- 25 jan
She threw up in the classroom two mornings ago, in the car on the way home, and then six more times while in bed.
Her spirits improved in the afternoon, and I was relieved. The last time this happened, things degenerated rapidly until she had a grand mal seizure that lasted almost two hours.
So, two nights ago, she went to sleep with her mom in the sofa bed. We always stay close when Amy's sick.
At 10:00pm she woke up having a seizure. She retched dry into a bowl held by her mom, then tightened up and began to grind her teeth hard until the bony snapping sound was almost too much to take. Her eyes moved and rolled and darted, unfocused. She couldn't speak or acknowledge our presence.
I called 911.
The operator went through the instructions as an operator had done six years earlier, only this time the spasms and grinding and gurgling sounds began to subside as the paramedics arrived.
Neighbors, aglow in the red sweep of emergency beacons, walked up in their nightclothes concerned, torn between assistance and intrusion, and offered freely, generously, compassionately, any help they could.
It was cold outside.
Amy and her mom took an ambulance ride to the hospital. I followed in the car.
The entire event was less traumatic this time, what with the brevity of the seizure and the smoothness of the hospital admission. We were interviewed. Amy was evaluated, monitored, hydrated, given a benzodiazapine, and stabilized. By 2:00am yesterday we were all home again.
The galaxy of professionals that orbits around my daughter has been informed and scheduled for visits. Medications have changed/increased/decreased, as have the appetite, the fatigue, and the fear. Life, as usual, is in flux, but now it's more intensely so. Uncertainties, both fresh and familiar, come to stay for hours at a time and then diminish in the knowledge that there is very little indeed to be certain about when it comes to being our mortal selves, and yet a certainty remains through all the chaos, a certainty that the value of our attachments to each other is greater than anything else we can conjure up.
"Yes Sir, That's My Baby" -- Frank Sinatra -- STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT
"Hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn't permanent."
- Jean Kerr