Losses.

I stop to count them sometimes, just so I don't forget that there's a reason I'm sad and anxious more than I'd like.

About a year and a half ago, I suddenly lost my dad.

A year ago, I lost my marriage. Six months ago, we made it official.

A few months ago I lost another relationship I'd begun to enjoy. It wasn't love, but it was something.

Right after that I lost my beloved grandmother who raised me.

Both my older sons needed major surgery; one, an emergency appendectomy. The other, to fix a badly broken wrist (and then stopped working. And stopped living. And now I'm catching him while he falls).

And now I'm just alone, and a little bit broken. I have to admit that sometimes, as much as I want to believe I'm completely ok.

I'm not. But I'm getting through it.

Before and after the shakes.

It was 9 years ago today that my son had his first seizure. In a way, August 15 is a massive marker on our timeline. It's before and after epilepsy. He doesn't remember much - but I do.

I remember being able to watch all my children run and jump and play and do all of the things that little kids do, and never once worry it would end in a seizure that broke his skin or his arm or his body. I remember not living in a world of twice-daily medication, of wires glued to his head periodically, of lighting-quick thinking because there were no meds to slow his cognition.

I remember the few problems he did have at birth, things that were totally manageable and nothing near life threatening. I remember the frustration of dealing with those, but never did I feel the fear that epilepsy brought into our life.

August 15, 2007 changed all of that. We've never been so innocent, so carefree, so normal as we were before that fateful morning that his right arm started convulsing spontaneously, scaring us both half to death.

I will never, ever forget that day. And I will always wish it hadn't started what it did.

Staples Strange

So, on Sunday afternoon I decided to get off my ass and go buy some school supplies at Staples (despite my proclamation on FB that I was waiting). I mean, it was tax free weekend. Not that it saves me a hell of a lot - 7% on $50 worth of shit isn't much (just notebooks and stuff). But also, I sort of wanted to be around people, too.

Anyway, as I was ambling through Staples, one of the employees stopped me. He noticed the tshirt I was wearing, which has a sort of Rosie-the-Riveter style picture on it, and the words, "Fighting Epilepsy Every Day - It's not for the weak." And he stopped to, well, kind of proselytize, but also sympathize and encourage. He was probably in his late 50s or early 60s. He told me that when he was a baby, he was very sick (part of the problem was seizures), and doctors told his parents he was definitely going to die - to the point that they gave him last rites. But he recovered, and had no seizures for many years. Fast forward to his army career. He was a medic, and of course came across seizure disorders in his job there. In fact, he had a grand mal himself while serving. He said that while talking to his supervisor afterward, he felt a hand literally reach inside his head and touch him, and heard a voice tell him that he would never have another seizure.

And he didn't. And he proceeded to tell me it was about faith, and that it's inside us. He didn't seem to be pointing to any one religion except to say there is a God and he does things. At the time I was thinking, "Did it ever occur to you to ask why he let you have seizures in the first place?" But as usual, I didn't feel like making the situation uncomfortable (it was already feeling a bit strange).

Now, you all know that I don't believe in god (still don't) but the whole exchange did make me think. If nothing else, having another human notice something about me, and acknowledge more than just a cart full of paper and pens, was touching. Strange, of course, but touching in a way that stayed with me.