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I crept in the kids’ bedroom earlier today where Logan was sleeping, after collapsing in fatigue late this morning.
I found him in two ways; as a vision with his pale sheeks and dark lashes creating a picture of innocence that was overwhelming in its intensity; and seizing, his left arm a moving target, disconcernable by the constant, rhythmic beat of his little hand against the Spongebob blanket.
In the same way that I sometimes hate this monster called autism, I am equally captivated and appalled by the beast, epilepsy.
In the back of my mind, the duality of the scene that had greeted me won’t let go.
Find the Answers
Logan is a mystery to us much of the time. The past days of increased anger and contrary consistency have been an unavoidable reminder of this reality.
In the silence of his unexpected drop to the sofa earlier I had wondered about the possibility of seizures. I dismissed it when he got up acting like the world was his enemy, again. Then, a half-hour later, this happens, and I am faced by the evidence as he sleeps snuggled under the Spongebob blanket.
No way, I tell myself at first. He’s just moving a little in his sleep. As he shifts under the covers, his side is further freed of confinement under the blanket, and the slight movement I noticed before is a steady beat of jerky movement under the cover. Like a drum, pulling me in to the silent drama of the moment.
And it is drama, it is a dramatic situation of sorts. Except I have a hard time explaining reality as drama, which brings to mind the imagined and the over-emotional.
The truth is that in his long moments of mild seizing I remembered that I had a child with epilepsy.
How crazy is that?
I had been lulled into a strange sort of complacency because he hadn’t had obvious seizures for a few weeks. I was able to tuck that part of our reality back in the corner of my mind and pretend.
And in the reality
I remind myself, yet again, of all my failings as a parent. How could I missed some obvious sign that this was the reason for his changed behavior? Am I reading too much into it?
There I go again. It’s so easy to pull everything back on my shoulders, claim responsibility for acts over which I have no control. Why do you think that is?
I’m just a mom. I try my hardest. I say that, but believing it is another thing entirely. I wonder if it is a measure of dealing with it all. Maybe, because if it is something I did, something that I had control over, that means I also have the power to change it.
And I don’t. Not in the ways that would fix this, anyway.
And the reality of that is something I didn’t really want to be reminded of again.
So you tell me. Are there times when you have been forced to face something you didn’t want to? When you were eased into complacency because one of your child’s conditions hadn’t raised its head for a while?
Tell me about them. Remind me that in this I’m not alone. Because it hurts, this reminder.
What’s your story?
Other reads you might have missed, about Logan:
The ironic, in light of today: Sometimes a Cold is Just a Cold