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.

 

What Can’t Be Undone

The suggestion to implant a VNS was made by our neurologist years ago. But there were still options to try so we held off. Unfortunately, CBD was not our miracle and other medications didn’t help. The seizures kept coming and we ran out of things to try.

When our neurologist brought up the VNS again, I felt the overwhelming weight of the decision squeezing the air out of me. If it even has the potential to improve his quality of life, she asked, shouldn’t we try it? Of course, she was right, but that knowledge didn’t help me breathe.

Neither did having an amazing surgeon in one of the best children’s hospitals in the country. Neither did the love and support of friends who would try to reassure me about how safe surgery and anesthesia are. Neither did my wife who held everything together when I couldn’t.

It wasn’t the mechanics of the surgery that occupied my thoughts. It was the idea of cutting into my little boy. It was the permanence of it all. It was the thing that can’t be undone.

We can wean off a medication that doesn’t work. We can stop the ketogenic diet. If years from now his seizures miraculously go away, we could stop everything and pretend that all the hard things about his childhood didn’t happen. There would be no signs, no trace. I could live in denial about how traumatized I was by this experience.

But the surgery forced me to confront the fact that these things aren’t going away. That the magical, unburdened life I wanted for my son is not going to materialize. That I can’t fix this or make it go away. That this is real, and that the future for him will include challenges brought on by his condition. That I’ve somehow failed him.

From the time the decision was made to the time they wheeled him away hopped up on “giggle juice”, I pushed my feelings down. I was practical but emotionless. I showed up for the appointments and answered the questions as he was prepped for surgery, but I wasn’t really there. I couldn’t be. I had to push it all down just to appear strong enough to make it through.

Even after his surgery was over, I had a hard time being present and acknowledging what had happened. I had a hard time looking at his scars. They were bigger than I thought they would be. Instead of small ones hidden by clothes, they’re long and visible. I looked away. I caught a glimpse of the device itself, raised under the skin and I looked away. It’s more than just being squeamish, it’s a spotlight of reality shining into my eyes and blinding me.

I worry that he’ll think I can’t look at him. I worry that he’ll feel like he did something wrong or that there is something wrong with him that is causing this reaction from me. I’m worried that I can’t get over my own hang-ups and be there for him when he needs me.

I tried to explain to him the feelings I was having but he didn’t understand. I didn’t, either, until I started to unpack them. But I still don’t know what to do with them. I want my acceptance to turn the spotlight that was blinding me into a beacon that brings me to him. But instead, it feels like the light has turned off. It’s not repelling me but it’s also not drawing me in. Instead, I’m left in the darkness trying to find my way.

But I can hear his voice. And I hear my wife’s voice. They’re calling me. And so I’m pushing through the blackness, the emptiness, to find my way back to them. It’s scary and impossibly hard. But I can hear them and they need me. I can hear them, and I don’t feel alone.

I’m on my way.

I Don’t Have The Answers

Every day, I wake up, head to the computer, and write about my life as the father of an amazing child who has epilepsy. I’ve been doing it for more than three years. But I don’t feel like I have any more answers now than I did when I started.

When I write, it’s from the perspective of a father trying to work out his thoughts and emotions on the page. I am not an expert. Wisdom comes from hindsight but we’re still in the thick of it. And every day I realize more and more of how much I don’t know.

I don’t know how to minimize his pharmaceutical side effects. I don’t know how long he’ll be on the ketogenic diet. I don’t know whether there is something out there we haven’t tried. I don’t know what new medicine or technology is on the horizon that will help. I don’t know how to prepare him for the world with epilepsy. I don’t know what to do to get my son to stop seizing. I don’t know if he ever will.

An expert would have answers. An expert would know what to do. An expert would speak from the perspective of someone who has been through it. They know how the story ends or how the tension resolves. I don’t have any of those things.

But here is what I do know. I know that I love my son more than anything. I know my wife and I are doing everything we can to keep him whole and to give him the best life that we can. I know that I need to be the best man and father for him. I know we need to take each moment as it comes and make the best choice we can with the information that we have. I know we have this moment right now, and I know that nothing else is guaranteed.