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Another Year I Didn’t Think I’d Get

Every year, my son has a birthday that I didn’t think I’d get.

Since the age of five, he’s never gone more than a day or two without a seizure. There were times when he wouldn’t go an hour without one. And there were times when he was in status, and he wouldn’t stop seizing at all.

The first few years were especially scary. We would spend weeks admitted to the neurology floor of the children’s hospital, watching as the medical teams fought to keep my son alive. I would wake up next to him in the middle of the night to find doctors conferring, trying to find the next medication or treatment to try. His therapists would come during the day to help his body relearn what it had forgotten how to do. Each birthday we celebrated during that time was a gift, even if the time between them was unbearably hard.

Even after he was stable, his future was uncertain. The medications that reduced his seizures didn’t control them completely. That’s when his doctor introduced us to SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy), and the leading risk factor is the presence of uncontrolled, generalized tonic-clonic (GTC) seizures, especially if they occur at night.

If I didn’t sleep before, I certainly wasn’t sleeping after that conversation. We installed a camera in his room to monitor him while he slept. I woke with every sound, every movement—or when there was too much time with neither.

Even this morning, as I was writing this post, I heard my son have a seizure in his room. It was longer than usual, so I used the VNS magnet and then his rescue medication before the seizure stopped.

As he turns sixteen, that’s more than eleven years without sleep. Eleven years of worry. Eleven years of hoping for another year.

And for eleven years, I have been given another year. Each one feels like a small miracle.

The fear never really goes away, but neither does the gratitude. I still hold my breath with every seizure, but I also get to watch my son grow taller, tell jokes, and dream about what comes next.

Sixteen years. Eleven years of worry. But also eleven years of laughter, stubbornness, love, and life.

Every year is another year I didn’t think I’d get.

And for that, I am endlessly thankful.

Neurodefender: Video Games and Epilepsy

My first video game console was an Atari 2600 that my sister and I received for Christmas when I was eight.¹ It was magical to toggle the switchbox and have an arcade on my television screen. Within a few months, I had a collection of cartridges. Pitfall, Pac-Man, Donkey Kong. I even had that horrible E.T. game. But Space Invaders was my favorite game, and my mother’s boss and I had a friendly competition every time we visited his family.

I usually won.

As I got older, I became very interested in computers. My first computer was a Mattel (yes, that Mattel) Aquarius, one of the shortest-lived computers ever to go to market. It had a Tron game that I played constantly, even though I had never seen the movie. But it was the ability to program on the Aquarius that got me hooked and, for a long time, my world revolved around computers and my gaming followed suit.

My first online games were on a computer. That was back before there were high-powered consoles connected to the internet. I’m talking the days of dial-up modems. I would spend hours playing an air combat game with a classmate, but I was obsessed with the text-based fantasy role playing game Gemstone on GEnie, an early online service. It was a massively multiplayer online role-playing game (MMORPG) that connected people across the country in a virtual world. Eventually, I moved on to more graphical games like the World of Warcraft, but the ability to connect with other people in these worlds was life-changing and even turned into friendships in the real world. One of my groomsmen at my wedding was someone whom I had originally met in an online game.

My son developed a love for video games at an early age. We had a Wii and loved to play baseball and, especially, bowling. I have videos of him running circles around the house after getting a strike, a huge smile on his face emitting an excited giggle.

As he got older, we began to play video games together, especially sport games like hockey. We’d adjust the settings to give him an edge, and I’d occasionally have to pull my goalie and allow him to score to keep the game close, but it was a fun way to spend time together doing something that we both enjoyed.

Eventually, of course, I stopped pulling my goalie and boosting his settings because he got better. Today, he wins more games than me. The grasshopper has become the teacher. And we’ve expanded to other games. We finished the Halo series, one of my all-time favorites. We played MarioKart every night during the pandemic to get three stars on every course. Today, we play Fortnite and Rocket League together, with an occasional session of Minecraft mixed in.

