Twelve Days Before Christmas, My Husband Had A Seizure In A Store Parking Lot. Every Stranger Who Tried To Help Got It Wrong. Then A Police Officer Put Him In Handcuffs.
Retired school secretary
Cedar Rapids, Iowa
5:07 PM
At 5:07 PM on Saturday, December 13th, our kitchen phone rang.
I was at the table wrapping the grandkids' presents. Tape stuck to my fingers. Christmas music on the radio.
"Ma'am, is Thomas Lindgren your husband?"
My heart stopped.
"He's OK. He's on his way to the hospital. Does he have any medical conditions?"
"Epilepsy."
The officer was quiet for a second. Then he said "Okay" in a voice I will never forget. It was the voice of a man who had just figured out what he'd done.
For 38 years I was the secretary in the front office of an elementary school here in Cedar Rapids. I kept a red binder behind my desk with every child's seizure action plan and allergy plan in it. Every September I updated it. Every substitute got walked through it.
Thirty-eight years of other people's children. And I never made one for my own husband.
This is what happened to Tom in that parking lot, minute by minute, and what I tell every family now. If someone you love has epilepsy, please read it to the end before the holidays.
Who Tom Is
Tom is 67. We've been married 43 years. We've lived in the same split-level on the northeast side since 1988.
He was a power lineman for 34 years. He worked the 2008 flood. After the 2020 derecho, when half this city had no power, he was out for days. If you live in Cedar Rapids, there's a decent chance my husband got your lights back on.
In March of 2019 he had a small stroke. He came back from it like he comes back from everything. Then in November, at our granddaughter's volleyball game, he had his first seizure. After a second one, in January 2020, the neurologist said the word: epilepsy.
He was 60. He'd never had a seizure in his life before that stroke. A lot of people don't know this, but plenty of people are diagnosed later in life, after a stroke or a head injury.
His seizures usually start small. A stare. Fumbling with whatever's in his hands. Sometimes they stop there. Sometimes they turn into the big kind.
He takes his pills. After the diagnosis he quit driving until his doctor said he could again. By December he'd gone 14 months without a seizure, so he was back behind the wheel of his red pickup.
And he is a private man. For five years, the only people who knew he had epilepsy were me, his neurologist and the lady at the pharmacy. Not his buddies at the VFW. Not the guys he climbed poles with. Not Ernie at the farm store, who's rung up his bird seed every other Saturday for 20 years.
That's Tom. He wears one thing on his wrist: a ten-dollar Casio.
Twenty Minutes In A Parking Lot
I've pieced this together from Ernie, from the officer, from the paramedic, from a man named Craig and a woman named Lorraine. I've gone over it so many times I can see it like I was there.
It started the night before. Friday was the VFW Christmas party, and Tom was up past 1 AM. Saturday he was up at 5:30 to help our neighbor Duane with a frozen pipe. His morning pills sat in the pill box on our counter while he was under Duane's house. He took them at noon.
Lost sleep. Late pills. I didn't think a thing of it. I should have.
4:31 PM. At the big farm store on Collins Road, Tom paid at register 3 for a Christmas tree stand and two bags of water-softener salt. Then he just stood there, holding the receipt.
Ernie asked if he wanted the salt thrown on a cart. Tom didn't answer. He stared right through him. His lips were moving, but nothing came out.
There were six people in line behind him. Ernie figured he was tired, or had something on his mind. He said, "Have a good one, Tom," and turned to the next customer. Twenty years of Saturdays, and Ernie had no idea. Tom walked out the door with the tree stand and left both bags of salt on the counter.
About 4:36 PM. Between a minivan and a red pickup that wasn't his, Tom went down and had the big kind.
A man named Craig Moeller got to him first. Craig is 56, a union pipefitter from Hiawatha. A good man. He knelt in the slush, pinned Tom's shoulders to the ground, and pushed his own folded leather wallet between Tom's teeth, "so he wouldn't swallow his tongue."
