They happen at night.
Sometimes it’s a resounding thud, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. Other times, a series of repetitive thumps, as rigid limbs strike the wall or pieces of furniture. My blood runs cold. I never understood that figure of speech before, but now I do. And my heart beats wildly out of control as I run down the hallway to help my son.
Because I know, before I even get to him, that he is having a seizure. Of course, I didn’t know the first time. But from that day forward, a sort of PTSD kicked in, and now, whenever I hear thuds or thumps in my house at night, my body reacts. I leap out of bed, even out of a sound sleep (although since my boys were born, I’ve rarely slept soundly), or I bolt upright if I’m sitting at my desk or on the couch. I’m on high alert as the end of the day creeps near.
*
It’s been a year now since Nigel’s first seizure. He went for six months without having another one, and then for the past six months he’s had several. They have all been very similar – classic tonic-clonic (grand mal) with loss of consciousness, eyes rolling back in the head, labored breathing, frothing at the mouth, rigidity and convulsing of limbs, lasting approximately two minutes. Two minutes is a long time to be watching your child’s body betray itself, to be praying it will stop soon, to be wild with fear, wondering if you should run and get the emergency medication which must be administered rectally for seizures that last five minutes. Nigel’s most recent seizure lasted an agonizing four minutes.
And all of them were triggered by screen time – either watching movies or working on his computer. So now, we’ve had to adhere to a new house rule – no screen time after 9:00PM. And for a sixteen-year-old who has loved watching movies all his life, that’s really hard. With all the difficulties he deals with throughout his day, he always had his evenings to relax and do his favorite thing. Now that has come to an end. He can still watch movies, of course, but he has to schedule them so they end by that time. The time when his brain starts misfiring and he is more susceptible to the trigger of images on a screen.
I tell myself that at least there are the two constants of the trigger and the time of day. I tell myself that chances are good he won’t have a seizure while he’s riding his bike to school or taking a shower. I tell myself these things, but the 24-hour EEG he had recently tells us differently. The results indicate “frequent, random” spiking, and his neurologist warns that he could have a seizure at any time of day, in any activity. Nigel started taking an anticonvulsant medication recently, and I’m hoping that as the dosage gradually increases, he won’t experience any of the negative side effects associated with it (among them, dizziness and double vision – not good for those who ride bikes and take showers). Per his doctor, Nigel can never take a bath again, something he had always enjoyed.
The diagnosis of epilepsy, which affects 25% of people with autism, has been a difficult blow for us. As with his autism diagnosis nearly fourteen years ago, our lives are forever changed. I find myself, as I did so long ago, diving into books and searching websites (at least there are those this time around!) and contacting my wonderful blogosphere friends who have lived with their children’s epilepsy for many years. They have been such a comfort to me as I navigate this new territory in special needs parenting.
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A few nights ago, I awoke to the familiar, unwelcome sound of thumping against Nigel’s bedroom wall. I bolted out of bed, somehow had the presence of mind to glance at the clock (3:15AM), and ran out into the hallway. It’s a horrible way to wake up – shaking, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, leaping out of bed. But worse was the realization that he was seizing in his sleep, which had not happened before. I opened his bedroom door and turned on his light. His body had stopped convulsing, which was good (this one lasted less than a minute), but he was on the edge of his bed with his arm hanging down to the floor. His breathing was heavy, but regular. I waited to make sure he was fine, and then, not sure what else to do, I dragged my still-shaking self back to bed. I tossed and turned, unable to sleep the rest of the night. I debated if I should tell Nigel and ultimately realized that I should. For one thing, I consider myself very blessed that I can tell him, that at his age and level of development, he can comprehend what I say. And I want him to know as much as he can about his seizure disorder and how it affects him.
In the morning I go to his room and sit on the edge of his bed after he’s woken up. Gently I say, “Nigel, you had a seizure last night in your sleep.” Immediately he says, “No, I didn’t.” I tell him that I heard thumping against the wall last night and came in and found him on the edge of his bed with his arm hanging over the side and his eyes moving under the lids. “No, I was just having trouble sleeping and was rolling around in bed. I remember when you came in and turned on the light, and I was just trying to keep my eyes shut so you wouldn’t know I was awake.”
Relief washed over me. Thank God! He didn’t have a seizure in his sleep. And thank God I decided to talk to him about it, and he could tell me, or I wouldn’t have known, and the worry would have plagued me. Oh, the worry will still plague me for many reasons, of that I am sure. No doubt we will face plenty more hurdles as we continue our journey with autism and epilepsy. But at least for now, sleep is still sacred, and seizure-free. I am hoping it will always be so.
(image courtesy of Wikipedia)
