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.

 

It Doesn’t Get Easier

It was pitch black in the cabin as I laid in the bed next to my son. I was asleep but found myself instantly awake, alert and staring up towards the ceiling the ceiling. There was no movement and no sound, but I knew what was coming. The reason that I was awake was that my son started to have a seizure. That initial moment when my son’s body tightened was enough to pull me from my sleep. What came next was the rhythmic tensing of his muscles and the accompanying moaning as the air was expelled from his lungs and crossed his vocal chords.

I turned to him the same way I always do and told him he was going to be ok. I rubbed his back and head until the seizure passed. Then I rearranged his body that had shifted during the seizure so that his head rested on the pillow so that he could return to sleep.

Some nights, these seizures seem so routine that I can easily fall back to sleep, too. I switch on my autopilot and replay the same actions to comfort him and reposition him in bed. Once he is sleeping, my autopilot guides me safely back to my own dreams.

The night in the cabin was not one of those nights. Instead, I laid in bed next to my son and felt a rush of sadness wash over me. In the four years that he has been having them, I have seen hundreds of seizures. Including subclinicals, he’s had thousands. Seizures and epilepsy are intertwined with every decision we make. We’ve been living with them so long that I thought it would get easier to see them. But it hasn’t. Each seizure brings me back to that first one. Those feelings of helplessness. They’re still there.

During the day, it’s not seizures. It’s his struggling to find words. It’s his inability to remember what he did the day before. It’s him guessing at the right thing to say or do because his brain won’t make that connection for him. It’s him constantly saying sorry because his brain lets him down.

It’s hard to not watch my son struggle and feel sad. As he stumbles over words to find the one he wants, it tears me up inside. I want to help him. I want to make it easier. I want to say the word for him so that he doesn’t struggle. But I know that he needs to find it himself. He needs to practice. So I smile and wait for him to find that word and try not to let my face betray the emotions I feel inside.

Things are supposed to get easier the more you do them. Things are supposed to get easier the more you are exposed to them. We’re four years in but, while we have grown and are better capable of handling the mechanical motions of dealing with seizures, it still breaks my heart.

Every day we are faced with the reality of what epilepsy is taking from my son. Every day, we see seizures and the physical, cognitive, and emotional toll that epilepsy is taking on him. And every day ends knowing that we’re going to go through it again the next day.

It doesn’t get easier. Not really.

Inconsiderate Epilepsy

It was a few days before a big meeting that I was organizing at work. I was pulling together the leadership teams involved with a project that I am working on to talk about our progress. It was a big deal and I wore my anxiety like a jacket. Even if I wasn’t preparing for the meeting, I was thinking about it. I was stressing about it.

The meeting was on Tuesday. On the Sunday before, we were having a good day. We saw a movie. My son went to the park with a friend and I worked on my slides for the meeting. That night, though, my son started to act strangely. He was skirting boundaries. He played with an outdoor ball in the house. He started to play a little too dangerously with his foam baseball bat. I asked if he was okay and which way his brain was going and he said he was fine and that his brain was going forward, but I sensed something was off.

When it was bedtime, my wife started to get him ready and I fired up the laptop to work on my presentation. But when she asked him to clean up his toys, he started to throw a fit. It escalated quickly and before I knew it, I was sitting on the ground holding him. We tried to work on his breathing exercises and his coping skills but he was past the point of listening.

He was trying to hit us, spit on us, and calling us by our first names and saying mean things. For more than thirty minutes, I sat on the floor, holding my son, trying to comfort him. A few months ago, these episodes were happening all the time. Now, they are rare. But whether they are constant or rare, the impact of seeing your son struggle with his emotional regulation and become someone else is painful. After he finally came out of it and we put him to bed, I tried to work on my presentation, but I couldn’t. I was so shaken up.

The next day, I went to work thinking about the night before and also stressing about the meeting that was now only a day away. It’s not easy to go in the next day and tune out the night before. It’s the same when he has more seizures during the night than he normally does. I show up to work stressed and tired but try to focus on my work. I just hope it doesn’t happen on a day where I have to be “on.”

Epilepsy doesn’t care what else you have going on. Epilepsy didn’t care about my big meeting. It doesn’t care that we’re on vacation. It doesn’t care that we have plans.

My son had seizures on the baseball field. Seizures in Hawaii. At Disney world. A seizure in the pool. At school. But it’s not just seizures, it’s the overmedicated, the behavioral issues, the fatigue. Epilepsy and its entourage can show up anywhere, anytime.

When it does, you can’t send it away. Everything else gets pushed down the priority list. You have to deal with it right now.

And then, after you are done dealing with it, you figure out how to transition out of crisis mode. You go to work or you go to school and figure out how to go back to normal.

“Normal”, as if it’s a different place. But it isn’t. This is our normal.