Colm has always been my cuddler, for years he shared my bed with me and I could count on waking up with arms wrapped around me tight.
Getting married hasn’t changed this much except Colm now starts his nights in his own bed. But I can still almost count on him coming in between 6 and 7 to start his day with cuddles.
On December 11th this year, it changed. He came in that morning after dad had left for work and crawled up next to me like he had so many mornings before. Liz came in after her shower to ask me to brush and braid her hair and suddenly, Colm went rigid. His eyes rolled back into his head, his body started shaking, an excessive amount of saliva started pooling and streaming out of his mouth.
I wrapped my arms around this gentle giant and worked to keep him from flipping off the bed while giving a shocked Elizabeth instructions to get the rescue medication out of my purse and then call 911. She proved to me that morning that she’s 100% mine. Calm, collected, gave the 911 dispatcher all the necessary information just like we’ve practiced but never had to actually perform. She didn’t fall apart until we were safely in the ambulance and she didn’t have to be strong anymore.
December 11th 2017 was Colm’s first gran mal seizure.
We spent the night at children’s hospital and then we did it again a week later for more convulsion seizures that would not stop on their own.
Since that morning, I’ve been at odds. Certainly it was God protecting my boy when he put Colm in bed with me to keep him safe, administer the rescue medication, and call for help. I imagine him orchestrating the perfect timing of Liz walking in seconds before it all started. I imagine him guiding her, giving her the memory of our address, phone number, Colm’s history of seizures, and finally giving her a peace to steadily watch her brothers breathing patterns and calmly saying “Now. Now. Now. Now.” as she watched his chest rise.
On the flip side our morning ritual will never be the same. Colm still comes to crawl into bed for cuddles between 6 and 7. And I hold him extra tight, watch his breathing, keep him close to watch for the classic rigidness and convulsions that wreck his sweet body. I wonder every morning, and ask him every morning, “how are you feeling buddy?”. I’m sure he’s tired of the question. He even told me once “I’m not having a seizure mom”.
It’s so different. Once again, my world has been flipped, tossed, shaken, and ripped apart this winter.
I’m so thankful for the morning cuddles. They also scare the hell out of me.