Friday is Real

Hi, friends. My regular readers know that they can usually start their Fridays out with a whimsical little post from me, speaking of my frivolous favorites. Typically, I list three favorite things, or songs, or websites, or books, or whatevers, on any given Friday. But I didn’t do that today. On this Friday, this is the first time that you are hearing from me. On this Friday evening, I am sitting in an airport, awaiting another amazing adventure with my immediate family – the five people in this world, whom I love more than life itself.

No one would ever feel sorry for me. I have nice things, a decent sized savings account, and a husband of almost 27 years who loves me, and whom I adore back. I have a beautiful family, supportive friends, and overall, a really good life. Typically, I “reflect” my life. Typically, I look good in the airport. I have nice purses and luggage and clothes and I know how to put on make-up. I am well-traveled. I guess these days, I would be considered to be, what is commonly called (with an air of disdain), a privileged, white woman.

Nonetheless, today, I look a wreck. I threw on clothes that were on a heap on my floor, and make-up wasn’t even a consideration. I was seriously questioning whether me or my family would even make our flights. My husband ended up doing half my packing. I spent my morning at the hospital, a place that is fairly familiar to our family. My youngest son, who suffers from epilepsy, endured another major seizure this morning, after recuperating from a different, traumatizing seizure from the night before, when he ended in a heap up on the floor, convulsing uncontrollably, right after celebrating his brother’s birthday, with cake and ice cream. My baby’s feet were turning blue. It was hard to see if my son was really even actually breathing, so even though we are all experienced in these events, I frantically called the paramedics, yet once again, for the familiar reassurance and comfort that these incredible people always bring, along with all of their other muscles, (brawn and heart) and the heavy duty equipment which comes from being among the bravest and most compassionate people in the world.

This morning, after my son’s vitals all looked good, we conferred with his doctors. As usual, epilepsy remains a mystery. Trying to figure out epilepsy is trying to make sense out of nightmares which do not make sense. Epilepsy is always about trying to understand a personal mystery with dire consequences, and there never, ever seems to be any real, concrete, reassuring answers to give you any comfort and respite. Epilepsy makes you believe in hope, like nothing else you have ever believed in, because usually hope is the only thing you have left to hold on to, when dealing with this frustrating, personal and heart-breaking ailment.

Right now, I am writing this blog post from an airport this Friday evening. I don’t have my usual air of excitement, confidence and aura of “put togethered-ness”, that I sometimes carry along with me on my trips. I am scared out of my mind. I want to grab my son and I want to keep him in my own little cocoon, where he and I can never get hurt. Adventures be damned. I just want us to be safe and loved and alive, together.

But my son doesn’t see it the same way. My son doesn’t want epilepsy to win. And his doctors agree. So, right now, we are just doubling down on his medicine and praying that his body doesn’t rebel against his choice to live his life. And right now, I am that privileged woman, who you see walking through the airport, all decked out in fancy clothes that hide and shield, a wounded, desperate heart, praying that she is making the right decision, to roll with the punches, and to let things be as they may, as she walks behind her precious, beloved son, in a crowded corridor in any given airport.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.