herbs, so we gave those a go too. Some meds cut down the seizures a bit, but nothing fixed it for good. Bad days meant several attacks, leaving her wiped out and down. It hurt watching that happen. As her brother, I felt useless sometimes.
The stigma hit hard here in Kenya, especially in places like Kisumu. She skipped school outings, parties, and even some family stuff. Friends drifted. You could see the loneliness in her. We kept searching for better ways, hoping for real help someday. Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=35791
