I was suppose to be there to pick him up at 2 o’clock. Except the entire day was setting me up. A $13.47 errand took me to 3 different shops across town. When I got the call from the school at 10 past, I was certain it was just to reassure my son that I was on my way. Instead, it was that call. The worst call. “An 8 1/2 minute seizure on the playground at recess. The ambulance is on their way. He is safe, uninjured and already talking.”
“Who is this?” I asked as if it mattered, gripping the steering wheel and driving faster through the rain. The pounding in my ears made it hard to hear and connect with anything she was saying.
Apparently, this is our winter. My son had his first seizure on a rainy night in February 2013 and didn’t stop seizing until February 2014. He had his first break through seizure last January too, almost to the day of this rainy day. Not long after, he had a second one at school. Does that mean another one is coming?
I feel watched. What a creep. Epilepsy is such a dick. We’ve been trying to cope with some surprising low-blows over here, in general. So I guess I should have known this was coming, because that’s the mean spirit of the epilepsy I know.
As I sit in the dark on the edge of the bed next to him, I’m reassured by his soft snores that he’s still with me. I touch his face often. If I wasn’t here, typing this now, I don’t know where I’d be. Detached from my body. I’m noticing a comfort in what must be shock tempting me to float away . . . anywhere . . . hopefully back to that place I was 9 hours ago where seizures were almost a faded memory.
Except my racing heart keeps me attached – to my body, to reality, to fear. I don’t know how to live with seizures without it.