It cracked Tom's front tooth.
Nobody timed it. Craig later guessed five minutes. The woman from the minivan said maybe one.
And nobody called 911 for the seizure. Craig figured the woman from the minivan had. She figured he had.
When the shaking stopped, Tom sat up. He didn't know where he was. He pulled away from Craig, got up, and walked to the red pickup beside him, because it looked like his. He tried his key in the door. There was blood on his lip from a bitten tongue.
That's when Lorraine came out of the store with a bag of bird seed.
Lorraine Busch is 69, a retired bank teller from Marion. It was her truck. She saw an old man with blood on his mouth trying to get into it, and she called 911.
Here's the part I still can't get over. Lorraine has had epilepsy herself since 1993. But you never see your own seizures. She had never once seen one from the outside. She didn't recognize it.
About 4:47 PM. Officer Dale Hruska pulled in. He's 44, sixteen years on the force. He said Tom's name. Tom didn't answer. He reached for Tom's arm, and Tom pulled away and mumbled something nobody could understand.
So the officer put my husband in handcuffs, "for his safety and mine," and sat him in the back of the squad car.
He told me later that he looked at both of Tom's wrists when he cuffed him. Left wrist, a cheap digital watch. Right wrist, nothing.
Because of the blood on Tom's mouth, he radioed for a medic. Then he took the key out of Tom's hand and pressed the button on the fob. Three rows over, Tom's own red pickup flashed its lights.
Craig watched all of it from about twenty feet away, by the minivan. He opened his mouth to say something, and didn't. He told me later he'd just been shoved off by the man, the lady was saying drunk, there was a cop, and for a second he wondered if they were right and he was wrong. He still has the wallet.
About 4:54 PM. The paramedic got there. Bitten tongue. No smell of alcohol. Normal blood sugar. He looked up at the officer.
Lorraine was still standing at her tailgate when he said it. Seizure.
The cuffs came off. Tom went to the ER in an ambulance. And at 5:07, the officer ran the plate and called our kitchen.
Why Nobody Knew What They Were Looking At
Every person in that parking lot was trying to help, or trying to protect somebody. I need you to understand that, because it's the scariest part.
Nobody was cruel. Nobody knew.
That night in the ER, the paramedic who brought Tom in stopped by before he left, and later a nurse sat with me while Tom slept. Between the two of them, they explained it.
"A seizure doesn't always look like a seizure," the paramedic said. "Sometimes it's a stare. Sometimes it's a man fumbling with his keys. And afterward, people can be confused for a while. They don't know their name. They pull away when you grab them. From the outside, that can look exactly like a drunk."
The nurse said the thing about the tongue.
Everything Craig "knew" was a myth. Here's what the CDC actually tells bystanders not to do:
- Don't hold the person down or stop their movements. This could injure you or them.
- Don't put anything in their mouth. This can hurt their teeth or jaw.
- Don't give mouth-to-mouth breaths during the seizure. People usually start breathing again on their own after a seizure.
- Don't offer water or food until they are fully alert. This is not necessary and could cause them to choke.
Craig did the first two. Nobody had ever told him.
She told me one more thing that I didn't understand until later. When strangers don't know a person has epilepsy, they can't know whether this is his first seizure. And the CDC's list of when to call 911 includes a person who "has never had a seizure before." So once somebody does figure it out, they have to assume the worst. Ambulance. ER. Scans.
I called our daughter Kristen in Omaha from the ER hallway. Then I sat down and waited. That night Tom had a CT, bloodwork, a cracked front tooth, a cut on his chin and bruises on both shoulders. We got home at 11:40 PM. Tom went straight to bed. The next morning he handed me his truck keys without being asked, and he didn't drive again until his doctor cleared him.
Before we left, the ER nurse said one sentence I wrote on the back of my hand so I wouldn't forget it:
(The ambulance bill came in January. I won't tell you the number. It made Tom swear, and he doesn't swear in front of me.)
