I held my baby while she seized and seized and seized. I snuggled her closely into my chest, wiped the spit from the corners of her mouth and caught the vomit in a tissue when it happened. I rubbed her head and stroked her stomach as she twitched and rolled her eyes, her little tongue poking in and out.
When she finished, I laid her down and carefully administered the anti-convulsants that she was due for. I let her suck on my little finger as I dripped bitter medication into her mouth, encouraging her to swallow. I tried to ignore the fact that I am giving my baby an addictive drug in the hope that it makes her better.
[It's not working.]
This is not what new motherhood should look like.
Every molecule in my body screams that this is unfair and why Evelyn? Why us?
[Why not us? Why are we so special?]
I want to rage against the world and shout on twitter that my baby is having seizures, more and more of them and that this isn’t right and yet I stay silent and kick the door on my way through it instead.
She’s sleeping now, drugged and exhausted. In a moment or two, I’ll pick her up, hold her close and take her to bed.
It feels like hyperbole, every time I write about my smallest child and yet, none of this is drama. Drama is the six year old shouting that putting her school bag away is “NOT FAIR AND WHY DO YOU MAKE ME DO THESE THINGS?” Drama is the three year old throwing himself to the ground because I gave him the wrong cup.
Drama is not my baby having seizures.
This is not drama, or hyperbole, or drummed up excitement to garner blog traffic.
This is my baby having seizures, and it’s fucking heart breaking.