Gas Station Jesus yesterday, I forgot to tell you that Connor had a seizure that morning. Only a thirty-second one and I didn't have to do mouth-to-mouth this time or anything, but still this is probably evidence that I have become way, waaaaay too jaded to this sort of thing, because telling you about cheap religious statuary took higher priority than telling you about my kid turning blue and not breathing. This possibly makes me the worst mom ever. Oh well.
So yeah, Connor had another seizure. Lovely. And we're waiting, once again, to hear back from the neurologist, though my guess is we probably won't change anything since we just upped his medication last week, and blah blah blah. I don't have to tell any of you this, because you all know the drill by now as that was seizure number thirty-nine. Connor needs to quit having these things, because I'm seriously tired of blogging about them. Also I'm relatively sure stopping breathing thirty-nine times isn't very good for your health, though doing it in public is a great way to meet random people and see whether or not you want to be friends with them. (Hint: the ones screaming "OH MY GOD A DEAD BABY!!!" and shouldering others out of the way to get a better angle while taking pictures with their cellphones are probably the people you want to avoid inviting out to lunch, unless you happen to carry arsenic in your purse and want to try it out on somebody. Believe me; I've been tempted.)
Um, anyway, so today we didn't have any seizures, though we did get some interesting looks from various bystanders. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
But we had to press on, in the name of Science! Or something. So what did we do?
Connor's wheelchair looks a heck of a lot like a high-end stroller-- enough like one that whenever we go to the airport they try to make me put it up on the conveyor belt and I have to argue with them for a few minutes before they'll believe that it doesn't come apart in enough pieces to fit up there. The wheels on this thing are not exactly built for sand dunes. Imagine the scene, if you can. You're a sunbather on the beach, lying out on your towel and soaking up some rays. All of the sudden, into your view comes this woman, her shoes in one hand, grunting and digging in her heels and muttering words probably not appropriate for public use. She's straining to pull an expensive-looking stroller backwards across the sand dunes while a kid who's obviously more than big enough to walk is happily bouncing along in the seat. What do you think?
And then the magic happened.
Connor reached down without prompting, and began stroking the sand. This is the child who reacts to anything touching his palms like it burns him. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Then, wonder upon wonders, he actually dug his hand down, grabbed a fistful of sand, brought it up to his face and looked at it carefully for a minute before opening his palm and dumping it out. That was the first time he had voluntarily reached down and picked up a fistful of anything other than the cloths we use to wipe his face. Ever.
So you're this sunbather, and you roll over to your side again, and lo and behold that woman is still there and is now kneeling down in the sand clutching her son to her chest, laughing uncontrollably. Also, for some reason, she's crying. And you stare, and smirk, and still think she's crazy.
But she doesn't care anymore.
3 weeks ago