Monday, October 22, 2012

Blue Pillow



Last night, it was the blue pillow lying in the hallway, its corner crisply pointed upward, its center crushed, a stray curly hair, that I couldn't get out of my mind. Would you please pick that pillow up? I asked more than once, as both boys stepped over it on their endless treks up and down the hall. The blue pillow was there because as Henry walked into the kitchen with Sophie for dinner and turned left into the kitchen, she went down in the doorway, the split second before I glanced their way and knew it, like some sort of homing dog, I knew she'd go down, so I turned toward them, grabbed her and as she jerked, both Henry and I lowered her to the floor. I bent my knees to keep her arms and legs from hitting the door frame and the narrow walls of the hallway, Oliver put his head in his hands at the table in the kitchen, Henry said, I'll get a pillow, and he brought it to me and we placed it under her head while it jerked and her eyes rolled and her near-herculean efforts to sit up, while jerking, still seizing, taking the rest of my efforts. I'm so sorry, I said in the direction of the kitchen, the edge of turquoise peripheral in my vision, I adore that color, but only in my head because Oliver was crying over his pasta. I'm so sorry. I felt sweat trickle down my back, my face felt inflamed, the blue of the pillow behind Sophie's hair an ocean. When the jerking stopped, I heaved myself -- and her -- up in my arms and carried her to her room where I lay her on the bed and sat there myself for a moment.

21 comments:

  1. Elizabeth, I don't know how you do it. Or Sophie.

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  2. I don't know how you didn't hurl the pillow at the wall - although it wouldn't have been very satisfying, I suppose, given that it wouldn't have made any noise.

    The heat behind my eyes and the heaviness in my chest as I read this make me wish I could whisk you all away somewhere that seizures didn't exist, even for a day. Instead, I will breathe in your anguish and perform some alchemical feat that only works in the ether to turn it into golden light and love as I breathe it back out to you.

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  3. Well, shit. I feel like I read these posts a little differently now that I'm someone who has seizures, too. I don't know how to but that difference into words, though. My seizures devastate Biffle, but fortunately when I re-emerge I mostly feel, "Well, shit."

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  4. That made me cry. I think I just adore those boys of yours, they are really amazing. Hugs to you and Sophie, I don't know what else to say.

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  5. Elizabeth, God bless you and each precious member of your household.

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  6. i am sorry. it's a hard road. and yet you put an ocean under your sweet girl's head, you and henry, and you reached back for oliver too. this moves me so.

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  7. how incredibly trying and exhausting for each and every one of you. you are all in this together, and sometimes these episodes just suck the life out each family member. Love to all. If I thought praying for a miracle would do any good, I would.

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  8. What a scene. And I love that Oliver. Adore the kid.

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  9. I wish I could make the pain go away. Holding all of you in love. Sweet Oliver. Sweet Sophie. Dear Henry. Beautiful mother Elizabeth.

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  10. deep sigh. saying im sorry just feels hollow.

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  11. We are with you, Elizabeth - with all of you.

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  12. What a heartrending slice of life. Thanks for this view into your reality. Sending love to the whole famdamly. x0 N2

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  13. I feel how unrelenting it all is and that saddens me. But the Spirit that writes -- that won’t allow the world to avert its eyes -- that Spirit is so beautiful. Thank you Elizabeth.

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  14. you make me think differently about the little things I see littering my house that I have to say more than once "would you please pick up the (fill in the blank)" .... the difference is in the recent history of the things .... I am sorry for Oliver's tears and your sweat and Sophie's seizure

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  15. Tears reading this. Sending your beautiful family strength.

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  16. You always write what is in my head. Thanks. xo

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