epilepsy Archives - Page 61 of 74

Making Moments Matter

Last weekend, we were in Washington D.C. for the Epilepsy Foundation walk. We had planned the trip for months, and we tucked away some money to pay for the trip and activities while we were there. As it happened, there was a playoff hockey game in D.C. on Saturday night. It wasn’t something we planned on, and hockey tickets are expensive…playoff tickets more so.

I called my wife and told her about the game. “We should do it,” she said.

There was a time in my life where I would have argued. Where I would have tried to rationalize the cost, and crunch the numbers, and adjusted the budget. My wife tried for years to teach me the value in making moments matter, but I had a hard time listening or believing her until my son got sick.

The past few years have been an endless struggle to control his seizures, switching medicines, managing side effects, and behavioral issues, a difficult diet, and the stigma of having epilepsy. Some days, he can’t control his body, or he seizures at night and has an accident. He wakes up some days wanting to give up, or comes home from school embarrassed because someone laughed at him for drinking oil with his lunch. It’s an impossible life for a six-year-old.

Moments don’t need to be expensive or cost money at all. As we walked down the National Mall, he was just as happy playing tag and hide and seek on the grass, and doing the scavenger hunt in the hotel. I could have said I was tired, or that I wanted to see the sights. But those little moments of playing his game and giving him an opportunity to feel normal and to simply have fun matter, too.

But hockey is one of those things that my son hasn’t given up on, and the universe was sending me a message by putting a playoff game in the same city where we would be and, to be sure I wouldn’t miss the message, the game was also against our home team. We bought the tickets and surprised him with the game.

Even though our team didn’t win, the home crowd appreciated his enthusiasm and pat him on his head as he cried in to his hands after another tough loss. As we walked out, he had a smile on his face and moved the home team up on his favorite team list.

I’m grateful my wife has tried to teach me to make moments matter.

And I’m glad I finally listened.

Epilepsy And The Lack Of Freedom

One day last week, after I dropped my son off at school, I walked past the playground and the late kids being hurried by their parents across the street. The kids were a few years older than my son and, on the walk home, I began to think of when I was their age and lived in an apartment complex in Connecticut.

I remember there was a common area between the apartments and the street that was covered in grass, with a big, green boulder that I used to climb, imaging it was the tallest mountain. My friends and I used to meet on the grass and play baseball, or tag, or ride our bikes on the sidewalk through the buildings.

My sister was among the older kids that used to also congregate by the boulder, usually either ignoring or taunting their younger siblings. But there were no parents. Many of our parents, including my mother, were single parents or low income parents trying to make ends meet, so they were working or inside catching up on chores and other duties. So we were left to go outside, and play together, and to fill up our days with whatever we felt like doing.

If the older kids got to be too much, my friends and I would grab our fishing poles and walk through the woods adjacent to the apartments to a small creek where we would catch frogs and small fish and where I swear I saw a river monster (which was probably actually something like a muskrat). There was a sledding hill on the other side of the complex, and patchy wooded areas that we could explore with plenty of trees to climb. Our ability to roam without parental supervision or babysitting by our older siblings made us feel very free.

We don’t have any spaces like that near our house, and living in a big city is a completely different environment than the area around those apartments when I was my son’s age, but I wondered if my son would ever get to experience that same sense of freedom that I had when I was living in those apartments. Even if there were places to roam and their weren’t busy streets to navigate, will his seizures prevent him from being able to run off and play without the watchful eye of my wife, me, or another caregiver? Will he always have to be around other people, particularly someone who knows what to do if he has a seizure?

I’ve always said that I didn’t want epilepsy to make my son feel “less than”, or for it to keep him from doing anything he wants to. But the reality is that it might, especially if we continue to have such a hard time getting his seizures under control. He probably doesn’t notice it as much now, because he’s six and because he’s not supposed to venture out in to the world by himself. But as he gets older, and as he’s not able to experience the same freedom that his friends do, I’m going to need to find a way to make it okay.

The Lonely Record – A Story Of Data In Epilepsy Diagnosis

Somewhere in a cluster of servers in windowless rooms spread around the world, there is a Great Machine. On that machine, there lives a database. In that database, there is a table, and in that table, there is a record about my son. The 1s and 0s in that record contain an anonymous listing of a six-year-old boy. Those bits and bytes also contain data of expressed genes captured during an exome sequencing.

In the same database, there are records of thousands of other children that have had their exome sequenced, too. Each individual record has at least one common attribute with all the other records…the child that the record represents has epilepsy.

The goal of the exome sequencing is to identify one of the known genetic variations that is known to cause seizures. If that happens, patients can benefit from those that came before. A potential treatment plan identified by other patients with the same genetic condition might provide a more targeted approach for the newly matched patient. It might also offer some insight in to prognosis. For better or worse, it may at least give some answers.

For the new records that are placed in to the database that are not matched to a known genetic cause, they sit unattached and alone. These records lack causation and, in their unjoined state, they also lack correlation. There are no patients that came before, no best practices or lessons learned. There is no prognosis. There are no answers.

My son’s record is that way. It rests alone in a database, somewhere in the world, on a cold, metal server in a windowless room, waiting to be called. Waiting to be joined with another record. Waiting for correlation. Because with correlation, there can be association. With association, there can be coordination. With coordination, there can be answers.

Every six months, the Great Machine tries to use new discoveries, new cases, to find patterns that were previously unseen or unknowable. It calls out to each record, looking to find those that it may bestow the gift of correlation. For most, there is no correlation, no gift, and they return to their lonely state until they are once again called upon.

Maybe someday, my son’s record will find a partner. A commonality between another record in a database. A non-uniqueness in the universe. In all likelihood, the result of a match will not produce a cause for the seizures. It may, however, start to provide correlation between cases that can be studied further.

To a lonely record, it’s at least something.