Raking makes my arms and shoulders ache. I drag flat oak leaves through copper needles, comb the frosty grass over little pools of ice and scant clumps of frozen dung. I dream of spring. But we’re getting another foot of snow.
Inside, Calvin kicks and flails in the bath. He’s been napping with eyes half-mast—never a good sign. For the fourth day in a row I pen in the journal my suspicions of an impending seizure:
HYPER IN BATH—SUSPICIOUS
staring at sun. stubborn. SUSPICIOUS OF IMPENDING SEIZURE
more suspicious craziness. GRINDING TEETH. slight runny nose.
VERY GOOD DAY (SUSPICIOUSLY GOOD) slight runny nose.
From the second floor the nurse’s voice tumbles down the stairs, “Christy!” I drop the bowls of Calvin’s dinner onto the counter and run. He’s on his side atop the changing table, pajama pants around his thighs. Cool evening light floods the window, spills onto the walls and onto Calvin's shivering form. It’s clear to see his blue ear, his blue hand, his flushed cheeks and blue lips. As he convulses his gut squeaks and gurgles. He clicks and croaks and rasps. We kiss him. We coax him to breathe, to come back.
The nurse calls off the minutes as they pass. She reaches four. He’s still not out—not completely. Daddy kisses Calvin's cheek and rubs his palms. At the other end I shield his trembling shins and feet from knocking on the table's steel bar. “When it’s over he usually tries to sit up,” I say, and then he does, and we watch the world come back into his eyes, into the little chirps of his voice.
From oblivion he opens his mouth for nine and a half pills with yogurt. He closes his eyes for a good part of the night. I wonder if he dreams.
Inside, Calvin kicks and flails in the bath. He’s been napping with eyes half-mast—never a good sign. For the fourth day in a row I pen in the journal my suspicions of an impending seizure:
HYPER IN BATH—SUSPICIOUS
staring at sun. stubborn. SUSPICIOUS OF IMPENDING SEIZURE
more suspicious craziness. GRINDING TEETH. slight runny nose.
VERY GOOD DAY (SUSPICIOUSLY GOOD) slight runny nose.
From the second floor the nurse’s voice tumbles down the stairs, “Christy!” I drop the bowls of Calvin’s dinner onto the counter and run. He’s on his side atop the changing table, pajama pants around his thighs. Cool evening light floods the window, spills onto the walls and onto Calvin's shivering form. It’s clear to see his blue ear, his blue hand, his flushed cheeks and blue lips. As he convulses his gut squeaks and gurgles. He clicks and croaks and rasps. We kiss him. We coax him to breathe, to come back.
The nurse calls off the minutes as they pass. She reaches four. He’s still not out—not completely. Daddy kisses Calvin's cheek and rubs his palms. At the other end I shield his trembling shins and feet from knocking on the table's steel bar. “When it’s over he usually tries to sit up,” I say, and then he does, and we watch the world come back into his eyes, into the little chirps of his voice.
From oblivion he opens his mouth for nine and a half pills with yogurt. He closes his eyes for a good part of the night. I wonder if he dreams.
Poor kid! I totally know that feeling. A week and a half without seizures was "suspiciously good" and by two weeks you knew that they were coming. And precipitously. I still wake up a lot of mornings and think that my luck is suspiciously good even though it has been almost two years since my surgery. I dream that I have seizures just to make up for the fact that I don't have them in real life anymore. Sending all my good energy your way and hugs to Calvin.
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