normal?

The other day, when I was openly lamenting my son's condition, a medical professional who I've never met and who has never laid eyes on Calvin asked me a question that—regrettably—I know the answer to all too well.

"Christy," she said with an air of condescension, "are you aware that it is normal to stop breathing during a seizure?" My answer was as plain as the nose on my face and as bitter as the anticonvulsant pills we shovel into Calvin's mouth day in and day out, "I am aware it is common, but I wouldn't call it normal."

In my mind I thought, there's nothing normal about a seizure and its manifestations. Then I dreamed up some questions I'd liked to have asked her if I'd had the opportunity:

Have you ever seen a seizure? Have you ever seen a child having a seizure? Have you ever seen your OWN child have a seizure? Have you ever seen your child stop breathing for over two minutes during a seizure, as if being strangled? Have you ever seen your child have hundreds upon hundreds of seizures, stiffening, jerking, turning blue? Have you ever seen your child have a day filled with seizures? Have you ever seen your child have to be emergency intubated—screaming in pain and fear—the cannula that was one size too big being shoved in, then bloodily fished out of his throat? Have you ever had to restrain your child during countless unsuccessful, painful attempts at threading an IV, the needles bruising his delicate flesh? Have you ever seen your child have a forty-five minute seizure when you were so sure that he'd die that you started kissing him goodbye?

No? Somehow I didn't think so.

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