Today was one of my REM sometimes's. At about 9:00 AM, the school nurse (whom I sincerely believe is one of my children's guardian angels) called me while I was driving. Always calm and compassionate, she told me C.J. (my 10 year old) had just had a seizure.
This is not new territory for us. CJ had his first seizure in the spring of 2009, when he was two. We found him stiff as a board in front of the television and, at first, assumed the worst. Later, we learned that we were merely seeing one of the many ugly faces of what would soon be diagnosed as my beautiful little boy's seizure disorder.
Several years, multiple medications, and two neurologists later, and . . . here we are. Normally, CJ only has seizure activity in the wake of an illness. A high fever that spikes fast is a typical trigger. That said, our last 24-hour EEG in June 2016 came back clean as a whistle. So far, CJ's had a four-star school year, and my husband and I were lapsing into a quiet, contented, Depakote-laced lull. It was all good--until it wasn't.
Fortunately, he's okay. He doesn't remember a thing, and the staff at his school were completely on their game. Today, CJ had Arby's for lunch and spent the remainder of the afternoon talking to my mother about the apps on his cell phone. He smiled at me, and I smiled back at him. Like most moms I know, however, I can out-act Bette Davis when circumstances call for it. So, if it comes to cases, I'm capable of a doting grin even when it feels like I've taken a bullet to the gut (or the heart).
Before now, I didn't blitzkrieg social media with the 411 on this morning's events. Yeah, I can always use the good vibes and prayers generated by a Facebook post, but--cards on the table--I was a hot mess. All the same, I ultimately unloaded to two of my best friends in the world. They also have children who have struggled with a seizure disorder. They also understand how, as one so aptly noted, "You never get used to hearing your child just had a seizure, no matter how long he's been living with a seizure disorder." Like the school nurse I mentioned above--and all the staff at my son's school really--they also grasp that the uncertainty and pain of the aforementioned challenges don't generally come with the guarantee of a quick fix.
How long will CJ require treatment for a seizure disorder? Was today because of his growing body--or some other mystery trigger? What if he has a seizure when he's crossing the street or taking a bath? What will happen when my husband and I aren't here to worry both for and about him? These questions represent boo-boos that even a Band-Aid as big as kindness won't adequately cover.
Nevertheless, my friends and the wonderful people at CJ's school (Edison) didn't try to slap a Band-Aid on what, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, was my broken heart today. They didn't reassure me with false promises or trite slogans like, "God never gives us more than we can handle." What they did do was remind me that they're here for me, check in with me throughout the day to ask how CJ was doing, and ask if my family needed anything. They showed me the kindness that I needed to ease some of the hurt I was feeling . . . so I could smile back at my son. And they reinforced something that all of us inevitably benefit from hearing, regardless of the particulars of our pain--we're not alone in it. Everybody hurts sometimes--and sometimes kindness is enough to keep us going until the wounds heal.
The game-changing kindness: By showing kindness and compassion, two of my dearest friends didn't give me a magic fix to a complicated problem--but they gave me what I needed to push onward in the here and now.
How it changed the game: It reminded me that, though everybody hurts, kindness = never having to be alone in our pain.
How it could change my/your game: Sometimes we don't need to "solve" all the complex issues all at once. By showing kindness (even if it's just to say, "I'm here for you"), we show others how to hope. In my book, that's way better than any Band-Aid.
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