happy being trevy

His mind and body had only just given way to slumber last night when the convulsion attacked. There is something primally heartbreaking about seizures wrenching him from sleep.  Tears don't come often anymore, but when they do it's torrential. I laid in bed and wept half the night away. I wept for his physical suffering; visions of his confused face still swimming in my mind. I wept for Bristel, whose love held her in the room until it was over even though her dad and I were both there. I wept for Tobin, who sauntered in from a youth group outing, only to watch his face fill with knowing sadness when his eyes fell on the rescue meds still lying haphazardly on the chair. I wept for my husband, who I knew would spend the night restlessly trying to sleep while waiting to feel the bed shaking. I wept for the selfish way my heart deals with his disease, often despairing far more than he does. I wept with how I wrestle with the truth that he is not mine, never was, and believi...

4:30 am. Tonic clonic seizure. I sleep. Jonathan lets me. Tobin wakes. For all the ways he drives me bonkers, crumbs everywhere, bathroom messes, stinky shoes, for all the ways, he is always the first to wake and be there to help through the seizures. The boy whose fear used to make him run during thunderstorms now stays, calm and present through his brother's, no matter the hour. A minute and a half. An eternity. The seizure releases. Trevor's body is ravaged. Along with the hearts of his brother and father. He's exhausted. His sleep is restless. A curse of seizures, being so very tired yet unable to find peace in rest. I wake. My first stop is coffee. My second the couch and laptop. Though I peeked at them on my way by, I am yet ignorant. Jonathan finds me. His sigh tells me everything. Sadness etched on his face. He gives me details. Seizure Tracker is updated. Trevor finally wakes. He climbs in m...