2:10 AM
Tom was asleep. I wasn't.
At 2:10 in the morning I was at the kitchen table with the iPad, half the grandkids' presents still unwrapped, reading the CDC's page on seizure first aid. The page I should have read five years earlier.
These are the steps it gives a stranger. Word for word:
- Keep yourself and others calm.
- Stay with the person.
- Remove anything near them that can cause an injury.
- Check to see if they are wearing a medical bracelet for information about any medical conditions, medicines, and emergency contacts.
- If the person is lying down, turn them gently on their side, with their mouth pointing to the ground. This will keep their airway clear.
- Time the seizure to track if it lasts more than 5 minutes. If it does, seek immediate medical attention or call 911.
- When the seizure is over, help them sit in a safe place to recover.
- Once they are alert, comfort them and explain what happened.
- Offer to call a friend or loved one to help them get home safely.
I read the fourth one three times.
The U.S. government tells every stranger to look at the wrist. And there was nothing on Tom's.
The Epilepsy Foundation teaches the same thing in three words: Stay. Safe. Side. Under "Stay," they tell people to check for a medical ID.
I looked over at my red binder on the counter. I'd brought it home when I retired. Thirty-eight years of plans for other people's kids, all in order, all where they were supposed to be. And my own husband had been walking around for five years with nothing on him that could speak for him.
I didn't cry. I was too mad at myself. I made a plan instead. That's what school secretaries do.
→ See what I ordered that nightEverything We'd Already Done
Here's what makes me angry. We weren't careless. I did every single thing you're "supposed" to do.
Every one of those "worked." Not one of them was on him.
Nobody kneeling in a parking lot is going to unzip a stranger's coat and go through his wallet. Nobody's going to dig through his phone. And the person who knows everything is never the one who's there.
→ See what's on Tom's wrist nowThere's not much to say really. It tells people I have epilepsy if I can't explain it myself. That's exactly why I bought it.
What He Actually Needed
I spent 38 years making plans that had to work when a scared adult had about ten seconds to read them. So I made a list, the way I would have for the binder.
Whatever Tom wore had to:
- Be on him every day, not saved for "when I go out"
- Sit on his wrist, where the CDC tells strangers to look
- Say one word a panicked stranger can read in two seconds
- Need nothing charged, unlocked or paid for every month
- Not look like a hospital tag, or he'd take it off
- Tell only the person who needs to know, only when it matters
That last one was for Tom. "Nobody needs to know my business" was going to sink this whole idea unless it looked like something a man would wear anyway.
And here's what I crossed off: the gadgets with monthly plans, the buttons you have to be awake to press, the watches you have to remember to charge. A man in the middle of a seizure can't press a button. A man who's confused after one can't unlock a phone.
The One He Wears
That night, at 2:10 in the morning, at that same kitchen table, I ordered two Onuva Epilepsy Bracelets.
(chain)
Gold
band
(all black)
One word on steel: EPILEPSY. A slim bar on a chain, in Silver or Gold, with a little medical charm hanging beside it. Or a steel plate on a black silicone sport band, with the medical symbol right next to the word.
The black band, with the red symbol, was for Tom. I picked the Gold for the second one without knowing who it was for. I just knew there'd be somebody.
The box came before Christmas. On Monday the 15th I'd called Dr. Paul Novotny, our dentist in Marion, and at 7:15 in the morning on Monday the 22nd he fixed Tom's front tooth, so Tom could smile in the Christmas pictures. And through all of it, that box sat on the kitchen counter. Unopened. Until New Year's Day.
Every time I brought it up, Tom said the same thing. "Nobody needs to know my business."
On New Year's morning I finally said it.
He looked at me for a long time. Then he opened the box, turned the bracelet over in his big hands and put it on his right wrist, the one without the watch.
