day forty-seven

Yesterday was day forty-seven—forty-seven days since Calvin’s last observed grand mal seizure. It was also the day that Calvin went on his first extended field trip to the Boothbay Botanical Gardens with his fellow first-graders. I agonized about whether to go along to help his one-on-one Mary and to be there in case something went wrong since the gardens are nearly an hour away. My decision was made no easier when Calvin awoke slightly out of sorts, not eating well and with a sub-normal temp. But by the time the bus came he seemed better, so I sent him, wanting him to have the experience, needing some time away from him and wanting to avoid imposing my strict and controlling caregiver ways on Mary, who is wonderful. But the decision didn’t sit well with me.

Throughout the day, Mary sent me photos of Calvin from her smartphone. In nearly all of them he appeared lack-luster and fatigued, particularly in comparison to his bright-eyed, smiling peers. I began to doubt my decision further and became worried to the core.

The night before I’d described my worry, of seizures or other injuries Calvin might sustain, to my friend Arnd. I told him how it reminded me of those old western films where a cowboy goes in for a shave and the barber—the bad guy—presses the long blade hard into the cowboy's neck, but without cutting. I feel that pressure constantly—that ceaseless tension of worry. It almost never escapes me.

But Calvin came home from the field trip fine and the nurse took care of him while I tended to chores. Later, my friend Sarah and I made our way to Lilee’s Public House. We sat at the bar and openly lamented its impending closure, then wondered what we’d do without our most favorite watering hole and burger joint. She told me not to let it bum me out too much. She knew I had enough to worry about. But it bummed me out nevertheless.

At some point halfway through our Caesar salad I realized the cell phone was in my purse where I might not be able to hear it. So reaching down to transfer it to my pocket I realized it was ringing. It was the nurse. “Calvin had a seizure,” she said, and I could hear him crying in the background. “I’ll be right home,” I replied.

Sarah jumped off of her stool and told the bartenders, who know of Calvin’s epilepsy, that something was wrong with my boy. They simply told us to go. We grabbed our purses and ran out the door holding hands across the street. Approaching drivers must have seen the worried tears in my eyes and the urgency of our steps so they stopped in the intersection for us to cross.

Once home, Calvin was still crying. I can only think that after three minutes of electricity burning through his brain—during much of which he doesn't breath—he must have raging headaches or migraines that cause his grief. So the nurse had given him some rectal acetaminophen. And, as the dutiful boy he is, he took his six anticonvulsant tablets with yogurt and then a little liquid medicine in water before we laid him in his bed. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Sarah went back to the pub and squared our tab.

Yesterday was day forty-seven. Today is day one.

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Calvin during a seizure