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G’night John-Boy…

I looked like Ron Weasley and my boy had seizures.

By Emma LouisePublished 2 years ago Updated about a year ago 12 min read
2
G’night John-Boy…
Photo by Jacob Weinzettel on Unsplash

I have three boys. I am obsessed with them. I crave their giggles when I can’t hear them, I long for their smiles when I can’t see them, I even sniff their clothes ( t-shirts, never pants or socks!) before I chuck them into the washing machine. I adore them. They are like my drug of choice. They‘re all teenagers now, and I am loving watching them grow into fine young men.

We are A ‘lovey’ family, you know what I mean? The type that says “love you” at the end of every phonecall, that give each other a hug when we’re leaving. We say a Waltonesque, “g’night [insert name of son 1]…g’night [insert name of son 2] etcetera...but on this night I didn’t. On this night I was a big sulky baby.

I treated myself to a hair cut and colour. A short pixie cut, bleached to perfection. Except the bleach burned my scalp so the hairdresser removed it and my hair wasn’t surfer chick blonde. Nope. It was Ron Weasley orange. I said, “Thankyou, Thankyou, I LOVE it!” because I’m pathetically British and never like to complain or cause a fuss, but instead wait until I get home and complain profusely to my family. My middle boy was in the kitchen when I arrived home with my hair of flames. He said, “….it doesn’t look THAT bad” For some reason that offended me greatly, when generally I am rarely offended By anything or anyone. Why couldn’t he have said it was great? And so, for the first time in over 2 decades I stormed off to bed like a spoiled brat. I didn’t intend on staying in my room and spend the night sulking, but I stupidly fell asleep. I feel asleep and I hadn’t hugged each of my precious lambs, kissed their foreheads, sniffed their touselled hair or told them I loved them! I hadn’t kissed my husband and reminded him of my love for him either. I went to bed...and everything changed.

At 2:34am we were all awakened by the sound of a loudly mooing cow, mooing, grunting, groaning. We ran to the source of the sound - middle boys room - but we couldn’t get in. He was on the floor behind the door, preventing us from gaining access. We were helpless on the other side of the door to a room which now became silent. Instinctively, I knew we needed an ambulance so with fingers shaking I called 999 whilst my husband pushed and shoved and the door. My call was answered, “ambulance. Now, now, please. come now! Please! Please! Help us!! My son! Please help him something is wrong!!….” at that point Hubby had forced himself in we found him there, on the fooor, waxy, grey, unresponsive. We called his name over and over again. ”Gabriel!” (like the angel) Gabriel, Gabriel! Son!” “Is he breathing?” the paramedic asked? I shouted I had no idea, but he needs help, please hurry, please hurry. A year later, or so it seemed, the paramedics arrived and my boy started coming around a little. The woman on the call, the paramedics, everyone seemed to ask the same question, “15 year old male? Is there any chance he’s taken an illegal substance? or drank alcohol?” What’s funny about that is my response was always the same, as was their reaction, I’d say, “he’s homeschooled” and they say, “ahh, no then” and that’s the end of that. They strapped my middle son to a funky looking chair with wheels like a vehicle belonging on a building site, or a farm, caterpillar wheels, as they brought him down the 13 stairs and into an ambulance and off we went. He seemed himself in the hospital. They had him in a bed in a little room. There were lots of these little rooms, maybe 16 of them, eight on one side and eight on the other. We were in room two. By now it’s 5am and he’s exhausted but fine. What on earth happened?

I apologised for my horrid behaviour the night before, and we laughed as I recalled my words several hours previously, “I can’t go out looking like this!” I’d said, “I don’t want anyone to see my Ron Weasley hair!!” So far two paramedics, a woman at the desk in the ER, three orderlies and two doctors have seen my hair.

I sat in a little red chair next to him. He sent Snapchat’s to his friends. This is a cool story to tell his chums, they’ll all laugh about this tomorrow. Oh the giggles that await him…

You know that stretch you do, we all do it, it’s a glorious stretch, so massive your whole body shakes and you often make that noise, you know the noise I mean? The noise of a perfect stretch. As I sat scrolling past cat videos on Facebook I saw him shaking out of the corner of my eye. He’s doing the perfect stretch I thought. I slowly lifted my head. This was not the perfect stretch! His head was flung back, his eyes were bulging, his body was in spasms. All of him shaking violently. Rattling. It grew bigger and everything in his body was tensed. I was ejected out of my little red plastic seat into the hallway and these words spilled from me, “help me, help me, help me” and then I ran back into his darkened room and a team of blue scrubs ran after me. It’s weird that those are the words my brain selected to use at that moment. It wasn’t that I needed help - I did, but not more help than he did, it’s that I have never been in a situation where I couldn’t fix any problem my boys had experienced up to the that point in time, so I think my words meant that I needed help to fix my son? I’m not exactly sure.

The violent, angry jerking continued, “Mummys here, Gabriel!” I yelled out. I said, “Its ok…you’re ok..it’s ok” over and over and over. It wasn’t and he wasn’t but the words gushed from me. I didn’t know what else to do but I was scared if I fell silent it would be over. I could hear a small banging almost in my subconscious mind. A man said something, I later learned his name was Paddy, but I called him Patrick. Whatever he said made more people run into the room. They flung him onto his back. Something down Gabriel’s throat. Still there’s a knocking sound. An angel in blue scrubs slid over to me, she was tiny, like a miniature woman. She took my hand in both of hers and she scooped me onto her hip, “you‘re ok…it’s ok…it’s all ok…mummy’s here…it’s ok, it’s ok…it’s ok..” I continued to announce, I think these words were for my benefit more than Gabriel’s. The heaven sent doll in scrubs had Goliath‘s strength and she took my weight onto her right hip. I thought I might collapse otherwise. Voices, words, actions, people, bodies, a sea of scrubs and they sounded panicked. I looked at my supporter and asked “they can fix him?“ She did not reassure me in any way. She told me they’re doing all they can, but what does that mean? Send someone in to turn back the hands of time to when I came home with sunset hair and I’ll laugh with him instead of sulking, and I’ll climb into his bed with him amd hold him until 2:33am and then I’ll wake him up with the excuse of some sorts and then we’ll laugh at my hair some more and none of this will ever happen. I’ll have my boy - and I would LOVE my hair!