But I’m not the only one he plays with. This era of powerful PCs and consoles with fast internet has opened up the world and allowed him to play with his friends. He has a friend in Connecticut who plays a baseball video game with him. And he hops on Fortnite after school to play with a few of his friends. Through them, he’s met other friends and he has a little network of gamers. Especially over the summer, it’s helped him stay connected as many families travel and it’s been harder to connect with summer schedules.

In this world of gamers streaming on platforms like Twitch, he has decided that it is the career he wants to pursue. Whether or not that is a viable path for him, it has been a great way for him to explore many aspects of a traditional career: schedules, consistency, marketing, and engagement. He learns by watching other streamers and then practices engaging with his audience, describing his actions and thought process as he navigates a challenge. He loves to teach the “noobs”² how to get started and basic tactics and tips.

As a technologist and a gamer, it’s been fascinating to see how far gaming technology has come. For my son, it’s become a way to connect, express himself, and find his place in a world that hasn’t always made that easy. Watching him game, teach, laugh, and grow through this medium is beyond anything I could have imagined.

If you want to see what he’s building—and maybe learn a thing or two yourself—you can check out his Twitch stream here: @neurodefender.

Game on.

Crazy side note, when the Atari 2600 was introduced, it cost $190, equivalent to paying $990 in 2024! ↩︎
Slang for a newbie—someone who is inexperienced or new to a particular activity, especially in gaming or online communities. ↩︎

Here We Go Again

Here we go again
Same old stuff again
Marching down the avenue
Six more weeks and we’ll be through
I’ll be glad and so will you
U.S. Army Marching and Running Cadence

I was never much of a runner. I had the look of one. Tall and skinny, with long legs that should have made running easier. I was even a fast sprinter. But anything longer than the size of a football field, and my brain would scream at every one of my moving parts to stop.

Imagine how much fun I had when I joined the army, where nearly everything involved…you guessed it…running. We’d wake up early every morning, head downstairs, and fall into formation. Our drill sergeant and his team would stand in front, bark out a few orders, and then my fellow soldiers and I would turn and follow our leaders, matching the rhythm of our steps to theirs, for however many miles we’d run that day.

A few minutes into the run, one of the sergeants would begin calling out a cadence. Military cadences are rhythmic chants used during marches and runs to maintain a consistent pace, foster teamwork, and boost morale. They help synchronize movements, improve endurance, and build unit cohesion.

They were magic. They kept me focused on the rhythmic call and response rather than the fact that I hated running, that my lungs and legs hurt, and that I should stop. Because I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t let my squad down. I couldn’t let myself down. I had to push through.

One of the cadences, “Here We Go Again,” summed up basic training perfectly: the same grueling routine, day after day. Wake. Run. Eat. March. Train. Eat. March. Train. Eat. Chores. Bed. Every day, for 8 weeks, the same thing.

Anytime I find myself repeating a pattern, especially a challenging one, I think of those early morning runs. I think of that need to push through, to not let my squad and myself down.

Here we go again
Same old stuff again

We’re approaching one of those times. Toward the end of the school year, our son is always exhausted. He’ll have a harder time waking up in the morning and randomly fall asleep in the afternoon. Around the same time, baseball, one of the few non-school activities he still enjoys, starts demanding more energy and mental bandwidth. We also start figuring out what the following school year will look like, scheduling IEP meetings, and talking with his school and the district about our son’s challenges, needs, and potential. It’s mentally, physically, and emotionally draining on the entire family.

Six more weeks and we’ll be through.

Six more weeks until the school year ends. Six more weeks to push through. Six more weeks of having a routine, structure, and certainty. Six more weeks until the story that has been written ends, and there are only blank pages unless we can write down a new plan before then.

It’s exhausting. It’s like those basic training marathon runs, where somehow we’d run in a circle but only be running uphill, defying physics, logic, and any sense of fairness. It tests our endurance and commitment. Parts of my brain are screaming to just stop.

But we can’t stop. We can’t let our son down. We can’t let ourselves down. We have to keep going. We have to fill those pages with a plan for the next year, until we find ourselves again six weeks from the end of the school year with the same cadence echoing in my head.

Here we go again.

Same old stuff again.