"Looks like the strap on my dad's old work watch," he said. From Tom, that's a love letter. It hasn't been off since.
For five years he'd left the seizure line blank on his health form at Dr. Novotny's. At his cleaning in June, the hygienist spotted the bracelet and read it. Tom just said, "Now you know my business."
Here's the honest part, because I won't sell anybody a fairy tale. It won't stop a seizure. Nothing will. It stops the guessing. It tells Ernie, or Craig, or a police officer, or whoever's kneeling next to him, what they're looking at.
No battery. No app. No monthly fee. Nothing to charge, press or unlock. Up close it reads EPILEPSY. From across the room it looks like a plain black sport band.
And they stand behind it. Lose it or break it in the first year, and they replace it free. (Tom loses his reading glasses daily, so that sold me.) And if it's not right, you have 90 days to get your money back.
Right now there's a holiday deal on: two for the price of one. One for the person you're worried about, and one for whoever comes next. Trust me, somebody will.
I bought it for my husband because he sometimes gets confused after seizures. It's reassuring knowing his condition is clearly written on his wrist.
The Epilepsy Bracelet
- EPILEPSY on steel, readable at a glance
- A steel chain in silver or gold, or a black silicone band: looks like jewelry or a sport band, not a hospital tag
- Adjustable, made to wear every day
- No battery, no app, no monthly fee
1-Year Free
Replacement↩️
90-Day
Money Back🔋
No Battery
No App🔒
Secure
Checkout
The Glove
On Friday, January 9th, somebody knocked on our front door.
It was Officer Hruska, holding one brown work glove.
Tom had left it in the back of the squad car. The officer had kept it in his locker through Christmas, 27 days. He'd come to give it back, and to say he was sorry.
Tom answered the door wearing the bracelet. He didn't remember the officer at all.
The officer looked down at Tom's wrist. He read it. And then he said something I think about every single day:
Tom shook his hand.
Tuesday Night
On Tuesday, January 13th, Tom did something I'd been asking him to do for five years. He went to an epilepsy support group.
Connie Strand runs it. She's 66 and has had epilepsy since she was 26. Every Tuesday at 6:30, eleven regulars sit around two folding tables in a church basement on the northeast side and talk about the thing they don't tell anybody else.
When it was Tom's turn, he didn't say much. Tom never does. He rolled up his sleeve. He told them what the officer said on our porch, "Two seconds." Then he said the thing he's been saying ever since:
Then, on Tuesday, February 10th, a woman walked into that basement for the first time. She knew Tom's brown chore coat before she knew his face. She sat down across from him and said:
It was Lorraine. She'd had epilepsy for 33 years, and she hadn't recognized a seizure happening right in front of her. She hadn't been able to put it down since.
Tom didn't remember her. He doesn't remember any of it. He just looked at her for a long time. Then he said, "I was trying to get in your truck. I'd have called somebody too." And he pushed up his shirt cuff and showed her what he wears now.
That night he came home, opened my dresser drawer and took out the Gold one. The next Tuesday, February 17th, he walked in with the box and put it in her hand. "Barb ordered two," he told her. "She didn't know who the second one was for."
Lorraine wears it now. She sits next to Tom every Tuesday. I finally know who the second one was for.
Ordered one for my adult son. He was hesitant about wearing a medical bracelet but this one is discreet enough that he doesn't mind.
Register 3, Ten Months Later
Saturday, October 24th, about 4:30 in the afternoon. Tom went back to the farm store on Collins Road for salt. It was the first time he'd been back since December.
Register 3. Ernie.
Ernie rang him up, then pointed at his wrist. "That new?"
"Since New Year's," Tom said. "You ever see me standing there staring, you read that."
Ernie asked if he wanted his old salt. It's been under the counter since December, with LINDGREN on a strip of masking tape so nobody would sell it out from under him. (I'd told Ernie the whole story on Saturday, December 27th. He took it hard.) Tom said keep it.
