Category: meds

It Can Always Get Worse

We finally got a second opinion. Not because we didn’t think the doctors at our hospital were doing everything they could. But because that’s what responsible parents do.

I wasn’t expecting a miracle. I wasn’t expecting someone to tell us we missed something that would cure my son’s epilepsy. We were looking for another perspective or treatment that we missed. We hoped that someone out there had another case like ours and could provide some insight. We wanted a little more hope. We wanted a little more of something to hold on to.

The hospital sent the report to my wife. That night, she tried to tell me what it said, but I didn’t let it in. I nodded as she spoke the words but I put my guard up and those words bounced off me and fell to the floor. For the rest of the night, I stepped over them as I distracted myself with other things until it was time to go to bed. But I didn’t sleep.

The next day, I started to feel the effects of the night before. Not only the report but how I reacted. How I tried to ignore it to make it less real. How not facing it doesn’t make it go away. And how I left my wife holding that emotional weight by herself.

When I got home from work, I hugged her and apologized for leaving her stranded. I asked her to send me the report, and I read the pages of detailed notes that the doctor had put together. It was a thorough summary of the last three years of our lives. It included confirmation that our doctors are doing the right things and that there wasn’t anything we missed. Then, towards the end, I saw what I didn’t want to see the night before.

What should we expect in the short and long term? Is there any other information you feel would be helpful for us to know?

I do worry that his clinical picture has raised suspicion for a myoclonic epilepsy that may be progressive, in which case, continued difficulty in treatment and learning decline can be seen.

It wasn’t the first time we heard that. We’re three years in without seizure freedom, and it’s feeling like a more elusive goal every day. Our doctors alluded to the possibility but kept us focused on stabilizing what we can now. The near-term goals were a welcome distraction from the long-term possibilities. But I also don’t think about it getting worse because I can’t think of anything worse than what is happening to him now.

That night I laid next to my son as I put him to bed. I told him that I loved him. That I would always be there. That I was sorry that his life was so hard. I was trying to communicate my feelings to him. But he’s eight and doesn’t understand the words we use to express those very big feelings.

Somedays, neither do I.

But I feel the need to get them out and hope that he will someday be able to understand. I worry that there will be a window between now and if things get worse where he is able to grasp the meaning in my words. I don’t want to miss that window. Even if it only cracks a little, I want to get something through. Because if things do get worse, I need to know that he will have something to hold on to.

A Childhood In The Clouds

I wonder how my son is going to remember his childhood. Sometimes, I wonder if he is going to remember it.

My son and I watched a Philadelphia Eagles game and we saw a player that my son had met at the hospital. I asked if he remembered meeting him and he said that he didn’t. We met the player almost two years, so at first, I chalked it up to my son being too young to remember. But he was also in the hospital because he was having more seizures and because we needed to adjust his medication.

Like other medicines, epilepsy medications have a long list of side effects. But medicine that controls seizures targets the source of those seizures, the brain. As a result, the side effects show up in those areas that the brain controls, which is everywhere. We have sees these side effects alter his mood and behavior and impact his motor control. As he gets older, we’re also seeing how much they affect his ability to learn and his memory. Those side effects were likely there all along, hidden beneath the surface. But now that those skills are being tested, the latent effects are being revealed.

We’ve passed the three year mark of my son taking medicine for his seizures. Three years of my son’s brain in a constant fog. Three years of struggling to form solid shapes around thoughts and ideas. Three years of a childhood spent in the clouds.

Three years of exerting all his energy to focus on one task at a time. Three years of that focus sapping all his energy. Three years of wondering if there is enough energy or will left inside of him to enjoy an experience.

The more we explore, the more gaps we find. Milestone events never happened. People erased from existence. It’s impossible to tell whether the failure is storing the memory or recalling it. The result is the same, though. A void where a childhood should be.

My wife and I repeat stories of our adventures to him, and we show him the albums of pictures we’ve taken. I’m hoping by continuing to expose him to those memories that he will have something to remember. I don’t know if it will be because we’re unlocking old memories or creating new ones through our stories. I’m hoping his brain doesn’t know the difference. I’m hoping that when he looks back on this time in his life, he’ll have something to find.

A Moment Of Lucidity

I came home and everyone was sitting at the kitchen table. The topic of conversation was about how good a day my son had. A smile flashed across my face. We haven’t had a lot of those lately, and this sounded like a really good day.

My wife made a strong case for possibly his best day in months as she described what had happened. She told me that his aide at work commented about him being his old self. My son jumped in, adding emphasis to his trip to the library and the Lego club he discovered there. The energy in the house was amazing, and we held on to it all evening.

Over the past few months, we’ve been adjusting my son’s medications. It is a hard time for everyone as we try to manage the seizures and side effects that always follow. Insomnia, fatigue, and emotional and behavioral issues disrupt everything about his life. I saw the turmoil inside of him taking a toll, and his bouts of sadness shred my heart to pieces. I was so happy for him to get a win.

It wasn’t until we started to get ready for bed that we noticed that he didn’t get his morning medication. In the 1,128 days that we’ve been giving him medication for his seizures, this is only the third time that we screwed up. In the past, if we get off-schedule for his dosing, we saw signs that raised an alarm. He might have a seizure during the day or more during his nap. But this time, there were no signs like that. Only a really good day.

We scrambled to get him back on track, but the inevitable happened. He had more seizures that night than he has had in while. The next day, his behavior was erratic and it took most of the day to get him settled down. Over the course of the next couple of days, both his seizures and his behavior started to level off.

Before we knew about the missed medications, we thought that we had cracked the code. His head has been swimming in medication for so long but we continue to look for the right mix. We lower the dosage on ones that put him in the haze and increase the dosage on ones that help his seizures. We thought that with this latest combination we found that balance.

But instead of a solution, what we spotted was an anomaly. A single, dangerous moment of lucidity. I picture him suspended in a sea of medication. It slows his movements, makes it hard to think and to see and to be himself. That day, he was finally able to reach the surface. He was able to take one big breath and see the world around him. We could see him, too, as his head broke into the open air. Then we watched as he was slowly pulled back under.

Was this a glimpse of the boy behind the seizures and the medicine and the side effects? Is he gone again? Lost beneath the surface of his condition? Or was it a coincidence? He has had some pretty good days before. Are we are trending in the right direction and that really good day was a sign of things to come?

The answer to those questions is the same frustrating answer it always is. Wait and see. It’s the same answer when we change medications. It’s the same answer when we start a new treatment or therapy. Everything is so unpredictable that we just have to wait and see. But this time, the stakes seem higher because we’re trying to figure out if what we saw was our son or a mirage.

Deep down, I know what the answer is. The reality is that it was my son. But it is him on the other days, too. He is whoever he is in front of us on any given day. That’s the reality of his condition. The good and the bad. The sweet, gentle boy and the sad, angry boy. The lucid and the drugged. The boy who can face any challenge and the boy who wants to hide and be alone.

Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in the differences between the two that I wind up chasing the mirage. I focus on the way things should be because I want his life to be easier. To be better. But when I do that, I leave my son behind. I miss out on the gifts that we are given instead of simply being grateful that my son is here and that he had a really, really good day.