I closed my eyes. This couldn't be happening. A seizure--in front of my fourth graders at school I could scarcely hear my husband giving the nurse in the ER my latest list of symptoms--fatigue, memory loss, balance issues, staggering, falling, brain fog, irritability, and now . . . seizures I tried to wipe the sweat off my forehead. My hand couldn't find my face. I was soaked in urine and needed to vomit. I wanted this all to be over. But it wasn't. It was just the beginning. For the next few months, I would be evaluated by experts and whispered about by friends. Hallucinations haunted me day and night. I was scared and worried on days I wasn't catatonic. I was complacent and even silly at other times. The ""lady with early onset of dementia"" became my calling card. I was expected to die. I wanted to die. The journey I took claimed many victims. My family and friends were immersed in my fear and frailty. The decision to put me in a nursing home was the trending talk. But how can you treat what you don't know you have when all you do know is that something's wrong?