Kittens give new life to epileptic woman who shunned public

TAMPA, Fla. - For nine years, Michaele Collaud spent the better part of her days locked behind closed doors. She might venture out in her garden or head to doctor's appointments. Sometimes her children even succeeded in dragging her along to the grocery store.  But most days it was simply easier to stay inside, haunted by the rude comments of unknowing strangers. She still recalls stopping at a traffic signal in 1991, then coming to as a paramedic pulled her out of her car, as a passer-by said, "look at that drunk woman. That's disgusting."  What the stranger didn't know was that Collaud suffers from epilepsy, and when she comes to following a seizure, the Brandon woman may babble and stagger. "It's very much like being drunk," Collaud said.

But the stranger's comment cut, and for Collaud, "that started the withdrawal. As long as I stayed in my own little square box, no one could make me feel miserable."  It hadn't always been like that for Collaud, a widow with three grown children, who once was director of operations for an employee leasing company.  But in 1991 she was sitting at her desk reprimanding an employee when she suddenly pitched off her chair, slamming into computers and printers on the way down.

She spent four days in the hospital as doctors searched for the cause of her collapse. Collaud had fallen down the stairs three weeks before and suffered a concussion. Doctors concluded she had suffered an idiopathic seizure, and it wouldn't happen again. They were wrong. A short time later Collaud was making a presentation at a board meeting when she had another seizure.

She began receiving treatment for epilepsy, but a neurologist blamed the seizures on a mid-life crisis, and sent her off to a psychiatrist. It wasn't till 1998 that she was definitively diagnosed with epilepsy.  Despite the doctors and drugs, Collaud still refused to go out in public. At the lowest of her lows, she even tried to kill herself by swallowing handfuls of pills.

But in 2001, four tiny kittens accomplished something that nothing else could. Collaud heard mewing in her backyard, and found the 5-week-old bundles of fluff tucked in the bushes.  She called various organizations and eventually connected with Gracie King, a volunteer at a pet rescue organization. With a bit of guidance, Collaud raised the three tabbies and one calico.  When it was time to adopt them out a few weeks later, Collaud knew she wanted to be involved.

Yet she panicked at the thought of talking to strangers, and feared having a seizure in public. Just the thought of it today "still makes the pit of my stomach do flip-flops," said Collaud, now 58, as she nuzzled a tiny gray kitten.  But she gathered her courage, had her son solder on her medical ID bracelet, and sat in on the adoption. "I found I could do this," she recalled.

When King asked if she would raise another litter of kittens, Collaud agreed. "I think the cats have done for my epilepsy more than every doctor and every drug I've taken," Collaud said.  Since then, Collaud has cared for hundreds of kittens, and in 2002 King and Collaud and a handful of other volunteers launched Cat Call, their own rescue organization. 

Because Collaud had more management experience than the other volunteers, King tapped her to be president.  "Michaele brings good business savvy. She's able to see things from a business perspective," King said.

Since Cat Call was founded as a non-profit organization, it has adopted an average of 40 to 50 cats per month, King said. Along with feral and stray cats that come to them, Cat Call works with Hillsborough County Animal Services and the Humane Society of Tampa Bay, healing their sick cats and adopting them out. They also take in cats when the Humane Society is overloaded.

The vast majority of Cat Call's funding comes from adoption fees.  Although Collaud has had seizures in public while working with other Cat Call volunteers, "no big deal was made of it. I might as well have hiccuped."  And with the kittens depending on her, "you don't have time for self-pity. The cats don't allow me to be pitiful," she said.

Ann Scherer, director of communications for the Epilepsy Foundation in Landover, Md., said the trials that Collaud has faced are not unusual. "It's not uncommon for people not to be diagnosed" with epilepsy.  Because patients can appear disoriented, they often are suspected of having psychiatric disorders, and only about half of epilepsy patients are diagnosed within the first six months of onset. In other cases, it can take years, Scherer said.

More than 180,000 new cases of epilepsy are diagnosed each year, and for about 70 percent, no cause can be found, according to the Epilepsy Foundation. Incidence is highest for those under the age of 2 or above the age of 65.  Scherer said those with epilepsy can "gain strength if they have something to offer to help and benefit someone else."

Collaud hopes she can be an example for "one person who is in my shoes, not necessarily with epilepsy, but with a disease that shuts them in and keeps them from having a life."  "Without that little litter that fate sent me, I'd probably still be sitting in a trailer, feeling sorry for myself, but I just don't have time any more."