I’m holding the sedative meds, I’m ready. Waiting. Because I know it’s coming. I know that I’m going to have to sedate my child. Again. And that if I don’t, he’ll keep having seizures. Over and over and over again.
Around 4am there was a twitch. A slight lifting of the elbow and a tense shoulder. For a *moment*. I saw it, but before I could figure out if it was a seizure he’d relaxed. And then it happened again. And over the course of an hour it happened over and over, for longer and longer until they were recognisable as seizures. I need to wait for one more, as per the seizure care plan. Three in an hour, that’s the threshold. But I know it’s coming.
You’d think I’d be used to it now, but knocking your kid out isn’t an easy thing to do. Well, that’s a lie. It isn’t hard: position him so he won’t choke, pop the lid, squeeze half between his cheek and gum on one side, the half on the other side and rub his cheeks until he crashes out. Physically it’s one of the easier cares (way easier than nasal suctioning or button changing or fighting with the Lycra suit).
Emotionally? I feel like I’ve been pummelled. Emotionally I would like to never see my kid suffer seizures again. Emotionally I wonder if this is the beginning of the end (it’s not, universe. I didn’t put that out there so you could run with it).
Because it’s a never ending fight. Trying to figure out what’s causing them, trying to get them to manageable levels so he can experience some kind of quality of life, with awake time and development and (and in my head, I want to cry, because my sons quality of life comes down to him BEING AWAKE, and not, you know, every other joy a three year old might experience).
Honestly, the weight of this hand we’ve been dealt gets harder to carry. The never ending seizure war. NKH, you’re awful and I hate you.