A month - or so it seemed - later the fizz in the air settled and they pulled my boy into the recovery position. He had a mask on his face and they squished the plastic baggy thing. I went to his side and just rubbed his shoulder. His arm. His legs. His face. His hair. Someone was squeezing his arm and sticking another needle in. I heard a voice say, “we need to clean the blood off your shoes please”. He’d ripped the needle from his arm and blood had splashed on my shoes, on our new backpack and on the floor. I looked at these blood splashes and my stomach tied itself up into a tight knot. Why is his blood outside of his body?! It should be inside!! Put it back! Patrick said, “let’s get him into resus“ and a tribe of blue scrubs pushed him and I followed. I could see there were children, babies, tiny new babies, toddlers and a parent in each other the little box rooms. I wonder what they thought was happening to my boy? I wonder if they wanted to laugh at my bonfire hair? Number of people who had seen my hair = 30.

Patrick told me to ring Gabe’s father and tell him to come. The fear consumed me now. But, but covid rules…? He handed me his phone, it had a mountain scene as his screen saver. He told me to use his phone if I wanted to despite the fact my own phone was in my hand...My boys lips were blue like Patrick’s scrubs. His skin was grey. Where was my boy who’s skin was flush with healthy blood beneath it? Where does the blood go when you've had a seizure? I wonder if Paddy said my husband could come because he thought my boy might not make it? I could still hear the knocking, the tapping. Someone got me a chair, this one was blue. Blue like the scrubs. Blue like my sons eyes. Blue like my sons lips…as I sat down the noise stopped. I stood to lean over and kiss my teen - there it was again, knock, knock. I sat down and it stopped. I figured it out. Go me! The noise was me, shaking with fear. My knees, my hands, it was the tremble of me.

When Phil finally arrived he brought my tears with him. He is 6ft 3 with sacred geometry ink down one arm and a beard most pirates in story books, some rock stars and plenty of bikers would envy. He is my soul mate. My forever and ever. He held me and our salty tears soaked our faces as we silently allowed the trauma to show itself. Sometimes it’s good to get that stuff all out, you know? I met a chap once who told me that tears contain toxins and that’s why they are salty. I know nothing about that but I know my head began to throb and snot poured almost as freely as tears.

A woman entered our corner of resus wearing green scrubs. She was laden with power and authority. She wore red velvety shoes. They reminded me of Dorothy. There really is no place like home! She took a hammer - the kind you used at school during music time when you were lucky enough to be picked to play the glockenspiel. She banged my boy on certain joints. Whack. Whack. Whack. He wasn’t dead. But only one side was responding. She threw the sheet around to gain access to him. He was wearing nothing but black underwear. He has plenty of pyjamas but sleeps in pants. I noticed a small tear on the left side, just under the elasticated waistband. When he comes home I’m taking him out to buy new underwear. My mother used to make me wear a clean nighty and always “have a good wash” before bed. Now I know why. He lay there...in tatty pants. I’d been his mother for 15 years and 6 months so far. He is my second born. When our first baby was born my heart was full to the very brim with love. I worried greatly that I could never love a second or a third or fourth baby quite as much because I stupidly thought it meant loving my first born a little less, like my heart took love from that account to put into another. Silly me. What happens is your heart simply opens up another love account, quite obvious really. I love this boy with all of heart! Which is exactly and precisely the same amount of love that I feel for my firstborn and for my third born. Most parents with more than one child will tell you this if you need further clarification.

Lots more happened over the next few days, but here’s the skinny. My boy. My lad. My caring, sensitive, charming 15 years old with wit sharp as a razor, who is healthy as an ox and fit as a butchers dog suffered two grand mal - slash - tonic clonic seizures. He can’t swim alone. He can’t take a bath. He can’t hike alone. He can’t be home alone (side note: when we were told this I thought of the movie. Kevin Macallistair was only 10 years old and he was home alone - twice!). My boy needs anti-suffocation pillows and a baby monitor. He can’t lock the bathroom door or shut his bedroom door. He can’t have late nights. He can’t have caffeine. He needs to tell college, university, work what has happened. Maybe he’ll have more. Maybe he’ll never have another one. Maybe we’ll medicate him. For now he’s undergoing tests.

When they allowed us to take him home two days later we walked through the hospital and I realised it’s a little shopping centre. We passed shops, fast food restaurants and a coffee shop all bustling with people. I held my boys hand, and he didn’t protest. He held my little hand tightly. He will never appreciate how much reassurance that gave me. I was frightened about the future, and equally I was walking on air! I was full up with joy and pride. Look at me! Everyone, all of you! Put down your frappe mocha chocca lattes and look! My boy is walking! He is breathing! He is pink! And we are walking out of here!! I wanted everyone to see us! … by now my hair was lathered with greasy oils, the stink of hospitals and STILL brassy orange, but I didn’t care in the slightest.

I will never, ever, ever, go to bed without telling my family that I love them. I’ve only ever failed to do it once - and look what happened.

Number of people who had seen my Harry Potter‘s BFF hair = who bloody cares!

Family
2

About the Creator

Emma Louise

I’m a nature loving, gentle soul who loves to feel, think, and do stuff.

Sometimes thoughts fill my head and spill out…Thanks for taking a look

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