My youngest son has epilepsy. His seizures are mostly controlled with medication. Every now and then, however, the seizure reflex wins out over the medications.
It’s impossible to describe how it feels, as a parent, to watch your child have a seizure. The body goes rigid; the eyes roll up; breathing is constricted; and the torso and limbs rhythmically contract, rapidly at first, then slowing to a stop. When the seizure is finished, the body is almost completely limp. At this point, you pick up your little boy, like a rag doll, and all you can do is hold and reassure him until he’s fully awake.
You know in your head that this will happen now and then, that as an occasional thing it doesn’t present any immediate danger, that in a little while your boy will be running around like he always does. Yet in your heart the world is turning in slow motion around the feeble, helpless minutes during which a little boy’s mysteriously unruly brain waves assert themselves over everything else. Surely there are lessons in those minutes about the brevity of life, the flowering and withering of the grass, God answering Job with non-answers — but surely there are easier ways to learn them. Or maybe not. Meanwhile, there’s a little boy whom you just want desperately to be ok.