Mr Sam

It doesn't really unravel me that Sam has a seizure disorder. Of course it is unsettling when I hear myself say; "Sam has a seizure disorder", but the disorder itself is not, in my opinion, the worst diagnosis a kid could get. He only seizures in his sleep, which means I don't have to worry about him riding his bike, walking to school, playing with his friends, etc. I don't have to worry about his friends witnessing a seizure and then becoming afraid, or thinking that my kid is a freak. I don't love the fact that I will have to include this information on all his school, camp, and lesson forms, and that I can't control whether other people will regard him with fear. I can't control whether his camp counseller will tell his compadries "I got the weird kid with the seizures." I can't be sure the seizures will be contained only to night. I can't decide whether this will last a year, a month, or a lifetime.

This is Sam last spring when we first discovered something cooking with his tender little brain; and then below at his most recent appointment with neurology. He has grown up a lot in a year, and he has now had five night time seizures that we are aware of. It's like the first big mark that that living in this world is going to leave on him.

When I think of the genetics in my family line, I figure he came out okay. In my dad's family, all the heads were in question. Dad and his sister suffered brutal migraines. His brother seizured. His other sister suffered a lifetime of mental illness. So, out of the available options, I figure it could have been worse.

We all have to go through life with these heads attached to our bodies. Sometimes it feels like a problem. I've often wished I could compartmentalize my brain and put a few sections into a box in the garage for a while. Just to take a break.

Every time you have a kid, you invite another "stranger" into your life forever. You fling open the doors of your life, your house, your heart, and your washing machine. You naively shout: "COME IN!" and you mean it with every cell in your body. You don't know that child any more than you can count the petals on a rose that has yet to open. But your heart has already grown legs and feet in the shape of that child, and you see it marching around outside of your body. That's forever.

I see it on my mother when her heart still breaks over her children. She is eighty-two. She can't keep the world from hurting her adult children any more than I can manipulate whether people will regard Sam with suspicion or not.

Mr Sam.
Looks like he's ready to take it on.