A S**tshow Day Sans Seizures

A day without seizures is generally a very good day in this house. We really do try to celebrate the spells  of time in between the lengthy tonic episodes that pretty much turn the household upside down no matter how many hundreds we have been through. Anyhow— we have been pretty fortunate during this disaster of a year, 2020, to have some blessedly long spells between said seizures. Today's version of a shitshow is related to seizures for sure—but a tonic seizure was not the cause.

Since the start of the pandemic, Barry and I have become accustomed to staying in bed later in the morning. I mean—what exactly are we rushing to do? As long as I can hear the easy conversation between Michael and my Mom sipping their tea and eating breakfast downstairs, I know I can laze around for another half hour.

This morning, Meaghan poked her head in our room around 9 just prior to starting her workday from home, to announce Michael had taken a lot of meds this AM. And by a lot— she meant the whole day's worth. Morning, afternoon, and night.  Normally if Mike mistakenly takes two times worth from the med box (infrequent occurrence) I don't get very excited. He is, aftercall, not pharmacologically naïve as his peds neuro used to point out to me. However, the prospect of what might happen when 3600 mg of Felbatol, 50 mg of ONFI and 600 mg of Lamictal were taken all at once was frightening. I asked him what happened. Standing there towel-clad in the bathroom, having  just gotten out of the shower (thank you Jesus) in between saying "I feel so stupid" multiple times—he said he thought today was Friday and took his Friday morning meds. Then, he noticed that Thursday's meds were still in the med box and took two doses because he didn't want to upset his parents. Another thank you Jesus or whatever moment, that he didn't take all three. He then proceeded to tell me he didn't feel dizzy until he was showering. Thank you...

I contacted his neuro and left a message. I was not about to bring him anywhere close to a hospital but wanted assurance we could just ride this out. Barry and I walked him to his room and I instructed him to stay put in bed and yell if he needed anything while I gathered phone, laptop and coffee so I could plant myself bedside. A few minutes later, and I truly mean 2-3 minutes, there was a series of thuds from upstairs. I dashed up the stairs barefoot, tripped somewhere between the landing and Michael's room and arrived at the room in time to try to hold him steady as he was starting to throw up. Barry and Meaghan showed up right behind me and we got him into the bathroom where he could vomit. Barry stood beside a kneeling Michael and I went into Meaghan's room and plopped my face on her made bed while I took some deep breaths and willed my heartrate to slow. Ten minutes later, Barry and I literally dragged Michael back to his room and hoisted him to bed. All this time he was talking coherently though drunken-like and could still answer questions. It was clear by now that this would be a long day.

Michael's neuro called for the second time about 5 hours in. By then he was extremely hard to understand, but could still state his day and year of birth and he'd puked bile into a bucket at least a dozen times. She felt that because he could understand and follow commands, we were headed in the right direction. She noted that when he joked, we'd probably be in the clear. She is just so smart, and calm and kind—I pretty much was sure all would be well after that call. About 4 pm when Michael was trying to go to sleep he said something. I walked over to his bed and said "I didn't hear you". He said, " Donald Trump is an idiot". I let the doctor know. She said, "excellent". Michael slept for a while. He woke up and announced "I'm talking better now". Indeed. He was.

It's after 5 now. All is well.  The shitshow is over for today. Thank you...