I F***ing HATE Seizures!

My eloquence is gone in these anxious moments of panic and anger, so of course I react by deciding to write what almost amounts to a poem. Well... it has a rhythm to it in any case that I can hear in my head as I write. Maybe I should become a spoken word poet!

Here it goes.

I Fucking HATE Seizures!

One minute we are dancing, swirling, and spinning. The pure joy of a child's delighted laughter wraps around me like a cloak.

Without any warning or sign there's a sharp jerk and he is limp in my arms.

Then the convulsions start. And these ones are strong.

His arms and legs extend into unnatural contortions - his little hands shaking with tremors.

And his eyes. It's in his eyes. His eyelids are flicking with a nervous tick even as his pupils rapidly jerk back and forth like something out of a horror movie. Something that you think shouldn't be able to happen in real life.

I can't stand it when the twitching is in his face. Physiologically it's not really any different from any other body part, but somehow when is on his lips or in his eyes, it's like it's stealing his expressions. Like it's stealing more of who he is.

I place him on his side on the ground. It takes me several seconds longer than it should with my mind not quite paralyzed with anxiety to figure out which side is his left.

The delay irritates me. I should be able to handle this by now. I should be able to remain calm.

And I can. Because I do.

I check the time automatically, my experience taking the pilot's seat, over the anxious concern, the fear that he's gone, and the anger at the unfairness of it all.

Because that's the thing. The feelings aren't ever going to go away. Not during a seizure.

At least not a seizure this bad - this intense. It's just, at some point the habits and procedures, done so many times before, override the momentarily paralysis of uncertainty. There's nothing to be uncertain about.

This is unfortunately far too familiar territory.

The convulsions stop and he's just still.

Unnaturally so.

I stroke his cheeks, his forehead. I'm looking for a reaction.

Any reaction at all.

When I don't get one, sometimes I pinch him. Hard.

Sometimes, when he won't respond to comfort and touch, he will still respond to pain. I always feel bad - that I'm hurting him on purpose - that's a feeling that doesn't seem to fade either.  But I do it anyway.

I have to know he's okay.

That he's back.

But this time there's nothing. He's still impossibly still.

I'm tapping his cheeks and trying to get his gaze to turn to me.

It takes me a minute to realize that his eyes are still shifting rapidly back and forth. Just barely.

Almost like he could be dreaming. How I wish he was merely dreaming!

But I know that he is in fact still seizing.

I check the time again realizing that he's been seizing this whole time.

It's been five minutes.

It's never been five minutes before.

Well, not since over a year ago. Before he was on three separate medications. Before we established our emergency protocols.

So again, on autopilot, he gets his diastat.

And it works. It stops. But he's still not responsive.

Just lying there, but at least his eyes are calm. At peace.

A moment later he starts shifting. Just a bit.

And another moment later his line of sight is darting around, this time in confusion rather than seeming possession. I give him a pacifier, which he takes like a man in the desert takes water. Desperate for comfort.

I find myself wondering, does he even remember the dancing? Does he remember the spinning and the laughter?

Or did the seizure take that memory - that joyous experience from him?

I make his evening medicine half an hour early.

When I come back to his side, I go back to caressing his cheek and he looks right at me. Like he knows me - like he trusts that I will take care of him even when the world makes no sense.