Sibling Story – Keira, sister to Ellie

Normal Tuesday, Until It Wasn’t

It was supposed to be
just another Tuesday—
the kind you don’t remember,
the kind that folds itself
quietly into the week.

School was surprisingly fine,
which should’ve been a warning.
The world only behaves
when it’s about to break.

We walked—
for charity, for epilepsy,
for something we did understand,
or at least thought we did.
We knew the words,
the risks,
the reasons—
but knowing didn’t mean anything
when it mattered.

Twenty-six miles stretched over days,
like time was something you could measure,
control,
finish.

Ellie came with us—
first time,
like she’d finally stepped
into our routine,
into something ordinary
we never thought twice about.

We made it as far as Adams Road,
just a name,
just a stretch of pavement
we’d crossed a hundred times before—
nothing about it special
until it was.

And then—
she dropped.

Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just gravity taking her
like it had been waiting.

Her body forgot how to be a body,
turned into something heavy,
something unreachable.
The word “seizure”
was something I already knew—
but it didn’t help,
didn’t tell me what to do
with my hands,
my voice,
my fear.

Ten minutes from home
but it felt like miles thickened,
like the air turned slow
and useless.

“Call Dad,”
because someone had to be calm.
Someone had to act
like this wasn’t one of the scariest thing
we’d ever seen.

Time didn’t pass right.
Seconds stretched, snapped,
looped back on themselves.
She didn’t wake up
fast enough
or soon enough
or at all, it felt like.

Voices came—
footsteps—
someone trying to pull her back
into the world.

And I just stood there
watching my little sister
be somewhere I couldn’t follow,
feeling everything at once
and still
completely useless.

Eventually—
cars without memory,
adults taking over
because that’s what they do.

And suddenly
I wasn’t there anymore.

Just the aftermath.
Just the waiting.
Just the quiet house
where everything felt wrong
because she wasn’t in it.

By 7 p.m.
time had stitched itself back together,
pretending nothing happened.
But hospitals don’t lie,
and neither do numbers—

three seizures.
Two more
under bright lights
and watchful eyes.

And me?

I didn’t sleep.
Tuesday bled into Wednesday
without asking permission.
3:30 a.m. sat heavy in my chest,
like if I slept
something else would happen
and I wouldn’t be there.

Morning came anyway.

I didn’t want to go in.
Said it out loud,
quiet at first,
then louder in my head—
I don’t want to go,
like staying home
could undo it somehow.

But I went.

I sat in the office,
trying to be normal again,
trying to hold everything in place—
and the second someone asked
if I was okay,
I broke.

Not all at once.
Not loud.
Just cracks—
small ones at first,
then bigger,
then impossible to hide.

At break,
it came back again.
At lunch,
I felt it building
like something stuck
just behind my ribs.

Everything felt wrong—
too loud,
too bright,
too normal.

People laughed
like nothing had happened,
like the world hadn’t tilted sideways
just a few hours ago.

And I kept thinking—
she was fine,
she was walking,
she was there—

and then she wasn’t.

And that thought
wouldn’t leave me alone.

Because it was just
a normal Tuesday.

And Wednesday
was supposed to be normal too—

but it wasn’t.

Keira (aged 12), sister to Ellie who is living with Dravet Syndrome