Suddenly he was pushing my arms away. Still not responding, but at least moving again. Thankful that he's still small of form, I continued to gently, firmly, hold him. He was swatting my hands away from his nose. I continued to keep bringing them back up, all the while quietly asking him to please smell, assuring him that we were with him and he is deeply loved. If he hears my words in those moments, there is no knowing. He has no memory of them later. I speak them even still. It comforts our hearts and fills the air with something more than seizure.
In the midst of the event (the seizure lasted for two minutes) I had a transcendence moment. I heard my own voice in my ears, so calm. Incredibly calm. It didn't feel like my own. My own should have been breathy and panicked. I felt shaking. I think it was my hands, but it could have been Trevor's body. All the while I putting the bottle of oil under his nose while he pushed it away. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. It felt almost like I was watching this happen, not part of it.
When it was finally over, Trevor had a headache. This is common after his big seizures. As a team, the kids and I created a bed on the couch for him to recover. Even the dog was intent on comforting. He couldn't quite settle and asked for a bath. Once again, Tobin took him to the bathroom for his favorite comfort activity, because in his words, "How can I say no to him after that?"
I'm not sure how much academic school will take place in our home today, but there is a deeper education afoot.
This is our homeschool. This is our purple.