Then he carried both new bags out to his own red pickup himself. Wouldn't let Ernie get him a cart.
He's still Tom. He still drives. He still won't let me carry the salt. The bracelet didn't make him an invalid. It's the reason I can let him go on being Tom.
→ Get one on the wrist of someone you loveWhat I Tell Every Family Now
Thanksgiving is Thursday, November 26th. Then comes December, and everything that goes with it.
Late nights. Parties. Wine. Long drives. Pills taken late because the whole day got turned upside down. Other people's houses, full of people who have never seen a seizure. Lost sleep, stress and alcohol are exactly the things people with epilepsy are told to avoid. December is made of them.
This Christmas, Tom and I are driving to Omaha to stay five nights with our daughter Kristen. She has already moved her glass coffee table and printed the CDC's steps for the fridge, so her in-laws know what to do.
So here's what I tell every family now:
At Thanksgiving, read the CDC's steps out loud while everybody's in one room. Then look at the wrists of the people you love.
If someone you love has epilepsy and there's nothing on that wrist, fix it before the holidays. Order early, so it's on their wrist before Thanksgiving, not wrapped under a tree.
You Have Two Choices
- Check to see if they are wearing a medical bracelet for information about any medical conditions, medicines, and emergency contacts.
- Don't hold the person down or stop their movements. This could injure you or them.
- Don't put anything in their mouth. This can hurt their teeth or jaw.
- Time the seizure to track if it lasts more than 5 minutes. If it does, seek immediate medical attention or call 911.
Other Families Who Did It
The Epilepsy Bracelet
- EPILEPSY on steel, readable at a glance
- A steel chain in silver or gold, or a black silicone band: looks like jewelry or a sport band, not a hospital tag
- Adjustable, made to wear every day
- No battery, no app, no monthly fee
1-Year Free
Replacement↩️
90-Day
Money Back🔋
No Battery
No App🔒
Secure
Checkout
Questions Families Ask Me
What does it say?
One word, on steel: EPILEPSY. On the chain, a little medical charm hangs right beside it (red on the Silver, black on the Gold). On the band, the medical symbol sits on the steel plate right next to the word (red or black). Either way, a stranger knows it's a medical ID the second they see it.
Will it fit?
One size fits most wrists. The chain is adjustable, from about 6.3" to 8.3". The band buckles like a watch strap, so you set your own fit.
Silver, Gold or the band?
The Silver and the Gold are stainless steel chains. The Gold is gold-plated, so keep perfume and lotion off it. The band is black silicone with a stainless steel plate. The men in these stories wear the band: up close it reads EPILEPSY, from across the room it looks like a sport watch strap.
Is there a men's version, or something sturdier?
Yes: the black silicone band. It's a sport-style band that buckles like a watch strap, with a steel plate that reads EPILEPSY and the medical symbol beside it, in red or all black. Same holiday deal, same 1-year free replacement, same 90 days to send it back.
Will everybody know my business?
No. From a few feet away it looks like jewelry. The only person who reads it is the one who needs to: whoever is next to you when it matters.
Can I wear it in the shower?
Everyday splashes are fine. Take it off for swimming, baths and long showers.
Does it call anyone or track me?
No. No GPS, no alerts, no battery, no subscription. Its one job is to tell whoever is with you what they're looking at.
Will it stop a seizure?
No. Nothing you wear stops a seizure. It tells whoever is with you what they're looking at.
How fast does it ship?
Orders ship within 1–3 business days and arrive in 5–8 business days, with tracking. Order early if you want it on before the holidays.
What if I lose it?
For a full year, replacement is free. No proof required, no return needed.
Can I send it back?
Yes. You have 90 days. If it isn't right, you get your money back.
Read the steps out loud. Look at the wrists. Please.
P.S. Ernie wants you to know the salt with LINDGREN on the masking tape is still under his counter if Tom ever wants it. That's the joke now. See what's on Tom's wrist.