Last Saturday Big Bud had a seizure. I remember when I was about seven years old a kid punched me on the bus, right in the stomach. I couldn't draw a breath. This is just about how I felt on Saturday. The entire world shrunk to fit on the head of a pin and seconds were hours, minutes were months. The rest of the day was spent at the emergency room and all I could think of was next week, next month, next year. All I could do was cry. I cannot put a band-aid on this, kiss it and make it better, I cannot change this.
For days I have held my breath waiting for another one and when they come I still cry. I have begged God to stop them, I have bargained with him. I have hated him. But as time and experience does, I have learned and adapted and adjusted. I don't cry as much now.
In fact, we've taken to calling them "episodes". Episodes aren't as scary. Episodes are like when Elaine needed a Square to Spare, and Saturday morning reruns of Johnny Quest. Episodes are our new normal. Like the one where we tried to keep a portable EEG machine attached to a very active 6 year old for 48 hours. And during the said 48 hours there was, of course, no recordable episodes. Shortly after ripping all the wires off of his head, they started again.
I'm tired and my stomach hurts and I'm trying really hard to find some solid ground. For a chick who was obviously chasing butterflies when they handed out the patience and grace, not so easy. Do-able, just not easy.