My granduncle, James Williamson (1912-1981), was diagnosed with epilepsy at a young age. Earlier, I wrote at length about how this neurological disorder impacted his professional and personal aspirations. I also contemplated how today’s advances in medical and genetic science might have benefitted him.
What I did not discuss in that essay is how James felt about the diagnosis of epilepsy and how it altered his life choices. But that is because he never discussed his disorder. I did not even know about it until after his death. When I spoke to my father about James before writing the essay linked above, he told me about the family trip during which James had his first seizure and how a diagnosis of epilepsy had resulted in him not being able to lead the life he had previously imagined for himself.
James and his baby sister Elizabeth (my grandmother.)
If I was told about James’s disorder, I certainly don’t remember it. Maybe this was told to me, but I was too young at the time to realize how serious epilepsy was. Certainly, no one talked about it. As a child, I was not given any hints that he was “different” or needed any special considerations. I never overheard whispered conversations, observed concerned, knowing looks being exchanged, or sensed abrupt changes of topic in conversations.
James and Elizabeth.
So, why was there so little discussion about it, I wonder?
There certainly could have been a stigma about having epilepsy. I think of the stigma long attached to mental illness. Only recently has this been a topic that some of those affected and their families are comfortable speaking about.
Or could the silence on the subject be attributed to the family’s Scottish background? A sense of pride? James was not my only Scots ancestor who was stoic in the face of difficulty, who refrained from complaining openly about any personal hardships, and was loathe to draw attention to himself.
Or maybe I heard nothing about James’s disorder because he had been prescribed medication that prevented further seizures and it was considered a non-issue by the time I knew him later in his life. But even if that had been the case, the diagnosis had prevented—or he had felt it negated—his becoming a teacher or marrying. Those dreams that he gave up—were they just too painful to mention? Had he made peace before I was born with this change of life plans?
Any or all of these possible explanations could be true. But regardless, it seems to me that he must have summoned a great deal of strength within himself—perhaps strength he never thought he had—to surmount those disappointments. A soft-spoken, unassuming man, I never heard him complain, and he harbored no bitterness or remorse as far as I could tell. Looking back, I now realize the inner strength he surely possessed.
“It is not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of
the spirit.”– J.R.R. Tolkien
Written for the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge, Week 21: “An Unexpected Strength.” PROMPT: Strength comes in many forms. Who is someone in your family tree who was strong, even though the deck was stacked against them?
