The seizure

I thought of my father today. I think of him every day, but today I wanted him here. I needed to hear his reassuring voice. I was worried about Sam because he had another seizure.

Sam had one last week and two back to back at the end of June. The seizures scare me.

They come on without warning. Sam’s color quickly drains as complexion pales to a ghostly gray. His body convulses, jerking repetitively. His jaw is clenched shut. I roll him on his side and my mind runs amuck.

Though Sam can’t hear me, I call his name. “Squeeze my hand, Sammy. Squeeze!” Abruptly the seizure stops. I hold my breath while Sam lays limp, looking mildly confused. He looks up, with no knowledge or memory of the seizure.

Today Sam said, “Tongue hurts.” There was blood on the comforter. “Tongue hurts,” he said again adding, “Kiss it.” Since I had no other way to help him, I kissed the tip of his tongue. With that Sam smiled and resumed his laptop play, adding “feel better,” in a tone of dismissal.

Everything was OK again. But I couldn’t quite calm.

I thought of my father. What would he say? “Jin, don’t worry too much. You do the best you can – that’s all you can do. See what the doctor has to say. Sam’s a big, strong boy. I think he will be OK.” Next would come the tease: “I think you need some therapy.” That meant Dad therapy. Dad therapy always came with coffee so he’d add, “Come on. I’ll buy you coffee.”

Remembering his calm, easy voice felt good. The world was righting itself again. I called the doctor and left a message. And then I brewed some coffee. Enough for two. 

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