When all the storm models began popping up on my Facebook feed, I was thankful that so many friends had fashioned themselves meteorology aficionados. With their help, I had the foresight of picking up no less than five types of breads to satisfy my family’s snow feeding frenzy. French toast casserole? Sure. Baguettes for the homemade soup I was going to make? You betcha. Cinnamon raison bagels for my teething tot? Oh yeah.
This morning, in fact, as I settled in to compile my recipes for the baking and cooking on the horizon, I heard Josh’s developmental therapist change from her sing-songy tone to sheer terror.
“Why are you turning your head like that, Joshy?”
She knows him well enough to call him Joshy. She comes to our house twice a week; she’s practically family.
“Joshy? Joshy are you ok? Um, I think he’s having a seizure!” She yelled from the kitchen.
As I ran into the kitchen, Josh’s eyes were rolling, his lips were turning blue and just like that, we were back at square one.
For three minutes, Josh seized in my arms. I made sure he had enough air, but cradled him, wishing for the episode to end.
I laid his listless body onto the couch, where a pool of saliva drained onto the leather seams. I stroked his sweet head and waited.
Our therapist insisted that we called the ambulance, even though we’d been through this before. Josh was somewhat stable, and we had a game plan for situations like these.
Moments after Josh’s episode ended, the cops, then paramedics piled into my tiny living room. I recited what had happened and assured them we’d be ok.
One cop positioned two fingers and looked for Josh’s pulse on his neck, almost in a systematic way. I wanted to yell, “dude, he’s alive. Back up!” but I didn’t. Should’ve, but didn’t.
I packed our bags for the hospital, almost sensing that we’d be here for awhile. Combine the uncertainty with the impending snowstorm, I had no idea what to expect.
We arrived at the ER, just Josh and me, and we were immediately let in the door. Like we had and E-Z Pass into the ER. One sweet nurse recognized me from last week’s stint and came and said hello. The dr. came by, just moments later and asked me what was going on. Seizures, dudes. Seizures.
Josh was given and IV and was administered Depokate, which was supposed to stop his seizures. He was given his meds, we waited and were finally discharged.
“It was nice seeing you, but hope we don’t see you again anytime soon, ” the familiar nurse told me.
We made it out to the car, Josh almost fell out of my arms he was so listless. I buckled him in, started to drive off as we exhaled and then heard the familiar clicking.
Jeff turned around and parked in front of the ER, as he wisked him back into familiar nurse’s care once again.
The attending dr. admitted Josh because, as he said, we have no choice. We need to stop these seizures.
Four tonic clonic seizures and four different anti-seizure meds in one day is too much for a little baby. Too much.
My eyes are sore from crying all day, my heart is broken because my boy has to endure this and my head hurts from worry. After playing puzzles and GI Joes in the play area with Jack, I said good night to my big boy and kissed my husband.
As I force myself to go to sleep on this uncomfortable recliner-turned-bed next to the baby’s crib, I can’t help but crave and dream about french toast on a snowy morning.
Even though we won’t be having french toast together in the morning, I’m comforted in the fact that my baby is in good care and that the other half of the family is warm and safe at home.
And the weather, well, I’m just glad we’re here now and not dealing with the craziness out there!