Happy Tuesday, all! Yes, it's that time again. I feel like I should add a disclaimer to this "don't do that": it's okay to laugh at it a little. It was kind of scary at the time, but it does have an element of the ridiculous to it. And the boy in question is doing just fine now. Also, this particular advice probably won't be at all applicable to you unless you have a child with a seizure disorder...but then when has my "don't do that Tuesday" advice ever actually been helpful?
Don't do that: Last Friday Boog was acting rather grouchy at therapy, refusing to work and whining, and his cheeks were deeply flushed. These are generally signs that he is currently having a migraine or about to have one, and when he has a migraine, seizures often follow. I took him home, watched him all evening and put him to bed early, hoping that was the end of it, because...
...we were going to get our Christmas tree on Saturday!!! Note: in case it wasn't obvious, I am approximately 6 years old and thus the Christmas tree is a big effing deal to me.
The next day he woke up and was grouchy and sleepy and still flushed. A smart mother unobsessed with juvenile holiday preparations would have kept him home. Unfortunately for Boog he does not have a smart mother. We did at least do him the courtesy of waiting around for a few hours before we left, because he usually has seizures in the first couple of hours after he wakes up if he's going to have them. By 1:00 p.m. I decided he was fiiiiiine and we left for the Christmas tree farm. That was our first "don't do that"...
|Note: this is not the face of a child who's having fun...|
We parked at the entrance to the Christmas tree farm and began the 1/4 mile hilly walk up to the trees. Poor Boog cried and dragged his feet most of the way up the hill and I said, "Oh he's just overstimulated. Buck up, soldier!" Soldier did not buck up, and Dylan ended up carrying him the rest of the way.
|Note: this is not the back of a child who's having fun...|
We found our tree and Dylan began to cut it down. Boog sort of danced around uncomfortably for awhile, which, of course, dumbass Mommy chose to interpret as "oh look he's having fun". As soon as the tree fell down and Dylan picked it up for a picture, Boog tripped. I dropped the camera and went to pick him up only to realize that he had fallen over a stump and was rolling down the hill. Oh, and he didn't so much trip as fall over because he was having a seizure.
|The infamous stump can be seen lurking ominously in the left corner|
Dylan leaped over the evil stump and caught him and held him on his left side while I fumbled for the Diastat...only to discover I had left it in the car...all the way down at the bottom of that big-ass hill (ahem...don't do that...).
I took off sprinting for the car, alarming fellow tree-hunters and stumbling and nearly breaking my nose because, of course, I wore my treadless brown suede boots instead of tennis shoes even though as I put them on, Dylan said, "Are you sure you don't want to wear tennis shoes? It can be kinda muddy there," (...another don't do that...).
I got to the bottom of the hill really quickly, but the trip back up was another story. I felt like Sisyphus...you know, if Sisyphus were boulderless and an asthmatic mother in treadless shoes who not only forgot her son's vitally important medication but also her own rescue inhaler (yeah...don't do that...).
Nevertheless, I pressed on and made it back up that g-d hill in record time...only to discover he had already come out of the seizure and was sitting up and retching but not in any immediate danger, to which I said, "Thank God" as I sat down in the grass and waited for my heart and lungs to stop exploding.
Once we collected ourselves and the tree and made it to the bottom of the hill, there was a long drawn-out sequence of one redneck tree farm worker saying, "Did you measure this tree?" and another responding, "No", and the first saying, "Well how big do you think it is?" and the second responding, "I dunno." Then there'd be a long pause and the first redneck would start up again a few minutes later with, "Did you measure this tree?" This went on for about 15 minutes (no joke) while Boog sat in the parking lot and threw up and cried until someone finally decided the tree was about 6 ft. tall and we could pay and leave...
...and on the way home he threw up all over the car...
Since Ry is totally fine now and his doc has upped his meds and is optimistic that will take care of the problem, I feel comfortable saying that the whole thing felt like "National Lampoon Christmas Vacation: The Autism Edition", and while watching your seizing son roll down a hill and your husband chase after him is not exactly funny in the moment, it does have a bit of retrospective dark humor.
In any case, what have we learned here (other than that I'm going to badmommy hell)? Take your strange-actin' epileptic child to a Christmas tree farm? Don't do that! Leave his Diastat in the car? Don't do that, either! Expect rednecks to be able to measure? Definitely don't do that! Bring your own measuring tape!