My 14-year-old daughter had her first seizures in February.
Within days, she was diagnosed as having epilepsy and prescribed anti-epileptic medicine.
On March 4, about a week after being back in school she had another seizure in math class.
The doctor gave her a new medicine.
As of today, she has not had any more seizures.
The medicine is working.
The doctor is quick to tell me though she is not cured, her seizures are being “controlled,” “managed” because of the medicine.
“There is no cure for epilepsy,” he tells me directly and without any apologies.
The summer is wrapping up now and in less then a week, she’ll be back out in the world alone, without me by her side, knowing her every move, and being with her each time she leaves the safety of our home.
She’ll be alone in the hallways of a large, crowded high school for the first time since being diagnosed.
The anxiety that raged through me just after her first seizures, then subsided when summer vacation began, is starting to rear its ugly head once again.
My only hope is that the medicine continues to “control,” “manage” her seizures.
I rely on that medicine the same way I rely on the air to fill my lungs each and every time I take a breath.
I rely on that medicine the same way I rely on the ground to still be under my feet with each and every step I take.
I rely on that medicine the way I expect the sky to still be there when I walk outside.
I rely on that medicine to continue to do what it was created to do.
My heart hurts a little, my head is weary with each thought of the first day of school.
But not for the same reasons I once fretted over. What I’d give to have my only worry be that she eat her lunch all gone or that she find her classrooms.
What I’d give for my only worry for her to be that she makes nice friends.
This is what woke me up this morning.
Epilepsy woke me up this morning.
Until next time love each other. Be thankful for the easy mornings and simple worries.