It's a sick feeling, a gnawing pit in my stomach, knowing that my son is going to have a seizure—soon—but there is nothing that I can do about it. Today is day four: only four days since his last one and I can feel it approaching like a storm on the horizon, smell it like the rain in the air before a downpour. As for the weather, it's low pressure, which is when they often happen, and the full moon is hanging somewhere in the sky. So odds are, he'll have one tonight or tomorrow night, the next night at the latest, and we'll just hope that, like the others, it will stop on its own.
His right ear looks and feels like a red-hot poker. I seem to see this lately in the hours before a seizure. He is manic and irritable, even crying in fits and starts of frustration or pain or fear or I don't know what. I took him out of the bath after only a few minutes fearing he'd bust his cheek or break a tooth on the on the tub, he was so hyper. I feel like crying. He's such a sweet soul. There is nothing we can do.
But that paperweight, the one that spells HOPE, still sits on my desk as a reminder that we are days away from making Calvin's cannabis tincture. I have big hope. Hope that it will stop his seizures, hope that it will stop his drooling and his manic behavior, hope that it will help him sleep and make his tummy feel better, boost his immune system, protect his brain cells and give him a general sense of well-being.
Yep, the storm is on the horizon and the moon is full, but I know the tempest will blow on through, and if I can I'll lasso the moon in the form of an herbal tincture, draw it in close and drop it on his tongue like a golden star.
His right ear looks and feels like a red-hot poker. I seem to see this lately in the hours before a seizure. He is manic and irritable, even crying in fits and starts of frustration or pain or fear or I don't know what. I took him out of the bath after only a few minutes fearing he'd bust his cheek or break a tooth on the on the tub, he was so hyper. I feel like crying. He's such a sweet soul. There is nothing we can do.
But that paperweight, the one that spells HOPE, still sits on my desk as a reminder that we are days away from making Calvin's cannabis tincture. I have big hope. Hope that it will stop his seizures, hope that it will stop his drooling and his manic behavior, hope that it will help him sleep and make his tummy feel better, boost his immune system, protect his brain cells and give him a general sense of well-being.
Yep, the storm is on the horizon and the moon is full, but I know the tempest will blow on through, and if I can I'll lasso the moon in the form of an herbal tincture, draw it in close and drop it on his tongue like a golden star.
It worries me that you may be counting too much on the marijuana working....Please try to keep your hopes in check, Christy. The truth is that you won't know until you try it. An impossible task, I know... We're sending positive vibes in the meanwhile.
ReplyDeletedear carol, michael feels the same way but i must always, and fervently, disagree. this is the way that i am wired. i will be no less disappointed having suppressed my hopes and dreams, but will have missed out on the joyous endorphins that they allow me, if only for a time. sorry, i cannot oblige you by keeping my hopes in check. this is not something that i can do, nor is it something that i think is healthy for me. try to understand. love, christy
ReplyDeleteOK....you know yourself and what's right for you. and you certainly don't need to oblige me--or anyone else. We'll stand by.
ReplyDelete