epilepsy Archives - Page 71 of 86

Inside The Circle

To the outside world, we look like an average urban family. I’m the aging dad, high (I’m still not calling it “receding”) hairline, close-cropped hair wearing city-chic because my wife dresses me. My wife, beautiful, hip with her too-cool-for-school (I realize no one says that anymore) sunglasses strutting down the sidewalk. And my son, wearing a Captain America helmet and catching air off the uneven sidewalk on his scooter.

We stop at our local market to pick up ingredients for dinner, because that is how normal, city-people shop. The shop keeper greet us with a friendly, welcoming smile and we exchange pleasantries that show that we’re local and are recognized as such. We stroll through the park to play catch and we see Jafar, the musician, and Mike, the juggler, whose names we know because we are locals. We pass them with a wave and they smile back with a hint of recognition.

There are two groups of people in our lives, those that are outside the circle and those that are inside the circle. Most of the world exists outside the circle, and they do not see the impact that epilepsy has on our lives or the complexities that we struggle with every day. When we buy those groceries, the shop keeper doesn’t know that the ingredients are only for my wife and I because my has epilepsy and is on a special diet. The other park goers don’t know that we are there only for a short time or for the first time in days because my son has enough energy to play that day.

For someone who writes a blog about being the father of a child with epilepsy, it may seem strange that I struggle with who to let inside the circle. As public as this blog is, it is still difficult to talk about what is happening with the people in our lives. How can I explain the heartache of helplessly watching my son have a seizure at the breakfast table? How do talk about why he keeps missing school? Or why he can’t do certain things or why we have to decline birthday parties and events that happen in the afternoon because he needs a nap?

Those outside the circle can never truly know us or our son because my son’s epilepsy is such a big part of our every day. Maybe I am worried about people judging him or judging us. I don’t understand how or why this is happening, maybe I’m so worried that they won’t understand that can’t let them in. It’s hard to overcome those fears, and to be open to sharing that piece of ourselves. It’s hard to trust other people, to be vulnerable, and to take that risk.

I am finding, though, that the more willing I am to take that risk and to share a glimpse of that part of who we are, the bigger that our inner circle becomes. His teeball team ask about him at every game that he misses. People at my office, friends and acquaintances that have met my son and seen him struggle react with kindness. They ask about him and pass along their well wishes. They donate when the call goes out for a charity event. This terrible condition that burdens my son and weighs heaving on our family has also revealed the gifts that come from having more people inside the circle that care.

The Long Walk Home

It was one of those nights when we had to decide between bringing him to his teeball practice or letting him skip it and rest. During the previous week, we had just gotten him back up to a functional dose of his medicine that once again helped stop his daytime seizures. But, after almost of week without them, the nighttime seizures returned. That day, he was spacey, and just “off”, which brought us to having to make this choice. Should we let him go play and do something that he hasn’t stopped talking about the entire week and risk him getting exhausted and more likely to have a seizure? Or should we keep him home, let him rest, and miss out on yet another activity?

Some nights, the decision is easier. If he had a day of seizures, or if his behavior was off, or if he had those big, puffy, purple circles under his eyes, he would stay home. Or, if he had a great day, and a great nap, it would be an easy choice to head to the field.

But on the in between nights, it’s hard to know what to do or what the repercussions might be. It’s like picking the mystery box in a game show. He could pep up and participate or he could lose complete focus and throw baseballs over the fence or somersault across the field. We decided to open the mystery box and take our chances.

With being tired and being surrounded by a gaggle of excited peers, there were a few moments where we had to remind him to stay focused, but overall he did great. Until, that is, towards the end of practice where he had a great hit but was tagged out. He insisted that he was safe, but he was not (by a mile), and what should have been a short discussion turned in to a battle and a long walk home.

He cried the entire way. There was no reasoning, and no real comforting. He was tired, and done, and he just wanted to cry. So we let him. My wife pushed the stroller and I carried the teeball bag on my back. We would occasionally tell him that we loved him, and that we were sorry he was so sad, but we mostly let him cry, his head tucked in his hands or his baseball hat, as the tears rolled down his face.

When we got home, sniffling, he pulled himself out of the stroller, walked up the steps in to the house, and fell on the couch, crying as I helped him take off his shoes and jersey. I again reassured him, rubbing his head and kissing his forehead. As I started to stand, he calmed down and asked me to sit next to him, which I did.

We are not strangers to these long walks home. Last year, they were angrier, with hitting, and spitting, and mean, angry words coming from a crying five-year old. There were days where he would stick his feet in the wheels and laugh, or jump out of the stroller and try to run away. There were attempted trips to the museum or the park that would end before they began with us turning around after only a block or two from our home. It’s hard when the threat of a thunderstorm looms over every outing and every activity. But better the risk of a long walk home after doing something than never leaving the house.

You Can Dance If You Want To

Last weekend, we went to an art festival down by the river. The sun decided to make an appearance, and we walked the steps between the booths of artisans under its warm glow.

It was Mother’s Day, so we went down as a family but my wife shooed us off occasionally so she could inspect every object from every artist at every booth while my son and I hopped down the steps and leaned over the ledge to watch the ducks and the fish in the brown, murky water.

Every so often, my son and I would wander back up to where we saw my wife last and play a game to see who could spot her first. We would join her and look at a few of the booths before again wandering off to look for toys or games or artistic curiosities.

On one of our excursions, we came to a section of steps that was near the empty stage that had music being piped through the speakers. My son asked me to take pictures of him jumping off a pillar near the steps because he’s six and he is a boy and that is what boys do.

As he finished inspecting the proof of his daring feat, a new song pumped through the speakers. Without hesitation, my son started to dance.

When I say dance, I don’t mean that he danced in place. Rather, a year of hip hop classes all culminated in a Jamiroquai-esque virtual insanity explosion of choreographed maneuvers from the top of the steps all the way down to the bottom where he ended his performance with a set of finger snaps and a bow.

I was never that brave.

I would have been (still am) too embarrassed to dance in public. Even though my ten-year plan includes a TED talk, I’m terrified of being in front of people or being the center of attention.

Clearly, my brave, brave son doesn’t have that affliction.

Sure, he has his moments. He gets nervous or self-conscious when he drinks his oil in front of his classmates. He sometimes won’t do something brand new in front of other people, although, usually he says he won’t but winds up trying it anyway.

As a parent, there are a lot of things I want differently for my son than I had growing up. I never really felt secure or safe. I didn’t feel like anyone really had my back, or that it was okay to try something and fail. I always felt different, and that being different was a very bad thing.

I desperately wanted my son to grow up free from the fear that gripped me as a child and that rears its ugly head so many years later. I think it’s even more important that he feel safe, and secure, and supported, and special because he will be made to feel different because he has epilepsy. Feeling different is okay; feeling “less than” or bad or wrong is not.

Most days, I wonder if I’m doing it right. I wonder if I tell him to “stop” too much, or if he sees my discomfort when eyes turn our way because he is being silly, or inappropriate, or simply because he is being six. But I am encouraged when he feels the need to dance and does it as if no one is watching (or maybe because everyone is watching). When he does, I feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s on the right path.

“We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche