The Sleepover

A few weeks ago, my wife and I spent our first night away together since my son was born. Individually, we’ve been away. I’ve gone on work trips, and my wife has gone to visit family. But we’ve never both been gone for the night and let someone else watch our son.

In some ways, it wasn’t practical. We don’t have family that lives near us, so leaving him at grandma’s house wasn’t an option. But there is also the reality that our son has seizures almost every night. Spending the night isn’t just about giving him a place to sleep. It’s an active task that involves monitoring him and responding to seizures.

Our son is never alone. Even sleeping in his bed, we have a camera pointing at him that I watch all night long. When he is in his room playing, we keep a cautious ear listening to what is going on. He receives individual attention at school, and his nanny is substituting for us when we aren’t there.

That level of involvement is not something that transfers well to someone unaccustomed to that level of care. It’s not something that lends itself to people lining up to take on the responsibility. It’s our every day, but it’s not theirs. I can imagine the conversation with the parents would go something like this:

As you know, our son has epilepsy. And it’s very likely that he’s going to have a seizure really early in the morning. Probably more than one. The seizures are likely going to wake and frighten your child. And you’ll need to help my son reorient to the world as he comes out of it and make sure he doesn’t fall out of the bed or try to walk around and fall down your stairs.

[silence]

If the seizure lasts too long, his rescue medicine is in his overnight bag. The good news is that we haven’t had to use it in a while. The bad news is the delivery mechanism.

[silence]

Also, you’ll need to make sure he doesn’t eat or drink anything we don’t send with him. He’s on a medical diet and if he eats anything else he could start having seizures.

[silence]

Oh, and don’t let him stay up too late. The more tired he is, the more likely his is to have seizures.

[silence]

His medicine is also in his bag. Make sure he takes all of his pills because if he misses any…you guessed it, more seizures.

[silence]

Other than that and, I guess, his depression and behavioral side effects of his medicine, I think you’re all set. Ok, goodnight!

[overwhelming silence]

I couldn’t burden someone with that responsibility because nothing could prepare them in one night for what has taken us years to adapt to. But I would also spend the night worrying and wondering. It wouldn’t have been a good night for anyone involved.

I really struggle with the idea that no one else can or will want to take care of our son. But at the same time, I find reasons why no one else should. They don’t know my son. We can’t prepare them for what it is like. What if something happened?

In the end, our nanny provided the perfect opportunity. She has been working with our son for over a year. She’s seen his seizures during his nap, and she’s helped him manage his behavior and emotions. We trust her to keep him safe. When she agreed to an overnight stay, it felt right.

Even though it was only one night, it opened my eyes to a new possibility. I’m not going to say that I still didn’t worry or wonder. But coming from a place where I didn’t think it would be possible at all, that first night was huge. It may not have addressed all my fears about the future, but it was a good first step.

 

Walking Through The Mud

I’ve been having a hard time finding the motivation to write lately. The thoughts in my head and the words on the page all seem the same as they have been for the past few months. The past few years.

My son isn’t better. He’s still seizing. He’s still limited. He’s still heavily medicated. We’re still dealing with his school and trying to get him an education.

Everything is harder than it should be.

It feels like I’m walking through mud. Every step takes extra effort. Every step requires my full attention. I need to push my hands through the mud to search for my leg that is trapped in the muck. When I find it, I have to wrap my hands around it and pull it towards the surface. The mud resists, not wanting to let go. Even as my leg reaches the surface, the weight of the mud clinging to my legs and shoes threaten to pull it back down. It leaves me unbalanced. Even though it is only inches in front of where I started, I’m forced to push my foot back through the mud to the ground underneath. Even though I know it means that I will have to struggle for my next step, it’s the only way to find temporary stability. Otherwise, I risk falling over and being fully consumed.

The struggle reveals itself everywhere.

Parenting is harder.

There are fewer right answers. There is more uncertainty. There is more acceptance of things that no parent of a 9-year old should have to accept.

Marriage is harder.

We’re in the same stressful, relentless situation watching our son struggle and seizure, but we have different perspectives and have different needs. We’re both trying to be there for our son but we go at different paces and we aren’t always within reach of one another.

Work is harder.

It’s hard to go to work after endless sleepless nights. It’s hard to concentrate on the work when the mind wants to worry about an upcoming surgery or the handful of seizures he had that morning.

Friendship is harder because we’re so focused on the things we can’t afford to ignore that we ignore the relationships we need. Finances are harder because of the mounting costs of medical care, nanny care and tutoring. Diet and exercise are harder because we’re always so tired and pressed for time and it’s just easier to order something from the couch.

But like many families in our situation, we continue to move forward. We keep taking labored steps towards a destination that we can’t see. Because where we are isn’t where we want to be. Because we hope we are heading in the right direction. Because there is no other choice.

The mud is unforgiving, but in those moments of brief stability in between each step, I sometimes catch a glimpse of something wonderful. The struggle has given us gifts. I am a better parent to my son because I can’t take a moment for granted. I am a better partner and friend to my wife because we know what it is like to truly need and love another. And I have brought my whole self in to work and been surrounded by people who accept and care about me. We found understanding friends. And we have learned the value of trying to live the best life we can with what we have.

It’s not always easy to see these gifts when I’m stuck in the mud. It’s difficult to be motivated when everything feels harder than it should be. But I’m doing my best to keep moving. I’m doing my best to learn and to grow and to be a good father, and husband, and friend. Because, really, there is no other choice.

“The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.” ~Buddhist Proverb

Escaping From Reality

This post is part of the Epilepsy Blog Relay™ which will run from November 1 through November 30. Follow along and add comments to posts that inspire you!

When I was young, I was always looking to escape. I could read a book and see the scenery described on the page around me. I would read Spider-Man comic books and imagine myself, the awkward outcast, swinging from web to web through my neighborhood. And I would get so immersed in a video game that I wouldn’t notice that I was hungry or tired or that the sun was starting to come up and that I had to get ready for school.

My ability for my imagination to transform the world around me helped me escape from the inescapable situation that was my complicated childhood.

My son has that same gift. When we play hockey in his room, I think he sees a sheet of ice, feels the cold air around him and hears the support from his teammates on the bench and the fans in the stands. When we play Avengers, I think he sees our apartment as the city in smoldering ruins and himself as Captain America defending the citizens against whichever villain he has me portraying.

I’m grateful he has that. My son’s childhood is differently complicated than mine was. Where mine was lacking, my wife and I try to provide for my son in abundance. But the challenges that he is facing because of his epilepsy and the myriad of complications that come with his diagnosis is not something we can remedy.

In his imagination, those complications don’t exist. A seizure doesn’t prevent the game-winning goal or take down The First Avenger. The side effects of medication don’t slow down the action or the hero’s mind. Those are things for the real world. Those are things to escape from.

As someone who needed a place to go myself, I’m empathetic and want to encourage the behavior. As he gets older, he can evolve his ability to craft a world to wrap himself in to shape the real world around him. That world is likely to be sometimes hard, sometimes cruel, and sometimes dark. But imagination and creativity have a way of shining a light into the darkness and illuminating the way.

However he chooses to use his gift as he grows up and whatever form it takes, I hope he dares to shine that light on the world. Because I’ve watched it grow inside of him and have seen how it already impacts those around him. And it’s glorious.

NEXT UP: Be sure to check out the next post tomorrow by Glynn Partington at Living Well With Epilepsy for more on epilepsy awareness. For the full schedule of bloggers visit livingwellwithepilepsy.com.

And don’t miss your chance to connect with bloggers on the #LivingWellChat on December 6 at Noon ET.