They Never Get Easier

I had several small seizures last week but it all started with a Grand Mal Sunday night…

They never get any easier, no matter how big or small. Each seizure is as terrifying as your first when you are experiencing it. And I wanted to know HOW big. What was it on the scale of “just a baby” to “holy ****.” I knew since I was coherent afterwards this one didn’t break the Richter scale, and I remembered a little of what happened…

We were facing each other lying in bed. I was trying not to panic and his face was so close to mine I could feel his breath as he shushed me like a baby. The calming swoosh of air against my cheek. He was saying, “You’re okay Megan. I’ve got you. I’m right here” over and over and over. I wanted to say “I know, I know.” I couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the words. And although I could hear him so clearly, I’d already gone. I was falling into that hole… It was endless, and I wanted to fight it’s overpowering suction. My eyes were ticking to the left, so violently it felt as though they wanted to roll back but were yanked to the side instead. My world was in slow-mo despite the urgency in everything my body tried to do… I asked him afterwards how bad? He said my eyes were rolling, my head was twitching, my face contorted, and I was making those deep heaving, hissing breaths as I foamed at the mouth. For me it had all been so eerily quiet, silently traumatic for I wasn’t even aware that I was still breathing. I was choking inside my own head. Numb to everything but his voice.

The next morning I got up and pushed myself into the hall in search of my husband. Feeling woozy and very dizzy, I knew walking was an unsafe option, so I turned into the nearest room with a bed and curled up on my son’s twin, closing my eyes to regain my equilibrium. My husband walked over and without saying a word, laid down behind me, wrapped his arms around me and brought me in close. I clung to those arms. I cling to those arms; they keep me safe, bring comfort, and a strength. He said to my son who ran in shortly after, “come give mommy a hug – she really needs one right now.” And I laid there, cocooned between the two of them on that little twin bed, a tear escaping the corner of my eye. Trying to hide.

Because they never get easier.

And because my strength diminishes just a little every time they come for me.