The man attending me is from Greenpoint, a Pole, and his dad owns a business in the area. He lives in Far Rockaway, in a house his old man has there. As far as I can tell, drinking seems to be his full-time occupation. Anytime we want to come out to the Rockaways, we're welcome.
"Party the whole weekend," he says.
When I'm strong enough to get up and leave, I thank him for his help. For the rest of the day I try to refill my memory. "We went to the Sunlite for breakfast, then sat down by the river," Sylvia prompts, but much as I try, nothing's there. Remembering what happened before a seizure is like remembering the events in a dream-- for a long time I'll be stuck, then an association will prompt a sudden flood of memory. It can be days until I'm able to fully reconstruct the events that led to my seizure.

When I pass by spots where I've had a seizure, I often pause to stare, as if there might be some clue in looking, or I'll remember, or be able to imagine, what happened in the time I was blacked out. Sometimes I think I'd like to try to capture the event with some sort of marker, like the memorials painted for young kids by their friends after a killing. Often these are on a nearby wall, but I like it best when they're painted on the sidewalk, marking the exact location of death like a chalk outline, the paint where the blood has just been washed away. Some memorials are in the shape of a tombstone. There's one for "Raul 7/23/95", a crack dealer shot in the head last summer. Others were done graffiti-style. One of my favorites is "In Memory of Robert,"a site lovingly kept up with fresh flowers and a lighted candle for many months. I take care never to step on them.